"So, let me get this straight," declared Sandy: "You're a prince-in-exile from a parallel-Earth. Your cousin Martin is really your half-brother. And, your Aunt Lucy is really more like your foster-mom. What does that make your Great-uncle John?"
Michael grinned, looked towards the kitchen, and replied (in a half-raised voice):
"Just a very, very, VERY old friend of the family! Formally known as Sibling Willek of the Church of the Great Parent."
"Sibling?" echoed Sandy.
"The Church of the Great Parent is a bit like your Roman Catholic Church," replied Willek, as he returned to the living room pushing a gray metal cart. On top of which were the promised pitcher of lemonade, along with three glass tumblers filled with ice.
"Except for one thing," he continued, as he served the lemonade: "There's no sexually segregated hierarchy. In our church, both men and women can be ordained clergy. Those of what you might call entry-level rank are addressed as 'sibling' (rather than 'brother' or 'sister'). And, all siblings labor as itinerant preachers. Seeing to the needs of those villages too small for establishing official churches."
Willek added how most siblings were eventually promoted to parish priests. While a few--like himself--opted to say siblings for their entire lives. So as not to lose touch with normal people.
"Does that mean he's _abnormal_?" thought Sandy to herself, as she sipped her lemonade.
Willek smiled: "Only in the sense that I read minds."
If spitting and coughing in amazement were an Olympic event, Sandy would have been a gold medalist at that moment.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, at the Morgan School of Equestrianism, the chief wrangler was making his final rounds of the day, when he heard a strange commotion. Some of the American Saddlebreds in Stable Number 1 were acting up. Thinking it might be coyotes or bears, he momentarily stopped to withdraw his .22 magnum Smith and Wesson kit gun. Prepared to fire a couple of warning shots into the night air as a means of scaring them off.
WHOOSH!
THUNK!
He landed flat on his back, destined never to know what had killed him as he choked to death on his own blood.
Two copper-skinned strangers stepped from the shadows, the dim glow from the external night lights revealing that each had a head of hair that could only be described as "leonine." The one whose hair was more like charcoal gray, rather than black, walked with the aid of a wooden staff. And, the staff was topped by a human skull!
He watched as the younger Osiri removed his club-knife from the dead man's throat...before licking the blade clean of blood.
"Your ghoulishness will be the death of you, Malagor."
"And, this one could have been the death of us all, old man!" growled the latter, as he clicked the knife blade back into place: "You said the family which owns this strange farmstead had all retired for the night."
"I sense he was not one of them. Merely some kind of overseer."
"Then, we had best depart before someone comes looking for him."
Yet, as Malagor walked past him, the shaman grabbed him by the shoulder.
"What of Zan-tac, Zyr-tec, and Lip'tor? They have not yet returned from their pursuit of the Azuling!"
Malagor looked at the shaman's hand, before removing only half-gently.
"They were our three best trackers. If they have not returned with him by now, it is because they are dead. Now, find yourself a horse. And, MOUNT!"
Five minutes later, the Morgan family was awakened by a strange blood-curdling cry from the direction of Stable Number One.
"OSIRRRIIIIIIIIIIIII!"
tbc
Giantess World
