Hunter's Folly

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Their homes are in high mountain caves, far from the reach of any creature travelling on foot. On warm spring and summer days, not a sign of scale or snout can be spotted in the thick green forests of the valley floor. The best time to find them there is late autumn through the heart of winter, when the chill forces their usual prey into warmer boroughs. The great lizards can be found nosing into hollow trees and underground dens all across the snowy landscape. Accustomed to being the hunters, not the hunted, it is not difficult at all to catch one of them unaware. The real trick, Peter knows, is killing one before it has a chance to turn its teeth and claws to the fight. Novice hunters rarely survive more than a few seasons if they don't learn that vital little skill. Peter learned it at his uncle's elbow as a boy, and has been a drake hunter for decades now. Edward, on the other hand...

He's capable enough with a knife, but Peter is sure there isn't a cautious thought in the lad's brain. Two winters back, they had happened upon a beast drinking at a pond. The reflection of its red-orange scales danced like fire across the rippling waters. Edward leapt forward, knife raised, before Peter could hiss a warning. The knife's silver glint flashed in the pool, and the drake turned to meet his charge with talons extended. He got a nasty rake across his chest and a couple deep furrows down one cheek before Peter could bury his weapon in the dragon's brain. Peter expected (hoped!) that would drive some sense into the young man. Perhaps he's a mite more careful than he once was, but he also shows off his scars to all the young ladies at the tavern as a "token of bravery," so clearly he isn't too cowed. To be fair to him, he also uses those scars to impress potential clientele, so Peter can't really be upset.

That is the one aspect of the dragon hunting business that Peter just never developed the knack for, but in which Edward excels. He's got a way with people, and is a damn fine haggler. The young man had promised Peter that if he was hired on, business would double in two years. That was almost three years ago now, and Edward hadn't been wrong. They did almost three times the business that Peter used to, and got a better price for their prizes as well. Edward is willing to go much farther than Peter would have ever considered to find contracts. Between wizards seeking magical reagents, craftsmen in need of specialty supplies, or even eccentric nobles looking for exotic souvenirs, the two of them always find themselves fully booked for the season.

Tomorrow's job, however, is making Peter uneasy. Edward found a wealthy merchant lord with a taste for hunting, dazzled him with tales of their exploits, and got him to agree to pay a small fortune for the scaly head of a dragon. The only catch? The fool wants to come along. He is even offering a bonus if he gets to deal the final blow.

"This is a daft idea, Edward." Peter glowers into his mug of ale. His voice is pitched just loud enough to be heard over the hubub of laughter and conversation from the other tavern patrons.

Edward laughs, his easy smile glinting back firelight from the welcoming hearth, "What, old timer, drinking? I thought you loved drinking!"

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know that. It's the job, boy. I don't like taking some highfalutin lord out into the Valley to get his bones gnawed on by lizards. I work hard enough just to keep you alive."

"Hey! That's not fair." Edward looks wounded until he notices a twitch at the corners of Peter's mouth and knows the older man is teasing him. "Look, Peter, I understand why you have certain reservations, but Lord Crispin is an accomplished hunter. He had boar heads and bear carpets strewn all about his sitting room, and had a story for each of them!" He tears off a chunk of the bread loaf sat between them in the table and uses it to sop up the remains of a meaty chicken stew in his bowl.

"Dragons are bigger than boars. Faster than bears. Smarter than both." Peter takes a swig of his drink. The stuff is bitter, but it ends in a mellow honey sweetness that makes up for it. He does not look at Edward's exasperated expression. They've had this conversation enough times over the summer, sat at this very table in the Harper's Goblet. He can picture the eyeroll without looking.

"The man knows the risks of a hunting trip, Peter. When I showed him my scars, he had several to show me! "

"You've never been on one of them lordly hunts."

"What, and you have been?" Edward scoffs. Peter doesn't rise to the bait, instead picking at the splintering wood on the edge of the roughhewn table with one thick fingernail.

"They are a different kind of action from what you and I do. There's pages and horses and toadies to carry all your equipment, and oft times there's a fellow whose job it is to get himself into trouble instead of you. He better understand that out in the Valley, there'll be naught but his own wits between him and his end."

"I think you are just against it because you're a cremudgion with ways as set as those old bones of yours. Any stiffer and you'd be a statue."

"And I think your mother should have taught you better to respect your elders," Peter growls, but there are no teeth to his words.

They continue for form's sake, retreading old ground on an already well beaten path, until Edward's ale is empty and he excuses himself to the bar. Max, the owner, sees him coming and has a new mug ready for him by the time he reaches it. Several young ladies also notice his approach. One of them, an auburn haired lass with dark eyes and a mischievous expression, walks forwards and catches his arm. She makes some quiet joke up at him. He laughs and smiles down at her, letting her guide him back to the group of excited women. Peter snorts, and knows that Edward is likely to be distracted for the rest of the evening. Let the boy enjoy his youth and good looks while they last. It's not as if their conversation would have changed anything. Despite all his grumbling, Peter has already agreed to Lord Crispin's proposition, and he won't back out now.

Peter kicks back in his chair, letting the warmth of the hearth radiate through his weary bones. He lifts his ale to his lips and mutters to himself, "Guess we'll see tomorrow just what kind of man this Lord Crispin is -- fool, hero, or both."