The tavern reeked of stale ale and desperation, a pungent cocktail Fenrik Jor knew well. He watched the man across from him, Tarlok Vosh, meticulously wipe down his spectacles with a handkerchief, utterly oblivious to the flickering candle casting dancing shadows on their faces. Fenrik’s palms were slick with a nervous sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the room and everything to do with the deed clutched in his hand. “It’s truly a remarkable opportunity, Mr. Vosh,” Fenrik rasped, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “A prime parcel. Highly subsidized. Part of the ‘Chasm Reclamation Initiative,’ you understand.” He pushed the rolled parchment across the scarred table, its edges already fraying. Tarlok adjusted his glasses, peering at the document as if it were a particularly dense botanical journal. His brow furrowed. “The zoning states ‘community garden.’ And the ‘subsidized’ amount is rather… generous, for an agricultural plot.” His tone was flat, devoid of the enthusiasm Fenrik had hoped for. Tarlok was a man who found joy only in soil samples and the precise measurements of water retention. “Indeed! The Guild is very keen on fostering… growth in these new territories. Think of the unique biomes! The mineral-rich soil!” Fenrik gestured expansively, nearly knocking over his tankard. He carefully avoided mentioning the toxic fumes, the endless lava flows, or the fact that ‘new territories’ meant Floor 88 of the Great Chasm, a place where even the local dust mites had fangs. Tarlok merely nodded, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “The fine print on ‘pest control’ is a bit vague. Does the Guild provide equipment, or is that part of the homeowner’s responsibility?” “Oh, fully your responsibility!” Fenrik chirped, bouncing on his heels. He couldn’t believe it. This dullard, this walking bag of topsoil, was actually going to take the bait. Fenrik had acquired the deed from a particularly ill-advised hunter who’d thought a ‘land grant’ in the Chasm was a good idea. The poor fool hadn’t lasted an hour. Tarlok signed with a flourish that seemed disproportionately confident for a man about to step into a death trap. He handed over a surprisingly heavy satchel of coins, a sum Fenrik knew was far more than the plot was worth, even without the imminent demise of its new owner. The merchant snatched it up instantly, a wide, predatory grin stretching across his face. “Excellent! Excellent! Here’s your portal key. Safe travels!” An hour later, Tarlok Vosh, still annoyed by the bureaucratic inefficiency of the Guild’s ‘reclamation’ forms, stepped through a shimmering azure portal. The air that greeted him was thick, acrid, and smelled faintly of sulfur and burnt offerings. A landscape of obsidian spires, rivers of molten rock, and a sky perpetually the color of bruised plums stretched before him. This was Floor 88, a place where light died and nightmares thrived. And Tarlok Vosh decided it needed a good tilling. His first thought, however, was about the soil. Or rather, the lack thereof. A colossal, pulsating mass of shadowed tendrils, easily three times his height, was rooted squarely in what Tarlok considered the prime spot for his prize-winning cabbages. It pulsed with an unsettling rhythm, dozens of glowing red eyes fixed upon him. “Excuse me, but you’re quite literally ruining the topsoil,” Tarlok muttered, already reaching for the rusty, Guild-issued hoe he’d been given. He’d intended it for breaking up stubborn clods, not… whatever this was. The thing pulsed more aggressively, a low, guttural growl emanating from its shadowy depths. “Honestly, the nerve,” Tarlok grumbled, testing the implement's heft with a dry swing. The hoe was heavier than it looked. “This is a designated agricultural zone, not a… a root-rotting convention.” The creature lunged, a massive tendril whipping towards him with alarming speed. Tarlok sidestepped, more out of instinct than any particular skill, and swung the hoe in a wide, ungainly arc. The rusty metal connected with a squelching thud against the creature’s central mass. The Soul Devourer shrieked, a sound that ripped through the very fabric of the desolate landscape, and then, with a wet, collapsing sigh, dissolved into a cloud of iridescent ash. [Soul Devourer Defeated] Tarlok squinted at the floating text that appeared before him, adjusting his spectacles. “Ah. ‘Weed Exterminated.’ Good. Efficient. Though the ash is hardly ideal for nutrient absorption.” He made a mental note to complain to the Guild about the quality of their pest control. And the noxious fumes. Clearly, their ventilation system needed an overhaul. [Blood Points Awarded: 150] A thin smile touched Tarlok’s mouth. “Aha! ‘Tax Rebate Received: 150 units.’ Excellent! I knew that pest clause would come in handy.” He patted his pockets, wondering if the ‘units’ would be automatically credited to his Guild account or if he’d need to fill out another interminable form. He pulled a small, battered blueprint from his satchel, unfurling it carefully. A cozy-looking farmhouse, surrounded by neat rows of vegetables and, most importantly, a pristine white picket fence, was meticulously drawn. He ignored the lava flowing a mere ten yards away, the skeletal trees that clawed at the perpetually twilight sky. This was his plot, and it was going to be a *farm*. Within minutes, Tarlok was already hammering the first picket into the unforgiving, bone-littered ground. The toxic air, the infernal heat – he rationalized it all as ‘challenging microclimates’ and ‘robust soil sterilization.’ The rhythmic clang of his hammer was the only sound for a long time, until a sudden, earth-shaking *CRUMP* tore through the air, followed by a shower of ash and fragmented obsidian. Out of the smoke and debris, a figure crashed to the ground, landing in a combat crouch, twin blades gleaming in her hands. Orikala Zev, elite Vanguard assassin with pale silver hair, surveyed the hellish landscape with steady focus. Her mission: locate and neutralize the terrifying new Dread Lord of Floor 88, whose sudden rise had sent tremors through the Guild. Her intel suggested a monstrous entity, possibly a newly evolved Arch-Fiend, responsible for the inexplicable surge of ‘Blood Point’ accruals. She spotted him instantly. A man in sensible tweed, vigorously nailing a section of a white picket fence into the ground. He wore a slightly smudged pair of gardening gloves. He looked up at her, an expression of mild inconvenience on his face, as if she’d just interrupted his favorite documentary. “Ah, good,” Tarlok said, without preamble. He gestured to a dusty watering can beside him. “You’re here for the farmhand position, I presume? The Guild mentioned they’d be sending over some… ‘local talent.’ I’m Tarlok. Welcome to Vosh’s Agritourism Experience. Can you start with the watermelons? They’re quite thirsty today.” .”

Tax Rebates and Rusty Hoes