It will be a difficult request for her to consider, but I co right out with it and don't waste either of our ti. 'Please put your hand through the mail slot. It would be a dream co true if you’d allow
to bid you farewell the proper way befitting soone of your status.'
'Wait... you don't an...? Oh...' She mulls it over, panic likely building up within her as she rereads the question. 'Oh, I don't know about that... I'm awfully sleepy, and I told you not to treat
like a stuffy lady, either... you certainly don’t need to do that, of all things...'
'Abigail, I beg you. Grant
this one request?' I push her on it, but carefully. I don't want her to get upset.
The Lady asks , '...Can I keep my glove on?'
That's a good question. Every other ti I've tested this, it's been with
staring directly into the girl's face. I don't know whether or not I need to actually see Abigail's skin when I do it, but it's possible.
I need her not to think about it too much, so I shift away from her attention by asking. 'What’s the matter, don’t you trust
to behave myself?'
'It's not about trust...' She says, before eventually scribbling, 'I'm hideous, even my hands...'
'Let
prove to you that sothing like that doesn’t matter to .'
There's an uncomfortably long silence eventually followed by a rattling sound coming from behind Abigail's door, which I assu is her wheelchair parking. Soon, the mailslot opens, and her velvet-gloved hand nervously extends from the crevice. Abigail is shaking, trembling, even.
I close the journal, stand from up my seat, and painstakingly cross the distance between us as Misery and Woe follow along behind . The dead creatures watch with vested interest as I take the hand of their Mistress.
Abigail's hand is tiny and fragile in comparison to mine, and the trembling only intensifies the longer I keep her in my grasp. From the other side of the thick barricade separating us, I can hear the sound of a girl hyperventilating in a soft, quiet voice. I don't think she'd be able to resist right now, no matter what I do to her, so I slowly strip the purple velvet glove from the girl.
"N-No..." She utters a single squeaky whisper of protest as I pull away the long garnt off from under her sleeve. It turns out Abigail’s glove reaches her upper shoulder, so by pulling it, it slowly slips off like a snake shedding its skin. Eventually, the truth of her hesitancy is revealed once the glove slides past her forearm.
Below her elbow, Abigail's flesh becos withered and blacker than night. It's craggy-textured to the touch, flaky, and there are a few points here and there where her skin has blister-like warts similar to a burn victim. Unlike an actual burn victim, though, the young lady's shaky hand is dripping with nervous sweat as I hold her.
It's also warm. In my experience, it’s no less warm than any other girl’s hand.
The mont of truth is here- I remove my glasses and look straight down at Abigail Gloomcrest's hand, despite how convinced I am that I already know what I'm about to feel. Compulsion... longing... an all-consuming desire to keep this girl by my side for as long as I live.
Worst of all, I'm filled with the feeling that my Guild will never be complete unless this reclusive Necromancer is a part of it.
Damn it, Luxy...
'Look, that witch of yours practically grood her for you. I gotta capitalize on chances like that when I see them, ok?' The Goddess replies, pouncing as soon as she hears
ntally say her na. I'm so used to Luxy and her mannerisms by now that I can picture her shrugging at the question.
And how am I supposed to make her beco an adventurer? Are you going to disrupt her life and give her no other choice but to leave ho? You know that'd make her condition a thousand tis worse, right?
'Duh. Play the long ga and figure it out for yourself this ti! She's a special case, so you gotta work on it. Now, if you'll excuse , I gotta get back to painting those damn miniatures...' Just as quickly as she appeared to gift
her divine 'wisdom', Luxy's internal voice is gone, leaving
alone with only the sweaty hand of a girl who I now officially know is part of my destiny.
I realize that I've just been standing here, holding Abigail's hand for almost half a minute while talking to myself. This has made her sweat triple during this brief ti, and I don't know how much longer she can hold out for. Better do what I said I was going to do before she faints...
Bending my right knee and bowing my head, I tighten my grip on her abyssal flesh. Using my lowest and most sensual voice, I whisper to the newest subject of my affections, "You're beautiful, my sweet Lady Gloomcrest..." and then I kiss her on her hand as I close my eyes.
