Historia VII

 “Ahh! Water! I need water! It’s in my eyes!”

This sensation flares all my nerves into electric prods. Worse substance than eyedrops, but miles better than the sands of Egypt in where it shouldn’t be. Powder has engulfed these eyes, this mouth, up my nose, and around the corner to both ears. It’s everywhere. And— no matter how much I spit— there’s still more. It’s just more powder!

Whatever rage I had in the chase— or, better said, adrenaline pumping— this powder keg took the sails right out of me. Hair and face alike are doused in the stuff. Probably these dirty clothes, too. A bummer— for sure.

While it hasn’t brought pain to any of my orifices, it is obfuscating some of the most important ones. Blotchy white specks blot out patches of vision from both eyeballs. All the extra powder up my nostrils is definitely blocking some amount of air from getting in. Ears itchy from the foreign substances. Lastly, the mouth is drying from the taste. The taste?

Blaugh! Is this soap?

As one leg slightly limps, the pulls the body forward. Shadows of the narrow alleyway dissolves into a brighter outlook. Even through these clown-caked eyes, a visage of something humongous could be made out through. Arms are out wide. Legs more in common with a baby calf than a healthy human being. A monument to this misadventure; the blurry gray blob is in a shape that doesn’t make sense. It’s round yet towers over me. Pieces twist around while other sections fold into itself. Gradually, that giant comes within reach.

An injured hand touches it first. Heat soaks into the tips of the fingers. I yank the hand back. The heat didn’t burn to the point of damage, but enough to keep curious extremities away. It felt like smooth stone. Like the tiles found by fountains in fancier resorts. All in unison back-to-back. Just beyond the hot stone tiles, a familiar sound repeats in one continuous stream.

Yay!

Powder-less reach into the source this wonderful noise is trickling into. Two hands slide right into both palms with ease. A cool, refreshing sensation spreads across both hands as they bring it up to my face. A cheeky smile creases a line through the powder as the hands come to meet them. Splash!

Water covers my face— eyes and all. A slight burn tases the nerve endings within the eyes. The water leaves as soon as it arrived. Taking with it most of the obscuring powder that the black-eyed elf threw at me. Many more cusps of water and tons cleanlier skin later, all the senses are back to one hundred percent again. Just in time to see the source of where the amazing water pour from.

A giant, bizarre statue stands mere feet above. It stretches several inches outside of circular fountain’s pool. East and west or south and north; it’s surprising that the fountain’s base pillar can hold it whatever directions the obsidian-black stone is pointed. It twists up, down, and all around the space above it, too. Even though there are sculpted indentions into the statue piece at places, not a single part looks to be grafted onto another. As if it was— and is— one solid piece of volcanic rock. The fountain underneath seems to be made from the same material. Sterile is the hot tiles as well as the water containment area inside. Water so crystal clean that it’s almost invisible to the lowest of glances.

There must be an aquifer under this town.

My wet head turns left to right. There are quite a few bigger cobble-stone walkways. A number of extraordinary looking buildings encompassing the fountain. Some are luxurious like Bomba-Dil Inn while others appear more governmental in structure and style. Nonetheless, the area around this impressive fountain is vastly more open than the rest of the town has been. While— also— being one of the most empty. An opportunity one might say.

Lifting the injured leg from out of the things that cover it, the closest hand removes the old bandages. The cut above the ankle isn’t looking too good. It isn’t seeming to be infected yet, but the muck so far has not helped things either. With one last check, the leg goes into the beautiful water. Submerging the injury; the collective grime washes away on impact. Grime soils the once perfect water. Soap soon follows.

The wound is cleaned from the leftover soap on the jacket and neck. A zipper unzips to the pocket containing the remaining bandages. Hands wrap around more of the same— albeit lesser is going around this time in comparison to the last. That bandage roll has shrunk to its final couple rungs. Placing it back into the pocket, the zipper repeats the process and I walk again. I turn back one last time to look at the fountain statue. Either malformed or esoteric, one may never know. It’s sculptor never truly finishing their craft— no matter how strange it is. The thing is ambitious, at the least.

One can’t help but wonder what else lies outside of Port Děmos and the castle grounds. A mind can race for a thousand years and never be satiated by sitting on one’s armchair. Just waiting for the world to come to them.

I wonder if there are volcanoes in this world. There has to be, right?

A mind lost in thought. Staring at the art from another world, from another time. Something that not every animal could do back home. Wait…

From another jacket pocket, I pull out the note. A finger points to the words on the folded thing.

