I leave the wheelbarrow a few paces behind me and knock on the wooden door to the Alderman's home.

The Alderman was originally the assistant to the actual Mayor, but he died prior the Monster Flood and nobody really bothered to question him taking over the role, given that nobody else was qualified, or even willing to do it. Klennock Village's politics don't really go much higher or complex than overcharging that one guy you don't like for two-timing on your sister by a couple extra coins. The locals hold grudges, sure, but they aren't really all that power-hungry or violent.

Growing up on the frontier really diminishes the scope of peoples' ambitions.

I realise, by that logic, you'd think folks would call him the Mayor instead; But it's all we've ever known him as and it just sort of stuck. Not that he ever seemed to mind. I don't think I actually know his name either, he's just 'The Alderman' to me and probably several others.

The door opens, and a middle-aged man, with a neatly trimmed, faded blonde beard, and bald scalp stands in the opening, filling it with his large frame. I don't mean that he's fat, though maybe a little pudge has crept in since I last saw him. He's probably the only man in town with a more imposing appearance than me.

The Alderman squints at me, then spreads his arms wide with an even wider smile, "Neal! Good to see ya, lad! Heard you were back in Klennock. Gods, how long has it been? Two years?"

Accustomed to the forceful bluster, I respond easily, "About three, actually."

"Is it now?" The Alderman folds his thick arms, thinking, "So it is. Three years last month, now you mention it. So, to what do I owe the pleasure, eh?"

I step back and gesture toward the barrow, and The Alderman leans out the door. Confusion takes him for a few seconds as he tries to understand what it is he's looking at, but once he does, he straightens up, completely serious.

"When yer mother told me that Walther was attacked by a Dirolft pack, I put a bird out calling in a favour for an Adventurer crew to come down and deal with it. I wasn't expecting you to come here barely a couple hours later with the head of it's Alpha," He says, staring me down, "What happened?"

"Da lost his axe when he were attacked, so I went to get it. Killed the Dirolfts while I was at it," I explain, meeting his hard gaze, "Took the Alpha's head back with me to prove I did it."

The Alderman pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes and chuckling, "You make it sound so simple. Anyone else told me that story I'd dunk 'em in a barrel of water to sober the blithering bastard up, because what else could yer story be but drunken babble?"

I shrug and smile. I already went over this earlier.

The Alderman leaves the doorway and walks over to the head to study it from all angles, whistling in admiration, "Ain't he a brute? Hate to have to stare this fucker down in the woods at night, no joking about that."

Then he stops, squinting at the tag on its ear, "What have we here? A Beast Tamer's Ownership Tag?"

Frowning he leans over and rips the tag off the ear with a sharp tug, holding it up to the dwindling sunlight.

"Any idea who owns it?" I ask, impatient.

The Alderman scowls, "Not a clue. I can tell that whoever owned it is probably still alive because the Ownership Tag hasn't disappeared into thin air yet, but a pack of Dirolft isn't something you just lose out here, and I'd have heard about it sooner if it were an honest mistake, I reckon. Since that hasn't happened and I don't know of any Beast Tamers operating in the area, never mind one with a companion like this, I get the impression they were left there deliberately by someone lookin' to make some mischief."

He pockets the tag then heaves a great sigh, "Get inside lad, reckon we need to have a longer chat."

----------------------------------------

The door to the dining hall opens, snapping me out of my reverie. I'm not sure how much time has passed; Yemesvel kind of dozed off for a bit there. Lack of sleep catching up with me, no doubt.

"I swear upon my Grandmother's good name, any of you sots drops a plate I'll have you take it's fuckin' place. And that'll be a kindness compared to what the Head will do to you and your families when he hears about it - and he will hear about it," growls one moustached man in a dark brown brown smock and apron.

The man stands to the side of the door, fists on his hips, leering at a procession of servants and other chefs as they carry in a vast assortment of dishes, both familiar and truly outlandish. From piles of exotic fruits that Yemesvel hasn't even heard of - much less seen - to a whole roast monster carried on a platter by two people resembling a giant boar with 3 eyes, and crowned with jagged bone - the perfectly browned skin shining with some manner of glaze.

Every servant that enters the room brings a bevvy of new treats, and my mouth is already watering from the sight alone. The smells of fragrant spice, sweet delicacies and savoury meat are enough to make me want to just forget everything I'm doing, run out to devour it all immediately and damn the consequences.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Come on, hurry it up, we don't have all day, our guest is waiting, and the longer they wait, the less the Head will be amused," The man I presume to be the Head Chef snaps, stomping over to the table to fuss over the arrangement of the dishes.

