discarded.ink

No Beggars in the Swallow

Wed, 14 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

“ALE!”

I announced my return to the Cock & Swallow with the force and dignity the occasion deserved. Three days of trying to get back there had left me in leather boots, a formerly white tunic, and a scarf whose continued service around my waist bordered on the miraculous. A wooden sword stuck out of my pack beside the bagpipe guitar. Annali’s saddle hung from the whole miserable arrangement, waiting for me to acquire something more suitable than myself to carry it.

Rufus came through the doorway at my heels. I waited for the room to notice us.

A few patrons sat scattered among the tables. None looked particularly pleased to have been included in my announcement.

It was one in the fucking morning.

Behind the bar, the innkeeper’s head shot up.

“Oi! No beggars in the Swallow!”

I recognized her face. Apparently, this was not a mutual pleasure.

She was a middle-aged woman built on a scale I hadn’t expected to find behind that bar: tall, broad, and solid through the shoulders, with full cheeks and the beginnings of lines around her mouth. Her generous bosom filled the front of a well-kept bodice above a thick waist and wide hips. There was softness to her, certainly, but the forearms braced against the counter suggested that moving a full barrel wouldn’t require her to fetch somebody else. I found the combination rather appealing. I also suspected she could put me outside without interrupting a conversation.

My memory of our previous acquaintance had apparently omitted quite a lot of woman.

I glanced down at myself. Beggar was a reasonable assessment. A discerning observer might have added recently dragged through a hedge, but she had a business to run.

“It’s me! Rickon the Bard. Remember? I was here a few nights ago.”

“We have so many bards roll through here. Sorry.” Her gaze traveled over the saddle and came to rest on the scarf. “You look like shit.”

“Fair. I’ve seen some things.”

There had been a free room in my recollection of that glorious night. There had also been applause, congratulations, and a great many drinks. I had arrived expecting a welcome fit for a returning artist and been mistaken for a vagrant before I’d got both feet inside. I decided to establish that I could afford a drink before discussing my importance to the establishment.

“May I have a mug of your finest ale, please?”

She put one in front of me. I paid five jades and drank it with very little concern for whether it was her finest.

Only after I lowered the mug did I notice the blood.

It was on her hands, darkening at the knuckles, with more of it smeared across the front of her clothes. An open grimoire lay within easy reach, its pages crowded with the sort of writing that made a person reluctant to pronounce anything by accident. She’d evidently been reading it before I arrived.

Blood. Grimoire. Late hour.

If she’d been a Dweller, I’d have thought she was from Redfork.

Unfortunately, I found that thought amusing enough to share.

“If you were a Dweller, I’d think you were from Redfork,” I said, chuckling and gesturing between her hands and the book.

She paused.

“I am a Dweller.”

“What? Oh. What? I’m so sorry, you’re just so—”

Shut up. Shut up immediately.

“Stunning!”

That ought to do it.

“I haven’t met many other Dwellers on the road. I just assumed—”

She stared at me with an expression so empty I could almost hear my words falling into it.

I swallowed. It seemed unwise to clarify which portion of her had inspired the assumption, particularly while the word huge was attempting to fight its way out of my mouth.

“I’m just fucking with you.” She laughed. “I get it. I’m a little tall.”

My shoulders dropped. Hers didn’t need to; they were perfectly comfortable where they were, looming over my prospects.

“Emmi Brewer,” she said.

“Rickon Fiddler.”

“You said.”

“Yes. Of course.”

I smiled into the empty mug. Emmi’s laugh suited her: full and easy, quite capable of making a man feel welcome after she’d briefly considered throwing him out. I was beginning to recover some confidence when I remembered that the blood and the book had survived the conversation entirely unexplained.

“So…”

“Am I a bloodthirsty cultist draining the life-force from all my patrons slash victims?”

She smiled.

“No. That I am not.”

“Oh. Good. That’s good.”

I’d grown up in Redfork. I was accustomed to people having unusual religious interests. I still preferred to know whether my drink was part of one.

Emmi glanced down at her hands, then at the open book.

“Slow night. I was prepping the roast for tomorrow’s special. And yes, this is a grimoire.” She tapped the page. “Some of them have the greatest recipes stuffed between the spells and incantations. That’s between us, though.”

I looked at the book again. Back home, a bloodstained woman consulting a grimoire would have been a perfectly ordinary sight. It had taken leaving Redfork to learn that sometimes she was only making dinner.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

I motioned for another ale. She filled the mug, and I paid another five jades. With the prospect of ritual murder settled, I intended to give this one the attention it deserved.

Emmi let me get comfortable on the stool first.

“So, gotta ask you, Rickon. Why are you teabagging my stool? Is this a style in Redfork?”

I looked down.

The scarf had shifted during the climb. I pulled it firmly into place and sat with a little more care.

“Some missionaries stole my pants.”

She watched me.

“Well. I pledged them, I suppose.”

Her eyebrows rose.

It was difficult to leave it there. Pledged them sounded voluntary, and stole them neglected several important details, including the bit where I’d already been paid. Besides, I had spent three days with Rufus as my principal audience. He was a loyal companion, but his appreciation of a well-constructed anecdote left something to be desired.

I told her the whole story.

It took longer than I’d intended. I tried to explain the parts that made me sound reasonable, which required explaining the parts immediately before them, which generally made me sound considerably worse. Emmi listened, watching my face as if she was waiting to discover whether I understood what I was saying.

I gave the tale what dignity I could. Here was another Dweller, a handsome woman with an excellent laugh, listening to my adventures. It would have been pleasant if she found something impressive in them.

By the time I’d finished, her expression had settled somewhere between shock and pity.

Then she burst out laughing.

She leaned on the bar and laughed until I began to feel that the story might be a useful addition to my repertoire, provided I could arrange for it to have happened to somebody else.

I let her finish. One ought to respect an audience’s enjoyment, even when it came at such a personal cost.

“So,” I said, when she could hear me again, “needless to say, I need a bath and a bed. The pants will have to wait until tomorrow.”

Emmi wiped at one eye and shook her head.

“Take the room upstairs. It’s late, it’s dead in here. I’ll give you a discount. Say twenty jades for the night. Head up before you pass out on my bar.”

Twenty jades was twenty more than I’d hoped to spend on a room. It was also a price, an address, and permission to stop walking. I counted out the money before she recovered enough to reconsider.

I climbed down carefully and hauled the pack into place. Rufus got up to follow. There were still trousers to buy and a great deal of filth to remove, but both problems seemed smaller now that someone had told me where I could sleep.

“Come on,” I told him.

I went upstairs with one hand on the scarf.

The Price of Admission

Tue, 13 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

“Today,” I told Rufus, “we reach the city.”

I said it while packing the tent, with the confidence of a man who had no intention of spending another night listening for footsteps beyond the fire. Rufus sat beside the bedroll and watched me wrestle it into my pack. He seemed satisfied with the arrangement, provided we weren’t leaving breakfast behind.

The road looked harmless in the morning light. I gave the trees a thorough inspection anyway.

“Straight back to the Cock & Swallow.”

My stomach fluttered as I tightened the straps. I could still picture the Thing stepping out onto the trail, and every time I imagined another pair of missionaries, I found myself checking my scarf. Neither thought improved the prospect of walking all day. Rufus was waiting, though, and one of us ought to look as though he knew what he was doing.

I settled the saddle against my pack and gave him an encouraging nod.

“Come on, then.”

Before we got properly underway, I opened the pack to find something to eat. One of the rations had developed a smell that suggested it had been pursuing interests of its own overnight.

I inspected it, hoping the offensive part might be confined to one end. It wasn’t. The whole thing had committed itself.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I put it aside, well out of Rufus’s reach, and found something fit for breakfast. If we didn’t reach the city soon, I would have to hunt. I knew how hunting worked in principle: find something edible, kill it, eat it. Yesterday had provided a useful demonstration of how strongly something edible might object.

