Reborn From the Cosmos

Arc 8-12

We didn’t make it to dinner.

Predictably, Kierra ended the game. Not that anyone blamed her. It’s fairly obvious to anyone that sees her in that setting that the poor elf has no control over herself when it comes to these things. It was a testament of her love that she could pretend to be meek for even a moment. And there certainly were no complaints. A lot less giggling but no complaints.

After my lovely elf wrung me dry, I threw Talia and Alana at her as distractions and escaped the bedroom. Why? To tackle the assignment from Morgene. I don’t relish the idea of wracking my brain over cuddling with my lovers but not doing the assignment is going to cause nothing but trouble. I also choose to believe that, for all her many questionable character traits and suspect motivations, Morgene genuinely wants to help me. I know she wants to help Kierra. Simply disregarding those good intentions feels wrong. And if I’m going to do it, it’s best to tackle it while I’m feeling good and happy.

That’s how I come to be seated behind the desk of the study in the middle of the night, a “film” allowing me to see without the use of a candle as I stare down at a piece of paper. The first part of the assignment, listing the problems plaguing the city, was easy. There are only two, with every other inconvenience, big or small, connected to them in some way.

The first problem, the refugees.

The second, the lingering hunters.

Saints, I suppose I could combine them both into one problem, the people of Quest.

The ruined buildings, the lack of trade, the city’s vulnerability to monsters, all of that can be fixed. Rather, they’re bound to be fixed eventually and there’s no rush to do so. They don’t require intervention. The people are the only immediate problem and the only one without a clear-cut solution. There’s a hole in the walls? Patch it up. House got destroyed? Build another one.

But what can anyone do about a lost loved one? About the hatred that losing those closest to them generates? This isn’t a problem that can be solved by throwing coins and resources at it. You can’t smash a grudge. 

I should know. The Tomes were persecuted for generations. Fear and pain made us compliant, but it did nothing to erase our resentment. I suppose that I could bring law and order to Quest if I reigned over it as an undisputed tyrant but that is more of a punishment than a solution. Unrealistic as well, as I have no intention of being tied to this city for the rest of my life.

It doesn’t matter how many resources are poured into the city, if the people are not calmed, their grudge will destroy anything anyone manages to build. Or at the very least, they will twist it. Saints forbid the city becomes another cesspit like Graywatch, synonymous with crime and ill intentions.

But what am I supposed to do? If there’s a solution, it won’t come from me. I could hand these people a piece of Paradise and I’d be lucky if they didn’t throw it back in my face. Writing something down feels like I’m deluding myself.

So, I glare at the paper, willing myself to ignore my chaotic thoughts and risk Morgene’s displeasure by putting anything down.

That’s how Nomad finds me. I glance up as he knocks on the door, not waiting for an answer before opening it and pushing a cart before him. As usual, anyone that sees him will think that I’m a monster to my servants. The dark bags under his eyes are especially prominent against his sickly pale skin, giving the impression that he hasn’t slept for days. His short hair is messy and not in an artistic way. There is also a slow deliberateness to his every action, as if he’s contemplating each step and gesture or is in incredible pain. It makes for a strange and worrisome demeanor.

Despite that, he’s competent and considerate. He also takes pride in his position, his uniform impeccable despite the rest of him being in disarray.

“Thanks,” I tell him as he sets a steaming cup in front of me. “You know, you don’t always have to prowl around at night.” Traditionally, one servant remains awake during the night to keep watch over the house, protecting it from thieves and would be assassins. They’re also meant to welcome unexpected guests. There’s no need to worry about either of those things; no one’s going to threaten all the monsters sharing this house and no one would risk offending us by showing up unannounced. I can’t imagine the rumors that are circling about our clan. Even the Guuiness, who I thought would only leave me be in death, haven’t contacted me since the battle.

“I belong to the darkness, between the truth and what can be observed.”

Ah, I’ve missed his cryptic way of speaking. I’m guessing he’s saying he isn’t comfortable being seen or something along those lines. Is he not good with people? Wouldn’t surprise me.

“You are troubled,” he states as I sip the tea, somehow pleasant despite its bitterness, the sharp taste perking me up. It’s not a demand but an invitation to share my concerns, which is incredibly rare. Nomad is more than happy to drift through life in silence, quietly seeing to his duties with great competence and little passion. I find myself wanting to respond to his concern and tell him about the assignment.

“So you see, there is no answer. Except, Morgene assures me there is, which means she’s expecting something and I have no idea what that is.”

We lapse into silence, Nomad looming over his cart, head turned to stare at absolutely nothing for several long minutes. I'm almost convinced that the conversation is finished when he finally responds without looking at me. “We are the skin we choose to wear.”

“…I’m gonna need you to explain that one.”

He lets out a great big sigh, as if I’m asking him to hoist the world onto his shoulders. “The skin defines the creature. A beast is a thing of fur and teeth and claws. If you put on a coat of fur, tear into flesh with fangs, and cut down enemies with claws, you are a beast.”

“Um, sure.” I guess that makes sense?

“You do not wear the skin of a lion to swim the river. Don the scales and fins of the fish.” He turns to me, dark eyes willing me to understand.

And by the grace of the saints, I think I do. “The skin…you’re talking about identity, right? My identity isn’t compatible with saving anybody. I’m never going to think of a solution for myself…so I need to think of how someone else could fix the problems of the city. Then…assume their identity? Work through them? Like a proxy.”

He hums, I think in acknowledgment but doesn’t comment. That’s fine. I know what I have to do. Bell tried to give me a clue earlier. Because of my body and my magical talent, I assume the solution always has to come from me, but that isn’t the case, is it? That’s not how the powerful work. I’m sure Geneva, saints all the succubi, could enforce their will through pure might, crushing any opposition with extreme prejudice. Yet, for all her might, she prefers to work through intermediaries, pushing things along from the shadows.

Yes, this can work. If my name isn’t attached to it, there’s a whole lot I can do to ease the tensions surrounding this city. I don’t need to save everyone. I just want the peace to last a little longer so we can make a clean escape.

“Thanks, that was actually helpful.”

If he’s offended by my surprise, I can’t tell, his only response being to refill the tea.