Kinverse: Volume One

PATH OF THE EMERALD MAIDEN

A naive young monster’s tale by Moros, aka KinverseWriter

Legal Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise herein mentioned. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters and events in this story are entirely fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental. This work of fiction contains disturbing content.

Reader discretion is advised.

Description:

A young woman from a pre-neolithic society is accidentally whisked away to another world entirely during a raid on a research lab run by alien invaders. Stranded with no friends, badly injured, and no idea where home even is, she’s forced to live off the land and learn how to survive in this strange and hostile world.

There’s only one slight problem, though.

She’s not trapped in this world with them. They’re trapped in this world with her.

Categories:

Adventure, Coming-of-Age, Isekai, Erotica.

Disclaimers:

This story contains sexual elements and disturbing themes. The contents aren’t purely intended to be pornographic, but some scenes objectively are. This is about a giant monster that eats people, so reader discretion is advised. This story contains vorarephilic themes.

This story will have a very slow and intermittent pace to begin with. True stakes don’t really show up until halfway through, though the build-up is always there in the background. This is ultimately not a story of grand adventure and defeating one’s enemies to rise to the top, it is the tale of a lost and naive young woman growing as a person and learning new things. It is a personal one concerning her, and thus this story will be told in present-tense first-person.

Chapter 56: Give and Take

---

I’m NEVER eating icecream again...

There is much I like about humans and their things, but somehow the sweating little brains-on-sticks have discovered an entire type of foods that I cannot eat.

I suppose it is cruelly fair that I can be strong enough to eat whatever and whoever I want, but may never enjoy the tastiest of foods.

The painful bloating shifts and I begin my penance all over again.

Ohgh... ‘just desserts’ indeed...

And yet, this pales in comparison to what I still must do...

---

Carey, perfectly emphasizing the human concept of ‘sass,’ has decided to make it a regular thing of eating icecream in front of me.

Well...

In this case, behind me.

“What’cha doin’?” she asks, spooning another bit of distilled gut-pain into her mouth..

I ignore her and continue practicing as carefully as I can with the simultaneously oversized and undersized crayon. I have learned much thanks to my experimentations, but I’ve been given an even greater source of training in the form of videos my Sam streams to the television in my room.

In my favorites, the man uses far more advanced tools than whatever my crayons consist of, and his paintings were all the better for it despite the outcome’s seeming simplicity. If anything, that in and of itself was a lesson I needed in the face of such tools: that it isn’t complexity which matters, it’s giving everything a place and-

Poke.

She sticks a finger beneath a pauldron.

...it’s giving everything a place... and...

Poke! Poke! Poke!

...and it’s... giving everything a place and completing the painting!

Poke poke poke poke poke!-

I slowly breathe in... daintily set my crayon atop a happy little accident my happily accidentally made friend caused... and release out. It’s not her fault I’m so irritated right now. She’s not the one causing the stinging pain, just interrupting my distraction from it.

“What’cha-”

In a violent motion I round on her and clamp my jaws down her arm up to the elbow! I feel her hand within me jerk and release her bowl of icecream and I swish it around to get at its tasty sweetness. She grimaces at the sensation but it lasts only a moment before I release her soggy arm while keeping her bowl and spoon to get every last bit of sugary milk from.

She gives me a look of absolute revulsion and disgust as she inspects her intact but now slick arm.

“Wow. Okay then, that’s fine just...”

And then she looks down at my breast.

“Just... what the hell happened to you?!”

I sigh around my mouthful of melting tastiness, ceramic, and metal then follow her gaze. Yes, of course she’s going to freak out over that.

Still stinging hours after it stopped bleeding and many more after I’d originally pulled it off, one of my breastplates has been torn free to reveal a scab of epic proportions trying to replace my missing armor. Whatever isn’t covered in dried blood is red, inflamed, and not pleased.

I peel the bowl and spoon from my maw with a hand and set them down in the nearby sink of ‘my’ kitchenette. I don’t cook anything on the stove, but I still use it for water and storage so therefore it’s mine. She briefly eyes her similarly former dish before glaring at me.

“Are you molting or something? That doesn’t look healthy...”

“No,” I shake. “Accident. Will be fine.”

I give her a wide and toothy smile that she just scowls further at.