We set off. I kept Rufus closer than usual, slowing whenever he stopped to investigate the roadside. By midmorning, I’d asked an orc whether we were getting near the Twin Cities. He confirmed that we were, though his manner suggested I should have been able to work that out without involving him.

I thanked him and carried on before he could develop an opinion about the scarf.

As the hours passed, signs of civilization became more frequent. The road was better worn. I began to trust that the next bend might actually bring us closer to a bed, instead of introducing someone with an unhealthy interest in my lower half.

By the time I reached the crest of a long hill, my shoulders ached beneath the pack. I stopped to shift its weight and saw a crowd gathered below around a lavish velvet tent. It stood within a ruined courtyard, where ivy climbed the broken walls and thick greenery crowded the old stones. The velvet looked magnificent against all that decay, as though someone had decided the place needed curtains before it needed a roof.

Drums reached me first, a steady rhythm that made the climb seem briefly worth the effort. A violin darted over them, playful and quick. Then came cheering, laughter, and the unmistakable clatter of drinking horns.

Ale.

I stood a little straighter.

“We should investigate,” I told Rufus.

He looked up at me. I scooped him under one arm and went down toward the tent, composing an excellent justification involving rest, refreshment, and the study of local entertainment.

Inside, I managed several steps before stopping so abruptly that the saddle knocked against my back.

A woman was dancing around an iron spear planted in the stage floor.

She held its shaft with one hand and circled it to the drums, setting each foot down softly while her hips followed the beat. The movement traveled through her waist and shoulders before she let it carry her into a turn. She leaned away from the spear, her back gently arched, and tipped her face toward the light. Her hair fell behind her shoulder. For a moment she held the pose, letting us admire the sweep of it, then came upright with the violin and smiled as though she’d just noticed how pleased everyone was to see her.

I recognized her.

Allura.

I’d heard the stories. The legendary spearwoman who’d created the art of spear dancing. A Relmer, with the ears and grace of an elf and curves that made the human contribution very difficult to overlook. I’d imagined seeing her perform someday, once I was famous enough to go where famous people went.

Apparently, I could also get there by being fucking terrible at finding my way home.

More patrons pressed through the entrance behind me. I glanced back, found the way occupied, and turned toward the stage again. Rufus rested his paws over my arm while I found a gap between two shoulders through which a Dweller could appreciate the arts.

Twist my arm, why don’t you.

Allura slid her hand higher on the spear. Her other hand followed the curve of her waist and came to rest at her hip as she swayed. She let one hip settle, then turned just enough to change the shape of the pose. From where I stood, I could follow the line from her shoulder through the narrowness of her waist to the generous curve below it. She seemed entirely aware of how long we would be willing to look.

Then she hooked a leg around the shaft and swung. The audience roared. She landed lightly, extended one leg into a deep lunge, and held it while the drums rolled. Her fingertips traveled back to the spear. She drew herself upright a little at a time, lifting her chin last, and the cheering quieted while everyone watched. She made returning to a standing position seem like a favor she was doing us.

I had forgotten about the ale.

There was something deeply unfair about how little effort she seemed to need. I’d shouted myself hoarse at the Cock & Swallow, and this woman had an entire tent leaning forward because she had paused with one knee bent.

I began watching more carefully.

For professional reasons, obviously.

She let the music build before turning again, her hips leading and her shoulders following a fraction later. Halfway around, she looked back at us. The smile she offered was small enough to feel private, even with a tentful of people trying to claim it. Drinking horns went up. She held our attention through the pause, then swept around the spear and drew the whole room after her.

I could feel it happening to me. Each slow turn showed me something I wanted another moment to appreciate, and she moved on just before I felt I’d had it. I had arrived wanting a drink and somehow become invested in where she intended to put her hand next.

Then the jade began to fly.

Coins struck the stage. Purses landed beside the spear. Allura stepped between them without breaking the rhythm, and the crowd rewarded that with still more money.

I stared at a purse lying near her foot. It looked substantial. Another landed beside it.

Gods, she was beautiful. But the sight of all that jade made a different part of me sit up and pay attention.

I wanted people to feel that way when I performed. I wanted them waiting for the chorus, watching my hands, going home with a song they couldn’t get out of their heads. I’d managed it for one night at the Cock & Swallow. Allura moved as though she knew exactly how to do it again tomorrow.

I shifted Rufus more securely against me and kept my free hand away from my purse.

Four hundred and eighty jades. I knew the number very well. Remembering where three hundred of them had come from helped me resist the urge to throw any of them onto the stage. I had done quite enough for that money already.

When the performance ended, I applauded awkwardly around my splatcat and let the departing crowd carry us toward the opening. I wanted another look. I also had enough sense left to recognize that another look might become an expensive one.

I slipped outside with my money intact.

My mouth was so dry that swallowing hurt.

Had it been hanging open throughout the entire fucking show?

I put Rufus down and fished a jug of water from my pack. The first mouthful was wonderful. I drank the rest with considerably less restraint than I’d shown toward my jade, then stood holding the empty jug while the drums sounded behind me.

The day was getting late. I packed the jug away and adjusted the straps, discovering that the performance had done nothing to improve my shoulders. Rufus started down the road ahead of me, and I followed, hoping there was enough daylight left to reach the city.

For a while, the drumbeat stayed in my head. I tried matching my steps to it, thinking about the way Allura had held a pause until everyone wanted the next movement. There was something I could use in that, if I could learn to leave a silence alone without filling it with a nervous explanation of how well I’d performed last night.

Eventually, the thought gave way to the prospect of a chair.

By the time we reached the Twin Cities, I was considering what I might offer someone to carry Annali’s saddle for the last stretch. Then I remembered the jade raining onto Allura’s stage and decided I could suffer a little longer.

We had made it.

I headed straight for the Cock & Swallow. Rufus stayed at my heels while I picked my way through the city, too tired to give my usual attention to the people around me. The scarf still held. My belongings were still mine. For the moment, that would do.

The innkeeper had offered me a free night’s stay after my performance. I hoped he remembered it as fondly as I did, and that the invitation had survived my failure to use it at the appropriate time.

When I reached the entrance, I shifted the pack one last time and looked down at Rufus.

“Here we are.”

A bed, if the innkeeper kept his promise. Somewhere to put the saddle down. I had a great deal to think about before my next performance, but I could begin once I was sitting on something that hadn’t grown beside a road.

I took Rufus inside.

A Matter of Taste

Mon, 12 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

By the time we reached the place where I’d met the missionaries, I was walking fast enough to make Annali’s saddle knock against my pack.

The second time I’d met them, that was. The first encounter remained largely missing from my memory, and everything I’d learned about it suggested my memory had shown excellent judgment.

Rufus trotted ahead while I hurried past the spot, keeping one hand on my scarf. I had directions now. Actual directions, supplied by people who’d already had my trousers and weren’t getting anything else. All I had to do was follow the road back to the Twin Cities.

Something stepped from behind a tree ahead of us. Rufus stopped, six little feet planted in the road, and looked up at it.

“Rufus.”

He was perhaps six feet from the thing. I was nearer twenty.

“Rufus, come here.”

It was roughly the size of an orc, with enough of a man’s shape to make the differences unpleasant. Its arms hung too far down. As it shifted, I saw an extra joint bend where no joint had any fucking business being. A broken greatsword dangled from one hand; the other held a strange charm. It mumbled steadily in a language I didn’t recognize, working its mouth around sounds I couldn’t have repeated if someone had paid me.

I tried to think. Running forward would put me within reach of those arms before I reached Rufus. Throwing something might distract it, provided I could find something to throw. My pack was on my back, my wooden shortsword was deeply unimpressive, and several very clever ideas required the Thing to wait politely while I explained them.

