A Gamer's Guide 408 (Patreon)

“So, then, I told him, ‘no way, I spent two months on this!’ and I clocked him—I clocked him, uhh, clean across the face! Yeah!” Gecko slurs, spilling only a little more wine on the front of her robe. I think that’s the fifth glass-slash-goblet she’s had so far, which isn’t that impressive, but she’s also had a few mugs of ale, an unknown number of small shots of stronger stuff, and… Actually, I think that’s about it. That’s all she needed to get to this point. 

Her hat is currently in my inventory because she couldn’t be trusted with it, which means that her wild, dark hair is all over the place, free and untamed. Prop, next to her, is equally drunk but much better at hiding it. 

“What a contemptuous freak,” he comments, taking a swig from one of his smaller glasses. I guess that means it’s stronger stuff. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the mild, affable look on his face. “Did they brand him for his transangressions?”

“No—no, it was a goblin, not a man. So he got… I did… You know what? I can’t remember. Anyways, can I tell you everything about the witch hunts?”

“By all means. I’ve been meaning to learn more about them someday somehow. Though if I forget come morning I believe we have the drink to blame, not me. Nor my mind.”

“Of course! Absolutely! That makes… Hey, Prop? I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Whatever for?”

“I’ve always thought you were a… What’s the word… Fucking dweeb? No, no… Pompous arse? It’s right on my tongue. Right there. Shoot. Where is it? What am I…?”

“Moron? Prick? Pretentious cuckold?”

“Fuckwit!” Gecko exclaims, almost standing up to do so. “That’s what! That’s it! Fuckwit. But you aren’t. I was totally off about you, man. You’re cool. You’re not a fuck, nor a wit. I’m sorry I thought such mean things about you.”

“All good. Personally, I’ve always seen you as a bit of an autist, and… Well, you certainly haven’t disproved it, but you’ve changed my perception of the ailment.”

“Yayy! Anyways, so, to begin with, I’ve gotta explain the malleus maleficarum, and to explain that, I’ll need to explain how law and justice was executed in early modern Germany, and to explain that I’ll have to debunk a few common myths about medieval torture…”

I tune out a little. Beyond the two of them, surprisingly, Maggie and Myrt have gotten into a heated discussion, both of them gesturing wildly at whatever it is he’s scribbling. If I instead turn to my right, I’ll find Leion and Garath, laughing and drinking and discussing the quality—or lackthereof—of the ale around here. Lett went to bed a few hours ago, so he isn’t at the table anymore. I’ll probably join him soon, but, for now, I’m having a pretty good time.

My only issue is that my arm keeps itching. But I can’t really itch it properly, because—as mentioned—I’ve got no claws on me. Dang. In that case, I guess my best option will be… Ah, here we are! A weird fork with only two prongs. Perfect.

Now, see, itchy skin is one thing. That’s pretty normal. As someone who’s got their itching tolerance at the protection level, I know how horrible itching can get. But this is like… different. I can’t entirely explain it, but it feels like the itching is on the inside of my skin, pushing outwards. And if I press against it with my thumb… It’s squishy. Not like muscles are, or even like fat. Even fat has some kind of tenseness to it. But this is different. Way different. It’s squishy like raw liver, all give, but somehow even more tender. It almost feels like, if I tried to, I could totally push all my flesh out of the way, making a perfect indent of skin around my bones. 

And then the itching. Nothing too obtrusive. Nothing horrific. But still there. 

So, as I zone out, basking in the warmth of conversation I don’t have to join and singing I don’t have to replicate, I put the fork to my skin and get itchin’. Itch itch itch scratch scratch scratch. The stuff under my skin gives way, denting, getting moved out of the way. But it still itches. Further down. Deeper in. So I scratch. Harder and harder and harder and harder, until the prong of the fork finally gets through my damn skin. 

Poke. Metal through fabric. And, at first, nothing at all. Which is normal. I haven’t bled in…

Oh. Oh, hey, there’s blood! Or… not quite? What is…?

I hold my right wrist over my silver plate, letting whatever’s in there drip out. It’s thin, and milky white in color. Drip drip drip. If I squeeze my arm a little, more comes out. Drip drip drip drip drip. That’s odd. Experimentally, I stick one of the fork’s prongs into the hole, widening it, opening it up. And then I squeeze again. More milk comes out, almost in a little stream, before suddenly getting blocked by something. Hm. Weird. I squeeze harder. It looks a bit comical, because the area I’m squeezing is totally compressed, almost all the way down to the bone, while the surrounding area has ballooned out. 

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and… Pop!

The blockade falls out of me, alongside a small flood of milk. It all settled down on my plate, in a little pool of milk, and…

I look down at it. 

It’s a maggot. 

