“I’m sorry, I’m not following.” Author adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, which never seemed to sit quite right on his nose. “You want me to rewrite that book about hob–” he caught himself, “about those small folk with furry feet?”

Gravel sighed and leaned back in his chair. “We can’t call them that. IP law, remember? They’re the ‘Hole Folk.’ Capital H, capital F.” He emphasized the words like a magician revealing the name of his signature trick. “Folk who live in holes. Entirely different from whatever you’re thinking.”

Author drummed his fingers on the table. “Right, yes, because those other short, pipe-smoking ones are completely off-limits.” He sighed. “But this is basically our story, right? The semi-autobiographical account of your, my, and our families’ misfortunes and occasional… well, fraudulent escapades? And you’re comfortable being known worldwide as ‘Hole People’?”
Gravel ran a hand through his dark brown hair—remarkably fuzzy eyebrows matching his growing frustration.

“Look, I’d rather be Hole Folk than be named in a lawsuit. You know how litigious those big kingdoms can be. Now, are we writing this or not?”

Author was a writer, as most authors were. His running joke was that his parents meant to name him Arthur, but where such bad spellers they decided on his vocation. Which was only half right, as they had aspirations for him to be a plumber. Writing had become his world as soon as he had learned to read. Little worlds of imaginations that he could never have devised in a thousand years could tumble out between two leather book covers. It, as it has done so many times before, inspired him to tell his own tails.

Mr. Krumpter was a serious man with a seriousness that snaked into your bones the moment he set eyes on you—though, in truth, he never just looked at anyone. He glared, a perpetual scowl etched into a nose flattened by years of rough-and-tumble scuffles. He had very little patience for failure, and his intolerance for excuses was legendary. What startled Author most was that this glowering man had once offered him the money to publish his last book, a slim volume of poetry celebrating the aroma of savory pies.

At first, Author found Mr. Krumpter’s willingness to invest surprisingly generous. But soon enough, he’d learn exactly what Mr. Krumpter considered “nice”—and discover, yet again, how short his fuse could be.

This is how he met Gravel.

They were both tied to their respective chairs, back to back in the back of the he Backbend Braid & Bind Conglomerate: Purveyors of Fine Ropes, Twine, Knots, and Other Stringed Oddities (Here and in the Next Building Over); At least that was what was on the front of the building and continued on to the next. Gravel was a gambler and a hustler, known mostly for conning himself into believing he could swindle Mr. Krumpter. Author would never forget Gravel’s reassuring murmur in that tense moment: “First time?”

The odd thing about nearly having your bones broken is how much you learn about your fellow victim. Even Gravel, in a flurry of panic, discovered he supposedly had several children—and grandchildren—who wanted him alive and un-maimed. Their captors were just about to turn their attention to Author’s hands—distinctly unhelpful for a writer—when the looming figure of Mr. Krumpter finally rapped his knuckles against the makeshift table.

“Hold it.” His voice cut through the din like a knife through stale bread. “I still need those hands for our… agreement.”

One of the hulking brutes paused mid-swing, wielding a mallet big enough to drive fence posts into stone. Mr. Krumpter glared at them—a look that could curdle fresh milk.
“Smashing a craftsman’s hands means you assume the debt yourself,” he snarled, his words tightening the room’s tension like a twisted rope. “Unless you’re volunteering to pay me back and handle all that… paperwork I need. Leave this one’s fingers alone.”

A murmur passed through the onlookers, who were apparently not in a hurry to shoulder Author’s obligations, nor share in his current situation. One by one, they backed off, some looking more disappointed than empathetic. Gravel exhaled a trembling laugh. The sudden hush was punctured only by the drip of water from a leaky overhead pipe.

Mr. Krumpter smacked the table once more and jerked his head toward the exit.
“Toss them. They’ve got my terms—if they want to keep walking without limping, they’ll figure out how to repay what they owe.”

In short order, a stern reminder of the due date for repayment hissed through the otherwise silent warehouse. A pair of stocky enforcers untied Author and Gravel, marched them through the creaking door, and unceremoniously tossed both of them into a muddy alleyway.

The corridor leading to the exit was poorly lit, a single flickering lantern casting twitching shadows on the walls. Each step clanged on the iron walkways, every jolt sending spikes of pain through their overtaxed muscles. Author could feel Gravel’s ragged breath on his neck as they were half-pushed, half-shoved past coils of rope, barrels of miscellaneous knots, and a few signs that read “HIGHLY FLAMMABLE—KEEP ENTANGLED.” Author couldn’t decide which was more alarming: that the rope might spontaneously combust or that someone, somewhere, thought entangling it was a brilliant safety measure. Either way, he had no intention of hanging around long enough to ask.

They finally emerged into a cramped loading dock reeking of wet burlap and ancient sawdust. Without ceremony, two of the enforcers swung open a rickety wooden gate and dumped Author and Gravel outside into a dull, gray drizzle.

