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Chapter 17: Solace and Housemate

The carriage stopped in front of an especially large buil-tree, twice to thrice as large in diameter. If there was one thing off about it: half of it was destroyed. With the headless statue in front of it, Craft thought there might have been a pretty nasty fight here.

Even so, people went in and out of the building like normal. Structural vines had grown into braces that made up for the damage. All things considered, maybe he just came at a bad time.

“Yep, that’s the town hall,” Dane said. The guy was still seated up on his carriage. “And yep, it’s pretty sad. The damage is fresh, but they said the building’s stable, so don’t worry about it.”

“If it’s alive, it’s pretty sturdy, huh?” Craft said.

Dane chuckled. “You said it!” He took the reins again. “Welp, I’ve got things to deliver. Just talk to anyone at the desk! See ya around!”

Craft waved at him as the carriage started again, watching it disappear around the bend.

“The witch did it!”

A man’s voice sent Craft’s head whipping towards the statue. Standing on a stool was a human cleric in red vestments. People began to stop for this man who spoke into a scepter like it were a loudspeaker.

“Welp, there he goes again,” a nearby elf said.

“Think about it! Why’d only she come back and not the manager? Why is she claiming amnesia? That’s just too convenient!”

“Shuttup, Lary!” one of the bystanders protested. “She’s way too nice to commit a homicide!”

Everyone murmured in agreement. If Craft was following this scene correctly, he was more surprised that the mob was rallying against the rabble-rouser — which makes him a rabble-annoyer, in a way?

“What’s going on here?” a woman’s stern voice said…and it was familiar. The impostor had used it just earlier.

The crowd parted like the sea to make way for a shrine maiden in a red skirt, white top … What’s she doing here? He shook his head. That couldn’t be her. Despite nearly the same appearance, this one was half an inch taller, and the way she walked was slightly different. Whereas the impostor walked toe-heel like a thief, this one walked with a low center of gravity, keeping her footing constantly stable. Those two swords hanging from her waist weren’t for show.

For a moment, the two of them saw each other, and he spotted a flash of recognition in her eyes — a split second where she couldn’t look away from him.

She recognizes me? How could that be when they’d never met before?

She turned away from Craft and went straight for Lary. She raised her hand — and chopped him in the head. Shockwaves rippled through the air, a gust of wind blowing past Craft’s face, yet in that same moment, a sizable shield of golden light manifested over the cleric’s head right before the moment of impact.

“Ow! Why!” He covered his head.

“Public disturbance,” the woman said. It concerned Craft that she was willing to unleash that much energy straight against someone’s head. What if it killed him — Oh. Right.

Lary raised his hands in surrender. “But it’s my Hobby!”

“I know how Conspiracy Theorycrafting works.” The woman squinted. “Current events are off-limits.”

Lary shrunk back. “I-I guess not.”

He didn’t sound convincing, though. The woman raised her hand again, and he shrunk back and winced. “Okay, okay! Let’s go with the ‘Buil-tree Arch was an inside job’ one today!”

“You did that one yesterday!” someone from the crowd complained.

“Aye, but what if the Danish Mafia was involved, huh!”

“He wasn’t even here yet!”

Craft looked into the sky, pondering, ‘Danish’? They’re here, too? No, could it be… ‘Dane-ish’? He thought himself the kind of guy who had the strangest luck, so happening to bump into the top dog of the local mafia wasn’t completely off the table. Better not think about it.

Satisfied by the change in topic, the woman left Lary and seemed to aim for Craft. He seized up as she approached, her gait steady and unbothered, but he couldn’t find any impatience in her that would indicate his impending first death in this world.

Eventually, she passed right by him. “Don’t stir up trouble,” she whispered as she did.

He turned around after her, but she’d disappeared — gone into thin air. It was just like the impostor, but shouldn’t he have at least caught a glimpse of that tell-tale shadowy mist?

Perhaps she wasn’t the impostor at all, and he’d just witnessed a variant of the same ability. However, that would mean the impostor was also impersonating others in this town; even if she wasn’t going to bring Nightshade into this, everyone else might be fair game.

But that still left the question of why this woman singled him out for a warning — and why Nightshade was being implicated for a crime.

There were too many unknowns. He turned around and went for the town hall’s doors. Short on friends and actionable intelligence, the least he could do was avoid any trouble and secure a base of operations.

***

Inside the town hall, there was a clerk behind the far counter. Craft was glad there wasn’t anyone else in the lobby, because when he approached the clerk and told him about his situation, he got hit with some rapid-fire utterances of surprise and said-aloud repetitions of everything Craft had just told him.

