All in all, it wasn't an uncomfortable little room. They brought me bowls of gruel twice a day, and a washing basin in once a week. My biggest fear, all in all, was that someone would walk in on me while I was sleeping, and I quickly learned to fall asleep with the blanket twisted tightly across my face.

For the first few days, every few hours the old man would bring some new villager in for me to see. Some were older men, missing an arm or a leg. Somewhere wives or children, missing fingers or teeth. I found myself somewhat surprised that my little first-level heal spell was able to regenerate limbs from injuries that happened so very long ago, but I was also gratified to be shown the limits and the scope of my own hitherto untested ability. I watched closely for an opportunity to escape. But the old man was always there, in the doorway, watching me with waiting, hungry eyes. Especially when he thought that no one else was watching. I found myself wishing madly for a bra. Or even just a more modest shirt. But such things, I guessed, were not meant to be. And I had not yet the confidence to ask. The villager's screams wore on me a bit. Agonizing monologues of opratic notes that provided a soundtrack for their regrowing limbs. But, with repeated casts of Belial's Hate, they started to sound almost soothing to my ears. And, by the end of my first week, after many bland meals and a freezing bath in a bucket, they became almost gratifying to hear. Arrol, apparently, too was pleased with my work. I started receiving the occasional book delivered with my meals. Maps, histories, novels. Though they were mostly random, poor quality things. Even still, I slowly began to gain a very general understanding of the world in which I had found myself. There were a couple of maps in those books. From the look of them, they were fanciful, dated things. Even still, the basic kingdoms and layout of the continent became known to me. I had found myself in the middle of the western-most country, named appropriately 'Westershire', inhabited mostly by 'humans'. I put 'humans' in quotes because, it turned out, that wasn't quite the case. As it turned out, in a hellscape, the only creatures that could survive being born (or even, apparently, conceived, if the book was to be believed) where those with some small measure of demon blood in their veins. If I was to have relations with another human, for example, or another elf, supposedly there would be a 0% chance of conception. Unless, of course, the embryo had enough demon genes that it would be able to survive the first week due to some apparent demon ancestor. Therefore, the only natives to this world where, in some part, related to demons. It explained, I supposed, the 'Half-Demon' racial option that had been grayed out during my own character creation. That was a race that would be, presumably, set aside for those born native to this plane. The elfin kingdoms, I read, resided far to the north and had some form of, what sounded like, extremely overpowered magi-tech that would have easily conqured the mainland. If not, of course, for some heavy restrictions that prevented most devices from working if they were taken too far from some very stationary batteries. Or 'towers', in this case, which functioned as large magical batteries, with some odd kind of magical channeling devices built solidly therein. Still, it went a long way toward explaining why elves were so hated in this world. No one likes a brat with some overpowered gimmick that can just destroy you without a fight, after all. And, from the sound of it, elves were kind of like the ultimate Flavor of the Month class here - except without any devs around to nerf them back to nothing. Well, we were hated because of that and... the books may have noted a few elfin genocidal rampages that may have occurred at some time in ancient history. But hey, bygones, am I right? I considered fleeing north to meet some other elves briefly. But, again, it turned out that there happened to be a frozen wasteland filled with a sentient kingdom of undead, standing firmly between there and here. So, you know, it would have to be a last resort kind of a thing. I mean, ya, liches and vampires were probably bad, evil... people... I guess. But, you know, I was in hell, after all. And Mr. Vendetta wasn't exactly 'Mother Teresa' himself. After the first week, the number of villagers per day seemed to fizzle down a bit. What had once been three or four a day slowly faded one a day or even one in two. Which was mainly annoying because my witchcraft skill was no longer being power-leveled, and I sat around becoming more and even more bored. It was around week three, I think, that I started going stir crazy. Books were all well and good, but there where a number of hours after twilight where it was too dark to read, but yet still too early to sleep. The good village hadn't been so kind as to even give me a candle, let alone one of those light bulbs that I had thought out of place. It was then that, one night, my eyes alighted upon the straight razor that had been provided. Presumably for shaving my legs and... other things. Not much use, I had thought, on the days when there was no washing basin - I wasn't about to try to dry shave. Especially not with a medieval type of straight razor, after all. But, in those hours of boredom, I slowly began coming up with... other ideas. My Witchcraft Class Skill had already been given quite a boost, having risen to 9 that first week, then to 11... and 12 in the weeks that followed. But I had no idea how long it would be before I was able to awaken once more to my other world, and the lack of progress had begun to bother me. Also, my toughness remained sitting there at 'one'. Taunting me, almost. I hadn't received any experience since I got here, save for those skill levels, and I was starting to understand that I might be stuck at Level 1 for a very, very long time. So, far as I could tell, toughness was the only way for me to raise my number of hitpoints. And, for lack of a better option, there was only one way to raise my toughness that came to mind. I started using the gruel bowls to collect the blood and other biological detritus that resulted from my experimentation. I had to live in this room after all, and it already wasn't the freshest smelling place, what considering my only relief was the infrequently emptied bedpan (Fucking medieval societies, I swear). So it started becoming my daily habit to cast my Buff, eat my gruel, then fill the bowl and send it back filled with the results of my grinding. Eat dinner, fill the bowl, heal. Go to sleep. That was my day. But, even after half a week of this, I still had only raised my toughness by one and my Witchcraft by... well... not at all. It wasn't until I took the razor to my entire finger that I actually started to get a result: Skill Increase! Toughness +1

