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Everyone knows that mysterious old ladies are kind of a big deal.
Yes, anyone who is female (or wraps up in sufficiently mysterious shawls) and old enough could pretend to be a mysterious old lady, but the actual category of the creatures is a different matter, and one can often tell (though it's better to be on the safe side, when identifying them).
Mysterious old ladies can, in a certain sense, do magic - or help you do magic. Sure, if you decide to take the first milking of your new cow and leave it out in a bowl in the backyard with a garland of roses floating on the surface and then drink it all first thing in the morning without stopping to put on your shoes or comb your hair, nothing will happen. But if you do it because a mysterious old lady told you to, and it was a real mysterious old lady, and you followed all of her instructions? Then you will find that you will get whatever result she advertised.
But if you step into your slippers first or tug a knot out of your ponytail or drink the milk early or late or use daisies for the garland, you will get something else.
It's very important to be exact and careful about these things.
Compared to what happens if you disobey a real mysterious old lady, being occasionally made a fool of by some pretender to the title because your eyesight is going or you were too sleepy to note her lack of a proper mysterious aura is nothing.
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spell_eternity
mydarkness
"Mother was taking a long time to have children and she was afraid she wouldn't get any and she got advice from a mysterious old woman and then she ate both of the roses instead of only one," he says.
spell_eternity
"Ugh. I will be very, very careful. Now shoo so I can put all these things on."
mydarkness
The prince shoos immediately.
The hour of her wedding approaches.
Someone brings her a wedding dress and instructs her to put it on. Then she is escorted under armed guard to a large, mostly empty hall. A nervous and unhappy officiant stands ready.
The hour of her wedding approaches.
Someone brings her a wedding dress and instructs her to put it on. Then she is escorted under armed guard to a large, mostly empty hall. A nervous and unhappy officiant stands ready.
spell_eternity
The wedding dress was not exactly tailor-made. It goes on, if awkwardly, over her ten shifts.
She has her instructions memorized backwards and forwards but she's still shaking.
She has her instructions memorized backwards and forwards but she's still shaking.
Her groom slithers into the hall. He is forty feet long and green and scaly.
The officiant mutters a perfunctory ritual. No one even asks the bride her name.
The armed guard escorts her to her bridal chamber, and her new husband follows, his scales rasping on the stone floors.
As promised, there is a large pile of birch rods, and a large tub of lye, and a large tub of milk. Someone has thoughtfully labeled the tubs, although milk and lye aren't particularly easy to mistake for one another.
They lock her in the room with the Lindworm.
The officiant mutters a perfunctory ritual. No one even asks the bride her name.
The armed guard escorts her to her bridal chamber, and her new husband follows, his scales rasping on the stone floors.
As promised, there is a large pile of birch rods, and a large tub of lye, and a large tub of milk. Someone has thoughtfully labeled the tubs, although milk and lye aren't particularly easy to mistake for one another.
They lock her in the room with the Lindworm.
spell_eternity
Of course they do.
So now they're wed.
The next line is his.
But the numbers don't work out if she has the dress on over the shifts and wearing exactly one after exactly nine disrobing requests might be important, so she shrugs out of the wedding dress of her own accord.
And waits.
So now they're wed.
The next line is his.
But the numbers don't work out if she has the dress on over the shifts and wearing exactly one after exactly nine disrobing requests might be important, so she shrugs out of the wedding dress of her own accord.
And waits.
The Lindworm coils himself up onto the bed.
"Maiden, shed your shift for me," he says, and despite the strange hissing lindworm voice his tone is pretty clearly unhappy.
"Maiden, shed your shift for me," he says, and despite the strange hissing lindworm voice his tone is pretty clearly unhappy.
spell_eternity
She wasn't given an exact wording. So...
"Shed your skin first."
"Shed your skin first."
He lifts his head slightly and looks at her, blinking.
Then he claws himself out of his green scaly skin, revealing a slightly duller one underneath.
Then he claws himself out of his green scaly skin, revealing a slightly duller one underneath.
The great serpent stares intently at her.
"Maiden, shed your shift for me," he hisses.
"Maiden, shed your shift for me," he hisses.
