Junkpile

In one sense, it was a load of junk. In another, it was barely usable refuse.

"Are you about to cry?" the minotaur asked me.

"It is glorious." I said.

He shrugged. "If you say so. Welcome to it, if you can claim it from whatever pride holds it this week."

He left as I began sawing off the remaining legs from his broken chair. One of the youths of the pride came over while I was trying to find something with screws or nails in it.

"That's our stuff; you'll have to pay a toll."

I looked at him. The words scraggly and malnourished came to mind. I mean, I hadn't expected prime warriors, but there was hardly any muscle on the lad. His eyes were sunken, his skin beginning to sag. "From the looks of how little you eat, I can afford it."

He snorted, stomped a hoof, made fists. All the things you expect from a bluff. "Just for that, your toll is double!"

I sighed. "What is the toll?" I asked.

"Four silver coins, for you!"