Installment 001 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment001.png]

> Successful adventuring party retiring.

> Junior warrior member needs

> new open-minded adventuring party to join.

> Inquire at Notamimic Manor,

> Village of Goatminster

> NO MURDERHOBOS

...was written on the large notice stuck there amid the other requests on the board at the back of the Pickled Swine tavern. The expertly-penned calligraphy on the brilliant-white and neatly-trimmed sheet of parchment stood out amid the scattering of tattered scraps of paper. They all seemed to hold pleas for help with things like unusually-large rats, lost sheep, and ordinary misfortunes blamed on probably-imaginary evil forces.

Bote Wissengräber, dwarvish devotee of Indicina - the god of plots and conspiracies and messenger of the other gods - stood before it, entranced. Their exhausted adventuring companions stepped up behind them, wondering what had distracted them from the immediate need for food and rest.

"It is a sign," Bote mumbled to themself.

"You always think everything's a sign." said the gnomish Wikwocket D. Flibbendorfer with a rather un-gnomishly flat tone as though she had been in this conversation before - which she had. She brushed back her long brown hair and looked up at Bote, daring them to deny it.

"Not everything," Bote denied, "just most things. Look, this parchment is white, like the snow. It snowed in my dreams last night. We were ambushed by shadowy figures. Then, an avalanche came giggling and growling and swept our attackers away."

"'Giggling'? Okay, this is a weird one, even for you," said Al, the human member of the group. He wore torn red-and-black wizard's robes, incongruously draped over what appeared to be chainmail. He leaned forward to read the note.

"What does that say? Oh, someone looking to join an adventuring group? Well, we already have a warrior, so..."

Bote tore their gaze from the message and looked at Al. "Although I sometimes fight when the Ineffable Plans call for me to do so, and I protect my mortal body with armor, I wouldn't call myself a 'warrior', exactly."

"What, there's no 'Warrior Bote' in there with 'Cryptic Oracle Bote'? Anyway, I meant me, and you know it! I didn't spend that time in the army for nothing," retorted Al, patting the long lump in the section of robe over his left hip and thigh under which his mace hung.

"Although I have many aspects, there is ever and always just the Bote to whom you are speaking," they answered with a relaxed grin.

"Well, Al, since you refuse to just be the party wizard, that means I have to do it!" Wikwocket announced proudly. She leapt up to seemingly pull a copper coin from behind Al's ear. She spun it hypnotically between the fingers of one hand, and then the other. Then, with a comically exaggerated wave, it disappeared.

Al stared, unimpressed. "That was one of mine, wasn't it."

"You really need to watch your coinpurse more carefully. It's hung right there at eye-level where I can reach it easily."

Bote had gone back to staring at the message. "It is obvious that we are meant to see this."

"That's what these message boards are for, yes. Everyone's supposed to see this. Ow..."

Al had reached up to rub his forehead and inadvertently touched the cut across his brow.

"The others don't matter. We have been guided here. This is for us," Bote insisted.

Wikwocket cut off Al before he could get the objection out.

"You know, they say one of the best ways to improve one's skills is to teach others. I'll bet it'll do you some good to show a junior warrior how things are done," she said.

Al glared at her. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to trick me into going along with this using logic."

"Obviously! Am I wrong?"

Al glared a moment longer, then sighed, defeated.

"No. Fine, we can go see what kind of fighter they've got and see if they'd be a good fit for our already balanced and complete party, and decide if they're worth the treasure we'll need to share with them. Not today, though, okay? I want some food and relaxation and a good night's sleep first. I need to fix this stupid thing, too," he said, gesturing at his torn robes.

Bote turned back from the notice board with a small satisfied smile. "Good, all is as it should be now," they said confidently, their attention apparently no longer on the strange thoughts in their own head. They scratched their neatly-trimmed beard thoughtfully and looked up at Al. "We should do something about that cut over your eye."

"Yes. I know," said an exasperated Al, resisting the urge to reach up and rub it again. "We got a few coins off of those goblins, they should get us a comfortable set of beds and some decent food for the night. You guys hand over your share of the expenses and I'll go talk to the innkeeper about that."

"But you already have all of our money!" said Wikwocket, pointing to where his coinpurse hung hidden beneath his robes. Sure enough, now that his attention was drawn to it, it did feel heavier.

"Okay, but...how?"

Wikwocket's hands waved again in what was clearly a mockery of real magical gestures. "My mastery of mighty magical mysteries!" She answered.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"And why am I suddenly the exchequer of the party, anyway?"

"Because the two of us are just a humble servant or servants of the gods and an entertainer, but nobody would dare steal from our mystic warrior."

Bote snorted in amusement, then quickly turned away to look outside through the tavern window, pretending they hadn't heard.

Al gave up with a dramatic sigh, hands and eyes raised and pleading for mercy from the heavens or perhaps whatever small gods might be manifest in the ceiling. Then, he strode back to the bar.

The man behind the bar was a bald, portly, middle-aged fellow wearing a leather apron over common clothes and a beer-gut. He flashed a professional smile at Al as he approached.

"What can I do for you? You interested in the quest-board? Requests have been piling up what with all the adventurer-types heading east to deal with those packs of demon-beasts that keep popping up to raid villages over there. Old lady Smitherine would really like some help with those rats."

"Well, for a start my companions and I would like some food and rest."

The innkeeper looked around the tavern. At one table, three rather drunk patrons were playing cards. Back in the most dimly-lit corner, there was that one brooding figure whose face couldn't quite be seen within the hood of his cloak that so often seems to be skulking in these sorts of places. And, there was Bote and Wikwocket, who were casually reading over the other notices on the board. Besides that, it was just unoccupied tables.

