Chapter 6
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The swiftest way to a man’s heart…is through his amygdala.
“It’s been the talk of the town all morning!
” Chrysa floats behind her glass counter displaying a dozen sweet treats, ranging from tarts to chocolates.
Packing up the elegant pastries I pointed out a moment ago, she smiles at me, dark curls framing caramel cheeks.
“Was it you? Did you deliver all the supplies Gabbro needed to start on Neptun’s and Laumon’s house? ”
I’ve realized that people only go off script when I do.
Therefore, I offer a shrug, committing to the silence of a player who can’t speak without a text box prompt.
Right on cue, Chrysa defaults to her line for after the farmer completes the Rehoming the Sea Boys quest. “Thank you so much for helping them. It gives me hope that we can recover what we’ve lost.”
My heart squeezes, and I nod again as she exchanges the brown paper bag with my order for two silver coins, bringing my total funds down to seven hundred twenty coins.
After wordlessly offering Kaolin a bundle of herbs that I foraged on my way to Slate’s earlier, I spent a hundred coppers on some more spring seeds, to keep my crops rotating, because I think that’s what I’m supposed to do.
I read about it once. Just like I’ve read about foraging. My confidence is ever a fickle beast, and foraging in real life is a little more complicated than in the game.
As you can imagine, many herbs are green.
So is grass.
The good plants aren’t in obvious, predictable patches, so I spent a solid hour on my way to beg Slate for passage into the mines pulling weeds, dropping them in my backpack, and looking at my inventory until I figured out what this season’s herbs looked like irl.
The payout for forageables is pathetic since they are everywhere, 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 said morning!”
“It’s noon,” he mutters.
So I’m not an early riser. Bless the very real life experience of not waking up at 6:00 AM. 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 is wooing. I am doing an excellent flirt. Remember how I’ve discovered that people here go off script when I do? Remember how Samson’s script is unromanceable?
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 the Your First Sword cutscene, so I am all set for carnage.
In Vale 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 up drinking water, I could get the final house upgrade.
But, anyway.
Cautious, Samson approaches me, hooking a finger in the paper bag and peeking inside. A deep sound resonates from his chest. “The mine entrance was buried under a landslide.”
A different tingle races up my spine as my nerves melt away so I can hyperfixate on his voice. I love his voice. It’s so deep and chocolaty, smooth caramel undertones with a gravelly crunch. Peanuts, probably. He is a Snicker’s bar of goodness, and I’m not me when I’m hungry.
Parched, I murmur, “Slate’s gonna blow it up this afternoon so I can get in.”
Samson’s eyes hit me so hard it feels physical. But not in a good way. More like the love of my life just punched me in the face. Which isn’t disheartening at all, I’m sure. In other news, of course I’m still breathing.
For the record, I have been this whole entire time.
The paper bag crinkles as his finger constricts. More peanuts than caramel, he says, “What?”
I swallow. “I’m going to help him reestablish his collection.
I’m sure what he’s lost washed into the ocean and the mines.
” Honestly, Vale of Gems’ starting premise of a mass destruction storm explains really well why you can dig and fish up priceless artifacts.
A good chunk of Slate’s lab washed away, taking everything with it, burying tons beneath silt and mud.
The story is so well-thought-out that new dig spots only appear after it rains, too, when more muck might wash away, leaving lost items more accessible.
Basically, bless the brain that brought me Samson. Amen.
Samson provides me with a coarse once over, inciting an ample amount of insecurity even though I know I am very cute now. Freckled. Symmetrical. Mourning dove adorable. Despite it all, I still can’t help but wonder what deficiencies he perceives.
He states, “There are things in the mines.”
Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I say, “I know.”
His massive chest fills with air as he grits, “Magic comes from the earth. Its power infuses itself in anything down there and—” He releases the paper bag to hook a finger in his collar, dragging it down to show me his worst scar more fully.
“—they are not kind.” His nostrils flare as he stops flashing me beautiful, rugged man chest. “The deeper you go, the stronger the magic, the more chaotic, the more deadly. But even the surface levels can be fatal if you don’t know what you’re doing. ”
I shudder, and I get the feeling saying, No worries! I have an old sword from Pyro! is not the play here. I would really appreciate text box options. Common sense can normally guide me well enough if I am presented with two clear choices…
Boo. Realism mod.
Clutching the paper bag of tarts to my chest, I whisper, “There’s no other way. I need the resources down there. The Ridge needs them.”
He growls, “The terrain underground changes overnight like a living beast breathing. The elevator probably drowned out in the flood, and crawling down a ladder on your own gives plenty of time for something to get your ankle. Let Slate get his own—” Samson swears.
“—collection back. Leave Pyro and Austin to fetch the town’s resources.
Gem Ridge isn’t your responsibility. You just got here. ”
I did.
I did just get here, but I’ve kept my heart here for years. “This town gave me a house.”
“Lazul’s been trying to pawn that land off on anyone with a heartbeat for years.
Working the ground in the Ridge isn’t easy labor.
Trees and stones crop up overnight. You can’t put magic protection in place like with building foundations because it inhibits the properties that accelerate growth.
It’s a pain, and it’s a lot. Trust me, no one here has done you any favors yet. ”
“Yet?” I ask.
He grimaces, crossing his arms. “This place is inundated with cataclysmically kind and friendly people.”
“Except Austin,” I provide.
Samson rolls his eyes. “Austin’s crass and arrogant, but if it came down to it, he’d give you the shirt off his back.”
“He’d also make sure you never forget the favor.”
Samson grunts. “Yeah. Well. I never said he wasn’t human.”
In my humble, professional, opinion, both Austin and Samson fall into the grumpy archetype. Where they differ is at a notable level, though. Samson is the endearing recluse while Austin is just plain mean.
Samson says go away where Austin adds you idiot.
Were I not finishing my meet and greet task, I wouldn’t have bothered to approach Austin at all.
And since I haven’t prompted further dialogue, all he’s said to me is: You’re the new farmer Lord Lazul’s been talking about?
I give it a week before you can’t handle it and go back to wherever you came from, city girl.
Guess what?
Remembering that peeved me off.
So now I’m crossing my cute arms and hopefully not damaging the tarts in my grasp. “Thinking about Austin has made me want to hit something, so I will be going to the mines after breakfast, thank you very much. Do you want to share breakfast with me or not?”
“It’s lunch time,” he says, twisting the bag out of my hand, “but I suppose I shouldn’t grouch at Slate’s idiocy on an empty stomach.” Huffing, he meets my eyes. “Tell me what supplies you have packed for this fool’s errand while we eat.”
My wee heart flutters before I realize I will need to tell him I only have my sword and pickaxe.
In the game, the first layers of the mines aren’t that bad, so the worst part is inventory management. You can’t upgrade your inventory slots until Mimet the traveling merchant comes to town so…
Over tarts, I bumble through making myself look like a moron while Samson silently judges me, growing more lethally concerned with every word that leaves my mouth.