The journey through the dreary moors of Grinmolden was long and left Olga and Roxie with sore feet, though Roxie at least tried not to complain. She did, however, complain about the incessant nerd gossip between Olga and Malcomn as they discussed how good the new episodes of Dragon Knight 500 were or what their favorite ships were in Heartthrob Accountant. Meanwhile, Roxie's questions about the technicalities of casting Dungor's Grand Flight of Fire were shut down by Malcomn's superior interest in discussing Harry Potter theories. After three long days, they were all glad to finally reach the border and cross into the kingdom of Malhaven, and Malcomn promised it was only a short distance to the town where they could acquire some horses. Olga asked if she could have a unicorn but was told that these particular suppliers were too edgy for that kind of stuff.

From the border it was only a few hours before they arrived in the small town of Upper Bodpodly. The locals seemed normal enough, cheerier than the dour peasants of Grinmolden but with a strange obsession with stovepipe hats. Everyone they saw was wearing one. An old lady even stopped the three wizards to inquire why such a helm sat not atop their heads, forcing Malcomn to explain that they were tourists from Grinmolden. The lady's face soured and she walked off, muttering about bloody tourists ruining the solitude.

Malcomn led the way to a secluded building labeled as The Order of the Portly.

“What is this place?” Olga had to ask. The squat stone structure had no windows to be seen, and there was a distinctly creepy aura about it.

“It's kinda like the Freemasons,” Malcomn explained casually. “A secret society of which I am part.”

“Does it have a purpose or is it just a social club?”

“It's secret,” Malcomn replied as he knocked on the door. It opened a crack and a man's voice hissed, “What's the password?”

“There isn't one,” Malcomn whispered back. The door opened and he stepped in, telling the girls to wait outside before the door slammed shut.

“Stupid boomers and their secret clubs,” Olga huffed, crossing her arms. “They never let us take part in anything!”

Roxie was quick to defend her teacher.

“He said it was a secret society, you can't expect them to let just anyone in.”

“You always take their side! You gotta stop being a sheep, Roxie, you gotta challenge the status quo or they'll keep using you to maintain their precious power structures.” Olga wasn't an expert on socioeconomic systems or power structures, but she knew enough buzzwords to cow Roxie into intellectual submission. Her friend stammered out a few buts and wells before falling silent.

Fifteen minutes passed in silence before the door suddenly opened and the two women snapped to attention.

“They can only spare two horses,” Malcomn said as he stepped out. “You two will have to ride together.”

Olga looked a little disappointed. Malcomn noticed and asked, “Will that be a problem?”

“Aw, well, you know Roxie likes her personal space and all... I'm just thinking it might be better if I ride with you. You know, if that's cool with you and all.” Olga finished with a shrug. Malcomn returned the shrug.

“Doesn't bother me.”

Olga grinned as he fetched the horses. Roxie stared at her, confused.

“I do appreciate the thought, but you really didn't have to.”

“Oh, don't mention it,” Olga winked. “Let's just say I can't miss an opportunity to ride with the hot teacher, can I?”

Roxie frowned, more confused that before. It was true that Malcomn didn't look bad for his age... which was fifty-three years. The 'hot teacher' in question returned with two horses, one black and one pink. He helped Olga mount the black steed before climbing on behind her. Roxie mounted the pink horse with no trouble and the riders set off cantering down the street.

“We'll make one stop between here and Silver Bridge,” Malcomn said as they passed the local GameStop. “That's where Bogdon is staying, according to my friends in the Order.”

“Silver Bridge?” Olga smiled excitedly. “I've always wanted to see it!”

“But we won't be crossing the bridge, will we?” Roxie asked. “The elves are very particular about who they let into their country.”

Malcomn shrugged.

“Who knows what Bogdon's special route is. Hopefully we'll find out.”

* * *

The town of Silverbridge was the only elven settlement on the southern side of the great Brunden River, serving as a trading hub between the humans and elves. As the three wizards approached the city they could see the mighty bridge beyond, its silver arches towering into the bright sky. Tall elven warriors stood atop the city's walls of pale yellow stone, their longbows held at ease as they watched the flow of carts, riders, and pedestrians going in and out of the gates. Olga and Roxie's eyes were wide as they rode through the crowded streets, trying to take in all the bright stalls and charming shops.

“Where do we look for this Bogdon chap?” Roxie asked, trying focus on the mission.

“They're selling a limited edition copy of The First Backbender spin-off comic!” Olga broke in excitedly, pointing to a nearby stall.

“Indeed,” Malcomn nodded, riding over. “We'll have to pick up a copy or two.”

Having made the purchase, he turned to Roxie.

“To answer your question, we'll check the inns first.”

“Are we allowed in the taverns?” Olga asked. At only twenty years of age, she and Roxie were five years under the absurdly high drinking age in Grinmolden.

Malcomn gave a dry chuckle.

“Here the drinking age for elves is one-hundred-and-fifty, but for humans it's five. Long story short, the elves are kind of out of touch.”

