Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 45. The Farm, Part IV

Chapter 45

The Farm, Part IV (Need a spot, bro?!)

We file back inside the house, where the air in the hearth-lit room is warm, but brittle. The fragile tension shatters the moment Missus Baptiste sees her son. She rushes forward, a gasp escaping her lips that sounds like it’d been waiting in her lungs for hours. She sweeps Tasar into her arms, wrapping him in a thick, patchwork quilt. Immediately, she begins to stroke his hair, muttering comforting words. Tasar still looks in shock—eyes wide, shaking like he can’t get the cold off of him. But he’s alive.

Missus Baptiste fusses over him for another half a second, before settling him into a rocking chair near the fireplace and scurrying off into the kitchen. I hear clanking, and the clatter of glass and clay.

Clyde leans against the hall, casually spinning his pistol on his finger before it vanishes with the subtle flick of his wrist, pulled back into his Inventory. “Those things common around these parts?” he asks, voice flat, and dry.

Veronica sighs. She’s deposited her warhammer as well and is now seated on the stairs, chewing on her lip and tugging on one earlobe. I’m curious what she’s thinking about.

“Whut?” says Baptiste, raising an incredulous eyebrow. He’s standing behind Tasar, a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Giant Bats? Hell no!”

“They are more common near the forest’s edge,” Vultog says, stepping into the flickering firelight. The fire deepens the shadows of his face. Combined with his deep, rumbling voice? It’s a pretty unsettling effect. “They may harass farms close to the forest’s border, yes. But this one ventured very far. I suspect it was… drawn here.” A slight turn of his head, a sharp gaze settles over us. It lasts for only a second before the reflection of the hearth consumes the glass surface of his spectacles. But I catch his meaning. A blade of guilt wedges itself in my chest, sliding between my rib bones.

I swallow, a lump in my throat. “So, uh… what happened, exactly? Mrs. Baptiste said something about it asking to be invited in?”

Vultog nods solemnly. “Giant Bats can mimic an elvish appearance. The illusion is enhanced by the ability to hide some of their more animalistic features in the dark. Also, they sometimes wear the skin of their old victims. I suspect this one may have done as much.”

“That’s… fucked up,” is all I can say. I think back to the thing’s face and the dried, leathery skin of its human-like face. I shudder.

“What puzzles me is how the monster got its hands on young Tasar in the first place,” Vultog continues. “The Lady of the House placed a protective ward around this home. I believe it was a circle ward, keyed to invitation by a member of the family. Without it, no creature bearing ill will should have been able to cross the threshold uninvited.”

“He done reached in and snatched the boy, who answered the door,” Farmer Baptiste mutters, his voice low and ragged. His eyes are glassy, distant. I know he’s probably reliving the scene over again in his head. “Shoulda known. Who calls on our house at an hour like this? I wasn’t thinkin’. Asked Tasar to answer the door. With the good fortune of runnin’ into you lot, I figured ‘Hell, let’s see if fortune’s knockin’ again!’”

He looks away, into the fireplace. “Mores like misfortune, now.”

“That would explain how weak that Giant Bat was,” Vultog says. “It must have taken considerable damage pushing through Lady Baptiste’s wards. We struck the final blows, but it was already weakened.”

That’s when Missus Baptiste returns. Her hands are cupped around a steaming ceramic mug. She gently hands it to Tasar, who extends a hand from within his quilted shroud to take it. Whatever is in the mug smells earthy and spiced. “Here, son. Take this. Should make you feel bright as sunshine and burn out any infection that beast might have left behind.”

Tasar mumbles a small “Thank you,” and carefully takes a sip. His sisters huddle in closer, wrapping themselves around him like two miniature guardian angels.

“Giant Bats are solitary creatures,” Vultog says. “We should be safe now.”

I god damn hope he’s right.

