Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 42. The Farm, Part I

Chapter 42

The Farm, Part I (Casa de Baptiste)

“Well, now, m’pologies,” says Farmer Baptiste as he finally lowers the nightmare in his hands pretending to be a shotgun.

The blunderbuss—if you can even call it that—actually licks its own muzzle with a wet, slurping sound. A fat, purple tongue, slick as an oil spill, worms out and wipes the barrel clean. The front of the weapon bends into what is clearly a frown, the metal folding into a distinct, cartoonishly disappointed face.

Veronica takes half a step back. Jelly Boy buzzes defensively. Clyde just grunts like he’s seen worse.

Baptiste gives a lopsided shrug, like this is normal behavior for firearms (maybe it is in this Realm). “Ya have to understand me wantin’ to protect my property, what with ya’ll just wanderin’ in.”

“We weren’t looking for a fight,” Veronica says, arms crossed tight over her chest, her hammer resting in front of her, the weapon’s head on the ground near her feet. “Your scarecrow attacked us. We were just defending ourselves.”

The farmer blinks twice, face painted with shock as though surprised she was speaking. His mouth wordlessly works for a moment before he finally speaks up. “Attacked ya’ll, now did it?” Baptiste squints at the battered golem, still standing there like a shamed dog caught eating out of the garbage.

He marches over to it, boots crunching dry stalks underfoot. He’s wearing plain overalls that at my distance appear to be made from a brown, denim-like material.

“What is you doin’ attackin’ these savag—” Baptiste stops himself mid-word, catching the look Veronica’s giving him, the kind of look that could turn wine into vinegar.

“Fine, innocent folk,” he says instead, a little too brightly.

Then he reaches into one of his many bulging pockets and pulls out a stone. It’s a roughly round cystal, about the size of a chicken egg, smooth and pulsing with the same sickly green light that leaks from the golem's stitched-on eyeballs.

The moment Baptiste brings it out, I feel the energy in the air shift. The hairs on my arms stand up, and my lips and teeth feel a faint buzz, like I’d just made out with an electrical outlet.

The light from the crystal whips out like a tongue, wrapping around the golem’s broken form. There’s a gross slurping sound as its shredded cornmeal-and-bone guts slurp back into place, its skin and joints knitting with sizzling pops.

I gag a little.

The golem straightens. It doesn’t look great, but it’s standing. Its eyes flash once with that unsettling toxic green.

Lefty and Righty both float in front of me. They crack their knuckles in perfect unison, like they're ready to launch into a bar brawl with the now-patched-up golem.

Baptiste doesn’t even flinch at the sight of the spectral hands. His attention is still focused on his scarecrow.

“Now, go on, git!” he barks, snapping his fingers at the thing like it’s an unruly dog. “Back to yer post! Yer s’pose to be watchin’ for them giant flyin’ reptiles, not innocent passers-by!”

Did he just say giant flying reptiles? I wonder if he means dragons. I’m reminded of the task that hangs over the party’s heads.

The golem hesitates, shoulders hunched and somehow looking… sheepish? Can eldritch grain-filled abominations feel shame?

It lumbers off, dragging its patched-up body back into the golden fields, disappearing among the stalks like a monster returning to its haunted corn maze. We all stand there, watching the wheat settle, the only sound the faint creak and groan of wood on wood as the scarecrow retakes its position atop its pole, its pitchfork still in one hand.

“Welp,” Baptiste says, tucking his blunderbuss under one arms and dusting off his hands. “That’s sorted.”

I open my mouth to respond. But honestly? I have no idea what to say to that.

Baptiste flashes us a grin full of crooked teeth.

Baptiste turns back toward us, one meaty, calloused hand shielding his squinty eyes from the sun, which isn’t quite setting but sitting pretty low in the sky. Clyde’s pistol is still out, I notice, hanging casual-like at his side but ready to snap up if Baptiste so much as breathes weird.

Good man, Clyde. I mentally confirm Lefty and Righty are also ready to go, if necessary. The spectral hands hover between me and the elf farmer.

“Now,” Baptiste says, his voice like gravel in a blender, “you said you were wantin’ help gettin’ to the City?”