"Well, you're in luck. Rate for a nice room with all the gruel you can stand to eat and all the small-ale you can stand to drink is one gold per person. Since we seem to be pretty empty today, you can even have your own rooms. Real drinks cost extra. Say, you should do something about that cut over your eye."

"Yes, thank you, I will," said Al flatly, as he counted out three of the golden coins they'd looted...uh, confiscated...from the two reckless goblins that had attacked them on their journey to the town. The innkeeper hefted each one in a palm to estimate its weight, then examined the markings on them.

"I've never seen this mint-mark before. Is that writing?" he asked, sticking one between his teeth to test how it bent.

"Don't know, " said Al, who also didn't care at the moment. "Maybe that's what goblin writing looks like."

"Goblins minting their own coins now?"

Al shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it before, but I don't see why not. If you've got gold and want to do any kind of commerce, having a mint makes sense I guess."

"You know, over the years I've seen coins come in from all over. You ever wonder why no matter how far away the coins come from, they all weigh the same?"

"Not really. Honestly, right now I just want some food and rest. It's been an exhausting day, and I feel like tomorrow's going to be another one."

The innkeeper shrugged and reached down to drop the coins into the slot on the locked coinbox behind the counter. He came back up with a stack of three cheaply-made wooden bowls and some relatively nice pewter spoons, the ends of their handles flattened by a stamp depicting an upside-down pig.

"Make sure you leave them here when you're done. They last a lot longer than the wooden ones and I've got a local artisan who cuts me a good deal on them, but they cost too much to give them away. Gruel's in the pot over the fire, small-ale's in the barrel next to it."

The latter was a barrel with several cheaply-made wooden cups chained to it.

"We'll return them. Thanks."

Al made one last, tired gesture of polite gratitude and headed to gruel-pot. A ladle hung from its side, and Al used it to fill the topmost bowl with the brownish-grey sludge from the pot. He noted that there did at least seem to be a few pieces of actual meat of some kind in it. Then he headed to where Bote and Wikwocket were now seated, at a table not far from the card-players. He handed them each one of the empty bowls and a spoon.

"Alleged food's over there, alleged drink's over there. No limit except how much of it you can put up with." He lifted a spoonful of gruel to his mouth. "Food's not as bad as it looks, so thank the ineffable divine forces for that much at least. Ow," he announced.

The final exclamation had been prompted by Bote applying a wet piece of cloth to Al's forehead. Al suppressed an urge to complain as Bote cleaned the shallow cut, then pressed a dry piece of cloth to it. "Thanks, Healer Bote."

"Now don't move while I hold this here for a few moments and you should be fine." Bote said, and nodded to Wikwocket. "Your turn, now that we have him sitting still."

"So, we were looking at the notice board, and it looks like there are one or two that'd be good for us. There's some sort of monster terrorizing the village of Henhaven just about a day's walk from here, the village of Turnipseed is asking for someone to go lay some flowers on someone's grave for them, there's one complaining about bandits robbing people on the road, there are a number of vague complaints about goblins lately..."

"Yeah, I think we should stay away from the goblins right now. That many complaints suggests there are far more of them around than the two crazy idiots that attacked us, certainly more than we're prepared to deal with ourselves," interjected Al.

"Exactly! And, if we're traveling from village to village we might run into more of them, or those bandits. Bote and I were thinking we really ought to bring on either some dedicated muscle or find another weirdo fighting-mage like yourself to take some of the work off of you. Right? Or, I guess we could start here first, there's someone complaining about big rats in her basement."

"Look," Al said, again having to resist the habitual urge to rub his forehead, "I already said we could go see about that 'junior warrior', and depending on what they're like we can decide what to do then. After we get some rest and food, though, you don't..."

A drunken shout from the neighboring table interrupted him. "You're cheating! I know you're cheating! Gimme back my money you cheats!" A tall, skinny villager lunged up from his seat and sloppily drew a knife from his belt. His two companions leaned away, pulling their winnings towards themselves.

"Gimme!" the violent drunk shouted.

Irritation at the outburst crossed Wikwocket's face and she slid quickly from her seat.

"I'll cut you both!" the drunk shouted, waving his knife erratically. Then he suddenly flailed awkwardly as a small person leapt onto his back. He froze as awareness of a cold metal edge pressing against his throat seeped through the drunkenness.

"Do you know how long it's been since I got to kill a man?" said Wikwocket with a shocking amount of menace. "You want to drop that knife, before my hand gets twitchy?"

The hand holding the knife wavered, decisiveness sapped by drink. Then, the fingers loosened and the knife clattered to the floor. The man stood still, fear mixed with confusion running together across his face.

"I'm hungry and you interrupted my dinner. Lucky for you, I'd rather eat than kill right now," Wikwocket growled. "Tell you what we can do. We can walk over to the door, and maybe I can let you leave and quit bothering me. Unless you don't want to do that?"

"N..no..."

The man felt the cold metal edge press just a little harder.

"I mean...Yes? I mean, I wanna go home..."

"Then start walking."

Trying very hard not to move his head, he carefully made his way across the tavern to the doorway.

"Open it," Wikwocket commanded. The man obeyed. Wikwocket leapt away from the man, kicking against his back and shoving him out the door. She landed nimbly on her feet and closed the door in one smooth motion, then spun and bowed to the remaining occupants of the tavern. In her fingers, she expertly twirled what she'd pressed against the man's neck.

"Tavernkeeper, could I get another spoon? This one's got greasy neck sweat on it."

Al shook his head and looked back up at the ceiling.

"Tomorrow isn't going to be like this, too, is it?" Al rhetorically asked anyone up there that might be listening.