Surprisingly, there wasn’t an established infrastructure for fueling Hogs in Puglamento, but, not entirely unsurprisingly, there was a quite well-developed one for fueling Humans and other marginally intelligent species. Every village needed a bar to let the local workforce forget their grueling work days.


    Well, not every last village had a bar, inn, tavern, or other booze-dispensing facility, but those had inhabitants, who could make their own stuff.


    Or specialized in planting happy-making botany in the first place.


    Despite not having three-letter agencies to control substances, there weren''t many fields of happy plants around. Probably because folks needed to eat first and get happy only a distant second. Or maybe because it was already late autumn, and the fields were empty for climate reasons. With Prof''s abysmal [Agriculture], he wasn''t able to tell, what fallow fields had been planted with previously. Not, that he was all that interested in the issue in the first place.


    However well the watering holes for locals were distributed, Prof soon learned, that in contrast to Greenskins the Garuli weren’t all that eager to sell even their worst piss to random strangers.


    Prof also learned, that his 30% in [Speech: Gerulian] wasn’t exactly enough to understand the local dialect – obviously, he threw Skill Points at the literary version of Eastern Gerulian, and the local population spoke a strange dialect of Western Gerulian.


    Mini was actually even worse – she spoke a small Eastern dialect, and while she could understand Prof, she was absolutely clueless, about what the locals were trying to tell her.


    A surprisingly helpful commissar (there weren''t any nobles left in Puglamento) in one of the villages enlightened Prof about the intricacies of the language issue: at a low Skill Level the user knew only a local dialect, or in case the language was learned through throwing Skill Points at it, the literary version. Only at a higher level were other dialects understandable and spoken. The higher the level, the more exotic dialects could be understood and mimicked.


    However, the language in question always showed up with the same name on the Character Parchment, without any clarification or detail.


    Prof though, it would have been nice to know such details in advance.


    Not, that there weren’t any other small details, he would have liked to know in advance.


    The fact, that Garuli lived in pyramids and built everything in a pyramid form didn''t even register in that enormous pile of would-have-been nice to know collection of information.


    Of course, not every last peasant lived in a comfy Big Pyramid – the pyramids weren’t Egyptian ones, but resembled the ones from Meroe more closely; more steep and higher for the given base area – and even if more stone was used, than in the Bergian lands, the Domain or Ostwaldland (pseudo-concrete didn’t rate as stone in Prof’s opinion), most living pyramids were constructed from wood, twigs and loam.


    Those poor men''s imitations of monumental religious architecture gave Gerulian villages a certain flair, so to speak. For everyone born and raised on Earth, a collection of pyramids meant a graveyard or mass blood sacrifices. If people were constantly moving in and out of them and moving about, two images sprung into mind: a horde of tourists descending on the expensive-to-enter sight in an out-of-the-way location, or someone was making a movie about the living dead.


    Prof was reasonably sure, mass tourism wasn’t a thing on Arkadia, and neither was someone shooting a low-budget horror flick in the cheap-ass set. Therefore, logically speaking, the Garuli had to have some national idiocy going on, that made them build quite impractical buildings.


    They even built barns and sheds and… other agrarian buildings in a pyramid form!


    Well, everyone had the right to make architecture how they liked, and the villages certainly looked more pleasing, than the Greenskinian bunkers.


    Also, canalization obviously wasn''t invented in Puglamento yet, so every settlement had a certain… fragrance… made up of manure (from open cesspits), mostly unwashed bodies, and smoked garlic.


    After spending months in almost-civilized lands (or the wilderness), Prof really missed that smell of Humanity.


    Not.


    A small intermission about the local aesthetics aside, Prof soon had a problem: the Hogs sobered up, all the Hog Juice was used up, and the wagon transformed from a slightly dangerous projectile, driven by an untalented idiot to a rolling calamity for all living, un-living and dead things, pulled by a ton of alcoholic Hog, looking for their next fix.


    And driven by an untalented moron.


    “I don’t think, we can reach the sea in this way. We need booze, and we need it fast!” Prof informed his traveling companions.


    “I see a few solutions." Mini was helpful as always. Prof had, however, quite an idea, what those solutions entailed "First, rob a village of all their booze and virgins. Second, threaten a village to abduct all their virgins, if they don''t sell you booze. Third, kill some dangerous local monster, accept booze as payment, and get every marginally attractive-looking person to participate in an orgy."


    Indeed, Prof was correct, about what Mini''s ideas would be. As the old wisdom said: If you have a hammer, everything will look like an orgy waiting to happen. Or something like that, but Prof didn''t have many hammers (or the Skills to go with them), only a Vampire, who had the habit of making every husband and wife happy. At the same time.


    Or start fires, she didn’t intend to put out.


    “Tosssss wagon. Walk to sssssea." Even Sharpclaw chimed in with a completely crazy, unreasonable, and unrealistic scenario.


    “Mini, your last idea actually has some merit. We can do some adventurer stuff, and surely, the local noble… ehmm… commissar would surely reward us with Hog Juice.”


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    “First, don’t call the booze Hog Juice. Folks may misunderstand it. Wait a minute… No, keep calling it Hog Juice. It will be funny! Secondly, some merit?!?! I''m a master adventurer if you have forgotten! My ideas have lots and lots, and lots of merit! All the time!"


    “Yes, of course. So, what kind of dangerous monsters could we expect in a civilized country?”