Therian Fountain!

But— yet— there is no one around waiting.

—•—

Time stands still when one waits. Idle hands; there’s phrase about those, isn’t there?

If there was a clock nearby, it would’ve started ticking backwards at this point. Eternity has existed in a matter of two hours. The cool ocean breeze can only be so nice to someone sitting relatively comfy in a single place. Things can get kinda chilly— especially when you’re not dressed for such an occasion. This must be how that stranger must’ve felt. Minus the cold part. Maybe.

Farther out from the Therian Fountain are wooden tables and metallic chairs. Tied to shops that surround the fountain; some of these pieces of furniture are under some type of stripped fabric awnings. Other pieces left out underneath the afternoon sun instead.

Why is it ‘metal used for constant outdoor stuffs that need to be touched’ such a universal thing? It sucks! … or would this be multi-versal now?

People and creature walk past the fountain. They walk to the fountain. Their old timey shoes tap on the cobble-stones as they walk by. Quieter than modern shoes though. Y’know— thinking about it— it’s strange tha—

“Weird Fainting Lady.” That monotone voice breaks the barrier of the town’s white noise.

“Eep!” Shivers bolt down my spine and throughout the body.

As if the scare is force of its own, the shock sends this stunned body off the chair it was sitting in. It must’ve levitated every bodily part several inches off the metal thing itself. I could feel my soul leaving my body— and my body deciding to catch up with it.

The cute dull voice comments, “Woah,” as my body crashes back down into the metal chair.

Any— and all— that had been around redirect their sights onto this occasion. Whispers and murmurs soon follow as these random pedestrians walk past. Flushes of red blossom upon this face. At first, a light pink. Then, a full-blown red. Feet planted as redwoods, these legs shoot the upper half of this body up faster than the ocean breeze could keep pace with. A motion as swift as it is fluid; a turn to face the direction of the voice in retribution.

With a finger pointing at the ready, “Don’t do that!” These eyes as wide as the Sahara Desert. With a voice as highly pitched as a chihuahua.

Yet, what stands in front of me is air. Not a person, but just more of the cobble-stone ground. At first sight, at least. Only the top of a head happen to reach in sight. Hair, and a goofy strand at that. An ahoge. A massive one at that.

… It’s bouncing. Furiously.

The pointing finger weakens. A slack loosens my jaw; flabbergasted, even. It’s absurd. At least, the rest of what’s happened can be chalked up to it all being ‘fantastical’. But, this— right here— isn’t the same. Half solid white, half solid black? It’s. It’s— it’s cartoony! I can’t.

Pupils follow the ahoge down. To the rest of the hair. Then, to the head. Next, the rest of the person’s body. Scanning the figure up and down, it becomes harder to make heads or tails of the person in front of me. Just two things are for certain: they are totally adorable and— I’m not the shortest one here.

Our eyes meet. Despite the tiny obfuscation the rim of the person’s glasses provide.

They must be— at least— a foot or so shorter than me.

That person just stands there. Perturbed; indigo irises glare at me through some huge, round glasses. The frame might be thin, but the size seems to be a smidge too big for the wearer. Straight hair goes down midway to the person’s ears as the ends curve out. Left side is totally white. Right side completely black. Monochrome with a monotone voice; it’s somehow fitting.

“Hmm…,” a grunt, a miffed noise is all that the person let’s go from their pristine lips.

Unlike the head, this person’s skin comes off closer to porcelain than skin itself. Mistakenly, they would be considered supermodel-like if this was back on earth. Of what isn’t covered by the cutest robes seen so far If it wasn’t for the half-shut eyelids, there wouldn’t be a noticeable wrinkle anywhere visible. Not to mention the fashionable patterns on the robes themselves. A hoodie part behind the head. Charcoal black on the inside of the hood. Cookie and chocolate brown triangle patterns running along the lapels. Same design minimized around the lining of the hoodie hood. Vanilla tan base color for the whole outside robe. A steel blue linen shirt poking out from beneath it. And, pointy elf boots— like Santa’s elves— that match?

What an adorable little munchkin!

A proud, congratulatory smile fixes up the slacked jaw. Arms crossed, eyelids shut, and the blush fades; a nod of superior confidence soon comes after. An achievement unintended. After the last dozen or so hours, it’s these little wins that keep my sanity floating above water. Even if this is the stranger that helped me.

