Odd as it was, Malwine had caught herself staring at the panel that popped up to describe the ‘imprint’. She couldn’t quite wrap a finger around just what made it so bizarre to her—maybe it was just Veit’s admission that this came from a different world.
There was something deeply amusing about the concept of Skills being a non-renewable resource somewhere out there, not that she’d say that aloud—by default, she assumed people on the other side must have been getting screwed over, and there had to be a disadvantage to existing in that world.
A world where Skills can presumably just be passed around like this.
Then again, Forgers did exist, even if Malwine still wasn’t sure as to what those were, exactly. Ever since she started being slightly honest to Veit, she’d come to the inevitable realization that some problems could, indeed, be solved by simply asking someone.
She couldn’t help but wonder how her earlier years would have gone if she’d understood that earlier—and she still gave herself about a 50/50 chance, between successfully gathering information and drawing unwanted attention to herself.
Had Veit gotten her this specific Skill because he’d grown to understand just what she was like, or because it was just the closest thing he had lying around?
Malwine wasn’t sure which answer she would have preferred, so she figured she’d avoid ever getting one.
She closed her fist around the coin-like imprint. Though cold against her palm, it felt strangely comforting to touch, in a way she couldn’t have precisely explained had that been asked of her. The closest situation she could think of was the idea of laying down somewhere incredibly cool after a hot day, but this felt refreshing at a ridiculously deep level.
Then it was gone.
Malwine exhaled slowly, loosening her grip to confirm the coin had vanished. A new panel greeted her—her fourth
[The Way of the Clave]
Trait: None. Aspect: None
She couldn’t help but stare at it—aside from Adelheid’s Skills, most of those she’d seen had relatively longer descriptions. [The Way of the Clave] was ambiguous at best, and Malwine had to admit that, were it not for the description on the imprint, she wouldn’t have had a single clue as to what this was supposed to be.
I’m guessing Veit’s father stole this from a world where people liked being vague. And were weirdly into music.
Peeved as she wanted to pretend to be, Malwine knew this was an easy fix.
Why, of course—it had been quite the while since anyone in Beuzaheim had gotten to be in the presence of the illustrious Kunegunda.
----------------------------------------
Picking targets was harder for Malwine than it had been for the widow, in no small part because people in Beuzaheim were simply not as combative as she was used to. That guard, Johann, had been annoying, but he hadn’t acted in a manner that was anywhere near offensive enough for her to go out of her way to find him a second time—though if their paths crossed again, that would be fair game.
Malwine genuinely just wanted some test subj— individuals she could use [The Way of the Clave] on without feeling bad about whichever implications this kind of active social Skill might carry about the category.
Is that really too much to wish for?
“Hm,” the so-called ‘Kunegunda’ rubbed her chin as she examined the bouquets in front of her. As any polite old lady would, Malwine avoided touching anything on the display, despite her curiosity at the thin, shimmering film that seemed to shield the objects within. She’d mistaken it for glass, at first, maybe out of habit.
But it was interesting, prickling her senses in the same way Adelheid’s teleportation once had. Though Malwine didn’t need to figure magical storefronts out, nor would she have any use for them, a part of her desperately wanted to know how it worked.
“Madam?” a store clerk peeked from the door, at an angle. He’d been staring at ‘Kunegunda’ for a while, occasionally adjusting his glasses—which were regular glass, unlike the marvel at the storefront—but he hadn’t tried to address her until now.
So that’s how it works? Malwine wondered as she turned to face the young man, half realization and half disbelief. It didn’t feel like a cheat sheet for speaking, nor did it feel like truly having instructions or knowledge. Things just clicked. Chances were, the guy had been hesitant to bother an elderly woman who looked so eccentric, but there was some underlying shyness there as well. [The Way of the Clave]’s lackluster description hadn’t prepared her for the sheer whiplash of it all.
Another thing that became immediately clear to her was that things would get increasingly awkward if she stared at the clerk instead of addressing him—and asking about the non-glass window wasn’t an option. That sucked. But an old lady from this world would likely already know what this was. In the back of her mind, she knew asking Veit anything remotely glass-related was also outside of the question, when Malwine fully intended to keep making fun of his mosaic kite.
“Ah, you see, young man… I find myself in a bit of a predicament. My grandson’s a rowdy fellow, and one thing led to another… Now I find myself needing to attend his wedding several years late!”
