Little Damian woke the next morning to find his new family nicely dressed for what seemed like the Medieval era.

His grandfather could have passed for a naval officer. His attire was a white robe with a straight row of gold buttons running from the left shoulder to the waist. His stubble from the night before was cleanly shaven, and the thin, curved sword on his hip may have been ceremonial.

Dillion had on, under a lime green vest, a white poofy sleeved shirt with flared cuffs and a laced “vee” neck. Though it looked like he was wearing a poofy pirate shirt, he didn’t look silly at all, rather he looked pretty sharp clean shaven with his fancy shirt tucked into brown leather trousers and trousers tucked into shiny black boots. The sword on the wall was now hanging from his right hip. His left hand, encrusted by a thick layer of rock hard calluses, was probably adept at using it.

Rose wore a new, short-puffed-sleeved, lavender colored blouse. A white knee high skirt covered her freshly shaven legs. The young mother gave the impression she was attending Sunday School, then she checked to see that she could easily draw the ten-inch dagger strapped to her thigh. Her swiftly drawing a blade through the pocket of her skirt a few times shattered the illusion.

Though little Damian was only one day old, it seemed like the Dagger family was getting ready to go out and about. It was scary but he was burning with curiosity as to who or what was outside the walls of this crude little house.

That answer came in the form of a knock at the front door. “That must be Victor and Mary. I can’t wait to meet little Theressa,” Rose said, scooping up little Damian, who was still pretending to be asleep. He too was eager to meet this little Theresa, but they would have to wait. As the Daggers filed out the door, Rose and little Damian were at the back of the line.

“Victor. How’d everything go last night?” he heard his father ask.

“Morning Dillon. Everything went smoothly,” a hearty voice replied.

“Everything went smoothly, other than Victor’s panicking,” a sarcastic man’s voice chimed in.

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“He was hyperventilating.”

“She’s my first, it’s normal to be a little worked up about it,”

“‘A little worked up?’ At one point I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I had to restrain him.”

“Fine, I panicked. Are you happy now?” Victor said indignantly.

“Yep.”

Dillon chuckled saying, “scaredy-cat.”

“Everything important went smoothly,” Victor said and changed the subject, “How’d things go on your end?”

“Things went well. Little Damian’s unusually quiet, which gave us somewhat of a fright last night, but everything seems to be fine,” Dillon replied.

“Is that the little guy? Let me get a look at him,” little Damian heard Victor say, and suddenly, the one day old, lost adrift through time and space, was staring down two rows of large, sharp, white fangs, just eight-inches from his face.

“This was a short trip,” he thought, noticing the two-inch incisors’ wet enamel gleaming in the soft morning light.

“Back off Victor!” the sarcastic man said commandingly, “You’re scaring him.” Heading those words, the beast’s fangs moved away from little Damian’s wide eyes.

Cat ears, check. Cat nose, check. Black fur, check. A mouth full of sharp white cat teeth, check.

This Victor fella was a talking cat-man. “I was just trying to get a look at him. It’s not like I’m going to eat him or anything,” he said defensively.

“Yeah, but he don’t know that,” the other man who looked a lot like Victor rebuked.

Victor scratched the back of his head and gave Rose apologetic looks. She made a quick assessment of her newborn and said, “Oh he’s fine, and he’s going to have to get used to seeing beast-kin sooner or later. Really Vance, you shouldn’t be so hard on your brother. It’s a big day for him.”

“Yeah, but he still shouldn’t go around frightening babies,” Vance said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Rose rolled her eyes at Vance’s very accurate characterization of his brother’s behavior, and got the attention of the young human woman holding a baby of her own. “Hi Mary. How’s little Theressa?”

“She just fell asleep a half hour ago. Since then she’s been a little angel,” Mary said. Blonde hair and a fair complexion made her green eyes pop, while a cute yellow sundress covered her disappointing chest. She was definitely pretty, but she looked awfully tired.

She brought her babe closer, allowing little Damian to finally see this mysterious kid who shared the same birthday as him. What he saw was so cute that his, “being reincarnated in another world,” concerns completely slipped his mind for a moment. Little Theressa had a human face and less fur than her father. She looked like any other adorable sleeping newborn nestled in her mother’s bosom, except for a full head of calico fur, two oversized cat ears, and a calico tail wrapping around her abdomen curling up to rest gently on her face.

