Death needed a secretary, but it sure as hell didn't pay enough for one.

Standing at the crossroads, wearing a bleak uniform of pale grey robes - slightly singed by the former employee of the same station - Amalia waited impatiently for the next soul to pass. Time positively crawled when you worked nine to eternity. Her next break wasn't for another three hours...or was it eons...

She sighed.

A sudden FLASH brought a bewildered soldier to her feet, legs sprawled out as if he'd been dropped from a box of toys. He stared, blinking more than typical. "Um, what happened?"

Leaning over, Amalia propped her arm over her company-provided scythe. "You died. Pay the silver and we'll get you back on your feet." She held out her hand and yawned.

"Pay what?"

"Silver. Currency. Coin." Her tone grew snappish. How was this idiot not with the program?

Patting his pockets, the soldier looked sheepish. "Uh, I seem to have spent it?"

"Well, sucks to be you then. Revives cost ten silver, no exceptions." Death always played by the rules. Otherwise it would seem unfair.

The soldier frowned. "So...I'm stuck here?"

"Absolutely not. You're dying for reals now, move along towards the light." She pointed at a beam just behind him. "Next time spend your money more wisely and don't waste it on useless starter gear. Weapons can't make up for experience."

With a sad and sorry face, the soldier stood up and sulked his way over to the glow of eternity, which embraced him in a poof of ending existence. Amalia cracked her neck and leaned back again.

Moments later a fierce-looking warrior covered in furs crackled into the space before her, axes aloft. Vexed, she spoke not a word but threw a sack filled with money towards Amalia. Catching it, death's agent waved her along and she blinked back to life with a roar.

A wizard appeared, his robes charred and slightly oozy along the hem. With a heavy sigh, he looked up. "Hello, Amalia."

She waved. "Pierce."

"Can I just pay up through the next five spawns?"

"There's no discount."

"Fine." Tossing a heavy purse to her, he grunted and adjusted his spectacles before poof life took him once more.

A few moments passed in silence. Amalia examined her black nail polish and fussed over a chip.

Another ZAP and this time her boss arrived, a skeletal figure of indeterminate race or sex, clothed only in black. "Cash out time. Hand over the silver." He held up a large satchel, which Amalia filled with her cache.

"Is it break yet?"

"Not yet. Zeke called in late."

Groaning, Amalia protested, "That's the third time this cycle! When are performance reviews?"

Death blinked. "I don't believe we've ever had them?"

"Well, I move to start! We need to get new faces in here."

Eyeless sockets stared at her. "New...faces?"

"You know what I mean!"

Contemplating, Death replied, "We'll consider it. In the meantime, you had one failed respawn?"

"Broke newb. No silver."

Death nodded. "Any other issues?"

"None. Just waiting for Pierce to come by four more times."

"Shouldn't be long. I'll be back when Zeke checks in." Turning, Death walked off into nothingness.

Amalia stretched. As jobs went, it could be worse.

She could be an adventurer.

Another poof and a scantily clad dancer waving daggers the size of chopsticks appeared with a cry.

Shaking her head, Amalia just held up her hand. "Lady, you need a bigger sugar daddy 'cause that armor's getting you nowhere."

This day is just like any other. I get off the bale of wheat, that replaces the bed I do not own, grab my hoe, and walk outside to fix up the land. No breakfast yet, food is too precious. Water will also be drunk later, as it too is in limited supply. Even though water is potentially endless due to magic, no one has bothered to do anything with this, and so people die every year due to dehydration.

Not that I could do much about this, I am just a simple farmer after all. Hmm? Whos that in my house?

Oh, another robber who randomly enters peoples, and steals whatever money they can find. Ah, there goes my bed, I used that to feed my cows too, you know.

Oh, they came into my field too? ah, they started digging out any seeds I might have in the ground. There go my crops, and whatever money I might earn. And my single cow.

Jeese, dude just stuck a knife right in her and cut out a single rib bone. And now they are coming over here, hands still bloody, crops still dug up, house still in tatters, and a face that is looking as if all this is perfectly normal.

"Villager, quest?"

The actual hell is going on. Quest? Like what a king gives to a hero? Is he seriously acting as if he is a hero?? Also, I am not a villager, I am a farmer. For that matter, he might as well call me by name for all he has done for me.

"Matt. I am called Matt, and I am a farmer, whose farm is now ruined. Guess I am going to be a homeless person soon, huh."

"Farm getting ruined? Monsters attacking at night. Quest to kill all monsters in this region? Rewards, tell me."

Uhhhh, please don't. The only reason I am alive is that I can capture and kill the weak monsters in this region, and then eat them. They are also bloody good fertiliser, although the food tastes a little odd.

"Rewards: 5 gold bars, and 5000 silver coins, and some combat exp. Must kill 50 small boars to get."

HOW MUCH?!!? I HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN 10 SILVER COINS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

"Hang on one second here, I don't have any of that, you took it all from me! Literally all of it! I HAVE NOTH... and he's gone."

"BOOM!!!!"