By the time I’d rejected the last one, its eyes had settled on my splatcat.

There was no time to get between them. I felt a horrible certainty that it was deciding whether to eat Rufus in one bite or two.

I swallowed the panic and put on my professional smile.

“Hey there, friend!”

The Thing stopped mumbling long enough to look at me. For one glorious instant, it seemed startled by the possibility of conversation.

Then its expression changed.

I had offended it. Possibly with the smile. Possibly with my existence. The important part was that it began walking toward me, leaving Rufus behind.

“Lovely,” I said. “Yes. Over here.”

My voice had risen rather higher than intended. I could hear its muttering again as it approached, and those long arms swung with each step. The sword had lost a substantial portion of its blade. What remained looked entirely sufficient for a man of my size.

I dragged my bagpipe guitar into position. Music had brought me applause, a hundred and fifty jades, and an invitation to stay at an inn for free. I needed it to achieve something considerably more modest now.

Keep this fucker occupied.

I struck a chord and launched into the first song that came to mind.

I’d sell my soul for a pair of tits,
And throw in my boots if the bargain fits;
Two lovely handfuls, warm and round,
To squeeze till the bed legs leave the ground!

The Thing kept coming. I played faster.

A teat for breakfast, a tit for tea,
A faceful of supper would satisfy me;
When the milkmaid says, “Come suck my—”

It raised the sword.

“NOPE! Clearly not a boob guy!”

It broke into a run.

“WAITWAITWAIT!”

My fingers found another chord while the rest of me tried to shit itself through a scarf.

Oh, the miller had a mighty cock,
It woke the town at six o’clock;
He kept it proud and fed it grain,
And stroked its neck when it complained!

The Thing slowed.

I nearly forgot the next line.

“Oh?”

The sword lowered. It was listening.

“Oooooh.”

I couldn’t help smiling. A moment earlier I’d been preparing to die, and now I had identified an audience preference. There were performers who spent years learning that skill. Mine had come with a broken greatsword and a very firm deadline.

I gave the next verse everything I had.

The baker’s wife said, “What a beast!
I’d like to have it at my feast.
Bring it round behind my shop,
I’ve got a place to stick your cock!”

He said, “My cock likes room to spread;
It won’t be happy in your bed.”
She said, “Then let the bugger crow—
Just shove it in and fuck me slow!”

The Thing remained still. I could feel myself settling into the rhythm, holding a pause before the last word as though I had a tavern full of patrons waiting to shout it back.

Oh, stroke him high and stroke him low,
And mind the mess when he lets go;
The miller’s cock has done its best—
Now wipe your chin and let him rest!

I finished with a flourish. Entirely unnecessary, but difficult to resist when the preceding verse had gone so well.

“Thank you,” I said, breathing hard. “Rickon Fiddler. Available for taverns and private functions.”

I took a cautious step sideways, meaning to collect Rufus and continue down the road. The Thing moved with me. Its grip tightened on the sword, and the mumbling resumed with a distinctly dissatisfied sound.

“Ah.”

I had apparently advertised the wrong private function.

Rufus was clear of its immediate reach. That was something. Unfortunately, its attention remained firmly upon me, and the song had done rather too much to improve its disposition.

I looked down at the knot in my scarf.

There were few things in the world I wanted less than to untie it in front of this particular admirer. The Thing still had its sword, though, and every attempt to move away made it unhappy. I needed it pleased enough to put the fucking thing down.

I caught the end of the scarf between two fingers and began loosening the knot.

Poor scarf. Would you ever forgive me?

The Thing watched my hands.

Rickon. Focus.

I worked the cloth a little looser. My knees had begun trembling, which I hoped it would interpret as artistic sensitivity.

It knelt.

I stopped breathing. At that height, its face was considerably closer to mine, and I could hear every damp little sound beneath the muttering. It set down the broken sword and the charm.

Both hands were empty.

Oh, dear sweet Moonthings. If I’ve pleased you as much as those missionaries claim, this would be an excellent time to look after me. Surely you didn’t bless me last night just so I could die here with my cock out.

I lunged for the sword.

Its hilt was made for much larger hands. I seized it with both of mine and hauled upward, discovering that a broken greatsword was still a very substantial quantity of fucking sword. The weight pulled at my shoulders. For a dreadful instant, I thought all I’d accomplished was picking up something I couldn’t use.

Then I got it moving.

I swung as hard as I could and buried the blade in the Thing’s back.

I let go, snatched my guitar close, and yanked the scarf tight as I turned.

“RUFUS!”

We ran.

The saddle battered my pack with each stride. My guitar bounced against me, and I clamped an arm around it while trying to keep my feet beneath me. Rufus shot ahead, all six legs suddenly united by an interest in going somewhere else.

I kept him in sight. Whenever the road bent, I called his name, and whenever he appeared around the next curve I found enough breath to run a little farther.

It felt like miles. I couldn’t have told you how many. Measuring the distance would have required a degree of calm I had left back by the tree.

Eventually, I looked over my shoulder and saw an empty road. We carried on anyway. I waited until I could no longer hear anything behind us but the noise we were making ourselves, then waited a little longer before slowing to a walk.

I bent over with my hands on my knees. Rufus stopped beside me.

For a while, I could only look at him. He was there, whole and fluffy, and apparently wondering why we had stopped. I put a hand on his back and let him lean into it.

“Good boy,” I managed.

I had been so certain the Thing would eat him. The thought came back now that I could afford to have it, and I held him a little longer than he considered necessary.

When he wriggled free, I straightened and checked the road again.

Was this what Annali had meant when she’d warned me that the grass wasn’t always greener? Stay in Redfork, Rickon. Don’t go chasing fame in the big city. You’ll lose your pants, and every single fucking thing will be horny.

She hadn’t actually said that last part.

I felt it was a significant omission.

A clearing ahead offered enough level ground for the tent. I inspected the surrounding trees with considerably more interest than I’d ever shown in woodland before, then lowered my pack and set to work.

Pitching the tent gave my hands something useful to do. Once it stood, I got a fire going and sat beside Rufus with our food and water. The city could wait until I’d eaten and my legs had stopped objecting to being attached to me.

I started laughing halfway through a mouthful.

It took a little while to stop. Rufus looked up, and I scratched him beneath the chin until he settled again. Perhaps laughing meant there was something badly wrong with me. At least I could breathe well enough to do it now.

Tomorrow, I would try the road again. Tonight, I was quite content to perform for an audience that wanted a scratch and a share of supper.

The Trial of Temptation

Sun, 11 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

It occurred to me, somewhere down the road from Silvyr Thigh Smasher’s farmhouse, that I had made a rather serious error in judgment.

Several, actually.

But the most pressing was that I hadn’t the faintest fucking idea where I was going.

“Right, Steve,” I said, giving the reins an encouraging tug. “We need to think about this.”

Rufus shifted behind me, kneading the back of my tunic until he had made himself comfortable. One claw remained hooked in my collar. I took care not to disturb him.

“The Cock & Swallow,” I announced. “That’s where all this started. If we can get back there, we can figure out what happened.”

That gave us a destination. In the ballads, this was generally enough to get the hero through the next verse. I could have used a signpost.

The road wound between woodland and gently rolling hills. Back in Redfork, I could have identified the farms by their gates. Here, even the fences were no help, and the slugraptor seemed content to follow whichever direction I pointed him.

At the next bend, I spotted two figures beside the road. A man and a woman in white robes were smiling at me as though they’d been waiting their entire lives for this particular moment.

Their robes were stained with mud, sweat, and substances I preferred not to identify. Their smiles stretched a little too far, and their eyes were perpetually wet, as though both had recently received very good news about someone else’s funeral.

“Blessings of the Moonthings upon you!” called the man.

Oh, fuck.

Missionaries.

