The home of Charles Menlo, magnate of the Waldonton Woodworks, is more of a full-blown estate than a simple home. Boxed in on all four sides by tall stone walls, the two-story luxury villa is surrounded by carefully manicured trees strategically placed to give the plot the facsimile of existing in nature. Only the distant din of voices engaging in commerce from beyond the wall breaks the illusion.

Our escort, a man dressed in a uniform that clearly marks him as some kind of servant, looks very much the part of a stereotypical butler, minus his pointy elf ears, of course. His job, it seems, is only to guide us along the finely curated cobblestone path and towards the imposing double doors of the villa’s extended entry hall. All attempts to speak to the man had resulted in polite rebuffing. Essentially, we were still going in blind, even at this late stage.

Deirdre, Liv, and I had some ground rules to remember for this meeting. It would have been foolish to blunder in without a plan. Even still, not knowing what we are walking into ratchets my worries up to eleven.

We sorted out just how to handle Menlo while making use of a small clearing for sparring earlier today. Back and forth, the three of us debated the merits of the meeting with Menlo and the possibility of strategically ignoring him. The problem, as we all agreed, was that we didn’t have a clue as to Menlo’s motivation for reaching out. There was, however remote, the possibility of a simple coincidence.

What we do know is that he’s behind a collective of primarily woodworking businesses in town. Instead of needing to do the footwork of hush-hush conversations with loose-lipped bargoes or covert inquiries in various woodworking businesses themselves, we leaned on people we already knew. As longtime townsfolk of Waldonton, Isabella and Renata had a few words to say about Menlo. The reputation of Waldonton Woodworks was not stellar, unsurprisingly, something Isabella was eager to tell us when she handed over the note.

Menlo’s reputation was that of a cheat and a conman. The details were scarce, but from all that Isabella and Renata had to say, those going into business with Menlo usually ended up under his thumb.

Our plan, first and foremost, is to commit to nothing. Secondarily, the goal was to simply keep Menlo talking. To get the measure of the man and figure out his intentions, we need a good, long meeting. Having been invited directly to discuss our business venture with him, instead of some intermediary, meant we at least had his interest.

As the elfish butler opens the brass-adorned, heavy wooden doors to the villa, the first image to strike out into view from inside is that of opulence. Curling up towards a second floor is a staircase with richly colored red carpet and polished railing. Likewise, the bottom floor screams of too much money and too much free time. Nestled in a far corner is a grand fireplace, massive to the point of obnoxiousness. The walls are covered in finely crafted paneling, and in every free inch there hangs a painting with what looks like scenes of the natural world.

The escorted tour doesn’t end at the front door. Instead of Menlo himself, a separate and similarly dressed butler assumes the duty of chaperoning us along through the wide and richly furnished hallways. In spite of the abundant decor, the interior feels empty. With the amount of space available, you’d expect an entire host of people to be making use of the open spaces, but there is no sign of anyone. In a word, the house feels cavernous.

Eventually, Deirdre, Liv, and I silently arrive at an upstairs door indistinct from the others dotting the second-floor hallway. The butler, who continues to show a face of impassiveness, knocks quietly before droning out a message through the closed door.

“Sir, your guests have arrived.”

 

From within comes a muffled reply.

“Very good, Pascual; let them in.”

The butler swiftly opens the door before about-facing and leaving back down the hallways we all came from. From where that leaves the three of us, we can now see inside to a finely decorated study.

Behind a large, brilliantly polished desk sits a man who appears to hold himself in great esteem. Menlo, though he is sitting, looks about average height. His build is slight, but his upright and formal posture gives him a bit of gravitas. The man himself is human like everyone else, but his extra demi features are like those of a lion. His eyes are intensely yellow, with large black pupils and no white sclera to speak of. Upon his hair, very much like a mane, is draped an overabundance of blond locks.

“Aw, please come in. Have a seat,” he says to our group as the butler clears away. His timbre is plummy, bordering on snooty.

