The road to the capital wasn't empty.
By midday, we came across a merchant caravan—two wagons piled with goods, pulled by donkeys. The merchants waved cheerfully.
"Ho there, travelers! Care to share the road?"
Malrik nodded politely. "Of course."
I, on the other hand, was shirtless, carrying Narsh on my shoulders while doing lunges.
"HELLO FELLOW ROAD-WALKERS!" I boomed.
The merchants froze.
One whispered, "Why is that boy squatting a screaming girl like she's a sack of potatoes?"
Narsh thrashed. "PUT ME DOWN, YOU SWEATY SH*T STAIN!"
"Not until I finish my reps!"
Malrik's soul visibly left his body.
---
We ended up walking beside the caravan.
The merchants tried to make conversation.
"So… where are you three headed?"
"To the capital," Malrik answered calmly.
Before he could elaborate, I shouted, "We're on a holy quest to bring back the perfect six-pack!"
Narsh added, "And to stop him from killing himself with dumbbell worship."
The merchants blinked.
"…Right. Religious pilgrims, then."
Malrik looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
---
Later, the caravan stopped for lunch.
The merchants brought out bread and cheese.
I brought out two rocks.
"What the hell are you doing?" Narsh asked.
"Arm curls. Gotta stay pumped."
"You're supposed to EAT, not flex!"
Malrik sighed. "He considers food secondary to his training."
I grinned. "Muscles first, questions later!"
One merchant leaned over to Narsh and whispered, "Is he… dangerous?"
Narsh smirked. "Only to brain cells."
---
Things got worse when the merchants asked for entertainment.
One man pulled out a flute, another a lute, and they played a merry tune.
"Your turn!" they said, looking at us.
Narsh stood proudly, cleared her throat, and unleashed:
"YOU CALL THAT MUSIC?! SOUNDS LIKE A RAT CHOKING ON CHEESE!"
The flute player cried.
Malrik's hand twitched toward his staff.
"Control her, priest!" a merchant begged.
"I would," Malrik muttered, "but the gods themselves refuse to silence her."
---
That night, as we camped beside the caravan, the merchants prayed quietly for safety.
I was doing push-ups beside the fire.
Narsh was calling the owls "fat feathered freaks."
Malrik stared into the flames like a man reconsidering his life choices.
And somewhere in the dark, the merchants whispered among themselves:
"Are they heroes?"
"Demons?"
"…Or just idiots?"
The truth, of course, was all three.
---
[Author's Note: Malrik's sanity meter is now officially below 30%.]