Chapter 220 - First Contact (Patreon)

I fumble with Opalina’s Bra of Holding before finally fishing out my suit. Part of me wants to make a joke about how Opalina’s tits are so big she needs an interdimensional pocket space to carry them around, but honestly, I think it goes without saying.

The suit she prepared is nothing short of astonishing. Guess this is just another way she was planning on spoiling me because it can’t have been cheap. There are three pieces. A golden undershirt with silver buttons, a black coat with golden trims and a fancy collar, and dress pants with matching gold trim. The fabric is soft to the touch, and again, very expensive. I’ve never worn anything quite so lovely before, and part of me doubts I ever will again.

After putting it all on, I have a look in a mirror that was lying around Opalina’s study. Immediately I feel the urge to do a double-take because I can barely recognize the person I see reflected in the glass. If it weren’t for my dark glasses, I might look like a low-ranking nobleman. Hells, maybe even a mid-ranking one. Instead, coupled with my slicked-back hair, I look like the sort of person who’d be consorting with Sir Pimpington on a regular basis. Gods, if Meri could see me now...

I still can’t believe everything that just happened. My post nut clarity was briefly lived before doubt came surging back. Is fucking around like this really a good idea when Duke Gloomcrest can hear every word? Just as my thoughts start kicking into overdrive, I hear a knock on the door.

“Expensive wine for the treasured guest of my lord Duke,” Bertrand sighs before whispering, “Drink it fast before I drown myself with it...”

Opening the door and stepping into the hallway, I see the Chamberlain standing there with a silver tray brandishing both the wine I asked for and several exquisitely crafted wine glasses. From its looks, the bottle is an aged rose wine from Hunnihome, which are renowned for their crisp sweetness and the nostalgic warmth they imbue. Lovely. Much less lovely is the Chamberlain himself. Bertrand takes a long look at me before breaking his professional facade and laughing. “You look like an overdressed thug.” He says, amused.

I take the tray from him and give the man a passive-aggressive glare. “The help should be seen and not heard.”

“I’m not the help,” The silver-haired man stomps his foot on the stony ground. “I run the help! Does your filthy peasant brain even know what a Chamberlain even is?”

Unafraid of Bertrand’s little hissy fit, I tell him, “A glorified butler who fetches me drinks on command.”

“No! Well, yes, but more than that! As Chamberlain, I ensure everyone is comfortable within these dreary walls and run the day-to-day business of the housekeeping staff. Do you know how many nobles would kill to be appointed the Chamberlain of Duke Gloomcrest?”

“Oh yes, I’d indeed imagine that nobles are lining up to become butlers. Say. How did you come by this job, Bertrand? Tell me about your rise to such a glorified position.”

“Well, you see...” His dour face contorts into a slimy smile. “My father served as Chamberlain before me, and then sadly he left to be with the Goddess below...”

“Your father died, and you inherited the position? Ah, such an astonishing tale of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, truly. Make sure that your personal scribe emphasizes how difficult that part of your life was during your memoirs, you blue-blooded git.”

Bertrand opens his mouth to speak, then falls into an even deeper state of misery once he realizes he has nothing intelligible to say in response. He mumbles some reminder about dinner being in a half-hour before slumping his shoulders and fucking off to somewhere else. At this point, I would feel bad if Bertrand weren’t so inherently unlikeable. I’m hardly ever this mean to people I barely know, but... he’s really the sort of person who just brings it out of you.

Regardless, with a new tray of drinks in hand, I return back to our suite. “Wine’s here,” I announce to Opalina, who’s still in the bathroom.

“Have yourself a glass and relax, Dear. I’ll be in here a while doing my hair, my make-up, and trying on dresses.”

I know better than to argue with that. Despite being able to magically alter her hair like most Mages, Opalina is still a woman. She’ll take her time in front of the mirror, making herself look pretty regardless of the ease of access a witch has over her own appearance.

Setting the tray on Opalina’s study desk, I pop the cork and pour myself a glass of rose wine. A small one. I really wasn’t even that thirsty. Opalina just insisted that I bully the Chamberlain around some more. I don’t want to drink too much before dinner.

The taste is just as crisp as I’ve heard, perhaps even more so. I wallow in its rich depths for only a moment before something new drags my attention away from my thoughts- scratching at the door. Instinctually I want to yell at Peri to behave herself, but then I remember that we’re through the trial period and that Peri isn’t even here to begin with.

The scratching abruptly stops, so I wait a couple of seconds to see if it persists before I investigate the noise. Sure enough, the scratching resumes. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were rats, given the size and dark, dirty nature of Castle Mourneheart. Really, this place is feeling more and more like home by the minute.

With my wine glass still firmly in hand, I walk to the door and open it up. Perhaps I should have expected something along these lines, but I didn’t, so when I see a medium-sized skeletal dog sitting patiently in front of our guest suite, I’m still somewhat taken aback.