Operational security? What’s that?

The clerk told him to look for Solace’s office in Door 53, directing him to a flight of stairs just behind the counter.

“One last thing,” the clerk said. “Lady Solace is usually all business-y, but she’s pretty pissy today. Try not to step on a landmine, will ya?”

“Don’t talk too much. Got it,” Craft replied.

He went through the door just past the counter. The label above the door said “01.” Through the door, there was a spiral staircase that ran all along the inner side of the building’s hollow cylinder design.

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He started climbing the stairs. As he ascended, to his left were doors with increasing numbering. To his right was a bare tree trunk.

Its bark was thick and with deep crevices. He truly was in awe for being so close to it; there weren’t any trees as ancient as this one back on Earth.

He extended his arm and touched it. Thank you for growing, he couldn’t help but think.

— No prob.

He pulled his arm back and stopped climbing. He had heard the voice of someone who belonged on a couch with a bag of chips.

Dane had mentioned there being spirits in these things. It would’ve helped to have mentioned they could talk, though, That spooked me.

As he continued to climb, the wall on the left turned ragged, charred, and eventually, he saw open air. An entire section of the building was just gone. Where there used to be intricately carved hand rails and varnished steps, vines and branches continued the staircase instead, bridging the damage.

With the stairs being a spiral, he found his experience alternating between something intentional and hand-crafted, and something improvised and grown-over.

Seriously, what in this world could blow up half a building? The woman from earlier’s hand chop came to mind. Her swords could probably do more damage. The fact that there were walking tactical nukes concerned him for a moment — and the fact that there were people like the cleric who could defend against them — yet civilization still flourished here.

Considering all that had happened so far, even with friction between individuals, it was a polite society overall.

The door labels eventually came to “53.” It was the last door before the destroyed section again.

He knocked. He heard a quiet but commanding “Come in.” He pushed the door open.

A woman in a mourning dress continued to write behind the desk. Her blood-red hair flowed smoothly over her shoulders like a laminar waterfall. With her pale skin, Craft would’ve thought she was dead if she weren’t writing.

Everything on her desk had paperweights. There was a strong gust of wind. Papers fluttered but didn’t fly.

When Craft looked to the right, he had a great view of the outdoors. It was almost panoramic, in fact. The wall was gone.

He faced Solace again. It took a second before she bothered to look at him, then back down at her work. After putting down her pen and ordering her papers, setting them aside and putting her hands together — she finally looked him in the eye.

“Well, you’re new,” she said. There was something about her voice laced with charm, but also undirected vitriol.

He imagined the towering stacks of documents behind her were a decent quantification of her stress. As things were going, she might not even have the patience to deal with him right now. He needed to diffuse her emotions just a little — just enough so they could work together.

“Very,” he said with a sigh and an affirmative raise of his eyebrows. “Sorry, name’s Craft Bowen, newly-summoned. I was told Miss Solace is the person to look for for lodging, but is now a good a time?”

Casual openers like these went deeper than they seemed.

Very: a reply made brief to get to the important part. Stuffing up this part would waste time and backfire.

Sorry: an empathy signal. By acknowledging this, Craft established that he was someone willing to step back when needed.

Name’s Craft Bowen, newly-summoned: such a named introduction subtly shifted the conversation from an “over-the-counter” transaction to real socialization.

I was told Miss Solace is the person to look for for lodging: not just a statement of purpose, but also an acknowledgment of authority, decreasing the chances of pissing off said authority.

But is now a good a time? : another empathy signal, shifting the tone from a one-sided “I need something from you” to a collaborative “Do you have what you need to work?”

Together with a steady tone of voice and an unrushed cadence, this was Craft’s five-hit combo for Operation: Don’t Piss Off the Housing Manager.

A split second passed — an eternity for Craft.

She smirked.

Oh thank God — Enty?

“I have time to spare,” she said. She gestured to the towering stacks behind herself with a flick of her hand. “These are small fry. The Annual Tax Filing Competition, on the other hand — would you like to try your hand in it? We’re always looking for more participants.”

A horror story in four words couldn’t be made more attractive with a 200% sex appeal buff. “I’ll pass.”

She chuckled coolly. “That aside” — she eyed him up and down — “newly summoned, are you? Are you human?”

Just because it looked human and sounded human didn’t mean it was actually human. Craft knew that very well, and so he wasn’t bothered by the implications of her question. “I didn’t ask for a race change, so I think I’m human.”