Skill Increase! Witchcraft +1

Ya. Jackpot, right there. Also, friggin OWIE. @#^%@

But, the days were long, and my nights were even longer. So, sure and steady, I started filling up my bowls with fingers. Plop. Plop. Plop. Fun fact - if you have a spell that regrows limbs, you are able to actually cut off more than you have in the first place. It became a game to me, to see how many I could fit in the bowl. 20 one day. 30 the next. It was like a game of really hideous jenga. Only the more fun for the fact that I got to watch the servants' pale faces as they came to take the bowls away. Balanced so very carefully, terrified that the pile of decapitated digits would tumble down all over their dress. Of course, after a while, simply chopping and healing wasn't enough to keep me occupied. And I began dissecting the severed appendages to see the actual construction of bone and blood that makes me who I am. It was after about the third finger that I received the following notification: Skill learned! Anatomy +1 (Intelligence)(Dexterity) Increases Critical Strike chance by 0.01% per level. Effects successful use of other skills. Current synergy bonus with: Scavenging; Interrogate. I noticed, as time went on, that around skill level 5 in Toughness, the whole process actually started hurting quite a bit less. I quickly shrugged and moved on to delivering whole dissected hands in return for my infrequent meals of sub-standard quality. Three, four. sometimes with twenty fingers also accompanied them in turn. My Witchcraft Skill had peaked around 18 and seemed unwilling to climb any higher, even after I had gone to the trouble of burning and freezing the mess of a bowl for good measure. But that said, my toughness had climbed to 10, which in turn added another 20 hit points to my total. Thus pushing my maximuim hitpoints up to 29. Additionally, about an hour after delivering my first bowl stacked high with entire hands (Subsequently burnt and frozen with the accompanying Hellfire and Frost spells), I received a new notification: New Title Available: 'Macabre' Level 1 You have developed quite the reputation in this town for being, 'The Macabre girl in the Hall.' Stories of your grotesque exploits have traveled far and wide among the townsfolk. Benefit for equipping: +1% Critical Chance; +1 Fame Additional bonuses may apply as this title is leveled. Title may only level while equipped. Would you like to equip this Title Now: Y/N No-brainier, of course. Sweet, sweet lootz. You have acquired: Fame! For better or for worse, it doesn't matter what they know you for. What matters is only that they do, in fact, know you. This stat increases disposition and difference of others toward you. This stat is affected by: Charisma Curious, I managed to pull up my status screen, and I noted that my name reflected the new title. I would now be known to all as 'Macabre Mim'. Or, you know, all those who were able to pull up and read my status bar. Which I still wasn't entirely sure was a widespread thing. Regardless, Fame, I considered, would be necessary if I ever wanted to leave this damnable room. And for better or worse, I was going to pay close attention to ways by which I might grow it even more in the future. It was at that point that I considered graduating to sending entire forearms in payment to my oh-so-kindly benefactors. But the Old Man had, seemingly, developed a vested interest in keeping me from getting board. And thereby, I noticed, the quality and frequency of books rotated into my room rose quite significantly. Even still - if I didn't get rescued soon, I was quite certain, I would have to take the initiative and do it my own damn self. Especially considering the Old-Man leers from Mr. Vendetta (which I now recognized was probably more a title than a name. But never the less) that were becoming longer and longer with every infrequent visit to my room. It was becoming clear to me that my free lunch was about to expire, and it was clearly in my interest to leave before additional payment became due.