Don’t Take Life Too Seriously; You Might Get a Makeover

Once again, I found myself in an auto-carriage but this time I was spared the indignity of wearing shackles. I would like to say I traveled in relative comfort, and that might have been the case if not for the green frilly dress-wearing Amillia, who treated me with all the affection one might bestow upon a teddy bear or cherished pomeranian. With her fervent touching, squeezing, hugging, nuzzling, and yes, even smelling, if not for her tender age, her actions would make her out to be nothing less than the most heinous of molesters, or former U.S. Presidents. Like an adventurous ferret, she wedged and pried herself into every nook and cranny.

While I suffered such desecration with silent dignity—read: deadpan and unresponsive—Conroy looked on, unable to withhold his chagrin. Amillia carried on, unaffected, her attention fixed on one thing and one thing only. Occasionally, when she got a little too adventurous, he would throw up a penalty flag, and for that, he had my thanks.

Another person resided in the carriage with us, Lady Valarina. After Asal Alaba handed me off to Conroy—and the tender mercies of Amillia—we spent an exorbitant amount of time looking for this woman. Staff had been sent looking for her, and Conroy personally joined the search. From their chatter, I could conclude a couple of things. One, she was Amillia's mother—and presumably, Conroy's wife, though you can never be too certain about these things. However, considering how overt they were about it, I was confident in my assumption. Two, this wasn't the first time that she had disappeared. On the contrary, it seemed like searching for her was part of their travel plan.

They eventually found her by a duck pond trying to beckon the fowl over squawking out duck calls—and rather skillfully too. From there they coaxed her into the auto-carriage, assisted by a guiding but firm grip.

We had been traveling perhaps an hour when Valarina joyfully announced, "We're back!" as she stuck her head out the window causing her golden curls to twist in the wind. Conroy just looked on, the depth of his chagrin deepening. With blonde hair, blue eyes, and a svelte figure to boot, she embodied everything you would have expected from the stereotype. Her blue dress bellowed in the wind, and Conroy threw up an automated hand to secure her modesty—not that anyone in the carriage would care, except me perhaps, and I didn't count as a person.

The surroundings opened up and in place of trees sat open fields. "On the outer portion of Reastera is farmland," Valarina began explaining. "A long time ago, that is how House Uvald made its money. But nowadays, it mostly just feeds the village, though we do sell the extra."

"Valarina, is it really necessary to narrate our return?" Conroy asked, hand pressed against his face.

"Oh." She touched an innocent finger to her lip. "I just thought Olavir would want to know about his new home." He rolled his eyes but offered no further protest. "This is always the longest stretch once we return home. The fields take up most of Reastera."

I listened, saying nothing; she spoke as if telling a story to a child. Amillia also listened, though that didn't stop her fondling.

"I think the fields are boring when they don't have anything growing in them," Amillia added.

"Um, and less tasty too!"

As it stood now, the fields were fallow. Nothing but harvest debre for as far as the eye could see. I don't know if "boring" would be the word I chose, but I had to agree; there wasn't much of interest.

"Now we are entering the village," she continued, once the fields gave way to small cottages. "The people here are really nice!" I'm sure they are nice to you, what with you being the landlord and all.

Still, the people here didn’t seem to have much to complain about: the houses looked in good repair and the people well-fed. The roads twisting through the house were dirt while the main road was paved. I assumed the paved road was the exception, as I had seen few.

The carriage slowed down. From experience, this only happened when encountering an obstruction. So, being the curious sort, I tried sticking my head out to get a view of what had caused the slowdown. My breath caught in my throat as we accelerated again and a massive humanoid creature slinging a wooden beam over its shoulder, weighing at least as much as a compact car, turned to wave as we passed. What the hell was that!?

My stony indifference must have shattered because Valarina noticed my surprise. "There are a lot of hougen here. They help us with the heavy lifting." Heavy lifting is it? Are they slaves too? Honestly, I felt it would be difficult to enslave anything that big. It looked like it could wield a tree trunk as a weapon. Well, I guess that wasn’t my problem. It seemed happy enough.

After passing through the village, the area opened up again onto a field of lush green grass and selectively placed trees. A picturesque orchard straight from an orange juice ad. I got the distinct impression that this area existed explicitly to create a buffer between the village and our ultimate destination.