I considered turning around.

Unfortunately, the slugraptor had already slowed to a leisurely crawl, and my attempt to discreetly adjust my scarf had drawn far more attention to my crotch than simply leaving the damned thing alone.

“Good morning!” I called, attempting a friendly smile.

“Brother!” exclaimed the woman. “You’ve returned!”

I blinked.

“Have I?”

“Oh, what a joyous blessing!”

“Yes, well, lovely to see you both. Terribly sorry, but I’m in a bit of a—”

“We were beginning to worry!” said the man.

“Worry?”

“That you’d abandoned your sacred obligation!”

My stomach sank.

The woman clasped her hands beneath her chin.

“Surely you haven’t forgotten the Trial of Temptation?”

I stared at her.

“The what?”

“The Trial of Temptation!” they exclaimed together.

Their smiles widened in perfect unison.

“Ah,” I said. “Yes. That.”

They waited expectantly. I gave them the encouraging nod I used when I’d forgotten the next line and hoped somebody in the audience knew it.

“Perhaps,” I ventured, “you could refresh my memory?”

“Oh, certainly!” said the man. “The sacred Trial of Temptation is among the holiest demonstrations of devotion to the Moonthings!”

“Splendid.”

“One must spend an entire night alone in a locked barn with a seductive scarecrow.”

I stared at him.

“A what?”

“A seductive scarecrow,” repeated the woman pleasantly.

“Right. Of course.”

“The purpose is to resist its advances.”

I looked from one missionary to the other.

“How exactly does a scarecrow make advances?”

They exchanged a smile and let my question hang there.

“Well?”

“The ways of the Moonthings are mysterious,” said the man.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Nor are they meant to be!” said the woman.

I considered this.

“So you’re telling me that I’m supposed to spend an entire night locked in a barn with a scarecrow that intends to seduce me?”

“Precisely!”

“And I must resist?”

“With all your heart.”

“How?”

“The Moonthings shall reveal the path.”

“Right. And what happens if I don’t?”

Their smiles remained perfectly intact.

I was beginning to hate those fucking smiles.

“Look,” I said, “this has been delightful, but I really must be going.”

“Oh, but Brother Rickon!” the woman protested. “The payment has already been made!”

I froze.

“Payment?”

“Three hundred jades,” said the man.

My mouth fell open. Three hundred. The pile in the barn.

Oh, you beautiful, horrible bastards.

“That was from you?”

“Naturally!”

I glanced down at my scarf. Perhaps they could explain something else.

“Please tell me you know where my trousers are.”

Their faces positively lit up.

“Of course!” said the woman. “Your pledge!”

“My what?”

“The trousers were offered as a token of good faith,” explained the man.

“Whose faith?”

“Yours!”

“Mine?”

“Indeed!”

He spoke with the patient enthusiasm of a man explaining the obvious to a particularly stupid child.

“Last night, we offered you three hundred jades to undertake the Trial of Temptation. You agreed before we’d finished explaining it.”

That sounded uncomfortably plausible. Three hundred jades and a bellyful of ale could make a great many things sound reasonable.

“As a demonstration of your commitment,” he continued, “you entrusted us with your trousers.”

“Why?”

“Because the garments of worldly shame must be surrendered before the spirit can be tested!”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“To enter the trial without trousers is to stand before temptation without the protections of mortal vanity.”

“That’s worse.”

“The fabric is relinquished, the spirit revealed!”

“You’re just saying things now.”

They nodded together. I rubbed my temples.

“So, let me get this straight. You gave me three hundred jades to spend the night in a barn with a horny scarecrow, and I gave you my pants?”

“An excellent summary!” said the woman.

She said it with the bright satisfaction of someone who had finally taught me the chorus. I was still struggling with the verse about my pants.

At least that explained something. I was beginning to suspect that whatever I’d been drinking at the Cock & Swallow should be classified as a controlled substance.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Well, thank you both for clearing that up. I’ll just be on my—”

“Brother Rickon!”

Oh, shit.

“The trial begins this evening!”

I explained that I’d been drinking, that I had no recollection of making the agreement, and that no sane person should be held accountable for promises made while thoroughly pissed. When that failed, I tried their religion.

“Surely the Moonthings value forgiveness?”

“Above all else!” said the woman.

“Wonderful! Then perhaps they might forgive me for not attending?”

“They already have!”

“Excellent!”

“Which is why they’re granting you another opportunity to fulfill your vow!”

I could return the money. The thought occurred to me, and I gave it the brief, respectful consideration it deserved.

Three hundred jades. Twice what I’d earned singing my heart out to an entire tavern, just to spend a night declining the attentions of something that couldn’t chase me without assistance.

“And once I’ve done it, I get my trousers back?”

“Your pledge will have been fulfilled,” said the woman.

I chose to take that as a yes.

Besides, I did want to know how the scarecrow managed it. Purely as a matter of practical curiosity. I’d spent years trying to persuade people to take their clothes off, and this thing apparently had a technique worth locking in a barn.

“One night,” I said. “I keep the money, I collect my trousers, and we’re finished.”

They clasped their hands in delight.

“The Moonthings welcome your devotion!”

“My availability,” I corrected. “For one night.”

I gathered the reins and turned back toward the farm with them. It was a scarecrow. I had grown up around scarecrows. Not once had resisting one required the slightest effort.

—

The afternoon passed slowly at the edge of the farm. By dusk, Steve was tethered under the lean-to beside the barn, and I’d unloaded my belongings. Rufus settled on my bedroll with no apparent interest in following me inside.

Someone had tidied the hay and installed a large wooden tub in one corner of the barn. Candles stood around it, throwing soft light across the rough walls. Back home, that much effort usually meant someone was trying to sell you the farm.

The smell suggested they hadn’t finished preparing it for inspection.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Preparation,” whispered the woman.

“Preparation for what?”

“The cleansing.”

“Oh, good. The cleansing. Naturally.”

The missionaries finished lighting the candles and turned toward me. Their smiles softened. The man reached for the fastening of his robe, and the woman followed his lead.

“Erm.”

The robes slipped from their shoulders.

And I swear upon every miserable Moonthing in the heavens, I had never seen two more beautiful people in my entire life.

The transformation was astonishing.

Gone were the filthy, suspiciously damp missionaries I’d encountered beside the road. Before me stood a man and woman of such extraordinary beauty that I briefly wondered whether I’d suffered a head injury.

The man had the sort of body sculptors spend their lives trying to capture in marble.

The woman possessed curves that made a compelling argument against organized religion, or perhaps very much in favor of it, depending on how one looked at the matter.

I looked from them to the tub, beginning to understand the arrangement.

“Oh,” I said.

The man extended a hand.

“Come, Brother Rickon.”

I swallowed.

“Where?”

“To the waters of purification.”

“Right.”

“The body must be cleansed before the spirit can be tested,” murmured the woman.

I pulled off my tunic, unwound the scarf, and left them beside the door with my boots. She took my other hand, and I allowed them to guide me to the tub and help me into the warm water.

What followed was quite possibly the most religious experience of my life.

The woman began washing my shoulders, her hands moving slowly over skin that hadn’t enjoyed this much attention since I’d been small enough to require assistance bathing.

The man worked a sponge along my back. Warm water trickled over my chest, and their voices drifted around me like incense.

“Temptation is the mirror in which the soul beholds its own hunger,” murmured the woman.

“Mmm,” I replied.

“To know desire is to know the weakness of flesh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And only through surrender may one discover the strength to resist.”

“That’s very nice.”

The man’s hands moved to my arms.

“The Moonthings see all that we conceal.”

“Do they?”

“Even that which we hide from ourselves.”

“How unsettling.”

The woman leaned closer.

“Would you surrender yourself to their wisdom, Brother Rickon?”

