A Mule Named Daisy

by Sanger

The pack mule was named Daisy the Ninth, she was ninth in a long and distinguished line of mules to serve Sanger. Each had been named Daisy, and each, so far, had been extraordinarily lucky for Sanger, whether because of Their steadfast loyalty, or because a man-eating demon had paused long enough to eat the mule, giving Sanger a chance to escape. The horse leading Daisy, was simply called Horse. Sanger's luck with horses was less than fair, so he had not bothered naming the steed, unless one counts the times he referred to it as 'Gods Damned Horse'.

Sanger was leading the horse, up a narrow rough path that led to the top of Fool's Hill, where lived the sage Rollevon. The hill did not take its name from the person who lived on top. Rollevon was actually renowned for his wisdom and powers of perception. Rather, it was named for the people who chose to hike to the top. People like Sanger.

Rollevon, while renowned for wisdom and power, was not renowned for patience and brotherly love. It was whispered that a long time before any one could remember, Fool's Hill had been a rolling forest. People would come from far and wide to consult the wise and kindly sage. Some event had transpired, and kindly Rollevon had shut his door. The very land itself had buckled, rising into the broken dark hill now called Fool's Hill. No one knew quite what had turned the sage so against his fellow man. Most of the folk living around Fool's Hill were sure that it had something to do with the bunnies.

Fool's Hill was infested with rabbits. The bunnies overran Fool's Hill, devouring everything like a cute fuzzy plague. The town of Droppins, nestled at the base of Fool's Hill was the center of a thriving economy based solely around the rabbit. The rabbit population of Fool's Hill was so enormous that if they had so desired, the citizens of Droppins (named after its founder ,Ned Droppins, not the plentiful leavings of the rabbits) could have flooded the market with rabbit pelts, rabbit meat, lucky rabbit feet charms, and slippers with little rabbit heads on the toes, without seriously impacting the bunnies of Fool's Hill.

Instead, they carefully regulated the number of rabbits they harvested from the hill, not wanting to flood the market and wreck their livelihoods. The rabbit plague never required culling or depletion. It remained at a constant, so that a father could never look at his son in the town of Droppins and say, "Boy, it's not like in my day, when we actually had to hunt for our rabbits." No, there was always the same number of rabbits on Fool's Hill, perhaps mystically maintained by some long forgotten curse, remembered only by Rollevon, the wise sage at the top of Fool's Hill.

The Bunnies were why Sanger had been forced to dismount and walk his mule Daisy and the horse to the top. Sanger muttered a steady string of curses as he blazed a trail through the crowd of bunnies that hopped calmly across the path. The bunnies of Fool's Hill knew no fear, perhaps emboldened by the confidence that they would be reincarnated and live again on another part of the hill. Travel was hampered because of their unwillingness to make way. The furry vermin let out sharp little squeaks as Sanger kicked them from the road, sending them flying into the brush that encroached upon the road.

Sanger, the fool currently climbing to the top of the hill, was a lean man, rough around the edges from being on the receiving end of one too many lessons delivered with fists. He was a slouching 5'7, and had unkempt raven's black hair that refused to be tamed. It stuck up at odd angles and fell in Sanger's eyes.

Sanger demonstrated no fashion acumen. His clothes were shapeless grey and hung loosely about his frame. They were covered in pockets, some put there by the original creator, most roughly sewn on by the current owner. Sanger believed that one could never have too many pockets, and he was constantly putting things in those pockets, so they all bulged.

By the time he reached the top of Fool's Hill, Sanger was out of breath for curses, and was sweating profusely. He regretted wearing the worn grey coat, but was unwilling to face Rollevon the Inhospitable without it. It had, of course, just occurred to Sanger that he could have just walked up the hill without the coat, and then put it on just before he reached the top. Of course, if confronted with this observation, Sanger would have covered for himself by gesturing to the teeming hordes of fuzzy destruction, and pointing out that all it would take is a few rabid rabbits to ruin a person's day, and better safe than sorry.