“That’s right,” Clyde answers, tone careful. Negotiator mode activated.

Baptiste scratches his chin, rough enough that I swear I hear the scrape. His long, pointed ears twitch slightly, like satellite dishes catching a transmission only he can hear.

“Well, I ain’t headin’ into La Galcia ‘til tomorrow mornin’,” he says, hitching his mutant blunderbuss higher on his shoulder. “But ya’ll can hitch a ride with me then.”

“La Galcia?” I ask, the name feeling weird and chewy on my tongue. “That’s a city? How far is it from here?”

“Biggest settlement within a day’s travel of here,” Baptiste says, wiping his nose on the strap of his overalls like it’s a built-in handkerchief. “O’course, there’s the matter of recompense for my troubles. Ya’ll will be takin’ up valuable space I’d normally use to haul crops, after all.”

There it is. I knew that was coming. Nothing in this world’s free, especially not rides from creepy scarecrow-wielding farmers who apparently sleep with flesh-guns for protection.

Clyde flashes the gold piece again. The coin catches the sunlight, flaring like a mini sun between his fingers. Baptiste’s eyes narrow.

“We’d be willing to pay you a gold piece,” Clyde says smoothly, “for your trouble. Once we’re safely to the city, of course.”

Baptiste hocks another disgusting wad of something unspeakable onto the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his boot like he’s snuffing out a cigarette made of spite. He works his jaw, making noises like an old lawnmower trying to start. Thinking.

“Of course… Though a gold piece prolly barely makin’ up my lost revenue,” he says after a beat, tone so mournful you’d think we were tyrants coming to take our share of his hard-earned yield.

Then he grins. It’s a terrible grin. “But I’m a kind soul. I’ll call it a deal. Ya’ll are even welcome to stay under my roof for the night, me bein’ so kind and all.”

Behind him, the house looms. A light flickers behind one grime-smeared window, and I swear I see a shadow move across it. Something big. Something that makes my brain scream nope without even consulting the rest of me.

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We all exchange looks.

I shrug. “Deal,” I say.

Clyde’s head whips toward me so fast you’d think someone slapped him. He gives me a look that very clearly translates to: What the actual fuck, man?!

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I shrug again. I hope it translates: What the hell else are we supposed to do, man? Travel by foot during the night when there are things like giant flying reptiles hanging around?

Veronica just rolls her eyes and Jelly Boy gurgles contentedly, oblivious.

Baptiste claps his hands once, the sound sharp and final.

“Good! Supper’s near ready! Hope ya’ll like stew. The missus makes a damn fine stew.”

As Baptiste ambles back toward the house, humming a tuneless little song under his breath, we follow at a safe distance, trying not to think too hard about what else might be waiting for us inside.

Baptiste marches ahead of us, boots thudding against the dirt path. The farmhouse grows larger and uglier with every step, a Frankenstein’s monster of mismatched lumber and rusty nails. Some parts lean awkwardly, like they’re too tired to stand up straight. A wind chime made of scrap metal clatters from the covered porch, laughing in the dying breeze.

Just as we hit the creaky porch, the door bursts open and out tumble three kids, each a blur of frantic energy and too-big ears.

“Pa! Pa!” the second tallest of the three kids yells, voice cracking like a dying radio. “Who’re they?!”

Behind that kid trails the tallest of the three. A boy, he’s maybe eleven, but he’s built like a kid who grew up wrestling pigs, and probably helping his dad on the farm. Behind him are two girls—one about eight, the other barely five, from the looks of it. The youngest girl is clutching a ragged stuffed animal that might have been a rabbit in another life. Probably a hand-me-down.

The littlest one spots us and lets out a blood-curdling scream, darting behind the woman who steps out onto the porch right after them.

She’s stocky and solid, like someone carved her out of sunbaked stone. Same tanned skin as Baptiste, same messy blond hair, and those unmistakably too-long, too-pointy ears. Her eyes flash, catching the last light of the sun like two little campfires.

“Are those humans?!” the little one squeals, peeking out from behind her mom’s skirt with the wide-eyed horror of someone spotting a live rattlesnake.

