Since my own village of Schlimpshire was so thoroughly depopulated, I concluded that looking for pie-enthusiasts to invite to my party here would be an exercise in frustration. There might be some survivors left, but they would run in fear when they saw me, not knowing my footware had been defanged.
This left the neighboring towns of Umbleheim and Aetchburgh. All the nearby horses had also been murdered and I had never learned to ride anyway, so I would have to walk. Umbleheim and Aetchburgh were in opposite directions and the former was slightly closer, so that was my choice.
Our villages had little contact with each other, so the Umbleheimers would not know of the vast swath of murderous murder that the Socks had brought to us. I brought the pecular baked-goods (hard to call pies at this point) with me in my hat sack so that the event could be held there.
As I walked down quiet dirt path through the dry and silent fields, I thought of what I would say and how I would present my role in it that would make them want to attend my celebration rather than throw me into a volcano. This would be a challenge.
I was so lost in concentration that I almost didn’t notice the herd of bone-white kittens that followed me.
There were at least eleven of them, all the same size and the same degree of kittenosity.
I tried not to step on them and kept walking. I could see the town gate up ahead already.
I am at the gate now. I already like this place. Maybe I’ll move here.