Mouldering Mildred
If you’re new to town, you’ll find her with your nose. A sticky sweet smell will drift lazily beneath your nostrils and beckon you come hither, Moulderingy Mildred has a sweet treat for good boys and girls.
And you’re a good boy! Of course, why not?! So you won’t hesitate to trot right over to her palanquin. It’s a grand thing; takes six retainers to carry its spacious girth. It looks like it could hold three men and their horses comfortably - standing even! The fabric must be fifty different colors and twenty different materials. The colors and materials blend into each other seamlessly and they preen in the warm light of the sun, begging you to feast your eyes upon their largesse.
As you approach the palanquin, everything falls apart. Your brain almost refuses to make the connection, that the smell that lured you here and the sight in front of your eyes are in any way connected. Some people scream. Some people cry. Most people vomit.
Mouldering Mildred is laying on a veritable throne of pillows. She is old, ancient and decrepit. Her naked flesh is stretched impossibly taut against her nearly translucent skin. You can see every vein she has and most of what little muscles she has. Her muscles give you teasing glimpses of the bones beneath, like risque portraiture.
Her legs are splayed at grotesque angles - is her pelvis broken? Her sex hides beneath a forest of thick black pubic hair, dripping with… fluids. The smell that brought you here? Piss, shit, sex, sweat, neglect, apathy and cruelty was all that was.
Mouldering Mildred is laying on a veritable throne of pillows. She is old, ancient and decrepit. Her naked flesh is stretched impossibly taut against her nearly translucent skin. You can see every vein she has and most of what little muscles she has. Her muscles give you teasing glimpses of the bones beneath, like risque portraiture.
Her legs are splayed at grotesque angles - is her pelvis broken? Her sex hides beneath a forest of thick black pubic hair, dripping with… fluids. The smell that brought you here? Piss, shit, sex, sweat, neglect, apathy and cruelty was all that was.
Your eyes travel upwards and it just gets worse. Deflated breasts heave under the great strain of breathing. The vacuum of her stomach is a graveyard where life could not ever have been sustained.
Her mouth lies slack and the sound of her breath rattles in her dry throat, even as a thin line of drool clings tightly to her jaw.
Her mouth lies slack and the sound of her breath rattles in her dry throat, even as a thin line of drool clings tightly to her jaw.
What little hair Mildred has to speak of clings wetly to her face, adhered to her forehead with a sheen of sweat. If you were lucky, it’d be covering her eyes. You’re not.
Her eyes are pale and clouded over with the blindness of unknowable years, but they see you. They see through you. In an instant, those eyes know everything about you; their hateful gaze sweeps across your sins and lays bare your soul.
You get a sense of a yearning in those eyes - she’s begging for death. Homemade, artisan death delivered straight from those strong capable hands of yours. Just wrap your hands around her throat and see it done. But your lizard brain is screaming in terror, trying to rip itself out of your skull and run bodily away from the ruinnatious decision you contemplate. Touch Mildred to watch your entire life burn up before your eyes.
Her eyes are pale and clouded over with the blindness of unknowable years, but they see you. They see through you. In an instant, those eyes know everything about you; their hateful gaze sweeps across your sins and lays bare your soul.
You get a sense of a yearning in those eyes - she’s begging for death. Homemade, artisan death delivered straight from those strong capable hands of yours. Just wrap your hands around her throat and see it done. But your lizard brain is screaming in terror, trying to rip itself out of your skull and run bodily away from the ruinnatious decision you contemplate. Touch Mildred to watch your entire life burn up before your eyes.
As you run away - don’t be ashamed, everyone does the first time. You might notice the palanquin is not so grand. That fabric that flapped so elegantly in the wind and invited you to bask in their radiance is tanned human flesh, dull and yellowed. It does not dance in the light, it does not invite you to feast - it is a monument of shame.
You might also finally see the retainers that carry the palanquin as you make your escape. They’re mostly women, but undoubtedly you’ll see a man or two. They’re all young with bright faces, full of ambition. They’re all dressed the same, in plain and modest, but immaculate clothes that belie the nature of their occupation. They’re a cruel juxtaposition with their employer.
If you have a kind soul and a just heart, you’ll feel great shame at your reaction to your first meeting with Mildred. You’ll be called back to her, an unseen force beckons you to come back and make things right, to offer any assistance you can with her situation. You’ll approach her carers and they’ll dismiss your every concern. Mildred is doing just fine, she’s happy here and she wants for nothing. Mildred has a loyal coterie who sees to her every need.
If you press this matter, her carers will become more agitated, hostile. They’ll insist your claims are baseless, that you’re out to get them and even that you’re upsetting the very woman you claim to try to be helping. If your behavior continues, you’ll likely be formally chastised by the local guard and eventually taken into custody.
If you press this matter, her carers will become more agitated, hostile. They’ll insist your claims are baseless, that you’re out to get them and even that you’re upsetting the very woman you claim to try to be helping. If your behavior continues, you’ll likely be formally chastised by the local guard and eventually taken into custody.
