Into his mind appeared an image that washed away his concerns over what had happened. Sharna stood there, shirtless, well formed breasts exposed. He had never seen such in his life. So beautiful…alluring. The sight and resight in his mind filled him with a tingling feeling.
He thought about that feeling. It was a feeling he could not identify…. He was reminded of his crush on Mona Ik, and he looked at the warrior woman through slit eyes. Could this feeling be a crush? She looked at him, smiled, a twinkle in her ever wanting eyes. He broke eye contact, turned away in hopes of hiding the crimson crawling up his cheeks.
She looked at him, eyes narrowed.
But before she could contemplate anything they reached the base of the hill and followed the road up it to Ty the Parson. When they reached him he paid them no mind, eyes focused on what lay ahead. All followed his eyes, and to a man, and women, they blinked. The road carried on down the hill and with a slight western bend made its way to two rivers, one blue and one green, flowing side by side east to west. Twin wooden bridges gave the road a turn due southward across them, and it was at the first bridge a man sat, back to them, legs dangling over the drop off.
This man was huge, tall and round—a butterball of fat—dressed in bizarrely spotted white tunic and breeches. By all evidence, especially the droop forward of his head, he was asleep.
"Who is that?" Orlon said quietly.
"I don’t know, but…" Sharna replied just as quietly, letting her voice trail off.
"But what?"
"The snake killer glides toward its slithery victim! The spider upon its web patiently awaits the vibration of ensnared bug! We must advance cautiously, quietly to escape possible entanglements that will endanger our quest’s completion," Ty the Parson said with a subdued voice, flail of limbs.
With that, he started down the hill without even a swish of his cloak. Orlon and Tarl watched him go, curious about the Parson’s cautionary reaction to the apparently sleeping man. The former not seeing how a man of such girth could be dangerous to them, the latter simply not wanting to find out what kind of nightmare the fat man might bring upon them.
"Hm," a Richtichtiare said, finger on chin, looking Marcol up and down. "I wonder why all this quiet is called for. A surprise party, perhaps…?"
"The kind he’d like, no doubt," the other Richtichtiare said and grabbing the seat of his pants, elaborated, "Featuring little party hats for all the little heads attending, if you get me."
To a man, and woman, the warriors frowned at the Grumplings, frowned at the mercenary. Marcol was no happier than they were about his loudmouthed tormenters' endless rant, but when it came to doing anything to silence them he still felt the sting of the bite on his palm. So all he could do in answer to their glare was shrug and smile lamely.
What happened next startled them all.
Again, to a man, and woman, the warriors turned their harsh glare on the Grumplings, whose taunts had slackened not in the least. Suddenly they did! First one, then the other Richtichtiare stopped in mid sentence, slowly swiveled their heads to cringe under the warriors' glare…. When they started up again their voices had not lost venom but came in a whisper.
Further glaring proved unfruitful, so they accepted what they could get from the Grumplings, and hands stilling swords, they hurried after the Parson, the rest close behind, just as cautiously quiet as those ahead of them.
The closer they got to the first bridge, the quieter they got, thankful the roar of the river’s rushing waters drowned out the Grumplings' whispered taunts. And the closer they got the huger the man got. He was nothing more than rolls and bulges of fat constrained by the stretched-to-the-limit seams of his clothing. Further, the closer they got the more he stank. He was dirty from his matted brown hair to the tips of his toes, the spots on his clothing food stains of various types.
His acrid odor burned their nostrils, brought tears to their eyes. They advanced nevertheless, restrained but eager to get beyond him and on their way.
Ty the Parson put a finger to his lips when they reached the man, the other hand signaling them on. He placed a foot on the bridge—and the man stirred. They stopped! The man grumbled and lifted an arm, scratched the smelly pit beneath. They watched, wide eyed. The man lifted his head, emitted a long and loud yawn. They swallowed quietly. With waves and rolls of fat the man worked his way up to his feet, back still toward them.
"Huh?" he said, round head rolling left and right on his round neck. He whipped around in amazing speed to face the Party.
Time ticked by. No one moved a muscle. They just stared at each other.
"Huh?" he repeated, scratching his head. He brought the plump hand down to wipe his thick lipped mouth. The act only moved around the filth about it, but for a crumb or two that fell to take up residence on his shirt. His inquisitive eyes looked them over inquisitively to the point it raised their nape hairs. His eyebrows furrowed, sending a speck or two of dirt to join the crumbs on his shirt. He yawned hugely, scratched his head again and said:
"Where you going?"
"The metal rod draws the lightning bolt! I, Ty, the Parson, and the Party guide the One to the layer of evil Tibtarnitallimardarian," Ty the Parson responded with a flail of arms and legs.
"Why?" the huge man cocked his head inquisitively.
"The pardon to one wrongfully condemned to execution! To save all that is good from an unjust fate."
"Why?"
Ty the Parson’s lips twitched, as did his limbs, but no words came.
Shing stepped forward and politely said, "We must go."
"Why?"
With a hand gesture behind his back Shing signaled the Party to go, and they started across the first bridge. Both Midgets glanced back at the huge man, shook their heads. For Tarl it was due to an odd disappointment that this apparent danger to them ended up being nothing more than a fat man asking silly questions. Orlon, on the other hand, was sorry and relieved. Sorry for the sad specimen the huge, dirty man turned out to be, relieved his biggest threat to them was asking questions in a most childlike manner.
"Got any food?"
Three steps onto the bridge, everyone stopped, slowly turned back to the huge man. Orlon noticed Roxx do the most curious thing. The cook swiftly angled his position directly between the huge man and his cart, head turned, whistling under his breath, eyes lost in the distance.
Again, Shing stepped forward, shaking his head, and opened his mouth to speak…
"I think I got some jerky," Chitintiare said, patting his pockets with both hands, and, patting his own pockets, Telluspett said, "Me, too."
"Wait," Shing and Grash warned.
First Chitintiare, then Telluspett beamed with joy, pulling a hefty pouch from a pocket and producing a strip of salty jerky from it. The huge man lumbered to them, licking his smiling lips. He snatched the jerky from them, gobbled it down and held out his plump hands for more. They obliged—and thus began a strip by strip feeding game.
"Dolts," Grash huffed at them. "Now we will never be rid of this Oaf."
"We’re Dorks, actually," Chitintiare informed him with a sneer. "Dolts are entirely different."
"Entirely," Telluspett affirmed, sneering. "Stupid little people, that’s what they are."
Both stuck their tongues out at him, then went back to feeding the Oaf.
Orlon looked from Grash to the Dorks and back again, shook his head and confronted what he did not understand. "What do you mean we’ll never get rid of him?" he asked.
"Ah," Grash said, settling in to answer the question, twisting an end of his handlebar mustache, "I have dealt with many of these…these Oafs in my time, during the wars, and seen the end result of their…deeds, if you will. Their infernal questioning, why this and why that, why, why, why… It is maddening! But that is not the worst of an Oaf. When they learn you have food, you need to worry. Oh, when they find out you have food—"