After the Great Flaming Rat King Incident—as the townspeople had started calling it—Border Town was in an uproar. Merchants were furious, homeowners were homeless, and the guild official had banned them from taking any new jobs for the foreseeable future.
Which meant the Mercenaries of Mayhem had only one choice:
Hide.
Back at their ruined house on the outskirts of town, the group had gone full hermit mode.
Bob had barricaded the door with his shield.
Derek had taken up residence in the darkest corner, contemplating his life decisions.
Marcus was tinkering with a new invention that would probably explode.
Bam was casually setting tiny fires, because even in hiding, he had priorities.
No one had dared to leave for days.
No one, except—
Outside, in front of the house, Jim sat next to a roaring fire, casually roasting an entire goat on a spit. A large jug of ale rested beside him, and he turned the meat slowly, humming to himself.
From inside the house, Bob peeked through a broken window. "Jim. What the hell are you doing?"
Jim took a swig of ale. "Eating."
Derek, rubbing his temples, sighed. "We're hiding, Jim. You know, lying low?"
Jim waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, the people won't come all the way out here."
Bob narrowed his eyes. "Where'd you get that goat?"
Jim hesitated. "That's not important."
Marcus leaned out the window, staring at the roasting animal. "Wait… isn't that the rooftop goat that threw another goat at you?"
Jim looked at the goat. Then at the house. Then at the goat again.
"…Revenge is a dish best served with ale," he said, taking another sip.
The mercenaries slowly shuffled outside, the smell of roasting meat proving too powerful to resist.
As they sat around the fire, chewing on goat legs, Jim stretched, looking nostalgic.
"You know," he said between bites, "this wasn't my first career choice."
Bob raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to roast goats professionally?"
Jim scowled. "No, idiot. I wanted to be a singer."
Silence.
Then Marcus choked on his food. "You?"
Jim nodded solemnly. "Yep. My dream was to be the greatest bard in the land."
Derek squinted. "You can sing?"
Jim grinned. "Oh yeah. My family's martial art? It's traditionally combined with singing."
Marcus wiped his face. "Wait, wait, so you're telling me your ancestors punched people while singing?"
Jim took another drink. "Damn right. It was called The Melody of Fists."
Bob stared. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Jim scoffed. "Oh, like your family did something cool?"
Bob crossed his arms. "My family was a long line of respectable tax collectors."
Silence again.
Then Marcus burst out laughing. "You?! A tax collector's son? That explains so much!"
Jim grinned. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Anyway, my singing career didn't work out."
Derek, who had been sipping his water, muttered, "I wonder why."
Jim ignored him. "It wasn't because I was bad! It was because the world wasn't ready for my sound."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Define 'not ready'."
Jim sighed, poking at the fire. "There was… an incident."
Bob leaned in. "Go on."
Jim rubbed his neck. "So, there was this bard competition in another town. I entered. Got on stage. Started singing and demonstrating my martial arts. People were stunned. I thought, 'Damn, they're really into this!'"
He took another bite of goat.
"…Then I realized they weren't stunned. They were injured. Turns out, mid-performance, I accidentally kicked three people, punched a noble's son, and drop-kicked the judge's lute into the river."
Derek closed his eyes. "Of course you did."
Jim groaned. "They banned me from ever performing there again. Said my 'music' was a crime against sound and basic human safety."
Bob wiped a tear from his eye. "I have never been prouder of you."
Jim sighed dramatically, raising his mug. "Some dreams just aren't meant to be."
Bam, chewing on his food, nodded. "There are always exceptions."
Bob grinned, lifting his own mug. "To Jim's failed singing career!"
Marcus smirked. "And to us never letting him try again."
Derek just muttered, "Thank the gods."
And with that, they clinked their mugs together, eating in peace—at least until the town came looking for them again.