The night on watch had been long, cold, and uneventful. Distant sounds of movement and pained groans echoed through the cavern from time to time, but nothing emerged from the dungeon. Hans had always been a “better safe than sorry” kind of adventurer, though. Watching the exit was the right call regardless.

“Do you want some coffee?” Olza called down to Hans from the surface.

“Please. That would be amazing.”

With the rest of the camp beginning to stir, Hans climbed the ladder to join Olza by the fire. A blanket of deep gray clouds lingered overhead, a warning of heavy snowfall to come. According to the locals, the winter thus far had been “mild,” despite several feet of accumulation arriving near weekly. So when Roland looked at the sky and frowned, Hans began to worry.

“The heated build site will keep the cabin from getting buried,” Roland began, “But a few extra feet of snow out there will make logging tough.” The hunter gestured to the forest surrounding them.

“What if we spent today logging, all four of us. That way if the snow gets us, we can at least work on the cabin.”

“Aye. I like that plan.”

Kane and Quentin roused to the sounds of Hans and Roland alternating chops on a tree. Without fanfare, the boys returned to their work, selecting their own tree to fell.

The first time Hans adventured with a proper woodsman, he learned that lumberjacking required a surprising amount of technique. On that day many years ago, he had watched as a much smaller human chewed through two trunks before Hans finished his first. Mirroring the woodsman’s technique, Hans adjusted the angle of his chops to remove larger chunks with each swing, and he happily accepted coaching on how to read a tree and what to do in order to drop the tree in a certain direction.

Hans already respected the danger presented by a one hundred-year-old tree falling–more than a few adventurers had been the victim of a surprise lean or break or deadfall. Watching an expert assess the shape, growth, and surroundings of a tree was a pleasure for Hans, always enjoying seeing a master practice their craft.

Understanding the value of the hunter’s experience, he was grateful Roland was present to recommend shifts in strategy to keep everyone safe and to keep one of their trees from getting hung on the branches of another, which would leave it precariously upright with no safe way to dislodge it.

“Should we be worried about Becky?” Hans asked Roland during one of their breaks.

The hunter chewed his cheek before replying. “I wouldn’t say so. She probably just got caught up. She keeps busy.”

“Do you know with what? I’m not versed in the private lives of Druids.”

Roland laughed. “I don’t think many are. I’ve seen her go to great lengths to heal a sick tree or to care for injured creatures. One time she yelled at me for interrupting her ‘negotiation’ with a moose.”

“What were they–”

“No idea. She was too grumpy to talk about it.”

“Sounds like Becky.”

“She sees herself as a sort of guardian or caretaker for Gomi’s forest. I can’t say I know what that entails, but I know she takes it seriously.”

With the sun hidden, Hans couldn’t quite estimate the time of day, but he knew he should get back to chopping. As he and Roland began working on their next tree, fluffy snowflakes fell. In minutes, snow surrounded Hans like a dense fog. When Roland yelled that the boys should return to camp, Hans was grateful to have the hunter present to guide them back.

The Polza patch may have been heated from beneath by dungeon roots, but it didn’t produce nearly enough to negate the blizzard rolling down the mountain. Roland and the boys retreated to their A-frame shelter while Hans and Olza ducked into the small cabin Becky had built. The space was cramped, forcing Hans to sit in the corner with his knees pulled in while Olza sat on her bedroll.

“Should we be worried about the pit?” Olza asked.

Hans shook his head. “We’re all awake, and Roland has an eyeline to it. If something crawls out into this, we should hear it if Roland doesn’t see it first.”

Having spent the previous night awake on watch, the Guild Master fell asleep shortly after he sat. Olza didn’t disturb him.

***

Olza was reading a book when one of Hans’ own snores woke him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pass out like that.”

The alchemist shrugged. “What else would you do?”

“Good point.”

Silence brought the passing of time to a crawl.

Hans was bored. “What made you choose alchemist over herbalist?”

“That’s a contentious topic,” Olza answered. “Alchemists use mana. Herbalists don’t. Herbalists talk a lot about the purity of nature, and you’ll meet plenty who look down on alchemy because they think it twists the natural order. Alchemists are just as petty, though. Most of them dismiss herbalists.”

“Where do you fall?”

“I don’t care much, to be honest. Alchemy has so much more potential for exploration, and that’s interesting for me. I don’t have anything against herbalists, though. I’ve learned a lot from the few I’ve met.”

“Do you get that feeling of exploration in Gomi? Finding new ingredients must be frustrating.”

“Can be, but I only have one or two projects going at a time. I can usually get what I want from the caravan without much bother. Except ectoplasm. I’ve never been able to afford it.”

“If you can even find it,” Hans added, knowing that ingredient was exceptionally rare.

“Exactly.”

“It’s a pain to collect it and a pain to transport it.” Finding ectoplasm meant seeking out ghosts, which were uncommon. If an adventurer was fortunate enough to find ectoplasm after a ghost was banished–only the most tortured ghosts were likely to leave the material behind–bottling it required an eyedropper and mythical levels of patience.

Then, if you accidentally exposed it to sunlight, the ectoplasm dissolved.

