Installment 49 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment049.png]
Al approached the food cart, with Gruntle following close behind. The food smelled good enough, much like pork. In fact, Al realized, it was pork, of a sort. Several lower-legs of pigs with the feet still attached were sticking up out of the bucket's contents.
"Okay, it doesn't smell bad but it looks awful. It seems to be feet and...what is that, guts boiled in sulfurous vinegar?"
Gruntle's belly rumbled. Al sighed and took one of the bowls. Seeing no supplied serving utensils, he scooped the mystery-meat with the bowl to get as much of the feet as he could into it without being too obvious, and passed it up to Gruntle. The gnoll didn't hesitate to start chomping on the contents. Bones and hoofs crunched. Gruntle gave a single grunt of approval.
Al went to his pack and dug out the spoon he'd brought with him, and then came back to hesitantly scoop some of the non-foot-and-leg parts into a bowl, and stood aside to taste his bowl of guts while the others served themselves.
The food wasn't as bad as it looked or smelled. Al didn't want to think about what part of the probably-pig that what he was eating came from, but it turned out to be tender, with a vinegar sourness and chopped onion and garlic in it, and the resulting flavor was at least not the worst thing he'd ever eaten. Bote and Wikwocket served themselves as well. Wikwocket even took one of the feet, pulling the meat from the bone with her teeth.
"It's a little messy, but not bad," she declared. She gave the bones to Gruntle when she was done.
Al opened the jug with the XXXX on it and immediately regretted holding it so close to his face as he did so. The harsh alcoholic fumes made his eyes water. Once the fumes dissipated enough for him to see properly again, he took a small sip. It reminded him a little of the "grump" they'd been served in Henhaven, but even more potent, and without any sweetness or pleasant flavors. Also unlike grump, a second sip didn't taste any better. He put the jug down. Wikwocket insisted on trying it, and after coughing for several seconds gave a thumbs-up and suggested they bring it with them.
The unmarked jug contained water, thankfully, though it tasted a bit like dirt.
As they were finishing up their meal, the barn door was knocked on again and opened by DaisySue, pulling another small hand-cart with several full bags of uneven sizes, woven crudely from some sort of plant fiber. From one of the smaller ones, a variety of bound-together flowers stuck out.
"Gotchy'all's ree-ward 'n' the flars. Bleshya fer doin' this," she told the adventurers. "None o' us been there fer a long tahm, but y'all jus' need ta fahnd the heerah's restin' place 'n' give the flars to 'em. "
"You're not worried we're going to just take the reward and run off?" Al wondered aloud.
"Nah, y'ain't gonna," DaisySue said with firm conviction.
"The notice said the tomb might be dangerous, what if we leave with the reward and get killed?"
"Then whoever's sent after y'all kin take it fer themselves. But ah got faith y'all kin do it. Jus' take th' east road outta tayon 'n' it'll take ya raht past th' tomb. Heerah's restin' place somewhar insahd."
"East road, okay. We'll set out in the morning," Al said, a little worried that it was getting easier to understand the villagers' extreme accent.
"Hey, y'all still up?" the young man from earlier asked from the open doorway, knocking. "Oh, howdy Shehrf DaisySue. I done brung somethin' fer the little lady." He held up...somethin'. Two narrow weathered grey planks of wood that looked like they had been scavenged from somewhere, with a band of slightly rusted iron down one side and across the bottom, held on by nails driven through and bent on the other side. One of the nails stuck out halfway, bent at a crazy angle for no apparent reason. Plain strips of leather belt were attached near the top and middle.
"What is it?" Wikwocket asked with equal measures of curiosity and skepticism.
"'sfer yer sword, ma'am," he answered, entering the barn and approaching. "Kin ah see it?" He pointed where the spider-marked rapier rested against a post while Wikwocket was eating.
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"Well...I suppose so. But be nice to her, I don't even know her name yet," Wikwocket answered, picking the sword up and bringing it to him. She handed it over gently.
"Hardly weighs ennathang at all!" he marveled, waving it experimentally.
"It ain't a toy, BillyWayne," Sheriff DaisySue chastised him, "'n' it ain't yers neither."
"Sorry, ma'am," BillyWayne said. Then, he stabbed the point of the rapier into the gap between the boards on the side that wasn't bound in rusty iron, down near the bottom, and then levered the rest of the blade in between the two boards. It snapped into place in a groove that had been carved down the middle of the two planks before they'd been bound together. Then he levered it back out just as he'd put it in, and yanked the tip loose. After levering the sword back in again once more, he smiled.
