Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 1 - Chapter SS3

Pushy Mother

“My, my! Welcome!”

I knocked on the door of a home that scarcely resembled my own and was answered by a sweet voice from within. This stone house in the shadow of the wood was home to the magistrate’s officially appointed huntsman—which made this Margit’s residence. That being said, she was not the one to greet me at the door.

“I’m so sorry, dear. Margit’s away on an errand right now. Why don’t you come on inside in the meantime?”

The familiar chestnut hair and large, cute, hazel eyes that greeted me adorned a round and youthful face that looked to be around my age based on appearances alone. However, my mensch sensibilities couldn’t properly assess the eight-legged woman’s age; she was by no means my childhood friend’s sibling.

Her hair had a slight wave to it, and the air about her was altogether different from Margit’s. Where her daughter exuded playful mischief, she had the composure of a full grown lady.

“Would you like some tea?” Margit’s venerable mother asked me.

If nothing else, her bearing clashed with her appearance: she certainly didn’t look like she was in her thirties. Although she could pass as the preteen Margit’s sister, her expressions, speech, and mannerisms oozed with mature grace. Furthermore, I could make out dangling earrings lining her ears from between the parts in her hair, and her loose clothing exposed the heavily inked skin underneath. This wasn’t the first time I’d been shocked by her deviance: the traditional arachne leatherwork that she’d worn in past festivals had a deep cut that proudly displayed a spider tattoo on her lower abs and a pair of butterfly wings right above her tailbone.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I replied.

“It won’t do to be so reserved from such a young age. Come, come, I’ve just brewed a new batch of tea. Take a seat.”

The old la—er, seasoned mother nudged me along to a chair and poured me a cup of red tea. Not only was it fresh, but she paired it with apparently homemade dried fruits to really stop me from leaving. My imperial pride wouldn’t let me waste a perfectly good cup of tea. Oh well, what can you do?

“Young boys sure are wonderful,” she said with a giggle. “You’re all so full of life.”

Her statement was laden with deeper meaning that sent a jolt along my spine. If Margit’s whispers were a sudden drop of ice, then her mother’s voice was akin to a feather duster tracing my back.

“You know, when I was younger—”

“Mother, what in the world are you doing?!”

My lifelong friend’s familiar voice cut through the peculiar sweet timbre that had been tickling my ear. With a basket under her arm, she entered, for whatever reason, through an open window. She sprang toward me so nimbly that I lost sight of her for a moment, and I had no time to react to her leaping onto my chest. Her usual smile vanished, and she squinted at her mother over my shoulder.

“Why are you making a pass on Erich?!”

“Whatever could you mean? I only poured him a bit of tea.”

Margit’s uncharacteristic anger made her look like a disgruntled puppy (in truth, she was closer to a majestic wolf), her brow crinkled in rage. I tried to calm her down and knocked back the rest of my tea so as to head out. She’d promised me archery lessons in the woods today.

“What are you so upset about?” I asked.

“I saw how smitten you were with my mother,” she said.

“What?! No, hold on...” I tried to allay her suspicions, but she remained irritable, and the day’s training ended up a living hell.

[Tips] Arachne reach physical maturity relatively quickly and see little change to their appearance once they do.

“Margit sounded really mad. What happened?”

A thin man made his way down from the second floor a little while after his daughter dragged away her companion with puffs of steam shooting out her ears. The mensch stripped off his work gloves and shook the wood from his clothes.

He looked to be around fifty; although he could have made a convincing grandfather for Margit, their relation was one step closer, and few people would have believed that he and his wife were not so far apart in age.

“Hm? I gave her a little push is all.”

The lifelong huntsman took a seat next to his partner. In contrast to her exuberant smile dripping with intent, he let his facial muscles relax. “What are you going to do if that lights a fire under her?”

“But dear, I don’t think it’s very proper to be too full of oneself or one’s position.” She put a hand to her cheek and tilted her head as she spoke, causing a familiar sensation to run down her husband’s spine. “If she were to get careless and let her mark escape...well, it’s just not what a hunter does, is it?”

The reason for the man’s chills was simple: her expression was that of an archetypal predator. Reflecting on their history, the man was made to remember that despite his status as a huntsman, he was also a helpless mark entangled in the a spider’s web.

According to his wife, their daughter was by far the favorite in her race of love, but her lead had gone to her head, and she’d recently grown to play with her food. Of course, Margit’s mother would never forbid such things; the period of sweetness that drifted between friendship and courtship was not territory that could be retread once a relationship settled. Still, it was unacceptable to drown in that bliss and lose sight of the dangers of her romantic rivals.

“Our little girl has so much competition,” she sighed. “You know as much, don’t you?”

“It makes sense,” he said. “The boy’s got a good reputation.”

Erich’s face drifted to the thin huntsman’s mind as he thought back on what he’d heard from his friends. The boy was diligent and honest, and was especially popular for the value of his wood carvings. Widows and families without sons were particularly keen on him.

The father was impressed with how completely his daughter had managed to fend off her competitors and retain her place beside him. Yet if she continued to dance around, she risked losing her mark to another predator’s ambush: after all, there existed a situation in which a man had no choice but to take responsibility.

“So, well, you know...” his wife said with a mischievous giggle.

Her laugh filled him with nothing but bad premonitions, and he silently thought of the young boy. This is a path of thorns, son.

“What is it, dear? Is something the matter?”

“...What makes you think that? I was just thinking about how lovely my wife is today.”

“My, you won’t get anything for sweet-talking your lovely wife, you know? Of course, I’m more than happy to accept anything you might give me.”

The missus cheerily grinned at her risque joke and her man mirrored her expression. Their two smiles, as incongruous as they were, continued on for quite some time.

[Tips] “Responsibility” generally falls to the man, even if he finds himself pinned down.