Rose was enamored. “Awe, her ears are adorable.”

“She has her father’s good looks,” Mary said, figuratively glowing. “Little Damian’s cute too. He has your eyes.”

While the mothers exchanged pleasantries old Dean greeted the older human lady there, “Good morning miss May. I expected to meet you at the church.”

“Good morning old Dean. I expected to go home when little Theressa settled down, but that just happened minutes ago,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders as though nothing could be done about it, “So here I am.” Though the years had been kind to miss May’s gentle appearance, the dark bags under her eyes and frizzed hair highlighted her age. A shade paler and bit pastier, her skin’s usual youthful luster was absent. Still, a genuine smile graced her attractive but tired face.

Old Dean gave a sympathetic smile and said, “Then it is my fortune to have your company while we walk.” Miss May was flattered, but she seemed like the kind of nice old lady who’s easily flattered.

After some more greetings and pleasantries, the procession set off, and little Damian’s first outing officially began. Dillon and Victor were leading, followed by old Dean and miss May. Then Rose and Mary with Vance trailing behind.

Mary peeled her eyes away from little Theressa for a moment and asked Rose, “Dillon said you had a fright last night. What happened?”

“When little Damian was born he didn’t cry. He still hasn’t made any noise,” Rose replied, her voice shaken.

“But he’s fine right?”

“Old Dean said he seems perfectly healthy.”

“What about you? Are you alright?”

Rose nodded. “Just, I didn’t know that he was alright at first, and for a while, I thought he was,” her words, interrupted by a sharp inhale, were left unsaid.

“Everything’s fine.” Mary seemed like she was reassuring little Damian when she said, “He seems perfectly healthy,” to him with a peppy nod.

“I hope so,” Rose, said as if she were pleading with him.

“I’m fine, so please don’t look at me like that,” little Damian thought. He would have cried for his concerned parent but he wasn’t sure if he could make a convincing baby cry on the first attempt. His silent birth was already weird enough, how would it look if her odd child didn’t cry, but started yelling the next day instead?

Mary was correct in saying, “Him being quiet just means he’s special. It could be a really good thing, you know.” They didn’t know if little Damian’s uniqueness was a good or bad thing, but the involved parties could still hold out hope for it to be a promising foreshadowing.

Rose looked like she wanted to respond but was interrupted by a newcomer trotting up to the group, riding on the back of a two-legged monster.

A short man greeted old Dean from the back of, what little Damian would later learn, is what it looks like, a huge chicken. Its three toes and a talon made two-foot long prints. Each connected to four-foot legs via six-inch diameter shins. Head swiveling above the pedestrians, its craned neck elevated its face and soda can sized pecker six and a half feet high, a good six inches above the tallest humanoid there.

A larger rider might have exceeded the bird's weight limit, but the man who rode it was small, skinny, and old. He mounted it, not by dangling his legs around the monster, like how one would ride a horse, but by kneeling in the saddle strapped to its low and level back, nestling between its barrel wide drum sticks. A nine-inch knife was sheathed at his waist.

“Old Dean,” the chicken rider said with a nod. His short white head of hair was the same length as his overgrown mustache.

“Old Craig. You've decided to witness the blessing,” old Dean greeted him like an old friend.

“The boys have things at the ranch covered,” old Craig said in a crass tone, “and I figured there should be a Dolmer there.”

“I'm glad you could make it.” Old Dean didn't seem to mind the tone.

“Them the new ones?” old Craig asked, turning to look at them. The huge chicken turn to look as well, its huge brown eye, wide as an adult fist, seemed intrigued.

With one huge brown eye staring a him, little Damian him took a moment to sum of what he knew so far. He used to be an adult. He died. The next thing he remembered was being birthed into this strange world, which was disgusting.

He had retained all of his memories despite being an infant. At least all the ones he could remember were there. If he really did send himself the fourteen-segment font notification, he had no memory of it.

The old man, his new grandfather supposedly, poked him with a short rod, sending a weird feeling through his body, and declared him healthy. It wasn't a tricorder he used. It was a green metal stick. The old man said he checked his blood flow with it. He also said Dillon, his supposed new dad, was an adventurer. Little Damian didn't understand the significance of that word at the time, but he assumed it had to do with dungeons and monster stuff.

