Author’s top part of the thread. It’s mine. MIIIIIINE!!!

Sometimes, a mother looking out for her child can make every serial killer in the world look like a meek kitten. That doesn’t mean she’s a good cook.

Really, there are some very scary and dangerous people out there.

Spoiler :

I’m sure that “quiet quiet” kid is after my soul…

Please enjoy, comment and comment? And rate and review, maybe? Feed back is always appreciated.

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Chapter 4: Beyond the Mist

~ Part 5: Witch of the North ~

Finding Martha’s house in the small hamlet quickly proves to be ridiculously easy, even in the setting darkness. First because the blue roof does stand out and, second… because a huge, GLOWING mountain in the background is illuminating the whole area like an oversized lamp post!!

Simply ludicrous. An enchanted managem producing some light, I can understand, but a freakin’ MOUNTAIN??? What was this? The whimsical Land of Oz?!

…OOOooooooooooooh, wait.

*sigh* Even away from the undead extravaganza, this country keeps getting weirder and weirder. What is that mountain made of exactly anyway? I hope that stone isn’t radioactive.

Pondering on the issue – and half hoping for the stone to actually be radioactive… – I walk up to the door, and knock.

*knock* *kno-SLAM!!*

The wooden – blue – panel abruptly swings open, nearly breaking my wrist. Bless my reflexes, I jumped back in time.

In the blue doorframe is standing a tall, blond, blue-eyed woman, lean, athletic, and in her mid-forties, with a faint scar running from her left temple to her upper lips – weird the little details we focus on in moments of panic – and wearing nothing but a pale blue nightgown.

I’m noticing a theme here.

The night is pretty warm, as such the woman doesn’t look cold despite the lightness of her garb.

However she does look cold, her expression does. Her face is frozen in a chill scowl that makes shivers creep down my spine and to the depths of my being. In fact, the night was pretty warm… up to now… but her simple presence has abruptly made the air temperature drop down to freezing abysses. I’m surprised not to see my breath condense.

When her pale soulless blue eyes fall on me, my heart skips a beat. And not in a good way. My first reflex is to put up a battle stance. Then, as my mind catches up to my most basic animalistic instincts that are screaming at me I am about to get eaten, my second reflex is to wet my pants.

However, and thankfully for both my dignity and Dorothy’s safety – and undoubtedly by extension my life, had I dropped the kid in front of her dragon mother – as well as my pants, I quickly remember I am carrying the little girl and the identity of the person in front of me.

Before my idiotic brain has the time to act on its reflexes, I firmly suffocate my fight-or-flight response – *arghhhh* – and reaffirm a protective grasp on the sleeping form in my arms, hoping this would suffice in stating my peaceful intentions.

To my relief, Martha’s cruel eyes release me and look down at my small burden. Her face first shows subtle surprise, then softens a bit.

Although, from my standpoint, “softened” perhaps is too strong a term? Let’s say instead that she now looks less likely to slay me on the spot and a tad more inclined to, maybe, ask questions BEFORE ripping me to shreds with her bare nails to then bathe in my blood with a faint contented smile on her expressionless face while drinking wine in my emptied skull.

What did the Elder say again? “She looks a bit icy”?

That… senile old FART!! Under-FUCKIN’-statement of the year!

After an illusion mist, a rain of holy fire, and an enchanted fence, is he trying to kill me with a heart attack?! I knew he looked suspicious! That damned psychopomp! And all those apples!? ELDER!! Where are you hiding your evil notebook? I won’t tolerate this. I AM JUSTICE!

…Ah! Good thing I opted out of the corpse-carry with the girl.

Mentally cursing the Shini–… Elder, but still very much in favour of keeping my innards inside my body for as long as possible, I immediately begin to explain the situation, actually managing for once to go straight to the point.

The things absolute terror will do to a man…

After I conclude my report, Martha the Female Viking, and woman who cuts off your manly parts for staring at her chest, lets out an uncommitted: “I see.”

…

HAHAHA!! “I see” / “Icy”. Good one… haha… Please laugh Miss – Mistress? – Martha? I’m scared here.

Or, no, better… don’t laugh. I have a feeling that would be the single most terrifying thing I’d ever see in my entire existence. I still want to enjoy dreams that aren’t nightmares. Please. Mercy, Miss… Ma’am… I have a child. Even if she’s not mine. Oh. Right. She’s yours. Haha. Sorry. Please don’t kill me?