I don't have the best vantage point from which to observe the gaggle of servants, and moving around too much risks revealing my hiding place and presence. What I do see is grim determination and fatigue. They've probably been working on this without any sleep since early this morning, maybe even since yesterday. Some of the women work with shaky hands, the product of stress and restlessness, the men move stiffly, trying not to give away their own weakness in front of them. Such typical male bravado raises an eyebrow from me. Way to go against the stereotypes, guys and gals.

The Head Chef, in contrast, seems completely fine. Indeed, if it wasn't for his intermittent blustering at his staff, you'd hardly think that he was under any pressure at all. From his ranting, I discern he did actually work on the dishes as well, but his fortitude is obviously of a higher calibre than the others to look so unphased at the end of it.

Eventually, the serving staff file out of the room, leaving a single man, the Head Chef, alone in the room.

He looks at the splendid array of scrumptiousness blankly. There is no pride and no longing in that heavy gaze. After a minute, he turns and leaves silently, shutting the doors behind him. 

Patient and cautious, I wait until I'm satisfied that nobody else is likely to enter the room.

I stand, breaking cover and sauntering over to the table. From h'orderves and salads to desserts, I doubt I've ever seen a spread this impressive in my life. Yemesvel certainly hasn't.

Being honest with myself, I doubt I can actually make good on my offhand pledge to eat the entirety of the Feast. The salads and desserts would be one thing, but the main courses and that glazed monster roast are each one enough to account for a family of 4 at a rather optimistic minimum.

That's not to say I'm not going to sample any of the Chef's work, far from it. It just means I have to be wary my appetite doesn't outpace my ability to keep it all down and still escape with the job completed. Yeah. Nothing stopping me making sure that the Chef's skills are up to my standards at all. Maybe I can leave him a note with a review of his cooking. I doubt he gets much in the way of good critique anymore.

In the distance, faintly, I hear the sound of the fourth afternoon bell. Guess that's my cue to start eating.

But where to start? The desserts, a collection of cakes, some sort of yoghurt sundae things and more, as tempting as they might be, should be saved for last, naturally. As delicious as they no doubt are, that sort of reckless eating is childish and ruins the palate. No, one should give a meal such as this proper courtesy.

I decide to start with a fruit salad. Arranged into a beautiful spire of berries and fruits with thinly sliced smoked meats wrapped around it in a spiral wreath, my target for my first dish is striking and obvious. It's further adorned by a delicately carved fruit reminiscent of a pomegranate. The only difference being the yellow coloured seeds to the normal dark red. The pomegranate(?) half is cut to form a bowl for a small mound of it's seeds.

I move to take a handful of the salad but stop partway. Something feels very, very wrong. The feeling of unease I felt after accepting the quest returns stronger than ever. My arm slackens, falling back to my side as I stare dumbfounded into the distance.

Slowly, I turn around, suspecting that maybe someone is in the room. But there's nothing there. The door is still shut. The room silent.

I look back at the feast. Then my eyes settle once again on the fruit salad, and something clicks.

I recognise that look on the Head Chef's face. I've seen it over and over again on other people, and in my own reflection. The look of a Chef who knows he's made a dish he's not proud of. For something this amazing, I initially wrote it off as perfectionism without even thinking about it. I've seen that too.

That was a mistake. Me being here is a mistake. I know why he looked like that, and it wasn't the quality of his cooking.

The pomegranate reminded me of an old story. And I realise now, that this entire Feast is poisoned. I can smell it. Faint, but thanks to the Gourmet title I can parse it from the delicious aroma wafting over me. I can't tell what kind it is, but it's there.

He ruined his own masterpiece of culinary genius with fucking poison. Why?

Is this why I'm here? To stop the guest being poisoned?

No, that doesn't make sense. Why would Dwast Clait go to this length to poison such an important business associate? Moreover, if Thynnwirk Clait knew about it, why would they care that an ally of the Dwast Clait was poisoned? If anything, they'd want to make sure it happened if they didn't set the poison up themselves, or use me as a scapegoat.

I remember my misgivings about the request. Perfect. Too perfect.

"..when I heard it I immediately thought of you."

"Which will suit me just fine if it gets you out of my hair forever."

"I'm a petty bastard"

I grind my teeth, "That fat fuck sold Yemesvel out after all."

Quest Updated!

The Quest, 'A Dragon's Appetite' has changed into the Quest, 'A Dragon's Sacrifice'.

Quest Accepted! A Dragon's Sacrifice Personal Quest Difficulty: Extremely Hard

For reasons unknown, your employer in the Drag Street Runts has sent you to destroy a poisoned feast, hoping that you would be unable to resist the temptation of sampling the Rarities.

Escape is your only option.

Objective/s:

Escape 0/1

Rewards:

???

I look at the screens, then summarise my feelings in one word, "Motherfucker."