Dodge Versus possibly the most Deadly, Implacable, Foe yet.... Administrative Paperwork.

The trouble started the moment Dodge Tanner walked into Wayfinder Headquarters, the air thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and the faint, oppressive musk of mind-numbing misery. He had joked, on more than one occasion—that paperwork was a blight upon the world, a slow-acting poison that emptied the brain & drained the soul with every quill stroke. Today, however, he was not joking.

His desk, seemingly more paper than wood, stood in the farthest corner of the records room, a battlefield of unfiled documents, maps and charts to be verified and added to the official guild maps, and errant field reports awaiting review. The moment Dodge sat down at his assigned desk, a towering fortress of paperwork looming over him like a vengeful deity, he felt the walls closing in. The feeling was so oppressive that, for a moment, he scanned the walls to see if they actually were moving in, a trap set and sprung just for him? The stacks were neatly organized in a way that suggested someone had gleefully curated this suffering just for him. Grimshaw, most likely.

At first, Dodge thought the work might be easy. How hard could filling out forms really be? But then came the Quartermaster reports, each packed with minutia that made his head swim. He spent an hour trying to decipher the wording of one particular request involving lantern oil requisitions, only to realize halfway through that it had already been filled and filed a week ago. "Why was this even here?" he grumbled, shoving it aside.

"This isn't work. This is some kind of dark sorcery," Dodge muttered, gripping a quill like it was a weapon.

An ink blot spread across the first report before he could even process what he was reading. Expense Reports? Why did Wayfinders need these? Weren't they supposed to be out charting wild paths, not meticulously documenting the reimbursement value of... , he glanced back at the report..., one lost rented mule, 17 bolts, travel leathers, and... 'new undergarments'? "What the heck did you get into, Wayfinder Pelin?", he muttered even as he tried not to be interested.

Expense reports were ridiculous. For some godforsaken reason, Wayfinders Headquarters kept a detailed ledger listing every single supply request and/or replacement any Wayfinders had made in the last season—boots, ropes, rations, enchanted tools, even a suspiciously high number of tea requests. Dodge didn’t even drink tea, "Dirty Leaf Soup!", and yet somehow, this affected him.

Then came the maps. Dodge had spent years discovering new routes through the wilds of Lysia Isle, but today he found himself tasked with updating existing cartography records with other Wayfinder details instead. Not exactly thrilling. Worse still, some Wayfinder’s notes were menacingly vague at best. "Undocumented Heartleaf cluster. Ripe for harvest." That sounded good! “Uncharted cavern—possibly cursed. Do not enter.” Dodge stared at the line in disbelief. Possibly cursed? That was not helpful. And a location? The Wayfinder had simply marked everything with the same 'x' on the map, leaving Dodge to try to guess which location corresponded to what note. Oh well, he probably guessed close enough. What's the worst that could happen?

Hours passed, and his patience wore ever thinner. The work was mind-numbing in a way that no amount of adrenaline in the field could ever compare to. His back ached from sitting still for so long, his fingers cramped from writing, and Grimshaw—curse his smug grin—had made sure that the moment Dodge finished one task, another pile landed on his desk.

"You missed a detail in the grain requests for the guild halls," Grimshaw said casually, dropping another report in front of him. "Rewrite it."

"What detail? Everything is there!" Dodge protested, barely holding back a groan.

Grimshaw tapped the parchment. "You listed the total weight of the shipments, but forgot to list the exact weight of the imported grain by barrel."

Dodge rubbed his temple. "Does it matter?"

"It matters when the Guildmaster calls for an inspection. Redo it."

The cycle continued. Every misplaced comma, every ink stain, every slightly smudged signature was ammunition for Grimshaw to prolong Dodge's suffering. When there was no work left to redo, Grimshaw conveniently found more—reviewing field reports, doublechecking map updates, analyzing stock inventory versus supply requests, double-checking spell scroll requisition forms for expedition members. Nothing had prepared Dodge for this kind of torment.

"Did you finish reviewing Farrow’s field report?", Grimshaw asked, barely even trying to conceal his glee at the glass-eyed look Dodge gave him.

"I, what? He writes in riddles, Grimshaw! Half of his notes just say ‘proceed with caution’ over and over, without any details!"

"Then proceed with caution through deciphering it. And in triplicate. Any detail could prove important!"

Dodge muttered incessantly under his breath as he began making three matching reports of Wayfinder Farrow's report as ordered. "Northeast forest path from Eastwatch shifted 17.3 centimeters North at Clyde's Bend...", he growled as he copied down this Ever so important piece of field research.