While I still ain’t fully sold on the old man as a powerful mage, I have no doubt that THIS woman is capable of slaughtering me with her pinkie toe. Call it instinct of the survivor.

And it turns me on a little.

…

……

………

WHAT IS WROOOOOONG WITH ME??!! …Wait. No, don’t answer that.

No need. You already know the answer, young padawan.

…Gods.

Without showing any imminent will to savagely decapitating me – nor any explicit will NOT to, sadly – Martha steps aside, allowing me inside the house. Her face has relaxed another notch after hearing me out. See? Everything can be easily solved with peaceful dialogue. Now, she’ll possibly use an actual weapon to gut me, sparing her powerless victim from the pain of being slowly minced by her manicured claws.

Despite the invite, I don’t move towards the open door. I remain grounded on the spot, staring at the gaping entrance like a damned soul at the Gate of Hell itself… No. Wait. I have been to Hell. Martha’s house looks far scarier even though that shade of blue is rather tasteful if you ask me.

The woman in question doesn’t seemed pleased with my dallying however.

“Inside,” her voice cuts the silence.

“YES, Ma’am!!”

My body reacts even before my mind finishes processing my will. This motion awakens in me old memories of my traumatizing knight training – because, yes, getting this class wasn’t easy. I swear, if this woman hasn’t been drill sergeant at some point, I’m a ballerina.

* * *

After laying down Dorothy – caaaaarefully – on her bed inside her room, the very obedient knight – aka. me – is shown his own bedroom: a small closet with a thin sheeted mattress tossed in a corner… Not that the knight – aka. me – has any sorts of complaint against this. Nope. Not at all. A closet? Great! I love closets!

Not that I’m in one, mind you. I very much love women.

I could still sleep outside, you know? Please let me sleep outside. Preferably a few miles away from here.

Pussy.

Oh, shut up.

As one can guess, Martha is a woman of few words. She monosyllabically thanks me for bringing back her daughter – I note the choice of word – and informs me breakfast will be at seven, before starting to walk out of my designated closet.

It takes all my courage to actually speak up and stop her. In less than twenty words, I explain her I’m very tired and thus I’ll be sleeping for at least forty-eight hours. She nods without asking any question and coolly reiterates that the breakfast will still be at seven on the morning I wake up. Then she leaves without another look at me.

I half-expect her to lock me inside, but she doesn’t.

Jokes aside, the “closet” is still quite decent, considering the overall size of the house. It is also spotless. I draw a finger along the doorframe. Not a spec of filth. The Ice Queen probably scares away even dust. I try to picture her with a feather duster in hand, but the image just won’t compute.

Without further ado, I collapse on the makeshift bed. Exhausted. Alone. I’m slightly melancholic about the latter. Unusual for me. I normally deal with loneliness quite well. I blame the Elder’s parting words for this.

Warm the bed, uh?

More like freeze it solid…

Didn’t he said she would be “overjoyed” to have me help with Dorothy?

Well, if that’s her “overjoyed”, better avoid ever making her “mildly discontent”.

Truth be told though, Martha is quite attractive for her age. Once gotten past the murderous aura, her heartless pale blue eyes even hold some mysterious sensuality.

Just how much of a masochist are you?

Not sure about that actually. Yasmin always kept the pain and hurt outside the bedroom. As for Jenny, when we were dating, she was as far from the word “kinky” as it itself is from the word “zyzzyva” in the dictionary.

And there stops the glorious dating history of Nicolas Siegel.

Hey! It’s not that bad a count for a twenty-two years old gamer…

Besides, it’s not as if my experience was limited to those two… HA-HAH!! Bet you didn’t see that one coming!

…

……

………

…wrong choice of words.

Anyway.

As a young healthy open-minded male, I am in no way opposed to the idea of two single, consenting, and fully cognizant adults engaging in casual sex outside of the bounds of a formal romantic relationship. Not necessarily singles in fact, as long as everyone involved agreed to it.

So maybe I’m not the most outgoing of guys, and I’ll admit such carnal opportunity isn’t something I encounter often in real life.

However! On that matter, virtual reality offers a world of possibilities! Literally. In a fantasy world, far from the judgemental eyes of modern society, and with a muscular Apollo body... I’d be dumber than dumb not to take advantage of such a setting.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m not ashamed. You know you’d do the same.

