Another Inner World v02.05.04

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[img[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/916219-38160-1i3157i-preview.jpg]] Welcome to Season 2! As before, Another Inner World is designed to encourage healthy—and occasionally lethal—curiosity. Following a grave failure of decision-making, you will be returned to a location in the story that will allow you to try again, so no need to worry about saving and reloading often. Now go! Live your best life. Or don’t. You’ll work it out one way or another. ''It is strongly recommended that you play through [[the first season of Another Inner World|https://mega.nz/file/Z4NHRBJA#5KTg5dF5ei84769muv-D5450f64jvLFatxrZcMSzTxE]] before starting Season 2. If you need to create a new save file, or are looking to experiment with different routes and options, you can use the save builder below.'' [[Season 2 Save Builder|SaveBuilder]]

/* Reference Document http://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/ <<linkreplace "Title">><</linkreplace>> creates a clickable link without loading a new page; when clicked, new text will be revealed. <<set $var +=x>> adds x to $var value <hr> line break /*Display 2 (can be expanded to n) choices; after clicking one, all options are replaced with new text*/ <<linkreplace "Option_A">><<replace "#choices">>TEXT_A_GOES_HERE<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Option_B">><<replace "#choices">>TEXT_B_GOES_HERE<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkappend "Display Text">> <<include "PassageName">><</linkappend>> <<if $RVMira >=x>>“True Text goes here”<<elseif conditional>>“Conditional False Text goes here”<<else>>“Default False Text goes here”<</if>> [['"Dialogue without apostrophies"'| /*link which will close the window/browser to destop*/ <<link "Quit">><<script>>window.close()<</script>><</link>> /*linkreplace with apostrophes and quotations (maintain backslash placement)*/ <<set $linkText to "\"Please, don't eat me!\"">> <<linkreplace $linkText>> /*<<set $dummy to desired "case">> and <<include>>*/ <<switch $dummy>> <<case "A" "B">> TEXT A & B GOES HERE <<case "C" "D">> TEXT C & D GOES HERE <<case "E">> TEXT E GOES HERE <<default>> DEFAULT TEXT GOES HERE <</switch>> /*without '.slowfade' this code changes all <<timed>> functionality passages using this specific setting require 'slowfade' tag <<timed>> macro requires 't8n'*/ /*story stylesheet code*/ .slowfade .macro-repeat-insert, .slowfade .macro-timed-insert { -webkit-transition-duration: 400ms; -o-transition-duration: 400ms; transition-duration: 400ms; } /*usage in passage (requires slowfade tag?)*/ <<timed 2s t8n>>TEXT_T_FADE_IN<</timed>> Arrays: <<if $ARRAY_NAME.includes(INPUT)>> <<set $ARRAY_NAME[$VAR] to "INPUT">> <div style="text-align: center;">CENTER_ALIGNED_TEXT</div>

<> <<set $knives to 1>> <<set $Orrault9 to false>> <<set $MC1 to false>> <<set $deathLizardgirls to 0>> <<if $VanilleEvent4 != "true" && $MiraDating == false && $Orrault6 == "Vanille">> <<if ($Orrault7 == "Vanille" && $RVVanille >= 13) || $RVVanille >= 12>> <<set $VanilleEvent4 to "hold">> <</if>> <<set $VanilleEvent6 to false>> <</if>> <<if $xe == "he">> <<set $xe to "he">> <<set $xem to "him">> <<set $xes to "he’s">> <<set $xir to "his">> <<set $Xe to "He">> <<set $Xem to "Him">> <<set $Xes to "He’s">> <<set $Xir to "His">> <<set $mx to "mister">> <<set $Mx to "Mister">> <<elseif $xe == "she">> <<set $xe to "she">> <<set $xem to "her">> <<set $xes to "she’s">> <<set $xir to "her">> <<set $Xe to "She">> <<set $Xem to "Her">> <<set $Xes to "She’s">> <<set $Xir to "Her">> <<set $mx to "miss">> <<set $Mx to "Miss">> <<else>> <<set $xe to "they">> <<set $xem to "them">> <<set $xes to "they’re">> <<set $xir to "their">> <<set $Xe to "They">> <<set $Xem to "Them">> <<set $Xes to "They’re">> <<set $Xir to "Their">> <<set $mx to "mx">> <<set $Mx to "Mx">> <</if>> <><<timed 1s t8n>>[IMG[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/895596-38160-uh5ddy-preview.jpg]] <<linkreplace "Recap">>__Recap:__ After an entirely preventable traffic accident, you found yourself trapped in another world or, more specifically, the kingdom of Havendor: a land occupied by a mix of humans, demihumans, and an eclectic variety of monster girls. Unfortunately, this strange land also proved dangerous on account of its inhabitants frequently devouring each other—and //you//—whole and alive. According to prophecy, your only hope of returning home is to find the Echoes of Exile—the amulet Destiny’s Embrace and the seven gems that adorn its surface—and somehow use these artifacts to defeat a nebulous lurking evil. The good news: you’ve found help. You met the mischievous and impulsive Mira while wandering the city of Icilia. While the feline demi saved you from a night in the streets—and almost certain devourment—your first impression was a bit dampened when she drunkenly ate and nearly digested you. Fortunately, the two of you patched things up quickly, and she decided to tag along for your quest where the two of you became <<if $RVMira >= 7>>good<<else>>fast<</if>> friends<<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>—and much more<</if>>. Your initial meeting with Vanille was similarly strained, with Mira attempting to steal from the armed and armored adventurer in broad daylight. The three of you were able to patch things up, and Vanille wound up introducing you to the prophecy—and, more disconcertingly, the shockingly accurate statues carved in your likeness that stand in many of Havendor’s cities. Since then, she’s helped with the quest for the Echoes however she can, and has proven to be a stalwart companion<<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>—and much more.<<elseif $VanilleEvent4 == "hold" && $Orrault7 != "Mira"&& $Orrault7 != "Vanille"&& $Orrault7 != "Ashlyn" && $SherineEvent1 == false>>—and perhaps more?<<else>>.<</if>> Continuing the trend of the difficult introductions, Ashlyn first appeared in your life when the mage shrunk and kidnapped you in the middle of a crowded tavern. Mercifully, Vanille rescued you in the nick of time, and the next time you met, you were able to ally under a common cause of delving into a perilous dungeon. In the aftermath—and to your surprise—Ashlyn decided to tag along with your group. She’s actually proven herself to be remarkably useful <<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn">>and has only nearly killed you twice… so far<<else>>and reliable on your quest<</if>>. Last but certainly not least, you first encountered Sherine when you were volunteered to serve as the lamia’s defense in a public trial where was accused of eating the former marquis of the fortress city of Orrault. Fortunately for both you and Sherine, she was declared innocent on a technicality when the marquis’ widow admitted her late husband had gone willingly. While Vanille rejected the lamia’s initial petition to join your group, Sherine earned her place after saving your life from an opportunistic centaur. Together, the five of you found yourselves conscripted into the defense of Orrault when the city was suddenly besieged by an army of monster girls. You saved as many citizens as you could and narrowly managed to hold out, only to discover the monsters were plotting to destroy the city’s gates—and