“You’ve taken ectoplasm jobs?” Olza asked.

Hans had indeed, though the primary focus of most jobs was to address a haunting or a zombie outbreak or some other such spooky incident. Finding ectoplasm was optional–and unlikely–but would radically increase the job’s payout if they could secure a sample.

“The only sample I ever recovered was on this zombie farm animal job,” Hans mused, “and we lost most of it in the transfer. Good coin though.”

“Zombie farm animals? Now you have to tell the story.”

Chuckling, Hans agreed. Stories were good for passing the time.

When a family hadn’t visited town in a few weeks, a concerned citizen went out to the family’s rural dairy farm to check on them. As soon as the citizen saw a herd of undead cows moving aimlessly through a field–their tails still swishing despite exposed ribs and decaying, empty eyes–they turned back and alerted the Adventurers’ Guild.

“Rule number one of a zombie job,” Hans said, “is to contain the outbreak.”

“Wouldn’t rule number one be ‘don’t get bit?’”

“That’s the first rule of fighting zombies.”

“Ah, of course.”

Upon arriving, Hans’ party–himself, Mazo, Gret, and Devon–was pleased to find that the townspeople proactively posted lookouts around the farm. Usually, that would be a dangerous job, but a zombie outbreak occurring inside of a fenced-in property was much safer than most outbreaks. Hans proposed going field by field, paddock by paddock, clearing the zombie animals. Traveling in a circle, they could end in the middle of the property at the family farmhouse.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The cows were first.

Forty cows posed an odd tactical dilemma. At a certain quantity, nearly any animal was dangerous, zombified versions more so. Killing them all from behind the safety of the fence would have been the best option, but Gret refused to fire forty arrows while the rest of the party sat and watched. No one would agree to collect his arrows for him, and when he suggested his share be increased, the party descended into bickering.

Devon called for peace and proposed that Mazo use one of her area of effect abilities while Gret was on standby to clean up the runners. He and Hans would handle any that might threaten the mage or the archer. The party agreed.

As Hans and Devon moved into position, the Guild Master whispered to his student, “Thank you. I was dreading scrubbing guts out of my armor.”

“Me too. I hate finding dead critter in my hair.”

Hans agreed. The two secretly fist-bumped over cleverly avoiding combat duties for the zombie bovines.

The herd of dairy cows died in a spray of flying gravel. Gret loosed two arrows in quick succession to take care of the stragglers. The pigpen tactics were similar, as were the chicken coops. They debated preserving the chicken coop, but they agreed a zombie chicken coop was unlikely to have much resale value, so it got blasted as well.

The bull presented a problem. He stood at the far end of the field, in a pasture separate from the rest of the herd. At this distance, he was little more than a blurry shadow, and neither Gret nor Mazo would climb the fence to get within range. Their new plan was for Devon to get the bull’s attention and lure him to the rest of the party.

“You want me to do what?” Devon asked.

“Who insisted that all of us race last week?” Mazo said with incredulity, pointing to her halfling legs and Devon’s human legs.

“You did prove you’re the fastest. I think the words you used were ‘objectively faster?’ I’m sure they were because you reminded us as recently as this morning.” Hans chimed in, piling onto Devon.

Gret kept to the outside of the group, hoping no one would notice him and remember his Rogue-ish agility.

“I disagree with your premise that the results of a foot race are applicable here,” Devon said confidently. “Luring bulls is a completely different skill.”

The halfling stared up at the dashing young warrior.

“Okay, fine. Someone hold my shield and give me a minute. I’m not racing a bull in platemail.”

When the zombie bull was a pile of cinders with horns, Devon accused Mazo of withholding her spell to tease him, but she insisted she had attacked as soon as she was able. The friendly dispute continued for some time while Devon re-equipped his gear.

Clearing the farmhouse was quick work, but Hans and Devon couldn’t weasel out of that task. Houses were tight quarters, so armored melee experts were the obvious solution. No one inside escaped the infection. The adventurers put down four zombies with no trouble or surprises. After checking the rest of the house, including the basement and attic, they took a deep breath. This job had been deceptively long, and they were grateful it was over.

“Uhh, guys,” Hans said, referring to a page in his notebook. “There are five family members.”

Mazo unleashed a flurry of halfling curses.

“Maybe they weren’t home? Vacationing in the next town over, perhaps?” Devon offered.

“We have to do another pass. I don’t want to either, but we have to.”

Begrudging no one but their awful luck, the party canvassed the farm, starting with the barn. They hadn’t found any creatures in it before, just bales of hay and battered farm equipment. On this pass, they moved the bales of hay, poked piles of straw, and dusted the floor looking for a hidden cellar. Zombies could sometimes stumble into an odd place and trap themselves, but they found no such zombies here.

They stood in front of the barn, surveying the rest of the farm, trying to decide where to search next.

“Should we check the grain silo?” Devon asked, pointing to the metal tube casting a long shadow on the barn.

Mazo looked at the hatch at the bottom, the access point for retrieving how ever much grain might be needed. “I don’t think a zombie could get in here.”

“No, they’d get in from the top.”

