Alro’s store was just on the border of the nonhuman district. A jolly, stocky man, he wore a navy blue vest over a white shirt, both of which struggled to carry his ample belly, his messy hair peeking out from under a maroon cap. A ledger lay on the shop counter in front of him, his fingers and the surrounding wood spattered with ink. He looked up, hearing the bell upon the door heralding the arrival of Ash and Pyth, giving a shout at the sight of an old friend.

“Ash, my friend! I see you’re still sour as ever!” he said, vaulting over the counter, embracing Ash, finances forgotten. The Hunter grunted good-naturedly, glaring the naga next to him.

“Not. One. Word.”

“It had not even crossed my mind.”

Alro punched Ash lightly in the shoulder.

“How about you stop moping and introduce your friend, eh?”

Ash sighed.

“This is Pyth.” He said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand, palm facing the ceiling. “Helped them get in without being bothered by the guards.”

“Hah! You never change!”

“This is Alro.” He continued. “Annoying, but still useful.”

“Oh, Ash! You wound me!”

“You’ll survive.” Ash said flatly, his face deadpan. Pyth smiled, shaking Alro’s hand.

“A pleasure to meet you.” said the merchant. “Would you like to look around? I would like to catch up with my friend here.”

Pyth nodded, slithering away towards the aisles full of mystical and mundane wares.

“So, my friend,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “What brings you to Dorkan?”

Ash pulled his map from the tube on his belt, unfurling it upon the counter, pointing to the village from whence he came.

“I killed a tunneler here. Thought you’d be interested.”

“There was anything left? Last time you fought one of those things you smashed its shell into shards. Three weeks it took before I could find a buyer!”

Ash ignored the ribbing.

“Front right kneecap’s broken through and through, head’s smashed in.”

Also made a sound of dismissal, flicking his hand out.

“Pah, the head’s no good anyway.”

The Hunter nodded.

“Carapace should still be in good shape if the locals took care of it.”

“Do you think that happened, eh?”

There was, rather inevitably, a shrug. Alro let out a disdainful sniff.

“But enough of that!” he cried, clapping Ash on the bicep, the merchant too short and the Hunter too tall to reach the shoulder. “How are you? How’s your Path?” Ash punched him gently in the shoulder.

“Not bad. Saving people, hunting monsters, the usual. It’s been thankfully quiet.”

“Hah, only you could make monster hunting seem boring! If you died and came back to life, you’d call it a nap!”

They knocked their fists against the wooden counter in unison.

“And you? How’s business?”

“Ah, I can’t complain. The same loud dumb idiots are giving me shit as always. They want my goods but refuse to accept where they come from. I tell them you want fairy-quality honey, you need to do business with fairies. But no!” He flung a hand up in frustration, the other on his hip. “Idiots, all of them! Count yourself lucky you never have to deal with such foolishness.”

Ash started to tell him that this was not, in fact, the case, when something kicked his mind into high gear. A small group walking in unison. Frantic whispers and the sound of fleeing feet. The smell of oil and burning cloth.

“Firebomb.” he said, pushing past Alro towards the door, holding his cloak in his left fist. “Get Pyth and yourself to the back room. I’ll handle this.” He had just made it through the door when the first bottle bomb landed at his feet, dousing his cloak in flame. He beat his fist against his singed hair, then his makeshift shield, before piercing the mob with an icey glare. Six they were, the apparent ringleader preparing a second firebomb, the rest backing away slowly, too craven meet resistance. Ash scowled further. Though this wasn’t the first time he’d been set on fire, nor his first with hateful cowards, he held a healthy distaste for both. He reaching into a belt on his pouch, pulling out a eclipse of fire-hardened ironwood, ammunition for his sling. It nestled in his palm easily as he threw it full force at the thug. The man’s leg buckled underneath him, his tibia shattered by the missile. The bottle shattered on the cobblestones, engulfing his writhing body in flames. His compatriots broke and ran, leaving him to burn. Ash sighed, looking out over the gathering crowd, faces that spoke volumes about the normality of it all. He walked over to the man, the flames flickering out. The smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air, burning itself off. The tough groaned; the fire had gone to quickly to do anything but cause minor burns. The crowd parted, a pair of tired, guilty-faced guards in tattered gambesons hurrying onto the scene. The more experienced of the two let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his brow. Scowling, he gave the thug a hearty kick in the ribs before clapping him in rusted shackles. The other guard grasped the prisoner under his armpits, dragging him backward through the street as the officer approached Ash, running a bandaged hand through scruffy hair.

“Thank you for your help, Good Hunter.” Ash shrugged.

“I suppose you’d like me to accompany you to the guardhouse.”

A sigh. A scratch at the base of the neck.

“I’m afraid I do.”

At that moment, Alro burst out of the shop doors with demeanor shared only between extremely cross tradesmen and certain types of harpies, Pyth following behind. He planted himself before Ash, quivering in anger.

“I suppose it’s fortunate that the only damaged is your hair.” he spat, barely holding himself together.

“And your good mood.” It took quite a lot to upset Alro, but when something did there might just be a bloody murder. Alro took a deep breath.

“Aye.” He smacked Ash’s bicep. “Thank you.” Ash returned the gesture.

“Gotta take care of some things with the guard. Be back soon.” Alro nodded absentmindedly.

“Yes...you do that.”

Ash followed the guardsman, whose eyes were pasted to the cobblestones in shame, desersive gazes following them through the crowd. He was young, tired in body and mind, attractive in that scruffy kind of way. A battered hardwood truncheon was stuffed through a worn, faded belt. The guardhouse was tucked in a narrow alleyway, the door flanked by two guards who leaned on their studded clubs. They looked like then had five hours of sleep between them. The interior was dimly lit, musty, the air choked with bureaucracy and hopelessness, the floor caked with mud tracked in from the beat. The officer accompanying Ash slumped into his chair, a battered wooden crate, and ran his dirty hands through his hair.

“Nice place.” Ash said, eyes scanning the drafty rafters.

“‘S what you get for giving a damn.” came the reply, muffled through cupped hands. The man gave out a long sigh, looking up at Ash. “We’ll be lucky to hold onto him till morn.”

“How so?”

“The Order of the Righteous-” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm, “will relieve him of our custody, seeing as any possible witnesses are scum who can’t possibly be trusted, the quote-unquote victim is scum by association, and all together there was no harm done because no actual crime was committed.”

“They sound dreadful.”

“You have no idea.”

Ash leaned backwards against the guard’s battered desk, drumming his fingers on the scarred wood.

“Of course, there’s nothing a certain group of pompous fools could do…” he began, thinking out loud, “if something were to befall the prisoner before they arrived.”

The guard looked up, confused.

“It’s quite obvious you all are barely holding it together,” he continued, “it’d be quite plausible for someone to...neglect to lock his cell.”

Tired eyes lit up.

“He makes his escape, out the door, past the guards…”

“And into the Hunter who put him there. He does not survive the encounter.”

The man nodded, chewing his lower lip. Ash liked that.

“That...that could work.” He looked at Ash. “I didn’t know Hunters meddled in this sort of thing.”

“We’re to handle the things no one else can or will. It’s what we’re made for.”