Just… be careful of venereal diseases. Other players are usually clean, but NPCs… err… not so much. Especially in brothels.

I… did mention I had died in many odd ways, didn’t I?

Medieval times… yeaaah~ *sigh*

Too much realism, game. Too much realism.

…And let’s not broach the subject of sexually transmitted MAGICAL diseases. Really, let’s not. Some are sentient.

…

*shivers*

Staring at the ceiling, my wandering thoughts trek back to Martha’s sex appeal – partly because I’m far too tired to think of anything more meaningful. By principle, I draw the upper line at women a decade older than me physically – because, you know… rule 34, immortal lolis and all that…

I don’t do lolis either by the way.

All lolicons shall die, painfully.

Anyway, Martha visibly exceeds my limit by at least ten years.

Moreover, there’s the thing with Dorothy. I’m no shrink, but I guess waking up to the sound of her guardian having sex with a stranger isn’t the best first step to mental rehabilitation. Especially if said stranger were to come to her the following morning, and tell her they would spend some “fun time” together starting today.

Speak about shooting yourself in the foot.

Maybe I should ask Mom for advice? This is her domain after all… I don’t mean sex, nor traumatizing kids…

…

Although, on second thought…

No, I mean asking her for advice about the mental rehab’ stuff. That’s supposed to be her job. She should be able to give me some pointers.

Still staring at this decidedly thought-provoking ceiling – wood, who knew? – I start pondering about how to deal with the traumatized little girl.

All considerations about bedding her mother have been temporarily banished from my psyche. The two subject matters aren’t compatible reflexion materials. I guess I should be glad I ain’t so twisted yet that mentally scarred little girls turn me on.

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

Seriously, it does not.

Mentally scarred grown women on the other hand…

Will you shut up! I don’t have that kind of fetish!

Yet.

Urgh…

I spend a while longer looking in thoughts at this complex problem named “Dorothy”, then ultimately decide I’m really too tired to find of a way handling her right now. A small voice at the back of my mind whispers treacherously that tiredness never had much to do with me being unable to think straight, but I ignore it.

I’ll just do as I always do: improvise as I go and hope for the best while trying not to make everything explode.

Hahaha… I wonder what an exploding little girl looks like.

On that note, I log off.

▲ ▼ ▲ ▼

Logging back in after fourteen hours spent in real life turns out to be a painful experience in many aspects. For one, I had been so tired before, that I went offline without feeding my virtual body, which is now tottering at the edge of starvation. My satiety bar is dangerously empty. I hope Martha will deliver on that breakfast at seven.

For two…

“GOOOOOD MOOOOORNING!!”

…as soon as I open my eyes, my field of vision is invaded by a blur of twin-tail-ness, quickly followed by a sudden blunt force striking my unprotected stomach.

*GEHO!!*

Thanks the Sun, said organ is empty. Maybe almost starving to death is actually a blessing in disguise. Had those apples I ate two days ago still been loitering around, I would have greeted the new day with compote.

I have to applaud Dorothy’s timing though. Or I would, if my hands weren’t clutched around my midsection.

A few seconds later, and I would have been awake enough to evade the attack. A few seconds earlier, and only my mindless avatar would have suffered the abuse. In Untold Tales, when a player is offline, his or her virtual body remains in the world, unconscious, as if asleep or comatose. That’s one of the reasons why every user is only allowed one character, as to not overcrowd all the inns in the known world.

I glare at the young evil creature sitting atop of me in triumph. I can’t help but wonder why would a medieval Oz rip-off imitate anime caricatures of little sisters? Damn this girl!

Yeah! Damn you, lonely friendless traumatized orphaned little girl!! Aren’t you supposed to be depressed or something? And what’s up with that strength? That knee-blow would have killed a level fifty mage! Seriously, what is that Martha woman feeding this kid?

In a corner of my mind, another little girl, this one with purple hair and ripped-off from another source material, is loudly shouting “Imouto template kitaaa!!” I mentally stuff her mouth with godly sweets to shut her up, then focus back on my current – virtual – reality.

This turns out to be another mistake.

“HELLOOOOOOO!! MISTER NOT-UNDEAD-SINGLE ELRIC WALKER!!”

ARFGH!! My eardrums! My poor, poor eardrums…

A shrill sound attack was what had been waiting for me in reality. I shouldn’t have come back. My ears died from the sudden blow and I can’t even hear their screams of agony, because, you know… ears!

