It was late in the summer day when two figures came up the road from the town of Prahs talking. The countryside had been grassy fields up until a point, but now they were crossing burnt farm land.

"No fire chief way out here," the shorter figure, a woman in her late twenties was saying. "You see, this is why I'm always telling you to put your cigarettes out safely."

The taller figure, a man about as old, said, "You worry too much."

"Worry? It's not about worry. Worry is what the little people who live all alone in the cities do when their mortgage is due. It's about principles."

They both were dressed in a dark military uniform with brass buttons and gold collars. Each had a dark blue armband with a tear symbol on it. The man, as said, was taller and had light blond hair and a modest beard. The woman had blondish hair that was thrown over one shoulder in a series of loops that looked almost painful.

"Principles!" the man said. "Don't get me started on principles. Outdated, I say. Outdated!"

"Principles!" the woman said. "Principles are what keeps everything running. Think about this farm. The simple principle of having a good mind toward fire safety would have saved them all these rows of corn."

She kicked at a charred husk laying in her way. It spun away in a beautiful arc spreading black kernels as it went.

"How hard is it to turn off a stove? Or to turn off a gas lamp? That's what this probably was," She pointed toward the remains of a farmhouse in the distance. "I bet it started there. I can see it now. Little Jimmy Rottencorn says to Papa Rottencorn, 'Sir, can I light the gas lamps tonight so that I won't be fraid of the dark?' And Rottencorn the Elder says (because he's an idiot), 'Of course you can, child.' But he doesn't tell little Jimmy to turn off the lamp when he's tilting off to sleep and the whole damn farm burns down with little Jimmy turning into popped-corn like this here."

She separated a corncob from one of the many fallen stalks in the middle of the road and bit into it hungrily. None of the corn was popped, though most of it was a sooty black that darkened her lips and corners of her mouth with ash.

"That's your problem," the man said. "You never give anybody any benefit of the doubt. You see somebody swerving in the road, and you say they're a bad driver never giving any thought to what their situation might be."

"So you're saying some outside force burned the farm down."

The man shrugged, "I'm just saying you shouldn't judge people before you know the facts. This could have been a bushfire."

"It's still their fault for not having a fire chief. Or at least a water sorceress in calling distance."

"Good luck getting a water sorceress to do anything about it."

They both laughed and continued on, the woman sometimes picking the corn and eating it. The shadows lengthened but they kept on walking until they got to a place down the road where a large building stood.

The sign on it said, "East Steward Ville Inn" and under that painted rather sloppy in big white letters: TEMPORAIRY RESIDENCE OF THE MAYOR. With "temporary" spelled wrong.

"The mayor must be pretty badly off," the woman remarked as they headed up the building's rickety stairs to the door. "I like our system much better. We can't elect poor people."

"There you go pre-judging people again."

They knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a thin man in a red jacket. He looked at them skeptically as they smiled back. The woman's teeth were black from the corn.

"Why didn't you come in? It says we're open," the thin man said.

"Does it!" the woman exclaimed. "I had not realized."

Her partner chuckled pointing to a metal sign on the door that said OPEN.

They stepped around the man and past him before he could say anything else, and found themselves standing in a large open bar area filled with tables and chairs and a full bar with hallways in the back and a balcony overlooking it all. There was only one other person here. A man in some overalls sitting in the back who rose and came over to them in a hurry.

"Are you the ones from the city? I thought you'd never arrive."

"Yes, of course we are," the woman said not missing a beat.

"When the people call the government responds," the young man said cheerfully.

"Great! We telegraphed, but it was like they were ignoring us, Mr. and Ms...?"

"I'm the Sorceress Cutler," the woman said, "and this is my partner, Sierra."

Sierra nodded curtly.

"Magic Users!" the man exclaimed. "I guess the government does care. I'm the Mayor of Steward Ville, but you can call me Michael."

"Of course, Michael," Cutler said nodding so enthusiastically her looped hair bounced.

"Sorcerers. I guess when we said 'Dragon' they sent us the best."

"Dragon!" Both Cutler and Sierra exclaimed.

"You can handle a dragon right?"

"Can we ever," Cutler said. "We were the ones who fought the Dragon of Seret. You ever hear of the Dragon of Seret?"

"No."

"It was eighty feet long," Sierra said stroking his beard as if in memory. "Hide like a sheet of steel."

"Teeth as big a jackknives," Cutler said.

"Eyes as red as blood," Sierra said.

"Blood as hot as magma," Cutler said.

"A tail armed with spikes," Sierra said.

"Wings as wide as a... well wider than anything that can be described," Cutler said.

"This wide," Sierra said leaning toward the mayor and spreading his arms.

