Dave trudged over the uneven cobblestones wreathed in moss and small flowers. He tried to drown out the rising chorus of his grumbling stomach with the drumbeat of his footsteps. As he arrived at the impressively ornate gate, he cleared his throat, and launched into his charade with all the guile of a starving thespian.

"Good afternoon," Dave said with fake cheerfulness. "I have acquired exotic metallic specimens in the wilds, which I have been advised your eager buyers would pay top coin to obtain."

The disinterested guards exchanged a glance before letting the portcullis up to allow him entry.

"Step forward to the counter and state your name," the guard asked.

Dave walked to the counter.

He opened his mouth to say a fake name when the violin in his soul sang a warning, drawing his eyes to the ground. Dave looked down and spotted a rune-covered, softly glowing circle on the stone floor beneath him.

"What's this?" He pointed at the floor.

"A truth hex," the guard replied briskly. "Lying will result in denial of entry."

"Thanks, Sherlock," he thought.

He cleared his throat and tentatively took a step forward. "My name is Dave," he said, with a palpable sense of frustration. "I have metal-bug scraps to trade."

The guard's eyes narrowed, perhaps sensing Dave's annoyance. Dave opened his bag, showing off the dead metal bugs.

"Are you a criminal? Do you intend to cause trouble in Shandria?" The next question came.

Dave felt a twinge of indignation at the guard's question, but he suppressed the urge to lash out in hungry-frustration. "Trouble?" he replied, trying his best to sound affronted. "I'm not a criminal.”

“Unless, of course, one can count my disobedience of the laws of cosmic reality by being bloody reincarnated in this ridiculous place,” he thought to himself.

"State your primary skill," the guard pressed.

"I'm a… programmer," Dave replied briskly.

The guard sighed, clearly unimpressed. "I'm afraid that won't do," he said. "The gate ward knows that you're a mage. What is your core magic skill?"

"Speaking with bugs," Dave grumbled in reply.

"You're not a necromancer?" The guard asked.

Dave could feel his patience slowly dwindling. He felt like he was stuck in some bureaucratic fantasy nightmare.

"A necromancer?" He blinked, feeling somewhat nervous.

"Are you planning to raise the dead?" The guard asked. "We don't take kindly to necromancers around these parts. Know that there are no graveyards in Shandria, nor morgues or prisons. Any attempts to raise the recently deceased will result your immediate enslavement by the law of her Divine Shadow."

"Raise the dead? Enslavement? What kind of town am I in?" he thought, the corners of his mouth sagging.

"I have no intention nor the skills to create zombies, vampires or any other sort of other physical undead. I have no desire to build an army of the dead or whatever," he said firmly.

The first guard gave him a suspicious look.

"Ah, yes," the second guard said, looking at something on his counter. "I see that your level's much too low for such."

"Right, thanks for noticing," Dave said. "Now can I please enter so that I can trade these metallic bugs for some food and room? I’m quite exhausted and I would really prefer not to pass out in your lovely gate."

"Have you ever stolen anything?" The guard asked.

Dave let out a deep sigh, feeling like he was being interrogated by his mother. "The last thing I stole was a cookie from my grandmother when I was six. I promise not to steal anything from anyone in town," he said his voice exasperated. "Can I go now, or do you need my blood type and shoe size as well?"

The guard rolled his eyes, finally relenting. "Alright, alright," he said, finally waving him through. "Just go to the nearest blacksmith and sell your bugs. Don't cause trouble. Here's your Adventurer's gate pass, Dave. Show it to us and tap it on this hexagram at the gate, unless you want to be interviewed again."

The guard handed him a metal medallion. Dave spun it in his hand, noticing that his bewildered-looking face was somehow imprinted on it as a small portrait.

He slid the identification medallion in the bag and shuffled past the gate and into the bustling streets, taking in the whimsical sights and sounds of the fantastical town around him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sheer scale of this place. The town looked a lot bigger inside the gate, perhaps it was somehow altered by magic.