The party looked at him curiously.

“I’m serious. Falling in a full silo is like quicksand. It’s deadly in most cases.”

Hans considered his student, hands on his hips. “Where do you learn something like that?”

“I don’t know. I just learned it somewhere.”

“What an awful way to go.” The party agreed.

Devon walked around the silo, listening. When he had circled back around to the party, he pounded a fist on the side of the structure. Then he put his ear against the silo. “There’s something in here!”

“Be serious,” Mazo said.

“Bet me.”

The halfling narrowed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll slag it.”

“No!” Devon threw up his hands. “Then you’ll say we can’t tell who was right and who was wrong. No way.”

Hans and Gret laughed.

“Okay. You’re right, I can hear it,” Mazo admitted. The halfling began an ability but stopped suddenly.

A voice from the silo shouted, “Please!”

“Olza, this ghost was a weird one,” Hans said, leaning forward in the humid cabin. “We were looking straight ahead, but the ghost made it look like we were looking down into the silo. The farmer’s face was in the middle, staring at us like we were standing over him. The grain around him faded out around the edges and kept moving like he was perpetually sinking.”

“Like you were watching him drown in the grain?”

“Yes, but weirder. Talking to him while he drowned in the grain.”

Olza grimaced. “What did he say?”

“This long story about a bad deal with the fae for riches or a harvest or something like that. There was a girl and some kind of trade where he’d take her love and give it to the fae, but when he went to her, she said she never loved him. He couldn’t hold up his end of the deal, so he got cursed.”

While the ghost continued droning its tale, Mazo asked Hans if her memory was correct: Could a ghost be bound to a body that’s also zombified? Hans said yes. Then she stepped back and readied a fire spell that dropped a pillar of flame down from the sky, like a faucet of fire was opened in the heavens.

Olza interjected, “Wait. Aren’t grain silos highly flammable?”

“You know,” Hans said, struggling to repress his annoyance. “Every time I tell this story, at least one person says that like it’s common knowledge.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.”

“Sorry, Hans.”

Putting his face in his hands, Hans said, “Well nobody in our party knew that, okay? So you already know the ending.”

“The silo exploded.”

“Oh did it,” Hans said. “We were fine, and Devon was right. The missing family member was inside. Best we can figure is he was cursed, and it may have been that the whole family got cursed too, but his story made it sound like he was first. Our patient zero drowned in the grain, went zombie, and then the grain was fed to every animal and family member in some form or another, spreading the affliction.”

“They should teach you guys that kind of stuff in your classes or whatever. Farm safety is important.”

The Guild Master glared at the alchemist.

She laughed.

“Are there embarrassing alchemist stories?”

Olza thought. “None that involve me.” She grinned.

“Anyway. The sun was down by the time the fire died out. We found the ectoplasm where the silo used to be.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“You don’t want to know, but it was a lot.”

***

Roland waved as Becky and Becki trotted over the freshly fallen snow. The blizzard had stopped with a few hours of daylight remaining, so the group had gone back to working on the cabin to salvage what they could of the day. The Druid stopped a few feet away from the construction and leaned forward, framing her head between Becki’s warthog ears.

“Hey Becky,” Hans said. “I was worried you went to see the merchant.”

“Roland!” Becky yelled. The hunter snickered behind a pile of logs. “You keep that creepy shit away from me, Hans.”

“He put me up to it.”

She slid off of Becki’s back, scowling the whole way. The dwarf walked around the cabin, inspecting the foundation and the beginnings of the floor. Deciding how to handle the trapdoor was more challenging than Hans and Roland had expected. The initial approach was to lay the floor, and then cut the opening. When they learned how difficult it was to saw through logs pressed tightly together, Hans and Roland had to tear out several pieces of the floor and try again.

They cut the logs to size, accounting for a gap for the trapdoor, and relaid the floor. Roland recommended asking the tribe to mill floorboards to lay over the logs. Hiding a door in smooth wood would be easier than hiding one in a raw, bumpy floor.

“Not bad,” Becky said. “Thought you’d be farther along, though.”

Roland almost retorted, but he saw the dwarf watching to see if he took the bait. He restrained himself.

“Everything okay?” Hans asked. “I started to get worried.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Accepting he wouldn’t learn her secrets today, Hans simply nodded. “Well, it’s good to see you. We might have a solution to the squonk aura and need your help to test it.”

***

Open Quests (Ordered from Old to New):

Progress from Gold-ranked to Diamond-ranked.

Mend the rift with Devon.

Complete the manuscript for "The Next Generation: A Teaching Methodology for Training Adventurers."

Expand the Gomi training area to include ramps for footwork drills.

Design a system for training dungeon awareness.

Research the history and legends of the Dead End Mountains, more.

Protect Gomi.

Train Gomi adventurers to keep the dungeon at bay.

Design the ultimate strategy for hunting squonks.

Solve the town secret problem without being a conspiracy weirdo.

Help Roland complete the cabin build.

Test Quentin’s siren-squonk theory.

Pick a secret passage design for the cabin. Bonus Objective: Make it cooler than a bookshelf door.