While her new Skill tried its best to suggest she should take a tamer approach, the universe could try and pry that shameless melodrama from the widow’s cold, dead, and nonexistent hands—Kunegunda’s backstory would remain absurd.
“I… Pardon me, madam?” the clerk’s eyebrows furrowed, but he straightened, his confusion seemingly replaced by whatever his usual MO for dealing with bizarre customers was. His hands were now even folded behind his back, prim and proper.
“He went and got married without letting me have a say-so, just when I was about to go looking for him,” Malwine-as-Kunegunda tipped her head back and passed the back of her hand over her forehead, ever committed to the bit. “I only found out recently. Now what was I supposed to do? Don’t answer, that was just what I asked myself. And the solution is clear. I’m going to buy wedding supplies, whatever those are around these parts—” she barely avoided a wince at the awkwardness of how [The Way of the Clave] seemed to imply explicitly treating Beuzaheim as the boondocks might resonate with this specific man “—and next time I see him, I’ll throw him a second wedding to remember.”
The clerk, for his part, was nodding along. “I see, madam. News travels quite slowly so far from the more developed parts of the Principality. It can certainly lead to some issues. Forgive me, but I must say it was quite disrespectful of him to do such a thing without informing you.”
“Oh, it was, but my boy’s a Forger—what am I to do?” Malwine played off the reaction Johann-the-guard once had, brushing it off on the next sentence as she watched the clerk’s expression. “Which bouquets would you recommend? Can you get me a list?”
The Skill itself seemed to approve of her use of it so far.
Your [The Way of the Clave] Skill has improved! 0 → 1 You have reached Level 67!
“We offer a wide variety of arrangements for every occasion, some premade, others custom. It depends on what you’re looking for—a ‘traditional’ arrangement here would likely be seen as plainly out of fashion in the capital. Is your grandson particular to any style? And do you happen to know anything about the bride’s preferences?”
“Just that she’s a foreigner,” Kunegunda shook her head ambiguously—a move that fit her appearance all too well, seeing as she continued to be heavily referenced from that idiot, Margaret Smith.
Again, the clerk nodded sympathetically.
It seemed Malwine had gotten her wish, after all.
----------------------------------------
An hour and plenty of needless discussion later, the mysterious Kunegunda had left the store without buying anything. Considering the clerk had ignored two other potential customers to keep talking to her, even through her repeated attempts to put a stop to the conversation, Malwine wasn’t particularly regretful of the extra [Toll] she accrued to leave a nice message on the store’s feedback box.
If she didn’t see him the next time she walked by, she’d be counting that as a personal win.
Now, as she rested, Malwine could only wonder if she’d made the right choice. Not on how she tested it, but on not doing it more—it really did feel like that kind of casual yet slightly purpose-driven conversation was what the Skill was meant for.
It gave her an idea of what to expect from people, of what to believe about them and what might be behind what they said or did. But ultimately, that instinctive knowledge the Skill provided felt clearly tied to what she wanted out of the interaction.
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Certainly, Malwine wasn’t self-deluded enough to pretend she hadn’t been looking for someone to dislike. She had a feeling she could have just as easily used the Skill to help nudge the conversation into the pinnacle of good customer service, instead of confirming her suspicions that the clerk would have fit right in with Fastēn, what with all the excessive Grēdôcavan patriotism.
She was really, really hoping they were simply outliers as far as cultural norms went, because she wasn’t prepared to consider the implications of the alternative. Especially not when a distant part of her was entertaining the vague thought of travel at some point in the future.
So lost in her thoughts, Malwine didn’t initially notice her oldest uncle waving at her from where he sat at the table. Since the girls had started being somewhat allowed to roam again, it had become a bit of a pattern for her and Anselm to be the last ones to leave after meals.
Her because she couldn’t just teleport out like Adelheid did, and him because the man clearly had some type of issue.
“Hey,” Malwine blinked. She turned to him and returned the wave.
“Hello, niece,” her uncle started tipping his head. She’d noticed he continued to get paler every time she saw him, his dark undereyes becoming more and more pronounced, but today, he looked strangely relaxed. “I was wondering if I could borrow what I made for you, for but a moment?”
Malwine’s eyes narrowed, and she was frowning before her lips warped themselves into a sharp “No.”
Anselm seemed taken aback, flinching. The reaction was overt enough that Malwine wondered if she’d snapped back a bit too rudely, but tension bloomed in her. A combination of simple instinct and Skills at work, she had to guess, but it took her a moment to parse even the start of it.