She scoffs. “What, were you trying to wrestle a bear or something?” A thoughtful look crosses her face. “Actually, that’s probably not so dangerous for you.”

I wince at the memory. That’s definitely a loose end to resolve come spring.

“No. Will tell later.”

I know my human well. For all that she gets worried there is always a simple solution: distract her with something else to obsess over!

I reach back to the dining table and grab my newest art to show her. On it is a half-finished crayon landscape depicting a single tree upon a hill, a shining sun, and Carey’s truck. In the background is a lake with grey and green ridges reaching for the sun. The entire piece was an experiment in a very intriguing thing one of the other videos talked about: composition.

Or at least, that’s what it will be. Right now it’s just a bunch of vague lines in varying colors, and the pine becomes strangely wide before thinning back out--to cover that Carey-caused mistake I’ll need to make the entire tree wider, which means it’s bigger, which means the truck needs to be bigger too, which means-

“Hey, nice! You’ve really come a long way! We might need to get you some paints or something.”

I chuff. That’s the plan of course, but I have no idea how I would hold one of those little wooden boards or paltry brushes. Everything here is just too small.

Glancing at the fridge however fills me with pride, for what isn’t small is my growing ‘portfolio.’ I’ve even begun to change the drawings out every once in a while based on my whims and mood. A scene of fire beyond hills, another of a stolen forest, and of course, a humble orange fruit are some which my eyes are drawn to. I’d further been experimenting with composition by fussing over the arrangement of said pieces, but... if I did that all day, I wouldn’t get anything drawn.

Why, just trying to figure out where to put ‘Sam looking bored flipping burgers’ without bringing everything else down was a monumental pain. That problem led to learning to group pieces into their own groups, and then I had to sort and consider everything, and... it got out of hand.

“Hey. I’m proud of you, y’know? A few months ago you had me trapped in a cave teaching you words, and now look at you.” She exaggerates a handwave at my hunched bulk. “Happy, healthy, and expressing yourself.”

My pride grows further and I make a grab for my best of friends. Unfortunately, I completely miss her and she steps out of the way...

Losing an eye has somehow been worse than when I lost my leg. My night eyes aren’t meant for depth perception and I’ve still yet to get used to it, let alone the faint stinging that’s since become overpowered by my missing plate’s aching.

“Too slow! Anyway, I came down to remind you we’ve got lessons in an hour. You remember how to read clocks, right?”

I look over her shoulder to the strange time-telling contraption she’s had mounted on the wall. I don’t have any idea how it’s able to figure out what position the sun is in then convert it into the three arms’ movements, but... it just works.

One thick arm denotes an ‘hour,’ one long arm is for the ‘minute,’ and a final red thin arm is for the ‘second.’ There are twenty-four hours in a day--but only twelve numbers, as it goes around twice!--which each have sixty minutes in them, and those have sixty seconds. The system is absurd, silly, and has also been surprisingly helpful for remembering the order numbers go in.

But... even that can’t be kept nice and simple. Rather than going from one to twelve then stacking more numbers atop, human numbers actually go up only to ten then cycle again.

Bah. I don’t need to understand or like it, I only need to learn it, and learn it I have.

I give her a nod of dismissal and pout over being unable to ruffle up her hair.

---

While the spoken language is a mess of words that sound similar but mean different things, small words that have to go between words to change others’ meanings, and various advanced concepts like ‘tense’ and ‘plural forms,’ the actual written form of ‘English’ is even stranger.

The concept of an ‘alphabet’ is simple: a standard and easily understandable system where a specific marking is associated with a specific sound. Where that gets more complicated is how some markings in certain orders and combinations modify the sound of upcoming and past preceding letters... but some words just throw this out the window. Another slightly less confounding system is ‘capital’ letters, which are an entire second alphabet which get used in specific situations.

Said situations are myriad: the beginnings of written names, places, things--but only sometimes--and for attention-gaining emphasis. What I really don’t get about it though is that writing out ‘my carey is my friend’ communicates the same message as the proper ‘My Carey is my friend.’ That isn’t even beginning to get into ‘punctuation.’ ‘Commas’ and ‘periods’ are used to separate statements and emulate moments of inhales, but there are even more punctuation ‘marks’--not ‘letters,’ marks--which ware for very specific circumstances that must surely be impossible to master.

