Charles frowned. “I can’t take you seriously without pants.”

Turning around, he walked back to his arborhearth. Thinking of a pair of pants, a bar of soap, and a bucket, he opened the rear chest and scooped up the items. Stepping back, he placed the empty wooden bucket under the spigot with a hollow thump. After filling the bucket a quarter of the way, Charles turned off the spigot.

The pants were his standard style of trousers, undyed, of course. He preferred the natural look of the fabric—breathable with the proper amount of give. They’d hold up to everything short of war. The pants were also exceptionally small, only about a forearm’s length; perfectly sized for optimal logistics.

Charles turned to examine the man again and used Keen Eye. [Keen Eye] was the passive ability from his Outfitter framework; it allowed him to take exact measurements of anyone he could see.

He’d never seen this waist-to-inseam ratio before. Holding up the tiny pants and squinting at them, he calculated all the alterations he’d need to make for them to fit the unnamed man.

“Name?” he asked.

“Dylan.” Dylan’s eyes were transfixed on the tiny pants. Charles detected a look of apprehension on his face. “Those pants are for children,” Dylan said, pointing at the tiny trousers.

“Nonsense,” Charles said. “Pants are for everyone. I just need to make a few adjustments.”

“There’s no way those are going to fit,” Dylan said, looking worried.

“They’ll fit,” Charles said, pulling out one of his needles. He kept most of them in his workshop inside the arborhearth, but always carried one in case something needed stitching.

“There’s not enough room for one leg, let alone both,” Dylan insisted.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work,” Charles said. Dylan’s gaze drifted, his expression haunted, as if recalling an unpleasant experience. Charles was familiar with those kinds of memories.

“Please don’t make it fit,” Dylan said, trepidation heavy in his voice. Charles didn’t understand why he was so afraid of pants. “It’s okay. I don’t think I need pants anymore,” Dylan added, adjusting the bed sheet around his hips. “See? I’m fine.”

Charles cast Resize on the pants. [Resize] was a Dimension ability from his Outfitter framework; it allowed him to adjust the size of an article of clothing, making it larger or smaller. Dylan stopped rambling and watched as the pants magically grew.

Charles tugged at the fabric, stretching each leg to a larger size. He continued making minor adjustments until he was satisfied they would fit Dylan properly. After folding the resized pants, he placed the bar of soap on top and handed the pile over to Dylan, who reached to take it.

Just before letting go, Charles held on and said, “Scrub the vermillion ivy oil off your legs and waist before you put the pants on. Unfortunately, I don’t stock ointment, and judging by that rash, you’ll need some.”

Charles gave Dylan the illusion of privacy, walking away to check on the bramble spawn. They never needed tending but always enjoyed his company. Proprioception would alert him if Dylan tried anything foolish. Taking out a brush, he ran it along the grain of the coniferous needles, dislodging any loose ones, as Dylan splashed the soap into the water. Dylan moaned in relief, scrubbing his legs with the bar as he itched and washed at the same time.

“Wow,” Dylan said a couple of minutes later. “These fit perfectly.” He exaggerated his strides, twisting back and forth at the hips before dropping into a squat. “Best. Fit. Ever,” he said between lunges, each word punctuated by his movement.

“I told you they’d fit.”

“They don’t even bunch up in my crotch.” Dylan had taken off his cloak to clean up. Charles froze when he finally noticed the filthy sheet—covered in bloodstains. There were a few splotches of green, but most were blue. Other than his rashes, Dylan appeared unharmed. Logic dictated that the stains belonged to someone else; likely multiple people, judging by the assorted colors. Given the improbability of those stains being defensive, Charles had to reassess Dylan as a potential threat.

“I’m not sure how I can repay you for the pants and the ring,” Dylan said, still beaming from his new trousers.

“I’ll put it on your tab…” Charles said absently, then asked the most pressing question on his mind. “Why do you have blood on you?”

“It’s not mine,” Dylan said. Noticing Charles’ shift in demeanor, he glanced down at the green and blue stains on his toga. The novelty of the trousers had worn off, leaving him looking weary. His eyes fixed on the stains, but his mind wandering to distant memories.

Charles recognized that unfocused gaze. Dylan’s mind had returned to unkind memories. Charles considered whether the amount of blood had been lethal. ‘Unlikely,’ he concluded.

“Did you kill anyone?” Charles asked pointedly. It was an honest question—he’d killed people before, but always in self-defense or for a contract. He needed to know if Dylan was capable of more than he appeared.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“No,” Dylan said. Charles’ experience told him to be patient—Dylan would provide the rest of his answer if he waited. “But,” Dylan continued, “I watched him die. Lots of people died last night.”

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Charles thought. Dylan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Charles thought he heard him say that he had died too. Straining to catch Dylan’s words, Charles suddenly noticed someone bounding down the road toward them. The bend in the path blocked his view, but he’d learned to trust all his senses. More questions pressed for answers, but they’d have to wait.

“Get in the cabin,” Charles ordered. He dashed toward Dylan, who seemed startled. Dylan flinched, raising his arms defensively. Charles grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the oval door on the right side of the arborhearth. Dylan resisted, but Charles easily maneuvered him. ‘Soft, fearful, and weak—no way this man took a life,’ he thought.

