Ranger of Path

1. A Simple Mission

Pay in advance for this game

Bathe both before and after

Don't you dare forget my name

Or you won't survive this whore

—Hildr Vas Trumurne

All griffins shit logs. Long, thick, and adhesive. When launched mid-flight, the spears of excrement generally hold together until impact.

Ishkur cleans an aviary for the massive beasts at the top of a speckled granite tower. Built by the hands of giants, it straddles a deep crack in the land. Plowed fields cover one side of the narrow canyon, and a verdant forest covers the other. His mother was human and his father an elf, so this spot between worked and wild land suits him, even if this humble job does not.

The tall aviary serves a town that is half alive. Stretched along the farmed side is a hive of people. They fill the stone structures and wooden extensions along a well-worn dirt road that curves away from dusty bridges.

Ishkur pauses at a window overlooking the long abandoned half of town. Axes chop trees that have spent centuries rising from granite ruins, and orange flags mark a wide cobblestone path. Stretching southeast straight as a crow flies, this path generated a fortune in trade during the past age.

He narrows eyes green as the underside of a leaf and frowns, spoiling deep laugh lines. Whatever material treasures to be gleaned from the excavation and expansion cannot balance destroying a fae community.

Spinning a dung rake like a polearm, he turns back to his chore and rolls the last of the arm-length droppings into a chute.

Forgive the splatter below ... He tosses the rake and picks up a mop and bucket. If I clean the mess above.

With pinch-nosed cheer, he wipes the aviary floor and whistles. The simple tune matches a children's song about marching ants, something his mother taught him to get through chores.

"Good morning!" Covered in a dark wool robe, his rosy-cheeked elder friend enters from a side door, shaking a paper bag. "I've got your favorite."

Ishkur empties the putrid wash bucket and wipes his hands. "Lovely treats, but I shouldn't enjoy my penance."

"Oi, and I shouldn't suffer through your morose whistling filtering into my window." The old man chuckles. "If this tower wasn't the best mystic nexus around, maybe I would move my workshop." He holds open his bag. "Sealed with skill and power. Guaranteed to stay fresh for a year."

Ishkur pokes around inside and pulls out a soft, palm-sized bar in metallic packaging. "I still owe you for drinks. Let me pay your costs, at least."

"Bah. Don't embarrass me. The gift is given. Accept the snacks as ya would hospitium."

"Thank you, Apple."

The man's cheeks flush as bright as the fruit he is nicknamed after. "One bar a day, no more, or the sweetness will spoil your stomach."

Wind gusts down from the open roof, stirring straw.

Ishkur pockets the treat and moves to a hanging saddle and bridle. Extra wide with long looping straps, it fits a full-grown griffin. The huge mounts mix an eagle's front with a lion's hind and require unique equipment to safely ride. The mystically-tamed monsters prove their worth as the fastest way through rough land. Ishkur pours oil onto a rag and wipes every bit of leather. He takes care of what takes care of him.

"I'll eat them after I'm allowed adventuring again," says Ishkur. "Your treats are the perfect supplement."

Apple sighs and sets the bag down. "Last batch of the peach ones. Couldn't bear to sell them at market."