Freya emerged from the Adventurer's Guild triumphant—or at least not arrested, which, given the way the goat situation almost escalated into a federal offense, was pretty much the same thing.
Technically, the guild receptionist had told her to "come back when you're not singed, bleeding, or causing minor ecological disasters," but Freya had chosen to interpret that as encouragement.
Clutching her new guild ID—crudely carved into a mildly sprouting potato—she set her sights on the next logical step in becoming a hero: potion shopping.
A large, hand-painted sign swung lazily in the breeze: "Al's Alchemy and Occasional Salsa."
Beneath it, a smaller sign read: "Not responsible for spontaneous transformation. No refunds unless you explode."
"Perfect," Freya said, pushing open the door with the confidence of someone who had never read fine print.
Inside, the air smelled of ancient herbs, burnt thyme, and what could only be described as regret. Glass bottles lined the walls in colors that defied logic, science, and in one case, gravity. A purple liquid was currently floating sideways inside a square jar labeled "Probably Not Poison."
Behind the counter stood a gnome with a wizard hat several sizes too large and eyebrows that had clearly evolved into independent life forms.
"You buying or here to critique my salsa again?" Al asked, squinting at her over bifocals that seemed to amplify his judgment.
Freya plunked her potato ID down with a satisfying thunk. "I'm here for potions. Healing, stamina, maybe something to make me look slightly less like I crawled through a wheat thresher."
Al rubbed his beard. "You need the Newbie Special."
"I like the sound of that."
"Three health potions, one mana potion, one 'emergency surprise' potion."
"What's in the surprise potion?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise. Might be courage, might be salsa."
Freya shrugged. "Sold."
Al packed the vials in a burlap pouch labeled "Definitely Legal." As he handed them over, a pickled cucumber in a jar behind him started humming the theme from *Titanic.*
"What's that?" Freya asked.
"That's Gerald. He's a sentient pickle. Long story. Do NOT tap the glass unless you want him to quote Shakespeare and cry."
Gerald sobbed.
"Too late," Al muttered, handing Freya a coupon for "One Free Salsa Sample With Any Limb Regrowth."
Outside, Freya inspected her loot. The health potions sparkled like strawberry soda, and the mana potion was swirling like a sentient galaxy. The surprise potion growled softly.
"Either this is alive or it's spicy," she said. "Possibly both."
Her next stop was the local bulletin board—a giant slab of wood covered in nails, notices, and exactly one suspiciously moist envelope labeled "DO NOT LICK."
She scanned the quests.
* Rat Infestation (Again)
* Find Missing Cat (Definitely Not A Demon This Time)
* Escort Grandma Through Haunted Forest (Reward: Her Famous Cabbage Cookies)
* Potion Delivery to Elder Fernswizzle (He's 400. Also allergic to everything.)
Freya frowned. "None of these scream 'legendary hero,' but the cabbage cookies do sound promising."
Just then, a town crier appeared, shouting as if auditioning for a very aggressive opera.
"Hear ye, hear ye! The Duke's prize truffle-pig has been stolen! Reward offered: 200 gold and a kiss on the forehead from the Duchess herself!"
"Okay," Freya said. "Now that's more like it."
She raced to the quest giver's mansion—a large, excessively ornamented estate with golden hedges trimmed to resemble various cheeses. A footman answered the door, eyeing her potato ID with the same expression one reserves for expired yogurt.
"I'm here about the pig," Freya announced.
"Of course you are," he muttered. "Please don't touch anything."
She was ushered into a drawing room where the Duchess paced like a caffeine-fueled gazelle.
"Oh thank heavens!" the Duchess cried. "Trufflesnort has vanished! One minute he was in his golden mud bath, the next—gone! He's very sensitive. And gluten-free!"
Freya blinked. "Your pig is gluten-free?"
"He's on a very strict diet. No wheat, only heirloom kale."
"Got it. I'll find him, dead or alive—preferably alive, unless dead is easier to carry."
She set off on her grand porcine retrieval mission, beginning with the local mud spa, where Trufflesnort was last seen.
The spa attendant, a troll named Ingrid who wore cucumber slices as a fashion statement, confirmed he had been snorting with joy only hours ago.
"He loves jazz," Ingrid added. "You hear saxophone, he's not far."
Freya blinked. "The pig likes jazz?"
"Smooth jazz. Kenny Boar-gins."
Armed with this inexplicable knowledge, Freya wandered the village listening for suspicious saxophone. Around noon, she found a gnome busker playing a soulful solo near the fishmonger's stall.
Trufflesnort was there, wearing a beret and nodding to the beat.
"Seriously?" Freya whispered.
She approached slowly. "Hey, buddy. Time to go home. You're missing your gluten-free beet salad."
Trufflesnort oinked in protest.
"I'll throw in a foot massage?"
The pig squealed excitedly.
As she carried Trufflesnort home (he refused to walk and demanded to be held like royalty), a passing bard paused to sketch the scene.
"You'll be legend," he said.
"I better be," Freya muttered, adjusting the pig's beret.
Back at the mansion, the Duchess wept with joy, the Duke offered her a stale crumpet, and she was paid her 200 gold plus a forehead smooch that smelled like lilacs and unnecessary perfume.
Freya counted her coins. "That's enough for a real sword!"
She dashed to the blacksmith, a burly woman named Helga who arm-wrestled anvils for fun.
"I need a sword that won't bend like overcooked pasta," Freya declared.
Helga raised an eyebrow. "You want functional or flashy?"
"Yes."
Helga handed her a blade with a wolf-shaped hilt and a tag reading "Won't Embarrass You in Public."
Freya tested the swing. "Nice. This might actually cut something that's not my dignity."
As she walked back through the village, sword in hand, coin pouch jingling, and the faint scent of jazz pig lingering in the air, she grinned.
"Okay, this might actually be working."
Then Gerald the pickle floated by in a tiny jar-shaped hot air balloon yelling, "TO BE OR NOT TO BRINE—THAT IS THE QUESTION!"
Freya watched him ascend into the clouds.
"Yeah," she said. "Totally normal day."