    “Weeeeell… In Forestdeep you could find every kind, some Estates even let fun critters lose, so everyone stays on alert and can have fun. In this booooooring country? Maybe wild dogs. Or some extremely resistant weed.”


    “I’m not weeding the fields!”


    “I don''t think, anyone would pay you for weeding the fields. They have peasants for that, and they do it for free. I was thinking along the lines of… No, those plants probably don''t grow this far South, and you would need a bored magic user to cultivate them… Hmmm… Most likely you will be stuck with wild dogs, a boar, or maybe a troll."


    “No more trollssssss! Disssssgussssting!”


    “Yeah, I still have nightmares because of the last one. Normal wild critters it is.”


    Strangely, most settlements could take care of their own problems, and there wasn''t some monster lurking behind every second bush – semi-regular army patrols and peasants with pitchforks would do that to a naturally balanced environment. Sapient creatures had this habit of killing off everything dangerous, annoying, or deemed redundant (or slow enough to be getting caught) wherever they settled.


    The rest they domesticated.


    Prof did get some job offers, if he understood correctly they were about helping out some maidens with tilling fields, or other things, maidens needed urgent help with. With his bad language Skills, he wasn''t exactly able to figure out (probably) flowery speech but wasn''t prepared for field work, or helping the locals alleviate their issue with a too shallow gene pool either way.


    If he wanted to make a career out of agricultural work (or being someone''s boy toy), he would have selected different Skills and Perks. Even back on Earth.


    It was the fifth village after their grandiose idea, that they got a lead for honest adventurer work, that didn’t include working furrows.


    There was, however, a slight issue.


    The farmer in question, who wanted some stuff sorted out, spoke an even more obscure dialect, and Prof only understood maybe a third of what was said.


    “What did he say?” Mini obviously didn’t even understand that much.


    “I''m not quite sure. Something about a coop, chickens, and foxes. He either wants more eggs, and we have to work on the poultry, or he wants some eggs broken. He definitely wants something to be gone."


    “Usssss?”


    “I don’t think so. There wasn’t enough shouting and waving pitchforks around, so he probably doesn’t want us to leave his property.”


    “So, kill foxes, and take care of chickens, naughty boy?”


    “I don’t really want to do the chicken part, but the foxes would be doable.”


    “Oh, you like them hairy? Naughty!”


    “Come on, Mini! Not everything is about having a good time! You give Humans bad propaganda!”


    “Not everything is about having fun?!?! Are you crazy?!? What next? Find an honest, dead-end job, work yourself to the bone for little payment and recognition, or die early from a heart attack? Oh, and I''m not Human anymore! Hah!"


    “You do realize, I have done exactly that? Not the heart attack, but rebar through the brain is almost the same. So, no, thank you. I think I have accomplished and seen more in the last six months here, than in thirty-five years back home."


    “See, having fun is everything! Bow to the profound wisdom of your superior adventuring master!”


    “Wasn’t it fabulous and magnificent?”


    “Yeah, that too!”


    “Ssssstab foxessss already?”


    “About that… What are the chances, they will conveniently come to us, and not run away at the slightest noise?”


    “Basically zilch.”


    “Nil.”


    “I thought so… Maybe I should invest in some ranged weapons. My axes are only good close-up and personal."


    “Yeah, and if you are doing that, get a shield, a spear, maybe a sword, and a few other funny implements! You have to have the right tool for every situation!"


    “Really?”


    “Well, theoretically. However, you suck at most every weapon besides axes, so to solution for you would be to stand on the sidelines and look good. Maybe you could wear some skimpy underwear and wave around feathers. That would cheer me up, while I do the job!"


    Prof imagined his new career, cheering up a battlefield while wearing tight-fitting, but very short clothes, probably with a few other guys, while Mini and dozens like her were bashing heads. Nope. He still had some pride left.


    “Wouldn’t that be distracting?” He tried to be reasonable.


    “Not really. I can do two things at the same time, and when it''s over, the look would be worth the effort. Or something. You could try the skimpy clothes while helping me do the job, though. I think I have some fitting clothes left…"


    “Ssssstab foxessss already?”


    As they reached the coop (it was a pyramid), Prof had the suspicion, that he may have not understood the farmer very well. Normally, there were chickens (or rabbits) in the enclosure and the cages, that much he knew, and sneaky foxes were trying to get in to have an early lunch. All the cartoons couldn''t be wrong, after all.


    “Aren’t the foxes supposed to be outside, trying to get in?” he asked the others.


    “Maybe they are Red Elf Foxes, and they successfully infiltrated? I’m a noble, not a chicken farmer.”


    “Thossssse foxessss? Sssstab foxessss?”


    “Yes and no.” Prof immediately clarified his statement. You never know with one-word answers “Yes, those are foxes, and no, I don’t think, we are supposed to stab them.”


    “So, if the foxes already infiltrated, and we shouldn’t kill them, what was the epic quest you found for us supposed to be all about? Collect eggs? I don’t see any chickens around.”


    That was indeed a problem. How should they find chickens in a farming community? They surely weren''t around every other corner! Even if they somehow managed to find some, how should they know, they were the right chickens, waiting to be stabbed? Most likely, winged farm animals didn''t have plate numbers or logos to advertise their ownership. Well, maybe Pegasuses… Pegazi… flying horses did. They were supposedly expensive.


    “Misssster! Misssster! Thosssse chickensssss?”


    “What? Oh. Seriously now?”