[Unpacifiable] whispered something, not in the way it feared the unmanaged curse or decried Veit and the sibyl as potential dangers—it spoke of being watchful, all while [The Way of the Clave] mingled with its signals. For a moment, despite their considerably different purposes, the Skills seemed as suited to each other as the [Blank Panel] Trait had been for [Write Anywhere].
“I need it for a project I’m working on, since it’s the best harvestable I’ve revealed in a while,” Anselm insisted, his gaze so fierce is was as if something were flickering within them. “It would be naught but—”
“Uncle, I’m sorry, but I don’t care for the reason,” Malwine remained frowning. She wasn’t sure if this urge to refuse the request—this defensiveness—stemmed purely from how the Skills were warning her off, or if it came from how the locket was the one and only real memento she had of the mother she never met.
The mother I have yet to meet, she reminded herself, as if even thinking of it as something that never happened could somehow jinx her future chances.
“You could break it, you could ruin it,” Malwine continued. “I’m sorry that you think you need it, but you gave it to me and it’s mine. I’m not taking the risk of losing it when it’s the only thing I have of my mother.”
Anselm looked off to the side, briefly pensive. She didn’t need Skills to tell her the man was looking for an excuse to continue insisting. “Even if it were to be subject to a mishap, I could likely reveal another—”
“Alright,” Malwine latched onto that before he had a chance to finish the sentence. “Then reveal another one for what you need!”
“It wouldn’t—”
“The answer is no, and it’s final,” Malwine met his gaze. “It’s not personal, but it is final. Neither you, nor anyone, gets to take my things.”
Anselm gaped at her. He blinked and shook his head, returning to an expression of relative neutrality. “You have some… curious trust issues, for one so young,” her uncle noted. Still, he nodded. “I understand.”
As much as Malwine was grateful that he’d chosen to back off, she couldn’t shake off that feeling—above all, how [Unpacifiable] was quite loudly telling her to keep an eye out.
“I don’t have trust issues,” Malwine replied crossing her arms over her chest. “I just don’t want you going and breaking something I love so much.”
Anselm flinched at that, his eyes widening slightly. The strange flicker in them was gone, but if any would have ever called the widow paranoid, they would have agreed Malwine might have gotten some of that occasional carefulness from her.
“Very well,” her uncle tipped his head, speaking so slowly and quietly that it came off as an abashed whisper. “I apologize, I should not have asked.”
She felt a pang of guilt, though she would stand by her refusal.
Before Malwine could respond, her uncle was already walking away.
----------------------------------------
The knowledge that she had the better part of a year to herself did wonders for Malwine’s sense of organization—she had absolutely no idea what to do with no immediate instructions on anything specific she had to do, and that left her with no choice but to put some serious thought into the matter.
None of her concerns were pressing enough that the world might fall apart if she idled, with even the matter of the second sibyl fading into the background, joining Elflorescence on the admittedly growing list of problems she’d have to deal with eventually.
But that’s future Malwine’s problem!
Most of all, she needed to ground herself—and no better way for that than to return to her roots. Or is it the widow’s roots?
Malwine pushed the budding existential crisis into the back of her mind once again, opting instead to bask in the pride that stemmed from how she’d successfully resisted the urge to allow her thought process to devolve into puns.
Maybe Veit is right, even if he doesn’t know the whole of it. Maybe I am a child. And the widow…
The widow had been a person shaped by circumstance.
As for Malwine, her double sat on the archive, doing that which she wished she could have done long ago, before OHeidi had gone and derailed her tasks with her existence.
The most recent of the publicly available tomes for birth registrations was titled Beuzaheim Births 5781-5789. She’d expected as much, given the secretary’s words on her first visit, but this still served as tangible confirmation that she’d have to find her last younger uncle’s birthmonth and year manually.
She found Kristoffer after little effort, the tome being a continuation of the one she’d found Otto in. Katrina’s third son had been born on The Fog of 5781.
> Johann Kristoffer, born mortal, son to Kristian Rīsan and Katrina Skrībanin.
Oh, Devils no, not another Johann. Malwine’s pleas fell on deaf ears as she grumbled and added her uncle’s full name to her family tree panel. She would continue to address him as Kristoffer—and nothing else—for the rest of eternity.
As she continued perusing the book, Malwine found herself conflicted. She wanted to rush ahead and find Alaric deliberately, as there was nothing to be gained from browsing the years between one and the other.