a large section of the walls—with a massive firebomb. While you narrowly managed to detonate the explosive away from the city walls, you suffered a grievous wound at the hands of a dragon and very nearly died, saved only by Havendorian magic. What should have been a happy—if somewhat painful—ending to a harrowing chapter was instead marred by the realization that some of your companions did not take your brush with death well. Vanille seemed to be struggling with guilt, but Mira was worse. The demi woke you in the middle of the night and pleaded for you to abandon your quest. When you refused and explained its importance, Mira revealed she had never understood that the end goal of the hunt for the Echoes was for you to return home—and ultimately leave her. Inconsolable, the demi fled into the night. <</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Relationships">>__Relationships:__ ==__Mira:__== __Vanille:__ <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>Things have grown complicated between you and Vanille. The good kind of complicated. Wonderful and exciting. Mostly. <<if $VanilleEvent4 == true>>After your companion’s request for patience and understanding a mere few days prior, you hadn’t expected her to have an answer so soon—let alone one so forward. But the kiss was a welcome surprise nonetheless—<<else>>Your first kiss with Vanille was something a surprise—a welcome one, of course, and <</if>>a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy evening the night before the siege. You’re eager to see where things go next between you and your friend. Or at least you //would// be. However, the events of the siege clearly weigh heavily on her mind<<elseif $VanilleEvent4 == "hold" && $Orrault7 != "Mira"&& $Orrault7 != "Vanille"&& $Orrault7 != "Ashlyn"&& $SherineEvent1 == false>>After your companion’s request for patience and understanding a mere few days prior, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to visit her the night before the siege. Perhaps you were just looking to spare yourself further discomfort. Or maybe you just had other things on your mind. Either way, bringing up the subject now seems… awkward to say the least, especially after the events of the siege<<else>>While you and Vanille remain <<if $RVVanille >=12>>close<<else>>fast<</if>> friends, the events of the siege clearly weigh heavily on your companion<</if>>. That night she loomed over your bed, drunk and rambling, remains etched in your thoughts. You’re not entirely sure you’re ready to have to talk about it now, given your more immediate concerns, but it’s becoming increasingly clear it’s something that’s going to have to happen sooner rather than later. <<if $RVVanille >= 7>>Despite your occasional disagreements, <</if>>Vanille has become your anchor in this strange and terrifying world. __Ashlyn:__ Sure, Ashlyn knows about your fetish, but things with the mage haven’t been //too// unbearable<<if $MiraDating == false>><<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">>. If anything, it’s been kinda fun<<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn">>… if risky. And you’ve had enough risk for now<</if>><</if>>. She has certainly seemed eager to involve you in her strange, titillating games<<else>>… so far<</if>>. You’re not entirely sure what to expect from her while you’re recovering. Your brief glimpse of Ashlyn’s bedside manner wasn’t too bad, so perhaps there’s hope. <<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">>Gratuitous sex<<else>>Casual tormenting<</if>> aside, <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>you and Ashlyn get along remarkably well<<elseif $RVAshlyn >= 4>>you and Ashlyn seem to get along well<<else>> you and Ashlyn get along decently enough<</if>>. You might even be persuaded to say you’re glad she’s here on your quest. … Maybe. __Sherine:__ <<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>>During the night spent together before the siege, Sherine made her intention to seduce and devour you perfectly clear—not that you didn’t already have your suspicions. Still, hearing it spelled out was a bit of shock<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>, as was the part where you fucked with your head lodged in her throat. It’s… definitely something you’re going to remember<</if>>. Yet despite the lamia’s ostensibly self-serving goals<<else>>While the lamia has implied her goals in traveling with your group are highly self-serving<</if>>, your actual experience fighting alongside Sherine during the siege of Orrault has revealed her to be a remarkably stalwart ally. Plus, she’s stuck around while you’re healing from your injuries, so that has to count for something. Honestly, she’s a bit of an enigma—one you currently don’t have time to unpack given more pressing concerns. <</linkreplace>> [[Start|Where's Mira?]]<</timed>>

/*<<link "Restart Episode">> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Restart Episode'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('sidebarRestartDay').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> */

“Where’s Mira?” It’s the question you’ve been asking since the moment you regained consciousness three days ago. You’ve been asking anyone who will listen, who has ears. The <<if $Orrault2 == true>>theurges<<else>>strangers<</if>> who come to tend and heal your wounds, the innkeeper who brings food, the birds out the window. You’ve asked in the morning and evening and every minute between. You keep asking to no avail. Sometimes the words are too potent for your frail body—too painful to leave your tattered chest without actively sobbing. Other times the piteous looks in the downcast eyes are too painful to bear. You’ve asked and begged and pleaded, trembled and wailed silently in the hours alone. Alone with the question—the impossible question that sits on your chest like a boulder, and every time you ask it, the damn thing only gets heavier. If nobody is going to tell you where she is, then you have no choice but to find her for yourself. <<linkreplace "Get out of bed">>You push yourself upright with all your might, trembling arms braced against the bed. Something pops near your collarbone. A spike of pain lances across your sternum. A wound tears open under your tunic, a droplet of hot blood dribbling between your ribs. “Are you //trying// to bleed all over me?” Ashlyn chides, pushing you back down with a single finger. “You know that’s one of my turn-ons, right?” “<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>Everything’s a turn-on for y—<</if>>Stop doing that! I’m trying to sit up!” you shout as she pushes you over once more. A surge of pain wracks your chest. Your bones rattle as you thump against the soft stack of pillows. “I need to find her, need to tell her I’m sorry.” “You said the same thing yesterday. <<= $Xes>> <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">> repeating <<= $xem>>self<<else>>stuck in a loop<</if>>,” Ashlyn says, nodding to Sherine who looms at the other side of the bed. “That’s a sign of brain damage, right?” The lamia ignores Ashlyn and leans forward, a delicate finger brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. She murmurs succulent words of assurance. “<<= $name>>, you need to rest, regain your strength. You shouldn’t be going