Have you ever wondered why dust, of all things, was chosen as the substance from which humanity was shaped? Why not from the resplendent light of the Sun or the sacred shadow of the Moon? Why not from the imperishable essence of stars or the gleaming heart of precious metals?
Why, then, dust—so mundane, so easily dismissed beneath one's heel?
Perhaps there lies in dust a silent truth, one that the grandiose cannot comprehend: that only something humble, something of the earth, could bear the weight of a soul.
Enough with the sophistry. That train of thought was merely a convenient diversion, pulling me away from the real question: why did [DOLLS] that sustained no fatal damage falter so quickly, while [MEGIDO ARC] endures, unwavering through the passage of time?
Yet, even that reflection served only as a distraction from a grimmer reality: none of the parts I've gathered for this new [DOLL] come close to the "treasures" used to forge [MEGIDO ARC].
How disheartening. I can only hope these disparities in material worth don't seed a caste system among the [DOLLS] themselves.
BEEP BEEP
[THE WHORE OF BABYLON] whirrs, diligently carrying out it's task on top of the Minifridge beside my work desk. It's currently in the process of finishing up the last of the pieces of the 1/4th scale model of the new [DOLL].
Since the reference for the ***[DOLL]'***s image is almost done, I take the time to go over the materials I had gathered and placed in my bathtub.
The concept behind this [DOLL] is "Helping Hands" and so I've gathered a lot of materials that will help in creating a partner capable of offering convenience.
A collection of Japanese, English, and Icelandic textbooks and dictionaries. I doubt the [DOLLS] truly possess the capacity for speech and language, they seem to understand me as I understand them. Unfortunately, this shared comprehension is insufficient for deceiving my enemies or communicating complex thoughts.
An old-school flip-phone, a relic from a brief entanglement with a Ganguro girl.
It's a pity she eventually veered into the realm of mundane Gyaru.
I intend to use the phone to test how much technical functionality the [DOLLS] can absorb and apply from the materials I incorporate into their being.
A Polaroid camera. Since I'm unsure whether she'll have the capability to interface with external displays or printers, it's better for her to produce reconnaissance photos on the spot.
A portable X-ray device. I harbor little doubt that BSA's acquaintances won't let me off so easily for eliminating one of their kind.
A voice recorder/MP3 player preloaded with my favorite tracks and soundtracks. This item plays into her deceptive capabilities; I want her to assimilate and replicate others' voices. As for the MP3 functionality, that's purely indulgent—after all, who wouldn't want to live out their AMV fantasies?
A screwdriver set, mechanic's toolbox, night-vision goggles, binoculars, a lock-picking kit, and a heavy-duty flashlight. These tools equip her for espionage. The flashlight? That's for my own use.
Various kitchen knives. I've always wondered why someone like a certain T-hn-, or rather N-n-y-, relied on knives, despite wielding abilities that could render even a katana practical. Handling knives myself recently stirred something within me.
An immersion heater. I plan to superheat the blades when cauterizing wounds or slicing through stubborn materials.
A nail gun. Its purpose is reserved for a pun I'll likely find amusing—and no one else.
An 18th-century Icelandic Faldbuningur. Though a maid outfit initially came to mind, this traditional garb from the other side of my heritage better suits her role as a "WITCH."
Despite all the utilities I intend to bestow upon her, I have no plans for her to engage in direct combat. Much like [Regnhlífarstelpa], I don't expect her to function autonomously from the outset. Thus, I will assume the primary combat role, with her providing support until she accrues enough experience to operate independently. Meanwhile, I will continue to immerse myself in battle, refining my skills and seeking a method to make future [DOLLS] combat-ready from the start—or at least capable of executing my commands seamlessly under supervision.
By assigning her the role of the "WITCH" and casting myself as the "DOLL", I can closely oversee her actions and offer real-time guidance while mitigating the risk of our enemies bypassing the figurative "P-k-m-n" to target the "Trainer" directly.