"Oh my," the mayor said. "Wilson, you ever hear of such a thing?"

"No, I have not," the man in the red jacket said coming around from behind them. He looked at them sourly. "Our dragon is much smaller."

"So, when can you start?" the mayor asked.

"Tomorrow," Cutler said. "It's always better to get a good night's sleep beforehand."

"It is," Sierra said. "We're been traveling a long way and we need some food and drink before we retire."

The mayor lit up and all the cares left his face, "You've come to the right place. Do you want to see the wine cellar? Wilson, do you mind if I show them the wine cellar?"

"Not at all," Wilson said with a bit of insincerity mixed in. The mayor didn't hear it, and if Cutler or Sierra did they didn't say anything.

"We have an extensive collection down here," the mayor was saying as he led them down a flight of stairs. Wilson trailed morosely. "It was spared by the dragon. Most of the town was not. Sometimes I just like to come down here and stare at it, you know?"

Cutler nodded for the mayor's benefit and the two travelers kept miming pushing him down the stairs when he wasn't looking and generally giggling and flirting with each other in that special way platonic friends do when they are perfectly comfortable with each other and are having sex on the side.

The wine cellar was indeed expansive, bottles lined the walls from end to end, and not just wine but hard liquor and beer too. Sierra kept his face neutral while Cutler grinned from darkened sooty cheek to darkened sooty cheek.

"We'll take care of the dragon," Cutler said nodding to herself. It seems she was fond of nodding. "We'll just want to pinch a little from here if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, do you mind Wilson?" the mayor asked.

"I guess not," Wilson said looking at Cutler with profound dislike.

"Good!" Cutler said. "Don't you trouble yourselves about us anymore. We know our way around a wine cellar."

The mayor was about to leave, but Wilson said, "We have some nice food upstairs if you would like to..."

"That's fine," Sierra said. "We'll just be a moment. You go on up and start without us."

When they were good and alone, the two began a quick inspection of the cellar. Cutler was more prone to stopping and sampling bottles. Taking them off of the wall and checking the labels.

"This one says Tetno '89," Cutler said.

"What's it taste like?"

"Ehh... cooking sherry. I thought the Tetnoes were supposed to be good," she dropped the bottle on the floor where it broke.

Sierra came across a blue bottle with a stork on it. Sampling it and finding it good, he drained it in one go replacing the bottle carefully.

"They have a dragon," Sierra said. "I told you not to judge, what was it? 'Rottencorn'?"

"Johnny Rottencorn," Cutler said. "Why do you suppose they didn't just set up a machine gun and blast it out of the sky?"

"What makes you think they have machine guns?" Sierra said draining another bottle and replacing it.

"I've got a machine gun at my house shouldn't somebody around here have one in theirs?" Cutler said between taking liberal swigs of what could only be described as a "Jug of Joy".

"Not everybody is... Hey, I found some whiskey."

She rushed over and they drank the stuff together, Cutler making faces each timed she downed some for comical effect.

"Are we going to deal with the dragon?" Sierra asked.

"Sounds like fun," Cutler said. "We could send a telegram to Leon. He'd respond if we called."

"He would not," Sierra said. "They've got him patrolling the border because they want to start a war."

"No machine gun then. Ooo, this is good stuff," she said before emptying another bottle into her mouth. "Or not. It's mixing with the whiskey strangely."

"Here have some of this. It's piss water. It'll take care of the taste."

"Where do they find this stuff?" she said. "It tastes like hooker sauce or something."

"Why would you even know what that tastes like?"

A few... a short time later, they came back up, rocking like trees in the wind and doing a fairly good job of not falling. They sat down at the table the mayor and Wilson were sharing. The mayor, by this point, was looking just as skeptical as Wilson was. Both travelers reeked of the most hellish mix of alcohol imaginable. Here there was a whiff of white wine, there a whiff of bourbon, and every once in awhile rising through it all was rotten beer.

"So," the mayor said trying to keep his voice even. "How did you two get into the military?"

"Contacts!" Cutler said. The booze rocked her voice up and down almost as much as it rocked her from side to side. "I knew this guy who was part of the Blue Party and I called him up when they put in the wire and said, 'Hey, I like you're party's platform.' and he said, 'Cool, how would you like to be a commander?' and I was like, 'No way make me a combat sorceress,' and he did."

"Isn't one of the Blue Party's platforms Temperance?" Wilson asked.

"It sure is," Sierra said. "And let me tell you, teetotalism is the single most important issue we support."

"That and Suffrage, " Cutler said. "Can you believe I can serve this great country by killing dragons, but can't even vote?"

"Ridiculous," Sierra said. "Why, my friend here is just as capable as any man."