anywhere like this.” Your blood boils at the patronizing tone, stomach revolting at the thought of another day spent confined to this damned bed and these same four walls—an endless cavalcade of monotony and anxiety and terror to which you are both helpless spectator and unwilling participant. The brief glimpses you’re afforded of the world beyond only make it worse. You’re going to get up and look for her if it’s the last thing you do. You won’t wake up to this living nightmare another day. You can’t. <<linkreplace "Rise again">>Gritting your teeth, you manage to prop yourself upright once more, muscling through innumerable aches as frustration overpowers fatigue. A pained breath shudders through your lungs, carrying with it the memories of a thousand agonies that haunt your every motion like a host of ransacking phantoms. You rise an inch, excruciating ground gained. Then another, followed by a flood of torment gushing through your chest as you catch your breath. Finally, triumphantly, your arms extend all the way, your torso almost vertical. Ashlyn rolls her eyes, then pushes you back down once more with hardly a scrap of effort. “Look, man,” she sighs, utterly indifferent to your feeble struggle. “If you can’t get past me, I don’t know how you’re planning to get out of her coils.” As if to prove the mage’s point, a length of glimmering copper scales slither over the side of the bed and wind around your legs before pulling you gently—yet //firmly//—back to the center of the mattress. It takes everything you’ve got not to scream from the pain of being gingerly yanked by the lamia’s monstrous strength. You pause to salvage your stamina, taking stock. While the new obstacle between you and finding Mira is unexpected—curse Sherine’s betrayal—the fact that the lamia has to physically restrain you means you’re recovering from the mortal wounds sustained last week. Still, fuck her. She’s a traitor to your cause, putting herself between you and finding your friend. Before you can so much as beg, Sherine simply looks at you and shakes her head. “I’d rather not find you bleeding to death in the hallway again, <<= $name>>.” “Where would you prefer I bleed to death?” you spit with a withering glare. “Where’s convenient for you?” The lamia frowns, garnet eyes darkening. Rather than respond, she lets out a slow breath, then directs her attention to a small book on the nightstand. Her tail’s grip, however, remains firm. A twinge of guilt aches in your chest, roiling fitfully with volatile frustration. “I- I’m sorry, I just…” You give Sherine your most pitiful look. It’s mostly genuine. “Let me get up. Please, I’m begging you.” “<<= $name>>,” she starts in carefully managed tones. “You can’t. You’re simply not ready to—” “Let <<= $xem>> go.” The room falls silent as all eyes turn to the woman in the doorway. You blink twice before fully recognizing the aureate figure, a far cry from the bloodied and battered revenant that haunted your fleeting consciousness in the aftermath of the siege. She stands in freshly burnished leathers, diligently mended, patched, and, in places where the gouges were too severe, replaced entirely. “Vanille?” you manage softly. An asymmetric sweep of gold frames a glowering visage and falls to her shoulders save where it’s tied back in little braids. The gilded strands end in uneven frays, as if hacked away indiscriminately with a knife. These changes detract nothing from her formidable aura. If anything, the clean armor and sword sheathed at her side only add to her striking figure. And, more importantly, she’s here to liberate you from your bed-turned-purgatory. Ashlyn snorts. “Nice of you to finally show up, Knifey. How’s your week been? Had your fill of cor—” //“I said,”// Vanille growls, ignoring the mage. “Let <<= $xem>> go. Let <<= $xem>> stand on <<= $xir>> own.” “We’re not even doing anything. It’s not my fault your precious hero has the strength of a mouse. <<= $Xe>> can barely—” “What Ashlyn’s //trying// to say is that he’s in no condition to do anything of the sort,” Sherine posits in a curiously cautious tone. “<<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $Xe>> needs<<else>><<=$Xe>> need<</if>> to heal—” Vanille kills the protest with the stomp of her foot. “Coils off. //Now,”// she snarls, turning a burning glare on Sherine. “I’m not asking again. If <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $xe>> wants to stand, <<= $xe>> stands<<else>><<=$Xe>><<= $xe>> want to stand, <<= $xe>> stand<</if>>.” A long, tense quiet follows. Ashlyn hesitates, then steps aside with an agitated huff, frown never faltering. Sherine’s lips remain pressed in a thin line, but her tail gradually unwinds from your legs, exposing you layer by layer. It’s only when you’re finally free that you realize how comforting the tail’s presence was—a firm wrap keeping your torn body held together. Your foot hits the ground, atrophied muscles screaming agony. Your other heel thumps against the floorboard and you lurch yourself forward, wincing, not daring to gasp or cry out in front of your friends. They don’t need to see you like that. They don’t need to know what every inch costs, that searing ribbons tear across your chest, a thousand lashings upon weary, battered flesh. Your heart flutters, panicked, pumping wildly, the frantic pressure in your veins threatening to burst and spill and gush like they did on that terrible day. Yet you stand firm. Alive. Two steps later, you’re slumped against Vanille, struggling to find the ground beneath your feet. The knight brings your arm across her shoulders and props you up, a strong grip wrapped securely around your waist. Together you take a step. Then another, and another, until you’re in the hallways of the Covetous Crow. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, ” she murmurs as you limp along, her eyes fixed firmly on your feet, on the next step. “What do you need, <<= $name>>? Where are we going?” “I need to find Mira. Tell her I’m sorry.” You struggle to hold back a burst of guilt. “I…” You falter, one foot catching against the heel of the other. Vanille’s there in an instant, an arm scooping under your own, easing you back upright. Once she’s certain you’re mostly stable, the two of you resume your awkward gait. “What happened?” <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>“I… I fucked up. I didn’t tell her—I didn’t explain the fucking quest, that I’m trying to get back to my own world. She didn’t understand, and—” You turn away to suppress a fitful sob, then cough out a bloody clod into your sleeve. Once the shame subsides, you look back to a wincing Vanille. “It’s my fault. I should have said something sooner, made sure she was okay with it, with the danger, with me trying to get home. She thinks I—” A river of guilt converges with the streak of agony coursing through every limb, and it takes every ounce of determination you can muster to not topple under their combined torrent. “She thinks I hate her. She ran away a few nights ago, a- and I couldn’t…” You draw in a shallow, pained breath. “Please, Vanille. Please help me get her back.”<<else>>“I… We… She ran away a few nights ago, a- after I told her about trying to go back to my world, and I couldn’t…” A vicious cough catches you off guard, and you turn away in shame to recover. Sleeve bloodied, you look back to a wincing Vanille. “Please, I need your help to find her. I need to make it right.”<</if>> Vanille nods, holding you stable as she guides the two of you toward the exit of the inn. “Okay. We’ll find her. I promise.” “Th- Thank you.” [[Hobble downstairs|Search with Vanille]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

