Quoted By:
>100 on the Event Roll
>Maintain a Silent Image as you soak
>Spells at 1/2
Even if they're clothes crafted from scraps of goblin armor, you still treat them with delicate care when you strip down to your birthday suit. Folding the cloak and loincloth up nicely, you lay them and your bindle out near the water pooling what looks like an old crater. Your makeshift boots slip off of your feet as soon as you untie the thong around your ankle. Haphazard as they are, they at least kept the worst of the rocks and stones off of you as you walked.
Ah, why did Papa Niemand never teach you how to transmute? Illusions and the shadow magics help keep you safe and secure, for sure, but transmutation would have helped you make things.
Then again, the old hermit who adopted the village whore's daughter was not much of a craftsman. He might not have known such magic.
Letting out a long sigh, you sink down into the warmth of the pool and let it seep into your aching body. The heat of the mineral-infused water already banishes the soreness in your legs and feet from walking for so long. Though it stings the raw places on your skin, that pain fades quickly and with it goes the rawness that you felt. Thanks to the light of the crystals and the glowing waters, you can finally see enough to get a better picture of yourself.
"Ah, that's why my skin hurt..." you mumble to yourself as you look at your reflection in the water.
Your once proud and straight blonde hair has become a ragged mess that falls below your shoulders. Bags sit below your jade green eyes, as if you needed a reminder of the intense weariness you felt. For all that, your cheeks have not been hallowed out by neglect or starvation, and your bosom has swollen up to match the generous bust of your mother before she passed away. The polished bone piercings you can see and feel are not the only gift the goblin tribe left you with, however.
Blood red ink now marks your pale skin with swirling patterns that trace over your every curve and emphasize your bust and womb. <span class="mu-i">Indelible</span> ink that has permanently stained your skin and marked you as the property of that tribe. A few traveling women you met at the inn's baths bore such marks, including one errant lady knight who blushed heavily when your younger self asked what they meant. You cannot feel magic within the tattoos or piercings; whatever significant they must have, it must only be cultural, if monsters can have culture.
You don't know enough about goblins to know what each marking means, but you can guess at the marks about your womb that look like tallies. Your ears turn pink and you sink deeper into the water, burbling to yourself, "So that's why they're bigger now... thirteen goblets... did I really lose half a year...?"
It's certainly something to think about.
