The ale was warm. And flat. And tasted vaguely like someone had wrung out a goat into the barrel.
I stared into the mug like it owed me money.
My bare feet were curled under the barstool, crusted with road dust and still faintly green from yesterday's unfortunate botanical encounter. My hair was damp. I wasn't sure if it was from the bath behind the stables or the crying earlier.
Next to me, slumped like a sack of pickled meat, was the dwarf.
Same one as always. I didn't know his name. He didn't know mine. Tradition.
"So," he said, not looking at me, voice thick with beer and whatever life choices got him here. "Sir Odran cheated you?"
I sighed. "Yup."
He grunted. "Still with the dragon?"
I nodded slowly.
"I had a plan," I muttered. "A perfect plan. Full circle. Virgin—well, virgin-ish. Dragon. Hero. Big dramatic climax. Gold. Applause."
"And instead?"
"Hero robbed me blind." I scowled into my drink. "Took everything. Even my emergency crotch coin."
The dwarf whistled softly.
"Smug, good-looking bastard," I added under my breath, as if cursing him hard enough would shrink his cock. "With that smile. And those stupid arms. I hate him."
The dwarf nodded solemnly. "Aye… and all after the old sideways blessing."
I groaned and let my head thunk onto the bar. "Don't start."
He grinned. I could feel it even without looking.
"I'm broke again," I mumbled into the sticky wood. "Not even a copper left. Not even the moldy one I keep in my—never mind."
He sipped his ale and said nothing.
After a pause, I lifted my head just enough to glance sideways. "You up for a little fun?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Upstairs?" I offered, hopeful. "Or behind the stables? I don't mind straw."
The dwarf scoffed. "Can't bane. Holy month of Manzikret."
Of course it was.
"No drinkin', no fornicatin', no dice," he added with exaggerated piety. "Even pissed in the corner with one eye open, I'm still devout."
I sighed and slumped back down. "How's a harlot supposed to earn a living like this…"
The dwarf swirled the last sip of his ale, watching the foam cling like regret. "Well," he said slowly, "there's always the whorehouse down the road."
I narrowed my eyes. He coughed.
"Unless…" he ventured, eyes squinting like he was trying to read divine prophecy in the grain of the bar.
"Unless?" I said, pouncing.
He winced. "Nah, forget it."
I leaned closer. "No. Say it."
He scratched his beard. "Well, I mean, why don't you find another hero?"
My eyes lit up. I sat up straighter. "Whom?"
That one word made him panic.
"Oh no," he said, hands raised. "Not me, doll face. No no no. I'm heading north. Silver mines. Honest work. No dragons, no drama, no chance of getting seduced then robbed then nearly eaten."
I tilted my head. "So just the mining lung rot and sexual frustration, then."
He grunted. "Better odds."
I huffed and looked back at the bar. "Fine. But you're not wrong. I do need a new mark."
He perked up a bit. "What kind of hero works best, you reckon?"
"Depends." I ticked it off on my fingers. "Too noble, and they try to slay the dragon. Too horny, and they forget the plan halfway through my striptease. Too dumb, and I get bored. Too smart, and they sniff out the scam."
Dwarf nodded sagely. "What about desperate?"
"Desperate is good," I admitted. "Poor and proud is better. Ideal combo: stupid brave, tragically underfunded, convinced they're special."
"With a sword bigger than their sense of self-preservation," the dwarf added.
"Yes. Preferably with abs. Or cheekbones. I'm flexible."
He chuckled into his beard. "So a vain bastard with a savior complex."
I smiled, wistful. "Like Odran, but dumber. And easier to rob."
"Maybe with a tragic backstory," he suggested. "Parents eaten by wyverns. Sister turned into a newt. Raised by squirrels."
"Yes!" I snapped my fingers. "And if he has a family heirloom—like a glowing dagger or a talking belt—that's a bonus. Something the dragon can pretend to be impressed by."
We both sat in silence for a beat, imagining this sad, shiny idiot.
Then I sighed. "Now I just need to find one."
"Try the temple," the dwarf offered. "They pump out heroes every week. It's like a bakery. Full of righteous buns."
I snorted. "Holy types don't usually fall for me."
He looked me up and down. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."
I smiled. "Maybe I'll try the market square tomorrow. Wait by the quest board. Wear something clingy."
"Wear anything at all and you'll already be overdressed," he muttered.
"Rude," I said sweetly.
He raised his mug in salute. "To the next sucker."
"To the next sucker," I echoed, clinking mine against his.
Warm. Flat. Still tasted like goat.
But hope had a tang. And I was thirsty for it.
The dwarf leaned in, elbows on the bar, breath like pickled onions and bad decisions. "You know what... Forget the known heroes," he said. "Prissy pricks, the lot of 'em. Picky, too. They'll either wanna marry you, rob you, or both. And even if they don't, they'll ask for half the loot. Two-thirds if they've got a name anyone would recognize. Gods help you if you run into someone actually righteous."
I let out a long-suffering sigh. "Tell me about it."
He wagged a finger. "I am telling you. You don't need some storybook knight with a magic sword and a poetry kink."
"So what, then?" I asked, swirling my ale. "You want me to build one in a cave? A golem? A homunculus?"
He scoffed. "Nothing so dramatic. You ain't a wizard. You're a menace with tits."
"Aw, thank you."
"I mean just find some country lad. A shepherd's son. A pig wrangler. Someone dumb enough to mistake your smile for destiny. Mold him to your needs."
I arched a brow. "You want me to train my own hero?"
He nodded. "Exactly. Blank slate. You tell him he's chosen, throw in a prophecy or two, polish him up, and point him at your problems."
I snorted. "That's… actually brilliant."
"Shake of your tits," the dwarf said, gesturing helpfully at chest height, "and most of them'll eat outta your hand. Or something else."
I leaned back, considering. "Huh."
He gave me a satisfied smirk. "See? I have my moments."
"You do," I admitted. "You really do. This could work."
"Course it could. Simpler than dealing with sword-flashing peacocks. And you get to keep the profits."
I tapped a finger against my lips. "Mold my own hero…"
I was already picturing it.
And I liked the shape it was taking.