Eventually, the house begins to quiet again. The warmth returns, but it’s thin and fragile. Everyone starts to drift off. Before Farmer Baptiste retires for the night, he places a single hand on my shoulder and whispers one last thank you. The party moves back to our borrowed room. Clyde flops onto the bed with a grunt. Veronica sits down slower, still in her metallic breastplate. I plop Jelly Boy down at the foot of her bed and despite the excitement and chaos of the Giant Bat attack, the slime is already snoring.

“I’ll restart my shift,” I say, already mentally resetting the timer in my System interface.

“You sure?” asks Veronica. Pixelated light covers her body as she unequips her armor.

“Yeah,” I reply. “You guys get some rest.”

They don’t argue. Everyone settles in to a tense, quiet state.

I settle back to my post near the door.

After tonight, I definitely trust the Baptistes more than I did before. That includes Vultog. Though something the orc had said still buzzes in the back of my skull, like a mosquito composed of pure guilt.

Did our presence bring that thing here?

Vultog definitely thought so.

I try to take my mind off the guilty thoughts, pulling up my Stats menu.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION…

[2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]

Now that I have a Class, the 2 Stat Points are in addition to the natural Stat growth offered by being a Muscle Mage. My Strength Score is sitting at a pretty impressive 25.

A small part of me is tempted to drop the 2 free Points into Strength and further increase the power of my Spells. But I learned my lesson about disproportionately favoring Strength the hard away, and sure as hell wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I drop both Points into Constitution with no more hesitation. I’ll feed Strength and Dex next time.

I close the screen and lean back against the wall.

The next morning drags itself into existence like an old dog waking up from a hard nap. My eyes crack open, and I’m hit with that all-too-familiar feeling of bones creaking and muscles arguing. I definitely miss my Tempur-Pedic mattress.

I sit up, brush the crust out of my eyes, and glance around the room.

Clyde’s by the door, sitting with his back against the wall.

“Yo,” I whisper, rubbing my face. “How long’s it been? You’re still on watch?” I ask. Clyde had taken the shift after me.

He shrugs without looking up. “Shift ended a while ago. Wasn’t tired. Figured I’d let Veronica and Jelly Boy catch a few more Z’s.”

I’m beginning to understand why he seems to always have dark bags under his eyes. It hadn’t seemed like he’d gotten much sleep during my shift either.

I glance at Veronica—she’s curled up in a blanket, one arm dangling off the side of the bed like she fell asleep mid-swing. Jelly Boy’s snoring softly, position squarely on her chest like a cat. My heart does a little twitch. Little guy is adorable.

“So long as you think you’ll be OK,” I whisper. “I’m gonna step outside, get some air.”

Clyde grunts. “Go for it.”

Outside, the sky’s just starting to lighten—one of those foggy-pink sunrises that looks like the world’s been dipped in watercolor and night is bleeding into day. The night’s chill still clings to the air. My breath puffs in front of me in little clouds. I pull my wizard’s cape tighter around me. It doesn’t help much.

The yard is quiet, save for the soft creak of a weathervane turning lazily in the breeze and the distant, sleepy bleat of what I’m sure if a goat and the more distant honking of geese.

I find the outhouse by instinct. Thankful I wouldn’t be forced to use the pot in our guestroom. I mean, I would have, if I had to. I’m just glad I didn’t have to.

The outhouse is exactly what you’d expect: wooden, slightly crooked, and inside is nothing more than a hole in the ground. I do my business, staring out the crescent moon cutout in the door, only now realizing I didn’t check if there was toilet paper.

There wasn’t.

Of course, there wasn’t.

But there was a folded newspaper. I reach down and snatch it off the outhouse floor. I can’t reach whatever language and symbols are written across the pages. This must be Farmer Baptiste’s—or perhaps Vultog’s—go to reading material. With only an ounce of shame, I tear away a page from the middle of the newspaper, hoping it’s a non-consequential page.

“Sorry,” I mutter, as I pinch the torn page in my fingers.