Unlike the bear from before, it’s effortless to tell that this reanimated beast was- or is?- a dog. It tilts its head when it sees me and starts wagging its bony tail while standing up and prancing about on its four legs in that happy little dance that dogs do when they see a friend. In its jaw, the skeletal canine clutches a piece of parchment as well as a feather quill that glows with faint magic.

To take it all in, I finish the glass of wine in one gulp before setting it on the nearest table to the door. The bone beast is still there upon my return, and it’s just as happy to see me as it was mere seconds ago. While it still has that chill about it as well as the sense of abject wrongness, I could almost see myself finding it cute. Sure, it’s a pile of bones, but it’s still obviously a dog in every sense of the word, and I can’t deny my fondness for man’s best friend no matter the size or shape it comes in.

I bend over, and the dog comes over, standing on its back legs to paw at my torso, wagging and wagging with excitement. It shoves its muzzle up against me, so I take the parchment and pen from its jaw. The dog releases the objects and backs off, giving me time to look over the paper. Scrawled on the top left corner is a single word written by a hand with extensive skill in the art of calligraphy.

‘Hi.’

“Is this from your Mistress?” I look down at the bone dog and point towards Abigail’s door on the other side of the hall. It happily barks before noticing its tail and turning its attention to the bony appendage. The dog circles around in place while trying to catch its own tail in its mouth, and when it gets it, it starts chewing on it.

Well, that’s one less question on my mind. I was just wondering if a dog made of bones would chew itself, and lo and behold...

So, Abigail is trying to communicate with me, albeit in a very indirect way. I’m a little surprised. This must be very hard for the young Lady, considering all those books she took that were related to talking to new people. It would be rude of me if I didn’t answer her call, especially when I have so many questions about her and her family on my mind.

Obviously, I don’t want to overwhelm Abigail, so I’ll take things very slow.

‘Hello there, It’s nice to meet you.’ I write below her sentence with the quill. As expected, the quill is magic and does not require an inkwell. Before giving the message back to the dog, I take in the contrast between our handwriting and feel inadequate by comparison. My script isn’t bad by any means, but hers makes my text look like Sam’s. I was about to say that’s expected of a noble Lady, but again, Sam.

The skeleton takes my message and the quill in its jaws and skitters back to the doggy door to Abigail’s room. Unlike with the bear, the size doesn’t adjust, and it retreats into the darkness of the Lady’s bedroom. Not even twenty seconds later, the dog returns with a fresh message.

‘My name is Abigail Gloomcrest. Sorry if I’m bad at this.’ A short but curt reply. Guess that’s her social anxiety talking.

I respond by telling her my name and introducing myself as the Guild Master of the Dewhurst Adventurer’s Guild before I remember the embarrassing truth of the matter. Abigail has overheard me playing along with Opalina’s whims. Instantly, I feel a need to pre-emptively apologize. In my response, I add, ‘I am very sorry about the noise Opalina, and I have been making. It’s very improper to subject a lady of your standing to such filth.’ My words are surface-level at best because while I feel bad about it, I have no one but myself to blame, and I don’t intend to stop.

Her following response says, ‘It’s alright, I know how Opal can be. She’s probably teasing you into acting on your urges because it amuses her...’ I guess Abigail really does know Opalina as well as I do because that response is spot-on.

I make full use of the ‘out’ Abigail gives me and use the excuse to absolve myself of blame. ‘Thank you for understanding, it’s as you say, Opalina is leading me around by the nose... The both of us are heading to dinner in a little while, though. Will you be joining us? I would love to meet you in person if that’s not too presumptuous of me.’

When the dog whisks the message away, it doesn’t return right away. Because of how touchy Abigail’s caste can be, such as Bertrand, I start worrying if I offended the noblewoman by implying I would like to see her. Eventually, though, the messenger dog returns about a minute later with a new note.

‘No. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ll be dining in my quarters tonight. I’m sorry. It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.’

I look over the response multiple times, finding it worrisome. Initially, I’m unsure of what to say back, considering how neurotic it reads. Ultimately, my reply is simple, ‘There’s nothing to apologize for. I’m simply happy you wanted to talk in the first place.’

The wait for this one is long again, but only half as long. ‘You don’t need to put me on a pedestal by talking to me like a stuffy noble girl. I’m just some girl. Thank you for understanding. You’d best get ready for dinner now, but... can we do this again later tonight? This is very hard for me to write, but-’ The handwriting abruptly loses some of its grace, becoming shaky and unpolished for the rest of her sentence. ‘can we be friends...?’

Reading this makes me blush, for whatever reason, but I write back immediately. ‘Absolutely nothing would make me happier. I’ll talk to you tonight, Abigail.’ I hand the paper over to the dog who has faithfully ferried messages between us over and over, and feeling courageous, I reach out and pet the dead beast’s boney head. It’s cold to the touch but not unbearably so. Even if it has that sensation of wrongness, I find that maybe it’s not such a bad feeling to be wrong.

The dog wags its boney tail super hard and dances in place before taking the last message to its Mistress, thus ending my first exchange with Abigail Gloomcrest.