She bent down and took a form from under the desk. “Please, sit.” She gestured to a chair across her desk, and Craft obliged. He softly closed the door behind him before coming closer and taking a seat.

Solace took a fountain pen to the form. “ ‘Craft Bowen,’ was it?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

She jotted that down. “Hobby?”

“Bowmaking.”

“That’s rare.” She handed him another paper before anything else. “Community guidelines. Go over it while I’m busy.”

As she continued to write, he skimmed the local rules for a bit. The print was fine enough to fit a hundred bullet points, but it all boiled down to “Don’t screw with others.” If anyone violated that, the town’s “monitors” — some sort of volunteer militia by his understanding — would come in and take an power drill to one’s screwiness and unscrew the situation.

Craft got extra worried over some new information, though. Monitors could generally be identified by their red-dominant clothing and open carrying of weapons. Was that woman a while ago…

He looked at Solace. “Can I ask?”

“Aren’t you asking already?”

“Right. What happens if a monitor violates these?”

Solace stopped writing and looked at him. “Then you come to me.”

She continued writing. Craft was in shock and awe. Damn, she’s cold. He admired that in a woman — but from a distance. Where it didn’t bite him. Yeah, no thanks.

He watched her fill up the form at a ferocious speed, signing off with a flourish and flicking a screw cap back onto her pen, letting it screw itself shut from sheer rotational inertia.

The form started to glow, and she pushed it to his side of the desk. “Please place your hand here. The glow will spread to your body and you’ll be registered to the town.”

He did so, and like she said, he started to glow as well. Is this a magical verification system? He felt strangely nervous about it — his first time being on any kind of civil registry.

The light died down, and a shiny seal appeared on the bottom of the form. Solace got a blank piece of paper, slapped it on top of the form, and carefully peeled it away, handing it to Craft. “Your copy.”

He received it, and like instant photographic film, a perfect copy of the form faded in. “Nifty.”

“Isn’t it?” Solace chuckled coolly. Craft was surprised; was she a fan of office supplies? Huh, did I just accidentally get on her good side?

Solace reached down under the desk. There was the clinking of keys before she picked out a single one and presented it to him. “Here’s the key to your house,” Solace said.

He received it a little meekly. Did that just really happen? He’d just walked in here, said some textbook stuff, and now he’s got a key to a house. Damn, that was fast.

“Ordinarily,” she continued with a sigh that made him give pause, “I would give you a choice of residence, but unfortunately, we only had one vacancy. If you feel uncomfortable about living together with two women, I can let you know if another slot becomes available, but for now, this is what we have.”

“Oh, no, that’s not a problem.”

There was a knock on the door.

“How fortunate,” Solace said. “Come in.”

The door swung open, and Craft turned towards it. Standing under the door frame was that same woman, red skirt and all. One of her blades was an inch out of its sheathe, propped up by her thumb — but with her gaze alternating between Solace in a good mood and a very confused Craft, she was evidently confused as well.

“Craft Bowen, Lei-rei,” Solace said, “meet your new housemate.”

***

Solace escorted them to their house, getting updates about the town from Lei-rei along the way. Craft trailed the pair, wondering how on earth this even happened. Was this also the impostor’s doing? No, no, Solace had been the one who’d picked out the key, and it was impossible for anyone to predict the fae-like whims of the local housing market. Wasn’t this all just a dumb coincidence, then?

After showing them through the door, Solace bid her leave, closing the door — leaving them alone.

The interior of the house was the very image of a ‘humble abode.’ There was a dining table and chairs put together from rough cuts of timber. Misshapen pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall above the kitchen counter, and a small round window above the sink was the only source of light. There were other doors, ostensibly leading to bedrooms, but that wasn’t the issue right now.

“I know your kind,” Lei-rei said. “You like to lie to get your way. I doubt you’re actually newly summoned.”

Craft had stuck to playing it safe up until now, but after hearing that last part, things clicked for him.

The impostor knew he was newly summoned — she was there — but this woman did not, so he could be certain now that they weren’t the same people at all.

So why did the impostor assume this woman’s identity? Did the impostor mean to sow doubt in him by impersonating his future housemate?… No, that made no sense. If the impostor stuck to her declared goal of spiting him and hating on him, what would have been the purpose of inciting someone else to attack him?

The woman in front of him drew a blade and pointed it at his neck. She chuckled — and her amusedness disappeared. “The statue’s head. Where did you hide it?”

It’s just one thing after another, wasn’t it?