After a lovely stroll through the village, I managed to gather some vague clues. First of all, was that the days here operated on a thirty-hour basis. Villagers slept a few hours at dusk, then a few more at dawn—the same as how medieval people used to before the advent of convenient light sources.
Second was that the local lord was gone had taken leave. I verified this in a quite thorough manner. Having went to his residence, climbed in through a window, and rummaged through his belongings.
And third was the abundance of novel, appendage-like symbols. It was all over the place. Hands were hammered in the door of every third or so house. Legs formed makeshift fences. There didn’t seem to be any sense to it, and the way they were placed seemed almost like a corruption of sorts.
As if pieces of wood, stone and grass had been suddenly replaced with limbs, allocated by way of some unknown influence. Where it proved most intense was in their place of worship. Unlike the houses, it was much more elaborate in design and expression. The interior was shaped like a womb, with curved walls and ceilings. The exterior was painted wholly red, with what seemed like stitched arms and legs as the choice of decor. Years ago, I had seen something like this—the work of a dreaded demon with a penchant for body horror and Frankenstein.
And here was its second coming. If nothing else, it certainly proved nostalgic. For it confirmed me, that things here and back home were not so different. And in that, I found a certain comfort. The vague, possibly misplaced sentiment that things would turn out just fine.
After all, this was a perfectly hospitable world I was on. If I had been plunged into the depths of Neptune or the storms of Jupiter, I’d reckon with climates beyond comprehension. Weathers that’d strip me bare and render me nothing more than a lifeless puppet. Then again. Maybe it was a different plane of existence I was on. Some place separated not by distance but by some magic unexplainable by modern science.
Either way, I had no way to go back for the time being. As such, I relegated myself to the role of a happy bystander, content to experience things in their entirety.
With my thoughts in order, I began to flip through the pages of a thread-bound book. It was a souvenir from the lord’s residence. Layered with an armour of dust and a smell of wood, blood, and vanilla.
Unfortunately, upon the tenth page, I realised I couldn’t make out most of the text. The vocabulary was quite advanced and featured a plethora of words beyond me. Whatever hobbies the owner of his body had, it became clear that reading a thesaurus was not one of them.
That said—not everything was incomprehensible. Thanks in part to the art and the odd stroke of luck, I understood a decent chunk of the text and, in turn, grasped what the book was. In short, it was a sacred text.
It told of the village’s religion. Their worship of a deity named Awari’Kaz. A deity that poured from the womb of the God of Humans and, in turn, offered solace through imparting gifts of power.
As for what those gifts were, I had only vague details. Images of many-armed men and women that danced in a circle, mouth agape. If my guess was correct, the absence of children and lack of overall population had something to do with it. And if I guessed correctly, come this evening, I’d meet face to face with who killed the possessor of this body.
For now, though, I was content. Ready to partake in the customs of this land and nap. Sure, there was a non-zero chance I would die right then and there. Snuffed when I was all vulnerable and asleep. But, it was hardly a cause for concern. And if they wanted me dead, then they very well could have set upon me like a horde of dogs.
Tired, I laid down on my bed of straw, clutched my knife to my chest and shut my eyes. It was a small, dingy room I was in. Chock full of dust, fleas, and spiders in every corner of its wooden walls.
But for what it was worth, my feet were caked in an aesthetic grey, the hop of the fleas sounded like music, and the spiders, who spun their little webs, carried a certain eagerness that came off as very cute indeed.
So, with a touch of satisfaction and a sense of joy, I shut my eyes, waiting for sleep to claim me.
----------------------------------------
There were no dreams this time around. My awakening felt like a momentary lapse between consciousness, nothingness and consciousness again. Like the brief interval between shutting one’s eyes and opening them. It was dark, too, so it felt more akin to waking up for a glass of water, then a proper sleep and rousing.
Worse still was that there was no one to tend to me. No servants to offer me company nor lovers to warm the bed. This type of circumstance was unacceptable to my hedonistic self. Had I become some sort of monk? Devoted to celibacy, abstinence from alcohol, and all things pure?!
I was a dandy, a basara, a showboat who lived life to the fullest extent! Excess in dress, presentation and speech! And when I came to this world, I would double down and go twice as hard!
Drawn to that idea, I stood, ready to head downstairs for a round of food and drink. I had no idea what time it was but reckoned dinner was close. So—downstairs, I ventured, and downstairs, a strange noise entered earshot. It was a faint little thing—a strange, wet sound. Something you’d hear when you mushed ground meat into delicate little patties.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
It seemed to come from below. So, below I went, approaching a door that would lead to the basement down under. With one hand on a knife and the other on a handle, I stepped forth onto the wooden stairs.
There was a single lantern for light. Suspended on a tabletop just down the stairs, it illuminated the surroundings in a deathly yellow glow. It felt very atmospheric. The low-pitched groan of wood with every step, the gradual crescendo of the inhuman noises below, and me, a hapless maiden hell-bent on walking face-first into doom and meeting her untimely end!
