My stats, even after my profound session with Amelia, remained relatively low. I couldn't simply muscle my way through this world with brute force just yet. My strategy was clear: start from the bottom, meticulously build my power, and then ascend the hierarchy. This village, Oakhaven, seemed perfectly suited for my initial ascent. Its inhabitants, especially its women, likely possessed low to average stats, making them ideal initial targets for Essence Transfer.
My primary goal remained Elara, the village's Matron-Mage. Claiming her would grant me significant local power and a substantial stat boost. To prepare for such a challenging conquest, I needed to fortify myself. I required a simpler target first, someone easier to manipulate, whose desires were already likely unfulfilled.
My gaze settled on Gretchen, the innkeeper. A widow, she was immediately a prime candidate for Deprived Desire, her natural needs tragically unmet. The convenience of her daughter, a young woman in her twenties, being away at a public school run by the kingdom, further simplified matters, removing any immediate complications.
Gretchen, a woman of around forty, possessed a remarkable figure. In this world where women seemed to age with a certain grace, she was quite striking. Her years of relentless labor running the inn – from serving customers to cooking, cleaning, and hauling – had sculpted a physique that belied her profession. She was, unmistakably, a proper muscle mommy. Her arms, shoulders, and back displayed clear definition, toned and robust.
She wore the typical medieval innkeeping uniform: a sturdy white blouse, a deep green corset cinched at her waist, a practical brown apron over a long skirt, and simple white headwear covering her light blonde, chest-length hair, which fell in natural, soft curls. Her skin was fair, almost white, creating a striking contrast to the subtle power simmering beneath her surface.
That evening, after the last customer had retired to their rooms or left, I watched as Gretchen began to clear the dinner area, her movements efficient and strong. Amelia, ever perceptive, understood my unspoken signal and had already retreated to our room, leaving me alone in the common area.
I finished my meal, allowing a comfortable silence to settle between us, broken only by the gentle clatter of plates and the soft swish of her apron. When she finally approached my table, clearing away the last of the dishes, I met her gaze with a calm, friendly smile, allowing just a hint of my inherent charisma to surface.
"That was a fine meal, Gretchen," I commented, my voice low and appreciative. "You manage this entire establishment on your own?"
She paused, a slight frown creasing her brow, perhaps unaccustomed to such direct attention from a male customer. "Aye, sir," she replied, her voice tired but firm. "Since my husband passed, it's been just me. Someone's got to keep the hearth warm and the ale flowing." She gave a weary sigh, her shoulders slumping just a fraction.
I leaned back in my chair, allowing my gaze to linger for a moment on the strong curve of her bicep as she lifted a stack of plates. "It's admirable work," I said, my tone genuine. "A woman of your strength and capability must be truly invaluable to this village." My Mind Reading skill, though still low, probed for any subtle signs of her loneliness, her hidden burdens, her unfulfilled needs. I sensed a pervasive weariness, yes, but also a deep, untapped reservoir of resilience. And beneath that, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of longing.
The small talk flowed easily, my charisma subtly working its magic, drawing Gretchen into a comfortable rhythm. I rose from my table, offering a hand with the cleaning. "It seems a mighty task for one woman," I remarked, genuinely, as I began to stack plates. "Perhaps I can lend a hand? It's the least I can do for a good meal."
She paused, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Oh, no need, sir. I'm used to it." Yet, she didn't refuse as I began to help, effortlessly gathering heavy tankards and scrubbing down the rough wooden tables. My apparent strength and willingness to assist seemed to disarm her.
As the last of the chores wound down, Gretchen gestured towards a half-empty bottle of local mead. "Well, for your trouble, then. A drink. On the house."
I accepted, pouring two generous mugs. The mead was strong, and as we drank, the atmosphere softened. The weariness in Gretchen's eyes gave way to a loosening of her inhibitions. She started to talk, slowly at first, then with increasing candor, the alcohol a potent liberator.
She spoke of the relentless grind of running the inn alone, the endless demands of customers, the profound loneliness that gnawed at her in the quiet hours. "It's a hard life, sir," she sighed, taking another long swig. "Especially at my age. You try to keep up, but the body just... it just aches."
I listened, nodding empathetically, occasionally asking a leading question, silently urging her to reveal more. My Mind Reading skill hummed softly, picking up the undercurrents of her frustration, her deep-seated resentment. I subtly nudged her towards more drinks, pouring generously each time her mug emptied.
As the mead took fuller hold, her composure began to crack. Her voice, once weary, grew sharper, infused with a bitter anger. "And the men!" she scoffed, slamming her mug down with a clatter. "Useless! All of 'em! Too timid to spit, let alone... to be a proper man! My own husband, bless his soul, was no different. Gentle, aye. But gentle doesn't fill the void, does it?"
She railed against the "married women," their flimsy pretense of happiness, their quiet complaints about their own submissive husbands. She felt utterly alone in a world where everyone else seemed to have someone, even if that someone was unsatisfactory. Her loneliness, her deep-seated Deprived Desire, became an open wound that bled into the quiet night.
I shared snippets of my own fabricated past, tales of a miserable existence, carefully omitting any mention of reincarnation. I spoke of feeling lost, of a yearning for something more, creating a false sense of shared vulnerability. It made her lean in, her eyes, though glazed with drink, fixing on me with a newfound intensity, a raw need for connection.
Then, her gaze drifted to the stairs, to where Amelia had retired. "That woman," she slurred, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Amelia. She's... she's unlike any woman I've seen. So beautiful. And yet... she's with you. You're... well, you're an average-looking man, no offense." She laughed, a loud, slightly drunken cackle that echoed in the empty common room. "Why does she stay with you?" Her curiosity, fueled by mead, was boundless.
I met her gaze, allowing a slow, knowing smirk to spread across my face. I leaned in close, bringing my lips almost to her ear, letting my natural charisma envelop her. "It's a secret, Gretchen," I whispered, my voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But since you've been so kind... it's about my dick."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed in drunken amusement. A scoff died on her lips, replaced by a flicker of genuine intrigue.
"I satisfy all her sexual needs," I continued, my voice even lower, thicker with suggestive power. "Every single one. I make her beg for it. I make her scream. Every night. She has never known such fulfillment."
Gretchen snorted, a disbelieving laugh escaping her, though it sounded a little less certain now. "Beg? You? And scream?" Her eyes rolled, but her gaze lingered on my face, searching. "Oh, you're a joker, sir! A proper storyteller! No man in this world is like that! All of 'em are soft. Submissive. My husband was, too. It's just the way it is." She waved a dismissive hand, trying to convince herself it was a grand jest, but her voice held a tremor of yearning.
Even as she laughed, I felt a subtle shift in her aura through my Mind Reading. Her denial was strong, ingrained by years of experience, but beneath it, a sliver of desperate hope ignited. A tiny, burning ember of "what if?" had been planted in her alcohol-soaked mind. Her dismissal was laced with profound yearning. This woman, a muscle mommy starved for true masculinity, was on the hook.