But if the birth of Otto had taught her anything, it was that the only way to be sure there weren’t any more surprise relatives out there was to be thorough.
The pride she took in such diligence didn’t keep Malwine from huffing in irritation as she approached the entries for The Forgetting of 5786—there had, in fact, not been any surprise relatives on the countless pages she checked ‘just in case’.
> Alaric Emich, born mortal, son to Kristian Rīsan and Katrina Skrībanin.
That middle name alone was almost enough for Malwine to feel her time at the archive had been well spent, but a part of her craved more. She wanted some new, groundbreaking information—something that would give her something to think about on the months ahead, or at least shake up what she’d previously known, as learning about Otto had.
Unknown (Rīsan?) + Unknown (Rīsanin?) - - - - Someone with {Ore}?₁ + Beryl Skrībanin₂
\ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . /
Kristian Rīsan + Katrina Skrībanin †
|
Beryl Rīsanin
₁Isn't dead???
₂Might have died around The Fields of 5750
---
Children born to Kristian Rīsan (The Cold of 5740—) + Katrina Skrībanin (The Harvest of 5740—The Cold of 5786)
⚭ The Wind of 5766 ⚭
1. Ilse Beryllia (The Forgetting of 5767—)
2. Anselm Julius (The Fog of 5769—)
3. Maria Thekla (The Forgetting of 5773—)
4. Johann Kristoffer (The Fog of 5781—)
5. Alaric Emich (The Forgetting of 5786—)
Children born to Kristian Rīsan (The Cold of 5740—) + Bernadette fon Hūdijanin (The Forgetting of 5769—)
⚭ The Forgetting of 5791 ⚭
1. Matilda (The Snow of 5792—)
2. Paul₃
3. Adelheid (The Forgetting of 5798—)
4. Benedikt (The Fields of 5802—)
₃Born on either 5794 or 5795.
Returning the book, she turned to the death registrations next. They were strange books compared to the other varieties, as their entries consisted of people simply declaring that someone had died. Occasionally, the fate of their obit would be mentioned.
Ironic as it was, she found herself gravitating towards The Cold of 5786. She’d gain no new information from it, but she checked anyway.
> Kristian Rīsan, member of the late Champion Saint’s party, has darkened our doors at an unseemly hour to declare that his wife Katrina Skrībanin, member of the late Champion Saint’s party, has died.
>
> He declares that he knows this for a fact, as the system informed him that he had become the guardian of their children.
>
> Katrina Skrībanin was a mortal of 46 years of age, and left behind five six children with the aforementioned Kristian Rīsan, the call names of which are: Beryl, Anselm, Thekla, Otto, and Kristoffer.ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵉʷᵇᵒʳⁿ ᴬˡᵃʳᶦᶜ
>
> The details and location of her death, as well as the fate of her obit is unknown, and so this entry is closed.
It was obvious to Malwine that the scribe had gone back and added Alaric after he was presumably forgotten the first time around—the real question, to her, was whether it had been a genuine mistake or if it had been Kristian who forgot his newborn son at the time.
Both possibilities felt equally likely.
As this tome in particular went all the way to 5792, Malwine convinced herself that there really weren’t that many pages left for her to check.
Only a few years!
She knew Bernie had married her grandfather on The Forgetting of 5791. Between her birth in 5769 and then, something had clearly happened for her family to be gone, her House name gone.
Had she put more than five seconds of forethought into the idea of looking into that, the more thorough part of herself would have insisted on starting right then on 5769, on going back to pick that tome up instead.
For better or worse, Malwine had already dived headfirst into the rest of this particular tome.
Her double’s blood somehow managed to run cold as she came across a page near the very end of 5789.
> Hildegard fon Werruin hlǣfdīġe, eldest of the blaze, has awoken the town with torches. She slew the Tacit Saint’s second, the name of which was Johann fon Qanûfōdr, and tossed his obit at our doors.
>
> She declares she knew not nor cared for his age, marital status, or progeny.
>
> She declares that our Registrar, Adelheid fon Hūdijanin, was slain by the same Saint on the outskirts of Augaīs, and that the act is to be repudiated at once, for the man expressed his intent to inflict injustice upon the Immortal’s family.
>
> I informed Hildegard fon Werruin that personal affairs, particularly those relating our betters, are not the business of this registry, and that the subject being our Registrar does not change this.
>
> And so this entry is closed.
Malwine pursed her lips.
I mean, I did hope to find something groundbreaking, didn’t I?
…Damn monkey’s paw.