His neighbor's, frightening but friendly beast people, might have been adventurers too. The loud voice and toothy grin Victor used frequently gave him a commanding presence and made the seven and a half-foot spear he held that much more intimidating. Vance bore many fearsome resemblances to his brother, but his hooded cloak kept his beastly appearance and the fourteen-inch dagger he carried concealed. A peak underneath his hood would reveal Vance to be younger and more cat like than his assertive older brother. His eyes tended loiter around on alert, like how a feral animal might stalk the wilderness on the lookout for any possible threats or opportunities.

It seemed almost certain that he reincarnated in a world of might and magic. With beast-kin and a huge, saddled chicken right outside his front door, it could have been who knows what that put those dents in his father's shield. The “DO NOT DIE” part of the strange message was probably in bold for a reason. It seemed this other world was not a safe place to be a helpless infant in.

It wasn't much, but that's what little Damian felt he understood so far and the closest thing he had to a clue, a calico cat-baby, was adorably sleeping. All he could do now was wait and see what this blessing was and if it's related to the telepathic text message.

“This is my grandson little Damian. The other one is little Theressa,” old Dean said with pride.

“They're cute, especially the kitten,” old Craig gave his compliments like they were harsh words, made a goofy face that he thought no one noticed, and directed his and the huge chicken’s attention forward.

With that, they started moving again, and little Damian’s first adventure was well underway.

When the group turned down a main road, there was a man standing at the corner waiting for them.

Robert Slag was a burly man. His broad shoulders barely fit in his clean, white long sleeve shirt. This created a stark contrast to the curly black forest rooted in his chest, protruding out of the gaping eight-inch “vee” his size stretched wide open. His trousers snuggled the large bulge around his meaty calves. Judging by the burn marks speckling his trouser's skin tight raw cow hide, he was a blacksmith. The marks likely coming from the hot slag he makes pounding soft, warm, raw steel ingots into submission, but the eighteen-inch hammer hanging from his waist wasn't used for pounding raw. Robert's hammer was a war hammer, its mushroom shaped head meant to be slammed roughly into refined steel, violating its weak spots, sometimes causing abused armor to push deep into an opponent's soft tender flesh. Such an attack performed by a man of Robert's power could easily cause a fight to climax, resulting in Robert and his eighteen-inch hammer standing tall and proud over his defeated challenger. Robert Slag was headed to church armed this morning.

Actually, all the men and little Damian’s mother were armed. “Just how dangerous is this world?” he wondered.

After some greetings and declaring little Theressa to be the cute one, Robert settled next to old Craig and the procession moved along.

When they passed an inn, a heavy set woman named Betty came out to greet everyone. She said little Theressa was the cutest thing she's ever seen, and she would have loved to join them but couldn't leave her inn unattended.

Next to the inn there was a general good store with a couple standing out front. Jim, another burly man, was armed with a short sword. Samantha, a gentle girl with cherry blond hair and freckles, carried a bow on her back. They both greeted everyone with warm smiles and said little Theressa was especially adorable. The procession proceeded with Jim walking next to Dillon and Samantha fawning over little Theressa.

Three quarters of a mile down the road, unbeknownst to the adults but noticed by little Damian, someone was watching them. From the second story of a large, new looking building, the most beautiful woman he's seen in this world was staring at the group through a rarely seen glass window. She seemed almost perfect, “so why does she look so sad?” he wondered.

Suddenly, the women who were just happily chatting fell silent. Little Damian swiveled his tiny head with great effort to find the source of the disturbance. A huge chicken, beast people, and a magical medical exam. Now he could add witch to the list of weird shit that he's seen since he's been here, and this one looked hostile.

Little Damian had seen some very angry people before in his previous life, but the sheer intensity of themiddle aged, male witch’s wordless hostility, currently being directed toward the women, was something he’d only seen in a bad horror film. The intimidating spectator wore a furious scowl, a tall black hat, and plain black robes at least two sizes to big for him. It looked like his clothing was older than him. The witching bonnet’s pointy tip and large, disk shaped bill drooped over matching his baggy robes. He held a broom and stood next to a sign with a cauldron painted on it.

