Not So Epic- Chapter 3

Road Trip Preparations

Chapter Three

Andrei could only imagine that he’d had a good time in the city’s ‘Drunkards’ Crawl’ district. Imagination would have to serve, at least, because his memory was so impaired by the time he came awake just before dawn that anything approaching true memory would be so soaked in alcohol that it could go up in flames if he walked near a torch. Being so hung over seldom made him feel good about himself, but when he fell off of the bed, catching himself with his hands, he didn’t see any blood or bruising on his knuckles. He groaned from the impact with the hardwood floor, sat up against the side of the bed, and muttered, “Well, at least I didn’t kill anyone. Or break anything vital.”

The minotaur yawned, stretched, and immediately wondered if this last statement might not ring false when checked against reality. Something in his lower back sent a direct message to his brain, one filled with words like ‘Ouch’ and ‘Fuck you, Andrei’, and the previous groan resurfaced through his yawn,  an audible phoenix. He lurched upright and spun his upper body, cracking his spine loudly. Relief was instant, washing away the troubling notion that he might have a broken bone. Still, muscle pulls are no fun either, bucko, he thought to himself. See a healer today. The minotaur mercenary headed to his hotel room’s private bathroom, opened the door, and paused, looking inside.

“This could be a problem,” he said, surveying the damage. He’d apparently mixed up the function of the sink and toilet, neither of which had been purged of their respective mess when he was done making them in the wee hours of the morning. Holding his breath, he ran hot water in the sink to wash down his excrement, and flushed the toilet several times, his vomit disappearing in waves. The odor was still too pungent, though, so he backed out, took a long breath, and held it as he stepped into the small room to open the window. An empty pitcher on the small dresser the hotel provided its guests served to catch his wake-up urine, which he promptly poured into the toilet after another reserve breath, flushing away his day’s first waste.

Something had happened to the bathtub as well, though how precisely he had managed to ram the shower rod through the tile wall without some maintenance man knocking on his door to kick him out of the property, he couldn’t say. For all he knew, the maintenance man had come, taken one look at him, and decided to go for something other than valor that night. Whatever  the resulting truth turned out to be, Andrei would already be dipping into his payment for this journey to cover damages.

With that much sorted, the burly minotaur changed his clothes for a fresh set of tunic pants and trousers, his studded leathers and a chain vest, and headed down to the hotel’s lobby. A few fuzzy words aimed at the desk clerk, whose drunken-ese included knowledge of the hung-overish dialect thankfully, got him moving in the direction of the hotel’s in-house diner. He grabbed a seat at the counter and thanked whatever god or goddess inspired the design of menus with pictures of the food on them. With jabs of his finger and few strong grunts, he got the morning shift waitress to bring him a stack of pancakes, half a dozen pocket muffins, and a pair of omelets which were called ‘manly sized’ on the menu, but which he would have described as ‘a modest start’.

Andrei was halfway through his breakfast when he picked up on the nagging feeling that accompanied most of his hangovers, the whispers in his head scratching at the surface.

-It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.-

Actually, it does, the minotaur thought in reply. It’s kind of a law of physical nature. Drink too much, head hurts the next day. It’s pretty basic, er, um, stuff.

-Physiological reaction.-

Yeah, that. Ye gods, when did you guys start using such big words?

-We often do. You just don’t retain anything we way, most of the time.-

Ever stop to think there’s a reason for that, chief? Andrei was about to unleash another barb at his internal oppressors when he realized that the waitress was staring at him with a concerned glint in her eyes. He had been holding a forkful of eggs up to his waiting, open mouth for almost a full minute, face slack as he held a pissing contest with voices who were not, so far as he could tell, real to anybody but himself. He didn’t even bother trying on a charming expression, opting instead to shovel food into his face and get out of the woman’s sight before she felt the need to pray for protection.

With food in his gut, Andrei’s head began to feel closer to okay than he had any right to reasonably expect. A walk around town will be good. A sober walk. The thought itself was pleasant, and as he stepped outside, the brilliance of a cloudless spring morning shone down on him in a wide beam of light and warmth. He took in a deep breath, hacked immediately on the smoke of someone’s smoldering pipe nearby, and held in a yip as a half-elf on a heavy metal bicycle ran over his foot without so much as a backward apology. “City life,” he said with a shrug, snatching the pipe and tossing it over his shoulder as he turned north up the street, a surprised middle-aged human chasing it as he half-shouted empty threats back at the mercenary.