Rollevon was, to put it mildly, not nice. He had come by his reputation for unfriendliness fairly, usually by afflicting visitors with various lettuce-related curses. On the surface, these curses don't seem so bad, but when one's leg is turned to lettuce, and one is surrounded by rabbits, it is a grievous harm indeed. Rollevon also enjoyed insulting and berating the people who sought him out, and if the visitor was too persistent, he was not above smiting them with lightning bolts. So Sanger's caution, at least where Rollevon was concerned, was well founded.

The brush and scraggly trees stopped close to the top of Fool's Hill, leaving a bald dome topped by the battered house belonging to Rollevon. The bunnies of Fool's Hill did not enter the clearing. Instead they hopped and waited in the brush line, savagely beady little eyes glaring with hatred at Rollevon's domicile.

The effect was unnerving, to step from the teaming pathway into the clearing at the top of the hill, to look back into the scrub, and see hundreds of glittering black eyes glaring back.

Sanger shuddered despite his fatigue, but kept up his progress to the house. He felt butterflies flittering about in his stomach. He'd met Rollevon once before, some years earlier, but he'd been in the company of people with fairer tongues than his. Sanger's tongue had been known to get him into three or four people's shares of trouble, and he was almost regretting his decision to seek Rollevon. He trudged forward to the delapidated door and raised his fist to knock.

The door was quickly yanked open by a short, angry, old man. Rollevon's skin was marked by liver spots and his hair had long since fallen out, leaving a shiny spotted dome and wrinkled, unhappy face. His lips had disappeared from perpetual frowning, and his eyes were a piercing blue, moving in manic fashion, never saying in one place.

He wore a loose robe, and not the kind expected of a priest or judge, but an actual, tie-in-the-front, bathrobe. It was cinched loosely, sagging open, showing off his emaciated, sunken, spotted chest. Thin chicken feet stuck out from the bottom of the robe.

"Well, if it isn't that muskrat dropping, Marxus Sanger. Come to shit on my doorstep. You little maggot, I should have terminated your pathetic existance years ago," the old man growled in a voice like sandpaper.

"Taxus Sanger, now, Mr. Rollevon," Sanger replied through gritted teeth. He was reminding himself again and again, that he had to be polite, he couldn't let his mouth spoil this.

"So the law made it too hot for you and you had to change your fake family name? It doesn't surprise me at all, you were a weedy burglar then, and you look even worse now." Rollevon punctuated that by spitting on Sanger's boot.

Sanger looked down at the mucusy gob on his boot, which wasn't even as insulting as being called a burglar, especially when one is a linguist, and not some sort of criminal. "Actually, my papers were destroyed, so I had to have some more drawn up, sir. And I'm not a burglar, by the way, I'm a translator."

"You're a gods damned cutpurse is what you are, Sanger, a mangy mutt of a human being who's about to be promoted to soot spot for daring to disturb me with some inane request!"

"Actually, ahem, sir, I came to make you an offer, something you might appreciate."

"Even worse, now you're a salesman." Rollevon held up his hands, and electricity sparked between his fingers.

Sanger was becoming irritated, "Look, old man, I've gone out of my way to bring you this offer, and it helps you more than it helps me." Sanger jabbed a thumb into his chest, "I'll be taking the risks, and all you have to do is act as consultant and brewmaster."

Rollevon's eyes grew wide, "Brewmaster?" He started to tremble excitedly, "Well why didn't you say, 'hooch', before? Come in, my boy, and tell me what's on your mind."

Sanger's plans didn't involve alcohol at all, but he didn't think it would be wise to correct Rollevon yet, not after getting his foot into the door. He followed the gangly old man into what looked like a war zone. Bottles, books, clothes, pieces of food, furniture, and exotic looking devices of doom were tumbled everywhere. Sanger, no neat freak himself, carefully tiptoed through the room, doing his best to avoid the debris.

