Tavern. Different one. Different town. Different smell.
But same dwarf.
There he is again—propped on the same type of barstool like a fixture of the multiverse. Same patchy beard, same hunched posture, same thousand-yard stare into the bottom of a chipped clay mug.
Like he's waiting for meaning. Or the next drink. Or the heat death of the world.
I shuffle in, dragging sand and exhaustion, still wrapped head to toe in my black linen shroud like a mourning mantis.
He doesn't look up.
I take the stool beside him.
Long silence.
Then he speaks, dry and slow.
"What's with the funeral costume? Someone die, or is it just your dignity?"
I sigh. Loudly. Theatrically. Enough to make nearby patrons glance over and regret it.
"I saw a hilltop guru. He told me I'm cursed. Cosmically. Karmically. Some divine entity is treating my life like a drunken puppet show. Possibly several."
He nods. Sips. "Relatable."
Another beat.
He turns his eyes toward me, slow and heavy like lifting weights. "I'm cursed too."
I raise an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Eternal erectile dysfunction?"
"No," he mutters. "Worse."
Now he's got my attention.
"Every lump of coal I mine turns to gold."
I blink. "Isn't it usually the other way around?"
"I wish." He slams his mug down. "My family's in coal. Coal, woman. Proud generations of black-stained fingers, soot in our lungs, and honest backbreaking labor. My grandfather ran four mines by hand and two wives by accident. You think he's proud his grandson turns everything to fucking precious metal?"
I stare. "He's mad because you're too… valuable?"
"He says I'm an embarrassment. A glitter-chinned embarrassment."
I start giggling. Can't help it.
He deadpans: "He threatened to disown me. Disswove me. Whatever the word is. Called me a useless golden goose with no feathers and bad drinking habits."
I wheeze. "So that's why you wander from lonely inn to lonely inn, drinking your sorrow away?"
He shrugs. "Either that or I start selling decorative briquettes to nobles. Thought I'd wait until I hate myself just a bit more."
I raise my mug. "To curses, then."
He clinks without looking. "To curses."
We drink.
I slouch beside him, black shroud puddling around my feet, mascara probably melting.
"Do you think there's a fix for any of this?" I ask.
"No," he says. "But there's always alcohol. Or swamp hags."
I blink. "What do you know about swamp hags?"
He grunts. "They smell like boiled regret. And sometimes they actually help. Or sometimes they steal your shoes. Either way, better than sitting around hoping karma sends you a cuddle."
I nod slowly.
I finish my drink.
And I stand up.
Because gods help me, I am going to the swamp again.
And if that hag steals my shoes this time, I'm selling her cauldron for parts.
***
Swamp again. Gods help me, always the swamp.
The muck slurps at my ankles like it's hungry for regrets. Mosquitoes hum like angry choirboys. And the smell—oh the smell—is halfway between rotting herbs and dead husband.
I limp up to the hag's hut, still crusted in swamp crust, bug bites, and what might be existential despair. My shawl is soggy. My soul is soggier.
The hag's voice croaks out from the shadows before I even knock.
"Oh hell, not you again."
She hobbles into view, squinting with one good eye and a monocle made from a bent spoon. Same ratty shawl, same snail-shell earrings, same general air of smelling like burnt soup and expired curses.
She stares at me for a beat. Then throws her hands up.
"Lemme guess. Itches. Again. Who'd you bang this time, luv? Spriggan? Nymph? Or did that smug dragon finally give you scale rash?"
I cross my arms. "It's not an STD."
She frowns. "Not even a bit of a tingle?"
"No."
"Warts?"
"No."
"Drippy bits?"
"NO."
She leans in dramatically, sniffing around my aura like a pervy bloodhound. "What is it then? Aye? If it ain't yer nethers gone kablooey, why'd you come draggin' your cursed arse back here like a kicked puppy?"
I take a breath. "It's… spiritual."
She blinks. Slowly.
Then cackles.
"Spiritual? Oh, listen to her now! Miss Tits and Trouble wants to fix her soul! What, run outta taverns to flash? No virgins left to sacrifice?"
I grit my teeth. "I've been cursed. Bad karma. Cosmic prank target. I went to see a hilltop guru, and—"
"Oh don't start," she groans, limping back into the hut. "You went full barefoot penitent, didn't ya? Thought you could out-suffer yer past with a bit of dramatic shawl flappin'? Bloody hell, love. That's not a spiritual awakening, that's performance art."
I follow her inside. Her cauldron's already bubbling something green and suspicious. A rat tail hangs from the ceiling like festive decor.
Inside the hag's hut, it's as damp and foul as I remember. The same stew of wet moss, pickled bones, and domestic neglect.
She gives me a look. One of those long, saggy, bone-tired stares like a crone sizing up a stain on her floor and deciding it's not worth scrubbing.
"Right. Off with you."
I blink. "Wait—what?"
She snorts. "You're not doomed, you're just a bloody harlot."
I gape.
"That's it," she shrugs. "That's the reason. Been the reason. Will be the reason. You run about swingin' your hips and flashin' your bits, lyin' to priests, screwin' demons, and fakin' virginity for profit. What'd you think was gonna happen? Divine enlightenment?"
"I'm not even faking it that often anymore!" I protest.
"Oh bless," she deadpans. "She's retired now. A spiritual pensioner. Still smells like goat sweat and poor decisions."
I glare. "I'm trying to better myself."
"Then go get a proper job!" she snaps. "Like any decent woman with too much trauma and not enough scruples. Witchcraft! Curse-wranglin'. Bodyguardin' for a necromancer. Open a brothel that serves soup. I don't care. But stop swingin' your lady bits at every idiot with a sword and callin' it a plan."
"That's rich coming from a woman who sells potions made of toe juice."
"My toes, thank you very much. That's called craft."
She turns her back to me, muttering about loose morals and mildew, and starts stirring her cauldron like I'm already gone.
"I faced a dragon," I say.
"You shagged a dragon."
"I climbed a holy hill barefoot!"
"You do everything barefoot, you daft twig. You once showed up here with sandals made of lettuce."
"That was aesthetic."
"That was moldy."
I throw my arms up and storm out the hut.
Behind me, the hag cackles. "Go on then! Go find yourself a nice cult or start a bakery! Anything but the fake-virgin act, you soggy tart!"
I stomp off into the swamp, feet squelching, curses flying.
And I swear I hear the crow somewhere overhead.
"Shoulda brought cookies."
Gods, I hate everyone.