The oldest kid just says, “Neat,” like he’s just found a new bug to poke with a stick.

The woman plants her fists on her hips. “Alok, now who are these folks?”

Baptiste tips his head back and grins, like everything is perfectly normal. Like inviting complete strangers into your patchwork farmhouse is just good Southern hospitality. Are we even in the ‘south’ of this Realm? I think. Based on the map we received, it doesn’t seem so.

“This here’s my missus, Syllia,” he says. Then he jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the kids. “Oldest’s Tasar. That there’s Ulesse.” He points to the middle child, who sticks out her tongue at us in open defiance. “And that lil’ screecher’s Sana.”

Sana immediately hides again, clutching the stuffed pseudo-rabbit like it’s a holy relic that could ward us off.

“They’s just some folks passin’ through,” Baptiste continues. “I’m givin’ ‘em a ride when I head into the City come mornin’. Which means—” he turns, locking eyes with Tasar “—you ain’t comin’ with me and Vultog this time. Ain’t gunna have enough room.”

Tasar’s face crumples like a kicked paper bag. “Aw, pops, you serious?”

“No arguin’. Gotta make room.”

Syllia sighs, the sound thick with the weight of a thousand resigned arguments she’s already lost. She gives us a tired, appraising once-over.

“Well,” she says, “I wasn’t expectin’ company, so you’re gonna have to excuse the state of the house. But there should be enough dinner for everyone, thank goodness I always make more than these four can eat.”

From inside, something heavy thumps and rattles, like an angry dog throwing a tantrum in a metal trash can.

“Vultog ain’t gonna be too happy ‘bout the lack of second helpins’, but nothin’ we can do about that,” Baptiste says with a chuckle.

I exchange a quick, frantic glance with Clyde and Veronica, who both look equally alarmed at the mention of Vultog, whatever the hell that is.

Clyde’s hand hovers near his pistol again. Veronica’s fingers twitch around the shaft of her warhammer. Jelly Boy gurgles ominously. Or, perhaps that was his approximation of a stomach gurgling at the sound of anger. I didn’t quite catch it.

Me? I just smile and say, “Sounds great.” I walk up and extend a hand towards Missus Baptiste. “I’m Joseph by the way,” I add.

Missus Baptiste looks at me like I just sprouted two heads. I am beginning to suspect that humans—or at least humans capable of coherent speech—are something of an oddity around these parts. After a moment, she seems to remember herself and hesitantly takes my hand. “A pleasure,” she says.

A System-generated textbox appears over her head.

Identified: Mrs. Baptiste, Level 17 Biomancer, Elf.

Interesting. A Biomancer? Based on the name, I wonder if she’s responsible for creating that golem out there?

The elven family leads us inside of their house.

The inside of the Baptiste house smells like wood polish, burnt coffee, and something savory stewing on the stove. Missus Baptiste waves us inside with the no-nonsense authority of a queen in her own domain.

“Come on now, don’t dawdle,” she says, bustling ahead. “Ain’t polite to keep supper waitin’, and it sure as sugar ain’t polite to stink up my clean floors with that travel dust you’re carryin’.”

I glance down at my boots, suddenly guilty, even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure Farmer Baptiste is dirtier than any of us.

The place is modest. The first floor is largely one big room. An open doorway leads towards the back of the house, and I can see the kitchen from where we stand. There’s a crooked staircase leading up to the second floor and a fireplace that’s way too big for the room it’s in, currently hosting a small, crackling fire. A rug and some furniture fill the space.

Missus Baptiste leads us upstairs to a small room, opens the door, and gestures inside. “This here’s where my sister stays when she bothers to visit,” she says. “Ain’t here now, obviously.”

The room’s about as exciting as a loaf of plain bread. Two twin beds shoved against opposite walls, a little side table with a chipped oil lamp, and a pot in the corner that I really hope is for flowers and not, y'know, other things. There’s another table with a few rags and a basin of water.

She dusts her hands on her apron. “I’ll be downstairs finishin’ up dinner. Ya’ll freshen up or whatever ya need to do. But don’t take too long, now.”