Did... did that guy just kick that boar 50 meters into the sky? WHY?!?! A punch at like, 1% of that strength could still break everybody in anyone's body, why the hell is he doing so much...

10 minutes of intense slaughtering later...

"I am back. Boars, dead. Money, now."

So. I'm dead if I give don't give him money, based on what just happened. And even if he spares me, I will die since I have no food or water, and all the wildlife in the surroundings is now just blood. Everything is painted red from the blood of boars, and this place now stinks. No one will come by and save me, nobody will want to save me, I might not even leave this encounter alive...

"My horse is hurt. I must leave. I will be back."

And he's gone. I guess this must be my lucky day. Everything I own is ruined, and I am actually glad for once that my daughter died 3 years ago, who knows what this person would have done to them. Based on everything else he has done... lets not think about it.

What now though?

#rpg

#shortstory

#farmer

#hero

#SaffiyaSmith

“Gol-ly! Mr. Farmer!” My new farm hand said with unreasonable enthusiasm. I think his name was Timmy, or Jason, or Robert? God, I can’t remember. They just come and go so fast. “I can’t believe I get to start work on the farm today.”

I took a sip of bourbon from the bottle and eyed the horizon. Waiting. “Aye. But, ye best get your pitchfork ready there, boy.”

The boy looked up at me with innocent eyes. “Why?”

Staring at him, I realized I would kill to be able to go back to that same level of nativity he has. I took another sip of bourbon, letting its vanilla and caramel flavors coat the back of my throat. My eyes are different now. Thick, black, bags underlined thick. My irises, once a warm brown, now a ghostly grey. And my pupils, closed slits that only spied for incoming threats. They've seen too much, and because of that they chose to remain fixed on the horizon. Waiting. “Adventurers.” I replied in a low, rumbling voice that was roughened from years of smoking cheap cigarettes to take the edge off.

“Mr. Farmer…” The boy picked up the old farm hand’s pitch fork, examining the handle closely. “There’s blood on this.”

“Aye. If you’re lucky, yours won’t join it.”

I heard a faint clatter of hooves. Not horses. Not yet. The sound came from behind us, in the barn. It was Bessie, my prized cow--and the reason all those pesky adventures come ’round here. Bessie’s special, ya see, she has golden milk. Great for potions and whatnot, but not so great for the farmer, i.e. me, that owns her and has to protect her from adventurers.

I took another swig of bourbon, then I glanced down at the boy. He was so young. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. I doubt he’s ever had a good liquor in his life. Offering the bottle to him, I said. “Here, boy, have a sip.”

“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Farmer. I don’t really drink.”

I chuckled at his rejection. “Not yet.”

Suddenly, my stomach pinged with anticipation. They were here.

There was a new stampede of horse hooves in the distance, towards the horizon. “Best stand up, boy.” I ordered. “Here they come.”

My name is Jeffrey Smith. I own an inn. I like my job, I guess. It makes me coins and gems, which is a good enough living. I stand at the bar, I make drinks, I sell them to customers that come in. Our speciality drink is the Princely Ale, and it's good enough that customers always come to try it and we are always busy. I have waitresses, they are attractive enough to draw in the tired men who've come a long way. I have chefs, they are decently talented in the art of cooking that no one's complained of sickness yet.

It's just an ordinary night at Jeff's Inn.

The sky is bright orange as I look out the windows, the clouds grey. The rain falls in inky strokes against the glass, the street outside drenched in a blanket of black. I watch the customers, both the regulars I know and the new ones I will soon come to know. I clean the cups.

I watch the swordsmen banter, sharing war stories about the past. One man faught in the Century War a few hundred years ago in the Age of Blood. He's large and grizzly, with a wiry beard and bright golden armour. His dazzling broadsword, silver in the dim light, shines like a star as it leans on the table. A scar runs down his left cheek, his eyes piercing blue. He takes a swig of our signature Princely Ale. He slams the mug on the table. He waves over the waitress working today.

She flies over, leaving behind a trail of sparkles. She's small and cute, looking like a little girl in her waitress outfit. But I know fairies, they are much older than they really look. She could be a thousand for all I know or care. The golden warrior grins, and orders something. It's too loud to hear what he grumbles to her. Then, when she leaves, he starts up another story in which he faught the ice giants of the north.

The fairy waitress comes over to the bar, leaning against it, shuving in between 2 hawk-men. They squack at her, eyeing her up and down. She gives them a cheeky smile, a slight wink. Then she calls over the cook. That clueless goblin boy. He was spaced out in the corner, smoking from a pipe, until she waves him over and he gets up with a start. He nods, hearing the order, and gets to work slamming the ingredients on the table. Golden apples, a variety of herbs, a piece of uncooked unicorn meat, and a pitcher of liquid pink salt. He starts to cook today's dinner special, seasoned and salted unicorn steak.

The waitress leaves as soon as she had come over. She showers sparkles over the bar counter and the two hawk-men, rushing to another customer's table. The hawk-mens' gaze follow her every move.