You’ve reached the end of the current publicly-available content for //Another Inner World.// Be sure to tune for the next release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. As always, you can export your current save using the sidebar menu to the left, then load it into the next version and pick up right where you left off (here, this page, but with a link to proceed) when the next episode is available. __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading and feedback by Blex (episode 1), Kable12 (episode 1), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W Aickavon ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ Alex Nimmer Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Asher Autocrux Avicyn BaileyStreamcat Big Steve Bill Bob @@color:red;Blex@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Bruhmoment Butt McFarts By3rr3r3B3y calm belt Cavsfan5059 Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone Codexwakia Coochie Connoissuer CrunkleDunk Cursed Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron dragonborn657 drm drrk Dude43235 Eclipsed EL O EL Eric EvilBastard ExposedSenpai fatalerror I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". FrogFries golflover1958 gongon Grapes Guardian Gnosis gzc HalTraveler Hayden Black hi529 Hona Vega Hunter Aldridge Iepie122 Igloo3047 @@color:red;Jack Crow@@ James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper Jeg Jeremy Neitzell Joe Fry Joel Boening John Smith Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Jonas Jorno Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Littleguy145 Robin! M Tanner M423x Matheredor MelonFelon01 Wulfenite miki peter Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish NapBonaparte Nathan Zuzu Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nick Baird Nightfang NoireFanIsMe Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 OptiMystic @@color:red;Petr@@ Phase Caster Jay Pierce Placeholder @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 Rory Ross Davis Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shadow Nightclaw somhtam Sorceus13 @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ Spydorz StarlitKing superboost @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan The Yahoo Man theMacBoxman TheNova129 Tobi tofublock Tyler Fitzgerald Tyler Joshua Bennett @@color:red;UnknownLurker@@ V-Ate VVVx Vesper Viikinkikiivi WaylaidVisitor William Xaeroch Xionti yomon7 Yum Yums Zob Zerp Zuiji

With Vanille’s diligent guidance and constant support, the two of you eventually make your way downstairs and arrive at the tavern’s front door—a monumental effort for your strained and weary limbs. You hobble through the entrance, then stagger to a halt. Orrault overwhelms you with a sensory assault on all fronts. A brilliant mid-day sun glares from above, forcing you to blink back tears and cower in the meager shade of a raised hand. A wave of sound crashes over your ears, an endless roar of chattering crowds and rattling wagon wheels, stomping boots and clanging metal. The combined odors of pedestrians and beasts of burden, soot and grime, sweat and a dozen disparate foods, all wind their way into the pit of your stomach and tie a vile knot, sending a surge of nausea bubbling back up your throat. Only Vanille’s assistance keeps you upright, if by a narrow margin. She directs you forward, an indomitable bulwark and a stalwart anchor, and together you begin the slow and awkward trudge through the chaotic masses. You measure progress in cobblestones. Each lurching stride is a small triumph, a paltry step toward a goal that’s too immense to fully grasp. But the progress alone spurs you forward, driving away the worst of the agony under a wave of stubborn resolve. You find a modest reserve of strength in the simple freedom from that goddamned bed and those entombing walls, and you’re more than eager to use it for all it’s worth. When a treacherous curb gives you a bit more trouble than you can handle, Vanille shoulders the burden for the both of you. She effortlessly hoists you up the needed few inches, then makes sure you’ve got your footing before gingerly placing a hand on your arm. “Do you need a moment, <<= $name>>?” “I’m… okay,” you manage through strained breaths, then eye Vanille. A part of you can’t help but feel inadequate. You remember watching an arm dangle limp at her side, even as she cut down one aggressor after the next in the haze beyond your perception. Shouldn’t you be able to muscle through the pain as well? “How’s your arm?” you ask, willfully redirecting yourself toward a more empathic concern. After a moment of wordless confusion from the knight, you clarify, “From the explosion?” “Oh, it’s fine. After y- you—” Vanille stops, drawing in an unsteady breath. “Once you were stable, the theurges patched me up next.”<<if $Orrault2 == false>> “Theurges?” “Apothecaries, menders, physicians, doctors. Did nobody tell you what they were doing?” You shrug on reflex, and pay for it with a bolt of excruciating pain. “I don’t remember much of it, honestly. I was in and out of consciousness for the last couple days. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces and…” Words grind to a halt as you consider the implications. “Wait, was I being healed with magic?” “Yes. I insisted.” It makes sense. Even modern medicine can’t regrow your entire chest cavity in a matter of days. If this were your own world, you’d have been fucked, first from evisceration, then from the subsequent explosion. And then from the medical bills.<</if>> Come to think of it, Vanille wasn’t much farther from the firebomb than you were… You shake off the dark thoughts. “Vanille, I’m… You don’t know how relieved I am to see you again. It’s been a very long and confusing—” //and miserable and furious// “—few days, and I just… I missed you. I…” How do you even begin to thank her for saving your life, for carrying you from the battlefield while she herself was doubtlessly in pain? For the healing magic, for watching after you—and even for this, right now, the strong arm wrapped around your waist, guiding you onward one step at a time. You decide to start simple: just come out and say it. “Thanks for getting me out of that goddamn room. I just couldn’t <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>fucking<</if>> lay there anymore.” Her stride wavers. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I…” <<if $RVVanille >= 9>>“Vanille, I understand.” You look her square in the eye with all the seriousness you can muster. “If the roles were reversed, I don’t think I could have just sat there and watched, either.”<<else>>“Don’t dwell on it. Seriously. What were you going to do, sit around while they changed my bandages for days?”