They landed with twin thuds and cousin grunts. Rain trickled from the eaves above, spattering their bruised faces. Gravel gingerly touched his jaw, which had ballooned to roughly the size of an orange, wincing at the contact. Author coughed, pulling mud-slick hair from his forehead.

Gravel turned to Author, the only other rock sinking as fast as he was, and managed a hoarse whisper.

“Given that we’re both in dire straits,” he rasped, “what kind of scam is writing?”
Author tried for a scowl but only managed a crooked grimace.

“Writing’s not a scam,” he insisted. “It’s Art.”

“Art?” Gravel made sure to indicate his lowercase ‘a.’ “Balderdash. You’re tangled up with Mr. Krumpter, and wherever he goes, misery follows. He drains profits like some high-magic wizard’s cleaning device—can’t say you’re squeaky clean, either. So c’mon, what’s the real grift? You writing misleading ads? Secret codes?”

Author shook his aching head. “Poetry.”

Gravel blinked. “Poetry?” (He stressed that lowercase ‘p.’)

“Yes, Poetry,” Author said. “About pies.”

“Pies?” Gravel echoed, this time deliberately capitalizing the P. “Must’ve been some magnificent pies, then. How much money did it make?”

Here is where a lesser writer—or perhaps a very self-aware one—might pause to give a long-winded dissertation on local currency or the curious bartering rituals of the Hole Folk. Suffice it to say, I had not improved since my last work. That being said, the value of verse (especially pie-centered verse) can be a fickle thing indeed. Hole Folk are, and have always been, notorious gluttons. So much so that they are often credited with being one of the very few species to invent the spoon before the knife. Thus, food and food centric utility items are up for barter and trade, often fluctuating in value based on the seasons and how crops have yielded. For the longest time of Hole Folk history, barter was the ONLY form of trade. It wasn’t until the need to employ migratory workers of other lesser species that gold or silver ever became a thing.

This led to the founding of the Ministry of Wizard Weights and Scaled Lizards (MWWSL): a Hole Folk institution tasked with establishing the value of trade goods each year. Every Hole Folk Colony that belongs to the Regional Hole Folk Association (RHFA) submits its annual harvest reports, plus yield projections for the following season. The MWWSL sorts through stacks of data—grain counts, livestock tallies, orchard yields, even the number of new mushroom patches sprouting in damp cellar corners.

Armed with this information, the RHFA determines fair exchange rates for a wide range of items: a bushel of wheat, a side of pork, a cask of honeywine, and so on. Crucially, they also decide how many chickens (or their equivalents) a single gold or silver coin is worth for that particular year. This ensures that when outside laborers—be they Human, Dwarven, or Goblinoid—work on a Hole Folk farm, they can be paid in coin while the Hole Folk track exactly how much “real” (i.e., edible) value that coin represents.

For the Hole Folk, gold and silver lack immediate practicality. You can’t roast a gold coin for supper, and there’s only so much silverware any one family needs. Rather than carry around jingly pockets of precious metal, most Hole Folk prefer to handle foodstuffs, livestock, or other tangible resources. Any day-old bread can be soaked in broth for a comforting meal—whereas a chunk of platinum is better suited to the local blacksmith’s novelty trinkets.
Still, other species do treasure precious metals. And because the Hole Folk often hire those other species or indulge in trade, they need a conversion system to pay fair wages—or to charge fairly when outsiders buy Hole Folk goods. This prencity for dealingin foodstuffs had lead to the rather novel invention of the “Dinner”.

To solve this problem of hauling around (and feeding) flocks of clucking chickens, the Hole Folk use paper “Dinner” notes. Technically, these are promissory notes from the RHFA, guaranteeing the bearer one chicken (or a chicken’s worth of produce) as defined by the MWWSL’s annual exchange rates. They are easier to carry rather than drive a wagon of live poultry through muddy lanes, a traveling merchant can carry stacks of Dinner notes. They are redeemable at any RHFA-sanctioned farm or marketplace, hand over a Dinner note, and walk off with that year’s equivalent in fresh goods—be it eggs, vegetables, or an actual clucking bird under your arm. A single note is called a “Dinner.” More than one? “Dinners.” Thus, you might say, “I’ve got three Dinners in my satchel,” meaning you could theoretically feast on three whole birds.

Because the entire system depends on crop yields, weather patterns, and appetites (both literal and figurative), the value of each Dinner note can lurch unpredictably. A sudden frost, a week-long festival of feasting, or an outbreak of poultry pox can send the exchange rate staggering like a drunkard on a cobbled road.

Over the centuries, the Hole Folk have grown accustomed to wild shifts in fortune. One day, you’re flush with “Dinners,” able to trade for the choicest cuts. The next, a new pest devours your carrot patches, and you’re scraping by on stale crumbs.

