(Charles)

  Charles frowned. “I ’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 opehe rear chest and scooped up the items. Stepping back, he pced the empty wooden bucket uhe 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 turo examihe 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 calcuted all the alterations he’d o make for them to fit the unnamed man.

  “Name?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

  “There’s not enough room for one leg, let aloh,” Dyn insisted.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make it work,” Charles said. Dyn’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,” Dyn said, trepidation heavy in his voice. Charles didn’t uand why he was so afraid of pants. “It’s okay. I don’t think I need pants anymore,” Dyn 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 rger or smaller. Dyn stopped rambling and watched as the pants magically grew.

  Charles tugged at the fabric, stretg each leg ter size. He tinued making minor adjustments until he was satisfied they would fit Dyn properly. After folding the resized pants, he pced the bar of soap on top and hahe pile over to Dyn, who reached to take it.

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

  Charles gave Dyn the illusion of privacy, walking away to che the bramble spawn. They never ending but always enjoyed his pany. Proprioception would alert him if Dyn tried anything foolish. Taking out a brush, he ran it along the grain of the iferous needles, dislodging any loose ones, as Dyn spshed the soap into the water. Dyn moaned in relief, scrubbing his legs with the bar as he scratched and washed at the same time.

  “Wow,” Dyn said a couple of mier. “These fit perfectly.” He exaggerated his strides, twisting bad 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.” Dyn had taken off his cloak to 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, Dyn appeared unharmed. Logic dictated that the stains beloo someone else; likely multiple people, judging by the assorted civen the improbability of those stains being defensive, Charles had to reassess Dyn as a potential threat.

  “I’m not sure how I repay you for the pants and the ring,” Dyn said, still beaming from his rousers.

  “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,” Dyn said. Notig Charles’ shift in demeanor, he gnced down at the green and blue stains on his toga. The y of the trousers had worn off, leaving him looking weary. His eyes fixed oains, but his mind wandering to distant memories.

  Charles reized that unfocused gaze. Dyn’s mind had returo unkind memories. Charles sidered whether the amount of blood had beehal. ‘Unlikely,’ he cluded.

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

  “No,” Dyn said. Charles’ experieold him to be patient—Dyn would provide the rest of his answer if he waited. “But,” Dyn tinued, “I watched him die. Lots of people died st night.”

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

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

  “Get iay quiet, and do not e out,” Charles said. “I’ll get you o’s safe.”

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

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

  A giant cloud of dust rose as the twe, feathered theropods skidded from full speed to a plete stop. The beasts were a cssification of mundane, ivorous, bipedal reptiles covered ihers. Their long, stiff tails helped maintain bance 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 st, their only real tradeoff was their ck of endurance for long-distaravel, ating 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 owertai.

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

  Although teically unranked as mundane creatures, their ing made them as dangerous as any on-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 only known by the yrant. These beasts weren’t bred fuarding or hunting, but for war. The Tyrant program took pce at a remote Ebonscale chapter, on a self-tained isnd that spared no expense—or so they cimed.

  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 bdder empty, he shook himself twice, put it away, and zipped up his trousers.

  Vera was a stubborure, 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 fuild business, she’d always be avaible. No one else dared to ride su ill-mannered beast, and those who did ofteurned missing a finger or two. This made Vera Charles’ unofficial mount during his time with the guild.

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

  They iivized him to plete them quickly aurn 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 ing 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 ste fees she’d accumuted 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 rger towns—like Dartmouth.

  Vera was an unfettable creature, covered in ivory feathers—an albino, which did little to help her blend into her surroundings. Stalking and camoufge 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 lise.

  Sitting atop Vera was an elf named Rono, a on-ranked Adventurer like Charles. He wore the standard guild uniform—bck tunic, bck leather pants and boots, and an e 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 e features and two heir parents gave them a familiar birth, used only within their family. Upon reag puberty, they would choose a formal hat carried symbolic meaning. Charles found it unfortuhat young, hormonal, angsty teenagers could decide their own names, hat 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 okamiji by Dreadfang. Covered in thick, coarse, dark fur, he had a solid pattern with none of the visible markings his people typically dispyed—a hereditary feature that couldn’t be altered without magic. His bright green eyes led to a wide muzzle that ended in a bck, wet nose. He also wore the standard guild attire, though his naturally muscur 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 rge, cwed hands a, they stood somewhere between elves and drai i. This rider sat on a red and blue plumed theropod, but Charles didn’t reize her.

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

  ‘The bucket.’