Chapter 19

Steetch, Axorie and Freaky learned much on their visit to the town. Mostly Axorie, since she would invisibly lurk about interesting conversations, but the young men also gleened useful gossip. The town was a frontier settlement, having started as an outpost a mere century ago, and was surrounded by tiny communities huddled behind their wooden palisades, all within a half a day's journey. Their goddess of the wilderness, who dressed in leaves and often walked beside fierce beasts had held sway for the first fifty or sixty years since the founding of the town, (called Twomby) but over the past several decades another form of worship had emerged, a god of weather, a trickster of a god who could change form and look like anyone, changeble and capricious, but powerful and dangerous also. A sutible god for farmers, rather than frontiersmen.

So how come everyone speaks English?" queried Freaky querulously. "I mean, what are the chances of that?"

"There are an infinite number of dimentions," explained Steetch, sipping on his wooden mug of small beer. "Out of those, how many use something so close to English as to make no difference?" "I don't know, but it can't be too many, can it?" responded Freaky. "Wrong!" pounced Steetch triumphantly, "There are an infinite number of them!" "That doesn't seem to make sense." kvetched Freaky. "That's just the way things are with infinite sets." Steetch pronounced with a shrug. "Shush!" shushed Axorie. "I am trying to overhear those two gentlemen in the corner."

Meanwhile, back at camp, the large piebald mule and the equaly large, it seemed, cat, were becoming fast friends. Mr. Bigfoot was glad to have a companion who understood UASL, or Universal Animal Sign Language. Hardcase sort of understood it, but missed some of the nuances. Of course there were species differences, but it was more along the lines of accents, than different languages. All dogs know that a lashing cat's tail is almost the same as a lifted lip and raised hackles, and cats understand a wagging tail as meaning the same as lifted wiskers, but aside from the differences, it was much the same. A tabby could converse with a tiger, and a wolf could understand a fox or a dog. A horse would understand an elephant, more or less, since horses are the air-heads of the equine breeds, and a zebra would understand a mountaingoat, although they wouldn't have much in common to discuss. The two new friends who the humans called Mr. Bigfoot and Patches had much to discuss. "They're not as stupid as most two-footers," explained 'Mr. Bigfoot'. (I will maintain the twofooters nomenclature, as the UASL translations are untranslatable concepts.) "Although they are about as blind and deaf. You shouldn't assume that they know what is going on, make sure you clearly inform them of things you think should be obvious to anyone with eyes, ears, and a brain." The piebald mule known as Patches scoffed "Go teach your mother to suck eggs! I know how to coddle the twofooters. I even learned to understand the horrible mouth-noises they make. But you are right, these ones are nicer than most, and I will help you babysit them. I especialy like the one who's hair looks like it would be good to eat. She doesn't try to bully me." "I prefer the scentless one, myself," claimed 'Mr. Bigfoot'. "She knows just how to scratch my ears, and she is as quiet as I am on a hunt."

"Trolls!" exclaimed Hardcase, when she heard the news. "More like troglodytes," clarified Steetch, "Or Cavemen in contrast to humans, as Cavebears are to grizzlys." he finished. "That helps alot!" expostulated Hardcase, as she settled down to listen to what the other three had to say. It seemed as though the originals, as the folk more recently arrived called them, were quite primitive in their habits, and would gladly and opportunistically kill and eat anyone they could get their powerful hands on. Lately, within the last ten or twelve years, they seemed to be better led, and had executed brilliant plans (for Originals) and had even wiped out a palisaded camp, and had harassed well protected trading caravans. It was thought that a genius Original had emerged and formed the scattered bands into a mighty tribe. Relatively speaking, that is. Before that, they had merely snatched a child or five, but now they were dangerous even to groups of well armed men. A bounty was offered for the head of the Original leader, even though noone knew what he or she looked like. "Is this our Quest?" wailed a distraught Hardcase. "Do we have to become assassins!" "Well, I am not usualy on the side of the ones who kidnap and eat children." countered Freaky. "But maybe we could see what else we could do, aside from committing genocide." But, after all, they were Adventuring, and one does need a Quest, doesn't one?