It was only thirty-six minutes before it became readily apparent that my vacation was about to become a working one.
Five quick raps on the door, then patient silence.
I could do it right now. Call up Carol, have her drag me down ready and willing through the floorboards and into a grave. Lying in tight-yet-gentle repose in the loamy earth while my soul took a couple laps around the waiting platform in the underworld. But then I’d have to listen to that splinter of Syndra yap on about how I’ve abandoned my yeehaw motifs for more classical Victorian-era fare. For a goddess that was supposedly mute, she sure could whip up an aspect that knew how to navigate run-on sentences.
Five quicker raps, and a far less patient silence.
“Witch of Eadmoor, are you in?”
You know, respecs are free right now. Unannounced dev special or a game bug lingering from Soft Serve getting her grimy robot mitts all over the place, I didn’t care. I have the points to move this blood magic I’ve been dabbling in to just straight up stabbing people. Nobody would notice, this far away from town. Flick on Surge, a quick shank!, and I’m back to my book before the body hit the dirt.
Sigh.
The intruder’s voice was like a slap to the ear as he called out again. “Witch of Eadmoor, I asked if you–”
“Fuck off,” I called out. The standard greeting.
For a moment, the man outside considered doing just that. Now that he was sure I was home, he was a little less sure about himself. “Witch–”
I was already off the ratty old couch and crossing the cottage to where my boots and messenger bag sat. “Use my name, please!” Gods below, it always irritated me that these backwater hookslingers insisted on referring to me by some title that could have been in mocking jest for all the emphasis they put on it, like a stupid platitude out of my tenth grade yearbook. Most Likely To Get Her Face Stuck Like That.
“...Miss Mortiere–” There we go; that wasn’t so hard, was it? Satisfyingly more witchy than plain ol’ Witch.
“Miss Mortiere, the town council wants you to come at once. Something… something has washed ashore.”
Something washes ashore all the time. This is Ilmea’s Lament we’re talking about, after all. Bits and pieces of ships, the bloated corpses of their unlucky crew, maybe some of the treasures they coveted if luck smiled upon thee so. Sometimes, you’d get some creature of the bay that only marine scholars could identify; nothing that the fishers would ever catch with their nets. And, rarely, very rarely, you’d get something that could only be described as beyond the border. Something stinking, something vile, something twisted by the curse that Ilmea wrapped the bay in all those years ago. Something that the devs briefly considered, then shoved out of bounds once they realized it wasn't animanga genre savvy, perpetually trapped in a T-pose until something in the code shunted it into play.
The worry in the visitor’s voice told me it was exactly this last thing.
So, peeved as I was having to wear pants on my week off, I shut the cottage door behind me, slammed a fist on the door frame to activate my anti-intruder curses, and briskly made my way down the dirt path towards Eadmoor.
Five quick raps on the door, then patient silence.
I could do it right now. Call up Carol, have her drag me down ready and willing through the floorboards and into a grave. Lying in tight-yet-gentle repose in the loamy earth while my soul took a couple laps around the waiting platform in the underworld. But then I’d have to listen to that splinter of Syndra yap on about how I’ve abandoned my yeehaw motifs for more classical Victorian-era fare. For a goddess that was supposedly mute, she sure could whip up an aspect that knew how to navigate run-on sentences.
Five quicker raps, and a far less patient silence.
“Witch of Eadmoor, are you in?”
You know, respecs are free right now. Unannounced dev special or a game bug lingering from Soft Serve getting her grimy robot mitts all over the place, I didn’t care. I have the points to move this blood magic I’ve been dabbling in to just straight up stabbing people. Nobody would notice, this far away from town. Flick on Surge, a quick shank!, and I’m back to my book before the body hit the dirt.
Sigh.
The intruder’s voice was like a slap to the ear as he called out again. “Witch of Eadmoor, I asked if you–”
“Fuck off,” I called out. The standard greeting.
For a moment, the man outside considered doing just that. Now that he was sure I was home, he was a little less sure about himself. “Witch–”
I was already off the ratty old couch and crossing the cottage to where my boots and messenger bag sat. “Use my name, please!” Gods below, it always irritated me that these backwater hookslingers insisted on referring to me by some title that could have been in mocking jest for all the emphasis they put on it, like a stupid platitude out of my tenth grade yearbook. Most Likely To Get Her Face Stuck Like That.
“...Miss Mortiere–” There we go; that wasn’t so hard, was it? Satisfyingly more witchy than plain ol’ Witch.
“Miss Mortiere, the town council wants you to come at once. Something… something has washed ashore.”
Something washes ashore all the time. This is Ilmea’s Lament we’re talking about, after all. Bits and pieces of ships, the bloated corpses of their unlucky crew, maybe some of the treasures they coveted if luck smiled upon thee so. Sometimes, you’d get some creature of the bay that only marine scholars could identify; nothing that the fishers would ever catch with their nets. And, rarely, very rarely, you’d get something that could only be described as beyond the border. Something stinking, something vile, something twisted by the curse that Ilmea wrapped the bay in all those years ago. Something that the devs briefly considered, then shoved out of bounds once they realized it wasn't animanga genre savvy, perpetually trapped in a T-pose until something in the code shunted it into play.
The worry in the visitor’s voice told me it was exactly this last thing.
So, peeved as I was having to wear pants on my week off, I shut the cottage door behind me, slammed a fist on the door frame to activate my anti-intruder curses, and briskly made my way down the dirt path towards Eadmoor.
