The payout for forageables is pathetic since they areeverywhere, but knowing I can sell and scrounge up enough money for food was all the reassurance I needed to splurge on a little Samson treat.
Responsible adulting at its finest.
Chipper, I trot myself out to my future husband’s farm.
“Good morning, neighbor!” I cheer as I find Samson at a milking station with a cow.
He turns on his stool to look beyond the pasture fence and visibly drains once he meets my eyes.
Ignoring a tingle of deep-seated anxiety, I march right on past my fear of rejection in favor of leaning against a fence post and making sure the brown bag of sweets I’m holding is clear in Samson’s line of sight. “I saidmorning!”
“It’s noon,” he mutters.
So I’m not an early riser. Bless the very real life experience ofnotwaking up at 6:00AM. Sometimes, this realism mod has my back. “Bit late to be milking then, isn’t it?” If my memorized Samson Schedule holds true, he’s many hours behind.
His blue eyes skate over my paper bag before he returns his attention to the cow, lifting his hands and… On second thought, I will not be watching him milk a cow. The sun catching on his tattoos as his muscles constrict alone is making it hard to breathe. The illicit act transpiring at this moment is unfit for virgin eyes. And we know what happens when my dear, sweet virgin eyes wind up scandalized. If at all possible, I’d like to avoid passing out again, because I know for a fact Samson will drag me to Peri’s this time.
He mumbles, “Got a late start. Didn’t sleep well.”
Aw. Poor future husband. I’m going to pretend he was up all night thinking about me, because I am already more than firmly on this delusion train.
Refraining from looking his way, I lift the bag of pastries. “I brought a thank you and an apology for yesterday.” My tongue refuses to mention how I didn’t mean to interrupt him while he was taking a bath, because as far as anyone else is allowed to know, that did not happen. That was a hallucination. A vivid hallucination. That I enjoy in the privacy of my impious brain whenever I see water.
The end.
“I brought fruit tarts,” I say, glancing sidelong toward his broad back.
He stills partway through freeing the cow from her wooden harness and letting her off the milking stand. Once done, his harsh gaze lands on me, flicking toward the brown bag then back to my eyes.
My heart’s valiant attempts at vacating my chest go unanswered—because I am ignoring the drama. This iswooing. I am doing an excellent flirt. Remember how I’ve discovered that people here go off script whenIdo? Remember how Samson’s script isunromanceable?
Make a fool of yourself, Citrus, but I swear to all the rocks in this Ridge,break his script.
I wet my trembling lips. “I thought we could share a few before I head out to the mines.”
Efficient little miss that I am, after talking to Slate, I also found Pyro and experienced theYour First Swordcutscene, so I am all set for carnage.
InVale of Gems, beating up monsters in the mines is my favorite thing; however, I am a little worried about not having my third-person, top-down perks here.
Dying with the realism mod has got to suck.
I do doubt, realistically, I’ll wake up in Peri’s office with her informing me that Pyro found me in the mines. Because I do doubt that real monsters will stop attacking once I’ve passed out due to zero HP, and probably blood loss.
Hahaha.
No problem!
I will figure it out, and it will be fine!
I’ll just be extra careful.
A feat so simple, I can do it in my sleep.
Never minding that that’s the only time I can do it, actually.
Having misshapen eyes really ruins a grand many things in life, like, I don’t know, depth perception and the ability to accurately judge the location of things like counter corners, chair legs, open doors, my mouth…
If I had a copper for every time I’ve messed updrinking water, I could get the final house upgrade.