<</if>> “But—” “You did what you promised. You kept me safe and then went to the right people for help.” “I…” Vanille falters, a dozen half-formed expressions appearing on her features in an instant. Her lips part wordlessly, then press back to a thin, agitated line as her brow furrows. She lets out a whisper of a sigh, then eventually breaks what’s become a long silence. “You’re right. I don’t think I could have handled sitting by and watching you suffer. I’m sorry.” <<linkreplace "“I forgive you.”">>“I forgive you.” It takes a moment, but her dour frown cracks, a sheet of icy grief sloughing off her. Relieved, you press on in silence, giving Vanille the space she needs to process—mental space, that is. She’s still practically carrying you along the boulevard. As you ‘walk,’ you spot a canvas tent pitched in the greenery on the roadside. A second glance confirms it’s actually one of several, a small community that looks to have taken temporary residence in what was once a modest park. A few citizens amble around, preoccupying themselves with assorted tasks. One appears to be speaking with a member of the city watch, though there doesn’t seem to be anything overtly confrontational about the exchange. The ramshackle community is an odd note among Orrault, a city that—by your appraisal—takes an almost irrational pride in maintaining its immaculate appearance. Before you have time to process the first, a second collection of temporary dwellings catches your eye, huddled along the edges of a familiar open forum—the one where you inadvertently staked your life on the outcome of a laughably one-sided trial… and somehow won. One of the tents is pitched against a partially deconstructed wagon, and you notice a stove pot dangling from a de-wheeled axle. [[Ask about the tents|Ask about the tents]]<</linkreplace>>

You nudge Vanille to get her attention. “What’s with all the tents?” The knight follows your gaze. “Refugees from beyond Orrault’s walls.” “The ones from the gate town?” “And more.” She nods. “After the marquis lifted the toll, she called for all citizens from surrounding lands to take shelter within the city. Anyone in the farmsteads, even a few smaller towns and communities in the nearby woodlands.” “She doesn’t believe it’s safe?” Vanille’s lips press to a thin line. “No one does. The horde…” She falters, then falls silent. A long moment passes before she finds the right words. “A fortress city like Orrault fosters a strange mentality. A life spent behind walls has a way of convincing you you’re untouchable, that the world outside your window is a manageable thing. And then a thousand angry monsters suddenly start pounding on the door. When people heard about the carnage and saw the wreckage right at their own stoop, it shattered that confidence. It scared them.” //And Mira’s out here on the streets, once again living alone, dealing with the chaotic aftermath while you’ve sat comfortably in a bed at the inn, one of the lucky ones.// You huff. “So the marquis is, what… circling the wagons? Taking shelter until she feels the storm’s blown over?” “Unfortunately, yes.” You frown, confused. “You don’t sound like you approve.” “I…” Vanille hesitates, then lets out a slight sigh. “I don’t fully, no. The marquis is making an effort to keep her citizens out of harm’s way, but this city is supposed to be a vanguard for Havendor, watching the northern border, defending the kingdom against aggressors. The surrounding towns are a part of that. It’s dangerous, but it’s necessary.” “And by retreating within the city walls, she’s shirking that duty?” “Exactly,” your companion says with a grim frown. An awkward moment slips by as you hobble past a city guard unloading sacks of grain from a large freight wagon and into the hands of a throng of eager citizens—about forty total, if you had to guess. “How long will the city be locked down?” you eventually ask. “Until the marquis’ ears stop ringing.” Your heart lurches. Feet falter; hands clench. A memory of smoke-stained skies and blood-soaked earth. A pair of giant black wings rising from the flames. A lump of reddish clay clutched firmly in trembling fingers, then arcing through the air. A flash of blinding white. Pulse resumes, spikes to a machine-gun staccato. You gasp out a breath you don’t remember holding as an icy chill seizes your limbs. “<<= $name>>? You alright?” Vanille asks, slowing to a stop. You’re not, and neither is she. Not with where you two left things off. Not after she tried to— You’re not looking forward to reprimanding the woman who saved your life for the truly terrible decision she made mere minutes prior to her act of heroism.<<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>> You’re a week late, but you promised you’d talk about it. <</if>>You promised on your deathbed that you’d be strong for Vanille, that you’d be there for her however you possibly can. [[Stop for a moment|Stop for a moment]]

“Vanille, can we… sit down? Just for a minute?” She wordlessly guides you to a bench and eases you down, then takes a seat at your side. The two of you sit in silence for a long moment before you finally begin. “About the explosion…” You take a steadying breath. “There’s… a lot we need to talk about.” Auric eyes refuse to meet your own. The edges of her lips curl to a pained frown, but she remains deathly silent. Limp, you continue. “How’s your <<if $Orrault7 == "Vanille" && $MiraDating == false>>… recklessness?”<<else>>, err… zealous urges?” you offer hesitantly, attempting a tactful choice of words.<</if>> <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>Vanille hesitates as if surprised by the question. The moment passes in a heartbeat, and she firmly takes your hand in her own. “You were absolutely right. I shouldn’t have considered sacrificing myself like that without talking to you. I promise I won’t do it again.” At least she remembered you cursing her out at the time. While part of you is relieved to hear her say it, you can’t help but feel that she’d rehearsed her response. “I, uhh… You make it sound like the problem was that you didn’t tell me first.” “But… if I’d been better, if I’d heard your plan earlier, maybe I could have found a way to keep you at a safe distance.” “That’s—” You cut yourself off with a frustrated sigh. “That’s true, yes. But there’s more than that. //You scared the shit out of me.// I was //desperate.// Chasing after you, hoping I was running the right direction, praying I caught up with you before… before you did something you couldn’t take back. <<linkreplace "//“I can’t lose you too, Vanille.”//">>//“I can’t lose you too, Vanille.//” The words emerge as barely a whisper. Her answer comes like a lash, sudden and violent. “That’s what //you—”// Vanille’s face twists into a knot for the briefest moment, contorted and strained. She shakes her head and blinks twice, nodding frantically. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to scare you. I shouldn’t have run away and left you behind. It was selfish and shitty, and I’m not sure I’ll ever live it down, I—” “Vanille,” you interrupt before she can swing in the other direction and launch headfirst into wild self-flagellation. “It’s okay. I understand why you did it. You don’t need to convince me of anything. I just want to make sure you’re not struggling alone, that you won’t just go be the hero on your own.” You raise a hand to your chest. Even the gentle touch produces a ripple of aches and discomforts. “I know I sure learned my lesson, because you’re right: I was stupid too. I got fucking blown up for thinking I could be… be like you.” You try to shuffle closer, but even the simple effort sends rippling cascades of pain through your arms and legs. A breathless moment of hesitation passes before Vanille closes the gap, pulling you against her side. Soothed, you continue, “But that’s behind us, alright? We’re here, and we’re alive, and we’re gonna do better. I spent too long on my deathbed to waste this second chance. I’m going to ask for help more, and I’m gonna tell you everything from now on, okay?” Vanille braces herself as lips waver and eyes water. “M- Me too. I can do that,” she manages, threadbare. “No more keeping things from each other.” You practically melt into her arms, quietly trembling. A long moment of silence passes as Vanille clutches you tight—perhaps a bit too tight. You don’t care. Her embrace is a much needed salve for wounds that cut far deeper, that fester in places no physician can reach. The warmth of her chest eases at the agony in your own, an indelible flame purging the thick malaise and leaving a hopeful ember in its place. “I’m really glad you’re here, Vanille,” you murmur, clinging to her like a life raft in stormy seas. “Please don’t do that again. Please don’t run away.” Vanille tenses. “<<= $name>>, I should have said this earlier, but I’m so sorry about Mira. I should have been there, maybe I could have talked to her—” The knight stops herself. “I’m doing it again. I’m sorry.” “I just… I can’t bear the thought that she…” You draw in a deep breath to stabilize yourself.<<if $RVMira >= 14>> It doesn’t work. The next words emerge as a snotty mess.<</if>> “I have to apologize to her, have to let her know that I’m her friend no matter what world I’m from. That I didn’t mean to hurt her like that. That I took her for granted…” “I know you didn’t mean to hurt her,” Vanille murmurs. “I promise we’re going to find her. I know how much you care about her—about everyone.” “Thank you.” [[Get back to the search|Get back to the search]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>Vanille hesitates as if surprised by the question. The moment passes, and she firmly takes your hand in her own. “You were absolutely right. I shouldn’t have even considered sacrificing myself like that, it was profoundly stupid. I promise I won’t do it again.” “It’s okay. I understand why you did it—and I //almost// understand why I did what I did.” You pause for a moment, noticing as Vanille’s brow raises in surprise. “I was stupid too; I got fucking blown up for thinking I could be a hero like you. But that’s behind us; we’re both here, and we’re alive, and we’re gonna do better going forward, alright? I’m gonna tell you everything from now on, and I’m gonna ask for help when I need it. No more reckless plans. No more miscommunication. Deal?” Vanille’s lips waver and eyes water. She nods, slow at first, then frantic, fists clenching and unclenching as a boisterous shiver ripples through her. “I- I can do that. D- Deal. I promise.” She pulls you against her side for a quick embrace. Even her gentle hold sends fresh twinges of pain shooting down your limbs, but you don’t mind. “And, no more firebombs. Please,” you insist with a slight chuckle as she withdraws. “Having Ashlyn around is dangerous and explosive enough.” “Sure,” Vanille snorts—Goddamn, it’s a relief to hear her laugh again. Her humor lasts only a moment before a frown stains her warm visage. Golden eyes glance down at your feeble body, watch as you struggle to draw painful breaths. “Are you okay enough to stand?” Your heart lurches as you nod. “I… Yeah. Please.” Vanille hesitates, lips drawn tight. “<<= $name>>,” she begins softly. “I should have said this earlier, but… I’m sorry about Mira. I should have been there, maybe I could have talked to her.” “It’s not your fault,” you murmur, guilt dripping down your cheek. She shakes her head. “It’s not yours, either. I know how much <<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira">>she means to you<<else>>you care about her—about everyone<</if>>.” “I just… I can’t bear the thought that she…” You draw in a deep breath to stabilize yourself.<<if $RVMira >= 14>> It doesn’t work. The next words emerge as a snotty mess.<</if>> “I have to apologize to her, have to let her know that I’m her friend no matter what world I’m from. That I didn’t mean to hurt her like that. That I took her for granted…” “I promise we’re going to find her.” “Thank you.” [[Get back to the search|Get back to the search]]<</if>>

Buoyed both emotionally and physically by Vanille’s stalwart presence, you rise from the bench and trudge onward through the streets of Orrault, navigating clear of the worst crowds and maintaining a steady, if slow, pace. Now that you’re paying attention, you notice temporary dwellings and other signs of the newly-arrived refugee population on almost every street corner—a handful of pitched tents or ramshackle lean-tos here, a clustering of bedraggled citizens and attentive city watch there. You’re mildly surprised to note that, despite the dire circumstances, the marquis does seem to be putting effort into providing for their basic necessities. No one looks malnourished or neglected. The worst you find are a few injuries, presumably sustained during the siege and well on the way to recovery. It’s meager solace for people who’ve lost—or otherwise been forced to leave behind—so much, but it’s something, at least. The two of you carry on for another block before a thought strikes, one particularly relevant to your current task. “Umm, Vanille,” you start awkwardly. “Where are we going?” “To find Mira,” the knight says without missing a beat. You hesitate. “Yeah, but… where?” A moment of uncomfortable silence passes before Vanille begrudgingly admits, “I haven’t gotten that far. I was sort of hoping I’d come up with a plan as we walked. Sorry.” “Oh. That’s alright.” You pause, then add, “I guess I never thought about what I’d actually do, either. I couldn’t just lay around any longer. I had to do… //something,// you know?” Vanille nods, considering. “We could try the city watch, I suppose. They might know if Mira’s gotten herself into trouble lately or—” She falters. “Err, I’m sure she’s fine, <<= $name>>. I didn’t mean to…” “No, no. It’s alright,” you say, burying a slight surge of anxiety at the thought of Mira being subjected to whatever passes as ‘jail’ in this world. Your fleeting window into Havendor’s legal system has thoroughly shattered any confidence that this kingdom might hold to a sane standard of criminal justice. Truth be told, you’re a bit surprised to hear Vanille floating the idea herself after your previous run-ins with Orrault’s authorities, but it’s better than anything you’ve got. “That sounds reasonable,” you finally say. “Do you have any idea where we’d go to ask about this sort of thing?” “The barracks nearest the city gate. It’s…” Vanille hesitates, getting her bearings. “It’s actually back the way we came.” <<linkreplace "Sounds about right">>Burying the pain under a sardonic grin, you turn right back around and begin your assisted hobble anew. On one hand, Orrault’s southern wall makes for an easy landmark, a constant presence in the city’s imposing skyline. On the other, it also reveals you have a very, //very// long way to go for what’s ultimately a limping crawl. You make it all of ten steps before your vision swims. The streets of Orrault ripple and sway like waves, pedestrians wobbling and dancing surreally. You blink, then shake your head, and the worst of it subsides. Vanille notices, but when you assuage her concerns, the two of you press on. Your stunted march carries you down one of the main boulevards where the increased traffic further impedes your anemic pace. Bustling crowds and ambling beasts of burden provide constant obstacles, and at one point Vanille has to practically carry you out of the way of an oncoming wagon. The moment you’re clear, she dutifully sets you back on your feet without a word of complaint. A second dizzying bout of vertigo strikes a few minutes later. You pitch and sway, the distant walls shimmering, vague and unfocussed. Vanille’s grip keeps you from keeling over entirely, and after a worryingly long moment, you finally recover enough to continue. <<link "You //have// to find her…" "So Dramatic">><</link>><</linkreplace>>