At that particular moment, I would have surrendered my entire fucking wardrobe. Although, given recent events, I suppose I already had.

They washed every inch of me.

Every.

Fucking.

Inch.

And all the while, they continued murmuring their strange little proverbs.

“The seed of longing blossoms in the garden of restraint.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That which rises must first learn to kneel.”

“Right.”

“The faithful must know the flesh before they can conquer its demands.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate the thorough instruction.”

I was beginning to understand why their religion had survived despite its apparent dependence on incomprehensible gardening metaphors.

For a while, I stopped listening to the words and enjoyed the sound of their voices. It was the sort of effect I hoped to achieve with my own singing, though I generally had to buy people a drink first.

Then a word caught up with me.

Resist.

There was a scarecrow involved. I was supposed to resist its advances. I tried to work out how this bath contributed to that objective, but the woman leaned closer and I lost my place again.

My thoughts scattered like startled chickens.

The warm water, the candlelight, the soap, the skin, the soft voices whispering about sin and salvation—

It was all a magnificent blur.

Then the woman stepped away, and the man drained the sponge. Apparently, we were finished.

“Your body is cleansed,” he announced.

“Wonderful.”

“Your spirit is prepared,” said the woman.

“Excellent.”

“May the Moonthings guide you through the night.”

I blinked.

“Sorry, what?”

“Wait.” They were already gathering their robes. The man picked up my clothes and boots as well. “Hold on.”

“Your garments will await you outside in the morning,” said the woman. “Blessings, Brother Rickon.” She blew me a kiss while the man opened the barn door.

“May your resolve prove greater than your desire,” said the man.

“Now hang on just a fucking—”

The door closed, and a lock clicked into place.

I stood beside the tub, stark naked, absurdly clean, and possessed of a physical condition best described as an urgent matter requiring private attention.

“What the fuck?”

Something rustled behind me. I turned to find a scarecrow standing in the middle of the barn.

I hadn’t noticed anyone bring it in. Admittedly, I’d been occupied.

It stood upright in the center of the barn, its crooked frame dressed in ragged scraps of fabric, a roughly fashioned head perched atop a body stuffed with straw.

I watched it for a while. Nothing moved. I’d seen scarecrows in Redfork with crows nesting in their shoulders; this one looked about as capable of defending itself.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I glanced at the locked door, then approached the scarecrow cautiously.

“You’re the seductress, then? Lovely evening for it.”

The scarecrow remained unmoved.

I circled it, examining the crude stitching and the straw protruding from its clothes. A poke at the shoulder and a cautious squeeze of one arm confirmed the quality of the stuffing.

“Well, this is fucking stupid.”

I stepped back. It was an ordinary scarecrow, but someone had paid three hundred jades to leave me alone with it. That was a great deal of money for an uneventful night.

I found myself watching its hands.

I retreated to the barn doors and sat with my knees drawn to my chest. From there, I could keep the whole thing in view. It continued doing nothing, obliging me to supply every horrible possibility myself.

“You’re not getting me,” I whispered.

No response.

“Not tonight.”

I watched it as the candles burned lower and its shadow lengthened across the hay. Eventually, despite my best efforts to remain vigilant, I fell asleep.

—

When I opened my eyes, a woman was sitting in the candlelight.

And gods help me, she was beautiful.

She had settled onto a low bale of hay, one leg crossed over the other. Sandy brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Her clothing consisted of narrow strips of some strange blue fabric that looked rather like denim, arranged with considerable confidence in their ability to remain where they were.

She watched me wake. There was no surprise in her expression, no apparent concern about finding a naked stranger huddled against a barn door. When I finally met her eyes, she smiled as though we’d been interrupted earlier and could now get back to something pleasant.

One hand rested on the hay beside her. The other moved slowly from her collarbone to her waist, then followed the blue fabric over her hip. Her fingertips came to rest on her thigh. She kept looking at me throughout, giving me ample time to notice every inch of the journey.

I noticed. I had very little else scheduled.

She tipped her head, letting her hair fall away from her neck. Her fingers traced the seam of the fabric, paused, then slid down toward her knee. There was a patience to it that made my own stillness feel increasingly ridiculous. She seemed quite comfortable waiting for me to get up and do something about the distance between us.

I tried to think of something worth saying. This had seldom been a problem before.

“Good evening,” I said.

My voice cracked on evening. A promising start.

Her smile widened. She lifted the hand from her thigh and beckoned with one finger.

Me. She meant me.

I had never been more grateful to be the only man in a room.

I got to my feet and brushed hay from my shoulder. There was rather more of it attached elsewhere, but I decided against a thorough inspection while she was watching.

“Rickon,” I said. “I’m a bard.”

She uncrossed her legs slowly and leaned forward, her hair slipping over one shoulder. I lost the next sentence somewhere between her smile and the movement of her hand as she tucked a strand behind her ear.

I had introduced myself to considerably less attentive audiences.

“You may have heard of me. The Cock & Swallow?”

Her gaze stayed on mine. I took a step closer, encouraged by the idea that she might actually want to hear this.

“Last night. Very well received.”

She sat back, bracing herself on one hand. The movement left a little space beside her on the hay. With the other, she smoothed the fabric at her hip, then patted the empty place. Her eyes returned to mine, and she waited.

I had spent a great deal of time imagining the sort of woman who might take an interest in a famous bard. It had never occurred to me that I could get this much attention before becoming one. I straightened my shoulders and tried to look as though beautiful women routinely made room for me.

“Room for one more?”

There was plainly room. She had just indicated the room. I wished, with considerable urgency, that I would stop speaking.

She shifted toward the edge of the bale as I approached, her face tipped up toward mine. The teasing smile softened into something that felt meant for me alone. At this distance, I could see how carefully she was watching my face. I had been about to tell her something else about the performance. It no longer seemed remotely interesting.

A loose strand of hair lay across her cheek. I wanted to move it aside and see the rest of her smile.

I hesitated, my hand halfway raised.

She leaned toward it, closing a little of the space I hadn’t quite dared to cross.

Well. There was an answer.

I brushed the hair aside and cupped her cheek.

Something dry pricked my palm.

I looked at my hand.

Straw.

My fingers were tangled in a tuft of straw poking through a split in a filthy sack. The woman was gone. I was standing very close to an ordinary scarecrow, tenderly holding its fucking head.

“FUCK!”

I let go so quickly that its head wobbled.

That was worse.

I stumbled backward, wiping my hand against my leg. A stalk remained caught between two fingers. I shook it off with rather more violence than was necessary.

The scarecrow stood where it had always stood. There was no woman on the hay. No smile. Nothing to suggest that, a moment earlier, I’d been trying to impress it with my professional accomplishments.

“You could have said you weren’t interested in music.”

My voice sounded very small in the barn.

I backed toward the door. The face I’d seen was still perfectly clear in my memory, which made the sack head in front of me considerably worse. Had I been dreaming? Had the missionaries put something in the bath? I couldn’t account for any of it.

One thing, however, was settled.

“You can smile all you fucking like next time. I’m staying here.”

I sat against the door and tucked my hands beneath my arms. Whatever the Moonthings had intended, they had cured me of any desire to investigate further.

—

The next morning began much like the previous one: hay, a headache, and no trousers. For a moment I hoped I’d dreamed everything that happened between the two awakenings.

Then I sat up and saw the scarecrow.

“Oh, fuck me.”

It stood in the middle of the barn, looking fit for nothing more adventurous than a vegetable patch.

I glared at it.

“You.”

The scarecrow said nothing.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

The lock clicked, interrupting my accusations. I scrambled to my feet as the doors swung open and sunlight spilled across the floor. The missionaries stood outside in their filthy white robes, smiling with an enthusiasm I was in no condition to return.

“Brother Rickon!” exclaimed the man. “A glorious morning!”

I stared at him.

“A glorious morning,” I repeated flatly.

