"I want more."
"But I don—"
Everyone turned to the Oaf, jaws dropped. The huge man held Chitintiare up by an arm, the empty jerky pouch floating to the ground, his other plump hand patting him down roughly. Once he was certain the Dork had no more food, which took a while, he tossed him over a shoulder, to land in a heap several yards away. And the Oaf turned to Telluspett, standing there, clearly empty pouch in hand, and said:
"I want more."
"But I don—"
The Oaf snatched him up by an arm and performed a rough pat-down search for more jerky. Once certain he was not going to find anything eatable, he tossed him over a shoulder, to land on Chitintiare, who had just gotten to his feet. They collapsed in a heap. Dorks forgotten, he stood there, eyes blank, scratching his head with a plump finger. Scraping through his matted hair, it sounded more like a finger scratching a dirt mound, dislodged specks raining down onto his shoulders added to the effect.
With a blink, he looked at Bobtart Towne, who smiled at him. He scratched his head again and frowned a moment before saying, "Got any food?"
"Why, ye—" Bobtart Towne started.
"You know," Orlon piped up, looking from the Oaf to the woods and back again. He hurried to the huge man, smiling pleasantly. "You know—" he took him by the forearm, fingers breaking through the crust, sinking into the flabby flesh beneath "—um, I didn’t catch your name…?"
After a blink, the Oaf said, "Obnoxium Dronus…. You know what?"
"I hear, Obnoxium," the Midget said, gently guiding him toward the woods, "there’s a house in these woods." He bobbed his eyebrows. "A big house."
Obnoxium Dronus looked from him to the woods and back again, face blank.
"I hear," he went on, "it’s made of…gingerbread."
"Oh boy!" the Oaf clapped his hands together, and he ran into the woods.
"Hark," Marcol said, stepping close to Shing. "Will the telling of such an untruth tarnish the One’s purity?"
"Is it an untruth?" Shing replied calmly and walked away.
Marcol gave him a double-take, and he frowned.
"As I was about to say," Bobtart Towne said, bowing, and drawing their attention to his home with a sweep of a hand, he quoted, "Why, yes, we have plenty of food and, it being lunchtime, would be honored to share it with our newfound allies."
Now that their wounds and woes concerning the rock throwing were taken care of, the Party willingly let their attention be drawn to the house. The jolt that hit the lot of them was audible. The back of the house looked like the front of a house! There was a door in the center, bordered on each side by a window, and a one step porch spanned the house’s length. But rather than flower pots or a swing or outdoor furniture, two large piles of rocks filled the porch.
At the door stood a muscle-bound woman and three muscle-bound boys, each with a rock in hand. The woman stood no taller than five feet five inches, her shapely-for-all-the-muscles body fit snuggly into plain brown dress, petite feet in slippers. Her square face was attractive beneath the harsh lines of its hard expression and framed in curly brown hair. The boys ranged in age from six to thirteen and wore dirt brown tunics and breeches, their feet bare. The thick mops of brown hair atop their heads and peach-fuzzy faces marked them the sons of their gracious host.
Bobtart Towne went to them, and they huddled on the porch to talk.
Orlon looked at them, shook his head in disbelief that those five could be responsible for the deluge of rocks thrown from behind this house… The thought they could throw with both hands popped into his head, but he quickly dismissed it. If that was true, they would have a rock in each hand, would they not? Then his interest shifted from this mystery to another. What were they talking about?
They talked so softly he was left to watch their expressions in hopes of gauging reaction to whatever might be the topic. Yet he quickly learned with Bobtart Towne’s stern-yet-waiting-to-bust-out-smiling expression and the woman’s and boys' hard expressions that was impossible. By chance, he looked at the woman' hazel eyes—and found the key. Never before had he seen such emotional expressive eyes in his life!
And what emotions he read in her eyes stunned him. Anger, disbelief, frustration, dislike… Not the type of emotions that bode well for the Party’s future. Then he read resignation in those eyes, and after a few more words the huddle broke, and all five turned to face their guests.
"I and my wife, Bretta, and our boys welcome you to our home," Bobtart Towne said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. "Do come in and enjoy what meager comforts we have to offer."
Bretta glanced at him with disgruntled eyes. "Please do," she said, a smile cracking her hard-set features.
With that, she spun around and, urging her children ahead of her, entered the house.
Bobtart Towne remained at the door, signaling his newfound allies in with a hand wave.
First to take up the invitation was Ty the Parson who strolled into the house. Grash was close on his heels, followed not so closely by Shing. Thus like metal shards to a magnet, the Party began straggling in after them. Sharna was the last to reach the door, where she paused, aware of Orlon’s absence. She looked back just as Tarl, followed by Mishto, reached her charge.
"That was some story you fed that fatso," Tarl said, elbowing his best friend. "But where in the whole wide world did you come up with that gingerbread house bit?"
"I didn’t come up with anything," Orlon said a little testily.
"Oh, come on, buddy o' mine," Tarl looked at him dubiously. "You had to come up with it. I mean, how could you possibly know what is in those woods?"
Orlon shrugged. "I must’ve read it in a book," he hazarded a guess.
Tarl gave him a double-take.
"Come on, Orlon," Sharna called.
He hurried to join her, Tarl and Mishto close behind, and the three followed the warrior woman by Bobtart Towne and into the house. They walked down a short hall, passing a doorway to the left. Orlon peeked in to find a small kitchen beyond. Bretta stood at a counter, stirring something in a bowl, a pile of sliced vegetables and platter of meat chunks nearby. The three boys were busy lighting a fire in the stove.
The short hall led into a big room where they found the Party crowded onto a circular rug in its center. They joined them, squeezed in to get on the carpet, and all waited quietly for whatever came next.
Orlon took the time to look about the room in hopes of getting an insight to their big host and his petite wife and their brood. In general, he found nothing unusual. To the right wall was a rust colored sofa with coffee table and end tables. Beside these was a closed door that must lead to bedrooms. On the left wall was a fireplace, a fire blazing within, and haphazardly stacked logs awaiting use in a box nearby. By the hall door was a table surrounded by five chairs.
There were two curious items, however, he knew told the insight he sought. On the mantel above the fireplace were three rows of neatly lined rocks. The front wall, plain wall on the outside, was covered by a dusty blanket inside. While the others milled about, eyes noncommittally on this and that and nothing at all, he looked back and forth between the curiosities in wonderment. Yes, both did tell a tale, but he could not fathom either.
Bobtart Towne entered, was taken aback to find them standing there like that. "My home is yours," he said. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
"We thank you," Shing and Grash said simultaneously, and the latter frowned at the former.
By everyone’s reaction it was obvious the One—Orlon—would profit before the rest. In this case that meant he was afforded the sofa to get comfortable on, which meant his self proclaimed guardian, Sharna, gained the same comfort. The sofa was big enough to give Ty the Parson, Grash and Shing a seat as well. The rest of the Party settled on the floor round them.