“Yep, definitely a witch,” little Damian thought, wondering if stuff like Hansel and Gretel happened for real around there. He wasn’t afraid of ghosts stories and witches, until he saw this one. The women seemed to share his sentiment. Rose and Mary both shielded their babes, while Samantha hid her face with her hand as they scuttled by. “Maybe this is why everyone is armed,” he speculated as they passed the menacing witch without incident, much to his relief.

The real incident occurred after passing through a set of fancy gates into a much nicer, walled section of town. Golden gates and a guard house divided the tan-brown dirt road from the paved ones lain with red-brown brick. The two guards in light leather armor smiled and waved.

Unknown to little Damian at the time, the incident in question was actually a commonly occurring family squabble.

A drunk man stumbled out of a nice looking restaurant with a plate of food and pitcher of ale painted on the sign. He looked like he'd seen better days. His heavily embroidered clothing was probably nicer than anyone's in the group, but they were dirty. Brown splotches, darker than the color of the unpaved roads, were especially dark on his knees and right shoulder.

“It probably has to do with the bruise on his left eye,” little Damian thought.

The dirty drunk called out to the group with a condescending tone. “Well, well, well, if it isn't Dillon Dirt and the Dirt Squad.”

Judging by the expressions all of the women wore, this man smelled disgusting, but he was standing too far away for little Damian to tell for sure. “Do these women have magic smell?” he wondered sarcastically. Still, he couldn't discount the possibility that they did, and this man does in fact smell terrible.

Dillon was the one to respond, “Peter,” is all he said.

Peter didn't take the hint. “Hey dirt lady,” he hollered at Rose, “I see you have some new dirt there. Congratulations, but the cat dirt that beast fucker’s holding is cuter.”

“Hey! What did you call my wife?” Victor yelled startlingly loud.

Dillon held his hand over Victor's chest to restrain him. “Calm down Victor, Peter's not worth it,” he said.

“Yeah, calm down cat shit. No matter what I say about that nasty, beast fucking glory hole you call your wife, it's not something to get upset about, right Dillon?”

“Thunder cat,” little Damian thought has he found out Victor, who seemed like such a nice guy, could turn violent in an instant.

“I’ll make you pay!” the ferocious cat-man shouted, sprinting toward Peter with his raised spear in hand.

Little Damian thought this Peter guy was a goner. Peter thought so too.

“Ahh!” Victor, roaring at the top of his lungs, leapt the last twelve feet striking a near superman flight angle that was somehow reminiscent of something little Damian saw a long time ago, in another life. That guy had a sword though.

“What’s the sound of two cats slamming into each other?” little Damian wondered after he heard the loud “thud” it makes.

A cloaked figure he recognized prevented Victor’s, probably very sharp, spear from impaling the terrified drunkard. While Victor's attitude was somewhat upright as he soared through the air, Vance’s was level with the horizon when he intercepted his older brother. “Is this considered a dog-fight?” little Damian wondered as the cat ball made a hard landing.

Peter took two steps back, and fell on his ass. Judging by the color of his face, he didn't think it was funny at all.

Little Damian didn't know how Vance was able to get in position, nearly thirty feet away, in time to stop Victor from shoving his spear through Peter’s, “holy fuck, I’m going to die,” expression, but he was glad not to have witnessed an interracial homicide on his first morning stroll.

With Dillon and Vance bringing Victor in tow, Peter summoned enough courage to stutter, “Ddamn it, Dirt! Pput a leash on your pet. That thing’s dangerous.”

Mary checked to see that, incredibly, little Theressa was still sleeping and said, “Fuck off Peter,” as the procession started to move along again.

Oddly, old Dean, Victor, and Vance wore pleased smiles after they left Peter behind, where as the rest of them looked concerned, alarmed even.

“Damn it Victor. What are you thinking starting trouble with Peter, especially on this day?” Mary took a sharp tone with her husband.

“Relax,” Victor casually replied, sporting a full faced toothy grin, “I knew Vance was right there, and we scared the shit out of him.”

“Well, I guess it's fine then, but tell me next time you're going to do something like that. You scared me too.”

“How was I supposed to tell you without Peter noticing? And that's beside the point anyway. How’s my little princess? Daddy didn't frighten her did he?” Victor asked like he was talking to a baby instead of his wife.

“She’s still sleeping, and don't refer to yourself in the third person when you're talking to her. Mrs Meadow said that kind of thing can make kids retarded,” Mary said, and immediately recalled Rose’s concern over little Damian’s mental health.