The customer she goes up to is a dwarf. Short but chubby, and next to him is a beautiful elf girl. Gold decorates both their wrists, necks and heads in the form of bracelets, pendants and headresses. Heck, he even has gold laced into his long neatly combed beard, trailing down onto the floor. His tunic is laced with gold. Her dress has gold embroidered flowers. They order, and as the fairy waitress leaves, the elf girl bends down and kisses the dwarf's puffy lips. They kiss for a very long time. I wish I knew how that felt. He eventually pushes her into the corner of the booth, until they are no longer visible. I try to ignore the strange noises coming in that direction. The fairy waitress comes up to me. An order for a pint of Princely Ale with Golden Apple and Imp Spice. Of course, the most golden drink on the menu for the golden couple!

I set to making the drink. When I'm done, I set it on the counter with two mugs. The fair waitress scoops it all up and flies away.

A cloaked figure sneaks into the inn. No one else notices. Not the warrior in gold armour. Not the golden couple busy in the booths. Not the fairy waitress, showering sparkles wherever she dashes. Not the hawk-men caught up in their own conversation in the language of the hawks. Not the goblin cook, who is taking forever to cook up some meat, leaving a delicious magical scent in the air as the unicorn steak sizzles.

The cloaked figure sneaks up to the bar. Ink drips from his soaked cloak. The storm has gotten worst, I hear the batter of the ink rain as it slams against the roof. The soaked cloaked figure orders a drink in a hoarse whisper. He orders the Princely Ale with a shot of Darkness. That drink doesn't exist on our regular customer menu. That gives me the clue...I know this figure.

The figure raises his head slightly, plopping a pouch of golden coins and sparkling gems on the counter. He changes his mind, asking for two shots of Darkness. He raises his head, the ink from his hood dripping onto the counter. His eyes sparkling red. His hair, silver locks with shocks of black streaks. The royal ring on his pale fingers. It's the prince. A regular customer that comes by in sporadic bursts...rumours around town will say that he disappeared a few years ago...murdered in his sleep, that's how the rumour goes.

The truth is, he ran away from home. He ran away, chasing after a ghost princess. He ran away, and has been practicing the dark arts and necromancy, in attempts to bring her back to life. That ghost princess he loves so much. All he needs is the 'Darkness,' a rare drug that enhances magical ability but leaves the drinker trapped in a psychadelic world for some time. Luckily, I have a supplier of that drug. The prince usually takes the drink to a room upstairs. Locks the door for a few nights. And goes off to whatever world the drug takes you. Let me say, the drug has definitely changed his appearance. Going from that plump blue-eyed golden-haired prince to a twig of a man, scarlett eyed and grey as if all the colour drained from him. As if he were slowly dying. But hey, arn't we all dying, so why should I care? He's just a paying customer to me.

I make him the drink. Our Princely Ale, and from my sleeve, I sneak in the two shots of the Darkness. The drink turns black like ink rain. I shake the drink and then pour it into a mug. After shaking it, the golden ale colour returns, leaving behind a residue of black bubbles that float up to the top. He smiles, taking the drink, his hands scarred and shaking. An eager look in his scarlet eyes, blood shot eyes open wide. He laughs, whispers a 'bless you, my man.' He rushes up the steps, slipping past tables like a shadow, doesn't even make a sound as he climbs up the steps. He disappears.

I sigh. The smell of unicorn steak makes my empty stomach grumble. Goblin cook places the dish, all done, on the counter. Fairy waitress takes it and dashes over to golden warrior, who scarfs it down in seconds. Golden warrior picks up his broadsword and trudges up the steps, his boots thundering on the ancient oak steps. The golden couple get up from the booth. The dwarf, with his beard all messed up, and the elf girl with her dress torn at the sleeve, exposing most of her breast. He carries the elf girl, and they head upstairs quickly, in a wisp of gold. I get back to cleaning the cups. The hawk-men wink at the waitress as she comes back. She's finished her shift, so she takes off her waitress apron. One of the hawk-men pinch her wings gently, and she lets out a little gasp. Wings...they're a fairy's weak spot. She smiles at them dreamily, then the three of them fly up the stairs, the fairy in between the two hawk-men.

The rest of the customers continue to yell and talk late into the night. Slowly, the groups of customers head up the stairs one by one. It's early morning when all the customers have gone upstairs, leaving the bar and inn filled with dirty plates and puddles of ink. The goblin cook yawns, puts away his pipe and apron, stretches and walks up the stairs slowly. One oversized foot after the other, tail thudding behind him.

I'm alone to clean up the dishes. To clean up the kitchen. To clean up the puddles of ink. The ink rain continues to fall. I can hear it now that the ruckus has died down. It sounds beautiful.

I pick up all the dishes in my tray. I bring them to the sink. I clean them. I scrub the kitchen counters and stove, putting away the ingredients into their proper cupboards. I mop up all the black puddles and table tops until everything sparkles. I register the money. I wait at the counter, sitting on a stool. The inn is always open. I'm always awake, never needing sleep. I sit at the counter, staring out the inn windows. I wait for tomorrow to start everything up again. I wait, alone in the darkness.

Yup, it's just another ordinary night at Jeff's Inn.