“The Moonthings have blessed us with another dawn!”

“Have they?”

“Indeed!”

“Wonderful. Perhaps they could bless me with some fucking trousers.”

The woman stepped inside, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Tell us, Brother. How was your trial?”

They seemed genuinely curious. The woman went to inspect the scarecrow, bending close to its stitching, while the man remained beside me.

“Did you feel temptation?”

“Did I feel—”

I laughed.

It wasn’t a particularly happy laugh.

“You could say that.”

“Marvelous!”

“Marvelous?”

“Tell us everything!”

I told them how I’d fallen asleep by the door and woken to find a beautiful woman waiting for me. I gave a fairly restrained account of my approach. There was no need to repeat every word of the introduction.

The woman missionary listened intently; the man nodded along. When I reached the part where I cupped her cheek and discovered a sack full of straw, they exchanged a startled look. Then both began to beam.

“Oh, Brother Rickon,” breathed the woman. “The Moonthings have truly touched you.”

“Not as much as your scarecrow nearly did.”

“Through temptation, we discover the truth of our desires.”

“Apparently, mine involve women who don’t exist.”

“And through desire, the Moonthings reveal the frailty of mortal perception.”

“Yes, well, my perception was extremely fucking frail last night.”

The man clasped his hands together.

“Blessed are those who behold the hunger of the flesh, for in their weakness the Moonthings reveal their love.”

The woman nodded reverently.

“To desire is to be known. To be known is to be loved. And to be loved by the Moonthings is to stand naked before the truth.”

I glanced down.

“Believe me, I’ve done quite enough standing naked.”

I waited for their smiles to subside.

“So. Did I pass?”

Neither gave me a straight answer.

Instead, they offered more congratulations, more incomprehensible scripture, and a generous helping of vague assurances that the Moonthings worked in mysterious ways.

I was beginning to think mysterious was simply their word for we haven’t got a fucking clue either.

Still, they seemed pleased enough. I had survived the Trial of Temptation, and an attentive audience had improved my opinion of the experience. I could hear myself beginning to tell it better.

I now knew that somewhere in the world existed a religion whose sacred practices involved making people horny and then frightening the living shit out of them with farm equipment.

All in all, a productive couple of days.

There was, however, one final matter to settle.

“Right. My trousers, then.”

“Your offering has been accepted,” said the woman.

“They were a pledge.”

“Of your devotion. A permanent gift to the Moonthings.”

“You said I’d get them back.”

“I said your pledge would be fulfilled. And so it has!”

I thought back to our conversation. Those had been her exact words. I had supplied the part where I got dressed.

“What the fuck do the Moonthings need with my trousers?”

The man drew breath.

“Never mind.”

I decided to leave before they developed a religious interest in my boots.

The missionaries accompanied me outside. My tunic, scarf, and boots were waiting with my belongings. I put them on, taking particular care with the scarf’s knot. Rufus emerged from the bedroll, stretching as though he’d had a splendid night.

The morning was bright, the air fresh, and the prospect of putting considerable distance between myself and their theological scarecrow was enormously appealing.

I approached Steve and reached for the reins.

“Come on, then.”

The woman cleared her throat.

“Brother Rickon? The slugraptor belongs to us.”

I stopped.

“Steve?”

“If that’s what you’re calling him.”

I stared at the animal. He appeared entirely unconcerned by this development.

“He’s yours?”

“Naturally!”

“But I’ve been riding him!”

“Yes,” said the woman. “We lent him to you.”

“Lent?”

“The night before last. You were concerned about transporting your belongings to the farm.”

I rubbed my forehead. I could almost remember complaining about hauling my belongings up a road while thoroughly pissed. That did sound like a difficulty I would have felt everyone ought to hear about.

“You’re telling me I borrowed Steve?”

“Precisely!”

“And you let me take him?”

“Of course!”

“Why?”

“Because you required assistance.”

I thought of Silvyr Thigh Smasher and her opinions on assistance. Her hospitality had at least been brief. The missionaries were still smiling, and I wasn’t sure which approach frightened me more.

“Well,” I said eventually, “that explains that.”

I untied Steve and passed the tether to the woman, then unfastened my own saddle and reins. Annali had given those to me, and I intended to keep them. I lashed the saddle to my pack and gathered the rest of my belongings.

The missionaries appeared delighted to have him back.

I looked down the road. It seemed considerably longer now that I’d be walking.

That settled the last of my questions about the night at the Cock & Swallow. What I still couldn’t explain was how I’d become the sort of man who agreed to these things in the first place.

I supposed that was a mystery best left unsolved.

Before leaving, I made them give me directions back to the Twin Cities. I repeated each turn until the man assured me I’d got it right.

“The Cock & Swallow,” I told Rufus, adjusting my scarf. “By way of someone who sells trousers.”

The missionaries waved cheerfully.

“May the Moonthings guide your path, Brother Rickon!”

“Yes, yes. May they keep their fucking scarecrows to themselves.”

I started down the road.

Rufus trotted ahead, stopped to investigate a tuft of grass, and made me wait while he rubbed both cheeks against it. He seemed pleased with the return to walking.

For a while, I walked in silence.

I really needed to cut back on my drinking.

I sighed. Then a phrase came to me with a rhythm already attached, and I stopped walking.

“Rufus.”

My splatcat looked up.

“I think I’ve got a song.”

I cleared my throat.

I met a lass in a farmer’s shed,
She smiled, and all my good sense fled;
I cupped her cheek in holy awe,
And found her stuffed with fucking straw!

I frowned and tapped the rhythm against my leg. There was a chorus in there somewhere: moonlight, devotion, the dangers of letting one’s cock make decisions ordinarily reserved for the brain. Something they could shout back after hearing it once.

I started walking again, humming to myself. By the time I reached the Cock & Swallow, I intended to have a chorus worth trying on the crowd.

After all, if a man couldn’t turn the worst decisions of his life into a bawdy tavern song, what the fuck was the point of becoming a bard?

A Night to Remember

Fri, 09 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

It was a night to remember.

At least, that’s what everyone kept telling me.

Several patrons of the Cock & Swallow had stopped me afterward to congratulate me on what they described as the finest musical performance they’d witnessed in years. One particularly enthusiastic gentleman even pressed a chit into my palm, redeemable for a free beer at the local brothel.

A brothel that served free beer! What a marvelous city.

I’d arrived in Uptown with a bagpipe guitar and songs that deserved a much better singer. I intended to become that singer eventually. In the meantime, I had discovered that a sufficiently enthusiastic crowd could do a great deal of the work for me.

The song was called A Cock in Every Hand, and it went something like this:

I met a lass at the Cock & Swallow,
Said, “Come upstairs, and I shall follow!”
She grabbed my purse, I grabbed her rear,
We both got screwed, but I bought the beer!

The crowd had absolutely lost their fucking minds.

By the time I reached the chorus, half the tavern was on its feet, mugs raised, singing along with the enthusiastic confidence of people who had only just learned the words.

HEY HO! UP WE GO!
Pants come down and the ale must flow!
Raise your cocks and drain your sacks,
If you can’t get laid, then pay your tax!

HEY HO! DOWN WE FALL!
There’s no saints at the Cock & Swallow!

The applause had been thunderous. Drinks were spilled, tables were beaten, and several people demonstrated that they understood the lyrics far too literally.

I’d earned a hundred and fifty jades for my trouble. A hundred and fifty! That was more money than I’d ever made doing anything that didn’t involve manual labor or a deeply questionable understanding of personal property.

Even the innkeeper had been moved by my performance. He’d offered me a room for the night, free of charge, declaring that I’d made him feel things he hadn’t felt in years.

I chose not to ask which things.

