Chapter 2: Bounties and Beards

  Bromm huffed, adjusting the strap of his musket. “One gold per ear,” he said, nodding toward the gnoll’s corpse. “And seein’ as ya’ were the one this bastard was tryin’ to make supper, seems only fittin’ ya’ should at least have some say in this one.”

  I frowned. “Say?”

  He smirked, booting the gnoll’s shoulder so it flopped onto its side. “How’s about ya’ take an ear for yerself, buy me that drink you owe me, an’ then ya’ can tell me and Bob why yer off tryin’ to camp by a creek like some bogmutter.”

  “Bog—what?”

  Bromm rolled his eyes. “Bogmutter. Swamp hermit. Smells worse than a wet hog, an’ talks to mushrooms. Ya’ look the part, all things considered.” Bob snorted in agreement.

  I stared at the gnoll. One gold per ear. The thought made my stomach turn, but at the same time, this was real. This was how things worked here I guess. If I wanted to survive, I had to start playing by the rules of this world. I swallowed hard and crouched down, hesitating for only a moment before reaching for my belt—only to remember I didn’t have a damn knife.

  “…Yeah, uh. One problem.” I glanced up at Bromm. “I don’t exactly have anything to take an ear with.”

  He let out a long sigh, then wordlessly reached to his belt and unsheathed a wicked-looking hunting knife. He held it out, hilt first. “Try not to drop it,” he muttered.

  I took it, gripping the handle carefully. The weight felt solid in my hand, the blade sharp enough to shave with. I looked back at the gnoll, exhaling slowly. Okay, here goes nothing.

  I must have been doing a terrible job. Bromm exhaled heavily through his nose. A slow, deliberate noise. Like he was holding back the overwhelming urge to rip the knife out of my hands and just do it himself. The knife was sharp, wickedly so, but that didn’t help when my hands were shaking and the gnoll’s skin was way tougher than I expected. I pressed harder, trying to saw through the mass, but the blade skidded slightly, catching on thick cartilage. I winced. Oh—that’s awful. That’s really awful.

  I stole a glance up at the dwarf. Arms crossed, one brow twitching, watching me like a blacksmith watching some idiot try to hammer nails into iron with the wrong side of the hammer. And Bob? Bob just stared. Unmoving. Unblinking. Breathing. The occasional slow, deliberate snort. The longer I fumbled, the more judgmental that stare became. I wasn’t sure how a pig could radiate disappointment, but Bob had perfected the art.

  Bromm finally grunted. “Lad. You’re not skinning a potato. Just—” He made a vague slicing motion with his fingers. I tried again, gripping the ear firmly and pulling the knife through in one motion.

  Squick.

  I immediately regretted everything. The ear came free with a wet snap and—holy hell that was disgusting. I barely resisted the urge to gag. I held it up, queasy but victorious. “Here you go!”

  Bromm just stared at me. “…You can just put that one in your bag, lad.”

  I blinked. Then, looking between the ear and Bromm’s unimpressed face, I forced a weak laugh. “Right. Yeah. That makes more sense.”

  Undoing my pack, I dropped the ear inside, trying very hard not to think about it. Bob was still staring. I shot him a look. “What? Never seen a man butcher an ear before?”

  Bob let out a slow, deliberate snort. Bromm sighed. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one afternoon. Let’s get back to the inn before ya’ make me regret this.” Bob snorted in agreement.

  I exhaled, finally letting some of the tension drain from my shoulders. However long I’d been here, it felt like an hour at least, and I still hadn’t fully processed the fact that I was now carrying a severed gnoll ear in my bag like it was just another Tuesday. Bromm adjusted the strap of his musket and started walking, boots crunching against the dirt. Bob trotted behind him, his massive hooves making the occasional thud against the ground. I fell into step beside them, still catching my breath.

  The forest felt different now. Less suffocating. The weight of the unknown still lingered, but with Bromm leading the way, it felt… manageable. We followed the creek back toward the inn, the canopy above filtering warm, golden light through the trees. As we walked, the tension in Bromm’s shoulders didn’t quite disappear. He wasn’t exactly tense, but he also wasn’t fully relaxed. Whether that was because of me or because we weren’t exactly out of danger, I wasn’t sure.

  After a few minutes, the trees thinned, and more buildings came into view. Now that I wasn’t trembling with fear or distracted by potential death, I actually noticed them. The inn wasn’t the only structure here. Perched on the hill just past the Frog Leg Inn was Bromm’s place where I’d first met him (and Bob… and Bob’s pit). A little further down, I spotted a small but sturdy-looking forge, its chimney still faintly smoking. And just across from it, a small white wooden building with a hanging plaque. A sack, stuffed and tied with twine, was painted on the sign—a merchant shop.

  Bromm gave Bob a quick pat on the side before gesturing toward it. “First things first. Let’s go cash in these ears.”

  Bob rooted at the ground for a moment, then dropped onto his belly with a grunt—clearly unbothered by being left outside. He stretched his front legs out, huffing, as if he’d done this routine a thousand times. Bromm pushed the door open without hesitation, stepping inside. I followed close behind.

  The shop wasn’t huge. A few wooden glass cases stood throughout, displaying weapons, trinkets, and what looked like alchemical ingredients. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books, jars, and rolled scrolls, some faintly glowing. The air carried a strange mix of scents—dried herbs, burnt wood, and something sharp and metallic. But the thing that caught my attention first? The broom.

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  It hovered near the front desk, sweeping the floor on its own. Its bristles shuffled against the wood with a faint swish, swish. Okay. That’s new. I thought. Before I could say anything, a grumbling voice snapped through the shop.

