Installment 48 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment048.png]
The story lasted a long time - the story itself wasn't very long, but it took a long time to understand what DaisySue was trying to say with that ridiculously, improbably, insultingly exaggerated rural accent.
The local folklore said that when the first settlers had arrived to set up little farms here in a patch of firm ground mostly surrounded by swamp many generations ago, there were already the ancient remains of a few old foundations from a previous population, and a short distance to the east, an equally ancient but still intact tomb. The settlement never seemed to be bothered by wild animals or other dangerous pests, which an early elder leader claimed was the spirit of whoever was buried in the tomb protecting the land.
For many years, there had been an annual tradition of taking flowers to place on the tomb of the hero in thanks for their protection. Then, several generations ago, the worship of Holus was taken up in thanks for increasingly good yields of root crops, and the unnamed hero's protection wasn't needed any more.
In recent years, Holus had increasingly hinted at dangers from outside of the community, and promised to protect them. The fields around the village were expanded and were bountiful, except where the tomb was, where the ground remained swampy and prevented any root-crops from growing. None of the villagers felt comfortable anywhere near the area. Just recently, DaisySue claimed, Holus spoke to her directly from a moldy yam, commanding that a particular collection of flowers should be gathered and that someone who was not of the village would need to deliver them to where the hero rested, and the problem would be resolved.
It was starting to get dark outside by the time the story ended and the meaning of the story was finally understood. Sheriff DaisySue asserted that they should leave in the morning - the possibility of the party declining the job didn't seem to occur to her - and that the village would provide food and lodging for the night. It was only the prospect of stumbling around in a swamp in the dark or ending up in a long and uncomfortably insistent negotiation if he tried to back out at this point that convinced Al to go along with it.
"C'mon," she told the party, "we gon' fix y'all up with bed 'n' vittles at CletusWayne's."
Haunch was still bored and waiting with all of the party's supplies on the cart as they left the "charch". Wikwocket untied him and they all headed for the inn. On the way, DaisySue asked Al what he thought of Turnipseed.
"It's very...noble," Al suggested with as much diplomacy as he could muster, as a rather lumpy-faced man squinted suspiciously at the passing party.
"Well, bless your heart," DaisySue responded in a very friendly voice.
Al winced, wondering how she'd made that sound like a terrible curse. "Sorry," he mumbled in apology.
"S'allraht," DaisySue drawled back gently, this time with sincere sympathy, "y'all don't b'long 'ere. Y'all ain't s'posta be comf'table. Ah knows y'all wanna leave. Thankee fer doin' it ennawhay. We even gon' pay yeh when yeh go t'take the flars inna mornin' so yeh don't hafta come back. Jus' a way thangs are."
Unnecessarily loud laughter and a musical noise came from CletusWayne's place. There was a rhythmic, variably-hollow twanging noise, and some hollow rhythmic bursts of whistling noise, a regular scratching sound, and stomping in time with the rest. DaisySue pushed the door open and the party got a look at the interior. A group of villagers was collected by one wall making the musical noise with clay jugs, a washboard, their feet, and a small metal contraption one of them held in his remaining teeth, which he was flicking to make the twanging sound. A group of men and women of the village was gathered along another wall, taking turns trying to spit into a pot some distance away. Yet another group was gathered at a table taking turns contorting their faces into grotesque expressions, much to the amusement of the other participants.
"Hey, y'all! Cityfoke're here. They gon' do the flars fer us. Treatem raht, now!" she announced, to some scattered cheers, though most of the occupants paid no attention. Then Gruntle leaned over DaisySue's head to look inside, and things went quiet.
The silence was broken a few seconds later by a deep, raspy shout of "Whut'n'thuworl' is thayuht?" from someone.
"Helps th'cityfoke faht mawnsters," DaisySue explained. "Ah'ma takin'em ta go lah dayun a spell. Givem the gud vittles, y'hear?"
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
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Their room was quite spacious, but mostly because it was a barn. Most of the stables were empty, though there was a cow in one. She became very agitated when the party entered. DaisySue was unnable to calm the cow down and ended up leading her away after the party settled down at the far end of the barn. At least it appeared there was fresh straw on the ground and there was plenty of space to bring the cart in, and a tolerably comfortable-looking stall for Haunch. There was even already a trough of water and a pile of hay in it.
