Wherever they went and whatever they passed, they attracted attention. Exactly as the prospector had predicted, the arrival of mortals in town was cause for comment. When a tubby yellow blob whose midsection was lined with gaping multiple mouths came bumbling off the sidewalk toward them with self-evident mayhem on whatever it possessed for a mind and both Ehomba and Simna drew swords and proceeded to cut it to pieces, none of the fiendish onlookers voiced a warning or raised an objection. In fact, several evinced what appeared to be evidence of macabre amusement. A few interested horrors that had been considering participating in the anticipated butchery changed their minds at this exhibition of formidable resistance on the part of the visiting quartet.
“I need to stop and clean myself.” Repeatedly licking one forepaw, the black litah applied it to his eyes and snout. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so filthy.”
“It is not the street here that makes one feel unclean.” Striding along, the always curious Ehomba tried to identify the composition of the slimed, slaglike substance beneath his sandals. “It is the atmosphere.”
“Hunkapa no like,” declared the hairy mass that lumbered along in his wake.
“We agree on something.” Holding his sword like a long gray flag of warning, Simna put all the confidence and cockiness he could muster into his stride. At the first sign of weakness here, he suspected, the four of them would go down beneath a horde of horrors, torn apart for a midday snack—and that was if they were lucky. It was vital to maintain an appearance of invincibility.