Within a single block, Andrei saw more frantic life buzzing about than he had seen in entire townships and cities he had passed through in his travels throughout the realms of Tamalaria. Members of every civilized race could be seen here, and every trade also had its archetypal representatives on display. Bold, strutting knights in shining suits of armor, their perfectly coiffed hair never a bit out of place; sneaking, suspicious little kobolds in pickpockets’ gray rags, tiny daggers sheathed on their belts as they brushed near or right up against unsuspecting marks; even Illeck, dark elves as they were also known, had a fair representation of numbers about this giant metropolis. The handful that Andrei saw all appeared to be mages of some sort or other, which didn’t surprise him all that much. All fae folk seemed in tune with magic, even in this day of science and technology.

Andrei decided he should head over to check in with the blacksmiths, to see if they had done any of the preparations for the trip that he foresaw. It would likely be at least a month-long trek to the north-central mountains and back, and that was if they made the trip at an average pace. He was factoring in at least a couple of two-day stopovers in villages or small towns along the way, and a lack of skill in horse riding on the part of at least the younger smithy, Dren. He worried that the boy wouldn’t possess the stamina to be of much help when it came to the more rigorous tasks involved in being on the road. With the northern roads lacking in patrols, particularly in the Freeholds Territories just beyond Desanadron’s national borders, there would also be rashum to worry about, the monsters of the realms attacking small bands of travelers without hesitation. He didn’t doubt the boy’s skill at the forge, recognizing the various workaround systems Dren had established around the shop in order to perform his particular craft. But if the minotaur were to hazard a guess as to whether or not Dren could wield one of the weapons he created, he’d have to put his money on ‘no’.

Norto wouldn’t be much better either. He’s just as much of a sot as I am, and likely without much in the way of combat experience, Andrei thought.

-How do you know he’s a sot,- one of the whispers in his mind asked.

Like knows like, Andrei replied internally as he passed by a clutch of gnome wagon vendors trying to hock exotic fruits along a side street. He had the same kind of breath and posture I have after a couple of hours of sobering up. Andrei turned another corner, now walking along a pedestrian-only pathway that hosted little in the way of foot traffic. A wererat in a short, sleeveless black vest stood leaning against a lantern pole a few yards away, sly grin on his hairy lips as if he had just had a clever thought. He was cleaning his claws with a narrow stiletto knife, a move Andrei recognized immediately. As he passed within only a foot of the wererat, Andrei shot his right hand back toward one of the pouches near the rear of his right hip, snatching a solid handful of wrist. He slowly turned his head to look the thief in the snout, the wererat’s teeth grinding as the minotaur applied just the slightest fraction of his supernatural strength to his grip.

“Not me, good sir, not today,” Andrei said very softly. The wererat nodded rapidly, trying to wriggle free even as he agreed with the minotaur mercenary. “With one flinch, I could crush your arm. You realize that, don’t you?” Again, silent nodding and a frantic bout of tugging to no effect. “Do you know why I’m not going to?”

“No idea, pal, but I’d love for you to go ahead and let go of me while you explain,” the lycanthrope replied. Andrei obliged him that much, and the wererat rubbed his wrist, trying to get blood back to his fingers.

“Because you’re a thief, and you’re just doing what you’ve always been doing,” the minotaur said, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Everybody has a skill set. Yours just happens to include relieving people of what’s rightfully theirs. Me? I generally punch, cut, club, stab, and bash things or people that need violence done to them. For the right price, of course.” Andrei reached into the coin purse on his hip and withdrew a single gold piece, flipping it to the lycanthrope pickpocket. “Here, go have a few drinks to numb the pain until you regenerate.” The wererat made no gesture, said no word of thanks, slipping into the passing crowds like a shadow. A shadow who’s going to lighten a few more pouches on his way to the pub, no doubt, Andrei thought, moving along.