"That's right," Cutler said. "I would have voted for Shinling in the last election as would any sane man. Somebody who votes with their heart is no fuel... I mean fool."

"Now, take the foolish Yellow Party," Sierra said. "They run on a platform of pure butter. Literally."

"Did you know that the single biggest provider of the Yellow Party's funds is illegal production of butter up north?" Cutler said.

The mayor and Wilson shook their heads.

"Then we will educate you," Sierra said. "Did you know that there isn't a single Yellow Party member who isn't in bed with butter?"

"Not a single one," Cutler said. "But enough about their wives."

Both broke out laughing while the mayor and Wilson just stared. They had been eating some sort of fish when Cutler and Sierra had come up, but now their plates were largely forgotten.

"There's a reason they call it the Yellow Party," Cutler said. "Now excuse me while I emesis." She left the table and headed back down to the wine cellar.

"She's a good girl," Sierra said. "Unlike the Yellow Party which rapes our lands and pillages our skies. Vote Blue next fall or the gods will curse you."

"I don't think..." Wilson began.

"It's true," Sierra said. "I had a talk with Avecmarieh a little while ago and she says even Jakerzad supports Blue. And if he does, then you can't possible vote Yellow."

"Wait, you're saying Avec..."

Cutler returned smelling more strongly of booze than before. "What are you all talking about now?"

"He was just telling us about how the goddess of death was telling him that all the gods support the Blue Party," the mayor said flatly.

"Oh, that's right. We met her at Duehe a few years back. She even braided my hair. I keep trying to replicate it, but I'm not a god..." Cutler indicated her loops which were now disheveled and beginning to come loose, "... and it's just never been right."

"You do know that most of us around here are Advantageists?" Wilson asked.

"Advantageists? Which ones are those?" Cutler asked Sierra.

"I think they're the ones who believe in the Devouring Gods of the Kuronii," Sierra replied.

"What? We do not!" Wilson cried.

The mayor stood. "Listen, we're not idiots. We know two drunks like yourself could not possibly fight a dragon."

"That so," Cutler said, also standing. "You know that painting across the room, the one with the old fat man?"

Indeed there was a painting of an old fat man on the wall near the bar.

"You mean the one of my father?" Wilson asked.

"That's the one," Cutler said and spinning in place like a dancer she drew a small triple shot pistol from inside her uniform and fired three times.

All the shots struck a corner of the painting and it fell smoothly off the wall, not a single bit of damage done to the canvass.

"Wow," the mayor said. "For a second I thought you were going to shoot the old man in the head."

"So did I," Cutler said looking at her gun as if it had just betrayed her.

"That doesn't prove anything," Wilson said. "A dragon is going to be a lot harder to shoot than a painting."

"Pshaw. I'd much rather have that painting gone than the dragon. Between my eyes and your fields, I'd much rather keep my eyes," Cutler said sitting down again.

"Excuse me?" Wilson said.

"Never mind her," Sierra cut in. "She's drunk."

"And you," the mayor said to Sierra. "What can you do?"

"Call down lightning, turn things into metal, typical air magic stuff," Sierra said casually stealing the mayor's plate.

"Nonsense!" Wilson said. "Show us."

Sierra shrugged and gestured toward the bar.

There was a blinding flash followed by the loudest noise any of them had ever heard. Blinking away afterimages and shaking their heads to clear the ringing in their ears it became apparent that the bar and most of the tables and chairs between them and the bar were on fire. Bright orange plumes danced merrily along the walls and floor.

"Oh my lands, put it out!" Wilson said.

"We can't put it out, neither of us is a water sorceress!" Cutler exclaimed.

They all ran out of the building and stood a few yards distant in the road watching the building burn down.

"Why don't you call the fire chief?" Sierra asked.

"There is no fire chief. He was eaten by the dragon!" the mayor said. The look of fury on his face could not be easily described as anything but epic. "Get out of this town. We don't want you ever coming back."

Cutler shrugged. "Sounds fine to me. Let's go."

They walked off down the road together weaving a bit because they were drunk.

When they were a fair distance away the mayor shouted after them, "And I'll be wiring the Blue Party tomorrow to lodge a complaint!"

They both laughed at that.

Even further down the road Cutler was talking again. The land here was just as badly burned as the land they had come from. This farm looked like it had grown tobacco however.

"It all comes back to the principles of basic fire safety."

"Not that again."

"Yes that again. From now on, we're putting out our campfires, you're going to smoke safely, and above all else we are not going to be letting loose any lightning bolt spells in enclosed environments!"

They went off into the starless night laughing and giggling at themselves quite drunk on friendship and booze.