Dodge vs. the Relentless Tyranny of Gainful Employment

Dodge loved his job. Sometimes. When it didn’t require effort, discomfort, or leaving his house. Teaching was where it was at! And by 'Teaching', Dodge meant letting people read his book and leave him alone. Unfortunately, the Wayfinders' Guild had a very different interpretation of what being a Wayfinder actually meant

Dodge was at peace. He had a warm fire, a perfectly worn-in armchair, an advanced copy of Flora's latest book, and precisely zero looming threats requiring him to do something strenuous like leave his house. Outside, the world was vast, unpredictable, and filled with creatures that had entirely too many teeth. Inside? Blankets. Snacks. Languid warmth. And a strategic lack of responsibilities.

So when the first knock came, Dodge did what any reasonable person would do. He ignored it.

The second knock was heavier, accompanied by the unmistakable tone of authority. Dodge frowned, tossed another log on the fire, and continued ignoring it.

Then came the third knock. No, not a knock—a thud. The kind that suggested someone on the other side was seconds away from kicking in his carefully reinforced, heavily fortified, trapped to high heaven front door. Dodge groaned melodramatically to an audience of just himself, rolled to his feet with the enthusiasm of a man facing certain doom, and began the tedious process of unfastening the six separate locks and carefully disengaging the entryway traps he had set up precisely to discourage moments like this and to ensure that no one could ever just casually enter his home.

By the time he swung the door open with the utmost reluctance, Senior Wayfinder Grimshaw was waiting, face reddening with the exact kind of barely repressed fury reserved for dealing with chronic disappointments.

“Dodge.”

“Grimshaw.”

“You’re well past overdue on your assignment.”

“I am happily retired.”

“You’re thirty-two!”

“Age is merely a number, my good man.”, retorted Dodge as he attempted to close the door, only for a large angry boot to get in the way. Huh? Could boots be angry?

"We've been over this," Grimshaw said, crossing his arms. "You are a Wayfinder, Dodge. Which means, occasionally, you must find ways rather than just avoiding them altogether."

"Debatable," Dodge replied, leaning on the doorframe, very much not inviting Grimshaw inside.

"No, actually, it isn't." Grimshaw shoved a satchel into Dodge’s arms—a very full, very heavy, satchel packed with supplies, cartography gear, and one very aggressively blank map. “You were tasked with mapping the Hearthwood paths to Murkreach. Tasked a good looooong while ago, I might add! Either come back with a completed travel map, or with a story worth publishing. Preferably both."

Dodge glanced at the supplies, the map, the dangerous glint in Grimshaw’s eyes, and briefly considered his chances of throwing it all back into the old man’s face and locking himself inside forever. They were not good.

Unfortunately, Dodge was still thinking through complex exit strategies when Grimshaw summoned the escort.

One moment, Dodge was still entertaining rebellion. The next, three armed Wayfinders scooped him up and were guiding him toward the edge of town with the same energy one might use to usher a reluctant sheep toward an ominous shadowy pasture.

Dodge barely had time to try to formulate an escape plans before the three Wayfinders had flanked him, firmly encouraging him out the door with all the patience and diplomacy of a team of babysitters assigned to the worst child imaginable.

Thus began Dodge’s glorious march of reluctant compliance, his feet dragging as he tried every single excuse that might grant him permission to turn around and return to his perfectly good chair.

“I should at least pack extra socks,” he argued.

“We packed socks for you.”

"I think I left the Oven On!"

"You don't have an oven. All your food is delivered from the Burrow and Barrel Tavern."

"I should buy an Oven!"

Not even a grunt of response to that non starter.

“What if my maps get wet?”, Dodge rallied.

“They’re waterproof.”

“You should send someone better at this.”

“You’re the only one available.”

“So you admit this is a flawed system.”

The Wayfinders did not dignify that with a response.

At the edge of town, Dodge turned one last time, scanning Hearthmere’s cozy streets, welcoming rooftops, perfectly functional taverns, and soft inviting beds—all of which were now off-limits to him.

Dodge scowled as he was unceremoniously pushed past the gates, facing south toward the tangled nightmare where the Heartwood Forest met Murkreach Swamp—a hostile, mud-soaked, beast-riddled deathtrap that he was expected to somehow navigate. Almost everything there wanted to eat you. And anything that didn't was just too large and was waiting to eat whatever ate you!

Grimshaw gave Dodge a final look, something between a warning and a farewell, before following the others back into civilization, officially washing his hands of the entire ordeal.

Dodge exhaled dramatically. Unsupervised at last.

He glanced toward the open road, then over his shoulder toward the comfortable world behind him.

And immediately took one step toward town.

The unmistakable sound of a bowstring creaked behind him.

Dodge froze.

He turned very slowly to find one of the Wayfinders, an especially humorless one, had stopped just long enough to notch an arrow, the aim casually lowered, but still ominously clear.

Dodge sighed, cursed under his breath, and officially accepted his fate.

"This feels excessive!" Dodge grumbled, dragging his feet while dramatically adjusting the straps of his newly forced belongings.

Senior Wayfinder Grimshaw gave Dodge one last look, something between a warning and a challenge, "Map, or Story, Wayfinder Tanner!", he reiterated before following the others back into the safety of civilization.

And with that, Dodge was alone.

Alone, in the wild, without his chair, his book, his hammock or cozy fireplace, and without even the courtesy of a nap before his suffering began.

He trudged forward into the unknown, shoulders slumped, muttering extensively about the injustice of responsibility.

As he passed the first marker of wilderness, he swore he could hear the whispering wind laughing at him.