When the smithy shop was within view, the minotaur mercenary took stock of himself. His hangover was entirely gone, the whispers weren’t clamoring for his attention, and he felt pretty good about his little encounter with the thief. Normally, he might have either crushed the man’s wrist or ripped his arm entirely off and begun beating him with it. However, this was Desanadron, an enormous, civilized metropolis, complete with a constabulary that would actually enforce the local, regional, and national laws. If he behaved in such a fashion here, he might actually end up in a prison cell. He hadn’t been in the city long, but from the look of the city guards, they weren’t the sort of men and women who took kindly to attempted bribery. If what he’d heard about one particular commanding lieutenant in the city was true, such officers who did accept ‘gifts’ would find themselves on the short end of a Red Tribe werewolf’s claws. Or foot. It really depended on what kind of mood Ignatious Stockholm was in.

Keeping himself out of trouble was key until the company departed for the north-central mountains. Regardless of his skill in personal combat and survival, it would mean little or nothing if he couldn’t accompany the smiths on the trip. As he pushed through the doors into the forge, he felt no surprise whatsoever to find that young Dren was at the grindstone wheel, using a set of pedals with his feet to turn it against the edge of an axe head. Sparks flew out, hot little slivers of orange light illuminating his pinched, narrow face, eyes squinted behind a pair of clear working goggles. Andrei was about to say something, but he saw from the look on Dren’s face that nothing short of the forge coming down around the young smithy’s ears was going to take his focus from his work for the moment.  Instead, the minotaur warrior took the opportunity to peruse some of the weapons and armor that had been arranged on stands in the customers’ area for display. The craftsmanship truly impressed him in most of the work he inspected, and it quickly became obvious to him which pieces were worked by Dren and which by Norto.

The older smithy’s work wasn’t necessarily bad, not by any measure, but it lacked a certain amount of grace that Dren could pound into his works. It had less to do with simple physical work technique, Andrei suspected, and more to do with the engagement of the spirit, the emphasis on finesse. Put simply, Norto’s work lacked the same level of commitment and passion that radiated off of everything Dren had fashioned. Andrei quirked his head to one side, thinking, Odd, but it always seems to be that way for those who have to work harder for equal results.

-Equivalent-, one of the whispers in his head corrected him.

Oh fuck off, would you? It’s early yet. Andrei peeked toward one corner of the display area, and found himself drawn to a hand-and-a-half warhammer of transteel, a durable and lightweight material the dwarves had been bringing down into the main realms from the northwestern mountain ranges that were their homelands. The handle was inlaid with various whirling runes and glyphs, words in a language that Andrei neither spoke nor read. While this would almost include the Common tongue in some instances, Andrei took up the weapon in both hands and brought it over toward Dren, leaning it against a support beam until the young smithy put his current project in the cooling bath and pulled off his goggles.

“Something to help you with, Mr. Dolstov,” the young human asked after a few labored wheezes.

“An extra set of lungs for yourself,” he minotaur quipped, shaking his head immediately to wave off the joke.  “Look, it’s this warhammer. Did you make this?” Dren nodded, clasping his hands together behind his back. “The craftsmanship on this thing is superb. I have to ask, do you even know what you’ve inscribed here on the handle?”

“Not a clue,” the narrow smithy confessed with a snicker. “Actually, it was Holly who brought me the inscriptions and performed the ritual to seal the enchantments on them.”

“She’s a friend of yours?” Magic, wonderful, Andrei thought sarcastically, carefully setting the weapon down head-first, leaning the handle against the side of Dren’s forge.

“Yes, my very best friend,” said the human, his voice betraying a hint of sadness. He wants it to be something more, the minotaur thought. Sometimes them’s the breaks, kid. “She’s a cuyotai mage, and an acolyte member of the Adventurer’s Guild. It’s really too bad she’s still an acolyte, she’s quite talented.”

“Yeah, the Adventurers are like that at pretty much every affiliated guildhall around the realms,” Andrei said with a shrug. “They hang onto their skilled members of low rank, try to keep them from going out into the field as long as they can so that senior members don’t get embarrassed at how much better they are than the veterans who’ve been hamming it up for years on end.” He shook his head with a sigh, then regarded the hammer again. “So, what’s the enchantment on this thing?”

“Oh, that,” said Dren with a smirk. “Felt pretty light when you lifted it, right?” Andrei nodded, then stared wide-eyed as the scrawny human hefted the weapon up into the air and settled it on his shoulder as if it were a mere broomstick. “That’s precisely what the magic does. Anybody can pick up this warhammer and wield it. The spell locked on here effectively makes it light to anybody who touches it, with one exception; if the hammer is forcibly removed from the wielder’s hand, whoever disarmed them can’t move the hammer at all, so it can’t be used against its rightful wielder.” Andrei pressed his lips together, head cocked to one side.