“Done?” Monotonously, the question didn’t come off as purely unemotional.

Hesitant at first, “Well—,” the initial problem conjures itself back up to the surface. “Why did you do that?”

“Hmm…,” eyes blankly drift up and away, “do what?”

“Scare me,” smugness transitions into volume, “of course.”

“I don’t recall that being what I did,” the person remains nigh motionless. Only their hair blows blissfully in the calming breeze. That, and the oversized jeweled staff in their left hand.

“Then,” contesting as I point towards the metal chair, “what happened in the seat?”

Their head barely turns toward the place I had just sat in. A blink. Then, another. All before turning their head back to the one they must answer. A level of smugness eludes in the shadows of the monotone, “A sneeze.”

“A sneeze?” Any semblance of my public ‘me’ unravels. “The stranger says a ‘sneeze’,” muttering sarcastically to myself. Frustrations clearly visible in body language alone.

I glare back. Both of our faces blank in this absurdity. While these eyes squint, that person’s stays the same. No one is saying a thing.

Until, “Is there anything you want to ask me before we get started?” The stranger— this person— bluntly lays it out.

A blow of grievances exude from these conditioned lungs. Collection of thoughts soon follows behind. Hands on the hips, and a breath of fresh air.

Right, you’re right. Now’s not the time to make enemies. Just off on the wrong foot. Second impression. It’ll just be second impressions.

“Yes,” heightened irritation switches out with a real seriousness, “I have many, many questions. But— first thing’s first— I apologize for being late. You saved me at the inn when I passed out, let me sleep in your room while you were gone for a few hours, and didn’t take advantage of the situation. Thank you.”

My body bends over into a sincere bow. Something instilled over the course of those several expeditions. Of different cultures over many varied countries. Nothing but habit by this point. A thing that might not be a thing here. The realization shudders my body mid-bow.

“…!”

This head looks up. Eyes trail from the stranger’s Santa-elf boots until I reach the jumbo glasses. While still relatively not emotive, a softness mellows out the stranger’s pupils.

Does this person recognize this custom?

It must be a thing here, too. The same idea shared over time— ah, space.

Would this be space-time, technically speaking?

“I appreciate your kind words.” The stranger’s higher-pitched tone is softer than the deceptive outside seems to be. For a moment, the monotone had vanished. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long.

“You’re mistaken.” These are the first monotone words from out of the stranger’s mouth. Inexpressive but bold in their subdued presentation. Their free hand moves.

Taking the hand, this person makes a fist. An index finger points out from the smallish hand. Pointing towards the sun, “This isn’t the same sun you saw rise.”

The stranger continues inquisitively, “you’ve been asleep a whole day.”

“What…?” Interrupting whatever the person would say next, “I— that can’t be right.”

“Yea,” that stranger continues some more without skipping a beat, “the floor is uncomfortable. And, you talk in your sleep.”

A slight blush returns to my face. The thought of that can sink the stomach and fill it with butterflies simultaneously. Still, the fact we slept together in the same room gives an uneasy feeling. Yet, it’s evident what I said previously remains to be true.

Nevertheless, “Did I say anything in my sleep?”

“Stuff,” responding coyly as they drop the free hand back down to the robe’s waist, “and things about Egypt.”

Eyes widen upon my face. A heartbeat skips. An anxiety palpitates; a fear weighs on the chest. Is it bad something like this slipped out or does this matter to a populace that’s oblivious to anything from back home?

“Ah~,” deflecting hard enough to sweat bullets, “that’s all just wacky stuff from my imagination. But— something more important— why did you leave me that note? I’ve never been to this town. How would I know my way a—“

“I know.” The stranger’s same-y tone cutting off my own excuses, “I’m sorry. Something came up that I was hired to do. I left that note so we could talk afterwards.”

The clean hand reaches out. Palm facing the sky, this hand of mine a platform for that stranger’s answers. “Okay,” like a busy adult, “I’m listening.”

This short stranger starts with, “Therian is a subclass of mammals that contain placental eutherians and marsupial metatherians. That’s why the Caninites that live in the Roaming Woods made it themselves. It’s a sign of coexistence on this island. Until, that castle business.”

“That’s—,” baffled by the person’s spewing of random facts.

That’s not what I was wanting to know about just yet. Wait, island?

“That’s so interesting~!” The canned response is regurgitated before a truer one is spoken, “But, there’s other— far more important— things I’d like to know first.”

