Chapter 12 : The convoluted  truth

It gave the maker something to think about. Silvia had just asked it what people used to call the maker when it wandered the surface. The maker dug deep looking for the answers, but found Silvia's question too vague.

What did the humans call me before?

People had given the maker numerous names, teeming titles, a legion of labels and countless classifications.

The maker had names, old names. Names so old that it feels like they didn’t belong to the maker anymore. Improper names that originated from the makers old, wrinkled, folded and ancient flesh. Flesh that was shed, consumed and repurposed and then shed again. Silvia had asked for it's name, but the maker had none to give. For the flesh didn't have a name yet as it was new. The maker could have made one up, but felt it was improper to do so. While at the same time, none of the names of old seemed to fit.

Names should be given, not made by oneself.

The maker had a long list of titles to choose from. The highest ranking titles ranging from an Emperor or General all the way to the life of a slave, and even less than that. Or plentiful professions such as a Head Chef, Master Blacksmiths or a simple shrimp boat captain. And varying from a rich Gold merchant to an old leader of beggars. It was a long list of titles and jobs the maker used to have. Accumulated during a span of lifetimes, or taken from these titled humans themselves.

‘The adventurer’ probably wasn’t aiming for titles. Besides it’s hard to believe a child would be  titled as Emperor… even if it’s happened before.

Silvia wasn’t necessarily interested in titles, she simply wanted information. Or more specifically, something that would make sense of who ‘the girl’ covered in slime was. That was the real question, finding out what to classify or label the unknown as. To find something that she would know and understand.

The maker was a living and breathing thing. This was the whole truth and could be easily understood. But the maker felt it was too vague. The maker didn't like vagueness, nor did it think that this would answer Silvia’s question. A troubling matter indeed.

There were labels, labels that stuck and clung the most in the maker’s mind. The maker was labeled a monster, paradoxically it was also labeled as a human. Humans used to call it a demon, sometimes even the devil itself. Laughably, it was even labeled God a few times.

All the labels and the titles given by dead humans from long ago gave the maker a sense of conflict. It did not want to give away any of those labels. It probably wasn’t a good idea as well. Giving away those labels would cause misapprehension.

If it called itself a monster, or beast or something of that like It would most likely lead the maker getting stabbed by ‘the bloody monster killer’. It needed to hide that piece of truth.

Was that lying?

Those labels, most weren’t even true. It was just how some uncomprehending humans described the maker sometimes. A form of reality shaped by minds that weren’t the maker’s, using labels as a crutch to help them perceive or simply just call the maker something besides ‘thing’,‘that’ or ‘IT’.  

It was a maker, from its many experience it made things. It made ’dungeons’ , weapons, creatures, ‘things’. It just made and created until the ‘adventurer’ arrived. And as Silvia  the adventurer saw it, she saw the maker as a monster, a wall of flesh, a form of truth in her eyes.

A monster for the adventurer to defeat. A bad villain for the good hero to overcome. A trope for a story…

The maker almost smiled. It found an answer.

What was the current reality of Silvia? The one that gave the maker such a mind altering question. Silvia had beforehand gauged what the maker’s new flesh was while it wasn’t looking. She labeled the maker as beautiful, foreign. Even though it was flattered  by being labeled as beautiful, as the new flesh went, the maker didn’t intend to make itself look foreign, at all. It didn’t even know it looked foreign right before Silvia thought it up.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

It was also labeled as a child; an innocent, a non-threatening entity.

A weak and defenseless human girl which  most humans would find hard to perceive as something large, scary, imposing and that must be struck down quickly by striking it’s eyes.

Silvia also had guesses for ‘the foreign girl’. The uncertainties, a noble, a servant, a slave. Temporary labels built upon by substantiation.

The maker didn’t want to lie, but it didn’t want to tell the whole truth either. Being unnecessarily honest would lead to the maker having extra holes than the one accounted for. Silvia lied when she told the maker that she was fine and the maker didn’t like it and as much as the maker wanted to lie as well it would be a hypocritical thing to do, it would have to arrange a ton of things, make some spaces and the maker had enough things to consider. an incomplete truth was much better.

