The wooden frame of the carriage groaned as it navigated the jagged ruts of the trade route. Inside, the entity known as the Blop was experiencing a sensation entirely foreign to his existence: physical instability.
His current vessel, draped in the finest stolen silks, was not designed for the violent swaying of a horse-drawn box. With every jolt, his body slid across the cushions, shoulders bumping against the mahogany walls.
("Why does this primitive contraption possess such erratic motion? ")The Blop's internal consciousness pulsed with silent irritation.
("I am a master of form, yet I find myself defeated by the simple act of sitting. This 'royalty' requires a level of balance that defies logic.")
"Princess!" the merchant's voice boomed from the driver's seat, breaking through the rattle of the axle. "We have reached a village. We shall take a shed here for tonight, and tomorrow we shall continue the journey to the capital."
The Blop remained silent, staring at the silk curtains with unblinking eyes. As the carriage slowed, the sounds of a settling village drifted in—dusty, quiet, and smelling of dry earth.
They came to a halt before a modest building. The merchant hopped down, landing with a thud, and pulled back the curtain with a wide, sycophantic smile.
"Princess, you may off from the carriage," he said, offering a hand that the Blop pointedly ignored.
The Blop stepped down, his bare feet meeting the ground. The earth was still viscous from a recent rain, and the cold mud oozed between his elegant toes. A flash of pure, primal disgust crossed the Blop's face as he looked down at his ruined feet.
"Oh! Dreadfully sorry, Princess!" the merchant squeaked, seeing the expression. "Do not let it trouble your heart. You can clean it in the bathroom inside. Please!"
He bowed deeply, ushering the Blop toward the entrance of the small hotel.
As the Blop crossed the threshold, the receptionist—a woman who looked as though she hadn't slept in years—nearly dropped her ledger. She saw the royal silks, the hauntingly beautiful face, and then her eyes traveled to the arms.
Beneath the delicate fabric, the muscles were defined with a terrifying, warrior-like precision. The 'princess' had shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the weight of a castle and arms that looked capable of snapping oak beams.
The woman's breath hitched. She forced her voice to remain steady. "How… how may I help you, Miss?"
The Blop stared. He didn't blink. He just watched her, his mind whirling.
("Hmm, how should I reply to this small, vibrating creature? ")the Blop wondered. He had forgotten that in the world of humans, a silent, unblinking stare from a powerful figure usually meant an execution was coming.
"S-sorry, Miss!" the receptionist blurted out, dropping into a deep, terrified bow. "If I have insulted your station, I beg your forgiveness! Please, come in!"
("I said nothing, yet she offers submission, the Blop noted, intrigued. Is this how they respond when one does not speak? That is quite kind. Perhaps I should offer the human ritual of the palm-to-palm contact.")
The Blop reached out a hand for a handshake. But as his arm moved, the light caught the heavy, corded muscles of his forearm.
The receptionist's eyes went wide with pure horror.
("She's going to strike me! ")the woman thought, her heart hammering.
("Look at those muscles—she's going to crush my skull! I can't die here!")
"Mercy!" she gasped in a terrified voice. "I apologize again if I disrespected you!"
The Blop paused, eventually pulling his hand back as the merchant rushed in to bridge the awkward silence. "My apologies, mistress,"
the merchant whispered. "Her Highness is in a foul temperament. Separate rooms, if you please."
"Yes—yes! Two free rooms on the right!" She handed over the keys as if they were made of hot coal.
The merchant led the Blop to a small, cramped room. "Rest here, Princess. I shall be adjacent. If you require anything, simply command this peasant to fetch it."
He gave a sweet, nervous smile and retreated.
Inside the room, the Blop locked the door and sat on the bed.(" This is a strange development. They treat me with the reverence of a celestial being. Am I a God? Yes… it must be. I am a God of this silk and mud.")
Suddenly, a thunderous growl erupted from his stomach. The hunger was returning, sharp and demanding.
("If I am a God, then they are my followers. And followers must provide sustenance for their deity. I shall demand my tithe, and they shall bring me a feast. Hehehe.")
The Blop stood and marched to the merchant's door, knocking with more force than intended. When the merchant opened it, his face went pale.
The 'Princess' stood there, looking more intense and angry than ever.
("Why is she back?") the merchant's mind screamed. ("Did I not open the door fast enough? Is she going to feed me to the wolves?")
The Blop raised a hand, his throat constricting as he forced air through his vocal cords.
"Foo…." he rasped. The word was broken, jagged, and rough.
The merchant's knees turned to jelly.(" Foo? Did she say Foe? She knows! She knows I'm only in this for the reward! She's calling me her enemy!")
The terror was too much. The merchant's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed. THUD.
The Blop stared at the unconscious man.
("Huh? I said food, not quite like a human, but why did he faint? Is this a ritual? Do humans faint when a God asks for a tithe? Oh… I have been rude. I did not follow the ritual. I must faint as well to show my respect.")
Since he couldn't actually lose consciousness, the Blop simply tipped over and laid perfectly still on the wooden floor next to the merchant.
Moments later, the receptionist came sprinting down the hall, alerted by the noise.
She stopped at the doorway, her hands flying to her face as she saw the "Princess" and the merchant both sprawled on the floor.
"Help! Bring the Physician! Bring the Physician!" she shrieked. "Two have fallen!"
A crowd gathered quickly, and soon the local Physician—an old man with a heavy leather bag—pushed through. He knelt, checking pulses with shaking fingers.
"Their pulses are alright," the Physician muttered. "It is as if they suffered a shock of profound horror. They will be alright in time."
As he spoke, the Blop decided the 'fainting ritual' had lasted long enough. He stood up in one fluid, terrifyingly athletic motion.
The crowd gasped, recoiling as the 'Princess' stood over them, her broad shoulders and defined muscles casting a long shadow.
"Are you… alright?" the Physician asked, looking shocked.
The Blop gave a stiff nod.
("I must have disrespected the ritual again. "). The Blop thought.(" The merchant is still down. I should apologize.")
The merchant finally groaned, waking up to find the Blop staring down at him. ("Wait, I'm not dead? ")
he thought, sweat pouring down his face.( "I must be careful. I can't tell them the truth, or she'll kill me for real.")
"How did you faint, sir?" the Physician asked.
"A… a migraine!" the merchant lied. "A sudden headache!"
The Blop stepped closer, his voice cracking again as he tried to be clearer. "FOOD."
The Physician blinked. Her voice cords are shredded! "Ah, Miss, your voice is injured. Here, take this medicine. It is a rare tincture, but it will heal you."
He handed a vial of murky liquid to the Blop.
("A drink? Is this the God-offering? It looks tasty.")The Blop uncorked it and took a large gulp.
His face immediately twisted. It tasted like rotten swamp water mixed with copper. ("It is terrible! I want to throw it away—no! If I do, they will hate me. I must drink the bitter ritual water.")
He drained the vial with a look of stoic suffering.
"Rest now," the Physician insisted, ushering them back to their rooms.
Finally, the Blop was alone in his room. His stomach was still growling. "Foo…od," he whispered.
Eventually, the receptionist left a tray of bread and salted meat at his door before fleeing.
The Blop ate quickly, the simple act of chewing bringing a small sense of peace.
But as the last of the food disappeared, the atmosphere in the room changed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and heavy. They weren't the hurried steps of the receptionist or the clumsy gait of the merchant.
These were the steps of someone who moved with the silence of a killer. The sound drew closer, stopping directly outside the Blop's door.
The handle began to turn—slowly, with a sickening metallic creak.