That said, there remains the lingering question of how I intend to match the agility and cunning of the Huldufólk. Ultimately, I'll just have to depend on the [INDOMITABLE HUMAN SPIRIT].
To an outsider, much of what I'm doing—and what I plan to do—might seem like nothing more than following blind speculation.
That's because it is.
'BEWARE of [VangaVeltur]. Speculation is the lifeblood of [WITCHCRAFT].'
That was one of many cryptic warnings I found on BSA's phone.
Can you believe that bloodsucker didn't lock its phone?
No passcodes, no pattern locks, not even facial recognition. I'm not sure whether BSA thought no one weaker than it would dare take its phone, or that anyone stronger wouldn't think to.
As for whether I'm weaker than BSA or stronger, I can't say. What I do know is that taking its phone, keys, and identification was always a top priority.
On the topic of the messages, most of them come from a senior at BSA's workplace. They're filled with bizarre, cryptic phrases, like:
'BEWARE of those on the opposite side of the [CHESS BOARD].'
'BEWARE of those that wield [IMAGINARY GIMMICKS].'
'BEWARE the [CROSS BEARERS].'
'BEWARE the [GUROW NEGGARS].'
'BEWARE those who are REVERED.'
I can't help but wonder: what the hell is a [GUROW NEGGAR]?
When I consider how many factions may—or may not—be interested in me, I can't help but wonder if this is what mildly attractive peasant girls in the medieval era must have felt. That peculiar sense of dread, knowing that when the bandits, unruly soldiers, and unsavory nobility come around, it's you they'll snatch up, and have their way with.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Well that's enough of that train of thought.
The final piece is ready, so I rise from my bed and head to the bathroom.
I intend to use the bathtub as a cauldron to combine all the materials.
One might ask why a [WITCH] who creates [DOLLS] doesn't meticulously craft every component by hand and assemble a life-sized doll herself. To that, I'd say:
I wouldn't really be performing [WITCHCRAFT] if I did all that, I would be Mr. Stark.
I make my way to the bathtub, ready to initiate the final phase.
When it comes to matters like this, I believe an incantation is required.
And so, I stretch out my hand.
"Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill…"
Wait, that wouldn't be appropriate for this situation.
I'm creating, not summoning, so a more fitting incantation would be:
"I am the —— of my ———"
"…"
"…"
"Damn."
I can't help but groan.
For some reason, I find myself utterly insincere with this final endeavor.
I suppose this is what they call 'Irony Poisoning.'
"But enough of that, I shouldn't be making jokes about their existence until they're capable of making jokes themselves."
The sky is at its darkest.
The moon is at its peak.
And, most fortunately, it's the sixth day of the week.
It's a perfect time to indulge in some [WITCHCRAFT].
"Gerum manninn í okkar mynd."
"Eftir líkingu okkar."
The pain is instant, like an explosion tearing through my head.
And yet, I press on.
"Og láti þá drottna yfir fiskum hafsins."
"Og yfir fugla loftsins."
All moisture vanishes from my throat. I find myself gasping for air. I can almost feel the temperature of my body rising rapidly.
And yet, I press on.
"Og um alla jörðina."
"Og yfir sérhverju skriðkvikindi sem skríður á jörðinni."
A flame ignites in my stomach. An indescribable heat that seeks to consume my sanity as fuel. I can bear it no longer and collapse, leaning against the bathtub for support.
And yet, I continue.
Why?
Because I owe it to them.
To those who have fallen.
And to those who will rise.
"Auglýsing O sjötti dagur."
"[Eftirlíkingu Tilurð]."
The next to burn are my eyes.
And yet, with the loss of my sight, I can still see [IT].
[IT] rises from my stomach, tears through my throat, and emerges from my mouth.
As a brilliant [GOLDEN FLAME].
The flame consumes the raw materials, melting them into a pool of its own hue.
I collapse onto my back, drained. It feels as though all my body heat has been siphoned away.