  “If it ain’t the bearded powder-keg himself,” the shopkeeper muttered, not even bothering to look up. “Back already? You run outta shot or outta patience?” I turned—and froze.

  The small man—or, what I could only assume was a gnome—was barely three feet tall, with wild tufts of white hair sticking out in all directions, barely kept in check by a pointed hat that looked like it had been shoved on in a hurry. Thick, round glasses perched on the end of his nose, magnifying sharp, beady eyes that flicked between Bromm and me with immediate suspicion. Behind him, a quill scratched notes onto parchment all on its own, scribbling away without a hand to guide it.

  Bromm snorted. “Neither. Just got business.”

  The gnome’s gaze finally landed on me. He narrowed his eyes, sniffing sharply. “…And who in the hells is this?”

  I blinked. “Uh, Hi.”

  His bushy white eyebrows shot up over his glasses. “It talks. That’s a start.”

  I opened my mouth to respond—but Bromm smirked and thunked something onto the counter. A severed gnoll ear. The gnome barely reacted. If anything, he looked… mildly impressed.

  “Huh,” he muttered, leaning in slightly. “Not bad. Ugly thing, though.”

  “Would’ve been uglier if I’d let it live,” Bromm said.

  The quill that had been writing froze. Then, the gnome barked out a laugh.

  “Ha! Alright, I’ll give ya that one.” He straightened, brushing off his robes. “So. What’s the deal?

  Bromm smirked at me, then subtly flicked his eyes toward the counter. Right. The ear. I stepped forward and placed it down, trying to ignore the wet slap as it hit the wood. The gnome peered at it. His face remained blank for all of two seconds before his nose wrinkled like he’d just caught a whiff of something rancid. Slowly, he turned his beady-eyed gaze back to me.

  “…You expect me to give you a gold piece for this?”

  I glanced down. Yeah. That… wasn’t my best work. It was technically an ear, sure, but it looked like I’d hacked it off with a spoon. Torn edges, uneven cut, bits of fur still clinging to it in places.

  Bromm chuckled. “It was his first time. Give him a break.”

  The gnome sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as if reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. Then he turned back to me. “Arthur, was it?”

  I nodded.

  He huffed. “Zibbin Fizzlegear. I run the shop. Which means I deal with every dead-eyed, axe-swinging lunatic that walks in here trying to sell off monster bits.” His glare sharpened. “But this,” he jabbed a stubby finger at the ear, “is a disgrace. I’ll only tell you this once—if you ever bring an ear that is this butchered in here again, you won’t even see fifty silver for it, let alone a full gold.”

  I swallowed. “Uh… noted.”

  Zibbin let out another long-suffering sigh, then reached under the counter. A moment later, he slapped a single gold coin onto the wood. “There,” he muttered. “But don’t expect mercy next time.”

  I exhaled in relief, snatching up the coin before he could change his mind.

  Bromm smirked. “Told ya he’d give ya a break.”

  Zibbin shot him a glare. “Don’t push it, powder-beard.”

  The quill behind him resumed its furious scribbling. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or relieved. Either way, I had my first gold piece. As we stepped out of the shop, I turned to Bromm. “Say… two gold per gnoll. That seems pretty high, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye,” he said simply.

  I frowned. “So why is it?”

  Bromm adjusted the strap of his musket. “Because we’re far from a major settlement. Not a lot of foot traffic, not a lot of willing bodies to help. An’ here? Here it’s especially bad.” He shot me a glance. “These gnolls ain’t just some scattered mongrels. They’re organized.”

  I blinked. “Organized?”

  “Aye.” Bromm gestured toward a wooden board standing in front of the shop. “Job board.”

  I followed his gaze—and my stomach tightened. Dozens of notices were plastered across the front. Some were hastily scrawled, others stamped with the official-looking seal of some governing body, but majority of them had one thing in common.

  *Gnoll Sightings Reported Near the Hollow.*

  *Wanted: Gnoll Raiders - Two Gold Per Ear.*

  *Extermination Request: GNOLLS!—Immediate Action Needed.*

  My throat went dry. Bromm tapped a finger against one of the parchments. “The more organized a gnoll clan is, the more brazen they get. Attackin’ farms, stealin’ from carts—hell, some get bold enough to raid villages outright.” He exhaled sharply. “An’ out here? They’re the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  I stared at the board. The sheer number of requests—some old, some freshly pinned—made my skin crawl. “…And the one I ran into?” I asked quietly.

  Bromm folded his arms. “Alone. Means it was likely on its way to their base to join up with the rest of the clan.”

  I swallowed hard and turned back to the board, scanning the other requests.

  Not all of them were about gnolls:

  *Alchemist Seeking Glowmoss – Paying Five Silver Per Bundle.*

  *Missing: Tabby, Grey Stripes – Last Seen Near the Grain Mill.*

  *Caravan Guards Needed – Competitive Pay, Meals Provided.*

  *WARNING: DO NOT APPROACH THE OLD WELL. Strange sightings reported.*

  *Stable Hand Wanted – Experience Preferred. Must Be Good With Horses.*

  My eyes flicked back to the one about the well, my gut twisting. Strange sightings? That felt... ominous. Bromm must’ve noticed, because he scoffed. “Heh. Don’t tell me you’re interested in that one.”

  I shook my head. “Just—taking it all in.”

  The world felt bigger now. More real. There were people living here, needing help, doing normal, everyday things. It wasn’t all just monsters and death. Bromm grunted. “C’mon. We’ll grab that drink before ya’ start gettin’ ideas.”