Once I’m done and ready to put that experience behind me forever, I zip up, step out, and take a deep breath of morning air that tastes like soil, frost, and possibilities.

Might as well start the day the only way I know how.

A workout.

I stretch. My muscles groan. The Lumberjack Boots on my feet are still slightly stiff, and the rest of my gear is not-so-ideal. Still, I take off jogging. My jog is slow at first, awkward. Boots weren’t exactly made for cardio, but until one of the Gates bestows me with a pair of enchanted New Balances, they’ll have to do.

The farm’s serene, quiet but still full of activity and life. It makes for a scenic run.

I jog past the wheat fields. That weird, shimmering wheat catches the light like strands of gold pulled from some divine loom.

Then there’s the scarecrow. Still on its post, arms outstretched like it’s trying to hug the horizon, a pitchfork still held in one hand. The golem’s cracked face is pointed toward the field, unmoving. Unbothered, unfazed.

I wave.

“Thanks for all the help last night, pal!”

As I round back towards the farmhouse, I spot Vultog. He’s shirtless, as he was the night before. The morning sun catches the orc’s green skin, which shines with a sheen of sweat like it’s been oiled up for a bodybuilding competition. The guy is absolutely jacked. He’s hauling two hay bales—one in each hand.

An idea forms in my mind, as I watch what is clearly a farmer carry. That’s core, legs, traps, shoulders. All firing at once. Looks like I’ll be getting a lift in too, I think, excited. It’s also a chance to chat more private with the orc. One jacked spellcaster to another.

I veer toward him, puffing as I jog up, waving a hand.

“Hey bro, need a spot?”

He stops and turns, his massive shoulders flexing as he glances over. His thick brow is twisted in confusion.

“Good morning,” he says, voice calm as a still lake. “Need a spot?”

“Need a hand,” I say, slowing to a walk. “Can I help you out? Carrying hay bales looks like some damn fine exercise.”

He eyes me a moment, probably calculating whether I’m serious or not. Then he gives a short nod. He sets his bales down with two soft thumps and strides over to grab two more. “It is indeed good physical exercise. Thank you.”

I mirror him, grabbing the rope-bound sides of my own two hay bales. They’re surprisingly heavy—real heavy—but not unmanageable. I begin to walk alongside the orc. My forearms light up. My shoulders start sending me angry text messages. It’s a good burn.

“Where we taking these?” I grunt.

“To the other side of the farm. Feed the cattle and geese.”

“Make sense.”

As we cut our path through the Baptiste’s property, I decide to broach a few of the topics I’m curious about.

“So… Uh, how did you end up working here on the Baptiste’s farm? I notice you don’t really talk like them. Actually, you seem like someone who had a pretty… Er, robust education.” I recall the System description denoting his Class as ‘Scholar’ and his Classification as being banished.

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Vultog is silent for a few moments, and I begin to accept that I might not get a lot of answers out of him. Then, he speaks. “I was banished from my Tribe. After wandering for some time, without a home and without a purpose, I stumbled upon Baptiste. He offered me the opportunity to work on this farm. And with that work came purpose. And with purpose, a peace of mind that has since allowed me to piece together who I once was.”

Well, that’s cryptic…

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, instead. “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you banished from your Tribe.”

A growl escapes his tusked mouth and for a moment I think I fucked up real bad. A sigh of relief escapes my lips when he answers. “My Tribe’s land was taken over by one of the Cardinal Hand… The Cult of Greed. I was one of our Scholars. We refused to bow to the Cult. All of my brethren were killed. Because of my youth, I was spared. Though in some ways, it’s a fate worse than death.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I’ve never been a sole survivor. So, I bite my tongue. “The Cardinal Hand… These were contestants in this Contest of the Gods, back in the day?”

