1.3 Farthest From Nowhere

It took three days and part of the fourth to reach the town. Technically still only three whole days, laboring through that first night and cracking through the morning preparing for the trek. There were dozens of animals in the barn, some not in the cleanest of stalls. For the first time, Qastael touched the poop of another animal and did not care for the experience. Her large size was the best advantage as she picked up animals in her hand - wincing as they screamed and struggled - then scooped everything out with her other. At little straw from the bales and everyone was happy again. Milking animals fortunately had young to suckle, allowing the flustered giant monster time to figure out how she was going to tackle that particular problem. There was a barrel of feed in the corner, which she overflowed into all the troughs and hoped for the best, doing the same with a pump outside and the water troughs, hefting long metal boats to the pump and then carefully bringing them back. The crops were easier in some ways, the pumps simple to use and canal gates for the irrigation flat stones she lifted out of the way for the water to flow into dry fields. She also dug a deep hole in the garden and gently deposited Little Mouse inside before filling it up and hiding any evidence of the hole. Nervous to be separated from Little Mouse, she didn’t trust a town of strangers discovering she cared for an eight foot tall (244 cm) egg that appeared to be made of solid gold. Suns already past morning into the next day, she dug out another eight barrels of grain and two lambs and a whole cow, then got to work on her final task.

Clothing.

“How do common races deal with matted fur?” Qastael asked for the thousandth time, picking at the crude tarps she bound her breasts and sex with. She found the rough brown fabric in the barn, each sheet covering many bales of hay to keep them dry. It had taken some work to tie them together with knots and then loop them around intimates to provide enough support her breasts remained secured. It wasn’t enough fabric, though, so everything was tight and pinching in places that should remain unpinched. “I feel like a succubus slut in these things. Stupid Falussans and their stupid ideas that everyone requires clothing! Thank all the Pantheons I can finally see the town.”

Town was both apt and misleading. It might have been a nameless town when Plone originally passed through on his way to settle Nowhere, but it was showing signs of almost becoming a proper city. A sturdy lumber wall encircled the town and she spied over it to find a good amount of timber erections and homes next to sparse stone structures lined along straight and wide dirt streets. Tiny Falussans aimed crossbows and a few cannons in her direction from the wall, which she pointedly ignored and kept shuffling along.

“Welcome to Farthest From, pop. 34,XXX,” Qastael read on the weather-worn sign in front of the large gate that small men were hurrying to close before she arrived. The last three numbers were so scratched it was impossible to know the current number of people, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the burning ache in her side and hind paws not made for walking upright limping her way across wasteland, forest and more wasteland. She wasn’t designed to use only two feet, and flying came more naturally than crawling over hill and dale. Too painful to walk on all fours, she bipeded awkwardly for hundreds of miles in an effort to keep from opening the wound. It was inflamed again and likely needed care, which is why she rationed her food and restrained from gobbling two barrels of the grain as well as the smoked cow, most of her sustenance a stray bush or young tree.

Injured, she figured she would have covered two hundred and fifty miles (403 km) in two days easily, but the terrain was unkind and rough, even with a trail to follow. Healthy and at a full gallop, she would have breezed it in a few hours, or less than an hour if she flew. Her steps may be larger than any common race could stride, but it was humiliating to stagger into a city, crawling on the dirt like some degenerate tumbleweed.

“Hail the stranger!”

A man with a wide brimmed hat stepped with the clink of spurs on his boots through the gate and stood in front of the city, looping thumbs into his belt while the gate boomed close behind him. A long coat and vest hid well-worn chainmail, his tan face displaying the most magnificent brown mustache while a tall wizard staff very casually did not point in her direction. The polished brass six pointed star on his lapel made it clear he was an official of sorts.

Qastael choked on a grimace, smoothing her face and snout so she didn’t bare too many fangs. Doddering the last bit of trail, she flopped to her haunches - careful to set the large bundled sack to her side without breaking anything - and wheezed out a panting breath while she adjusted to her burning injury and tried to appear nonthreatening. All the common races were varied and different and fascinating and she knew many fine people, but first meetings were all the same with pointed weapons and fleeing in terror. “Hail the town! Is this going to take long? I’m just here for trading then back to the farm.”

“If’n that’s all, I reckon we’ll be square in a jiff.” The man smiled under his lip mane and brought up a hand to tip his hat. “Name’s Earler Wapp and I’m sheriff ‘round these parts. My deputies typically handle greetin’s and such, but they figured when they saw you coming up the road I needed to skip lunch and let a perfectly cooked meat pie grow disapointin’ly cold in my office.”

