1 Beauty from the Perspective of the Umbrella

Today, we have a tale about the Mad Spell and connoisseur of umbrellas, Rorric. An artificial life, if you even consider it as such, formed of a mass of magic given both flesh and mind.

There is an ego, but the superego and id appear to be mere vestiges of the imprinting process upon another Wanderer it underwent at its creation. Or, perhaps, it could be considered as having an id run amok, given that it acts upon whims of fancy and the unique physical condition of his. The superego isn't wholly decorative as there is a rule against allowing harm to befall children, but the very existence of that rule raises various questions.

Regardless, today's tale portrays the Umbrella's twisted faux humanity from a first-person point of view.

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Ahhhh....

A new world. Looks like a medieval-styled world of swords and magic today.

A new country of beasts to subjugate and magic to study.

A new populace to intermingle with or crush.

What shall I do today?

The bright sun overhead, partially blocked by the light cloud cover in the deep sky. The fresh scent of the soft grass and blood in the air from underfoot stimulating the appetite for destruction. The sounds of metal striking metal and the screams of the damned like a cacophonous melody to such an aberration.

A beautiful scene, framed by the distant purple mountains and crumbling fortresses, the red-tinged colors of the sky by the soon to be setting sun. Perfect weather enjoy an army fight for its life with refreshments of tea.

how unsightly. One of the invading force's soldiers seems to have noticed me. Looks like a pitiful undead creature, a spirit bound to cursed flesh by shoddy workmanship of the presumed necromancer commander.

Oh, how unsightly. It seems that walking bag of bones and rotting meat is shambling towards me. Its bare and tattered feet unsteadily moving it ever closer. What poor craftsmanship, couldn't they have used better quality materials or performed repairs? This tottering old scrap is unfit even to be the meat shield it was tasked to be.

The rest aren't too well made either, but this fellow in particular leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I can't enjoy my tea like this, and, once I deal with him, the rest won't leave me alone either.

Ugh.

I should've constructed something to hide my form, but that would've detracted from the picturesque beauty of the scene.

"Unsightly things, begone and leave behind those long dead puppets."

With a wave of my hand and a simple form to disrupt the seals placed upon the decaying, infested flesh, the invading army collapsed as one. Those defenders' confusion is delicious indeed, so perhaps this time around I should play the role of an unseen defender? I'll settle the rules later; I'll grab the memories of a dying soldier and patch him up as compensation in the meantime.

Ah, yes, the capital of this country is in the direction those shoddy invaders were headed. Perhaps I should stealthily invade myself?

...

The capital, huh? Nothing too interesting here to note. It may be interesting to the locals, but it's nothing I haven't see before. Unfortunate.

It's not beautiful, but it's not unsightly either.

I've taken a form similar to that of the locals, but let's leave the hair color white and have the eyes exhibit heterochromia. Hmm... blue on the left and green on the right should be fine. We shouldn't stand out too much, but fully blending in is boring, after all.

Housing shouldn't be an issue with inns around, money should be solvable by selling off some off my collected materials. I'd prefer to remain largely within the law this time around, acting the role of a hidden hero.

It might get out of character to do this alone, and this world has legal slavery, so buying one of those should fit the role I wish to play perfectly.

...

Oh.

I... did not expect this.

Here I was, browsing through the merchandise, and there she was.

A young child, a likely dangerous infection on her foot. Still standing up because the alternative pain is worse.

Of course, I would have probably stepped in and trampled the trading of children sooner or later, but something about her makes me want to protect her.

The hidden pain, obviously poor conditions, the light brown hair which frames that beautiful, tragic expression of a child who wants nothing more than to be at home despite their best efforts to hide the despair behind those emerald eyes.

Yes, I'm trampling this uncouth treatment today, scheduling be damned. Is this desire a paternal instinct? Probably not, to be honest, considering my condition, but it's likely a twisted analogue to it I believe.

Needless to say, the girl, Annabel, was removed from that unclean, unsafe place. How old is she, about 5? She's definitely the youngest one there, anyway. How cruel it is to box up such a child, I immediately had that restraining, confining force removed.

This is a thing to be protected. This is a person who needs to be protected, who needs a place to feel safe.

Forget the role of a hero who acts behind the scenes, I'll take the role of a doting father who crushes all approaching threats. A child should believe in the capabilities of the parent, after all, and there should be no wall that would stop her unreasonably as long as I'm around.

A child's smile is a beautiful thing, after all. It calms the nerves and heals the soul.

It may not whet an appetite for destruction, but nothing will stand in the way of her development as long as I'm around. Sadness is unavoidable, and spoiling her excessively would ruin that innocence, but that heart will not be made to stand more than it can take.

Children are wonderful things. They can be strangely fragile in some ways, and they can be nigh indestructible in others.

And especially that uncanny strength to pierce the heart with those innocent expressions. Even if said heart is nothing more than a facsimile of a human's.

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