Vultog glances at me from the side. “You’re mistaken. The Contest was amongst the Gods. They were vying for control and power. The inhabitants of this world were simply conduits for the larger, cosmic struggle. The Gods, we believe, decided at the dawn of time that they would not directly confront each other… Would not, or cannot. We were never certain.”

This Contest of the Gods has to be connected to the God Game I—and all of the other Participants—find ourselves in. Is it all really a proxy for some conflict amongst powerful, cosmic entities?

“Then why did the Cardinal Hand… Or anyone… Take part in the Contest?” I ask. I adjust my grip on one of the hay bales. My abs are on fire, and I try and control my breathing through the small spasms and cramps in my sides. It’s all made more difficult by the uneven terrain, forcing me to adjust my balance.

“Records from the time before the Gods departed this Land are rare,” says Vultog. “But the Gods needed champions to fight on their behalf. It was said the champion of the victorious God would receive their heart’s desire. The Contest was a war that devoured this world. I suspect the Cardinal Hand were the champions of the losing Gods. But it’s only a theory…”

“Interesting,” is all I can muster saying, because my mind is reeling. When he says the Gods left this Realm, where did they go? I was beginning to suspect I knew the answer. What was truly taking place behind the scenes of this Game we all found ourselves in?

We round another barn and that thought dies an ugly, wheezing death.

Behind a stretch of wire fencing is a scene straight out of a fever dream.

Three geese stand like bouncers at the gates of hell. Each one at least four feet tall, and every damn one of them has two heads. A geese with white feathers and an orange bill turns its heads towards us at our arrival with the hay bales. One head hisses. The other honks. Its eyes are black, soulless beads of judgment.

And then there are the other things.

Two giant stag beetles the size of Clydesdales lumber around the pen, mandibles twitching, eyes glossy and unblinking. Their dark carapaces are slick with morning dew.

“What the actual hell?” I hiss, stumbling back and almost tripping over my feet.

Vultog snorts. “Do they not have cattle in the world you come from?”

“Not like this,” I say, eyes locked on the beetles.

The geese honk in unison.

I flinch. One of them flaps its wings at me menacingly. I mentally prepare to cast Wizard’s Fist.

Vultog, unbothered, drops his bales with the casual ease of someone who’s been doing this since was a young orc. Then, without warning, he picks one up again, shifts his stance, and launches into a hay bale toss.

He grabs the rope hand-over-hand, rotates his entire torso, drags the bale in toward his body, and then whips it with a final twist. The bale sails through the air like a fluffy missile and lands dead center in the pen.

“Damn,” I whisper.

“You try,” he says.

I smile, teeth flashing. “I’d love to!”

I pick up my bale, trying to remember what he just did. Grip, twist, heave.

My first throw goes maybe… eight feet. A solid disappointment.

Vultog nods solemnly. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth, grab the second one, reset my feet, and this time I really focus on my hip rotation. I twist through the motion and let it rip. The hay bale goes much further, landing only a bale’s length short of where Vultog’s first throw landed.

Holy hell this is a workout!

“Better,” says Vultog.

We keep it going—another round, then another. Hiking the bales up to the pen, then tossing them. Hay flying through the air like golden missiles. By the time we finish the third trip, my shirt’s soaked. My shoulders are screaming. My core is melting.

Then he breaks it up by moving over to a stack of feed bags. They’re massive sacks, large enough that I can barely wrap my arms around them. He picks one up like it’s a teddy bear and cradles it in the crook of his elbows—Zercher style.

Hell yes. I’ve done plenty of similar workouts, whether with a barbell or one of those large slam balls filled with sand.

I follow suit. The bag’s at least 160 pounds. My biceps explode in protest. My upper back joins the mutiny. We start walking, uphill of course, toward the shed on the rise.

“This is a steep ass hill!” I gasp.

Vultog nods. “It’s where we must go.”

No argument here.

