Gaspar Bloat's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Gaspar Bloat wanted to make the deadliest fart in the realm. He stood over his bubbling swamp cauldron, belly bare, beard dripping with steam. He had brewed forty batches of the legendary swamp-gas potion. Every one fizzled. He lifted the ladle, drank a mouthful, and waited. His gut rumbled. He let a fart rip against the wooden wall. It smelled bad, but only bad. No green cloud. No feared weapon. Just stink. He threw the ladle across the hut. The recipe was clear except for one line. The core ingredient was smudged, ruined by years of grease. Without it, every batch would stay harmless. He needed to know what went at the heart of the potion, and no potion would matter until he did. A wet ripping sound came from the doorway. Gaspar's shoulders tightened. He knew that noise. "Well now, look at you sweatin' over slop," said Gurgles Windbreaker. The ogre filled the doorframe, hairy belly hanging low, a rope knotted under it. He grinned wide and let another fart tear loose. "Smells like failure in here, hoss." A third fart punctuated the word. Gaspar's jaw went hard. He hated few things more than his rival's smug green face. "Get out of my hut," he said. Gurgles waddled in anyway, sniffing the cauldron. "You still chasin' that recipe? You ain't got the guts for it." He laughed at his own joke and farted again. "Literal, I mean. That potion don't need no plant. It needs a rotten dragon egg. Cracked, curdled, cheesed over. That's the core." Gaspar stared. The smudged line. The one ingredient. His rival had just handed it to him. "How do you know?" "Ever'body knows but you," Gurgles said. He turned and squeezed toward the door, patting his gut. "Good luck findin' one. I hear the last one's guarded meaner than my breakfast." A long fart followed him out, hanging in the air like a curse. Gaspar didn't chase him. He grabbed the greasy recipe and held it to the firelight. Now he knew. The core was a rotten dragon egg, decayed and buried under melted cheese. He could see it in his mind, cracked shell dripping gold. He crushed the paper in his fist and grinned through his beard. Forty failures ended tonight. He had the missing piece. Then his grin faded. A rotten dragon egg was no market trinket. Dragons did not rot their eggs and leave them lying about. To get one, he would have to find where such a thing was kept, and take it from whatever guarded it. Gaspar looked at the cold cauldron. His weapon was one ingredient away. He pulled on his boots, let out a slow fart of his own, and stepped into the night to hunt a rotten dragon egg.