At some point, the sheer monotony blurred into exhaustion. He had always thought fieldwork was the hardest part of being a Wayfinder—dodging dangerous creatures, navigating storms, uncovering ancient ruins with unknown enchantments. But after a single day behind a desk, Dodge finally understood the true terror of Lysia Isle... Administration.

By midday, Dodge had given up any hope of survival. By evening, he was no longer certain he existed. The final straw? Inventory requests. A deep, existential horror settled in his bones as he realized he had spent an entire hour debating with himself over how many replacement boots the Guild actually needed on hand.

Dodge Tanner had endured many things in his time as a Wayfinder. Perilous mapping expeditions, unpredictable elemental storms, creatures that looked at him like a particularly unlucky snack, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer administrative absurdity of Incident Report Documentation.

The first one landed on his desk before he had even finished reviewing the latest shipment request, (which he wasn’t actually reading, just glaring at with deep resentment and trying to make them disappear through sheer stubbornness). Grimshaw had dropped the parchment in front of him with a far too pleased smirk. "An accident in the supply hall this morning. A rope caught someone’s ankle. Need it filed."

Dodge squinted at the report. "…This just says ‘minor trip, no injuries, continued walking.’ Do we really need a report for this?"

"Absolutely. Two copies."

Dodge gritted his teeth, snatched up a quill, and begrudgingly filled in the absurd paperwork. By the time he finished, three more reports had been added the the never diminishing pile, one for an overturned ink bottle (no casualties, two copies.), another for a splinter (first aid provided, three copies.), and a distressingly long form about an enchanted lantern flickering at irregular intervals. "Oh come on!. Is unstable lighting a documentable accident?" Dodge demanded, waving the parchment.

Grimshaw barely looked up. "Could be a safety hazard. Better safe than sorry. Form seventeen D, Mr Tanner. Document any potential risks for low light conditions in the...", Grimshaw glanced at the report, "back hallway, Warehouse 13. Two copies, Mr. Tanner."

Things spiraled fast. By midday a small fire had broken out in the back courtyard, (a mage’s experimental spell had gone wrong, lightly blackening one desk), and Dodge was tasked with four separate reports detailing the personnel, cause, containment, damage assessment, and a list of potential preventative measures for future incidents. Four copies. For one mistake. Dodge stared at the mountain of parchment in disbelief, wondering why the reports outweighed the actual damage.

By the time evening crept in, Dodge had developed a special kind of loathing for official documentation, certain that one of the circles of Hell was just endless paperwork. The final straw came when he himself stubbed his toe against the leg of a chair. He barely noticed it, but Eagle-Eyed Grimshaw did. The man grinned, predatorily.

"Oh dear, a workplace injury.", Grimshaw says with FAR too much glee. "That’ll be a personal injury form two twelve B."

Dodge waived him off, shaking off the pain. "It’s nothing. totally fine."

"Two copies, Tanner. Need to keep things organized."

Something inside Dodge snapped. Slowly, with the measured rage of a man who had finally reached his limit, he picked up the form, stared at it for a long moment, and, without breaking eye contact, bit off a corner.

Grimshaw leaned back, unfazed. "Wayfinder Tanner. That’ll require replacement form eighty three. Triplicate, now, since it was Guild headquarters property."

When the desk candle sputtered out at last, Dodge shoved himself away from the desk with newfound determination. "Grimshaw," he growled.

"Yes, Mr. Tanner?" Grimshaw looked up from a stack of reports, clearly amused.

"I swear by the Whispering winds, I will never complain about fieldwork again. If you let me leave right now, I’ll walk straight into a goblin-infested ravine with a smile on my face."

Grimshaw, arms crossed, victorious, simply nodded. "Good. See you at sunrise."

Dodge didn’t even wait to respond. He positively FLEW out the door, heading straight for, Here Be Dragons, the nearest tavern and the bottom of a very large bottle of alcohol that was screaming his name, and swore he’d rather be chased by an enraged beast than sit behind a desk ever again.

As the door slammed shut behind Dodge's retreating form, Senior Wayfinder Grimshaw stared across the sea of food stained, inkblot coated, completely incomplete and misfiled paperwork Dodge had 'completed'. "Amazing. Simply Amazing!", Grimshaw shook his head as he began sorting, and tossing, Dodge's efforts. "Not a single report completed or filed correctly... I guess it's another long night for me!", Grimshaw complained, even as he gave a rare grin as he reviewed his day of Dodge tormenting with undisguised satisfaction... "Worth it!"

And, ever and unabatingly Reluctant Wayfinder Dodge Tanner never complained about Wayfinding fieldwork again!

(At least not until the next time something involved actual danger. Which, Dodge being Dodge, was inevitably quickly.)