Their first stop was a pleasant, green-roofed inn named The Stooping Stone Golem. The place was well furnished and hosted a great variety of patrons. Elves with brightly colored hair of blue, pink, and green hues. Boring humans bemoaning their dull brown hair and lack of unique racial skill bonuses. Sneaky goblins eyeing their neighbors' purses. Adorable gnomes trying to get the larger folk to take them seriously.

As the wizards approached the counter, they passed a gnome arguing with a human.

“Come on,” the human insisted, “it's not pedophilia if you're an adult gnome!”

“That's not the point!” the gnome retorted, pushing the man out of her personal space. “I told you, I'm not into humans!”

“Then you can at least tell me where some other gnome ladies live,” the man persisted.

“Oi!” a dwarf shouted as he barged into the conversation. “Bugger off, ya creep!”

He slammed his hammer down on the human's foot, causing the man to scream and hop away. The dwarf immediately turned to the gnome, smiling as he tipped his fedora.

“Good day, milady.”

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Roxie asked the bartender, a green-haired elf.

“Every tavern has its resident pedo and resident nice guy,” she replied with a shrug. “Can I get you three something?”

Malcomn reached into his purse and dropped a fistful of coins on the counter.

“Information. We're looking for a faun. Seen one around town?”

The bartender pointed to a table in the corner where two men were seated.

“There's one right over there.”

Malcomn smiled, dropping a few more coins.

“Thank you very much.”

“Pleasure doing business, human,” the elf replied, sliding the money off the counter into a safe box.

The two men looked up as the wizards approached. One of them was definitely a faun, small horns grew from his head of shaggy hair, while his legs were those of a goat. He had been speaking in a melancholic tone to a large armored human with a black mohawk, who listened intently while eating a bowl of Coco Pops. Malcomn gave them both a benign smile.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Doesn't bother me,” the faun said with a wave of his hand.

Malcomn sat down, leaning over to whisper, “I'm looking for someone who can... get us into the elven capital.”

“Worst mistake of my life!” moaned the faun, throwing his head back dramatically.

“Quiet!” Malcomn hissed. “I'll make it worth your while.”

“Nothing's worth anything in this world,” the faun went on, casting a sad look at the armored human who nodded in solidarity. “Life is just a pointless roller coaster ride of depression and disappointment.”

“I have the key for those shackles,” Malcomn ventured. The faun started, glancing at the large metal clasps around his wrists.

“You sure?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Malcomn. The eyes were wide and sunken, rimmed by black coloring like an Emo kid had gone overboard on the eyeliner. “These aren't any normal shackles, you know.”

Malcomn nodded.

“Karadhin sent me.”

“My brother! Not that I'm not grateful, but why the sudden change of heart? He was pretty determined for me to keep these things on, last time I saw him.”

“We need your help,” Malcomn said gravely. “If you guide us safely into the elven capital and help us steal from the Arcane Fountain, I'll take those bracers off.”

“You have the key on you?” Bogdon asked.

“I do, but they're only coming off after we get to the Fountain.”

“Hmm... how can I trust you?” Bogdon narrowed his eyes again, suspicious.

“That's a good point, you know,” the armored human broke in.

“Ironic of you to be asking,” Malcomn snorted. “You should be grateful that Karadhin is trusting you.”

Bogdon paused, considering.

“Why do you even wanna go there? It's not all it's cracked up to be, I'll tell you that much.”

“We need a vial of the Fountain's water to save our home. It's a matter of life and death.”

Bogdon sat back, stroking his short goatee.

“Alright!” he said after a few moments, slapping his palms on the table. “It's a deal! But you'd better hold up your side of the bargain. No-one cheats Bogdon the Wild and gets away with it!”

“You have my word as a necromancer,” Malcomn replied.

“That settles it,” Bogdon nodded firmly and extended his hand. “Shake on it.”

Before Malcomn could reach out, the armored human seized Bogdon's hand and shook it violently.

“Um... thanks, Timothy,” the faun glanced at him as he struggled to free his hand.

“No worries, my furry friend!” the man replied in a voice as large and commanding as his figure. As he stood up, Olga and Roxie cowered at the sight of his seven foot stature. “I must be off, earning my bread and all. Cheerio!”

The man turned and stomped away.

“Who was that?” Malcomn asked as she shook Bogdon's hand.

“He said he was a bounty hunter, Timothy Turnover by name.”

“That's a stupid name,” Malcomn made the brilliant observation.

“Stupid name for a stupid man,” Bogdon chuckled. “Doesn't seem like the tightest zip tie in the amateur BDSM dungeon.”

“Please, there are children here,” Malcomn said reprovingly.

“Really?” Olga asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Malcomn sighed. “I meant to say 'impressionable young adults'.”

“I'm twenty!” Olga retorted. “I could have my own BDSM dungeon if I wanted to!”

“You're all basically children to me,” Bogdon said. “I'm over fifteen-thousand years old.”

“Huh... that's kinda hot,” Olga commented.

Fun fact: it's not hot in the slightest. What the heck, you horny Femcel?! I don't mean to be sexist here, or virgin shame or whatever, I'm just saying, how is someone being over fifteen-thousand years old in any way hot? It's not, plain and simple. It's weird, Olga is weird, and she does not deserve to be the protagonist of this story, that's all I'm saying.