And yet, there is still something left to do.
The pool must be graced with one final element.
The fundamental backbone of any creative endeavor.
The essence of my being.
Fetishes. Rendered in the third dimension, brought to life with the assistance of [THE WHORE OF BABYLON].
With a slow, labored effort, I drag myself to my desk, collecting all the 1/4th scale pieces and placing them into the pool. As soon as I do, a blinding radiance overwhelms me.
When my vision returns, she stands before me.
A vision in stillness, with a height of exactly 95 centimeters. Her naked form is concealed by the 18th-century Icelandic Faldbuningur. Its primary colors are red and gold**.**
Its sleeves hide her true hands and Its hem hides her legs.
Her hair is a dark blonde, tied into twin braids that cascade down her back, while her bangs fall just slightly above her thick, dark eyebrows.
Her skin is as pale as chalk, speckled with a scattering of freckles.
Her eyelids sport a natural layer of shade akin to mascara.
She sports 'Cat Eye' lashes.
Her eyes themselves shine like shining sapphires, narrow into slits, piercing but cold.
Her nose is perfectly shaped, delicate yet regal—if she were human, one might suspect it had been altered by some sculptor's hand.
Her lips are plump and well-formed, while her chin is sharp, cutting her face into an almost ethereal beauty.
Yet, despite all these features, her face remains devoid of life. Dead. Cold. Detached from the warmth of human emotion.
Were it not for the overwhelming [LOVE] I feel for her, the emptiness in her expression might be far too unsettling to endure.
Yet, despite this lack of life in her features, it's this very face—devoid of anything human—that feels, paradoxically, the least damaging to my sanity.
"[Brosa]."
With a command, her head spins, and her transformation begins.
It can shallowly be described as an inversion of yin and yang.
Her once dark blonde hair morphs into a brilliant white, her skin turning a deep, glossy black, and her freckles now contrastingly snow white. Similarly, most instances of black turn white and the same is true in reverse.
Her eyes snap open, gleaming like polished jade—clear and vibrant, yet cold.
The face that now rests upon her is one I've named [Brosa], though it shares nearly every feature with [Hjartalaus]—her sister face, save for one. The difference is more than just skin deep. It is the mouth, forever locked in a chilling, wide smile.
Her teeth gleam, perfectly straight and dazzlingly white, a stark contrast to the eerie expression that defines her.
Once again, I am grateful for the rose-colored lens of my [LOVE] for my [DOLLS]. Without it, this transformation would undoubtedly be enough to drive me mad with fear—stricken with terror so intense that it could well end in my demise.
Yet, despite my bias, there is something deeply compelling about these two faces. Their unsettling visage is something I've come to endure, maybe even cherish in my own twisted way.
"[Hjartalaus]."
Her head twists again, and once more, the cold, lifeless face reappears. The chilling, pale features staring back at me.
The logic behind my creation of such terrifying faces is grounded in necessity.
My enemies are not pleasant to the eyes, nor must they be hominid. To be paralyzed by fear or consumed by madness at the sight of their own monstrous visages would serve no purpose. It would only lead to my downfall. Thus, I create faces that may unsettle me, for the purpose of steeling my heart.
But enough about her physical traits. Now comes the most important aspect of her existence—the conceptual part of her being, the very reason I earned the title of [WITCH]: her hands.
Not the ones hidden beneath her sleeves, but those she can generate with ease. Beneath her dress exists an ethereal realm—a place where an endless array of hands can be conjured. These hands are not mere appendages; they are extensions of her conceptual essence, designed with the sole purpose of assisting me. Their very existence reflects their function—to help.
This remarkable power, the ability to summon an army of aiding hands, is what grants her the title of [Hjálparhönd], "Helping Hand."
I stand before her, my heart pounding as I prepare to give her command.
My first words to her are simple, but weighted with intent.
"[Hjálparhönd], would you kindly lend me a hand?"