"Now, just need to find that blacksmith," he muttered to himself, hoping that he wouldn't encounter any more detours.

Dave made his way through the crowded market, dodging carts and narrowly avoiding getting trampled by a stampeding group of birdkin. He felt like a lost child, suddenly thrown into a foreign circus with no guidance or direction.

He marveled at the peculiar bazaar that sprawled before him. The air tingled with the buzz of mages peddling their wares. Arcane amulets and motes of magic danced around in a kaleidoscopic whirl. Looming above, towers leaned at jaunty angles as if they were caught imparting particularly salacious gossip to one another.

"And to think, programming a smart fridge language model to recognize expired milk was a big deal back home," he muttered.

He ambled through the bustling streets, gawking at everything odd and navigating the cacophony of a town as fantastical as it was absurd.

His stomach reminded him of his need to obtain currency so he asked the nearest wizard directions to the blacksmith.

"Ah, the smithy is down main street, that-a-way over the hill yonder. Head to the end of town cliffside. It's an old lighthouse smithy," the wrinkled man replied with a smirk, shaking his pink, pearlescent and absurdly wide hat.

Dave nodded, as he thanked the elderly wizard for his assistance and briskly walked through the throng of magical folk heading towards the hill the old man had pointed out. Having conquered far too many stairs Dave finally reached the top.

His gaze settled on a rather peculiar blacksmithy, its turreted silhouette having endured the erosion of time and weather. It looked like a semi-crumbling ruin of an old tower that was half-transformed into a functional establishment. The chimney puffed tendrils of smoke. Rhythmic hammering that emanated from within.

Unexpectedly breathtaking, the cliffside stretched into the cloudy abyss. There was no water in its depths as far as Dave could see.

"A repurposed lighthouse with no ocean. How... quaint,” he commented.

He made his way towards the blacksmithy with a soft smile. He could not help himself, he liked whimsical, old buildings.

As Dave approached the blacksmithy's entrance, he marveled at the picturesque scene that lay before him. The flowing clouds cascaded upon one another, casting dappled rays of light upon the elegant flower fields that surrounded the old building.

Dave ducked through the low doorway of the blacksmithy, and immediately found himself in a coughing fit. The air inside was unbearably hot, akin to being trapped in a Finnish sauna that had been cranked up a few notches too high. Ashes and sparks pirouetted through the shimmering air, performing a delicate dance of heat and light.

"I... Uhm, I was told that you exchange metal for coin?" Dave managed to sputter out, his eyes watering from the oppressive heat. "I have a bag of metal bugs that I killed today and..."

Dave's words trailed off into silence as he froze in place. He had fully expected to see a burly gnome with a luxuriant beard manning the forge, sweat dripping from his brow as he hammered away at his latest creation. Instead, his gaze fell upon a slender, female hourglass figure backlit by the mesmerizing dance of the flames.

Dark, iridescent scales glittered like a thousand tiny stars. An apron, seemingly forged from the very carcasses of the metal bugs Dave had battled, adorned her lithe form, the dark and iridescent scales of her tail undulating back and forth as she vigorously hammered something within the forge.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Dave drank in the sight before him, his senses overwhelmed by the symphony of heat, light, and the surreal vision of this otherworldly blacksmith that looked like a mixture between a dragon and a girl. Red hair made up from gemstone-like thin strands glittered atop her head.

Dave was speechless, his tongue heavy in his mouth, as he took in the sight before him. He couldn't help but admire the apron forged from the carcasses of metallic bugs, which looked like a winning design in some kind of twisted fashion contest.

After a few minutes she finally stopped hammering and crossed her arms staring at the fire, a soft smile crossing her lips. Dave's heart stopped for a second. There was something utterly alien and yet insanely familiar in her smile, like a song or a painting he's forgotten decades ago and only now was able to remember.