Was this how my first incarnation would die? Torn limb from limb while consumed by a monster beyond comprehension?
“Innkeeper, innkeeper, are you there?” I feigned innocence. “I’m coming down, you hear? I’m very worried for your wellbeing you see, and have a habit of wandering into dark corners all alone!”
I smiled. I was on the basement floor and took hold of the wayside lantern. Step by step, my destination drew closer, and so did I, now turning a sharp right corner. Curious, I stared into the hallway. My eyes lingered on that scant bit of light.
“Innkeeper?”
He was behind there for certain. His every breath, his every shuffle of body, I could hear it all, the symphony of grotesqueries that would put Artaud himself to shame.
“You know. It might not be too late.”
“Pardon?”
“Once midnight strikes, take it. Your soul might be damned, but it’ll be a painless way to go.”
His words were a repeat of what he said before, spoken in a strange, alternating tone. Loud then quiet with every subsequent syllable. I thought of moving forward but soon realised I didn’t need to.
Right then, a head emerged from behind a darkened corner. It was the innkeeper, alright. With his usual human eyes, thick eyebrows, and lips stuck in perpetual depression. Only—it hung far too low. Down where my ankle should be. Like the head of a child who had just come out of the proverbial egg.
“You know. It might not be too late.”
The innkeeper repeated himself once more. And from the woodwork, he emerged. All of his deformed body was within view. My heart pounded at the sight, and a grin stretched across my face. I was at once enamoured by how otherworldly he seemed. He was ugly—incredibly so—and precisely so, I found it all very novel.
Two extra arms sprouted from his torso, each the size of a child’s. The hue of his body had become a deep red, like that of a fine red wine, while what seemed like patches of overlaid flesh covered every orifice. Every orifice save for the mouth which he used, that is.
“You know. It might not be too late.”
He drew nearer. He walked with the gait of an ordinary man but, on occasion, put too much weight on one foot and limped. I met his challenge and inched forward with my knife in hand. The prospect of discovering what caused his transformation moved me. For now, I would keep this body alive, and until I examined this strange phenomenon in minute detail, take things a bit more seriously.
Rising to action, I stepped forth and slashed at the innkeeper’s chest. A gasp of pain escaped him, a ghastly wail that bordered on a near-human likeness. It was a curious sound. A monster that held a human’s voice? What a beautiful contrast that was!
More, I implored, more!
Again and again, my knife fell upon him like an artist’s paintbrush, drawing strokes of dusky red with every flick and turn. It was not solely for my hedonistic self-indulgence, of course. By my fifth cut, I realised that his wounds had been regenerating. Patches of flesh gradually bound his flesh together. Dozens of miniature hands interlinked their fingers in some gesture of self-healing.
Had I a piece of rope, I would’ve tied the innkeeper down and experimented the night over. Subjected him to all manners of cruelties. But I didn’t want to linger too long. Not while my would-be killer was still out there. Since this afternoon, I hadn’t the pleasure of seeing a weapon capable of launching a projectile like the feather in my brain.
And, grisly as it is, I had a distinct pleasure in knowing whoever killed my bodies. It was, at times, a good chance to make new friends and, at others, an opportunity to exact a good killing, showing them just how to get it done. Quickly, surely, I launched forth and plunged my knife into his would-be heart. There was a familiar squish, and the subtle vibrations of it carried through my blade.
Even then, it refused to die down. And, conceding a fraction of respect, I prepared to stab again when I heard a new burst of sound.
“Gazmen? Gazmen? We are conducting a routine liberation of your soul. Please do not be alarmed!”
It came from upstairs and rang with an almost bird-like quality. The accent was different to the villagers I’d heard, too. More whole, so to speak. It included just a few more syllables and placed more emphasis on the vowels.
By the count of two, the voice was met with the sound of movement. Of the jangle of metal and measured creak of wood. It was coming towards me. And whatever it was, I had no intention of facing it head on.
Gently, I set my lantern down, then tucked behind the corner of a wall.
“Ah, Gazmen, there you are!”
A figure strolled within view. It was a man of middling height, with what appeared to be large, coloured wings that protruded from his back and a parrot-shaped beak. His armour was a beautiful leather, dyed shades of light and dark blue, composed of a matching gambeson and leather skirt inlaid with feather-like strips. It reminded me of a Roman soldier, albeit one moulded to fit the aesthetics of this fantasy-esque world.
“I had worried as to where you went. You are ever fond of hiding beneath the floorboards, aren’t you?”
His voice was warm. The way he moved and presented himself only added to it, giving an impression of genuine earnestness. Naturally, this meant little. Intention did not equate to outcome. Humanistic ideals that advocated the enlightenment of one’s species could very well entail the most horrendous atrocities as a result.
“Here.”
The birdman felt for the innkeeper’s hand, took it, and began to drag him upstairs. I waited until their steps came to an end and, with it, the creak of the inn’s door. After a bit, I then took the lantern and followed, intent to see what they were up to.