Samari managed to excuse herself out and escape the sect while Kalon and Jagger were getting handed their disciple robes. The Bodiceattva insisted new disciples wore cowls, not because the word contained “cow” in it, which would have been your average Road of the Rottweiler Reason. No, it was just that cowls and sects went together like nail and scum. In his intricately woven mind, you couldn’t have one without the other, not in the proper way.
The little girl ran across the fields, hearing the Sentinel blow each other horns and accidentally stab each other with them due to their length. She accidentally stepped over an inverse apple tree and a fruit fell from the ground hitting her on the chin and making poor Samair bite her own tongue. Some flora was as stupid as Kalon, she thought with eyes teary, as she watched the red, dirt covered fruit fall into the starry sky. “Don od a bitz,” she said, tonguehurtingly.
She looked back, and she wasn’t getting persecuted. But a little girl alone at night in the middle of the fields… a predator could get her. Wolves she didn’t fear: she had weapons against them. Coyotes… well, canids all the same, it most likely worked against them too. Rapists or murderers? She had plans for them. No, she feared the other sort of menaces that wandered under the moon. Fantasy writers, rednecks with guns that shoot at whatever they deem a ghost, ghosts packing heat and ready to unload upon whatever they may consider a redneck —some of them shortsighted— and the cowspiracionists. These mad men and women were on the hunt for any bovine that exhibited the slightest hint of sentience. For them, the world was dominated by a Saint Bernard who had trained an entourage of cattle do his vile bidding. Slowly, he had risen to immortality, and his servants reproduced, spread across the nations and intruded their systems of government. Disguised as men and women, the bovines schemed, garnered the trust of the public, climbed through the ranks and ended up at the head of the local chains of command. Every nation guided with iron hoof, nurtured with a treacherous udder. And Samari had been promoted to honorary cow, and she could argue she was in possession of sentience, so she was in danger now. “Moo,” she said without thinking, for she had to honor her new title. “Intercourse!” she added.
Reaching the road, she got intercepted by a figure tall and dark, draped in rags like a plastic platter left in the oven, when it melts and drips down, you know? Rags like that.
“Hi,” Samari ventured as the figure breathed heavily, his dark eyes fixing on her little face.
“Hello little girl, I am the Highway Fox. Give me all of your valuables, and I will let you go mostly unharmed.”
Samari raised an eyebrow “Mostly unharmed?”
“Some people have valuables inside their bodies,” he opened his coat revealing all sorts of dissection tools: long, short, straight, curved, forked, serrated or tesseract-edged. “I have medical training, worry not.”
“Fox as in the wild doggie?” Samari asked, feigning innocence. “Do you identify with the animal?” She curled her fingers in eager fists, as if awaiting an answer due to some deep-seated fanaticism for either foxes or El Zorro. She began approaching the man while donning big doe eyes and taking little steps.
This stirred a need to answer on the bandit’s part, and he crouched to look less menacing to the girl. Maybe that would get her to cooperate. “Ah, you see, I am as cunning as them. I possess wits over that of the domestic variant of man, and my agility is unmatched.” He then closed his eyes to continue showering himself in roses while feigning some humility. “But you don’t have to… Are you booping my nose?”
Samari smiled like a predator cornering its prey. Her extricated spirit intruded the man’s nose, and then the Highway Fox realized he was paralyzed. He wondered what was the worst the strange girl could say now.
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“Soulclick on one, two is metaphysically binding…”
And , for the Highway Fox, there were no words more distressing.
Samari had some difficulty lugging all of her loot up to the city, and was politely met by the guards at the gates of Ilure.
The guard, his purple and white coat shining bright in the morning light, addressed her with a friendly face. “Hey, you are the little arcagnostic. What have you got in that bag?”
“I robbed a dangerous bandit and I intend to sell his tools,” she said, her tone merely informative.
“That’s what I would expect from a cultivator.”
“It was self-defense,” Samari stated, straightening her sore back.
“Let me check the loot for anything illegal so you don’t get in trouble and you may go ahead. I am not going to arrest a girl for giving a scoundrel a taste of his own pudding. Where did you get the bag out there, anyway?”
The air burred in response.
“Right, the self-eating dog. Let me browse your goods; wait by the wall’s shadow,” he said, pointing behind himself with his thumb. “And what was the name of the scum?”
“Highway fox or something like that.”
“Ah. Oh. He saved my wife’s life when she had a heart attack. But, in service to the truth, I must admit he caused the heart attack too. I mean, I don’t hate him for the latter, as there is value to be recognized in becoming a widower, but…”
Samari began taking little steps back, leaving the bag with the tools unattended. Better leave the good, potentially-wife-murdering man to do his job.
Half an hour later, she recovered the bag and even earned a permission to carry the tesseract-blade, which was illegal to own otherwise.
----------------------------------------
The little bell at the door stirred the Clerk out of his daydream about bitches in bikini. Not women, not slutty. Just bitches. Lean mean Bloodhound ladies, with a bra for each set of teats. If you ask me, those were some expensive bathing suits the bitches were wearing.
His metallic eyelids felt heavy, and his chromed claws betrayed his craving for a good drink. About 5d6 of liver damage could work. He poured the dice in the plastic cup and downed its contents. He swallowed, feeling the plastic implements go down his aluminum-coated throat one by one.
“Hello, I wish to sell some tools.” Samari announced as she dragged the bag across the hairy rug of the store.
“Holy Collie I got a Real Generala!” the clerk exclaimed, which didn’t surprise Samari as she examined him with a squint.
“Are you an arcagnostic construct?”
“I am an interdimensional publicity stunt for Deck of Dogs, a collectible card game like you have never seen!” The Clerk said the lines forces stronger than any of us had decided long ago.
“Sounds retarded. Can you buy my tools? I want money for them. Or rare collectible cards of a game people actually play. Meta relevant ones.”
The clerk smiled, his boxer mouth full of silvery, sharp teeth. “Do you want to die? I’d love having you in Deck of Dogs. You get a free mansion with the isekai experience, and a personal doggie to guide you,” he crossed his fingers and placed his elbows on the counter.
“My religion forbids me from dying,” Samari faked the saddest tone she was capable of.
“Shame, I am sure you wouldn’t be so stupid to play discard corgis.”
“How much can you give me for these tools?” Samari opened the bag and started producing the utensils, still stained in blood in some cases.
“Seven.”
“Coins of the highest denomination?” Samari’s eyes lost their light.
“Years,” the Clerk clarified with the glee of an award-wining arsehole. “I am kidding, all of this is like you: barely legal.”
Samari blinked once. Her brain was trying to interpret the android-dog’s face to no avail. Was it a sick joke? Was it serious? She finally decided that didn’t matter, and blinked once more. “I am nine.”
The Clerk shook a claw with unwarranted sass. “I didn’t say legal for what. You are barely legal for things you didn’t even know were crimes before the tender age of nine. Like playing Deck of Dogs.”
“Why would playing a card game about puppies before being nine be a crime?” Samari asked, innocently.
“It is illegal to play deck of dogs at any age.” The clerk smiled, and Samari quickly stashed her tools back in the bag and turned on her heels. “Wait, where are you going?”
“To a store managed by a serious businessperson and not whatever you are!” She said with a pout worthy of a little girl. On the way out, Samari made sure to slam the glass door behind her, and soon noticed two things: the door was gone, the handle was now detached and on her hand, and a suspiciously consistent amount of broken glass had spawned where the door had been. At nine, she wasn’t liable for property damage, so she happily strolled away.