My arms are shaking, but my heart is singing. The morning workout has officially transformed into a morning quest. The monsters aren’t just in dungeons—they’re in the weight you carry, the sweat you shed, the next rep between yourself and failure. I’m grinning from ear-to-ear. This is one of the best workouts I’ve had in a long time.

We crest the hill. My calves are screaming, old tee shirt plastered to my skin with sweat. Vultog leads us to a long wooden trough lined with rusted iron hoops, the kind of farm tech that hasn’t changed in a thousand years because it doesn’t need to.

He drops the feed bag with a thud that sends a puff of grainy dust into the air. I follow suit, my arms screaming in gratitude. We both grab the bags and upend them over the trough. The mix pours out in slow, heavy clumps. The double-headed geese honk in the distance.

“So, uh…” I nervously try to work out how to ask my next question. “You’re a monster, right?”

Vultog stops pouring his bag of feet, straightens and gives me a cautious look you give someone who has ignorantly said something offensive but you’re willing to give them the chance to re-think what they’re about to say next.

“Err… I mean, you’re not like the Baptistes. But you’re also not like that Giant Bat we fought off, either.”

Great save, Joe, you jackass!

A low grumble boils in the orc’s throat. “I see what you mean,” he says. “Monster is indeed a term some people would use to describe my people. It varies on the taxonomy used, and that particular categorization is demeaning to the Orcish people.” He sighs. “Though it is not unfounded.”

I practically drop my feed bag as I raise my hands defensively. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say. I have lots of Monster friends! Goodness, I sound like a freaking idiot. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not an… What was the term you used, Outworlder? Right. Anyways. It’s all so foreign to me… I’m just trying to understand. But I know that ignorance is no excuse… So, I’m sorry.”

Vultog let’s the word vomit wash over him with immense grace. “It’s alright… As I said, it’s not unfounded. The Elvish scholars who use the term ‘monster’ use it as a catch-all for creatures not native to this Realm. They further delineate ‘monster’ into sub-categories, including those of high intelligence and worthy of moral consideration. Such as Orcs.”

“Did you say not native to this Realm? So, you’re an Outworlder as well?” I ask.

“A descendant of one, in a sense. My people refer to monsters as the Gate-borne.”

“Gate-borne?”

“Our ancestors—the first Orcs of this Realm—arrived alongside the Gods, using the Gates they used to enter this world. We came with the dawn of the Contest, as all monsters did. Elves, humans and the sea-folk are the only native species of this world. All others can only trace their histories back to the dawn of the Contest.”

“Interesting.”

So, that explains how the System differentiates Monsters from non-Monster creatures. Vultog was only the most recent in a long line of sapient monsters I’ve met since the System’s arrival on Earth. Without the System messages denoting them as such, there would be little distinction between Vultog and Baptiste. Though there was probably more beneath the surface I didn’t understand. For example, why was the Baptistes’ golem classified as a Monster? I had no idea, but the information Vultog offered up so willingly was invaluable.

We finish emptying our bags of feed without anymore social faux pas.

“Thank you for the assistance,” Vultog says, brushing the leftover grain off his palms. His tusks flash in the early sun, and for a second, I catch the faintest grin.

A bell rings in the distance—an old, brass clang that rolls through the hills like the voice of a sleepy god. It echoes off the barn walls, bounces across the wheat fields, and even shuts the geese up for a blessed moment.

“That is the Lady calling us in for breakfast,” Vultog says. “We should go, as we’ll be heading out to the City this morning.”

But I don’t move. Not yet. My legs are toast, but my mind’s racing. Ever since witnessing Vultog’s spellcasting last evening, the seed of an idea has been growing in the back of my mind. I chew on my lower lip, then finally say it.

“Hey, uh… Vultog. Can I ask you something?”

He turns to me, arms crossed over his massive chest. Nods once in what I’m learning is his typical, stoic fashion.