Before she’s even disappeared down the stairs, Clyde taps Baptiste on the shoulder. “Mind if we store our gear and come down in a moment?”

Baptiste squints at him like he’s trying to solve a particularly tough crossword. Then he shrugs. “Ain’t gonna stop ya.” He stomps off after his wife, leaving us blessedly alone.

…Almost.

Because standing in the hallway, picking her nose with the grim determination of someone mining for gold, is Ulesse.

She’s staring at us like we’re sideshow freaks.

Tasar comes thundering up the hall behind her and yanks her by one of her too-long ears. “Now don’t go starin’! Leave these poor folks alone.”

“But they’re humans, ain’t that weird?” Ulesse whines, rubbing her ear.

“No, they just different. You’re weird,” Tasar says, like it’s the final word handed down by the Supreme Court of Sibling Justice.

“Hey! Mama! Tasar’s bein’ mean to me!” Ulesse wails, and with that, the two vanish down the hallway, Tasar chasing her like a cat after a mouse.

The house shakes a little with their retreat.

We stand there in silence for a beat.

Then Clyde moves—quick and quiet—checks the hallway, waits a moment, then shuts the door with a soft click.

The little room suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.

Veronica’s the first to crack the silence. She deposits her hammer into her Inventory and crosses her arms tight against her chest, like she’s physically trying to hold her rage in, and levels a glare at Clyde and me that could peel paint off the walls.

“So, what the hell was that?” she says, voice low and sharp. “We’re really staying here? Are you sure that’s safe?”

Clyde leans his back against the door and folds his arms, cool as a cucumber in a freezer. “No. I’m definitely not sure. But I don’t think we have much of a choice. It’s getting dark soon, and I don’t think we can risk traveling alone at night when we don’t know what we’re dealing with out there.”

I nod, feeling the weight of it in my gut. “I agree with Clyde. We don’t know what’s out there... but I bet it’s worse than a bunch of weird farmers. Actually, the kids seem pretty normal.”

Veronica scowls, the muscles in her jaw working like she’s grinding her teeth into dust. “How do we know we can trust them?”

Clyde smirks. “See how he reacted when I flashed that coin?” he asks. “I’m sure he’s taking us for a ride, and I’m not talking about just into the City. That coin’s probably worth a hundred trips.”

Again, I bob my head in agreement. Two for two with Clyde today. If I learned anything during my time in Finance it was cash could solve most problems.

“So, what’s the plan?” Veronica says, sighing through her nose like she already knows she’s going to hate the answer.

“We play nice,” Clyde says. “We go to dinner. We smile. We pretend to be the friendliest damn humans they ever saw. Then we take turns keeping watch tonight, one awake while the others sleep.”

“Until we make it to the City,” I say, picking up the thread. “Then, we can find a moneychanger, we get some real gear, and we prepare to find and kill a dragon. Easy!”

Veronica still doesn’t look convinced, but she also doesn’t start shouting, which I’m taking as a win. Based on how scrunched up her eyebrows are and how tight her lips are twisted, I can tell she’s fuming and ready to explode. Metaphorically… Not like Dave.

I shrug, big and theatrical, and dismiss Lefty and Righty with a lazy wave. They vanish two puffs of mist, like bad dreams at sunrise. “Whatever. Maybe while we’re here, we ask them about this ‘Cardinal Hand’ thing. Maybe they have useful information. Also… what do you think they’re having for supper?”

The question hangs there, stupid and earnest, but hey, priorities are priorities. Jelly Boy jiggles at my feet, also buzzing in hungry curiosity.

Clyde produces a dull brown Adventurer’s cookie from thin air. He takes a big, defiant bite, the thing cracking like dried plaster under his teeth.

“Whatever it is,” he says around the mouthful, “I’m not trusting it.” He chews once. Twice. Swallows with a grimace. I’ve never actually tried one of those cookies, but suddenly regretted giving so many of them to Jelly Boy. “I’ll be sustained for two days.”

I stare at him for a second, then glance at Veronica.

“Well,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Guess that just means more dinner for me.”