A rush of adrenaline crashes through
like a wave of ‘yes’. As my lips press themselves to the hand once ravaged by disease, all is right with the Realm. I know Abigail feels it too, but she doesn’t know how to react to it.
There's a girlish shriek, and then the door in front makes a mighty loud thud. By my side, Misery hisses, and Woe barks out of shock. In just a few short seconds, though, the magical green light covering them dissipates into the air. Each creature collapses into an inanimate pile of bones as Abigail's hand slips away from , hanging limply out the mail slot.
I... I think Abigail just had an anxiety attack, lept out of her wheelchair, smashed her head into the door, and knocked herself out... perhaps this was a bit too much stimulation for a shut-in.
Before I can leave to find her so help, there's another loud thud that sounds out from behind . As I was studying the crippled hand of Lady Gloomcrest, Bertrand apparently entered the hall through the secret passageway. The mont he witnesses
kiss his long-desired lady love, he falls over onto his knees so loudly that it almost sounds like the stone floor shatters his kneecaps.
In silence, the Chamberlain stares at
aghast, and I'm treated with the haunting sight of every last remaining shred of hope left within him ceasing to be. He has the look of a man who should never again be allowed near sharp objects for the rest of his life.
"Cuckoldry..." He stamrs through tears, his words searching for aning in this void of sorrow. "There has been a cuckoldry in Castle Mourneheart, and I, Bertrand, the Baron of House Brimley, am fortune's chosen cuck!"
"Sure, we could do this, but you could also like... go and find so help?" I stare at him, annoyed and not having any of this lodrama from the delusional Baron.
"Silence, you... you cuckolder!" Bertrand does everything in his power to vent his emotions, sounding more and more like a whining little puppy dog with a particularly grating voice.
"Does anyone in this castle know the damn aning of what it is to get cucked? Abigail was never yours, and she's not even mine yet, I-"
"Yet?!" He shrieks, capitalizing on my slip of the tongue. "My Duke! Open your doors! There has been an attack on your daughter's chastity!"
Much to my shock, the dark Duke actually responds to Bertrand's call, but not in the way he wanted. "Thank the Goddess below..." Osbourne replies with a relieved sigh, riddled with tears. “I was worried that my outburst earlier ruined any chance of this happening between you two. Co to my mail slot, Guild Master... I shall gift you the key to my daughter's bedroom..."
"NO!" Bertrand falls face-first onto the floor as I cradle my head, astounded that this is even happening. He, too, hits himself with enough force to knock himself out.
"Are you coming, Guild Master?" Osbourne's voice becos sadder, desperate for
to co and take that key from him.
"No, Duke Gloomcrest. The last ti I approached your mail slot, things didn't go so well for ."
“Ah...” He becos painfully silent. "Please... If it helps you forgive my earlier episode, I shall permit you to refer to
as 'Father' henceforth..."
"That is absolutely not happening."
"Very well. If you prefer 'Papa' then you only need-"
The thought makes
shiver. I know for sure that from now on, I'll be pursuing Abigail romantically, but today will not be the day I call this man Papa... nor will it ever be.
"Can you put aside your desire for a grandchild long enough to get Abigail so help? I know you have so sort of dark healing magic."
"It's a Dark Knight Art, and it only works on myself..." He sighs before asking . "Have you ever felt so sad that you found yourself enjoying it, Guild Master?"
I an, I’ve had so pretty pathetic masturbation sessions, but... "I can't say that I have..."
"A pity," I can almost feel him shaking his head at . Personally, I'm happy about not being able to relate to sothing so dismal sounding. "lancholic Surge... takes all of the despair... and sadness in my heart and then uses it to send my body into an artificial high where it starts healing itself at an accelerated pace..."
"That's one of the most depressing things I've ever heard." I can’t even imagine having an adventurer with such a dour class in my Guild. How would a party composition even work when one of the party mbers needs to be kept in a comically foul mood at all tis to use their full power?