“So, I’ve got this ritual,” I say, trying to sound casual, which is hard when you’re drenched in sweat and still winded. “It’s called Pact of the Novice Scribe. It allows me to perform the ritual with someone else and obtain a new spell… But it requires a willing participant, and one with sufficient mana to participate in the spell.”

He tilts his head. “You require my mana?”

“Kind of,” I say. “I mean, not all of it. Just a bit. I hope. But you’ll need a good chunk to work with. You got high mana?”

“As a Scholar, my reserves are considerable,” he says, voice even, proud but not boastful.

I take a quick peek at my Stamina bar, which is slowly replenishing and almost back to full. I mentally circle the Maximum number beneath the bar. “Would you say you have at least 145 Mana?”

The orc’s face twists in confusion. “145? I’m not sure how you measure mana reserves. As a Scholar, I have above-average mana, especially when compared to other Orcs. Though I do not know how to measure such things numerically. The number you quoted seems… arbitrary.”

“Right,” I say. No stat screen, huh? I rub the back of my neck. “Okay. Well, guess I just have to trust the vibes.”

“The vibes?”

I take a knee, letting my Stamina bar finish its refill. Once it’s topped off, I stand, clapping my hands together.

“Alright. Let’s do this.”

We step away from the trough and I mentally prepare the ritual. I reach my hands out, palms raised towards the sky. “If you wouldn’t mind participating, then take my hands,” I say.

Vultog examines my open palms for a few moments, then nods, placing his large, callused hands into mine.

[Pact of the Novice Scribe]

The ritual goes smoothly enough, and unlike last time I’m prepared for the experience as a shimmer of energy flows from Vultog to me like a lazy river made of pure blue light. The pure blue light then surrounds us in an aura before eventually dispersing into motes of azure fireflies that eventually turn to dust, disappearing on an invisible breeze.

At the conclusion of the ritual, I’m greeted my a ping! and the familiar pulse in my mind.

Ritual complete! Pact of the Novice Scribe: Successful.

[New Spell: Locate Ally]

Locate Ally (Divination Spell: Level 2)

Casting Time: Instant

Stamina Cost: 30 Points

Range: 20 Mile Radius

Duration: 1 hour

Description: Sends a locating pulse of energy from the spellcaster’s body. As long as an allied creature or party member is within range, their location will appear in the Map Menu. The spellcaster’s Map will also provide certain other information regarding creatures located through the use of this Spell. This spell cannot locate creatures protected from divination.

A wave of exhaustion crashes into my body as my Stamina bottoms out. I collapse to one knee. Vultog exclaims in surprise, rushing to my side.

I blink, refocusing my attention of the System message still hovering in front of my face. Read it again. My shoulders slump.

That’s it? Locate Ally?! And just like that, my dreams of creating an Ink-Joseph to hulk out and join Lefty and Righty in combat dies before it can even be fully realized.

“What is the manner? Are you alright?... I can feel a decent portion of my Mana was drained. Was the ritual successful?”

“It was,” I breathe. My head spins but I get to my feet with Vultog’s own Strength assisting me. I instantly begin to feel better as my Stamina ticks upward. “I learned the Locate Ally Spell.”

Vultog tilts his head. “You seem disappointed.”

I nod slowly, frowning. “Yeah. Have to admit, I was hoping for something a little more useful.”

The orc folds his muscled arms against his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing like living stone. “The ability to find your allies quickly and efficiently may save your or their life one day. That is a very useful Spell.”

My cheeks flare with heat, and I suddenly feel like a spoiled child unhappy with the toy he received for Christmas. “You’re right… It seems like a good utility spell.”

Vultog nods. “Do you think you will be able to walk back on your own?”

Now it’s my turn to nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Vultog turns and begins striding back down the hill. I follow, a half-step behind, boots squelching in the morning dew.

Breakfast is simple, rustic, and protein-packed.

Cornbread. Crumbly, golden brown and caramelized on the bottom from the use of a cast iron skillet. It’s paired with bowls of hardboiled eggs, already peeled and stacked up to my eye level.