Was that also lying?

It was time to choose, the labels that Silvia had guessed.  Labels that she had drawn upon conclusion.

First was the label of a noble, a medieval human. Educated, one who owned land, owned titles, had connections.

too hard and too many things to consider.

A servant, civil, service, probable but too broad. Servants had too many branches, there were servants that worked in boats, that worked in castles and farms and all other things, too many vast expectations and too little info. It was possible for them to be the uneducated but again too little info.

too many missing variables.

A slave, grunt, ignorant, timeless, dumb, bottom class. Humans would have basic expectations for a slave, labor, gratification and servitude. Slaves were clueless, clueless enough for them to fall to their deaths when their masters wanted to bring them into the afterlife, as clueless as the maker is of the new and of the outside. Easy to emulate, easy to be.

A trope, a damsel in distress. Or a slave in distress.

It quickly rummaged through its memories, digging past loads and loads of memories from sanctuary creations. Deeper and deeper into the depths..

The maker was in chains, her wrists were red from the press of the shackles. Her feet were severed and seared into stumps. Her tattered dress was covered in stains, red, white and soot covered the whole of her body.  Dirty blonde hair blocked half of her view. She parted her hair. The cage bounced and she slammed her head on the bars. Surrounded by plains, she was being carted off by a horse accompanied by slant eyed soldiers carrying spears and flaming wooden rockets. She looked to her side, there was a huge man riding an equally huge horse, a dark smile was etched upon the man’s face as he looked her way. He continually tapped his shoulders with a glaive heavily decorated with the heads of….. he sneered in malice as she lowered her head and wept. The taps continued as they rode on…..

The darkness turned to green. The scenery changed, again her  black hair blocked her view, it was disheveled but it wasn’t filthy. She was in a forest, her hands were tied to a long sturdy piece of bamboo, 2 tribal men, 6 women and 3 children of her tribe were tied along the bamboo. Her tribe was being forced to move through the forest. Dragging them along at each end were tribesmen from the enemy tribe. They shouldn’t have trusted them. The talk of peace and unity was a lie. They shouldn’t have let them in. They should have been more guarded. A man from her tribe yells, They stopped. A man decorated in bones and leaves drew his stone axe and smashed it in between her tribesman's eyes.They were poked with bones forcing them to move forward, dragging her dead brother along.

It turned from green to blue, a whip cracked and the maker yelled in pain. Streaks of blood and sweat trickled down his sweltering back. His eyes weren’t good, his uncut wet grey hair didn’t help either.  Drums drummed his ears and a man was shouting. He continued to row, rowing along the drums.  Salty humid breeze flowed through his face, he closed his eyes, he savored every moment of it, committing the very thing into memory. A whip, cracked and he screamed in pain.

The maker ruffled and dug through more, being a slave was indeed timeless.

I was a slave a couple of times,

The maker dug through more, some of the slaves died as slaves.

or did I just simply ate a couple?

Regardless it recalled lives of being a slave

“A slave.” the maker said.

A slave does not know common sense, A slave does not know too much of the truths, all of what they knew was pain, pain incites compassion and pity. The maker needed pity and defenselessness, a slave is also one of the guesses that Silvia made so it was more than a guarantee that slaves were common.

As Silvia took the answer in, she bit her lip, her face furrowed. Panic rose within the maker as the same look she had overlapped with a bad memory of whips and an angry master.

Was it too far fetched? Or does she know I’m not telling the whole truth?

Frozen in place. Panic erupted inside the maker as it scrambled to dig into its memories, looking for ways to help her run away from an angry master.

Was it too close? Too believable? had she just now discovered that I could also read her mi-

‘pigshite, not again. Poor child, that’s just too much. ’

The world stopped slowing around the maker as it held its bearings.

Ah, she believed it. That’s good.

The maker tried to prevent itself from smiling.