Deirdre, first into action, marches inside with Liv on her heels. The two quickly take their places in leather-upholstered high-back lounge chairs, and I join them seconds later. The room itself, likely an office, is made as much for comfort as it is for work. Surrounding us are shelves of books and, along one wall in another, much more reasonable-sized fireplace.

Never rising from his seat, Menlo waits for us each to settle before continuing.

“Ladies, I believe introductions are in order."

His gaze slowly bounces between Deirdre and me.

“From our town records, I can presume I have the honor of speaking with one Ms. Burkhardt and Ms. Driscoll,” he states, then turns to Liv. “I’m afraid those records do not feature your name upon them.”

Liv, for her part, introduces herself curtly, though she leaves off her last name, Karlsson. Last names since I found myself Reborn have not seemed to matter a whole heck of a lot. In fact, the only people I ever told mine to were Mellisa and Evans at the Newcomer building. That would certainly explain why Menlo had it. It figures that the town council would keep those sorts of records.

Deirdre, as our plans call for, will be doing the heavy lifting for our group. With a good head on her shoulders, Liv and I agreed she would best handle whatever Menlo had to say.

“And you must be Mr. Menlo. We received your message about our job posting," states the halfling.

Menlo, in reply, grins a practiced and calculated-looking smile. “Please, call me Charles.”

The man gestures to an amber-filled decanter. “Might I interest you in a drink? Imported all the way from Montpellier.”

"No, thank you,” returns Deirdre swiftly.

We three were in full agreement to decline any offers for dinner or drinks of any kind.

“And your companions?” Menlo asks, in question, with an eyebrow raised at our muteness.

With her trademark slight grin, Deirdre locks eyes with the man. “Perhaps we save the drink for if we’re able to come to an arrangement as a reward."

Tones are still light, and the meeting has started as well as we could have hoped. One of our worries is that we’d simply be invited over and immediately threatened with some form of coercion, so this is nice, all things considered.

“Very good then; don’t mind me if I help myself, but first you must tell me, how has our town been treating you? I’ve been informed you’re all rather new around here after all.”

“As I’m sure you know, our career is a demanding one. Waldonton has been more than sufficient for our needs when we’re not afield.”

If Menlo means to try to play us for naive fools, he’ll have a hard time of it. I may be new to town and to the world in general, but Deirdre has been here for at least a year. Liv, on the other hand, while new to town, has spent multiple years as a hunter. Not much when compared to many locals, but enough to not be taken advantage of.

"Well, it certainly is rustic. Our good partners along the coast and the many splendid goods coming through town certainly make the cold months all the more bearable.”

“Have you had the pleasure of sampling our local delicacies? I can have my chef bring something up, or perhaps we should hold off on that until after we strike a successful business arrangement as well?"

“What makes them local delicacies?” asks Liv, interjecting, but not having done so with any surprise. Our goal is, of course, to get the measure of Menlo, and it's hard to determine what someone’s game is from a brief conversation.

“Ah, I speak of clafoutis and caneles. It's the eggs you see,” he replies. “So many proper desserts require them, but alas, they’re a rarity, except here, of course. We've got a relative glut of them in comparison to our neighbors.”

“I see, quite true, especially further north.” Liv adds, likely true considering how well traveled she is.

“I believe you’re correct about holding off. Why don’t we discuss our job posting before we bring out the desserts?" Deirdre says it tersely.

“Yes, your posting; I have caught word of it.” Menlo replies, his hands coming to fold over themselves on top of his desk as he looks between the three of us, those most directly at Deirdre. “As I understand it, it would seem you aim to build a frontier fortification for use by the local community of hired hunters.”

Menlo, carefully and slowly, pours himself a sip worth of the amber liquid from the nearby decanter into a very breakable-looking tiny wine glass. “A fascinating idea, of course. I wholeheartedly support the noble efforts of the guard and other hired help to maintain and protect our fair town.”

“You understand correctly then.” Deirdre says, her tone is still perfectly level as always. "Our plans call for very little at first, but ideally the small watchpost will eventually be surrounded with protection and feature a few other constructions to aid those working there. For starters, we aim to build a lookout and firing tower, like the guard uses.”

