Dodge Tanner vs Hostile Workplace Discrimination. (The Art of Dodge-ing Responsibility)

Dodge Tanner lounged in his favorite spot at the Barrow and Barrel tavern, a half-empty goblet of the local vintage swirling lazily in his hand. The dim tavern light cast lazy shadows over the parchment map, a document so thoroughly ignored it might as well have been a coaster sat beneath his elbow, forgotten in favor of the pressing matter of deciding whether the blackberry merlot or the apricot chardonnay deserved the title of the coveted Tanner Title 'Finest Wine of the Valley.' (Coveted by Dodge Tanner, at least, as his attempts to get the competition officialized has thus far gone unappreciated.)

Standing before him, Senior Wayfinder Grimshaw loomed like an impending storm, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so tight it seemed liable to crack. His patience, a fragile dam built over years of frustration, was one ill-timed remark away from crumbling entirely.

Grimshaw’s tone was already dangerously close to breaking. "Your reports are overdue, Wayfinder Tanner. The forest paths in your assigned area are shifting, Routes to Murkreach are still unmapped, and the recent weather shift has thrown the entire Eastport-Westport traffic pattern into chaos."

Dodge took a leisurely sip of his wine, utterly unimpressed. "Ah, yes. The usual crises."

Grimshaw bristled. "They are not ‘usual’—they are urgent! We need updated path markers before travelers start vanishing into the woods, market traders are demanding proper navigation routes to Murkreach, and if we don’t adjust for the storms, merchants will keep getting stranded at the wrong ports with perishable goods!"

Dodge swirled his goblet lazily, eyeing the legs of wine as they dripped down the goblet and jotting an incomprehensible note on the back of the map he was supposed to be charting. "Sounds like a lot of stress over problems that would resolve themselves. People have instincts, Grimshaw. They’ll figure it out."

Grimshaw’s fingers clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles went pale. "'Figuring it out' is precisely what they count on the Wayfinders' Guild, and maps, to do, Tanner."

Dodge smiled, knowing full well he was pushing every button. "Wayfinding is an art, Grimshaw. And I consider myself more of a culinary artist. Speaking of—let’s revisit my yet untapped community contribution potential…"

Dodge waved a dismissive hand. "Grimshaw, my dear map-obsessed friend, I believe we need to discuss priorities."

Grimshaw exhaled sharply. "Priorities? I set your tasks and you Do your tasks. THAT, Wayfinder Tanner, is the priority!"

"Ah, but consider," Dodge continued, gesturing grandly with his wine goblet, "the truly valuable contributions a Wayfinder of my talents could be making to this community. Pie eating contests? I have an unrivaled skill at identifying and describing fillings, be they sweet or savory! PLUS, an exquisite palate for crust flakiness."

Grimshaw’s nostrils flared as he sputtered. "Irrelevant. Utterly irrelevant. You think judging CRUST flakiness is a skill worthy of a Wayfinder's title?"

Dodge held up a single finger. "Yes."

Grimshaw inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly restraining himself from further comment.

"How about wine judging then? A noble pursuit—some might even say a civic duty. You would not believe the number of people I encounter that don't know a Syrah from a Malbec!", Dodge says with a long, pained, sigh."It is up to Us, Grimshaw. Men of Means and talent, to..."

Grimshaw twitched. "You already drink irresponsibly. Not to mention frequently. You should be charting the roads between villages rather than depleting their stocks."

Dodge took an exaggerated sip. "Ah, but how would I accurately assess their quality if I didn’t personally experience every vintage?"

Grimshaw exhaled sharply through his nose. "For the last time, Wayfinder Tanner, no. You are to complete your reports and map your section of Lysia, rather than lounging in a tavern convincing yourself this is productive work. No. More. Winetasting!"

Grimshaw’s fists clenched at his sides

"Fishing research!" Dodge pressed on, undeterred. "Have you seen the chaos at the docks? They don't even know where the trout favor in midsummer! Nor which Rivers are best for which seasons. Why, no one seems to even be aware of the Salmon runs!"

Grimshaw’s eye twitched. "They could if they had MAPS, Dodge."

Dodge quickly changed tack, knowing an argument that could lead to more work when he saw one. "Cheesemaking studies! Someone has to unravel the mystery of aging brie!"

Grimshaw exhaled, pressing his fingers against his temples as though physically trying to keep his thoughts from escaping in a scream. "Dodge," He cut himself off, dragging his hand down his face before fixing Dodge with a stare sharp enough to carve stone. "Pie eating, wine judging, fishing research, cheesemaking studies—these are not the duties of a Wayfinder! Your refusal to map trade routes, to properly document shifting paths, to update vital navigational records has real consequences!"

Dodge gave an exaggerated shrug. "I don’t see how."

"You don’t see anything, because you refuse to look at a map!" Grimshaw’s voice rose, and he jabbed a finger toward the ignored parchment beneath Dodge’s elbow. "A path to Murkreach is still unmapped, merchants are getting lost because you can’t be bothered to do your job..."

Dodge nodded solemnly. "You’re very dramatic, Grimshaw."

Grimshaw visibly trembled. "I'm Dramatic? I'm... You... We...", he stuttered. His hands twitched at his sides, as though unsure whether to throw his map at Dodge, flip the table, or simply run straight into the woods and never return.

"Maps?" Dodge continued with flourish, sensing a path to victory. "Maps are, frankly, ignored by everyone."

Grimshaw's patience snapped. "Only YOU continually ignore the maps we provide, Mr. Tanner!", he sputtered.

Dodge leaned back, looking entirely unperturbed. "Well, then. I suppose I am the common man, the voice of the people. If I ignore them, doesn’t that mean the whole village does?"

"That is not how logic works."

"Ah!", Dodge retorted, finger raised as if making a grand argument, "but that's not how logic doesn't not work now, is it?"

Grimshaw closed his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. Then, with a deep breath, he said, "Dodge, if you do not deliver your reports by the week's end, I will personally ensure that every local winemaker, every tavern owner, and every cheesemaker hears that your Guild tab privileges have been revoked."

Dodge blinked, gulped audibly at the mere thought of being separated from his true loves. "I... Ah... That... feels excessive."

"Only if you make it necessary, Wayfinder."

Dodge considered his options, tapping a finger against his goblet. "Fine. Maps at dawn. One final question, Grimshaw."

"Make it quick."

"On a completely unrelated note, would you say blackberry merlot or apricot chardonnay is the superior Hearthmere valley wine?"

Senior Wayfinder Grimshaw, a man some referred to as the sturdy Rock the Wayfinders' Guide was anchored by, swayed where he stood, mouth opening and closing without sound as his brain tried to reboot itself. "You are the single most infuriating Wayfinder to ever exist," Grimshaw muttered under his breath.

"Thank you," Dodge said brightly.

Grimshaw dragged his hands down his face. "It wasn’t a compliment."

Dodge swirled his goblet, entirely unfazed. "Debatable."

For a moment, Grimshaw said nothing. He simply turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his movements stiff, purposeful, like a man fleeing with the last shreds of his own sanity.

Dodge sighed. "No appreciation for the finer things.", he muttered as he lifted a second goblet to compare to the first.