"And finally, we have Reastera Chateau!" Valarina said with a gleam in her voice. "It might be a bit large, so it will probably take a while until you don't get lost. Even I still do, sometimes," she added with a self-deprecating laugh.

The carriage pulled around, and I got a good view of the house, or palace would be more appropriate—I'd seen smaller shopping malls. As far as I could tell, it had three floors with numerous balconies and windows, sprawling out at no less than a quarter mile. Throw in a few towers and this place gave the Pentagon a run for its money. It definitely had it beat in terms of aesthetics with an off-white hue and a style I, as a dullard, could not properly describe, but could appreciate—at least at some level.

After my initial awe passed, my second thought was, whose hard work are you living off of? I highly doubt this man had developed some grand innovation or built some highly productive enterprise justifying all this. His title "Lord Conroy de Uvald" clearly marked him as a noble. Therefore I could assume he inherited his fortune. At best, you could argue he handled his fortune with care and leveraged it to great effect. I was in no position to comment on his monetary virtue—though dropping 15,000 Noggins on what he regarded as a vanity piece did not speak well of his fiscal responsibility. Regardless, the palace clearly fulfilled its primary role of radiating power; a residence this large could only be more inconvenient than anything. I half wondered if it had an internal tram system.

The door opened and Valarina jumped out and stretched without reservation. Next, Conroy emerged, placing his top hat back in place, followed by Amillia still holding me tight to her chest. We seemed the same age, but because yutsuukitsuu are much smaller than humans, I got the royal treatment of being dragged around like an emaciated cat.

"I can walk you know..." I said after I could bear it no longer. I had planned on remaining mute as much as possible, but this would only continue unless I acted. My statement must have caught her by surprise, at least that's how her 'O'-shaped expression read. But she switched to a big, dumb smile.

"Here, you can walk beside me if you want." She put me down but still continued pulling me into her ample midsection. Not much of an improvement, but I should take what I could get. I contemplated shoving her off me, but I didn't want to tempt another blast from the shock collar.

As we reached the foot of the ascending stairs to the entrance, two formally dressed doormen pried open a risible set of double doors, colossal in dimension. Once again, of pragmatically unjustified design, appearing to be carved from the trunk of a great sequoia tree and serving no purpose but to intimidate. I imagine it could be opened by one full-sized adult with some effort, but they might throw their back out in the process. I guess it would hold up well in a siege, but then again, the windows wouldn't.

Walking in, a number of butlers and maid servants all in formal wear lined up on either side to greet us—I guess they actually did that. They all bowed their heads, and one of the butler figures stepped forward to address Conroy.

"Welcome back, my lord," he spoke with the voice of a stereotypical old butler—but not too old. "I take it your outing went well?"

"Well enough," he responded with an eye roll.

"I see you have..." he looked at me with an unbecoming sideways expression. "Umm..." he stammered, nonplussed. Deity only knows what went through his head.

"This is..." Conroy started.

"This is Olavir!" Amillia interjected.

"...Olavir?" The butler's brow lines deepened.

"Yes! He is my new..." A pause and a blank look came over her features. Then she faced me and said with that over-the-top smile, "My new best friend!" and tried to crush my rib cage.

Is that how she thought of me? As a friend? I couldn't be further removed from friendship with Amillia as a bureaucrat is from a respectable profession. I guess it's better than being regarded as a pet…

"Yes..." Conroy said while casting a sideward glance at Amillia's affections. "Olavir is a little... unclean at the moment."

"Yes my lord," the butler bowed. "We will get that taken care of right away." He came over and grabbed me, while one of the maids restrained Amillia, while he pried me from her grip. Like a NEET separated from his gaming console, she reached out a frantic hand with an accompanying mask of acute desperation, as if I was about to be taken out back and shot.

"Do not fret Lady Amillia. We will get him cleaned up and then we will bring him back." The butler offered his assurance. She ceased wrestling with the maid—who looked to have her hands full, both literally and metaphorically—but maintained her look of tragedy.

And so the butler carried me away like a sack of potatoes. I offered no protest, as there seemed little point in doing so. However, if I knew what awaited me, I might have followed Amillia's example.

"You know, Igot, I don't much like getting chores issued on such short notice," A portly lady said, rising to her feet and wiping her hands on her white smock, as we walked into the spartan washroom with walls composed of laminated boards. "And what is this you have brought me? An oversized squirrel?" Do I look like an oversized squirrel?

"Lady Amillia has acquired a new pet..." he started.