Not only did she nonverbally express her apologies to Rose, she extended her sympathy to little Damian as well.

“You don't have to apologize to me. I’m plenty smart for a one day old,” he thought.

“Ackhem. The church is right up ahead.” Old Dean's obvious effort to change the subject was timely.

“I know, I'm so excited. I hope little Theressa gets a good one.” Mary didn't hesitate to grab on to his life line.

“I think she will,” Rose said before the group succumb to an awkward silence that lasted the rest of the way to the church.

Little Damian wished they would talk more about the blessings and gods that they were all there for. “What did she mean by 'get a good one'? Is it a raffle, a test of strength, or something else entirely? I can probably keep my secret from the humans and beast-kin, but how do you keep a secret from the gods?” he wondered.

His curiosity would have to wait. When they reached the church, it was time for more greetings. The property, a deep rectangular lot with six-foot high, stone perimeter walls snuggling three sides of the grand building, had a large, freshly mowed front yard.

There they met Father Clyde, a softly spoken priest who seemed exceptionally well liked. At least little Damian liked him, probably because he was the only person that didn't call him little. He too declared little Theressa to be cuter.

They met Smiths and “Mawlners,” that he had to remember “is said maul, like when monster attack people, they maul them, ner. Mawlner,” and he was also not to “say it wrong later.” There were Winierends, Rapsons, and Forests. He met his second cousins, the Muses, all seven of them.

From youngest to oldest they were, “Tina Muse, three years old. Hi little baby.”

“Brett Muse, six years old. He does kind-da look retarted.”

“Shut up dumbass. Aunt Rose is right there. Brad Muse, Brett’s twin, older by one hour. Good to meet you little Damian. Put’er there,” he said with an outstretched palm. It wasn’t possible for the baby to shake Brett Muse’s doppelganger’s hand.

“Mikey Muse, seven years old. You just think they’re both retarted, don’t you?”

“Matty Muse, eight years old. Brad’s right, stop saying retarted you guys.”

“Maple Muse, nine years old. Retarded or not he’s almost as cute as little Theressa.”

"Magdoline Muse, ten years old. Not-uh Maple, the kitty’s way cuter.”

The Muses, even the parents Matt and Nancy, replied with a chorus of eight “Yeah”s and head bobs.

There were too many people for little Damian to remember all their names at the time, but most of them had two things in common. They all said little Theressa was cuter and most of them were compelled to “goo” and “gawe” him for as long as each one of them damn well pleased. Fortunately for little Theressa, she was still sleeping and missed the whole affair. He was starting to get a little bit jealous of the sleepy kitten.

When the many greetings were over, the small talk started back up, and he was able to overhear some interesting things. The Rascals, led by his father, were made up of Rose, their archer, Dillon, their shield, Victor, their spear, Vance, their scout, and old Dean as their manager. They had a strong reputation among adventurers, some of whom were present to witness the blessing. One of whom, a seven-foot tall pig man named “Grizzly,” was particularly forthcoming about his adventures, and though he was hard to understand through his thick pig oink accent, he talked a lot about himself and his party.

It seemed like adventurers were sort of freelance strong men for hire. They would go on quests, hunt monster, or provide security. They each had a rank represented by a precious metal. From low to high there were; copper, silver, gold, mythril, and adamantium. Little Damian had heard of all of those, but two of them were not on the periodic table that he was familiar with nor were there any mythril or adamantium adventurers in this town he learned is called “Brunseborough.”

The Rascals were silver. Depending on who's talking, they might be the strongest silver party in Brunseborough or a week party of “prairie pickers.” Them never having failed a quest was apparently an established fact though, inclining him to believe the former more likely. He didn't really think either were true.

He also overheard Grizzly, Dillion, and Jim, who used to be a Rascal, talking about monster. Some of the common monster in this area were goblin, kobold, huge bat, ogre, troll, and raptor. A bow dealt with raptor, fire for troll, and “you just gotta hit an ogre really hard.” Kobold and goblin seemed to be regarded as weak folder, and “what you really want, is to take a wind magician with you to hunt huge bat.”