There’s a maggot in the milk. 

…Huh. That’s not normal.

Humming to myself, I grab the maggot, put it to the side, and then pour the milk I extracted into my unused goblet. Then I put the maggot back on my plate, grab my fork, and jimmy open the hole. 

“Hey, whatcha, uh, doing, Kitty?” Gecko asks, leaning over.

“I think I’ve got maggots in me,” I say. “Maggots, and…” I frown at the goblet. “Something else. No idea what.” I grab the goblet and hand it to her. “What do you think this is?”

She looks down at the milky white liquid. “Looks like milk to me.”

“Me too, but… It shouldn’t be. It would be weird if it was milk.”

“It would?”

“Yeah.” I turn my attention back to my arm. A bit of pushing and a bit of pulling and I’ve got a penny-sized hole. Putting the fork aside, I dig my finger into the hole. Squish squish squish. Yeah, no, it seems like there are maggots in here. But, just to be sure… 

I hold my wrist over my plate again and squeeze. Maggots fall out. Nothing but maggots. No flesh, no cartilage, no veins, no tendons… Just maggots. White, plump, curled-up, gently writhing maggots. That’s very odd. 

“It tastes like milk, too,” Gecko says.

“How—” I swirl my head to face her. “Did you…?”

She turns to me. She’s got a milk-stache. “Did I what?”

“Um.” Okay. Okay. Okay. Before I panic: this is obviously not normal. Normally, my blood should be so poisonous that she should be buckling over and puking at a single sip. I know that for a fact. But she isn’t. She doesn’t even look mildly uncomfortable. So, I think… It might be fine…? “Was it… good…?”

In her drunken stupor, it takes five full seconds for my question to register, at which point she pulls a goofy grin and says, all happy, “Yep, delicious! It was super sweet, too, like there was honey in it or something. Can’t be skim. Gotta be full milk. Trust me, I’m an expert on this.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Glad you… enjoyed it.” Reaching out, I slowly take the goblet from her. I look into it. Ah, yeah, no, she emptied it. Gadzooks. Well, she seems to be alright, so…

I glance over at her. Her hair has turned white. 

Ah. Ah. Uhh. Um. 

Noticing my gaze, she turns to me, tilting her head quizzically. “Everything alright, Kitty?” Her pupils have gone white. Dang, that’s eerie. What the hell. I rub my eyes, but nothing changes. 

“Um, Gecko, I, uh…” Maybe if I clear my throat, things will get better? Er-herm. Yeah, yeah. I can do this. “Say, I don’t think I feel so good, I was thinking of going to bed, but… You seem kind of out of it, so…” I spot Maggie across the table. “Ah, Maggie!” I wave her over. “Maggie, could you…?” After a moment’s hesitation, she stands up, giving a few final instructions to Myrt before stepping over to us. 

“Wassup?”

“I, er, uh,” I say, gesturing helplessly at Gecko. 

She follows my amazing visual directions. Blink, blink. “What the hell—”

“Is something wrong?” Gecko asks, only slurring it a little. “You look like you’ve, um… Seen a ghost! A spooky ghost!”

Maggie turns on me. “What did you do? What—” And then she spots my plate of maggots. “What is…?”

“I have no idea what happened but I think something funky might be going on with Gecko, so, um… Maybe you two could stay in the castle tonight? Close at hand in case something happens? Because, as you can see, something has happened, but I don’t know what, and I’m trying not to freak out, because then she might—”

“Slumber party?” Gecko interjects, all happy, like a puppy or something. I can practically see a wagging tail on her. “A slumber party would be sooo neat! Come on Maggie, let’s do it! Yayayay!”

The weight of Gecko’s eerily white-pupiled gaze stops Maggie in her tracks. “...Yeah. Yeah, alright. Um… Gecko, maybe it’s time for us to head to bed? You’ve drank quite enough.”

“Already? Well, okay. Sorry Lajon, guess we’re leaving early!” Saying so, she waves at Leion, who has not noticed what’s been going on whatsoever. Too busy arguing over why fantasy-cognac is much better than fantasy-whiskey, and how Garath’s refusal to accept this makes him a small-skulled mongrel. As one does. “Bye bye Prop!”

Prop stands up along with us. “I’ll show you the room closest to the master bedroom… I trust you won’t mind the second-hand nature of it?”

“It’ll be fine,” Maggie says, one arm around Gecko, who in turn slings one arm around me, creating a little chain of people. Maggie squints at me. “I’m, uh, not sure if—”

“Let’s goooo!” Gecko squeals, and with strength I wouldn’t have expected from her, both Maggie and I get dragged away from the party, Prop hurrying after us a moment or so later. 

Gosh, I need some sleep.