I fear I am now officially deaf.

“Hell-o-ooo~!” sarcasm is literally dripping from my voice, or maybe that’s drool. “Howareyou-fine?-greatmetoo. Now, get off me!” I play back her noisy greeting in my mind “And drop the ‘single’!!”

“Tehee~” the demon disguised as a little girl has the galls to act cutesy. I ain’t falling for her aaaaaaaaaaaaaw~

We can’t win. Abandon ship! I repeat. Abandon ship! TOO. MUCH. CUUUUUUUTE!!!

With a stuck out tongue and an impish smirk, Dorothy runs out of my “bedroom”.

“No, seriously, which part of her never smiles, again?” I mumble, getting up.

I’m not being completely honest here though. I do think something’s off. I’m just not sure what. Maybe she’s a little too cheerful and friendly with me, considering we only met yesterday? I’m not sure… I lack references. The only human little girl I’ve observed at length is Daniel’s baby sister, Hope, and she’s kind of a bookworm.

Damn. Who would have thought that years of being an on/off anti-social self-centred overall mild jerk wouldn’t make me the best psycho-anthropologist of the world?

Who indeed?

Ahhhh~. I really do dislike myself sometimes. It never lasts long though… Three… Two… One… See I love myself again already. I’m awesome! “Positive thinking is the best thinking!” Rule 21. Rise and shine! The Killer Ice Queen made breakfast!

Where’s my memo about detoxification spells, again?

Mumbling half of my thoughts out-loud – but hopefully too low for anyone to understand my grumpy gibberish – I walk to the door, also rubbing my belly in pain and hunger. That’s stuff like that which makes you understand that ‘pain’ and ‘damage’ are two completely unrelated notions in VR gaming.

Should I sleep in my armour from now on? Ah. Right. That would compress my ribcage and suffocate me. Rule five. Rule five. Comfort first. What’s the point of making rules if I don’t follow them? Aside from the fact half of them contradict each other?

About to step out, I pause and look back with a frown at the mattress I was laying on seconds before, my mind returning to the odd encounter I made while I was offline.

“What exactly was the matter with that girl? And why can’t I stop thinking about her? …Well, she was awfully creepy. So that’s a thing I guess,” I murmur to myself, then shake my head and finally turn around and leave my allocated closet. “Such a… weir…do… What the?”

Upon entering the living-dining-kitchen-room – it’s a small house – I’m greeted by a sight both refreshing and dreadfully frightening at the same time.

Martha… wearing a pink apron… happily smiling as she cooks breakfast.

SMI-LING!!

Dear Lord, who is she cooking?

Between this and tea-brewing insane gods, I think I’m slowly developing a rare case of girly-pink-o-phobia.

As I stand frozen in shock in the doorway, the Ice Queen turns around to glare… glance neutrally at me.

“Morning, Sir Walker. Slept well?” she asks curtly in a low threatening voice.

“Eeeh…” Brain freeze.

ANSWER YOU FOOL!! Don’t you see she’s holding a spoon? A SPOOOOON!!

And it’s a wooden one too. Your agony promises to be slow.

“Ah. Eh. Yes, I well very slept. Thank you, Mistress Martha.” Oh, and by the way, do you always talk like you’re about to emasculate someone? Of course I don’t say that. “A good morning to you too. And please don’t call me ‘Sir Walker’. I’m not worthy. ‘Elric’ is just fine.”

“Improper,” she disagrees curtly. “You’re a knight.”

I really can’t read her expression, or lack of thereof, but I still have the impression she’s slightly miffed. I’m not sure how. Maybe it’s the suffocating killing intent?

“But from one such as yourself…” I tentatively try again.

“Do you have any complaint about a humble commoner calling a knight ‘Sir’?” Her low voice rolls like an avalanche in the silent room. Now she’s clearly annoyed. She used a full sentence.

FLY YOU FOOL!!

“NO, Ma’am!” I instinctively straighten my back and nearly salute.

“Then be more aware of your own status,” she admonishes me.

“Yes Ma’am!”

…What am I doing?

Being aware of your own status.

She nods in acknowledgement, and the insurmountable pressure of the drill sergeant suddenly retreats back in the depth of the cold villager woman in plain clothes and pink apron. The ambient temperature rises noticeably too. I’m sure it isn’t just my imagination this time.