Rollevon picked up a stack of scrolls from a patched and faded chair, and tossed them in the general direction of the corner of the room. Sanger's knocked a book into the bag at his belt that he was holding open, while the sage was cleaning the chair off. He flashed a big grin when Rollevon patted the chair, a little cloud of dust puffed up. Sanger took the seat, maintaining a smile that hopefully projected an air of innocence.

"So, what's the plan, boy? Sorrean Glacier Wine? Maybe you've found the lost treatise detailing how to create the brandy known as Virgin's Thighs?" Rollevons' eyes practically glowed with excitement.

"Well, not exactly, sir, " Rollevon was back to being a 'sir' in Sanger's book now, the lack of insults doing wonders for Sanger's deference to the man.

"Potion of Eternal Youth, or maybe Potion of Long Life, or something, sir."

Rollevon narrowed his eyes at Sanger, "How does a Potion of Longevity translate into a good brandy?"

"No, sir, you see, I came here to get he ingredients for a Potion of Longevity, so that I can collect them, you can brew it, and we'll split it evenly."

Rollevon began growling, "What the fuck's sake do I need a Potion of Longevity for?"

"Well, Cause you're old!"

"And what good would being young do me on this gods forsaken hill? You think I'd live like this if I had anyone to impress?"

Sanger was starting to stutter, "You could get girls and magic them up here or something..."

"And even if I wanted to be young again, you wart on a toad's bottom, it's laughable to think that something so worthless as you could collect what's necessary for the potion. You've completely wasted my time!" Rollevon threw his hands up into the air.

Rollevon held up his hand, electricity flashed between his fingers.

"Now hold on, you old coot, don't do something you'll-"

Lightning arced off Rollevon's fingers at Sanger.

* * * * *

Before moving on from Sanger to Larall, it might be helpful to explain the difference between a sage and sorceror. Rollevon was very obviously a powerful sorceror, but in the kingdom of Ilium, he was legally delineated as a sage. This definition was very important, because in Ilium, practicing sorcery and witchcraft was illegal and punishable by burning, so as not to contaminate the soil.

There was a very good reason for this strict rule, as had been proven during the reign of Humbern IV, a kindly king that had suspended the witch burning.

The troubles had started innocently enough, with certain villages enjoying an inordinate amount of sunshine, while the surrounding countryside endured out of control weather changes. Of course, eventually one of the wizards decided he'd make a better king than Humbern IV, and deposed him by summoning a vat load of acid onto the gentle king.

Ilium was gripped by anarchy for a period of about four years, during which twenty individuals declared themselves king. There was actually twenty-three, but no historian takes the three talking barnyard animal claimants seriously, and the records say little of them except for a vague reference to 'mystical perversions of nature' threatening the throne. This oversight is actually a bit of a shame, since the porcine claimant, who actually ruled for a period of twenty days as King Rootimaximus, had some rather interesting and innovative ideas for a system of government in which supreme power resided in a body of citizens entitled to vote for elected representatives governing for the people and according to law. King Rootimaximus' fatal mistake might have been taking a romantic fancy to the daughter of a baron who supported him.

It was towards the end of this period of anarchy that the laws regarding the separation of sages and sorcery were drawn up at swordpoint. The loyalists united under Humbern's nephew, Luther III, and initiated a purge of every practitioner of mystic arts they could find. This program was carried out by the soldiers of the crown who encountered no resistance when immolating street corner prestidigitators and mimes, but experienced casualties ranging from the minor to the massive, when attempting to introduce more formidable sorcerors to the flames.

The general of Ilium's armies and his chiefs of staff walked to the King's Royal Lawyer's office, swords drawn, and reasonably explained that they had discovered that there was quite a large difference between sages and sorcerors. They politely requsted that the King's Royal Lawyer immediately craft laws reflecting the huge difference between the two.

From then on, sages were recognized as not being sorcerors, and were exempt from threat of flames. It seemed the main two qualifiers for being a sage were that one be powerful enough to devastate half the Ilium army, and that one be uninterested in seizing the crown.

Larall was most definitely a sorceress, although she also fancied herself a bandit queen. She, in fact, did not live up to either of the two criteria for being a sage, since she had rather minor magical abilities, and had designs on the throne.

