Old Man Hobb was waiting outside, leaning against a cart that looked like it had been assembled by a drunk carpenter during an earthquake. The wheels wobbled. The axles groaned. The ox hitched to it chewed its cud with the existential despair of a creature that had seen too much.
"You the kids?" Hobb grunted, spitting into the dirt. "Figured you’d be taller."
"We’re average height!" Towan protested—right before tripping over a loose cobblestone.
Elliot didn’t even blink. "We’ll get your cart to the market, sir. Any… specific concerns?"
Hobb scratched his beard. "Yeah. Don’t let the ox see squirrels. Or loud birds. Or, uh… wind."
Towan stared. "How does an ox hate wind?"
"You’ll see," Hobb said, tossing them the reins like he was handing over a lit fuse.
The first ten minutes were fine.
The cart creaked like a haunted house, but it held. The ox plodded along at a pace that suggested it was barely tolerating their existence. Elliot mapped a route through Stoneveil’s quieter streets—away from crowded markets, away from potential squirrels.
"See?" Towan said, kicking his feet up on the cart. "Easy coin."
Elliot eyed the ox’s twitching ears. "Famous last words."
Then it happened.
A squirrel. One squirrel. It didn’t even come close—just flicked its tail on a fence post twenty feet away.
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The ox’s ears twitched. Its nostrils flared.
"Oh no," Elliot said.
The ox screamed—a sound like a dying trumpet—and then they were moving.
"WHY IS IT SO FAST?!" Towan yelled, sprinting alongside the cart as turnips bounced out like shrapnel.
"IT’S AN OX, NOT A HORSE!" Elliot shouted back, dodging a flying cabbage. "STOP THE CART!"
Towan leapt, grabbing the edge. The wood groaned under his grip. The ox peed mid-gallop.
Elliot didn’t even ask.
They stopped the cart the only way possible: by luckily steering it into a tree.
Towan lay flat on the ground, gasping, a turnip resting on his face like a funeral shroud. "Still… easy coin," he wheezed.
Elliot, miraculously unharmed, brushed dirt off his sleeves—just as three figures emerged from behind a fence.
Three shady-looking figures stepped out from behind a fence. One was chewing on a toothpick. Another had a wooden bat. The third sneezed loudly and looked surprised to even be there.
“Afternoon,” said Toothpick. “That cart’s got goods. We’ll be taking a toll.”
Elliot stepped forward. “Oh no. Not again.”
Towan grinned. “Bandits? Finally.”
The fight was short.
Toothpick tried to charge — Towan sidestepped and delivered a clean palm strike to his stomach. The guy folded like a bad hand of cards
The bat guy swung high, only for Elliot to duck and sweep his legs with practiced form, sending the bat flying into Towan’s hands
The third bandit raised his hands. “Nope. I don’t even like these guys.”
They fled, tripping over each other.
Elliot adjusted his collar. “That felt good.”
Towan was still holding the bat. “Do we get to keep this?”
“No.”
The vendor took one look at his slightly dented cart and sighed. "Thanks, boys." He tossed them a pouch of silver. "Not bad for Bronze rank. You remind me of a guy I knew… quiet type, built like a mountain. Punches like thunder."
Towan’s ears perked. "Does he go by Lytharos?"
The vendor blinked. "Yeah. You know him?"
Elliot stepped in. "We’re looking for him."
"Well… he doesn’t stick to one place, but he takes guild jobs sometimes. Especially bandit-related ones." The vendor smirked. "Smart to ask around."
Towan turned to Elliot, grinning. "One squirrel-haunted ox later, and we’ve got our first lead."
Elliot eyed the ox, now peacefully eating a patch of weeds. "We are never taking an escort mission again."
(Spoiler: They will.)