He claws off the dull green skin to reveal a shiny black one, shedding some blood in the process, and repeats his request. And so it goes through nine shed skins and nine shed shifts. His skins get more impressive as he goes on - more vivid, more colourful, patterned in blue and purple and red and yellow and orange and green and black and white.
At last he sits coiled on the floor in a pile of lizard-skins, wearing the most brilliant one of all, his bloodied scales gleaming with fiery rainbows. The log-girl is down to her last shift.
"Wife," he asks, "will you shed your shift for me?"
At last he sits coiled on the floor in a pile of lizard-skins, wearing the most brilliant one of all, his bloodied scales gleaming with fiery rainbows. The log-girl is down to her last shift.
"Wife," he asks, "will you shed your shift for me?"
When he sheds this one, there's nothing underneath but flesh. And rather a lot of blood.
spell_eternity
Better him than her. But she's not done yet. She grabs the first birch rod off the pile and -
Well, she's not exactly good at this, she has never beaten anything more complicatedly shaped or less passive than a rug in her life, but the old woman gave her this advice, not the girl last week or the girl next week, if she follows instructions she will be fine -
Birch rods. Domestic violence. She keeps going until the rod breaks and then immediately seizes the next one as though any second that ticks by without a blow falling will be the one that gets her killed.
Well, she's not exactly good at this, she has never beaten anything more complicatedly shaped or less passive than a rug in her life, but the old woman gave her this advice, not the girl last week or the girl next week, if she follows instructions she will be fine -
Birch rods. Domestic violence. She keeps going until the rod breaks and then immediately seizes the next one as though any second that ticks by without a blow falling will be the one that gets her killed.
The Lindworm does a lot of hissing and thrashing but does not offer her any violence in return, or even as much as accidentally hit her with his tail.
spell_eternity
How dubiously polite.
It's a lot of birch rods; birch rods simply are not that heavy and men can carry a fair amount. Some of them snap quickly and some of them don't and by the time she's on the last one her arms are screaming and there's a stitch in her side, but she lifts and strikes and lifts and strikes until it's splintered against the bloody creature, and then she hauls him to the lye. This isn't comfortable for her either, the stuff stings, but she makes sure there is lye over every inch of the lindworm, and then she more drags than carries him into the tub of milk and makes sure that gets everywhere too, and then she drags him onto the floor and rolls him up in the shifts and forces her protesting limbs around the bundle and shivers herself to sleep.
It's a lot of birch rods; birch rods simply are not that heavy and men can carry a fair amount. Some of them snap quickly and some of them don't and by the time she's on the last one her arms are screaming and there's a stitch in her side, but she lifts and strikes and lifts and strikes until it's splintered against the bloody creature, and then she hauls him to the lye. This isn't comfortable for her either, the stuff stings, but she makes sure there is lye over every inch of the lindworm, and then she more drags than carries him into the tub of milk and makes sure that gets everywhere too, and then she drags him onto the floor and rolls him up in the shifts and forces her protesting limbs around the bundle and shivers herself to sleep.
And in the morning when she wakes up, there is a human prince sleeping in her arms, wrapped in ten white shifts, looking exhausted and very pretty and plausibly Taphinieu's brother.
spell_eternity
Can she let him go yet?
...Well, she probably isn't supposed to go around hugging him literally all of the time forever. This would not be a result agreeable to her. And she can't think of a more obvious benchmark than 'he's a human now'.
She withdraws, tentatively.
...Well, she probably isn't supposed to go around hugging him literally all of the time forever. This would not be a result agreeable to her. And she can't think of a more obvious benchmark than 'he's a human now'.
She withdraws, tentatively.
Nothing terrible happens.
The magic has succeeded.
And then he wakes up, and looks around himself in confusion, with the awkward movements of someone who is used to operating a body of a very different shape.
The magic has succeeded.
And then he wakes up, and looks around himself in confusion, with the awkward movements of someone who is used to operating a body of a very different shape.
spell_eternity
And he may be less toothy now but he did eat a bunch of people, and probably has no social niceties to speak of even if that was all a bad magic side effect. She scoots away a few feet.
spell_eternity
She does not want to start crying. That can't possibly help. She swallows and starts trying to massage feeling back into the one of her arms that is asleep. She regrets it when she succeeds; it was enjoying a respite from exhausting violence.