Larall was an athletic woman, with shoulder length black hair that she kept glossy and clean. She fancied herself quite the villain, so wore black leather in various fashions. She was currently not wearing her black leathers, which meant she was not wearing anything. She was laying across her bad, on her stomach. A piece of parchment was unrolled before her, and she gripped a quill pin in one hand.

"Push your tongue in a little more, swirl it about, too. You're not trying." Larall cast her green eyes over her shoulder. Raltin, one of her lieutenants was perched behind her, his hands parting the firm globes of her ass. Raltin was a big man, he dwarfed Larall, and was covered in black bushy hair. Larall's criticism elicited an immediate improvement in his efforts. His tongue began making wet sounds as he worked between her cheeks.

"Much better, Raltin." Larall went back to writing, pausing only to coo and push her hips back onto his tongue.

"Raltin? Do you know another word for 'give up'?"

Raltin made a few sounds into Larall's pale rear end.

"Capitulation. I like that. 'We demand immediate capitulation.' Now. How about this line, ooh, yes, right there. Mmm, oh, uhm, 'Because our cessation of activities against your village will result in a loss of revenue, we, the Bandits of Larall, demand remuneration.' Do you think the words are too big? Raltin, you've stopped."

"Cap'n, I didn' understan' a hash a what you said."

Larall rolled her eyes, and seriously considered starting vocabulary classes for her thirty some odd bandits. "It says 'we won't kill you if you give us what we ask for.'"

"Why'n just say, "Oi! Allyer gold or we fuck yer sons and piss on your horses!'"

Larall winced at his turn of phrase. "Because my way actually makes it seem like we have a brain among the lot of us. If all I wanted to do was blackmail a fringe of the empire hovel for the rest of my life, I'd try your way. But by actually sounding civilized we present the image of intelligence and organization. I have plans that can't be spoiled by some sod-kicking town actually resisting us. I need their capitulation and cooperation, and the only way to get that is to sound like we'll keep our end of the bargain. Thus a civilized tone."

Raltin blinked.

Larall groaned. She tossed aside the parchment, "I'll finish it later, you just can't appreciate a subtle and intricate plan. I can appreciate a decent piece of manflesh, though. Raltin, you've done enough tongue-time."

Raltin grinned and leaned forward to kiss her over her shoulder. She grimaced and blocked him with her hand.

"You just licked my ass, Raltin, there's not a chance."

Raltin frowned, but quickly shrugged off the hurt. His big hands kneaded the soft flesh of her buttocks and peeled the apart. Larall purred at the massage and bit her lip as she felt the blunt tip of Raltin's heavy tool press against her spit-slicked asshole.

She let out a slow breathy moan as he lodged the purple-head inside her. Raltin's hands moved up her back, massaging the muscles in her shoulders and he slid in another inch. Larall had coached him plenty of times on how to pleasure her this way, and he'd even shaved as closely as he could because he knew what his early task would be.

He moved slowly and steadily into her, his cock stretching her puckered hole. As he neared halfway, he reached under her and his fingers found her pink folds.

"There you go, Raltin," Laral sighed, pleasantly. Raltin was her project, and he seemed to be coming along nicely.

His progress up her stretched rectal passage was slow, but his fingers found her pussy already slimy with her arousal. His thick fingers rubbed her sensitive lips, and Larall moaned, pushing herself back onto his shaft. He eased the last few inches home, until his hips were pressed into her ass.

Then he took a deep breath and began pulling out. Larall felt the personal invasion and retreat and moaned low in her throat. This wasn't her idea of the best sex in the world, but it was the only sure fire way to prevent pregnancy. She groaned again as Raltin began pushing back in with more speed.

She wiggled on his callused fingers and moaned encouragement to the hulking man. He began to pick up speed, driving in and out of her rectum with more speed and force.