“Dot woke you?”

Back to shortened speech, I see. The coast is clear. I allow myself to relax.

“Yeah… She did.”

If Martha notices my slightly bitter tone, she doesn’t show it.

Making my way to the wooden table, I glare at the little demon already sitting. Of course, being “Dorothy from Kansas”, she is wearing a faded blue gingham frock of sorts, with white checks, as well as red leather shoes. Her curled dark brown hair is gathered in twin tails held together by wide blue ribbons. The picture of a model good girl, if slightly anachronistic.

I scoff at the devil’s disguise.

She does look cute though…

Yeah, she does…

See, stop being such a grumpy mule in the morning…

*sigh* I guess you’re right…

I’m always right.

Well, that’s because you’re me.

I’m still a bit drowsy and not completely operational. Proof are the jumbled thoughts running amok inside my poor skull.

So, where’s Toto?

…Didn’t I soul-melted that one?

No, idiot, the dog, not the ghoul. Shouldn’t there be one somewhere? And isn’t it ruby slippers instead of red leather shoes? And why red anyway? I thought the original Oz book said silver. …Did the makers of the game prefer the 1939 movie to the book, or did they just opted out the colour silver because it didn’t sit well with the neighbouring zombies? In the end, the movie creators only used red because of the new breakthrough with Technicolor…

Ow… my head. Please keep it low with the random retro-trivia overload.

I mean–

Seriously, shut up, Brain. And you too, Pinky! Leave world domination for another night.

You’re not even making sense anymore.

WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?!?!?! KUGELSCHREIBER!!

While I battle against my own psyche as usual, mentally spouting German words for some deep philosophical reason, Dorothy is staring blankly out the window, mechanically chewing on whatever is in her terracotta plate.

Once she noticed me and my vaguely focused gaze though, life breathes back into her visage. She suddenly smirks, discreetly waves, and begins eating with renewed enthusiasm.

“…”

There is something wrong with this scene. I can feel it, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly doesn’t click. Maybe I’ll be able to think more clearly with a full stomach.

Perplexed, I sit down opposite to the source of my puzzlement, and take a glance at what she is gulping with such a fulfilled expression. It looks to be a mash of sorts, accompanied with the unavoidable apples and unidentified black grains. Some kind of pepper probably. Seems filling enough. There doesn’t appear to be a shortage of food in Kansas. The smell of the preparation isn’t unappealing either.

Martha soon serves me the same dish, before sitting down herself next her daughter, effectively separating us by gender on both sides of the table.

I’m hungry – and my satiety bar is seemingly attempting to reach a negative value – so I readily ingest a large portion of the steamy purée…

…

……

……… *tutu*

I freeze, spoon still in my mouth. My lips, I’m sure, are rapidly turning blue.

Mother of…

I mentally dismiss the windows informing me of seven different poisoned statuses. I don’t need no pop-up to tell my vision is blurring, my stomach melting, my lungs clogging, my heart slowing down, and my whole body shivering.

*dry wheeze* “Mi… Missss-hihhh Marthhhaeeek?” my voice comes out raspy and painful, and squeakes a bit at the end.

The supposed coldblooded assassin looks up, attentive, but it takes me a few more seconds to voice anything more intelligible than a gargling gasp.

“Would you… mind if I *cough* if I handled the cooking from… from now on? *cough* I’m staying here for free after *cough* after all. I *cough* I would really, really like… no… love to *cough* *wheeze* *cough* *cough* *COUGH* Hhhhhhhh!!! Love to repay you in any way possiblargh– *cough* I’m quite confident in my skillsss-*wheeze* *cough* Not to bra-argh...”

I’m not sure why asking this feels so important right now, but something in me at an instinctual level screams that my survival depends on it.

I anxiously check the health indicator in the corner of my vision. As expected, the bar is blinking a seizure and decreasing. Decreasing fast.

“Please…” I manage to squeeze out.

After a pause that feels like eternity twice over, Martha simply nods without a word, then goes back to her own food. My mental sigh of relief is barely audible above the screeching migraine devouring my brain.

On the side-lines, Dorothy is observing our exchange with questioning eyes, while rapidly emptying her plate, completely unfazed.

Hoy hoy… What’s her level of [Poison Resistance]?!

When she goes for seconds, I faint.

* * * * *