“Get inside, stay quiet, and do not come out,” Charles said. “I’ll get you once it’s safe.”

He pulled the oval door open and shoved Dylan, bundled cloak and all, inside before shutting it behind him. He heard the click as he mentally locked the cabin door—nothing would get in or out until he unlocked it. A nagging feeling told him he’d overlooked something, but time was up. Facing the tree line, Charles unzipped his trousers, took aim, and relieved himself.

Two riders rounded the corner while he was mid-stream. For the second time today, two more people interrupted his usually solitary trek from Amberfell to Dartmouth.

A giant cloud of dust rose as the two large, feathered theropods skidded from full speed to a complete stop. The beasts were a classification of mundane, carnivorous, bipedal reptiles covered in feathers. Their long, stiff tails helped maintain balance while sprinting or maneuvering in tight spaces. Their heads were narrow and elongated, filled with sharp, serrated teeth.

These were a medium-sized variant of the beasts. Fast and quieter than most hooved creatures, they could handle rough terrain with ease while mounted. Fiercely intelligent predators with sharp senses and a keen ability to track by scent, their only real tradeoff was their lack of endurance for long-distance travel, necessitating frequent breaks.

It was also dangerous to let them get bored—riders were at the greatest risk of dismemberment, or worse, as the creatures sought their own entertainment.

Ebonscale specialized in breeding, training, and stabling various theropod variants, each for specific purposes. Smaller theropods, about the size of a medium canine, were often used as hunting companions. The larger raptors, like these two beautiful girls, were the most common variant and made exceptional adventuring mounts.

Although technically unranked as mundane creatures, their cunning made them as dangerous as any common-ranked monster.

His old guild also had a breeding program for the megafauna version of the beasts. The not-quite kaiju-sized theropods grew to three-quarters the height of most trees. They were more commonly known by the name Tyrant. These beasts weren’t bred for guarding or hunting, but for war. The Tyrant program took place at a remote Ebonscale chapter, on a self-contained island that spared no expense—or so they claimed.

A familiar pattern of caws and chirps came from within the localized dust storm. Charles thought it sounded like Vera, an albino theropod he’d helped raise from a chick. With his bladder empty, he shook himself twice, put it away, and zipped up his trousers.

Vera was a stubborn creature, difficult to tame. In fact, ‘tame’ was a strong word in her case—she had only ever bonded with one person—Charles was her person. Whenever he needed a mount for guild business, she’d always be available. No one else dared to ride such an ill-mannered beast, and those who did often returned missing a finger or two. This made Vera Charles’ unofficial mount during his time with the guild.

As a crafter, Charles couldn’t accept contracts that would put him at risk, which meant most contracts were off the table. Mundane people rarely submitted contracts unless the job was too dangerous for them to handle. Still, there were occasional transport contracts he could accept, thanks to his storage ability.

They incentivized him to complete them quickly and return to guild crafting quests. While his arborhearth doubled as a transport, it was often faster to load it up, dismiss it, and ride a theropod to the destination. Vera would always spot him coming and make a distinctive pattern of caws and chirps as a greeting—the same pattern he heard just now.

Charles hated leaving her behind, but it would’ve taken many more years to afford to take her with him—a price tag that included all the food, training, and storage fees she’d accumulated until her sale date.

A chest beside the foot of his bed held the gems he’d saved up so far, which wasn’t much since he usually charged minimal prices for his services. He reserved markups for when his route took him through larger towns—like Dartmouth.

Vera was an unforgettable creature, covered in ivory feathers—an albino, which did little to help her blend into her surroundings. Stalking and camouflage didn’t suit her, but that wasn’t how she hunted anyway. As much as he missed her, Charles hoped the riders would pass by and be on their way. He’d already involved himself with one person today—one more than he usually dealt with since losing his Adventuring license.

Sitting atop Vera was an elf named Rono, a common-ranked Adventurer like Charles. He wore the standard guild uniform—black tunic, black leather pants and boots, and an orange cloak. However, he wasn’t wearing his usual wide-brimmed hat. Rono had a reputation for two things: wearing that ugly hat and being a racist. Charles found it odd that he was traveling with an okamijin, one of the primal races.

Okamijin had canine features and two names. Their parents gave them a familiar name at birth, used only within their family. Upon reaching puberty, they would choose a formal name that carried symbolic meaning. Charles found it unfortunate that young, hormonal, angsty teenagers could decide their own names, names that would stick with them for life. But it was an okamijin tradition, not an elven one, and he did his best to respect it.

This okamijin went by Dreadfang. Covered in thick, coarse, dark fur, he had a solid pattern with none of the visible markings his people typically displayed—a hereditary feature that couldn’t be altered without magic. His bright green eyes led to a wide muzzle that ended in a black, wet nose. He also wore the standard guild attire, though his naturally muscular and furry frame made it appear tight and ill fitting.

Charles didn’t think Dreadfang would accept the minor alterations required for his clothes to fit properly. He suspected the okamijin liked how it made him look bigger. Intimidating by nature, with pronounced fangs and large, clawed hands and feet, they stood somewhere between elves and draconi in height. This rider sat on a red and blue plumed theropod, but Charles didn’t recognize her.

He turned to walk toward the driver’s box but stopped, cursing under his breath as he remembered what he’d forgotten.

‘The bucket.’