Soon he was thrusting his throbbing erection up her rear passage with jolting force. He grunted gutturally with every drive. Larall groaned, his fingers were creating a warm heat between her legs, mixing with the fiery pain into a heady brew. Her thoughts were swimming with the sensations, even as her body began to give into convulsive movements. She began to move with him, their bodies rocking together.

The warm fire his fingers had started , spread through her belly , sending her into a soft shivery orgasm. The spasms of her tight passage encouraged Raltin, who knew that if he didn't finish quickly, she's toss him out unfulfilled.

He jack hammered into her, no longer concerned with her pleasure, until he felt the tension in his belly. There was a sharp coil of heat in his belly, and he hilted himself inside her. Raltin groaned, drowning out the pained noise she made, with his clumsy strokes, and he poured his seed out inside her.

When she felt the warm rush of fluid in her bowels, Larall rolled her eyes in relief.

"Get the fuck off me now, Raltin," she commanded the large man.

Raltin's eyes had begun to droop, but they snapped back open, "Eh?! Ayuh, sorry."

She let her hips drop to the bed, her ass beginning to throb now. She briefly considered making him use his tongue to soother her sore passage, but decided the big man had better things to do.

"Raltin, get your clothes on, you're delivering the message." She snatched the parchment back up, stretching and wiggling atop the bed, and then finished the list of demands. The burly man began dressing distractedly, eyes hungrily devouring her delectable derriere and smooth back.

Larall had run into the Dragonspines, fleeing a witch hunting party nearly ten years ago. She'd been a young witch, her master killed by the same hunting party. She wasn't sure if it could be considered luck, but instead of the hunting party, these brigands had discovered her.

The first week had been difficult, she'd been passed between the leader and his lieutenants, but Laral was determined to survive, and worked her spells of enthrallment subtley, bringing the outlaw captain under her sway. He had begun to protect her from the others, and she slowly cemented her hold over the band, twining her magics around each member of the band, binding them to her, ensuring their loyalty with glamours and charms.

She long ago killed the bandit captain, no longer needing his protection or his greasy touch, and now she ruled over the surviving lieutenants with and iron fist. Her will in this camp was unquestioned law.

She'd turned them from a marauding band of miscreants to a semi-intelligent group of pillagers. They never raided when they could avoid it, preferring to be bought off.

Larall knew it wouldn't last, the band would get soft if left to just threatening, and the first town that successfully defied them would spark three more. Then it would be nothing but work, and Larall desperately hated the shedding of blood.

Which had led her to concot a new scheme, this one a little more long range...

She handed the finished letter to Raltin.

"Take another rider with you, and, Raltin, you make sure that besides the gold, every scrap of ribbon and every coccon for five miles around that village is collected. Do you understand?"

Raltin didn't, but he nodded and took the rolled up parchment, then stomped from the room.

Laral smiled, bandit queen today, but soon...

* * * * *

Sanger yelped in pain as the spear of lightning singed the top of his head.

"Sonofabitch, you crazy motherfucker!" Sanger had jumped from the chair and was hiding behind it, having just barely dodged the wrathful Rollevon. "It's a godsdamned potion of youth! If you don't want it we could sell your share and drown the valley in booze! I could get you the rarest wines and finest drinks. I bet some fat rich merchant would be willing to ship you wagonloads of booze for the rest of your life!"

Rollevon's yellow eyes narrowed dangerously at the bravely cowering lad. He stalked away to a wall of hastily stacked and tottering piles of books, and pulled one down, almost at random. He flipped it open, read, eyeballed Sanger, read again. Then snapped it closed and let out a long barking laugh.

"I'm going to let you live you little puke, just so I can watch your long, dejected walk down the hill, through those mangy pustules called bunnies."

Sanger peeked his head out from behind the ratty chair, "Okay, clue me in on the joke, bag-of-bones." His hands were busy behind the cover of the chair, slipping everything they could grab into the open mouth of his bottomless bag.

"You know what the first ingredient for this elixer is? The one that can't be replaced?" Rollevon laughed across the room, tendrils of spit spraying out.

Sanger was quiet, knowing Rollevon would answer his own question, dickheads usually did.