You barely make it another five steps before the world goes black. You’re falling—or at least that’s what your inner ear is telling you. Limbs flop in a maladroit, sluggish flail. Vanille shouts something—your name perhaps. A second arm clamps to your side, halting the freefall, pulling you into a firm hold. Vision slowly returns to find golden eyes staring down at you, echoing the same anxiety that aches through your every limb, gouges at your heart. A fresh warmth oozes from your chest. You lack the strength to confirm you’ve popped another stitch. You’re not sure you want to. An attempt to regain control of unresponsive legs ends in another vague shudder. Legs prove no better. You’ve burned your reserve—what little you had in the first place—and now you’re well and truly drained. Empty. Dead weight. “I… can’t,” you manage, words rising from your throat like bile. Vanille gives a solemn nod. She speaks, but the words flicker through mind, disjointed. “… want… go back?” You blink. //‘Want?’// You’re on the verge of unconsciousness. The only thing between you and a violent collision with unyielding cobblestones is Vanille’s steady grip. And she’s asking //you?// “Yes,” you eventually murmur, admitting defeat. “Please.” You barely utter the final word before your head lolls, and you slip into a deep and ominous void. [[Fade away…|Infantilism]]

<<timed 1s t8n>>The night is full of resting agony, yesterday’s brief, ill-advised trek costing far more than your body was ready to pay. A theurge visits the next morning to once again patch your weeping wounds. Despite the magic involved, the stitches are extraordinarily painful. As are the continued comments about your overall frailty and the fact that you seem to be made of ‘weaker stuff’ than any prior patients. The coddling and the piteous looks aren’t much better, especially not when you try to lift yourself from the bed on your own only to flop back down clutching your chest and panting. Mira’s absence is noticeable, her lack of bubbly cheer and impish antics a dark spot on your heart. <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>You miss the demi sleeping at the foot of your bed every night—or even sneaking under the covers to join you when she pleased. <</if>>You miss the weight and warmth of her during the long nights in this cruel, alien world. You miss those fuzzy ears, her fuzzy tail twitching in her sleep as she chased mouse girls through her presumably fuzzy dreams. It hurts to know she’s all alone. The presence of your companions does good things for your mood. Vanille’s return has given you renewed hope; the knight’s taken it upon herself to lead the search on your behalf. And you know that once she puts herself to a task, nothing can stop the golden woman. Hell, she was out all night, only having stopped by this morning to check on you and rally the troops. “I don’t wanna babysit <<= $xem>>,” Ashlyn gripes, though her feint doesn’t last long, as a moment later her eyebrows are waggling like crazy as she wears a teetering smirk. “I’m still //hunger//-over from whoring around last night—//I’d// rather be the one on my back instead of this guy. Besides, it’s Sherine’s turn to coil up in the doorway in case <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $xe>> tries<<else>><<= $xe>> try<</if>> to escape again—No, wait, it’s //your// turn, Vanille. You’re behind by, like, five days. You owe us—” Morning light suddenly floods the room. Ashlyn hisses as Vanille throws open the shutters, then glances sideways at the lamia. Sherine is apparently nonplussed by the mage’s jabs, her attention focussed on the knight. “We all owe <<= $xem>> for <<= $xir>> sacrifice,” Vanille chides. “You’re watching <<= $xem>> while Sherine and I go out searching for Mira today.” “Whatever, //mom,”// Ashlyn drones. She starts to build up for another tongue-lashing, but surrenders and slumps into her chair with a pout instead. You ignore the mage and pull the blanket up to your chest, then nod to Vanille. “Where are you going to look?” A modicum of hope stains your voice. “I, uhm,” Vanille starts, blinking away a few flakes of exhaustion. “I’ll keep checking rooftops… I- It should be easier in the daylight.” Sherine folds her hands elegantly, fingers hovering at her waist. Her garnet eyes sparkle in the morning light. “I’ll visit my contacts along Ravabon Street; there’s a few academics I know from my time as a translator at Gaumont. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few favors to have them spread the word to their students and the other faculty to be on the lookout for a black-haired feline demi.” //She… She knows people who are still alive? She didn’t eat them all?// Terminal horniness aside, this actually brings up an interesting point: is it rude to assume that apex predators have prior coworkers? Wouldn’t the hallmark of a ‘good’ predator be that they’ve already eaten everyone they know? Is it a point of pride to leave a long list of job vacancies in your wake? That’s exactly what happened to the late marquis who hired Sherine last. Mercifully, you aren’t paying the lamia to tag along on your quest. You shake your head. This doesn’t track. Sherine’s not callous in her treatment of potential meals. In fact, she’s been remarkably empathic with you on multiple occasions, this last week included. Reducing her to merely ‘a predator’ is discounting many facets of her admittedly inscrutable personality. You consider your interview with Melody the maid—No, not the part where she ate you. She shared an account of genuine friendship with Sherine, ostensibly fruitful and platonic. They even worked together for months without Melody winding up on the menu. Then again, many of the other maids weren’t so lucky. And Sherine actively denied there was anything between the two of them, so perhaps Melody’s ongoing existence is an anomalous blip on Sherine’s otherwise spotless predatory scorecard. With a sigh, you resign yourself to the fact that there’s no way you’re ever going to understand the social dynamics of this world. For now, you’re going to focus on learning to say the right things to keep you out of unfriendly stomachs. “Th- Thank you,” you finally manage to say to Sherine, bowing forward slightly. The gesture