There’s even one on Sam’s keyboard used just to replace the word ‘and,’ which is just stupid! It’s a waste of time to memorize it all, let alone write it out!

But... memorize it I have, and begun it write it I have. I’m limited to the ‘upper-case’ capitals for now since their angular lines are easier for me, but writing is still writing and this is a breakthrough. Why, it even gives me an idea for my upcoming project!

---

Weeks have passed since I left my slump and Christmas began in the Fairbanks home.

My lessons have continued. My artistry has been refined. My project is done.

More importantly, I think my eye is finally starting to come back in--I occasionally feel a twitch in the socket and whenever my patch is off the new orb has a cloudy appearance, and it can tell the difference between ‘light’ and ‘dark.’

I pull back my blanket, rise to my side, and s t r e t c h . Joints pop, my settled plates creak and clink, and I’m ready to start the day. I glance over to the clock and find it to be late in the morning.

My breakfast is an assortment of fruits, a bag of elk jerky, and a generous amount of water to wash it all down. I haven’t been paying attention to the specific passing of days, but... now that I think of it, actual Christmas was coming up, right? I should check the calendar.

I squint to make out the numbers and lettering of the wall-hung pages.

Let’s see... yesterday was the first day of the week that Sam’s been working for her mother... so that makes it a Tuesday. It’s been about three weeks since the lights went up and I rose from my isolation... so that makes it...

...Tuesday, December 24th, in the year 2019.

Tomorrow is the day, but the calendar calls this its ‘eve;’ whatever that is. I’ll have to consult the ‘dictionary’ book Carey gave me. I’m still surprised at just how many words they have. Using it has also helped memorize the order of the alphabet, saving literal hours of work just to figure out one word.

I quickly glance through all the shadows of the room. There’s no Carey waiting to surprise me and get all excited, so perhaps I’m wrong? I’m certain that if she were to be her usual excitable self she would have done so far earlier and I’d have woken up under a soft blanket and pillow-using version of ‘wake-the-mother.’ Perhaps she isn’t up yet? She isn’t always out in her special forest doing her territory patrols since it’s the ‘off season,’ so she might still be here.

I stop for a moment and strain to hear every little sound.

Wood creaks and settles...

Water flows through pipes...

But above these near constant background noises is something else...

Laughter.

The two sisters express their mirth similarly, but Sam’s is more demure and reserved whereas Carey’s is raucous and unhinged. The crazed giggler snorts and I huff my way upstairs to find out what the fuss is about.

I find the two relaxing at the dinner table, my Carey smiling wide and my Sam... looking unsure of herself? With stealth ignored even if it was possible with the complaints of wood both have turned to await me.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Carey greets.

I give her a flat and unamused look. Sam has regaled me with many tales of my Carey getting into much trouble, and it would be a shock to me if she weren’t to act like an escaped broodling today of all days.

“What do?” I ask.

Carey smiles knowingly but Sam fidgets and puckers, which is very unusual. Despite her normally reserved demeanor she has always been more open to me and has especially gotten used to my presence. And so, despite this obviously being about her, she does not answer. Instead...

“She told me what her gift for you is!” Carey throws out to Sam’s further grimace. I turn my attention to her and she only somewhat withers.

“Hey... I think it’s cute, not funny,” she defends.

Carey just reaches over and pats her on the back encouragingly.

“Yeah, you say that now but we’ll see.”

I grunt indignantly and eye them both.

“What is gift? Why ‘cute’ and ‘funny’?” I demand.

I am not cute. I am fierce and powerful. Broodlings are cute, and I am very much not a broodling. A human thing acquired or perhaps even made specifically for me would be great, but...

“Shush!” Carey scoffs. “We’re already breaking from tradition for you. Now help me bring the gifts inside and I’ll explain how Christmas is going to work.”

She rises from her chair and heads past me to the front door. Sam too gets up and squeezes past my bulk but instead descends to the basement. With deep curiosity and a desire to help my friend, I follow my Carey and wait patiently as she puts on her boots and a jacket. Once bundled up and ready she again squeezes by me in the too-small hall and we head out to her truck.

“You have a habit of getting into things, so I hid my half of this year’s presents in my truck,” she explains as we go. “You’re reasonably good about avoiding things I ask you to, but I didn’t want to take chances, you know?”