"This is some kind of cultist compound, isn't it? This whole place is just offensively wrong!" Al complained quietly after DaisySue left.
"Holus is a legitimate deity," Bote asserted, "but this does feel very similar to a cult. I do not feel we are unsafe here, and perhaps not even truly unwelcome, but we certainly do not belong. I cannot say why."
"Like the village itself wants to keep everyone else away," Al mused.
"Well if it's keeping everybody away, I think it's safe if I let her out of her box. We've hardly had any time together," Wikwocket announced, heading for the cart.
"Who?" a puzzled Al asked.
"My new sword! She's been locked in that box for so long, she hardly ever gets out! I need to get to know her if I'm going to be stabbing people with her!"
"Her?"
"Well, obviously! I heard somewhere that it's the lady spiders that are bigger and more dangerous, right?"
Since they still had no keys for the box, Wikwocket had to spend some time with her lockpicks to get the box open, and would of course need to do it again to re-lock it later, but for now she opened the lid and pulled the spider-marked rapier out from under the three bags of coins. Despite being as long as Wikwocket was tall, she had no trouble holding it up to swing and stab thanks to the rapier's unnatural lightness.
Gnomes, as one might guess, are not paragons of brute strength. Even a relatively athletic gnome would struggle to beat even a sedentary human in a contest of muscular power. On the other hand, even that amount of strength compressed down into a very small gnomish body makes some very impressive acrobatics possible. For humanity, being able to leap more than six feet from a standing start isn't especially impressive, but being able to leap a distance that is more than double your height is startling.
Wikwocket tested the new rapier by running and leaping around the barn, stabbing various objects to make sure they weren't disguised monsters. As she got used to the long blade, her fighting style adapted. The reach of her short arms and legs wasn't much but her mobility made up for it, replacing thrusts and lunges with leaps and running charges. She even convinced Gruntle to spar with her for practice, and for a while the whole party was entertained enough to forget the discomfort of where they were as Wikwocket ran and jumped around the much larger gnoll.
The fun ended suddenly when Gruntle's ears twitched and he unexpectedly turned away, sniffing the air and ignoring the shallow stab into his hip that his unforeseen movement had put him in the way of before Wikwocket could pull back. Al aborted his defensive reach for his mace when he saw that Gruntle was drooling.
"Y'all decent in 'ere?" a young man's voice called out, and then the barn door was pulled open without waiting for an answer. The young man who came in pulling a small hand-cart actually had most of his teeth and hair, and his shirt was somewhat clean.
"Ah done brung y'all vittles! We gots hocks, trottas, and chitlins!" He announced cheerfully as he came in. Then he stopped, silently worried, when he saw the looming Gruntle drooling through sharp teeth.
When he was not attacked after several seconds, he finally found his voice.
"Whut'n'thuworl' is thayuht?"
"What, Gruntle?" Wikwocket asked, pointing up at him with her Wikwocket-length rapier. "Don't worry, he's friendly, he just thinks the food smells good. Right, Gruntle?"
The gnoll gave a grunt of agreement, still drooling. The scent of cooked meat was rising in the air and the others could smell it now, too. There was a stack of bowls on the cart, and a small wooden tub loaded with some sort of meats that couldn't be immediately identified. Al thought he saw an animal's cloven-hoofed foot sticking out of the top. There was also a big clay jug marked simply "XXXX" and another jug without any markings.
"Ah'll jus' leverite 'ere if'n y'all don't mahnd," their food-deliverer suggested. He stared at Wikwocket for a moment.
"How're y'all holdin' that big ol' thang lahk 'at?" he asked.
"What? Oh, my new sword!" she answered, once she figured out what he'd said, "Just lots of practice!"
"That thang's almos' bigger'n y'all, how do y'all even carrah it?"
There was another pause to understand the question, but then Wikwocket shrugged and answered. "I don't right now, I don't have any sheathe for it, and even if I did, if I tried to hang her off of my belt she'd drag on the ground."
The food-deliverer shook his head. "That ain't raht," he said, "y'all don' go nowhar afore I git back, BillyWayne gon' fix yeh up raht quick." he drawled, and turned to leave at a jog.