Little Damian didn't know what these monster looked like but from their familiar names he could imagine. He’d killed all of those things with a click of a button before, but now he might have to physically kill them by hand or with magic. Magic seemed to be too expensive for regular use, but fire was regarded as an indispensable option for “making things dead,” while the majority of the killing seemed to be done up close and personal with a weapon, like a sword, a spear, an axe, or Grizzly’s club. It was three and a half-feet of dark red wood slung from his back with a white metal band and seven three-inch spikes on the business end. He called it “splatter.” Little Daman though the name was probably more literal than figurative.

Grizzly may have been forthcoming about adventure stuff, but no one talked about what he really wanted to know, what these blessings were. Everyone seemed to have a story about witnessing a birth blessing and presumably everyone gets something different. Surely it had to do with fighting monster, but no one said what they did, almost as if they were avoiding the subject.

He would have also liked to know more about his family's party, but they didn't say a word about where they went or what they did.

“You ought-da ditch the prairies. The mines been paying out lately, and the worst you'll run into is some kobold shaman,” the large pig-man suggested to Dillon, gesturing condescendingly to “splatter” on his back. Little Damian shuddered, counting himself as fortunate not to have reincarnated as a kobold shaman.

“I appreciate the tip, but the prairies are treating us just fine.”

“Look, I know the Rascals don't bring home much silver. Where ya’ll been stomping around at lately anyhow?”

“Now Grizzly, you know I don't talk about Rascal business,” was Dillon’s standard response to questions of that nature.

“Ha! I'm just sizzling your bacon,” the pig-man laughed in squeals more than oinks, like miss piggy if she were a seven-foot tall, angry wild boar-man squealing when she laughed, “but seriously, if you ever feel like playing in the big boy pen, the Rascals are always welcome to dive the mines with Slaughter House.”

Dillon gave an appreciative nod and said, “Thanks Grizzly. I'll keep that in mind, and tell Honey Bear I said hello.”

Grizzly oinked his agreements, nodding.

The women's gaggle, having quadrupled, was chatting away. Mostly about how cute little Theressa is, but they also told little Damian to “hang in there” and to “do your best.”

Around mid morning, as the gathering poured into the church, he heard a lady in a fancy hat talking about her nephew. He’d been blessed with herculean strength. Now he’s some big shot in the Royal Army. He never writes home.

Little Damian was having grand fantasies about fighting terrifying monster with super powers as he was carried into the impressive church.

Polished white marble walls standing forty feet high made it more formidable than any church he could recall seeing, and the full-sized mural stained glass windows were... interesting. The bell house on the back of the structure, sixty five feet skyward, was its tallest point. Across the roof, standing at the peak, directly over the two huge wooden front doors, stood a statue of the Grim Reaper. It held a scythe in one hand and cast a bony finger downward with the other, pointing at pedestrians entering and exiting.

The inside, every bit as magnificent as the outside, had wide open space instead of benches. Burgundy Fibonacci patterns set in gray polished marble covered the floor. Two huge pillars, thirty feet apart, bore the weight of the roof. Between them, six white statues encircled an altar with a silk pillow on it.

With no benches to sit at, the crowd huddled around the altar as father Clyde spoke. “We are gathered here this morning to celebrate two miraculous gifts the gods have granted us. We thank the gods and ask for their blessings upon young Theressa Black Paw and Damian Dagger.”

Father Clyde gestured to Mary. She placed sleeping little Theressa on the pillowed altar, and returned to her husband’s open arms.

“We thank the Maiden,” the priest said, walking toward the sculpture of a young lady extending an upward palm as if offering the pile of stones seeds she held, “for her compassion. Compassion that forged the very bonds which brought Theressa into our lives.”

Victor was a happy man. As he noticed his beautiful wife fondly gazing upon their newborn child, his baby girl, the most amazing thing he's ever seen, he wondered, where it all went so right? How did a cat like him, an orphan, raised by a spear, a killer, become so fortunate? What turn of fate did he receive that gave an old soldier like him such a satisfying life? “The gods are generous,” he thought.

Mary noticed her charming husband’s powerful gaze. It made her weak when he did that, but she felt safe under his watchful eye, and in his powerful arms. She knew that, for her and their adorable daughter, this handsome man would protect them. These strong, well defined arms holding her tight right now were the same ones that would rip apart anything that threatened her or their adorable daughter. How did she landed such a catch? She wasn’t sure, but this fine cat was going to be a more incredible father to their beautiful little girl than she could have ever hoped for. “Thank the gods,” she thought, melting into Victor's compassionate embrace.