"FRIEND!" I corrected. I would cede no ground on the status I'd been granted.

He rolled his eyes with a sigh, "...Friend."

The room was sparsely furnished, with a washtub in one corner, a hearth with a crackling fire in the center of the left wall, and what looked to be a hand-cranked water pump. Taking a whiff, the room smelled of kindling and… unscented soap.

"Oh—, and what is it?" She stuck her round face right up to mine without the least concern for personal space.

"A yutsuukitsuu, I believe they are called. Though I do confess, I've never actually seen one. Well, until now."

"Aye. And I suppose you will be wanting me to scrub him clean?" Her arms sat in protest on her wide hips, with the tone of one who is chronically irritated.

"That I would," he said and then glanced away. "You know I wouldn’t ask this of you on such short notice, Mimka, if it wasn't directly commanded by Lord Conroy himself.

She sighed and threw up her arm, emphasizing her thickness. "I guess there is no helping it then." She spoke with an accent, sounding just a little... antiquated somehow. "Come now Pachinka," she said, taking hold of me with a grip that indicated there was more to her size than just reserve calories. "We'll have you clean up in no time, and then we can both get on with our day." Her voice had a strange cadence, especially, in how she would extend her vowels on certain words. Almost melodic in a way.

Despite her gruff exterior, I might actually respect this woman. This was a person who didn't see the world through rose-colored glasses like Asal Alaba. Here was a soul that saw the world for what it was, and resolved to power through, taking it as it came. How could you not admire someone like that?

However, she remedied my positive opinion of her when she ripped off my clothes without hesitation or blush.

"Hey! You can't just..." I protested, struggling to keep my clothes on.

"Oh, come now. We can't wash you with your clothes on." Apparently, she didn't think much of my struggles as her voice remained steady.

"Well, I will leave you to it," Igot said with a bow and departed. I was unsure if I was glad I wouldn't have to suffer humiliation in front of an additional person, or indignant that he would leave me to my fate.

Regardless, she had me swiftly stripped naked and dunked into the large washtub—Well, large for me anyway. The water was warm at least, though, in truth, I had grown somewhat accustomed to cold baths—yutsuukitsuu didn't heat water for bathing. But that was of little consolation when my nose started twitching and my eyes burning as the soapy water found its way into my virgin nasal passages and corneas.

"Agh!" I tried to rub it out of my eyes, but this didn't help. On the contrary, it only made it worse, as my hands were soaked with the soapy water. However, my mind was taken away from these concerns when she started scrubbing the top of my head with a coarse brush and wearing raw the base of my ears. "Ahhh! Can't you use something softer!?"

"That won't do," Mimka kept on scrubbing without cessation even while she spoke. "You must have at least a year's worth of dirt on ya. This is the only way."

Year's worth of dirt!? It's been a month, tops! Mostly on account of my being nearly killed and enslaved. But she soon finished with my head, continuing downward to less sensitive areas. She missed nothing, lifting my arms and even scrubbing between my fingers.

I began to relax a little until she reached the lower half. As you might expect from a brusk unabashed foreign woman, this train did not slow down when it reached areas best left out of polite conversation.

"Wait! You can't just grab that!!"

"Come now, You don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"I was under the impression that I WAS something you hadn't seen before!"

If that wasn't bad enough, she kept on trucking down to places light seldom reaches. I tried to kick her when she grabbed and lifted my tail. But, anticipating this reaction, she batted it away like a wing chun master.

"You can't just scrub there!!" I threw my hands down to protect myself.

"No? But that's the dirtiest part," she said and inverted me, necessitating drawing my hands away to keep water from going up my nose, and she started scrubbing.

I was a broken man when she pulled me from the wash tub and dumped a bucket of cold rinse water on me. Every shred of dignity had been scrubbed free and I felt like a shipwrecked rodent.

"Alright now, let's get you dried off." Ten minutes ago, having this woman towel off my naked body might have provoked protest, but now it just seemed appropriate. "This fuzz is making it hard to really get you completely dry." That will happen when you wash off the natural oils. "Well, I suppose that will do." She gave me a one-over. "But we will have to do something about these nails." My hands dove beneath crossed arms.

"Alright, you wait right there. I'll be back." Was she worried about me leaving? I couldn't go anywhere, naked. She even took the clothes I had been wearing with her as she exited the room. Now what was I supposed to do?