"H-hello," Dave said.

"Yes?" the dragoness rotated. Her expression instantly soured when she saw him.

Dave cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Yes, um, sorry for interrupting your work. I have some metallic bugs here to trade for Shandrian currency."

The girl scowled, revealing sharp teeth that glinted menacingly in the forge's glowing light.

Dave felt a distinctive sense of being very unwelcome.

"What is up with her?" He thought to Sherlock.

The violin in his soul began to play a sad melody.

"Slave," the strings in his soul sang. Dave's eyes spotted a dark metal collar on the girl's neck featuring a triangular, slightly glowing red gemstone in its center.

Dave felt a sudden sense of concern wash over him as he stared silently at the dragoness, her glare sharp as a dagger that seemed to pierce right through him. His hand fumbled with the bag of metal bugs.

The dragoness's voice was cold. "What do you want?" she growled, her red eyes flaring up in anger.

"Currency?" Dave suggested, trying to maintain his composure.

"You humans are all the same," the dragoness snarled at him with a glare.

Dave's jaw tensed, he shuffled his feet and instinctively took a step back, unsure if he was about to be set on fire or flattened with a hammer. He cleared his throat and tried his best to sound confident.

"Well, I don't want any trouble. I ---"

"I don't care for conversation, just trade and leave," the dragoness snapped, the fire behind giving off a menacing look to her figure.

She marched off into a corner and dug through it making lots of noise of metal banging against metal. Dave stared at the forge, feeling curious what each instrument did.

"Pour the bugs on the tray," the grumpy blacksmith returned and slammed a metal tray onto a barrel standing in front of him

Dave emptied the bag of metallic bugs onto the tray. The dragoness scrutinized the bugs, turning them over with her clawed hands.

"These are very low quality... I'll give you two coppers for them," she said briskly.

The color of her scales slowly changed from dark violet to green as she spoke as if they were made from mood rings.

"She's undercutting you," the violin sang. "Negotiate."

Dave suppressed a sigh. Haggling wasn't his forte, but he knew he had to try. Two coppers couldn't even buy him a latte from the snail cart. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his sweaty palms together, feeling the oppressive heat emanating from the forge.

"Well, I'm not sure that's a fair price. They may be low quality, but I did work... Err, bleed quite a bit for them. How about a silver?" Dave proposed hopefully.

The girl raised her eyebrow, snorting derisively. "Greedy and selfish, like the rest of em. Take the deal or leave it. I don't have all day." She gestured impatiently towards the door with a clawed hand, her scales glinting in the fiery glow of the forge.

Dave narrowed his eyes, feeling his anger starting to bubble up inside of him.

Sherlock's violin resounded a sharp warning tone, acting like a slap across his face.

Dave blinked.

The detective's violin began to play an Irish pub song. Dave recognized it as The Wellerman, by The Irish Rovers. The song slowly drained his anger away.

"You know," he said, managing to keep his voice steady, "silver may be a bit much, but not even half a silver? I'm sure the bugs are worth more than a coffee."

"Three coppers for the lot. Take it and go," the dragoness refused to budge, her scales shifting to auburn red.

Dave put on his best charming grin, "Oh, come on, don't be that way. We're all stuck in this crazy realm together, right? Why not make the best of it and help each other out?"

The girl’s eyes narrowed, "Don't patronize me, human."

"I'm not patronizing you," Dave said, "I think we can both agree that three coppers for these bugs is highway robbery. And, who knows, maybe you'll find it in your big, fiery heart to show me a little kindness and generosity."

Dave knew he was treading on thin ice with the dragoness, but he decided to push his luck. He flashed an award-winning grin trying to look as sympathetic as possible. The dragoness glared back at him, her violet-gold eyes like two miniature supernovas in their intensity.

Dave was reminded of a time when he had annoyed a particularly aggressive badger that was gnawing on a piece of cheese from his bin. He could only hope that this dragon-humanoid was more reasonable than the badger had been.

