Dynamite Rock never liked that nickname. But he could never really complain, since he knew he left the comfort of kinship long ago. The people who gave him that name were not his friends. Most likely, they were scared of him. Most were. But there was one who wasn’t: a God who had given him so much grace and promised him even more.

  Rock’s relationship with Pok was an estranged one, since he had set up shop so far away, yet he still remained wholly loyal. It was only the God of Inspiration that could help Rock invent so many fun explosives–

  Explosives such as the one that had just gone off in his home. It wasn’t the first time, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. A simple setback such as this would never stop him from trying again. Well, he couldn’t really call it a setback either, for it was glorious. His soot-stained walls were a slightly lighter color than normal, and the explosive was able to cover such a room without so much as breaking his skin. That was the exact outcome he was hoping for. He collected the remaining powder which didn’t ignite into a small vial and set it up on his wall alongside his collection of great samples. Written on the back of each vial were the components to each type of explosive, each written in a code that only Rock could read. He wouldn’t want his recipes falling into the wrong hands, of course. Even the fire-spitting plant that only a specific, long-dead Lonist could magic into existence was labelled and bottled properly, not that he could ever get more of it.

  A knock came to his door as he finished cleaning up from the earlier explosion. It’s rare for visitors to come to him this far out. Either they were lost or they knew exactly where they were.

  Rock opened his door to a small reptilian folk looking up to him. Their light-green scales looked out of place among the Votin soil. Their white robes only solidified that assumption.

  “Hello there, friend,” Rock said. “How may I help you?”

  “You make explosives, yes?” They asked in a snake-like voice, whipping a small tail back and forth behind them.

  “Yes,” Rock took a deep, prideful bow. “My name is Dynamite Rock, and I know all about making things go boom, as it were.” He didn’t get many normal interactions with others, so he always had to make a choice when he opened his door. It was better for customers to meet the eccentric caricature that most Votin citizens were familiar with, as much as he hated everything about it. He did enjoy the theatrics, though, as they were quite like the explosives he loved so much: there was definitely a simpler, easier way of doing things, but why go about such barbaric means when it could be so much more beautiful? He decided against the full-on embodiment for this customer, as his current reputation among Bower’s folk was still high, and he wouldn’t mind keeping it that way.

  “May I come in?” The lizardfolk asked, their eyes blinking in an unsynced manner.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Rock said, “But I must keep my work to myself. Trade secrets, you understand.” He gave them a friendly smile. Though he didn’t use his eccentric mask, he still found enjoyment in playing whatever this version of himself was.

  “Very well,” they said, “I was hoping to ask whether you knew of someone who bought some stupid bomb off of you a while ago.”

  “I do not appreciate you calling my beauties stupid,” Rock admonished, “but I will still do my best, forever your servant.”

  “He was an old friend of mine,” the lizardfolk started, “a loxodon long old and scarred. Kyttor was his name. He was a great warrior, but I don’t know why he ever would have bought such horrid weapons from someone like you.”

  Rock was used to insults. He was an outcast among his own people, too. And no doubt was this Bower citizen far from comfortable being deep within Vot’s territory. He couldn’t blame their harsh words on anything but their fear.

  “Few elephant-folk have ever come to me,” Rock said, “But among them, I must say I struggle to differentiate each one. If you have a better description of what it was they bought, I may be of more help.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A description of the explosion, then?” Rock prompted, “Was it bright? How pretty was it? Did it leave its mark, or was it a powerful whisper in the air? Did the smoke rise high above everything around it?”

  “It killed him.”

  “Why, that doesn’t give me much to go on, friend.” Actually, it did. It at least eliminated all of the non-fatal explosives. And, since he had only sold to so few loxodons, he could rightfully narrow down the list of customers this lovely neighbour was asking for. Not that he’d give anything away for free. “If they are dead, why might you be looking for them?”

  “I loved him,” they said, their reptilian demeanor losing its passive form. Tears formed in their eyes as their tail waved aggressively. “And I want to know who took him from this world.”

  “Well,” Rock said. He knew what he was about to say would get him in some trouble, but it was what Dynamite Rock would say at this moment. “It would be invaluable to ask him yourself. Vot would happily revive most anyone with the will to simply ask.”

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  “How dare you!” They shouted, “He would never want to be made that fool’s puppet! And I– I don’t think I could stomach seeing him like that.”

  “Aye,” Rock said, “Well, I’m not too sure I can help you out much more than that.”

  Rock went to close his door on this customer interrupting his day when they grabbed his tattered robes. Their sharp claws dug through the cloth and poked his legs.

  “I didn’t come all this way for you to tell me nothing,” they said.

  A sinking feeling crept over Rock. He had always been smart, but Pok’s grace only ever struck when it was meant to. And when dots started connecting in his head, he had to be sure of something.

  “Did you ever tell me your name, friend?” He asked.

