Derp

Steven scanned the bounty board, his new Stormgull Flyer set—steel-gray shirt and blue-black pants—too sharp to risk in a brawl. He snagged the Cracked Pot Delivery—no fighting, just fetching 5 pots for 15 copper, easy as breathing. His eyes flicked to the Lost Ledger—same damn merchant, lost again—and he snorted. “Let it stay lost—ridiculous,” he muttered, his old Earth pragmatism kicking in. Then he grabbed the Stray Cat Chase—a black stray, not the orc’s tabby, 17 copper to nab it. Clean, quick jobs to keep his threads pristine.

First, the pots. He trekked to the potter’s discard pile near the market, spotting five cracked clay pots— chipped but intact—stacked in a dusty heap. He scooped them into his 5-slot bag, the magic pouch swallowing them into slot 2 beside the Dragon Egg in slot 1, and headed inland to the farmer. The same grizzled man from the horned rabbit cull greeted him, leaning on his porch. “Hey there, Steve—good to see ye again. What brings ye by?” Steven pulled the pots from his bag, setting them down with a clatter. “These—yer cracked pots, delivered.” The farmer grinned. “Fantastic—leave ‘em here on the porch, I’ll grab ‘em later.” Steven nodded, then asked, “How’s the rabbit problem?” The farmer chuckled. “Ain’t seen a horned one since ye murdered ‘em all—think ye wiped the last o’ this season’s batch.” Steven shook his head, amused, waved goodbye, and turned back to town.

Next, the wharf for the black stray. The docks hummed—fishmongers shouting, gulls screeching—as he prowled for the cat. He spotted it—a sleek, shadowy thing—sneaking near a crate pile, amber eyes glinting. Steven crouched, casting Mind-Dominion: “Come here.” The cat flicked an ear—nothing. “That’s odd,” he thought, frowning. “Come here now,” he pressed, sharper. It didn’t budge, shrugging off his will like mist. Then it bolted, a black streak darting through the crowd. Steven cursed, igniting Saiyan Fury—golden flames flared, speed surging as he gave chase, boots pounding the planks.

The cat yelped, picking up pace, weaving through legs and nets—faster than it should’ve been, pulling ahead. Steven turned a corner into an alley, nearly crashing into a young elf woman—black hair, black clothes, leaning against a wall. “Did ye see a cat run by?” he panted. She pointed lazily. “Yeah, went that way.” He nodded thanks and sprinted on, but the cat’s trail vanished—down another twist, lost in the wharf’s maze. No tracking skill, no trace—he slowed, flames fading, and gave up, huffing. “Slippery little bastard,” he muttered, the black stray slipping his grasp.