"Y'all wan' trah?" he asked Wikwocket, extending the upper belt. Wikwocket let him attach the thing to her, the upper belt going over her left shoulder and under her right, and the lower belt loosely around her waist. Both belts were fastened with crudely-made buckles that appeared to be concocted from nails and scrap metal cleverly bent together. The ridiculous wooden sheathe hung at a slight diagonal across Wikwocket's back, with the hilt of the rapier just behind and to the right of her head. Tentatively, she reached up and grasped the hilt, yanking to the right to lever the blade back out. Pulling the tip free was a bit awkward but pushing up and to her right got the rapier out. It took a few tries to get the aim right, but she was eventually able to reverse the process to get the tip back in and snap the blade back into place between the boards.
"Y'all prob'ly gon' need ta work it a few tahms but y'all'll git it," BillyWayne said with a satisfied smile.
"It'll take some getting used to, but I think this will work," Wikwocket mused, politely not adding for now. "And now I can take her with me adventuring! Thanks, BillyWayne!"
"'taint nuthin', ma'am. When y'all git the dead'un to git outta the way, I'm-a gonna plant sweettaters there, so I'm glad ta hep."
"Alraht, BillyWayne, le's let the cityfoke sleep now," Sheriff DaisySue said, shooing him back out.
"Well, thanks again for this, BillyWayne!" Wikwocket said as she waved goodbye, indicating the contraption on her back where her new rapier rested, "She seems comfortable back there!"
BillyWayne waved back, and left. DaisySue paused before closing the barn door behind them.
"Y'all're welcome ta come back when y'all are done, but ah knows y'all don't wanna. Turnipseed ain't a place fer ever'body, but ah gotta offer 'cuz y'all are doin' us a favor. Y'all ain't ne'er gonna be one o' us, but y'all're good folk, fer cityfolk."
Then, she also gave them a wave and a cheerful "Now don't dah onnus, y'hear?" as she shut the door.
"I still don't feel comfortable about being here, but at least they're hospitable," Al commented, moving to inspect the rewards that had been left. The bag that the flowers were sticking out of was full of actual dirt - soil, Al charitably corrected himself - and Al guessed they were whole plants and not just cut flowers. At least that might keep them from wilting before they were delivered to the dead hero's resting-place. The sound of jangling coins in another bag distracted Wikwocket from her practice with the new sword-sheathe.
"I know that sound, and I like it!" she said, rushing over to look. Al let her take the bag to count out the contents while he checked the others. The largest bag was lumpy and to Al's disappointment - though not surprise - it contained a selection of potatoes, turnips, yams, and radishes.
The smallest bag clanked and sloshed when Al picked it up. Inside were four metal flasks. They were thin, rectangular things, about the same size and thickness as Al's hand and fingers, with a wooden stopper secured to the flask by a bit of small metallic chain so that it wouldn't get lost. Unexpectedly given the condition of everything else in the village, they were well-polished though each bore several small dents and other signs of having been heavily used. Al pulled the stopper from one and immediately put it back when the fumes of whatever XXXX was stung his eyes.
"At least we'll be prepared if we need to dissolve some glue. Or our livers," Al quipped. "Looks like there's one for each of us."
He passed the flasks around to the others. Wikwocket took hers without even looking up from her coin-counting. She pulled the stopper out and took a sip, then put the stopper back in as she coughed. Bote took one as well and did likewise, though instead of coughing they seemed to consider the flavor carefully.
"It is quite harsh, and strong even by the standards of my own people. I would not drink heavily of it, but I am thankful to have this gift," they declared.
Having watched the others, Gruntle accepted his flask and opened it. To Al's surprise, his muzzle wrinkled into a snarl and he stoppered the flask again without tasting.
"Too much," Gruntle grumbled, and dropped the flask into his pack.
Al helped Wikwocket finish sort out the copper, silver, and gold coins that had been mixed in the bag, then helped count.
"579 copper, 243 silver, and 44 gold coins!" Wikwocket announced when the counting was done.
"That's more than I expected from what the town looks like," Al admitted, "that would at least buy us some nice lodging for a while."
"This does not seem like a place that has a great use for money," Bote suggested,"perhaps they barter for what they need, and save money only for transactions with outsiders that require it."
Al yawned. It had been another long and wearying day.
"I guess that makes sense. They seem like people that mostly want to keep to themselves. I'm going to get some sleep, I recommend we all do. The sooner we get to sleep, the sooner we can wake up and leave these people to their isolation again."
Al got his bedroll and laid it out on the floor off to the side, near Haunch's stall. He was considering which book to take out to read, but the fatigue of the day caught up to him and he decided not to bother. He took off his boots, robe, and chain shirt, then tucked himself into the bedroll and drifted off quickly into strange dreams of being comfortably buried.