  “Tonfer.”

  Though they had never been a customer, Rock knew their name. He could picture the loxodon customer, his face extra wrinkled with age, yet he was clad in armor and asking for the strongest bomb he had, enough to decimate a battlefield. He never sold anything so dangerous, but he still gave Kyttor a fairly strong dosage, thinking that a Bower warrior wouldn’t use it to harm anyone innocent. The loxodon had mentioned Tonfer, their battle-mate who they always fought alongside, who would never agree to using such an underhanded, un-valorous method of ending a fight. He never said what fight he was preparing for, but Rock had gotten the sense that Kyttor never planned on making it out alive, all so that they could save their friend. How lovely. If only that friend didn’t seek revenge against the one who seemingly planted such a sacrificial idea in their head.

  “Please take your hands off me, friend,” Rock said, not allowing his customer-pleasing voice to slip.

  “I’m not letting you go,” they said, a fire burning in the slits of their eyes. “You killed Kyttor by giving him that bomb.”

  “I am many things, friend,” Rock rushed to say, though still keeping up his performance, “I am a merchant, a craftsman, a performer, and a devoted man of Pok. But I am no murderer. Now, please release your grip. You are ruining my colors, and I fear it would be rather difficult for me to get another set.”

  “I don’t care. You sold Kyttor that faulty explosive–”

  “Faulty? How dare you, good folk. No make of mine is faulty.”

  “It went off early! He was still holding it when it went off!”

  “I’m afraid,” Rock started. As perilous as this scene was, Rock found himself enjoying playing such a role. “I’m afraid that he meant for such an outcome. He saw no other way out of such an encounter, so he took the matters into his own hands, rather literally.”

  “He would never!”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Rock said, “But please leave me be now. I wish to continue my glorious studies before my clock strikes night.”

  Tonfer dug their claws deeper into Rock’s leg. He could feel them getting warmer as Tonfer’s magic flowed through them. “In selling him faulty equipment, you killed my friend. You forget that I’m a Bower warrior, strong and righteous. For such a sin, you deserve punishment, and I will carry it out myself.” They drew a small spiked shield off of their back, which Rock had noticed but assumed wouldn’t be effective as a weapon. He really didn’t like that he was wrong.

  While that may have been a lapse in his judgement, he was still one of Pok’s greatest intellects. Thinking on his feet was especially his specialty. As he pulled his leg free, still feeling the few new holes in it, he reached for a small pile of ash on his desk nearby. His house was far from anything more than a shack, so it was definitely no place for a fight. But Rock also wasn’t a fighter, so if it came to that he would be rough off anyways. He flung the small ash flakes into Tonfer’s eyes, which they lifted their shield to block. Whether it got in their eyes or not, he accomplished what he wanted. In the quick moment, he lunged to the other side of his room and grabbed a vial off his wall. He didn’t have time to grab a lighter, meaning he would have to use his own magic to set it off. Now he just had to wait for the right moment.

  Tonfer pushed the door open further before thrusting the spikes on their shield at Rock. It would be hard to block such an attack, and he was far too tall to duck below it. His brain worked fast, but seemingly not fast enough. He grabbed the edge of the shield, a few of the spikes poking through his webbed fingers. Again, he’s not a fighter, so he couldn’t directly stop the blow from a proper fighter. Instead, he deflected the attack to the side before retreating to the door. He ran outside, into the open Votin air, still as dark as always. The lizardfolk was quick to follow.

  “You can’t escape me, merfolk,” Tonfer said.

  “The name’s Dynamite Rock, friend,” He bowed again, “Please share it with all you know, for I would always love more customers.”

  “Don’t mess with me!” As they took a step forward, Rock lifted his head in his most genuine toothy grin as he flared his magic.

  Any kind of fire-related magic was rare among Pokians, and especially among merfolk. Nobody Rock had ever talked to had known of a previous merfolk with even similar powers to him. That was what made him an outcast, a freak among his people. Well, that and his pitch-dark skin. Most merfolk were blues, greens, or purples. His parents were a sky-blue and sea-blue, so they were perfectly distraught at a child with skin as dark as an endless abyss. That was why they named him Rock: it was only fitting for him to sink back to the darkness he came from. His magic was only the second nail in his coffin.

  A small spark was all it took to ignite the powder Rock had snuck into Tonfer’s shield. He could admire such a blaze any time, even with the injury in his leg jarring his senses. The bright pillar existed for merely a moment before settling into a wave of smoke. Tonfer’s shield fell to the ground with a small clink, and their body next to it.

  Earlier, he hadn’t lied; he wasn’t a murderer, and he wasn’t going to start now. He knew the powder he used wasn’t strong enough to kill them, but rather that it would be bright enough to knock them unconscious in the most beautiful way imaginable.

  “Marvellous,” Rock said to himself, “A performance unlike no other.”

  Pyrotechnics.End.