Behind the reflective shine of the big glasses, “I know. This fact will help you blend in better here. There are a few others you will also need to know, too. To have to survive for now on.”

“You sound so old for someone that looks so young…” the inner thoughts sneak out from under these sighs.

This didn’t make that ahoge happy hear that, but it’s still hard to tell what that thing is feeling any given time. Like it has a mind of its very own.

“There are two magic systems that exist,” holding two fingers up from their staff-wielding hand, “but we only have to worry about learning one.”

He pauses abruptly. Those sharp indigo eyes make way towards the right side of their face. The stranger’s head bobbles in a shock— those eyes more emotive than I’ve seen so far, which still hasn’t been much. All this before turning back blankly again, “Never-mind. Still, be wary of all magic.”

There it is again.

An eyebrow curls.

He pronounced it ‘magic’.

“Next,” the stranger blabs on.

“Hey,” cutting these pedantic checklists of disconnected tidbits, “why did you save me at the inn?”

“I’m just a random person. I was rude. Cut you in line. Was being obnoxious. Probably smelled bad after the night I had. Maybe a bit too loud,” rambling as I try to reason it out what that person’s reason was to rescue me.

“Fufufufu—,” a tiny chuckle can be heard from behind oversized sleeve covering the stranger’s mouth. “It’s your jacket. It’s a dead giveaway.”

Wait, a minute…! Is this person saying—

“The pants,” they continue, “and your reaction to elves.”

“Are you saying what I think you are saying?” Thought cuts into noise. Voice of suspicion to a hope.

“Yes.” Blunt as the many other cute, monotone responses have been.

“You’ve met other people from where I’m from!?”

                     “I have been isekai’d here, too.”

Both voices clash simultaneously.

“What?”

                                                              “What?”

For the first time, the confusion is shared. We both share in the same expression. Yet, I don’t believe it’s for the same reasons.

The stranger’s monotone voice begins to crack. “We might have chosen other paths in that strange, ethereal room,” as if this had been something this person had been keeping in for awhile, “I didn’t know multiple people were chosen at once. Mine never tells anything.”

“Huh,” words form between my many blinks, “what are you talking about?”

“I was reborn into this new world fifteen years ago.” The stranger’s eyes jolting back and forth to the right corners of their eyes. The sentences become more jagged, “I’ve— heard stories— of others that had— been sent here. Each— with their own—.”

Almost every few words broken by a change of focus. Eyes looking towards something off to the side. Looking into air. As if someone else is talking to this stranger.

“I’ve gotta be honest with you,” my tone nearly as monotone as this munchkin’s voice, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yours seems to be as cagey as mine.” Their voice sounding more relieved than the monotone mine has become.

Indulgent in this morbid curiosity at this point, “My what?”

“Your deity.” The stranger continues on as if this is normal for us, “which deity did you—“

Before this person could finish the off-putting question, their full body turns to the space those eyes kept swapping back towards. “Huh?” As if another is standing in such a space and is talking back, “why shouldn’t I ask these things?”

Standing there, I watch a back and forth of a one-sided conversation go down. It’s as if this verbal fit— or mental breakdown— is one of those single-person double acts people can find in some big city hot spots. Quite amusing in its own way, I suppose. Even if this should be absolutely creepy to be close beside, this adorable little munchkin trying their best to act mature and subdued is too much. That oversized robe bopping around. It’s pillowy hood flapping with every flare up of emotion the person has. Cute Santa-elf boots trying their hardest to not stomp with whatever point the stranger is making. Honestly— after everything that’s occurred— it’s the first person that seems to know what might be happening to me.

Am I really gonna have to compromise with crazy?

“Hmm…!” The stranger’s face has now reformed into a pout. Those eyes sporting a more watery pupil than the sharp pseudo-maturity from mere moments ago. All of it pointed downward towards the sun-soaked ground. Somehow, this is cuter than Sherri’s playful pout.

Bending over to the person’s height, “What’s wrong little guy?”

The huge glasses amplifying the small droplets forming from around those indigo eyes, “I’m not little! … I just haven’t fully grown yet is all.” That ahoge is the most deflated it has been so far. The most— earthly— realistic it has been, too.

So cute!

If this is what passes for fifteen here, then I don’t know how many sentient things will believe that we’re so close in age. It could make a girl self-conscious if they obsess about that kind of thing. Could— also— make one very curious as to what the rest of this world may look like.

No! Bad, Lutèce! Now’s not the time for that. Focus. Focus.