“That’s pretty ingenious,” he remarked. “How much are you trying to sell it for?”

“Norto wants a hundred drakes for it,” Dren said. “I doubt he’ll ever get that much for it, but if you factor in all the costs that went into making it, he’d come out ahead getting half that.” Dren moved over to the cooling bath and hauled out the axe head with a pair of tongs, grunting as he walked it over to a wide metal work bench.  On the bench already lay a long handle of fine ironwood, finger grip divots shaped along its length. He carefully wedged the head onto the handle, then took out a pair of thin metal wedges from a cubby on top of the table, slipping the edges against the head on either side of the handle. Andrei stepped over to watch this more delicate work, observing how Dren took a small hammer and tapped these wedges into place, then took a velvet pouch and sprinkled a pinch of some rust-red powder along the line where the wedge met the axe head. The smithy gently blew on the powder, which glowed brilliant white with heat for just a moment, completing the weld and permanently affixing the head to the handle. Dren stepped back, smiled with satisfaction at his work, and dragged the completed weapon off of the workbench, clanging loudly off of the stone floor when he couldn’t quite hold it upright.

“Allow me,” Andrei said, picking the weapon out of his hands.

“My thanks. Just set it over there on the reserved table, the placard that says ‘Stockholm’. He usually has a standing order or two in with us a few times a year.” Dren took off his work gloves and sighed, making his way to a small desk off to one side of the main forge. He pulled down a thick, leather-bound journal, flopping it open and rifling through the pages. He snatched up a pen from another cubby on the desk, which looked to Andrei like it might fall apart any day now, a battered old thing made of what he thought looked an awful lot like driftwood. Dren scribbled away, continuing to speak as he worked. “He’s an interesting fellow, an officer in the city guard. I almost wish he was a freelancer or a mercenary, though. It’d be good to have someone with his skill along for this trip.”

“You’ve got plenty of muscle with me on board, kid,” Andrei said. He hitched up his trousers and headed for the door. “All right, I’m going to take myself a walk out into the market, see if there’s a travel supply outfitter who’s got what we’ll need for the road. Remember, if you need me for something, I’m at the Red Rooster.”

“Of course,” Dren said absently, lining up rows of numbers and notations in his log book. As he walked past on his way out, Andrei stole a brief glance at the pages he had open; there didn’t appear to be any writing that wasn’t in the young smithy’s hand. The old prick probably doesn’t do a lick of the paperwork, he thought. This trip is going to be a learning experience for them both.

**

Holly sat patiently watching senior members Cardiff and Quay mutter to one another in one far corner of the room, a pair of half-elf gentlemen whose resumes could impress just about any client who might require the services of the Adventurer’s Guild, Desanadron Branch. She had come directly to them instead of to the Headmaster, for she trusted these two more than any other senior membership. She told them the evening before that she wanted to discuss a job offer put forth to her by a friend, but gave them none of the details until the next morning, determined to make sure her meeting was early enough that certain undesirable junior members weren’t about the guildhall to either spy on the meeting or give her a hard time in the aftermath.

The chamber they met in was a drafty academic training room, a wall-length blackboard covering the wall opposite the door and the central floor space filled with aging wooden desks of varying sizes. The normal hubbub and echoes of nearby conversation that would normally fill the building in just a few hours’ time occupied only her imagination at the moment, for there were few members in the building as yet. Holly could smell dust and old chalk as she sat with her hands folded atop one of the desks in the front row, awaiting the two men’s decision.

When finally they appeared to have come to one, Cardiff and Quay came toward her, their hands folded behind the backs of their long, ruddy blue robes. Cardiff’s robe bore various arcane symbols associated with aquamancy, while Quay’s own robes were littered with symbols and crude drawings of various monsters and demons. Quay was a talented summoner, one of the few powerful enough in the realms of Tamalaria to consistently conjure demons from the Pit and maintain control of them for any period of time.

Their garb did not hold her attention long, however, for she recognized immediately the patronizing smiles and half-lidded eyes they brought toward her as she tapped her feet; they were either going to outright reject the job offer, sending her off once more to some menial task, or they would accept the job and demand that some other junior member be assigned to it. Well, not today, fellows, she thought, setting her jaw.