"You've only begun to get to know , Guild Master..." He laughs, and I smile back at the Duke's door before rembering all that transpired. Osbourne is pitiful, yes, but friendly and even humorous in a dry and somber way. Yet... the way he's shaped his daughter's mind has done her so much harm and damage that I can't just excuse it and pretend to be all cordial with him.
Click, click, clicks coming from the direction of the stairs announce the arrival of a particular doctor wearing heels. Opalina sighs upon seeing Bertrand knocked out on the floor, Woe, and Misery lying limp, and Abigail's gloveless hand dangling weakly out of her mail slot.
The witch looks tired from a day spent shopping out in the busy streets of Dawnstead, although not a single bag containing her spoils of war can be seen. How long has she had that Bra of Holding of hers, anyway? I've had to carry her shopping haul since I was just a child. Did she just enjoy making
lug her stuff around? I wouldn't put it past her.
"Seems I've missed myself so fun while I was out and about," With only a quick glance at the situation, Opalina is able to get the gist of it, and she asks, "Learn anything interesting during your chat?"
"You could say that, yes." I don't want Osbourne knowing that there's divine magic interlinking my fate with that of his daughter, so I nod my head at Opalina. She understands my intentions and smiles like she couldn't be more pleased that her sche is now justified by the highest power in all of Karnalle.
"Is that so?" Her voice reeks of smugness, and I get the feeling I'm not going to hear the end of it anyti soon.
Opalina walks towards , stepping on Bertrand painfully with her heels as if he were a carpet. There's a sharp cracking sound as her foot leaves his spine, and the Baron groans in pain before returning to unconsciousness. I'm confident she did that on purpose.
"Give
just a bit. I’ll help out your little girlfriend, my Love." Opalina smiles then shoos
away from Abigail's door before pushing the girl's hand back through the slot.
She pauses before unlocking Abigail’s door with her wand, then looks off to her left side, "I trust you've been behaving yourself, Osbourne?"
"Y-Yes," Instantly, the Duke fires back with a timid whimper that could rival any of Bertrand's best offerings.
"Good." Opalina doesn't so much as smile when acknowledging his answer. She just turns to , nods her head, and walks inside.
One flash of magic later, and I can hear Abigail stirring as the witch pushes her wheelchair away from the door. Soon after that, the pile of animal bones reconstructs themselves into Woe and Misery. The dog gives
a fake lick, and the cat casually rubs up against the side of my leg on their way to the doggy door. They move on without even missing a beat, almost like their souls never left their reanimated skeletons.
Now alone in the hallway with an unconscious Chamberlain and a volatile Duke, I feel the tension between the two of us brewing. "So... did you enjoy your brief ti in Dawnstead, Guild Master?" He asks in a poor attempt to defuse it.
"It was a mixed bag, but I think you should know, Osbourne. I can't just exchange niceties with you like this."
The Duke swallows loudly. "Yes... of course. I'm so sorry about what I did. There are no excuses for my behavior."
Standing here, I realize a burst of motivation welling up inside of . It's not a good sign because I can't control it. No matter what I'm about to say, I'm about to say it, and the consequences be damned. Opalina drilled it into
that I need to be assertive, and in my way right now stands an obstacle to my very destiny itself.
There is literal, divine confirmation that Abigail and I are perfect for one another- one hundred percent compatibility, according to that 'app' of Luxy's. It's not just a number, either. I've felt it stirring within
ever since the first note she sent to , yet I took a slow and rational approach to her. Now I know what to do. I used to hesitate while wondering if this was ethical or not, but after the Goddess provided context, and hells, after just looking at what Sam, Zutiria, and ri have each brought ... I would be a fool for not doing all that I can to ensure that this man's daughter cos ho with
one day.
Also, I probably need her to fight the Demon Lord or sothing... but I don't really care about that. What I do care about is making my intentions clear. "You don't need to excuse yourself for what you did to . You should be apologizing to Abigail."
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