For the first time since leaving Redfork, I felt like I was actually getting somewhere. The big city wasn’t going to swallow me whole. No, sir. I was going to make something of myself. I was going to become a proper bard, write songs that people remembered, and perhaps someday perform somewhere that didn’t smell quite so strongly of piss.

I was on top of the world.

Which made waking up in a pile of manure all the more surprising.

The smell woke me first. Growing up in Redfork had given me a working acquaintance with manure. Usually, though, there was a shovel between us.

This was a much closer acquaintance.

Something was clucking beside my ear, and my pillow had begun scratching my cheek. I opened one eye to find a chicken looking back at me.

“Morning,” I croaked. It blinked, unimpressed by a voice that had earned good money only hours earlier.

I opened the other eye.

“Oh, fuck me.”

I was in a barn.

Not a particularly unpleasant barn, as barns go, but a barn nonetheless. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating drifting motes of dust and what I sincerely hoped were ordinary bits of hay. Twelve chickens wandered around me, pecking at the floor with the purposeful indifference of creatures that had seen worse.

A slugraptor stood nearby. Beside it lay an enormous pile of jade.

“Holy fucking shit.”

I sat upright, immediately regretted it, and clutched my throbbing head. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside during the night, taken a shit, and died of embarrassment.

The jade remained where it was: three hundred pieces, by my reckoning. My own purse still held the thirty I’d brought with me and the hundred and fifty I’d earned. This pile was extra.

I began counting again, just to enjoy reaching the end. A chicken pecked at my boot.

“Not now. I’m doing sums.”

I tried to remember how I’d gotten there. I could recall the Cock & Swallow, the applause, the innkeeper offering me a room. Someone had handed me another drink.

After that, not a single blessed fucking thing.

And then a far more troubling realization struck me.

WHERE THE FUCK IS RUFUS?

“Rufus!” I spun around, sending a chicken squawking into the air. Something warm and furry brushed my hand, and I yelped almost as loudly.

My splatcat had been beside me all along, tucked into a mound of hay. He stretched, unfolding six legs from a body that had looked quite incapable of storing them, then pushed his head under my palm.

“Oh, thank the gods.”

I scratched behind his ears. He purred until I tried to check him for injuries, at which point he put a paw against my nose and resumed washing himself.

“Fine. You’re having a better morning than I am.”

With Rufus accounted for, I could turn my attention to the gap in my memory. Sitting among the chickens wasn’t helping.

There was only one reasonable course of action.

I would discover what happened last night.

I would retrace my steps, unravel the mystery, and uncover whatever unspeakable sequence of events had brought me to this peculiar little corner of the world.

I was a bard, after all. An adventurer. A man of ambition and considerable intellectual curiosity.

A man who—

I looked down.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Where were my pants?

I searched beneath the hay, behind the slugraptor, and around the jade. I even shooed the chickens aside to check where they’d been standing. In Redfork, anything left on the ground was liable to become a nest.

My pants were gone.

My bagpipe guitar lay miraculously intact among the rest of my belongings. While checking behind it, I noticed the slugraptor’s saddle.

I recognized that saddle.

It was the very same leather saddle Annali had given me when I’d left Redfork, along with a handsome set of reins.

At the time, I’d pointed out what I considered to be a fairly significant oversight.

“I haven’t got a mount,” I’d told her.

“You’ll figure it out,” she’d replied.

Apparently, I had.

I decided to call him Steve. It was a reassuringly ordinary name for an animal I couldn’t explain.

“Steve,” I told him. “Unless you’ve any objections.”

He went on chewing.

I turned my attention to the more immediate problem.

There I stood, wearing a white tunic, leather boots, and absolutely nothing between the waist and my knees.

Well, not nothing.

But nothing I particularly wanted swinging about in public.

I glanced toward the barn doors. A gentle morning breeze wandered through the opening, bringing with it the refreshing sensation of air upon regions that had not consented to an outdoor excursion.

“Lovely.”

Fortunately, I still had my scarf. A human would have needed a tablecloth; being a Dweller had its advantages. With several awkward adjustments, I managed to wrap it around my waist.

A kilt. I would call it a kilt, and if anyone asked, I would invent a tradition to go with it.

I tested a cautious step. The tradition would have to discourage dancing.

“Good enough.”

I gathered my belongings, packed away the jade, and secured what I could to the slugraptor.

Through the open barn doors, I could see a handsome farmhouse a short distance away. It was well maintained, solidly built, and possessed the unmistakable air of a property owned by someone with enough money to be unpleasant about it.

Perhaps whoever lived there had seen me arrive. With luck, they might even know where I’d left my trousers.

I kept one hand on the scarf all the way to the farmhouse. At the porch, I straightened my tunic and knocked on the lower panel of the door.

No answer. I was about to try again when I heard footsteps inside, with long pauses between them. I had time to adjust the scarf twice before the door creaked open.

An elderly orc woman stood over me. She looked as though she’d personally witnessed the invention of agriculture and found it deeply disappointing.

She was a hulking creature, green-skinned and generously proportioned, with a broad face that suggested a lifetime spent disapproving of things. Her clothes appeared respectable enough, though they were damp with sweat. In fact, she was sweating so profusely that I briefly wondered whether the farmhouse was on fire.

She looked distinctly unwell.

Her breathing was labored, her movements stiff, and her expression resembled that of someone who’d just swallowed a live toad.

I took a discreet step backward.

“Good morning, madam! My name is Rickon. Lovely property you’ve got here.”

She stared down at me. I held my smile and tried the sort of compliment that usually got a conversation started back home.

“Very impressive barn.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Fine chickens, too.”

One eyelid twitched. I had exhausted my knowledge of her farm without finding a safe subject.

“Erm. I was wondering whether you might remember anything unusual happening around here last night?”

“Unusual?”

Her voice sounded like gravel being dragged across more gravel.

“Yes, well, you see—”

“What’s unusual?”

“That’s rather what I’m trying to establish.”

A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek while I searched for a better explanation. The scarf chose that moment to loosen.

“Perhaps a little commotion? Some noise? A slugraptor arriving unexpectedly? A handsome young fellow wandering about looking terribly confused?”

“Who?”

“Just hypothetically.”

Her gaze settled on the scarf. I tightened it with what I hoped looked like a deliberate flourish.

“Fashion,” I explained.

She continued looking at the knot.

“Anyway, I seem to have misplaced a few things, and I thought perhaps—”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Rickon, madam. As I mentioned.”

“What do you want?”

A reasonable question. Unfortunately, I was increasingly unsure of the answer.

I glanced past her into the house. It looked just as prosperous inside as it did from the road.

Then I thought of the jade I’d just packed away.

Oh, fuck.

What if it was hers?

What if I’d stolen it?

What if she’d been robbed in the night and here I was, standing on her porch, half-naked, politely requesting information about the crime?

I could practically hear the conversation with the city watch.

And what made you suspect the accused?

Well, officer, he arrived without trousers and immediately began asking whether I’d noticed anything stolen.

Best to change the subject.

“Actually,” I said brightly, “never mind all that. Are you feeling quite all right?”

She blinked.

I gestured vaguely toward her face.

“You seem a little, well… warm.”

Her expression hardened.

“Warm?”

“Not in an unattractive way, of course. Just rather perspiry.”

“Perspiry?”

“Yes. Sweaty. Damp. Moist, even.”

The word moist appeared to cause her particular offense.

I pressed on, idiot that I was.

“I only ask because you seem a touch under the weather. Is there anything I might do to help?”

Her nostrils flared, and her knuckles tightened around the cane she was leaning on. I waited for some acknowledgment of my concern.

It arrived at a volume I could only envy.

“HELP?”

I flinched.

“Well, yes—”

“YOU THINK SILVYR THIGH SMASHER NEEDS YOUR FUCKING HELP?”

Silvyr Thigh Smasher. A name that would practically write its own ballad, if I survived long enough to ask whether it was hereditary or earned.