“Holly, Quay and I have discussed this task that you’ve brought to us,” said Cardiff, his light, fluting voice friendly, enjoyable. “We have determined that, should things fall as one hopes, this would serve perfectly as your proving ground test.” Holly blinked rapidly up at the tall, narrow aquamancer, utterly shocked to have her expectations left to the side.

“R-really? So, I can go?”

“Of course, dear Miss Redtail,” said Quay. “We’ll draw up the papers and submit them to the Headmaster on your behalf, and I’ll personally see to it that a recommendation is written in that this task serve as your proving ground. I’ll also give you this,” he said, rummaging in one of his many pockets for a folded slip of robin’s egg blue paper, handing to her carefully.

“What’s this,” she asked, taking the paper and unfolding it. The number ‘5’ had been inscribed on it.

“It’s a requisition ticket, used by our full members to receive pre-arranged equipment trunks for travel jobs,” Quay replied. “Just take it to quartermaster Villings over in the east wing, and he’ll fetch you a matching trunk. Congratulations, Miss Redtail, and best of luck to you.” Quay offered her his hand, which she pumped furiously, thanking him in rapid fire gibberish before giving Cardiff a brief hug and darting out of the room, hell-bent for the east wing. When she was well gone, the summoner raised an eyebrow at his companion. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think she’s apt to get herself killed out there,” Cardiff remarked with a scoff. “We should send a junior with her, perhaps Bortles or Winston.”

“I believe she’s going to prove quite capable,” said Quay, leading the way out of the classroom, taking Cardiff’s hand. “We can’t keep her sheltered here forever, you know.”

“I know, I know,” said the taller aquamancer, following dutifully. “Do you suppose it will work, though?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Quay, nodding to one of the blurry-eyed senior guild members coming into the main hallway from outside, a thick jaft soldier dressed in full ride armor. He grunted a wordless greeting to them, careful to avoid bumping into the smaller men and spilling his coffee. “Either way, it will serve her best, in the end.”

“Provided she survives,” Cardiff remarked. “Shall I make contact and report?”

“Yes, do,” said Quay, releasing his friend’s hand as they neared the mess hall. “I’ll grab some breakfast in the meantime. And remember to tell our friend that this fulfills our obligation to him.” The aquamancer nodded and left Quay at the doorway, off to tend to his task. Quay remained there for a moment, watching as in the distance, far down the main hall, he spotted Holly dragging the wheeled travel trunk along from the quartermaster’s supply. Gods help us, Miss Redtail, you need to survive the journey ahead, he thought, ducking into the mess hall. You simply must.

**

            “That’s fantastic,” Dren exclaimed, embracing Holly as tightly as he could. For once, he didn’t care that Norto was in the room and seeing him be happy for a change; with his best friend in his arms, he wouldn’t have cared if a bladeron came stomping through the front of the shop. He held her out at arms’ length and beamed at her, shaking his head slightly. “This is truly wonderful, Holly! Oh, I should head over to the Red Rooster and tell Mr. Dolstov, he’ll want an accurate head count. Do you want to come with me?”

            “Actually, I’m going to head home for a bit,” Holly replied, disengaging from Dren, straightening her hair. “I have to fill out some forms for my landlord since I don’t know how long we’ll be gone for, and I’ll likely have to pay him to hold my apartment in my absence.” Dren took a coin pouch off of his hip and handed it to her.

            “Pay him with whatever you have to from that, and we’ll worry about recouping later,” said Dren in a rush, his excitement still infecting his every word and movement. “I should finish getting some things prepared as well.”

            “Like these standing orders,” Norto growled from the paperwork desk, tapping one stubby finger on several slips of paper pinned to the left edge of the shabby surface. “You’re going to have to work straight through past sundown, boy, if we’re to have any hope of getting affairs straightened before departure. Elsewise, we’ll have to tell that buffoon bull to cool his heels a day or two more afore we go anywheres.” Dren’s smile quickly disappeared, and his shoulders slumped, thinking of the brutal day that now lay ahead of him. Holly felt her claws curl up, an urge to strangle the old sot raging in her heart. She beat the thought back with an effort, and pulled Dren into another hug.