Veronica, Jelly Boy and Clyde are already seated alongside Farmer Baptiste and the children when Vultog and I arrive. Vultog pulled on a linen shirt that he had draped over the porch banister. Veronica is quietly enjoying the breakfast, as is Jelly Boy—an egg suspended in his oozy form, slowly dissolving. Clyde isn’t eating, but I notice he’s sipping on a cup of what smell like dark roast coffee. I’m happy to see him relaxing a bit.

I grab several eggs, splitting them in half with a fork. Each egg is larger than a chicken’s, and the yolk is dark—almost a red-orange in color. I throw one half into my mouth and chew. Softer than I expected, and… eggier? It’s amazingly rich and creamy. I immediately shove more into my mouth, chewing happily.

“Someone’s hungry,” Veronica says, one eyebrow raised as she delicately chews on a bite of cornbread.

“Protein,” I say through a mouthful, reaching over to pile more eggs onto my plate and also grab a slab of cornbread. I swallow. “Eggs are one of the best foods.” I try to ignore that these most likely came from two-headed giant geese.

Breakfast ends too soon, and suddenly it’s go-time.

Farmer Baptiste and Vultog are outside, moving with the speed and precision of men who’ve done this a thousand times before. The carts are already prepped, the crates secured, the supplies packed. But the pullers?

Two of the giant stag beetle stand at the ready, one harnessed to each cart. Their glossy black carapaces catch the morning light like polished obsidian. Their mandibles click in slow, deliberate patterns, and their segmented legs twitch with eagerness and nervous energy.

Veronica makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a gag. “Nope. Nope. Nope-nope-nope. No one told me there’d be bugs the size of SUVs. That’s a hard pass from me.” She cowers behind me. I hear Ulesse chuckle.

Clyde stares at them with the wide eyes of a man trying very hard to pretend he’s not absolutely terrified.

“Pretty cool, right?” I say. I am actually pretty calm, but only because I had the privilege of losing my shit the first time I saw these things.

He nods way too fast. “Y-yeah. Totally cool.”

Jelly Boy oozes a little closer, stretching upward, a pseudopod forming what looks suspiciously like a curious hand. One of the beetles twitches its mandibles. Jelly immediately slinks back, his goo-body rippling with what I can only interpret as fascinated horror.

Missus Baptiste wipes her hands on her apron and walks out to meet us.

“Thank ya,” she says. “All of ya. For helping save Tasar. You didn’t have to. But you did.”

Syllia steps forward, small hands balled into fists. She bites her lip, then blurts, “Thank you…!” She’s still got a little fear in her voice, but there’s a spark there too—like she’s still scared, but a little less scared of the strange humans before her.

Ulesse grins, gap-toothed and dirty-faced. “Y’all ain’t that bad! Or all that weird.”

I ruffle her hair, and she squeals, swatting my hand away with the kind of mock annoyance that only kids can pull off without sounding like jerks. “Thanks, kid.”

Tasar stands a few steps behind his sisters, arms crossed. He doesn’t speak. But he gives us a curt nod, jaw tight. Still bummed about not coming to the city, but clearly grateful in his own quiet, almost-a-teenage-boy way. Which, frankly, is high praise.

We climb into the carts.

Clyde joins Farmer Baptiste at the front of the lead wagon, sitting up tall and trying very hard to pretend he’s not sweating bullets about the monster beetle in front of him.

I take the front bench of the second cart, right beside Vultog, who sits straight-backed and serene, reigns comfortably in his grip. Veronica and Jelly Boy clamber into the back. Veronica grips the edge of the cart like she’s getting into a rollercoaster she didn’t sign up for. Jelly jiggles contentedly. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

With a sharp whistle from Baptiste and a chittering clack from the beetles, the carts lurch into motion.

And just like that, we’re off, rolling away from the farmhouse and towards the bronze horizon.