“But that's not all correct? Any outpost of that sort will be bringing in valuables. The enchanting ingredients alone would merit the endeavor.” He says, eyes full of glee, like he's spotted the glint of gold, and he needs only reach out and take it.

“I’m quite sure your experience in matters of Monsters is peerless, but I work with the finest craftsmanship in town. If it's a quality outpost you’re looking for, look no further.” His hands go out wide, indicating himself as the answer to our problems.

“I’m afraid I still don’t take your meaning, Charles," replies Deirdre ruefully. “What exactly are you offering?”

Menlo downs his drink in one quick motion; whatever it is, he seems to have quite enjoyed it. "I would be happy to introduce you to some of our local craftsmen and see that your outpost is made a reality. Of course, for the trouble, I would expect a small percentage of the earnings as compensation, say twenty percent of the enchantment materials."

Deirdre, feigning further confusion, looks positively perplexed as she continues. “We made our posting to seek those with the time to take on our proposal. I assume the businesses you work with are quite busy; why divert their time to our project instead?"

Menlo holds his expression close to his chest, and without giving anything away as to his true intentions, he answers Deirdre as simply as possible. “My business relies on enchanting ingredients. A wagon wheel will break in due time, but an enchanted wagon wheel will take a caravan far indeed. For the savvy owner, quality make with suitable enchantments are a must.”

Meaning rich people. Rich people enchant all their things to make them the best, putting them beyond the reach of any newfound competition trying to start out and get into the business. In general, Menlo likely has to bring in higher-end enchantments for his most lucrative items. A supply of local ingredients would help bridge that gap. Maybe he'll even prop up an enchanting business of his own if he can secure a supply.

Deirdre, not missing a beat, brings up the obvious question. “Surely we could ask those same businesses ourselves? Or are you offering to make us their priority?”

Menlo looks the part of saddened by Deirdre’s words, but it’s superficial at best. “Sadly, as you surmised, most of Waldonton’s best builders and crafters are engaged elsewhere. There is always work to be done at the mills you see, and likewise around town. But because I very much take the protection of this town seriously, I could divert some resources to your construction.”

Liv takes the chance to insert herself into the conversation again. “And for twenty percent of the Monster parts we source, of course. Why would we not simply hire someone else?”

It's a probing question. Good for Liv to ask so bluntly; another reason I’ve stayed silent is that getting answers like this takes a level of finesse my companions seem to just naturally have.

“I must insist. A poorly crafted outpost would spell ruin for your little endeavor. Think of the risks. What I’m offering you is the peace of mind that your construction will be completed on time and to the required standard,” say Menlo, with airy concern, but on examination come off as completely insincere.

“I’m sure.” Says Deirdre, “That Waldonton has a host of other qualified craftsmen to take on this project, surely they could make the same guarantee?"

“Are you aware of the dreadful work done by the layabouts of this town? Menlo’s tone is dark, not quite threatening, yet, just foreboding. “Shoddy construction prone to falling apart or catching on fire. Truly, if I had things my way, a council-issued license would be required for such work.”

A threat? No. Nearly, but perhaps not. The only way to take Menlo’s words is as a warning. It could come from a place of arrogance as much as from a place of entitlement. A threat would be a tad less subtle, I think.

“We have not heard such tidings, no. But an ongoing percentage for such a promise, I’m sure a refined businessman such as yourself won’t take offense if we field other offers before giving you our final answer?” asks Deirdre, which is a brilliant deflection and out for our party.

Menlo looks soured to us at this. His picture-perfect posture and smile have devolved into a glare of distaste.

“If you decide to seek builders outside those I’ve personally vetted, don’t say I didn’t warn you when it collapses on itself,” he practically growls.

Okay, so a threat, then. Play ball, or go home crying. The man doesn’t get what he wants and reveals himself for what he is: a sanctioned crook.

“If you change your mind, do come see me,” he manages to spit out, bordering on impoliteness. “Pascual, escort our guests out,” he adds loudly and firmly.

From behind the open door we first strolled through, ready and waiting is the same butler from before. This time, here to kick us out, the sophisticated rich person way.