Little Damian wished they would talk more about the blessings and gods that they were all there for. “What did she mean by 'get a good one'? Is it a raffle, a test of strength, or something else entirely? I can probably keep my secret from the humans and beast-kin, but how do you keep a secret from the gods?” he wondered.

His curiosity would have to wait. When they reached the church, it was time for more greetings. The property, a deep rectangular lot with six-foot high, stone perimeter walls snugging three sides of the grand building, had a large, freshly mowed front yard.

There they met Father Clyde, a softly spoken priest who seemed exceptionally well liked. At least little Damian liked him, probably because he was the only person that didn't call him little. He too declared little Theressa to be cuter.

They met Smiths and “Mawlners,” that he had to remember “is said maul, like when monster attack people, they maul them, ner. Mawlner,” and he was also not to “say it wrong later.” There were Winierends, Rapsons, and Forests. He met his second cousins, the Muses, all seven of them.

From youngest to oldest they were, “Tina Muse, three years old. Hi little baby.”

“Brett Muse, six years old. He does kind-da look retarted.”

“Shut up dumbass. Aunt Rose is right there. Brad Muse, Brett’s twin, older by one hour. Good to meet you little Damian. Put’er there,” he said with an outstretched palm. It wasn’t possible for the little baby to shake Brett Muse’s doppelganger’s hand.

“Mikey Muse, seven years old. You just think they’re both retarted, don’t you?”

“Matty Muse, eight years old. Brad’s right, stop saying retarted you guys.”

“Maple Muse, nine years old. Retarded or not he’s almost as cute as little Theressa.”

"Magdoline Muse, ten years old. Not uh Maple, the kitty is way cuter.”

The Muses, even the parents Matt and Nancy, replied with a chorus of eight “Yeah”s and head bobs.

There were too many people for little Damian to remember all their names at the time, but most of them had two things in common. They all said little Theressa was cuter and most of them were compelled to “goo” and “gawe” him for as long as each one of them damn well pleased. Fortunately for little Theressa, she was still sleeping and missed the whole affair. He was starting to get a little bit jealous of the sleepy kitten.

When the many greetings were over, the small talk started back up, and he was able to overhear some interesting things. The Rascals, led by his father, were made up of Rose, their archer, Dillon, their shield, Victor, their spear, Vance, their scout, and old Dean as their manager. They had a strong reputation among adventurers, some of whom were present to witness the blessing. One of whom, a seven-foot tall pig man named “Grizzly,” was particularly forthcoming about his adventures, and though he was hard to understand through his thick pig oink accent, he talked a lot about himself and his party.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

It seemed like adventurers were sort of freelance strong men for hire. They would go on quests, hunt monster, or provide security. They each had a rank represented by a precious metal. From low to high there were; copper, silver, gold, mythril, and adamantium. Little Damian had heard of all of those, but two of them were not on the periodic table that he was familiar with nor were there any mythril or adamantium adventurers in this town he learned is called “Brunseborough.”

The Rascals were silver. Depending on who's talking, they might be the strongest silver party in Brunseborough or a week party of “prairie pickers.” Them never having failed a quest was apparently an established fact though, inclining him to believe the former more likely. He didn't really think either were true.

He also overheard Grizzly, Dillion, and Jim, who used to be a Rascal, talking about monster. Some of the common monster in this area were goblin, kobold, huge bat, ogre, troll, and raptor. A bow dealt with raptor, fire for troll, and “you just gotta hit an ogre really hard.” Kobold and goblin seemed to be regarded as weak folder, and “what you really want, is to take a wind magician with you to hunt huge bat.”

Little Damian didn't know what these monster looked like but from their familiar names he could imagine. He’d killed all of those things with a click of a button before, but now he might have to physically kill them by hand or with magic. Magic seemed to be too expensive for regular use, but fire was regarded as an indispensable option for “making things dead,” while the majority of the killing seemed to be done up close and personal with a weapon, like a sword, a spear, an axe, or Grizzly’s club. It was three and a half-feet of dark red wood slung from his back with a white metal band and seven three-inch spikes on the business end. He called it “splatter.” Little Daman though the name was probably more literal than figurative.

Grizzly may have been forthcoming about adventure stuff, but no one talked about what he really wanted to know, what these blessings were. Everyone seemed to have a story about witnessing a birth blessing and presumably everyone gets something different. Surely it had to do with fighting monster, but no one said what they did, almost as if they were avoiding the subject.

He would have also liked to know more about his family's party, but they didn't say a word about where they went or what they did.

“You ought-da ditch the prairies. The mines been paying out lately, and the worst you'll run into is some kobold shaman,” the large pig-man suggested to Dillon, gesturing condescendingly to “splatter” on his back. Little Damian shuddered, counting himself as fortunate not to have reincarnated as a kobold shaman.

“I appreciate the tip, but the prairies are treating us just fine.”

“Look, I know the Rascals don't bring home much silver. Where ya’ll been stomping around at lately anyhow?”

“Now Grizzly, you know I don't talk about Rascal business,” was Dillon’s standard response to questions of that nature.

“Ha! I'm just sizzling your bacon,” the pig-man laughed in squeals more than oinks, like miss piggy if she were a seven-foot tall, angry wild boar-man squealing when she laughed, “but seriously, if you ever feel like playing in the big boy pen, the Rascals are always welcome to dive the mines with Slaughter House.”

Dillon gave an appreciative nod and said, “Thanks Grizzly. I'll keep that in mind, and tell Honey Bear I said hello.”

Grizzly oinked his agreements, nodding.

The women's gaggle, having quadrupled, was chatting away. Mostly about how cute little Theressa is, but they also told little Damian to “hang in there” and to “do your best.”

Around mid morning, as the gathering poured into the church, he heard a lady in a fancy hat talking about her nephew. He’d been blessed with herculean strength. Now he’s some big shot in the Royal Army. He never writes home.

Little Damian was having grand fantasies about fighting terrifying monster with super powers as he was carried into the impressive church.