Such volatility has led some outsiders to call Hole Folk society a “classless utopia”—where status isn’t judged by how many Dinners jingle in your pocket, but by the size of your waistline and how many dinners (the edible kind) currently reside in your stomach.

Which brings us back to the story you’re reading—not the one Author wrote, is writing, or will write someday in his cramped East End apartment. Once upon a time, the city outskirts were dotted with hog pens and windblown pigsty fences. But as the city expanded, the hogs moved further out, leaving behind a lingering odor that seeped into every cracked brick. Author’s entire building wore this scent like a cloak, which never quite aired out.

“Two days to heal and a week down the drain trying this ‘writing’ stuff,” Gravel complained, slumping on a rickety wooden chair that looked only slightly sturdier than a hog pen. “We’ve got less than fourteen days left before we get another free tour of one of Mr. Krumpter’s warehouses. And I hear the real rough stuff goes down at the pillow factory.”

Author, sprawled on the threadbare couch, blinked at him. “The pillow factory? Why?”

Gravel shot him a grave look. “They take naps.” He paused, letting the ominous words settle. Author found himself adopting the same grim expression, more out of confusion than conviction—he wasn’t entirely sure how much faith to put in the rumors of a professional conman.
“We just need time,” Author insisted, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses. A smudge of ink transferred to the bridge of his nose, leaving a dark streak. “I’ve got this story. I know it—I feel it. People want to read it. They need to read it! It could change hearts, lives, everything… but I just need time to write it.”

“Time…” Gravel echoed, flicking a crumb of bread from the tabletop. “Sure, we got plenty of that. All the time in the world—in fourteen days.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Relax.”
Author grimaced, feeling a dull throb of pain in his shoulder—a souvenir from the last warehouse visit. “You say ‘relax,’ but it’s not your hands Mr. Krumpter needs.”

Gravel rubbed his bruised jaw, which had finally receded from the size of an orange to that of a large plum. “Well, if he breaks your hands, how can he squeeze his profit out of you? Maybe we’re safe for a little while.”

Author stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant squeal of a pig carried on the breeze. “Safe for now,” he repeated quietly. “But if I don’t finish this manuscript—somehow, someway—I’m afraid that pillow factory might be next on our itinerary.”

A tense silence filled the small, hog-scented apartment. Outside, the muddy street glistened under a low, wintry sun, reflecting the anxious faces of passersby. Author drew in a shaky breath.

“You think we could get an advance from someone else? Just enough to pay Krumpter back and buy us more time?” he asked, half in desperation.

Gravel shrugged. “I’ve burned too many bridges, and you hardly know any outside your writing circles. Unless you’re sitting on a secret stash of Dinners or a wealthy patron with a soft spot for poetry about pies…”

They exchanged weary looks. For a moment, Author swore he could smell spiced apples and pastry dough, a memory from his last creative triumph—before everything went wrong; wrong like an flipped over upside down cake. Author shook his head, blinking the tear away before Gravel could see. “No pies, no patrons, no poetry. Just debt.”

Gravel leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the wobbling table. “Debt and potential, my friend. That’s what we’re rich in.”

“Rich?” Author scoffed. “We’re drowning in Krumpter’s pocket, and you’re calling it wealth?”
“Perspective, my dear writer,” Gravel said, twirling a spoon he’d pilfered from the last cafe they dared frequent. “We’re not dead yet. And as long as we’re alive, there’s always a scheme, an angle, a… story.”

Author let out a defeated laugh, shaking his head. “A story? Fine. Let’s write it. Chapter one: Two fools in a hog-scented flat, trying to outwit the man who owns their souls.”
“Catchy,” Gravel said, grinning. “Needs a subplot though. Maybe a heist, or—hear me out—a daring insurance scam.”

“I’m not committing fraud, Gravel.”

“Who said fraud? I said… creative opportunity.” Gravel’s grin widened as he wiggled his eyebrows. “But sure, let’s call it chapter two: Reality sinks in.”

Author groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “If we’re going to scheme our way out of this mess, we’ll need more than a title.”

Gravel stood abruptly, dusting imaginary lint from his trousers. “That’s the spirit! We’ll need a plan, yes, and resources. Connections. I know a guy or two.” He glanced at the door. “But first, we’ll need a setting. Something grand, something inspiring…”

“Something that doesn’t smell like pig shit?” Author added.

Gravel pointed a finger at him, his grin sharp. “Exactly.”

The two of them stood in unison, their resolve barely outpacing their desperation. Gravel adjusted his hat, and Author tightened his ink-smeared scarf.

“Where to?” Author asked reluctantly.

Gravel opened the door with a theatrical flourish, revealing the glistening, muck-streaked streets below. The air hit them like a slap, a fresh reminder of Kitchen Stink’s omnipresence.

“To where every great story begins,” Gravel declared. “The gutter.”

Author sighed, stepping through the doorway as Gravel clapped him on the back. Together, they trudged down the slick cobblestones, their bickering muffled by the sounds of the city around them.