I give her an understanding nod and she opens the truck’s passenger door then unfolds another tiny door connected to it, Behind the seats are all manner of things; a very useful backpack refilled with emergency supplies, some tools used for clearing snow and ice from the vehicle, and further knick-knacks I don’t recognize. But, under all of that, are multiple colorfully packaged boxes of diverse shapes and sizes.

She reaches in, pulls out a large one, and holds it out to me expectantly.

“Don’t open any of them. Most of them are for other people. Uh...”

She gives me a look of confusion. I think for a moment, and... oh, right.

I shove off upright and use the cab to stabilize myself. The truck sinks for a moment under my partial weight but unlike the house only barely complains. I take the present from her in both hands and hold it out for her to stack more atop it.

“...I always forget how tall you really are,” she remarks, but quickly hands me a few more. The first was the heaviest and largest and the rest decreased in size and weight; I briefly recall mentions of how something called ‘mass’ works, but put it out of mind as she herself finally grabs two bags of smaller boxes and shuts the doors behind her.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Looking at all of this gives me a sense of... inadequacy. There are so many, and these are just the ones from her! All I have for them is one gift they both have to share...

As we return up the drive Carey notices my apprehension.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I shuffle in place guiltily. They’ve been so good to me, and I’m only barely participating in their human ritual...

“Many gifts. Big and small,” I remark. “Only one gift from me.”

She puzzles out for a moment my meaning but soon smiles and transfers a bag to free up a hand.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she reassures with a pat to my side. “I know you’ve been working on something, but not what. It’s not about the size or the number, it’s about how much it meant to you when you made it, and since you made it it’s going to mean a lot to us! Now let’s hurry up and get inside before you get cold.”

I smile back down at her as she turns away and let go of my apprehension. My Carey is a good friend and I’m glad to have her.

“Your friendship and, uh, ‘unique view on life,’ are enough, Em,” she continues. “Oh, right, and I still need to explain how we’re doing things. Normally presents are opened on Christmas Day but since we’re going to be doing that with our family and Frank tomorrow, we’ll exchange gifts with you tonight instead.”

I perk up. Tonight?

She steps up the porch, opens the door, and slips inside. I remain and try to figure out how I’m supposed to bring the presents inside while nearly twice the size of the door, but she turns and swiftly spots my predicament.

“Just stand on the porch and I’ll take them off you,” she advises.

In one stride I ignore the stairs and simply step to the top. The wood protests ominously and Carey looks on in horror as-

CRASH!

-the wood gives out beneath my foot and I begin to fall forward! In a small and not-panicking part of my mind it occurs to me that I really should have paid more attention to Carey’s basic physics and weight lessons! I pitch forward towards her but just barely catch myself by crouching and deftly leaning back to center my mass.

My heart beats hard and I breathe in and out as I process what just happened in favor of ignoring what could have happened.

I’ve never actually walked upright on the porch before, always having had at least two or three ‘points of contact’ on it and elsewhere. I know that I weight quite a bit with all of my muscle and especially my plates, but the presents likely didn’t help matters. Carey in a daze quickly takes the packages from my arms and sets them down inside. Behind her I spot a once more grimacing Sam briefly appear before shuffling away.

“Well,” my Carey begins. “That’s... something I’m going to need to talk to the landlord about... but hopefully he’ll let me and Mom fix it.”

I examine the porch and find my leg stuck knee-deep thanks to two ruined planks which are now four jagged pieces. My foot aches and throbs from the sudden re-application of weight when it hit the packed dirt below, but my leg itself is otherwise fine. The plates are slightly scratched but other than that and what will likely be a slight bruise I’m completely fine.

Well. That could have gone significantly worse!

Carey disappears and returns soon after with a strange tool held in a donned pair of thick gloves. It looks like a toothed knife and she crouches down to use it to saw off the four ends of the formerly two planks, widening the hole and allowing me to tentatively lift my leg back out.

If I didn’t have my armor my leg would probably not be in the best of shape. I head inside and thoroughly rinse it in the shower to ward off splinters finding their way into the joints...

---

A/N:

Emeral being lactose intolerant is a gag that I’m nowhere near done with.

She can handle raw meat. She can handle micro-organisms. She can handle stuff that would otherwise make anyone or anything else sick.

But? She can’t digest lactase. Her one weakness: no dairy products.