33rd of Arah,
There is a small building in town that is surrounded by salt. Not a small circle either, no, this one is almost three feet wide. I will need to ask about it in the morning.
-
Maxwell walked around the small building a second time, then stared at it. It hadn’t changed. It was bigger than a shed, but smaller than a carriage house; although it did have a double door similar to a carriage house. He started his third pass around the building, going widdershins this time, paying extra close attention to the salt circle. The circle wasn’t a thin line, it was a full, and exact, three feet across. It circled the entire building at a distance of exactly five feet. There were no candles, no wax drippings, no carved stones, no decorations. Nothing was making sense. Well, except that maybe someone had trapped a very unlucky spirit inside the building.
34th of Arah,
I asked around town this morning before the coach left. Apparently some hundred years back, someone started circling that building with salt, and the villagers just kept doing it. No one remembers why it started, but in the age-old adage of “It don’t hurt none, and better safe than sorry.” The townsfolk kept adding to the circle every time it rained. Or snows, on the rare occasion that that happens.
We have traveled another twenty-five miles today. The weather has been fine, if a little breezy. Grendel has taken up reading histories of the continent, and Brianna has been helping him with some of the bigger words. He doesn’t require help with the words more than twice. Better than I did when I was learning to read so many years ago. It makes me smile.
37th of Arah,
Time marches on. It amazes me how regularly the towns appear on the roads on this side of the world. Every five miles is a small village of maybe 50-60 people; every 25 miles is a good-sized village of 200-500 people; every 100 miles is a city of 1,000-5,000 people. The roads are mostly straight, and seem to be set up in a five-to-ten-mile grid pattern.
Except for tonight. Tonight, we are staying at small city of 1,100 people on the side of a string of lakes and ponds. It is three and a half miles from the nearest village. The roads in town are…deranged. The “North Road” heads mostly west, the “South Road” heads north before plummeting south west into a lake, where it continues on the other side. These are the biggest and most egregious of the roads. There is one street that goes on over three ponds and a creek, but none of the street sections are directly connected to each other! It makes my head hurt. The name of the city is Mad-Son, and apparently was named by an other-worlder from “The Sin of Wiscon”.
39th of Arah,
This morning my lovely wife asked me why I smelled of cinnamon rolls, and asked if I had been baking. I told her “No”, but now I am thinking about baking again…
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
41st of Arah,
I can smell the cinnamon.
42nd of Arah,
I spoke to Bjorn today. It was an…interesting conversation. I know why I smell the way I do.
-
“Bjorn!” Max said, a smile on his face at seeing his oldest friend walk into the inn. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been well, old friend!” Bjorn walked across the polished, if a bit worn, floor of the common room to where Max sat. “But I haven’t been as busy as you.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “All I’ve been doing is traveling.”
Bjorn grinned, ear to ear, “And gaining more followers, demi-god of bakers.”
“…Oh bugger…”
43rd of Arah,
I have learned to control the tantalizing odor of cinnamon rolls. Now there is just the barest of scent. Cussed people deciding that I’m the incarnation of the perfect baker. Why did I ever start that bakery? What was I thinking? What’s next, god of small business investing? Bah!
48th of Arah,
There was a man standing on a street corner in the town we went through today who was holding a sign that said “My gods bread is better than yours!” I hope he isn’t one of mine…
52nd of Arah,
There is a bread war going on. Why is there a bread war going on? When did the idiot goddess get into baking? Why is it happening now? I’m supposed to be on VACATION!
-
Max got out of the coach in the city of Kirick, where they were staying the night. As he got his bearings he noticed a couple of things, first was the number of clergies in the idiot’s white robes, and second were the bakers. Bakers with bread and rolling pins. Bakers who were screaming at the priests.
Why does my head hurt? His brain asked.
As he, and the rest of the departing passengers, watched, the two sides began lobbing rolls at each other. The ones from the priests were light and fluffy, not flying well, and making a “poof” sound when the hit something solid. On the other hand, the bakers’ rolls hit with solid thunks, occasionally causing blood to run down a poor priest’s face when struck in the head.
“Shit.” Maxwell cursed under his breath. “Where did they learn the recipe for dwarven bread?”
Minutes later the constables arrived, grabbing the riotous combatants that they could, and dragging them away in a barred wagon.
“I am NOT getting involved.” Max repeated over and over and over.
-
“No officer, I am NOT saying I instigated the bread riot!” Max all but yelled at the lieutenant across the desk from him.
“Be that as it may, you did say you may have been a part of it.” The lieutenant replied. “Would you like to explain it to the judge?”
Max smiled a full toothed smile, “Yes, actually I would.”
-
Judge Theodore Reginalt was not amused. Not by the morning pelting of bread that had been occurring in town for the last week; not by the clergy of Tranquility being involved; and most certainly NOT by the man standing before him who was trying to convince him that he was a god.
“So, Mr. Maxwell, you are claiming that you can stop the riots because you are the small god of bakers?” Judge Reginalt asked, the frown on his face deepening. “Are you aware that the punishment for pretending to be a god is death?”
Mr. Maxwell raised a singular eyebrow, smiled, and said, “Oh, is that all? I thought it would be something more boring, like life imprisonment.”
The assemblage in the court room gasped, and even Judge Reginalt himself felt his jaw drop ever so slightly. “You are hereby sentenced to death for the crime of impersonating a god, and fined three hundred silvers for contempt of court!”
There was a flash of light in the center of the room, and a melodious voice came from within, “I wouldn’t do that, your honor.”
And Maxwell groaned. “Well shit.”