"Share a secret," the violin sang. "Break the ice."

"Look," he said smoothly, slipping into his best used-car salesman persona, "I'm kind of like you."

"Like me?!" The dragoness snarled, her scales turning more red. "How are you in any way like me?"

Dave felt a lump forming in his throat.

"Just yesterday, I was magicked naked to this world and forced into a teeth-pulling labor force. Everything is overwhelming and I don't really know anyone ," he explained. "Just like you, I don't like being a slave, don't like being forced into work. We're both victims here, in a way. And, quite frankly, we could both use some kindness and understanding."

The dragoness huffed and fidgeted with her claws, a sign that her guard had been lowered just slightly. "Were you really?"

Dave exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yes, I was," he replied, his voice lower than before. "I got these clothes from a corpse after a giant bat gnawed on me for a bit. You think I dress and smell like this normally? I just escaped from my ‘master’, a fat man that called himself a God-Emperor. Were you born free?"

The girl let out a small growl. "I was free so long ago that I can barely remember it. Now I am bound to serve this blasted town forevermore as property of a vile human."

Dave nodded in understanding. "Well, that's terrible. Not all humans are like that though," he said, even though he himself had little evidence to support that claim.

She scoffed. "That's what they all say."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Dave finally spoke up. "So, about the bugs. Can we agree on a price that's a little closer to what they're actually worth?"

"These bugs are very damaged," she said. "What did you do, bash them with a pointy rock?"

"A bone knife," Dave pointed to the knife on his belt.

“I see,” she said. “Well, they’re too banged up and are only good for melting down.”

Dave rubbed his temple, stressing our further. He hated bartering. Then the rational part of his soul intervened.

"Befriend her," Sherlock's strings sang. "Break the pattern."

Dave looked at the dragoness, her scales shifting between violet and dark red.

"What's your name?" He asked. "Where are you from?"

The blacksmith let out a small sigh.

"Remicra," she said, her voice still carrying a trace of annoyance. "And I'm from ... somewhere far from here. It doesn't matter. I cannot return, I am bound to this smithy."

She picked up one of the metallic bugs and examined it more closely, turning it over in her clawed hand.

"Take the bugs," Dave said suddenly as his mind arrived at the perfect pattern-breaker.

"Hrrm?" The dragoness blinked.

"Take them, for free," he added with a tired look.

Something broke in the NPC script that Remicra was following. She looked at Dave, stupefied.

Dave enjoyed Remicra's stunned expression, secretly reveling in the knowledge that he had managed to derail her programming.

"Wait. Why?" she demanded, her voice softening ever so slightly, the hint of suspicion still present.

"Well, it's quite simple, really," Dave said as he glanced around the soot-covered workshop, "I might be a human, but I don't subscribe to the idea that every interaction should be guided by selfishness and greed. Let's call it a gesture of goodwill."

Eyes locked, the moment seemed to pulsate with unarticulated potential, teetering on the precipice of distrust.

"I can probably make some money at the market with my magic," he shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"Whoever would even pay a coin to a filthy, smelly manling like you?" She asked. "You look like some wind could push you over."

Dave felt a slight pang in his chest at Remicra's words, but he knew not to take offense. Such words seem like endearments compared to dying twice and escaping the Dragon Emperor’s Citadel of bones.

He looked down at his raggedy cloak, "This isn't how I normally smell. I crawled through a mountain of corpses, fought a giant bat and got assaulted by a bunch of metal bugs."

Remicra's lips quirked, revealing a set of pointy teeth.

"Hrm. You're not completely insufferable, I suppose," she said, placing the bugs back on the tray. "For a human."

As Dave prepared to leave, he turned to Remicra and said, "Keep your head up, Remicra. This place may be old and broken, but not everything is. Not everyone is."

"Hrrm," the dragoness huffed as she watched him depart the smithy.