“I haven’t had a meat pie in ages!” grinning wide with a lot of brazen fang for the dozens of armed men along the wall, trying a different tact. The sheriff seemed a reasonable fellow as she slithered her head more down to his level. Maybe a little charm was in order. “I think I was in Aoir - or maybe McCroann before all the dryads got killed - I can’t remember. This old biddy insisted I try her pies, so she made a hundred of them and I still dream over how the crust flaked apart in my mouth. I wish I had asked her for the recipe. Do you mind sharing your pie recipe?”

“Haha! I can’t even boil water, but Mrs. Egalatina makes a wonderful pie,” Sheriff Wapp said, gesturing vaguely behind him past the closed gate. “Cooks out behind her husband’s barbershop, the whitewashed building down yon street. You’d have to ask her about recipes.” He shifted one hand subtly closer to his staff, the other slipping into his coat, looking pointedly at the large sack. “Can I ask for some personal information about yourself and your intentions in Farthest?”

I hope this doesn’t blow up and I have to raze another town of bigots, she thought, keeping a charming smile along her snout while monitoring her words. “My name is Qastael. I was passing through recently and stopped at the farmstead west of here named Nowhere. Plone Lewfich offered to take me in and train me in the running of the farm, his intentions to leave it to me while he retired. Unfortunately, he died unexpectedly from natural causes earlier this week from which I had no untoward involvement. I’ve determined I want to honor his memory and keep the farm going, but as you can see I’m recovering from an injury I gained prior to meeting Mr. Lewfich on an unrelated matter. I journeyed here to obtain a few supplies and brought a couple barrels of grain and a smoked cattle to offer in trade. Once I am finished I’ll depart and return to Nowhere, where I imagine anyone looking for me will be able to make acquaintance.”

Sheriff Wapp blew out his mustache, realizing how she phrased her responses meant she knew what he was doing. Pulling out the truthstone from his pocket, still glowing an honest blue without any hint of red lies lighting it up he shook his head ruefully. “Shame to hear about Plone, a good man. Farthest is the country seat, so you’ll need to get the deed settled in the next month, but seein’ as I know he has no kin left alive I’ll vouch for you.” He stepped back and put the stone back in pocket, rapping his staff against the gate. Men behind it working to shift the bar while crossbows lowered and everything changed from tense to moderate wariness. “Old Man Choggir runs a dry goods store near center of town, can’t miss it. Bit of a walk but he’ll do you right and has contacts to order anything special.” Wapp gave her whole body an appreciative look, then clicked his tongue as he furrowed brows under his hat. “I did a stint in the army up north, so I know us Falussans are a little stuffy about modesty, but seein’ as you plan on sticking around, I recommend seeing a seamstress as well and having proper outfits made. Problem is, not many women in town are going to be capable of covering your…bountiful acreage, pardon my language.”

Qastael couldn’t help herself, subtly shifting her arms together and pressing her breasts out, the old burlap straining near disintegration as she leaned down closer so the wizard law man got a face full of cleavage taller than he stood. “Yes, I’m terribly worried about all the fields I’ll need to attend back at the farm. Might look for someone to get me good and plowed until I gain experience.”

The sheriff coughed into his hand, looking away as he reddened and pointed to the right down a smaller street heading east. “Only lady that can cover such a tall order is Ms. Zeshyrrith. I personally think she runs an upstanding establishment, but you won’t make many friends in town if you head that way. Bunch of gossips, the whole town is. She’s at the end of this street, large house with the green sign, and she probably has some potions on hand for your wound.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Qastael staggered to hind feet while hefting her sack, standing taller than their walls and spotting a line of traffic waiting to leave through the now open gate, delayed because of her arrival by deputies directing traffic. On her hind legs, she looped her neck behind her out of old habit so her head was nearly level with her shoulders, placing her arbitrary head height only sixty-nine feet (21 m) off the ground instead of much higher. Still gigantic compared to most common races, but it gave the illusion she was smaller, more accessible. For a moment the crowd paused in silence, then woke up in a loud chatter as they collectively got about their business while sneaking peaks her way. Close to midbell, Qastael stepped carefully at a snails pace, merging into the main avenue and keeping to the center of wide packed dirt.

“Oh, one more thing, Ms. Qastael,” Sheriff Wapp called out, looking as if he absently remembered something standing to the side of the gate. “I didn’t catch your race.”

“You’re right, you didn’t,” Qastael replied without turning, focused on not stepping on anyone or lashing her tail into a building by accident. Not an easy task as she worked towards the dry goods store in a crowded city of containing thousands of tiny people all scurrying about.