"Dragon's blood!" There was another braying laugh. "There haven't been dragons in a thousand years!" Rollevon's face was turning red with the force of his laughter.

It was Sanger's turn to laugh, and he hopped over the arm of the chair, crossing his legs confidently. "Piece of cake, Roll-of-dung, I know where Dragon's blood flows like milk."

Rollevon's laughter came to a choking stop, and he glared at Sanger.

"Sure, way back when I had to destroy the Elf-blood Chalice, which I regret a bit right now, you know, since I sure could use a dose of immortality. Anyway, we tossed it into a mountain of Dragon's blood, there was so much of the stuff it rolled right over the top sometimes. See, transporting might be a problem, because that stuff's hot and it burns, but I could work something out."

"That's magma, you cretin."

"Same thing, wizzy."

"No, crouching baboon, magma is molten rock from within the earth, superheated rock. The mountain you dropped the chalice into was a volcano."

Sanger frowned, "Look, maybe you haven't read the latest, but Nymall Pallahn, in his book 'The Bones of the Earth', proved that the blood of the dragon the world was created from still pumps with-"

"Bullshit. Pallahn was a troglodyte who never stepped foot outside a city. If he'd been a genius he'd be living on a hill surrounded by rabbits, you greasy little monkey."

"But he proved everything, even listed out the seven elements."

"Over a hundred, seven is the number of times you were dropped on your head as a child."

"Over a hundred? That's ridiculous! How can anyone be expected to know over a hundred elements?"

Rollevon shrugged, taunting the moron was not as much fun as he had expected it to be.

Sanger slouched in the chair, an unhappy look on his face. He watched Rollevon, then said slowly, "I still can do it. I know where a Dragon sleeps, and I'm not talking about magma this time."

"It's probably a natural rock formation, you pathetic putz."

"No," Sanger said, more strongly, "A real Dragon, claws scales, the works."

"Same trip, we snuck through this fortress carved in the rock, through the very chamber it slept in. It never woke up, and it was the largest thing I'd ever seen. The priest said it was Kaza, uhm, Kazarr-" Sanger waved his hand, unable to pronounce the name.

Rollevon breathed slowly, "Kazhkargonn, the god of dragons, from the age of Tales."

"Whatever, yeah, an older god."

"Impossible."

"He's there." Sanger shrugged off the depression starting to settle in. "Anyway, he's sleeping, so I just need a bloody great pole, sharp at one end, and we'll jab it through his eye into his bog brain. Blammo! Dead Dragon."

"You haven't a chance, Sanger. You're nothing. At the first sound of danger, he'll swat you without as much thought as you'd give to a fly."

"I don't believe it. I have two things going for me, Rollykins. First, there's this gorgeous redhead that wouldn't let me die, and second, I'm smart enough to hire people to die for me."

Rollevon shook his head, "It's suicide, what could possibly be worth killing yourself over?"

Sanger grinned sheepishly, "The above mentioned redhead, it'll help us out."

Rollevon looked mortally offended, "A woman! You'd kill yourself for love of some woman?"

"Woah! Woah! Woah! Watch the 'L' word buddy! I don't L- I'm not in L- I really like this girl, see, and she's gonna live a long time, and what've I got? Maybe thirty years," Rollevon snorted in disbelief, "Yeah, well, a year or two then. But if we're not going to be together it's not going to be because of old age."

Sanger huffed a little, "And besides, there's her really annoying older sister who doesn't want us going out, and she tried to play the life span card, and I'm going to prove her wrong. You tell me I can't do something, and that just makes me more sure I can do it."

"You're going to kill the god of Dragons to prove a point?"

"What better way to win an argument?" Sanger crossed his arms, and set his jaw determinedly.

Now, some back history might be useful. Sanger's world had seen three generations of gods. Kazhkargunn was the god of Dragons who rose to power with the Mage Kings, the second generation of gods.