With no other recourse, I huddled in an empty corner like a Russian-held POW, fresh from interrogation. Her return was delayed and unfortunately, this room offered little in terms of interest. Judging by the washboards and clotheslines, it appeared a room geared mostly for laundry.

An eternity passed, but being left bare-assed in an unfamiliar room can cause substantial time dilation, so perhaps 10 minutes to an outside frame of reference. When Mimka did return—after the heat death of the universe—a middle-aged man accompanied her, rolling in a rack full of clothes.

He arched an eyebrow when he saw me and looked back at Mimka. "Ay, that’s the one," she said. He shrugged and gave a sideways smirk.

I was to be fitted for a suit or something because he pulled out a tailor's measuring tape and started taking measurements. Still being naked, some of my prior discomfort returned, but he offered no objection when I covered sensitive bits of my anatomy.

That didn't stop him, however, from producing several novel frowns as he took the various measures, face shifting from one side and then the other. It took only several moments; he knew his craft.

"Well, it goes without saying that I don't have anything fitted available for one with such… inhuman proportions," he remarked, after finishing. "I can tailor something though, but it will take a couple of days."

"Wait!" I said, finding my voice. "You aren't going to leave me naked for a couple of days, are you!?"

He looked at Mimka and she shook her head. "Well, I can give you something that will function. You will look ridiculous, but I suppose that is better than going around naked."

The tailor pulled something off the rack, and I couldn't put them on fast enough, pulling on the breeches first—I believe that is the term. But there was a problem; human clothes don’t accommodate tails.

"Such a lack of refinement," he said, running a hand down his face. "And we will have to do something about the tail." I held my tail defensively. He rolled his eyes.

"Give those here and I will pop a few stitches." Under his breath, he added. "I will have to make sure to accommodate that."

As you can imagine I was hesitant to give up the pants now that I had them. He didn't seem to care for the moment, as he pulled a pair of light cotton shorts from the rack and cut a hole into the backside. Those were undergarments. Seemed appropriate, though I hadn't worn any of those in a while…

"Reluctantly, we traded and this time, I could secure the leg coverings by pulling my tail through the breach, though it opposed the whole way. Next came the breeches, then an undershirt, followed by a waistcoat, and finally a coat. Damn… How ridiculous. True to his word, the clothes were ill-suited to my proportions and hung off me like I had borrowed them from a man flirting with the upper reaches of the BMI Scale. But I brightened, just happy not letting it all hang out anymore.

However, one more article of clothing still needed to be addressed. "Mimka!" He said as he took me by the foot. "How am I supposed to work with this!?" He aggressively gestured to my foot.

"I was just about to take care of that. Just go find something that fits." Another of his sideway lip tucks and he went rummaging through his rack again. As for Mimka, she produced a rather large file, and before I could oppose, she had started filling down my toenails.

"Is this really necessary," I asked with a scowl.

"Of course it is. How else do you expect shoes to fit?" Oh, well I guess that made sense…

"Wait! Shoes!?"

"Well, of course. We can't have you walking around barefoot like a country bumpkin now, can we?"

"You absolutely can! Yutsuukitsuu don't wear shoes! We are digitigrades and shoes are not conducive to digitigrade locomotion!"

"Where did you learn such fancy words? You sound just like that hozenlo." She worked efficiently and was already on the second foot.

It was no use. My protests were about as effective as switching to diet soda. She wanted to trim my fingernails too, but I stubbornly refused. I guess she didn't see any point in forcing the issue and relented, only shrugging.

The shoes fit well enough, but in truth, they restrained more than the shackles. In my mind, I wondered if women felt this way while wearing high heels. If so, then heeled shoes were a form of oppression, though some women decide to wear them of their own volition. No yutsuukitsuu would ever choose to wear shoes... Except Mesa… Whatever happened to that guy?

One more indignity remained to suffer. Hair styling was another of Mimka's unpleasant talents and she took great liberty with my once majestic mane. If not for my objections, I might have been stuck with a pompadour or some strange side curls. I eventually got her to settle on a simple slicked-back style I could reproduce myself, if this was a recurring theme.

Finally, with the makeover complete they let me look at my transfiguration in a mirror. That same indigo hue and purple hair greeted me. Only now I looked like a foppish dandy in faded brown attire, one that had recently lost a lot of weight. The only redeeming thing I can say about the whole ensemble is with my red eyes, I vaguely resembled a Victorian vampire.