“Not at all, Mistress Thigh Smasher. I merely—”

“IN MY DAY, WE DIDN’T GO BEGGING STRANGERS FOR HELP!”

“Of course not.”

“WE HELPED OUR FUCKING SELVES!”

“Admirable.”

She jabbed her cane toward me.

“YOU KNOW HOW MANY MEN I’VE PUT ON THEIR ARSES WITH THESE HANDS?”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“MORE THAN YOU’VE HAD HOT DINNERS!”

“That does sound like a great many.”

“AND HALF OF THEM BEGGED ME TO DO IT AGAIN!”

I opened my mouth, reconsidered, and let her continue.

“BACK WHEN I WAS YOUNG, A MAN KNEW BETTER THAN TO SHOW UP AT A WOMAN’S DOOR WITH HIS BALLS DANGLING BENEATH A BLOODY SCARF!”

I glanced down. The scarf had slipped.

“Ah. Yes. Terribly sorry.” I hauled it back into place.

“BACK THEN, IF YOU WANTED TO SEE A MAN’S COCK, YOU MADE HIM BUY YOU DINNER FIRST!”

“Very sensible custom.”

“AND YOU DIDN’T NEED SOME LITTLE SHIT TELLING YOU WHEN YOU WERE SICK!”

“Quite right.”

“OR ASKING IF YOU NEEDED HELP!”

“Of course.”

“I’M SILVYR FUCKING THIGH SMASHER!”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“I DON’T NEED HELP FROM ANYONE!”

“An admirable philosophy, madam.”

“ESPECIALLY NOT SOME HALF-DRESSED LITTLE PISSANT WITH A FACE LIKE A SHAVED ARSE!”

I bowed.

“An excellent point.”

She raised the cane to the level of my face. I had answers for hecklers; I was less prepared for this. I backed away.

“Well, it has been an absolute pleasure making your acquaintance, Mistress Thigh Smasher.”

“GET OFF MY FUCKING PROPERTY!”

“Immediately.”

“AND PUT SOME FUCKING TROUSERS ON!”

“Working on it!”

I attempted a farewell bow while backing down the porch steps. The scarf pulled tight across my knees, and I had to finish the maneuver sideways.

Silvyr followed me as far as the doorway, shaking her cane with righteous fury.

“IN MY DAY, MEN HAD THE DECENCY TO KEEP THEIR LITTLE PRICKS TO THEMSELVES!”

“Sound advice!”

“AND WE DIDN’T HAVE ALL THIS FUCKING NONSENSE ABOUT HELPING PEOPLE!”

“Quite!”

“YOU HEAR ME, BOY?”

“Loud and clear!”

I reached the slugraptor and hauled myself into the saddle, briefly presenting Silvyr with a view that renewed her objections. Rufus scrambled up behind me and dug his claws into my tunic. With both of us securely attached, I urged the animal down the trail.

Behind me, Silvyr Thigh Smasher was still yelling about the younger generation and proper courtship. She was beginning an account involving a cabbage, three sailors, and a chamber pot when we rounded the bend.

Under other circumstances, I would have stayed for the ending.

The farmhouse disappeared behind the trees, though I could have sworn her voice carried on for another quarter mile.

And just like that, I was on the road again.

Whatever the fuck had happened last night, I intended to find out.

But first, I really needed some pants.

Every day I pull Death

Fri, 07 Mar 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Every day I pull Death.
Every day, same as the last.
The universe keeps telling me
to let go of my past.

I shuffle the cards so vigorously
that my hands start to bleed.
A cut in the deck, a pull of a card,
and again, the Reaper proceeds.

No matter my will, the cards never heed.
No cleansing can shake this energy.
How do I let go
when I am the ghost haunting me?

We Strive

Thu, 13 Feb 2025 00:00:00 GMT

we strive to be uncommon,
to stand out, we yearn for attention.
when one of the greatest inventions—
one that broadened communication—
left us feeling a lack of connection,
all we want is to not be forgotten.

Secret

Thu, 23 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

You held it, that secret,
as if your life depended on it,
kept it buried beneath
your idea of masculinity.
By convincing the world,
you hoped to convince yourself.

You hated it, that secret,
a stain on your memory,
so you gave up your identity,
molding your life after theirs,
a complex puzzle
yet the heart refused to fit.

You feared it, that secret,
until you could no longer hold it.
It grew in the dark, ivy twisting
even without your nurturing.
You sought therapy—
you were bursting at the seams.

You spoke it, that secret.
It was time to confront it.
Some people surprised you,
and some did not, but
you found that life is worth living
if you’re living it as yourself.

Gatekeep

Thu, 16 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

You gatekeep
as if a gate ever stood
that needed keeping,
as if a fence,
splintered and sagging,
needed maintaining,
as if you owned
the town square in Paris,
where life was painted
in moments, not boundaries.

A Single Letter

Thu, 26 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

A single letter tucked away,
your handwriting faint,
in a box of memories.
The ending reads:
‘If you get this,
please write.’

Did I?

Intimately Misaligned

Wed, 25 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Intimately misaligned,
romantically ostracized,
sexually unrefined,
still thinking it’s black and white,
as if love was precise,
as if desire was a straight line.

Genuine

Thu, 19 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

You shut yourself off,
as if that would be enough,
to rid yourself of the thought
that you were somehow rotten—
broken beyond comprehension,
that rescue no one wanted,
dropped off at the fire station,
discarded and forgotten.

It’s not until hindsight
where we can reason,
come to realization
that the world wasn’t against you.
You learned to pretend
to be what others wanted,
shallow connections,
death by your insecurity,
when all you needed to be

was genuine.

Beware the Pain

Thu, 05 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Beware the pain you’ve sown tonight,
its echoes summon the beast’s delight.

In the shadows, chains rattle and clink.
Evil lurks where you dare not blink.

His claws scratch softly at the door—
a warning first, then something more.

You can’t hide, it can’t be stopped,
for tonight is Krampusnacht.

Yearning

Thu, 07 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

This yearning
used to be concerning.
I’m learning what it means to live—
returning to my childhood wit,
burning my fears like sticks
in this pyre of mental shit.
Turning my beliefs upside down
as I sift through the ashes, unbound.
The journey to find my purpose
begins with this drift.
Emerging without disguise,
seeing myself anew—
with open eyes.
I’m ready to rise
from the smoke, renewed—
the arsonist of my own mind.

These Thoughts

Wed, 06 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Thoughts keep churning in my head,
I’m struggling to stop from seeing red.
Over and over and over and over,
how do I stop it from taking me lower?
Spiraling into a cycle of depression,
this angst is becoming an obsession.
I want to scream at the world outside,
but I also don’t want them to see me cry.
I’ve said hate is a virus that burns within—
I don’t want it to consume me,
the way it consumed them.

As a Boy

Tue, 05 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

As a boy, I learned
how to act. As a man,
I knew how to suppress.
As a man, I began to wonder
why I never cried. As a boy,
I found how to survive.

The Moonlight

Thu, 31 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

I always knew,
looking up at the moon,
that something stirred inside.

I tried to hide it
until I couldn’t—
the transformation was nigh.

The moon called,
but so did you—
a voice steady as the night.

You stayed with me
while I learned to breathe
and let the panic subside.

And when I changed,
you held my gaze,
telling me I’d be alright.

I’ll always remember
when you whispered,
“Come out into the moonlight.”

Spiders

Sat, 26 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Spiders
but not in the way you think—
the thoughts that crawl out of the dark
when I’m trying to sleep.
They creep through shadows in my mind
and feed on insecurities.
I spray them down with pesticide,
but it’s an infestation;
a haunting from inside.

You Are

Wed, 16 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

you are
not
a series of boxes to check,
a list of options
to select.

you are
the answer
they can’t predict.