The Simple Quest

Back at the Rusty Tankard, we dumped our new loot clothes, food, and Milo's carefully guarded cap on the creaky bed. Milo stashed his travel knife under the pillow "just in case," while I sorted coins and tried not to think about how close this tiny room was to "home." The world outside thrummed with the energy of late morning. Today, for the first time, we had choices.

"Ready?" I asked, adjusting my cloak. "Time to see what passes for adventure around here."

Milo grinned, cheeks full of optimism. "Will they let me hit things?"

"If we're lucky, you'll just scare the rats."

He cheered, shouldering his miniature satchel. We locked the door, Greta winking as we left ("Bring back something interesting!"), and walked out into the sun.

The Guild Hall of Millcross squatted at the center of town like a retired champion: broad-shouldered, a little battered, but proud of its scars. Its heavy doors were carved with scenes of legendary hunts dragons coiling around towers, heroes slaying manticores, one unlucky soul running from an enormous chicken. Above the door hung a swinging sign:

"MILLION STARS ADVENTURERS' GUILD NO DRAGON FIGHTING BEFORE LUNCH" in cheerful, peeling paint.

Inside, the scent was a heady mix of oiled leather, burnt coffee, and ambition. Trophy heads lined the walls fangs, tusks, even what looked suspiciously like a troll's foot mounted in a place of honor. There were polished shields, faded banners, and a giant notice board packed so tight with quests and memos you'd need a sword to carve through the paperwork.

Benches and tables sprawled in all directions, many occupied by adventurers of every flavor: old-timers with tankards and tall tales, young hopefuls with shiny gear and wide eyes, and a few seasoned mercenaries who looked like they'd only come in for the free peanuts.

Milo pressed close to me, his gaze bouncing from a griffon skull above the fireplace to a trio of elves arguing about whose cloak was the most "enchanted."

The main desk sat beneath a battered banner. Behind it, a receptionist scribbled furiously in a ledger, glancing up every so often to make sure no one tried to steal the ink.

We joined the short queue. When our turn came, the receptionist a man with a nose like a hawk and eyes sharp as razors fixed me with a stare that could slice cheese.

"New to Millcross, are you?" he asked, already suspicious.

"Just passing through." I tried to smile, but my mouth twitched the wrong way.

He slid over a form so dense with writing it might have been an ancient spell. "Fill this out. Name, age, special skills. If you have a criminal record, leave it blank everyone lies anyway."

I hesitated, pen hovering. The system popped up, ever-helpful:

[Recommended Alias: "Definitely Not The Wanted Bandit Girl." For legal purposes, use: Ari Leigh.]

I wrote: Ari Leigh.

Age: 17 (give or take).

Special Skills: Fire magic, sarcasm, survival, general competence.

I paused at "next of kin," and glanced at Milo. He blinked back, proudly tracing the letters of his own name well, Melo according to his spelling.

"Team name?" the receptionist prompted.

Milo perked up. "The… Flaming Ferrets!"

I winced. "Maybe… The Ember Pair?"

The receptionist shrugged. "I've heard worse. Welcome, Ember Pair. Any references?"

"Just ourselves. And the rat population, soon."

He stamped the form with exaggerated ceremony, then rummaged under the desk and emerged with two badges. Milo's was smaller, silver and shiny, engraved with "GUILD TRAINEE." He fastened it to his shirt as if it were pure gold.

The man eyed us, still unconvinced. "You look familiar. You haven't been in trouble, have you?"

The system pinged:

[Smile like you're about to bake him cookies, not burn down his house.]

I beamed. "Trouble? I'm allergic."

He snorted, defeated.

The quest board was a festival of chaos: parchment, wax seals, and, for some reason, a dried sausage nailed under "Urgent Requests."

I scanned the postings, reading them aloud for Milo:

"Barn Trouble! Giant rodents eating everything! Reward: 8 silver, unlimited turnips."

"Lost: One magical chicken. Last seen on roof."

"Help needed: Remove slime from well (bring own bucket)."

"Urgent: Rats. So. Many. Rats."

I took the "giant rodents" quest. The reward wasn't impressive, but it was simple, local, and unlikely to end in fire. (Probably.)

As we waited, Milo roamed the Hall, wide-eyed. Adventurers swapped stories by the fire:

"…and then the ogre sat on him, just flattened like a pancake—"

"…once spent a whole winter hunting frost-wolves in the North. Lost three toes, but kept my sense of humor."

A wall near the bar held a Wall of Fame: faded portraits of legendary teams, most now retired, a few marked "Missing in Action." Next to it, a list of current bounties: monsters, bandits, one poster for a "Flame-wielding Girl" drawn with suspiciously wild hair.

Milo sidled up. "Is that you?" he whispered.

"Could be anyone," I muttered.

An older adventurer in battered chainmail noticed Milo's badge. "First quest, eh?" he called. "Hope you like rodents!"

Milo puffed his chest. "I'm not afraid of rats."

A dwarf grinned. "You will be when they're bigger than your boots."

Milo's eyes went round, but his grip tightened on his new badge. "How big are we talking? Like…cat-sized?"

"More like barrel-sized, on a hungry day," another adventurer called from the corner, sloshing his ale. "And twice as mean."

I exchanged a glance with Milo. Maybe this "simple" quest deserved more respect and perhaps less enthusiasm.

The farmer, seeing our hesitation, leaned in. "Don't listen to all their tales. Last week's adventurers chased three of the beasts out, but there's a stubborn family left. The barn's been their den for weeks, and nothing trap, dog, or yelling gets them out. They eat anything. Even metal, if it smells of food."

Milo gulped. "Do they bite?"

"Only if you taste like cheese. Or bread. Or, well, anything." The farmer sighed, scrubbing his hands on his trousers. "I just want my barn back before planting season. And, uh, if you find my wife's copper pot in there, that'd be nice too."

The system popped up, offering a checklist:

[Mission Notes:

— Rodents of Unusual Size.

— Possible hoard of stolen goods (pots, tools, half a chicken?).

— Aggressive when cornered.

— Barn is flammable: use magic sparingly.]

"Any weak spots?" I asked. "Places they nest? Traps that work?"

The farmer considered. "They like the far corner under the old hayloft. Used to be a fox den maybe still smells right to 'em. They gnaw at anything that moves at night, so best try at midday when they're sleepy."

A halfling piped up, "Watch your ankles. They nip fast."

We thanked them, Milo peering into the barn with a new blend of excitement and nerves.

"Think we can do it?" he whispered.

"With planning, and a little fire yes. Let's find your copper pot too."

Milo squared his shoulders, looking every inch the proud trainee.