Kazhkargunn had been the most powerful of the Dragons, but was still under the thumb of the earliest gods, or as some refer to them, the First True Gods. Of course, they are also referred to as the Tyrant Lords, so it's really a matter of perspective.

Kazhkargunn rose up with the Mage Kings, who were a collection of powerful sorcerors, most of whom, but not all, were kings. Kazhkargunn was said to have killed three of the earliest gods, avenging himself for slights of the past.

It was after the of the Mage Kings that things fell apart. What followed was two thousand years of bickering and infighting. Kazhkargunn disappeared from sight, protecting himself from all who might seek him. It was thought he'd fallen prey to a wound inflicted by the True Gods, or some death's breath curse, or some said even a bout of food poisoning, though that was unlikely. The most likely theory held was that he had lain down upon the earth and fallen asleep, becoming the Dragonspine Mountains. This claim later turned up as evidence supporting Nymall Pallahn's theory claiming magma was Dragon's blood.

Kazhkargunn didn't even pop his head up when the Victor Kings overthrew the Mage Kings and set themselves up as gods. Had it not been for Sanger's discovery, no one would have known Kazhkargunn still existed, sleeping deeply beneath the earth.

So Sanger had set for himself, a quest to kill the god of Dragons, who had seized the title by being the meanest biggest dragon of all time. So Rollevon decided to help Sanger, primarily because he thought he was helping him commit suicide. Rollevon had decided that on the large list of people he didn't like, Sanger was somewhere near the top.

Sanger had begun to make himself at home, while the sage pondered. He'd arranged a pile of debris, and a small amulet had disappeared up his sleeve, he could propped his feet up on the pile. "So," Sanger said, "Dragon's blood, practically found already, Roly Poly, wasn't even that hard. What've you got next? Candy from a baby? I'll take it and kick his crib over. There anything else, or is that gonna be all?"

"Elf blood, I'd tell you Treant sap, but they don't exist any longer."

Sanger got a sick look on his face, "Elf blood? I was just starting to like Elves again. Let's explore some options here, Rollo. No need to go and spoil race relations. Tell me about these Treants, maybe I've stumbled across one and not known it."

"Treants are living trees, the move and occasionally speak, though slowly. They haven't existed for a couple hundred years, not since Peraxis, the god of fire took offense at wood that ran away."

"Well, maybe I'll find one on the way to kill the Dragon, or something..." Sanger's voice trailed off. "I'd really rather not kill another Elf, Rollevon."

Rollevon shrugged noncommittally, not really believing Sanger had killed an Elf in the first place, unless perhaps it had been maimed, and maybe dying, probably without both arms, blind too.

"Shit." Sanger straightened up. "So we have a deal? I bring. You brew?"

Rollevon nodded, a sly smile spreading across his face. He was sure this was the last time he'd ever have to endure Sanger's grating excuse for a personality. He stuck his hand out.

Sanger grinned confidently, and he shook Rollevon's hand firmly.

"I'll be back soon. This'll be a piece of cake."

Sanger's trip down Fool's Hill through the hordes of bunnies, was not so confident. He grumbled and cursed in a long monologue broken only by the squeaks of the bunnies he kicked.

"That old bastard, probably only agreed because he thought I'd get myself killed. Fuck him, I'll show him, and that 'Cinda, come back with a gods damned wagonload of blood, and he'll have to kiss my ass for it then..."

Sanger's mind was already turning, working out a plan, figuring out what he'd need. "I'll need a wagon first, can't get a wagonload of blood without a wagon, and I'll need to harvest other parts of the Dragon to pay for this whole fiasco. I'll need a butcher to help chopping the thing up. Probably a mountaineer to get up there, a witch or wizard for support. Shit can't bring a priest because he'll tattle to his god, and then there won't be enough to go around. Gods get involved, and elbow out us poor working folk. Need to pick up some salves before heading out. And I'll need a bunch of idiots that're stupid enough to try and kill a god. That covers getting there and back, now I just gotta figure out how to kill a god."

Sanger looked back, "Any ideas, Daisy?"

The mule shook her head and huffed.

"Shit."