Father Clyde noticed the couple's distraction and gave them a moment. The hall was quiet while he waited, shrugged his shoulders to the congregation, and with lips sealed together in a failed attempt to conceal his amusement, waited some more.

Victor was first to notice the silence. His uht-oh face caused Father Clyde’s smile breach containment.

“Ackem,” Victor awkwardly cleared his throat, bringing his wandering wife back to reality.

White teeth showed through Father Clyde’s wide grin as he continued, “We ask the Maiden, should Theressa come to a crossroad along her journey, a compassionate soul be sent to guide her down a fruitful path.”

Little Damian thought a blessing gave someone special powers to fight monster and such. Compassion though? If the priest’s words were literal, then the Maiden’s going to make some nice person help out little Theressa in the future. He hadn't considered destiny to be an enhancement before but it could be powerful, like how a main character can’t die, no matter what, until the end. If it's not literal, it could be anything, like a bonus to charisma maybe, not that she’d need it.

Little Damian was looking forward to hearing the other five gods prayers.

“All those willing may, at this time, come forward and place tribute.”

The, one piece of solid marble, altar had a round depression in front of the pillow little Theressa was resting on. One by one the crowd came forward to place gold, silver, or small red beads in that depression. Once all the offerings were placed, father Clyde covered the bulky pile with a purple, velvet cloth, clasped his hands together and prayed. “May the gods accept our humble tribute and bless this child. Amen.”

“Amen,” the crowd echoed.

Little Theressa, who had been asleep all morning, woke up to see the bulk under the velvet cloth disappear.

It was only for a moment, but she locked eyes with little Damian. He did not get the mutual understanding he was hoping for. Her gaze just wandered away and she started crying. “Oh well, maybe she's just a normal calico cat-baby after all,” he thought.

Victor quickly stepped forward to collect little Theressa. He gave apologetic nods to the congregation as he returned to Mary's side with the wailing kitten.

Father Clyde, wearing his usual smile, gestured to Rose. It was little Damian's turn.

Positioned on the altar, at the center of attention, he was feeling pressure not to do anything unusual, least he get caught possessing his memories and spend a thousand years suffering like the mysterious message said might happen.

Father Clyde didn't start speaking immediately. He instead took slow steps around the altar, in front of the statues.

“Whew.” Little Damian was relieved. It wasn't that he thought the Maiden was a bad goddess, but it seemed like he was only getting one, and the other statues looked stronger.

To the right of the Maiden, the priest approached a statue of a cloaked figure holding a bow. “That one looked cool,” little Damian thought as he kept walking.

The next block of marble had a middle aged woman with a huge bust sculpted from it. She held a stalk of wheat in both hands like a lash, and as little Damian had hoped, Father Clyde’s slow steps continued.

The next one was a middle-aged man wearing a helm and holding a mace. As this statue was behind little Damian, it was the sound of Father Clyde’s footsteps that told him his first choice was being passed up.

Now there were only two deities left. One of these two geriatrics would represent the god little Damian would receive a blessing from. They had one blatantly obvious fact in common, they both depicted decrepitly old people.

“Hag,” little Damian thought of the first one, a woman with a wartted nose and a witch’s hat like the one from earlier, pointing a gnarled stick at the altar.

“Wizard.” The other statue’s intricately detailed beard falling all the way down to the feet of the crooked nosed old man, along with the five foot staff he was holding, made him the clear pick.

Little Damian, breath held, heart racing, watched Father Clyde take slow steps to the hunk of marble depicting a witch, and stop in front of it.

“We thank the Witch.”

“Fuck! It is a witch.”

“For the knowledge that has shaped the destinies of the family who delivered Damian into our hearts. We ask for Damian to be granted eyes, so that he may see this knowledge.”

“A little wordy but not bad,” little Damian thought, Father Clyde’s prayer sounding much better than what he had anticipated.

After the offerings were placed, Father Clyde again said, “May the gods accept our humble tribute and bless this child. Amen.”

What happened next left little Damian unable to maintain his baby poker face for a moment and with wide eyes, in front of everyone, he let out an audible “Whoa.”