            She whispered in his ear, “Don’t let him get you down, dear, you’re the best there is.” Dren softened in her arms, returning her embrace with the right balance before he stepped away from her.

            “Right, then,” he said. “I’ll go and update Mr. Dolstov, then come back and get to it,” he said firmly, hoping that Norto wouldn’t argue. When the older smithy just snorted, Dren loosened up. “Feel free to drop in later, Holly. I’ll be working, but it’s always good to have company.”

            “What am I, a ghost,” asked Norto. Dren gave him a dolorous look, but said nothing, instead fetching his errand bag and leaving the shop with Holly. They split up a few streets down from the shop, and the young smithy found himself walking energetically along, looking forward to his work when he got back. He carefully avoided the dingier blocks between Norto’s and the Red Rooster, a broad establishment that had all the markings of a travelers’ lodge, including graffiti of a largely hostile and sometimes sexual nature splattered along its long front. Dren passed by these markings and headed into the front lobby, which hosted an aroma he mentally recorded as ‘eau du bladder leaving’, some rickety living room furniture and a check-in desk manned by a young human woman with more metal in her face than the average kitchen tool drawer.

            “Pardon me, miss,” Dren said politely, leaning down toward the desk. “I’m looking for Mister Andrei Dolstov? He informed me he’d be staying here, could you tell me what room he’s in?” The woman looked up from a book she was engaged in reading, and slid a thick guest register over from the right side of the desk, using one finger to guide her eyes along the names jotted down.

            “Yeah, he’s checked in, room 214. It’s up on the second floor, just head left when you get to the top of the steps.”

            “Do you happen to know if he’s in?” The woman quirked an eyebrow up at him, plenty enough response for Dren. He looked left and right, spotted the stairwell off to the right, and headed up to the hotel’s second floor. He turned left as she had instructed when he got upstairs, and walked down to a splintery door bearing faux gold number plates reading ‘214’. He knocked thrice and stepped back as he heard rummaging and movement from within. The minotaur brute opened the door a few moments later, wearing a breezy pair of off-white trousers, a bottle of amber liquid in the hand not on the doorknob. He looked down at Dren and gave him a wide, boozy smile, the reek of beer hanging redolent over him.

            “Hey there, little dude,” Andrei said. “What’s up?”

            “Well, there’s been a development since you left earlier,” Dren said. “Holly got approval from her guild to accompany us on the journey.”

            “Oh, hey, that’s great,” Andrei said, clapping Dren on the shoulder. The tiny human nearly fell over from the force of this otherwise innocuous act, his bicep hollering at him in the language of deep and sudden pain. “Yeah, it’s always good to have a magic wielder along on trips like this. I’m not a huge fan of magic myself, but it has plenty of uses. You, ah, want to come in? Share a drink with me?”

            “I’m afraid I can’t,” said Dren, rubbing his arm. “Norto doesn’t want there to be any reserved work left unfinished before we leave, so I have to get back to the forge and finish up the orders we have in right now.” Andrei’s expression swiftly darkened, and Dren felt worms begin wriggling with evil intent in his stomach, producing the sickly bile of fear that flavored the back of his throat.

            “How much of that work is he going to do himself, Dren,” the minotaur rumbled. Dren ceased moving his hand on his wounded bicep, took a half step back from the open door.

            “It’s all just mid-level work, nothing I can’t handle,” he replied.

            “That’s not what I asked, little man,” Andrei snapped. He drained the last of the beer in his hand, tossing the bottle over his broad shoulder haphazardly. Dren heard the glass shatter somewhere beyond the minotaur’s broad frame. “Are you seriously going to go back there, right now, and work like a dog for that unappreciative fool until you’re about ready to drop?” Dren looked down at the floor, the worms now inching their way up toward his mouth.

            “It’s my job, Mr. Dolstov,” he offered weakly.

            “Hmph. Well, you do what you have to, kid,” the minotaur said dismissively. “Just think about this, though; if he’s willing to treat you like this, when you’ve done nothing short of everything in your power for him, how do you suppose he’ll act toward Holly, a complete stranger to him, once we’re out in the wilds on the road?” Dren had no chance to reply, though, as Andrei slammed the door shut on him as soon as he finished posing the question. As he sulked away, Dren realized that the big minotaur had spared him having to come up with an answer. Honestly, I don’t know as I’d want to answer that one, he thought as he left the Red Rooster.