“In Ilya’s name I command you! Turn away and BEGONE!”

Three goblin zombies turned and fled back towards the village.

“[Holy Light]”

The last of the zombies that had been chasing them fell down, like a puppet that had its strings cut.

He stared at her again. He had been doing so since they had left the village.

Same body, but wrong voice.

Same scars…

But no ‘feel-good’ aura.

Wrong.

What is she?

“[Select. Examine.]”

“What?” Asked Sister Teresa.

She was used to being stared at because of her ruined face and body, but being muttered at in a different language as well unnerved her.

Teresa Gedder

Level 4 Cleric

Human Female

Strength: 14

Dexterity: 10 (12)

Constitution: 12

Intelligence: 12

Wisdom: 16

Charisma: 8 (12)

Hit Points: 35 / 35

Experience Points: 37,557 (75,000)

Armor: Plate Mail (partial), Wooden Shield

Weapons: Mace of Flames, Bronze Dagger, Dagger

Items: Holy Symbol, Thief's Utility Belt

Money: G: 1 S: 0 B: 0

Level 1 Cleric Spells:

Light (used)

Resist Elements (used)

Cure Light Wounds

Level 2 Cleric Spells:

Barkskin (used)

Silence, 15’ Radius

Scarred Body: -4 to Charisma, -2 to Dexterity

It’s NOT her.

He turned and leapt nimbly over a fallen tree trunk. His eyes were focused on his Map, but his mind was still on the woman behind him.

Who is she? A twin?

“Wait, what was that you said?” Mike demanded.

It would seem that the situation was going to be forced.

Good thing there isn’t A COUNTDOWN ticking down to zero…

Sighing, he turned back to her and pointed.

“You. Not right. Wrong.”

“Hey!” Mike yelled.

No matter how he felt about the kid, NOBODY makes fun of his girlfriend’s face but him!

“Mike!” Teresa almost screamed as she placed her body between the two males.

“We only just escaped the zombies, and we’re in a forest filled with monsters at night. Keep it down!”

Mike backed down, but continued to glower at the elf boy.

“Um, look. Umm…” Teresa lost her train of thought.

“Medic.”

Teresa unconsciously touched the mask that covered the ruined side of her face.

“Okay, um, Mr. Medic, I know I don’t look normal, but I assure you I AM a human and a disciple of the Goddess--”

“Wrong.”

“What?”

“You. Same face, same body, but you Teresa, not Joan. You cleric, not paladin. You wrong.”

Good grief, how EASY it is to slip back to Tarzan speech at Language Comprehension (Common) level 2!

…I REALLY should max that damn skill out sometime soon.

“Joan? Joan who?”

“What?” Asked a confused Medic.

“What?” Asked a surprised Mike.

“What?” Asked a shocked Farmer Johnday’s ghost.

“What?” Asked a completely confused Teresa.

A lonely brown leaf blew past…

For some reason the strong image of a tumbleweed rolling through a desert entered into a certain elf boy’s mind…

“Umm… Teresa… sweetie…” Mike began.

“What? Why are you calling me ‘sweetie’?”

“Do you…” He swallowed, loudly. “Do you remember your sisters?”

“What?”

“Your sisters. When you were growing up.”

“Huh? Of course I do! I pray for the souls of my family everyday!”

“Ah.”

“What, already?!”

“Your sisters, uh… they’re… they’re not… gone.”

“…….. What?”

“They’re in YOU.”

“……..….. What?”

“You know all that… ‘sleepwalking’ you’ve been worried about?”

“…Yes?”

“Well, it wasn’t sleepwalking. It was them. They come out when you sleep.”

“What?”

“You know all those times you woke up sick with a massive headache? That was Cynthia. She likes to drink.”

“Drink?”

“And all those times you woke up and your entire body felt sore? That was Joan exercising and combat training all night.”

“So…”

“Yes.” Mike nodded.

“All this time…”

“Yes.”

“It was my sisters?”

“Yes.”

“They’re alive… in me?”

“Yes.”

The ghost of Farmer Johnday floated in front of her and spoke gently, hovering but not touching an intangible hand on her shoulder.

“I’ve seen it myself, child. I’ve lost more than one arm-wrestling match to Cynthia, and had my ear damn near yanked off by Joan everytime she pulled me away from the porn-- *cough cough* the war stories section of Lord Bowen’s library. They ARE alive, and inside you.”

“They… They’re alive… Those two…”

Tears filled Teresa eyes.

“Those two…”

Her body started shaking as she sobbed.

“Those two BASTARDS!”

“What?” Asked Mike.

“What?” Asked Farmer Johnday.

“Aaaaand here we go again...” Muttered Heinrich.

“All this TIME! All these YEARS! What, were they too busy to say ‘Hi! Sorry about the whole family dying and all but we're here with you, so sleep tight!’ Not even a letter?! I’m ONLY their own flesh and blood!!!”

“Well, they thought…”

“WHERE ARE YOU??? YOU COME OUT RIGHT NOW AND—”

It was at this time more zombies came stumbling in to attack, attracted by the noise.

I have to confess, I started writing again due to a combination of schadenfreude and indignation:

Many other, better written stories (Don't Fear The Reaper, for example) have stalled out just as mine did. It's an odd, dark feeling to be in the same situation as them. Sort of like comradery.

Hey, they're stalled out too! We're like brothers! But if I start writing again, then aren't I BETTER than them?

It doesn't matter if their stories ARE better than mine if they never finish them!

And WAY too many, much cheesier stories than mine (I'm looking at YOU, Death March and Jikuu Mahou) are past volume 15 and STILL GOING.

The hell? I'm losing to THIS crap??? I can do better than that! I've DONE better than that! I have to start writing again!

... But not to 15+ volumes. I'm not a masochist.