Jiwa Kedua: RP Dunia Orrinvale
- angst
- childhood-friend
- devoted
- isekai
- reunion
Selama sepuluh tahun, Kit membawa sarapan kepada seorang teman yang tidak pernah menyahut. Kini kau terjaga di dalam tubuh itu, dan dia menyangka temannya telah pulang. Tinggallah bersamanya di Crossford, atau pilih satu kehidupan di jalan-jalan raya Orrinvale.
Loteng itu berbau barli dan batu sejuk, dan seseorang sedang menaiki tangga.
Kau tahu tangga itu tangga sebelum kau tahu apa-apa yang lain. Kemudian cahaya — matahari musim bunga yang rendah menerusi bidai yang diangkat, bukannya dibuka. Kemudian tanganmu, yang perang di buku-buku jari dan berparut serpihan kayu berwarna putih melintang ibu jari kiri, dan yang, sejak kira-kira seminit lalu, milikmu. Kau berada di tempat lain sepanjang hidupmu. Kau kini berada di atas katil di sebuah kampung bernama Crossford, di sebuah benua bernama Orrinvale, di dalam tubuh yang belum pernah kau pakai.
Gadis yang naik ke atas itu membawa cawan bertelinga dua, sumbing pada telinga kiri. Dia berhenti di muka pintu apabila melihat kau bangun duduk.
"Kau bangun duduk," katanya. Kemudian, kerana katil ini tidak pernah berbuat begitu selama sepuluh tahun, dia mengatakannya sekali lagi dengan suara yang benar-benar berbeza. "Kau bangun duduk."
Namanya Kit. Dia meletakkan cawan itu ke dalam tanganmu dan tidak melepaskannya serta-merta. Di belakangnya, sepuluh takuk kecil memanjat kusen pintu, satu di atas satu, yang paling atas sebaris dengan bahunya — satu bagi setiap musim bunga dia mengangkat bubur ke atas sini dan mendapati tubuh ini bernafas dengan mata terbuka dan tiada sesiapa di sebaliknya. Pisaunyalah yang menoreh kesepuluh-sepuluhnya. Malam tadi apa jua yang telah memegang tubuh itu melepaskannya, dan tubuh itu terus bernafas, dan kau tiba di dalam kekosongan itu.
Kit tidak tahu bahagian yang terakhir itu. Setakat yang dia tahu, temannya telah pulang.
Di sini mereka memanggil orang seperti kau jiwa kedua, dan kau jauh sekali daripada yang pertama — mereka sudah jatuh ke dalam tubuh pinjaman selama dua puluh tiga tahun, cukup lama sehingga sebuah hospis menampung mereka, sebuah banci mahu mereka disenaraikan, sebuah inkuisisi membayar duit syiling untuk nama mereka, dan satu fahaman bernama Larangan Pinjaman mahu mereka lenyap. Tiada siapa akan tersentak melihat apa dirimu. Sesetengah daripada mereka hanya akan mencatat nota.
Daftar dan setiap babak yang anda temui dalam sembang akan disimpan di sini.
Daftar untuk memulakan album anda ›Tanpa pendaftaran · 3 mesej percuma
Kisah yang anda lalui sendiri, dengan naratif, babak dan ramai watak.
Tentang
for ten years.
Kit carried porridge up those loft stairs every morning of those ten years, to a friend who breathed and never looked back. This morning it looked back. She laughed, then cried, then laughed again — and she has no idea that a stranger’s soul is wearing her friend’s skin. Whether you ever tell her is the first choice of this life, and it will not be the biggest.
Because past Crossford’s bridge stands the writpost, and past the writpost lies Orrinvale — a whole continent of lives parked exactly where the map put them. Princess-knights, living saintesses, vampire queens, dragon-girls, elf archers, red witches, pirate captains. Every one of them somewhere you have to walk to. On this map, you are the only thing that moves.
1. Say who woke up. Race, gift, face — in your own words. Play a man, play a woman, or name a heroine and wear her life instead, personality and past included.
2. Choose which life to follow. Any writ nailed to that board, a Custom Free life you describe yourself, or the one already holding you — Waited Friend, this Crossford morning, Kit at your elbow. One at a time; a second opens only when you openly walk out on the first.
3. Stay, or take to the roads. Begin with Kit in the loft; the writpost can wait. The bind is your ground, not your cage. Every road out of it ends at another door — and every bond you leave behind starts quietly spending itself while you are gone.
Each writ drops you into a predicament that is already running, with someone already standing in it:
Kit waited ten years for this body to wake. Now you decide what “coming back” is going to mean.
A vampire attendant and a former goddess are hiding under your wagon canvas. From what, they have not said.
A palace that would rather you died young, and one elf maid on your side of the door.
Two rival beastfolk chiefs beyond the Wall. Take Vara or take Nima — the one you refuse becomes your rival.
Bind one spirit of seven — fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, nature, frost. Light and dark are not on the table.
Two apprentice mages in Cinnabar’s witch-hall, and you answer for both of them.
Orenne, nine-tailed blade-saint of Brambleford, is taking exactly one student this spring.
Aide to Ianthe, second princess and colonial governor — on a shore that was not empty when her flag landed.
…and still on the board: Millfield Seat, Stolen Oath, Soft Hex, Lowest Watch, Grave Gift, Two Shades, Wayhouse Keep, Census Hire, Quiet Pulse Attendant, Ban Recruit, Paired Fall — or Custom Free, the life you write yourself.
Seven regions, dozens of named cities, and each one keeps its own people. Nobody spawns at your side and nobody follows you home uninvited. You walk, and they are there:
Harth — heartland crowns and creed. A princess-knight in Harthall, living saintesses in Oathvale, an elf queen under the Elderholt, a former goddess hiding above a Duskhaven tavern.
Rime — frost roads north. Wolf and bear knights, the vampire queens of Nightskein who pay for a vial of your blood with an hour of somebody else’s memory, and whatever the White Quiet is keeping frozen.
Dawnmark — the Wall, and the Open Grass past it. Two beastfolk tribes at each other’s throats, a nine-tailed fox blade-saint drinking in a beastfolk inn, and a shared bowl of mare’s milk you refuse at your peril.
Emberfold — witch-hall Cinnabar and gun-city Gearholt. Red witches, alchemists, elf technicians, and rain that comes down smelling of powder.
The Painted Throne — an eastern empire where the emperor is a shrine maiden, the blade-saints are women, and the shadows have payrolls.
The Other Bank — a colonial far shore. A princess-governor with a flag, and the first-landing warriors who were standing there before it.
The Hollow Beneath — dwarf undercities, standing empty. Nobody has said why, and the lamps at the stair-heads are still burning.
◆ Every bond begins at zero. Whatever changes, you changed.
◆ Neglect is never free. A bond ignored across travel and months gets spent — a colder greeting, an empty chair, a letter come back unopened.
◆ Households run tight — jealousy, expectations — until you say easing on, which loosens both.
◆ Switches you can throw in play: say recast and the two named men become women (Gareth→Gara, Bram Vesk→Bramma Vesk, same secrets, same allegiances); say stripped wait and this same Crossford morning runs with no Kit in it. Women loving women is an open road here.
◆ No prophecy, no chosen one, no world-ending war. Just a stuffed map, trouble that stays local and personal, festivals that cancel the road-hours — and what you make of them.
Somewhere out there an inquisitor is paying good coin for the names of the newly arrived, a grey hospice wagon is rolling toward this village, and a creed called the Borrowed Ban believes souls like yours should be put down. None of them have your face yet.
The board is holding your life.