On my way into town, I paused to stuff a few things into my dimensional storage. Namely, my staff, my love’s staff, and the orb that had proclaimed me a blood mage. As each item vanished, I grunted in pain as I felt my soul stretch to accommodate the increased baggage. I already had a lot of junk in there, so adding three more magic items was a strain. It was a sort of constipated feeling, pushing the limits of what I could fit inside the extra dimensional space carved into the fabric of my soul felt a bit like what being a stuffed turkey must feel like, I mused.
The town’s main street was deserted. Word of my arrival had spread quickly, and I noticed many of the houses and stores on both sides of the street shutter their windows. Did I catch a glimpse of terrified eyes staring at me fearfully through the gaps? I waved good naturedly, the eyes vanished.
Although my new found object of my affection was a slender young woman, whose heaviest aspect was clearly the ample bosom that was pressed against my back as I walked with her in a “fireman’s carry”, I was also feeling the strain of carrying her. I’m ashamed to admit that physical strength was not my forte, so I switched to using magic to float her along behind me.
You might think that I would need a staff to use magic like that, but truthfully a staff was only a tool that increased precision and speed. It was easier to write with a fountain pen than with your fingers, sure, but given the ink that was magic, you could make do. A simple levitation spell did not require a staff to write, and if the magic was crudely drawn and imprecise, it hardly mattered when all I wanted to do was tug my love along like a balloon trailing behind a happy child.
The lack of townsfolk willing to cross paths with me meant that I wasn’t sure where my black rose might live, as there was no one to ask. I was almost about to knock on a door to ask, but a sign caught my eye.
“Witch and Pyromancer, a Grandmother and Granddaughter Family Business,” it read.
Well, how many pyromancers could possibly live in a town of this size? I wondered. I pushed past the door, triggering a faint bell that hung behind the door frame. An old woman with a traditional witch’s hat was busy working on a mortar and pedestal while behind a store counter. She paused in her work to stare up at me. I saw her eyes go wide in shock as she took in my red robes, then narrow in anger as she saw my black rose, drifting limply through the door as I levitated her into the shop.
“Excuse me, is this your granddaughter?” I asked the old witch politely. I could see the family resemblence, sure the raven black hair had faded to a light grey, but the green eyes and sharp nose were similar enough. This woman had also been pretty in her day, I decided, though clearly no match for the ravishing beauty of her likely granddaughter.
“Have you brought me my granddaughter’s corpse, bloodmage?” She asked me coldly, her knuckles white as she gripped the pedestal tightly as if she planned to attack me with it.
“No,” I laughed softly, “My poor black rose here passed out in amazement when she saw me demonstrate my blood drain technique. I had no idea I’d have that effect on the fairer sex,” I told the woman earnestly, “I will have to be more careful not to show off my skills in the future. I am quite skilled at it you know.” I added with a conspiratorial wink as I floated the pyromancer over to her grandmother so the old woman could examine her and see for herself that her granddaughter was unharmed.
“Oh Roxanne,” the old woman muttered as she put her old gnarled hand near her granddaughter’s mouth to feel the warm air of each exhalation. “What have you gotten yourself into?” She asked rhetorically, in a voice filled with despair.
Uncomfortable, I shifted, “I truly meant her no harm. I didn’t even attack her after she tried to fry me.” I told the witch. “Does she have a bed perhaps? I would set her down so she can rest comfortably.” It may seem like I couldn’t pick up on emotional cues, but I’d heard enough despair to recognize it when I heard it in the old woman’s voice and it brought back memories I’d rather not dwell on.
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Without a word, the woman nodded and led me past the storefront into the house built behind it. There she led me to a small sparsely furnished room with a comfortable looking if a bit narrow bed. I laid Roxanne on the bed, pleased to finally have brought her home. This room was still larger than the tiny stone cell I’d spent most of my life in, and the bed looked practically heavenly compared to the moldy straw I’d been accustomed to sleeping in. Briefly I felt jealous of Roxanne, to have a loving family member who cared about her and a nice home, but then I dismissed the fleeting emotion. Where had that come from, I wondered, I hadn’t felt anything like it before, I’d been too numb.
Having deposited Roxanne in her bed, the old woman and I shared an uncomfortable moment of staring at each other, waiting for the other to speak. Finally, the woman sighed and said, “Would you like some tea while we wait for her to wake up?” She asked. The tone of the question implied that she’d rather I leave, but if I didn’t plan to do that, she’d at least struggle to be polite.
“I would love some, ma'am.” I told her with a warm smile. The old woman shuddered a bit, then without a further word led me back out of her granddaughter’s room to a small dining room table set next to a kitchen counter. “You have a lovely home,” I told the witch politely as I sat down in one of the chairs.
It was true, my father’s tower may have been bigger, and his bedroom far more luxurious, but it was a drafty old stone tower that was only intermittently kept free of dirt by my determined cleaning over the years. Luckily my father had been slovenly, and had cared little for the half hearted effort I made to keep things clean, other than occasionally cuffing me if he found dead rats. I felt glad that he was dead, and happy that that place had been burnt to the ground. Never would I have to scrub it’s grimy floors again.
Briefly I wondered who washed the pristine wooden floors of this home, was it my love who was the skilled housekeeper? That would be convenient for me once we married, though I of course would offer to help, I imagined she would be too dedicated to my happiness to let me do much housework. I could tend the yard maybe, chop some firewood to build up some muscles to impress her with...
The old witch returned with a warm cup of tea for me and herself, interrupting my pleasant fantasies. I took a sip of the tea, it was delicious. By far the best beverage I’d ever tasted, which, admittedly wasn’t saying much as my prior experience had been stolen booze and water. My father had also been a bit of a drunk, but I found the taste of alcohol appalling. This tea was far better, sweet and slightly bitter. I sipped again, a larger drink. Ah, I’d identified a familiar flavor.
“Granny,” I laughed, “Did you put belladonna in my drink?”
The old woman’s face paled in fear.
“I tried that with my father, he beat me within an inch of my life,” I added with a chuckle. “He also taught me a nifty trick bloodmages can do. Watch.” I gathered the poison that was already cramping my stomach with magic, concentrating it and moving it in my blood till it was a single point of black blood at the tip of my finger. Then I held up my finger to demonstrate as I caused the concentrated poison to burst forth from under the skin in a tiny black bead. I dabbed the poisoned blood on a napkin, then took another drink. “So long as I keep extracting the poison like that, I can drink your lovely tea all night.” I knew this for a fact because after the beating, my father’s lesson was basically forcing me to gradually drink all the poison I’d prepared and watching as I struggled through the pain to master his technique. That was why I recognized the taste of belladonna quite easily.
The woman was staring at the stained napkin with an anguished face. “Will you kill me now?” She asked, lifting her eyes to meet mine.
“Not if you make me another cup of tea without the poison this time.” I told her with a gentle smile and an amused wink. I drank the rest of the poisoned tea in a single gulp and handed her back the empty cup. I pushed out another bead of poison, granny really put a lot of love and belladonna in her tea, I thought to myself.
With shaking hands, the old woman returned to the kitchen to brew me another cup of tea, hopefully poison free this time. She would be a good grandmother in law, I thought to myself, so caring. Why else had she bothered to try to kill me if she didn’t care for her granddaughter? I wished I had a grandmother who’d been willing to kill my adoptive father when he showed up at my family's home. Instead, my adoptive father had killed my real family in front of my eyes and then subjected me to years of abuse. What a difference a little love makes, I thought to myself, nodding in approval as I pushed out another bead of poisoned blood, it really flavors the tea.