Most people give up at this point, but if you don’t - if you are not so easily swayed then you’ll likely try to investigate further. Mildred is carted around the market, around town, but nothing unusual ever occurs and everyone seems to think everything about her is perfectly normal. So one night you’ll follow her palanquin home and then the fun really begins.
You’ll follow her out of town and if you’re lucky, the roads will be swept clear and the palanquin will simply make its way into the woods where you’ll inexplicably lose sight of it after a time. But you’re not lucky, no you never are.
Since you’re not lucky, there’ll be roadkill on the edge of the path. Fresh, wet with rain, sun dried - it doesn’t matter. The retainers will stop their forward trudge and lower their burden to the ground.
Mildred will crawl out of the palanquin on her stomach. Her legs will flop lifelessly to the ground as she clears the edge. Her “hands”, oh god - you’ve just noticed her “hands”, are raw bloody nubs of flesh that she stabs at the ground to drag herself forward, oblivious to the rocks and sticks that rip into her weak flesh. She leaves a trail of a tarry black substance behind her, oozing from her wounds.
She circles her rotting prey in a sick caricature of the natural order, stalking this inanimate pile of decay as though it might actually elude her.
Like a dog, finding just the right spot to lie down - Mildred will circle her quarry three to five times. However improbable; she’ll arch her back, which brings her face even closer to the ground than it already was.
She fixes her cold, blind eyes upon you. Obviously, they can’t see you - she’s blind, but right you wish her eyes did something as simple and mundane as see you, because right now her empty eyes are doing something far more hateful than seeing. Her eyes penetrate you. They’re worse than eyes, they become greedy little hands. They reach and grab, peeling back the delicate folds of your brain to molest your very thoughts.
You can feel Mildred in your head. She is not rifling through your secrets, or pillaging your memories. Those are sneaky, shameful things done quickly and quietly by small people. No, Mildred is large in your mind, exuberant! She is frolicking, she is rolling around in your most private shame with all the enthusiasm of a pig in shit. It’s a filthy act, Mildred violates you and with each passing second your memories - good and bad - become less and less vibrant until they no longer feel like moments you lived, but dull stories you heard someone telling in a tavern long ago. The more guilt you carry, the longer she’ll feed. That’s what she’s doing in your mind, you know. To you, it’s perverse, disgusting and unwelcome. To her? This is just lunch.
After a dog’s age, she quits. This is not an act of mercy. Further atrocity has been set aside just for you. Now that she has fed the incorporeal, she must nourish the physical.
She fixes her cold, blind eyes upon you. Obviously, they can’t see you - she’s blind, but right you wish her eyes did something as simple and mundane as see you, because right now her empty eyes are doing something far more hateful than seeing. Her eyes penetrate you. They’re worse than eyes, they become greedy little hands. They reach and grab, peeling back the delicate folds of your brain to molest your very thoughts.
You can feel Mildred in your head. She is not rifling through your secrets, or pillaging your memories. Those are sneaky, shameful things done quickly and quietly by small people. No, Mildred is large in your mind, exuberant! She is frolicking, she is rolling around in your most private shame with all the enthusiasm of a pig in shit. It’s a filthy act, Mildred violates you and with each passing second your memories - good and bad - become less and less vibrant until they no longer feel like moments you lived, but dull stories you heard someone telling in a tavern long ago. The more guilt you carry, the longer she’ll feed. That’s what she’s doing in your mind, you know. To you, it’s perverse, disgusting and unwelcome. To her? This is just lunch.
After a dog’s age, she quits. This is not an act of mercy. Further atrocity has been set aside just for you. Now that she has fed the incorporeal, she must nourish the physical.
She sticks out her tongue; it’s too wide, too long, too thick - too everything. It isn’t a tongue. It reaches out from her mouth and strokes the dead flesh - what’s left of it. Her eyes are locked to yours and her mouth is making a sickening wet sound against that dry corpse. If you’re lucky, it will only take her hours to get through it.
But you aren’t. You never are.
But you aren’t. You never are.
Days pass. You’re exposed to the elements. The sun is hateful and you burn. The sun is cruel and you blister. You don’t move. You don’t eat. You don’t drink. You develop sores from lying in your own filth.
Today you’re lucky! She finishes! She crawls back into her palanquin, reversing every step of her initial movement with perfect accuracy and fluidity. She’s quick now. Always dangerous, but now she’s quick and dangerous isn’t a cruel enough word for what she is after a feeding.
It’s like the townies know, like they’re in this together with her. You’re not lucky - they’ve been waiting. Once she’s out of sight, a traveler “happens” upon you and transports you back into town out of the goodness of their heart. It’s not goodness. It’s guilt. They let this happen to you. Better you than them.
It’s like the townies know, like they’re in this together with her. You’re not lucky - they’ve been waiting. Once she’s out of sight, a traveler “happens” upon you and transports you back into town out of the goodness of their heart. It’s not goodness. It’s guilt. They let this happen to you. Better you than them.
They take you back to town and place you in a bed in the back room of whatever passes for a church in this god forsaken backwater. You are surrounded by friends of circumstance. You are not the first of Mildred’s victims. You will not be the last. If you’re lucky, you’ll recover from this (Any result on 1d20, but a 1). Recovered or not, part of Mildred moulders in you now.
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