A short man greeted old Dean from the back of, what little Damian would later learn, is what it looks like, a huge chicken. Its three toes and a talon made two-foot long prints. Each connected to four-foot legs via six-inch diameter shins. Head swiveling above the pedestrians, its craned neck elevated its face and soda can sized pecker six and a half feet high, a good six inches above the tallest humanoid there.

A larger rider might have exceeded the bird's weight limit, but the man who rode it was small, skinny, and old. He mounted it, not by dangling his legs around the monster, like how one would ride a horse, but by kneeling in the saddle strapped to its low and level back, nestling between its barrel wide drum sticks. A nine-inch knife was sheathed at his waist.

 “Old Dean,” the chicken rider said with a nod. His short white head of hair was the same length as his overgrown mustache.

“Old Craig. You've decided to witness the blessing,” old Dean greeted him like an old friend.

“The boys have things at the ranch covered,” old Craig said in a crass tone, “and I figured there should be a Dolmer there.”

“I'm glad you could make it.” Old Dean didn't seem to mind the tone.

“Them the new ones?” old Craig asked, turning to look at them. The huge chicken turn to look aswell, its huge brown eye, wide as an adult fist, seemed intrigued.

With one huge brown eye staring a him, little Damian him took a moment to sum of what he knew so far. He used to be an adult. He died. The next thing he remembered was being birthed into this strange world. Which was disgusting.

He had all of his memories despite being an infant. At least all the ones he could remember were there. If he really did send himself the fourteen-segment font notification, he had no memory of it. The old man, his new grandfather supposedly, poked him with a short rod, sending a weird feeling through his body, and declared him healthy. It wasn't a tricorder he used. It was a green metal stick. The old man said he checked his blood flow with it. He also said Dillon, his supposed new dad, was an adventurer. Little Damian didn't understand the significance of that word at the time, but he assumed it had to do with dungeons and monster stuff.

His neighbor's, frightening but friendly beast people, might have been adventurers too. The loud voice and toothy grin Victor used frequently gave him a commanding presence and made the seven and a half-foot spear he held that much more intimidating. Vance bore many fearsome resemblances to his brother, but his hooded cloak kept his beastly appearance and the fourteen-inch dagger he carried concealed. A peak underneath his hood would reveal Vance to be younger and more cat like than his assertive older brother. His eyes tended loiter around on alert, like how a feral animal might stalk the wilderness on the lookout for any possible threats, or opportunities.

It seemed almost certain, he reincarnated in a world of might and magic. With beast-kin and a huge, saddled chicken right outside his front door, it could have been who knows what that put those dents in his father's shield. The “DO NOT DIE” part of the strange message was probably in bold for a reason. It seemed this other world was not a safe place to be a helpless infant in.

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It wasn't much, but that's what little Damian felt he understood so far and the closest thing he had to a clue, a calico cat-baby, was adorably sleeping. All he could do now was wait and see what this blessing was and if it's related to the telepathic text message.

“This is my grandson little Damian. The other one is little Theressa,” old Dean said with pride.

“They're cute, especially the kitten,” old Craig gave his compliments like they were harsh words, made a goofy face that he thought no one noticed, and directed his and the huge chicken’s attention forward.

With that, little Damian’s first adventure was well underway.

When the group turned down a main road, there was a man standing at the corner waiting for them.

Robert Slag was a burly man. His broad shoulders barely fit in his clean, white long sleeve shirt. This created a stark contrast to the curly black forest rooted in his chest, protruding out of the gaping eight-inch “vee” his size stretched wide open. His trousers snuggled the large bulge around his meaty calves. Judging by the burn marks speckling his trouser's skin tight raw cow hide, he was a blacksmith. The marks likely coming from the hot slag he makes pounding soft, warm, raw steel ingots into submission, but the eighteen-inch hammer hanging from his waist wasn't used for pounding raw. Robert's hammer was a war hammer, its mushroom shaped head meant to be slammed roughly into refined steel, violating its weak spots, sometimes causing abused armor to push deep into an opponents soft tender flesh. Such an attack performed by a man of Robert's power could easily cause a fight to climax, resulting in Robert and his eighteen-inch hammer standing tall and proud over his defeated challenger. Robert Slag was headed to church armed this morning.

Actually, all the men and little Damian’s mother were armed. “Just how dangerous is this world?” he wondered.

After some greetings and declaring little Theressa to be the cute one, Robert settled next to old Craig and the procession moved along. 

When they passed an inn, a heavy set woman named Betty came out to greet everyone. She said little Theressa was the cutest thing she's ever seen, and she would have loved to join them but couldn't leave her inn unattended.

Next to the inn there was a general good store with a couple standing out front. Jim, another burly man, was armed with a short sword. Samantha, a gentle girl with cherry blond hair, carried a bow on her back. They both greeted everyone with warm smiles and said little Theressa was especially adorable. The procession proceeded with Jim walking next to Dillon and Samantha fawning over little Theressa.

A half mile down the road, unbeknownst to the adults but noticed by little Damian, someone was watching them. From the second story of a large, new looking building, the most beautiful woman he's seen in this world was staring at the group through a rarely seen glass window. She seemed almost perfect, “so why does she look so sad?” he wondered.

Suddenly, the women who were just happily chatting fell silent. Little Damian swiveled his tiny head with great effort to find the source of the disturbance. A huge chicken, beast people, and a magical medical exam. Now he could add witch to the list of weird shit that he's seen since he's been here, and this one looked hostile.