“Hey,” a sweeter falsetto sings out for an audience of one, “let’s start this— one more time. What’s your name?”

The stranger tilts their head up from their pouting, “Okay. My name here is Lyne Valentinus,” as those indigo eyes sweep across the ground and anything that would be just above it.

Finally, a stranger no more. Enough focus to remember to ask for some names. And, hopefully, a calm down for some brand new types of leisure soon. Now, that a guide is here.

“Ok~,” a cheer flows into my falsetto, “that’s a great new start. Next, are questions. Where am I? What are ‘Caninites’? What are those fish-horses things? And, where is the long, brown-haired knight guy that supposedly ransacked the castle several miles that way?” The injured hand waving in any general direction— wherever those woods actually are at.

Lyne’s composure gradually comes back. “Mhm, let’s begin with the easy one’s first,” monotone vocal track inching its way back into pitch.

“Caninites,” Lyne corrects the glasses’ frame, “those are big wolf people you might see walking around. Especially, on Laumė Island. Some roam the forbidden forests beyond the forest— from what Rikke tells me.”

So, it’s hearsay. Kinda.

Those water droplets dry up under the slipping sunlight. There’s more shadow now amongst all these elaborate buildings than sunlight. Has the day really gone by that fast?

“For your second question,” monotone recovers within Lyne’s cutesy voice, “the ‘horse-fish’ things are called ‘Glauestrians’. Although, I think they’re called ‘Glaucestrians’ the closer one gets to the Warring Continent.”

Woah! Things are that detailed in this world?

Short Lyne confidently responds to the third question, “Laumė Island,” without an ounce of sarcasm.

It’s not that I think the person is dense, but it’s possible that they don’t exactly know either. That, or— whichever delusion Lyne was talking to— convinced this shorty otherwise.

“Before I answer that last one,” Lyne’s voice turns into a more serious tinge of monotone as it tries to descend, “I need you to tell me. What happened to the dagger?”

“Huh?” The falsetto falters back into the more standard state it has been in since arriving, “How do you know about the dagger? You haven’t said anything about it yet.”

Without hesitation, “Your hiding spot for it is inside your jacket. I felt it when I caught you after you had collapsed at Bomba-Dil Inn yesterday. He checked it out while we have been talking here this whole time,” Lyne confirms a great many things in great succession. None of it too surprising— until the end part.

Both— the injured and the healthy— hands pat the jacket. Eyes not far behind them either. Top to bottom; clanking of the zippers and the coin filled pockets barely budging to outline anything substantial covered by my big survival jacket. Not a single outline can be felt. Thus, it definitely cannot be seen. My eyes launch back up towards Lyne.

Before I could accuse a thing, “Did someone take it?” His monotone voice lacks emotion once again. That blank stare returns. But, it’s softer now.

Defeated, “… Yeah,” a sigh-full confession comes out at the altar of this adorable kitty in human form.

Sound of a type of sigh I have made many times here already, “Okay, then, follow me,” Lyne turns away. The ahoge acting almost like a directional guide. Lyne tilts that monochromic head back as I begin to follow along.

Steps over steps of cobble-stone. The walk a couple feet, at best. We walk towards an official appearing building. A governmental type institution from the looks of it. Even with the wound cleaned and re-bandaged, an insignificant limp still afflicts the left leg.

Lyne’s indigo eyes squint. “You should have said you were injured,” the words flowing like a stream as the person rotates back around to where I had lagged behind.

The base of the long jeweled staff taps the tops of the stoney ground after each step taken. A staff made of unique metals. Metals of indented waves that look to be crashing and surfing throughout all the exposed bits not cased in a greener material. And— at its center— a ginormous ocean blue jewel sits at the top of the staff’s spire. Like a king sitting on his throne, the giant jewel relaxes within an incasing of the same wavy metal and green casing the rest of the staff is made out from. Lyne moves, the jewel spins in-tandem. It’s majestic to see in action. No— it’s pretty.

Standing close to me, “Here, let me heal you lickety split,” Lyne starts to move the massive jewel part of the staff to the bandaged wound on my leg.

“Lyne, wait—,” the staff mere hairs away.

“I’m not sure if you knew this,” trivia sings from out of Lyne, “in this fantasy world, healing magic exists. It can heal anythi—“

Crack! Poof!

The almighty jewel turns to dust and falls in-between the cobble-stones below.

Lyne’s eyes— are dead.

The wound is— still there.

My face— a deadpan “God— dammit!“