03-05-2017, 02:50 AM
One of them, shorter and darker-skinned that the others, goes wide eyed and at the sound of my name. As the rest of the circle looks on he begins to shake so hard he falls over, scrambling backwards on his hands in the dirt. He moves like a creature being hunted.
"Ghi-Ghidorah...! Kare wa Ghidorah desu!?"
The man turns and runs as though I've set him fire, colliding with trees and tripping over his own feet, heedless in his desperate need to get away. The whole time, until he's left the village and well out of sight, he doesn't stop screaming.
"Watashitachiha subete SHINU tsumoridesu!"
It's a reaction I'm familiar with, though I've never seen it from just one person before, but the spectacle has a profound affect on his peers; The crowd, such as it is, begins to thin rapidly. Men look around at the implements in the hands of their fellows, likely measuring their potential as weapons compared to the thin man's pitchfork, and remember they have somewhere else to be. At first they try to be subtle about it, drifting away from the group, disappearing through doorways and down side-streets - but soon the exodus begins in earnest.
I turn my attention back to the sturdy, stony specimen who first addressed me directly. He's one of only six humans who remain on the street, the rest having found an urgent need to go indoors, hiding behind red stone walls. The half-dozen would-be heroes try to present a united front, but the little group betray themselves - furtive glances towards doors and shuttered windows, whitened knuckles and the pallor of their faces.
All of their anger, suspicion and disgust has turned to fear. I can practically smell it, feel the tension rolling off their bodies in waves. There was a rhythm to their days, and I've shattered it into discord and uncertainty - a more subtle breed of destruction than I'm accustomed to, but unexpectedly satisfying nonetheless.
The wind blows, whistling through the glen, rustling the leaves overhead. A large four-legged beast hitched to a cart beside a barn at the far end of town brays in its traces. The street seems much larger without any people in it, and the men facing me look very alone.
"What is it you want?" their grim-faced leader asks.
I smile beatifically, crossing my arms over my gleaming chest.
"I thought I'd made that clear: I want to know about your village. I wish to appreciate its intricacies, and what makes it unique. I want to learn about your people, how they spend their lives, and how they view the world."
The man appears at a loss for words. One of his supporters, however, a short, round man wearing pants with straps that hook over his shoulders, has the temerity to ask me why.
"Because," I tell him, answering honestly, "I've never had the opportunity before, and there's so much detail that I've missed. Before coming here, there was a conflict of disparate scale."
The men stare blankly. It's frustrating that I can't seem to make myself understood, and yet I'm fascinated by their nervousness, by the internal conflicts I can see rippling across their faces. They're afraid of me, and something about that is tearing them up inside.
Delicious.
Under threat of destroying the town I march them into a barn on the outskirts of the village, and one by one I make them tell me their stories. I shout and cajole. I stomp my feet and ask careful questions. I threaten to rip off each of their pinky-fingers. Between the six of them, it takes the rest of the afternoon.
I learn about blacksmithing and dairy-farming and how to 'pick up' women - and why that's supposedly desirable (though I still don't entirely understand). I learn about carpentry and coopering and the manufacture of rope. I'm told about familial relations, and serfdom, and taxes. I learn about the concept of childhood, and how to ruin it with alcohol - and also about alcohol. I'm informed of the pain of a 'secondary' created with no purpose, and the opposing fury that comes from being torn from everything one knows only to have to start all over again in a new world (without the benefit of being Me).
I learn that this town, Holmwood, is a hub of sorts for the local farms, with many businesses and a large market twice a week but very few permanent residents. I learn what elves are, and that these people seem to use prejudice to distract themselves from problems they could actually solve.
It's a very engaging conversation, and the feeling of enlightenment when I'm done is practically electric. I leave the little group of men weeping in the road, unable to meet each other's eyes. Some of the things they've told me I think they'd rather nobody had known, and its left them desolate: living, yet horribly damaged.
What a fascinating idea. I'll have to experiment further. Right now, however, the sun is setting, and I have it from the locals that the inn is the place to be.
The Inn is the largest building building in town, and the only one with a slate roof. It's three stories tall, constructed of red granite blocks and massive timbers, with shuttered windows on the second and third floors, facing the road. There's a boardwalk out front, lit by four large lanterns and overshadowed by a wooden awning, with stables in the back.
With my proper and correct body, the entire affair would have fit snugly beneath my foot.
Lit by the limited twilight which filters through the omnipresent shade, the villagers clear out of my way as I approach down the central boulevard, parting and whispering in hushed tones. News of this afternoon's events has apparently spread.
I step onto the boardwalk, and I'm about to push my way through a pair of slatted wooden doors whose shape reminds me of my dearly departed wings, when something tacked to the stone wall beside them catches my eye.
It's a flyer, a slip of greasy paper with words on it, and it reads thusly:
Finally, I like the word 'rakish'. I feel its tone captures my temperament very nicely.
All of that is without even factoring in the hidden layers of this civilization which the mysterious missive promises to reveal, the suggestion of goings-on outside of the everyday course of events.
Yes, I think I'm interested.
I pull the flyer off the wall, and I step inside, glittering by lantern-light, leaving the doors squeaking and swinging jauntily in my wake.
"Ghi-Ghidorah...! Kare wa Ghidorah desu!?"
The man turns and runs as though I've set him fire, colliding with trees and tripping over his own feet, heedless in his desperate need to get away. The whole time, until he's left the village and well out of sight, he doesn't stop screaming.
"Watashitachiha subete SHINU tsumoridesu!"
It's a reaction I'm familiar with, though I've never seen it from just one person before, but the spectacle has a profound affect on his peers; The crowd, such as it is, begins to thin rapidly. Men look around at the implements in the hands of their fellows, likely measuring their potential as weapons compared to the thin man's pitchfork, and remember they have somewhere else to be. At first they try to be subtle about it, drifting away from the group, disappearing through doorways and down side-streets - but soon the exodus begins in earnest.
I turn my attention back to the sturdy, stony specimen who first addressed me directly. He's one of only six humans who remain on the street, the rest having found an urgent need to go indoors, hiding behind red stone walls. The half-dozen would-be heroes try to present a united front, but the little group betray themselves - furtive glances towards doors and shuttered windows, whitened knuckles and the pallor of their faces.
All of their anger, suspicion and disgust has turned to fear. I can practically smell it, feel the tension rolling off their bodies in waves. There was a rhythm to their days, and I've shattered it into discord and uncertainty - a more subtle breed of destruction than I'm accustomed to, but unexpectedly satisfying nonetheless.
The wind blows, whistling through the glen, rustling the leaves overhead. A large four-legged beast hitched to a cart beside a barn at the far end of town brays in its traces. The street seems much larger without any people in it, and the men facing me look very alone.
"What is it you want?" their grim-faced leader asks.
I smile beatifically, crossing my arms over my gleaming chest.
"I thought I'd made that clear: I want to know about your village. I wish to appreciate its intricacies, and what makes it unique. I want to learn about your people, how they spend their lives, and how they view the world."
The man appears at a loss for words. One of his supporters, however, a short, round man wearing pants with straps that hook over his shoulders, has the temerity to ask me why.
"Because," I tell him, answering honestly, "I've never had the opportunity before, and there's so much detail that I've missed. Before coming here, there was a conflict of disparate scale."
The men stare blankly. It's frustrating that I can't seem to make myself understood, and yet I'm fascinated by their nervousness, by the internal conflicts I can see rippling across their faces. They're afraid of me, and something about that is tearing them up inside.
Delicious.
Under threat of destroying the town I march them into a barn on the outskirts of the village, and one by one I make them tell me their stories. I shout and cajole. I stomp my feet and ask careful questions. I threaten to rip off each of their pinky-fingers. Between the six of them, it takes the rest of the afternoon.
I learn about blacksmithing and dairy-farming and how to 'pick up' women - and why that's supposedly desirable (though I still don't entirely understand). I learn about carpentry and coopering and the manufacture of rope. I'm told about familial relations, and serfdom, and taxes. I learn about the concept of childhood, and how to ruin it with alcohol - and also about alcohol. I'm informed of the pain of a 'secondary' created with no purpose, and the opposing fury that comes from being torn from everything one knows only to have to start all over again in a new world (without the benefit of being Me).
I learn that this town, Holmwood, is a hub of sorts for the local farms, with many businesses and a large market twice a week but very few permanent residents. I learn what elves are, and that these people seem to use prejudice to distract themselves from problems they could actually solve.
It's a very engaging conversation, and the feeling of enlightenment when I'm done is practically electric. I leave the little group of men weeping in the road, unable to meet each other's eyes. Some of the things they've told me I think they'd rather nobody had known, and its left them desolate: living, yet horribly damaged.
What a fascinating idea. I'll have to experiment further. Right now, however, the sun is setting, and I have it from the locals that the inn is the place to be.
***
The Inn is the largest building building in town, and the only one with a slate roof. It's three stories tall, constructed of red granite blocks and massive timbers, with shuttered windows on the second and third floors, facing the road. There's a boardwalk out front, lit by four large lanterns and overshadowed by a wooden awning, with stables in the back.
With my proper and correct body, the entire affair would have fit snugly beneath my foot.
Lit by the limited twilight which filters through the omnipresent shade, the villagers clear out of my way as I approach down the central boulevard, parting and whispering in hushed tones. News of this afternoon's events has apparently spread.
I step onto the boardwalk, and I'm about to push my way through a pair of slatted wooden doors whose shape reminds me of my dearly departed wings, when something tacked to the stone wall beside them catches my eye.
It's a flyer, a slip of greasy paper with words on it, and it reads thusly:
Looking for:
Rakish Individual of low moral scruples.
Must be powerful, capable, willing to kill in exchange for payment. Primes preferred.
Interested parties inquire within. Ask for Chatterly.
Imperial Affiliates need not apply.
I stop, studying it for a moment, crossing my arms while I try to work it out. The words that give me pause, that have me intrigued, are 'Rakish', 'kill' and 'payment'.
I've never been paid for anything before, but I can't help remembering what Brock Coxley said to me shortly before his untimely demise - the suggestion that currency could be rendered as Omnilium.
Killing is, of course, a large part of my endgame here - I plan to kill everybody. The more I've learned about this place, the harder it's become to hold myself back from razing it all - but I keep finding new things to explore, and I haven't even gotten halfway down the valley yet. A more immediate target for my destructive muse would go a long way towards tiding me over until my investigation of life in Harnburg is complete.
Finally, I like the word 'rakish'. I feel its tone captures my temperament very nicely.
All of that is without even factoring in the hidden layers of this civilization which the mysterious missive promises to reveal, the suggestion of goings-on outside of the everyday course of events.
Yes, I think I'm interested.
I pull the flyer off the wall, and I step inside, glittering by lantern-light, leaving the doors squeaking and swinging jauntily in my wake.
Quote:1252 words according to wordcounter.net
2624 words total.
-travel to a human duchy: accomplished
-find a post soliciting for the services of a 'rakish individual': accomplished
Apologies if I messed up the Japanese. The only things I know how to say have to do with giant monsters attacking cities, and I'm not clear on how the grammar works.