is worth the pain. “Really, you have no idea how much this means to me.” Her tantalizing smile reaches both ears—as always, Sherine is the epitome of warm and inviting. “Of course, <<= $name>>.” Despite only saying three words, she manages to weave an implicit //‘You can make it up to me later’// with her adroit tongue and silvery tone. A pang of remorse resonates in your heart. <<linkreplace "“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”">>“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Vanille wavers at the doorway, guilt and uncertainty waging war across her features as she stares you down, searching for words. Sherine slides forward and says the thing the knight can’t. “<<= $name>>, it’s wonderful to see you up and alert. And I know you want to help find Mira, but the best thing you can do for her right now is heal. Do you think she’d want to see you like this?” You blink in surprise, staring right past her and focussing on Vanille’s contorting face currently stricken by notes of horror. She’s not looking you in the eye. You realize where you’ve seen that look before. It was the same one Mira wore while standing watch outside your door; the same mask that kept her from coming to talk to you after the siege. You’re not sure how many steps you could manage today even with Vanille’s help, but bleeding all over her again will only bring more distress and anguish to the knight. Besides, climbing rooftops? That’s insane; you’re not ready for any of that. “No… you’re right. I need to get better. In my current condition, I’ll only slow you down.” “We’ll get you out there tomorrow, okay?” Vanille says, doing her level best to keep her tone from straying too far into piteous. It almost works. She’s getting better. “We’re gonna find her, I promise.” You nod. [[Watch them go|Turtle Flippn' Good]]<</linkreplace>><</timed>>

Your companions disappear down the hallway. Ashlyn flicks her wrist and the door //ka-thunks// shut. She trudges across the room to retrieve one of the many half-finished books from your nightstand. The mage thumbs through the titles, utterly disinterested and occasionally even disgusted, before giving up the search to groan about the room like a disgruntled ghost. She fiddles with the curtains for a moment, not bothering to check your preferences for the ambient light level, then slinks over to a high-backed chair, quivering and shaking from her self-professed hangover. Watching Ashlyn settle is like watching a cat—//no, pick a different animal//—a dog pad about in circles, around and around in search of the perfect spot: partially in the sun, but not in their eyes; facing the door just in case someone new comes along to offer head-scritches; tail draped lazily over the armrest. Except in the mage’s case, you’re pretty sure that sticking her ass over one side of the armchair while bending double to touch the floor isn’t for comfort’s sake. She //does// drool like a dog, though. You watch for a confused moment as lithe fingers crawl across the wooden floorboards, spidery. A clearing of your throat catches the mage’s attention. “Did you call spending time with me ‘babysitting?’” Ashlyn immediately rights herself. “I did. And on the off chance you’re into infantilism, I didn’t mean it as a compliment.” For the first time today, a wicked glint sparkles in her cosmic eyes. “Although… does getting shoved up a pussy do it for ya? I know a spell that can turn you back into an actual fetus. //Forever.”// You squirm, half tempted to pull the blanket over your head as torrid heat rises in your cheeks. “Is this what we’re doing today? Lewd banter?” The mage leans forward onto the bed, resting her chin atop folded hands and smiling like a demon. “I am always down to fuck.” “Uh, on the topic of fucking…” you say, keen to change the subject. “I recall you hitting on Gwen during the siege. Did you two…” <<if $Orrault7 != "Mira" && ($Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn")>>“What if we did?” she snaps back. “Just because you and I fucked, doesn’t mean I’m beholden to you from now—” “Woah, you don’t need to get defensive. I wasn’t expecting any sort of commitment. We’re consenting adults, and you’re your own woman. I respect that.” At least, you’re //usually// consenting. The kinky mage isn’t big on clear and enthusiastic consent… //Sometimes she’s big in other ways…// Welcome back, brain. It’s been a while. Ashlyn’s lips quirk to a smile. “How open-minded of you, <<= $name>>. Figured you’d be more reserved considering how you react when my tits come out.” “You can’t blame me for being surprised—you spring sexual nonsense on me without warning all the time. You’re a lot, Ashlyn.” “Damn right I am.” She nods proudly, then makes a very poor attempt at batting her eyelashes. “Still, I’m not going to answer your question. A girl’s gotta have her secrets.”<<else>>“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, eyes flashing.<</if>> The fact that Ashlyn’s being coy about this is deeply worrying. Maybe you should find a way to check up on Gwen— “I was on top; it was fucking great. We ate each other out for an hour. Her grip was so tight, I thought she’d tear my ass right off. That fox is so muscular, goddamn.” Nevermind. Gwen’s fine. You breathe out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you had fun. Wh—” “Seriously, I would die to those thighs. Combat-ready women are //so// much fun in bed, //especially// after a victory. All that pent-up bloodlust turns into lust-lust after you share a dozen mugs of beer. Fuck, man. I asked her to strangle the shit out of me during sex, and //holy shit// she delivered. I wish I still had the marks to show you, but they never last,” she reminisces with a wistful sigh. “When did you two hook up?” you manage, finishing your truncated thought. “The night after we brought you back here.” She sighs, then blinks at you. “Don’t look at me like that—you were dead. I figured I’d go celebrate.” <<linkreplace "“I didn’t //die,// Ashlyn.”">>You scoff. “I didn’t—” <<linkreplace "Didn’t…">>Didn’t… <<linkreplace "Oh no… ">>Oh no… <<linkreplace "Oh wait, oh fuck, //oh no.//">>Oh wait, oh fuck, //oh no.// Your blood flowed like rivers. Your chest erupted, organs and bone alike torn to ribbons. There was an explosion and then a //motherfucking white light.// You died. //You fucking died.// There was an oddly mocking voice waiting for you on the other side, blithely commenting on your existence as if amused by the abridged mishap that was your life. And then you came back. Did Vanille… //resurrect// you, somehow? Are you just so horny that you had to live long enough to be swallowed whole by a blonde before you died for real? Maybe this place //is// hell. Maybe you’re trapped in this stupid, illogical world with these insane people and their wack-ass anatomy, hedonistic murder-kinks, and the fucking magic. Ashlyn //snirks.// “Tell me: how was the great big belly in the sky? Was it everything you hoped it would be?” Your eyes cross. “N- No… I didn’t… Uhm, I need to ask: have you ever had a near-death experience?” The mage flinches, rising in disgust. “Oh fuck no, you’re asking the wrong person for help with your trauma—” “No, this isn’t that. It’s more, uh… technical?” //But thanks for being supportive<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>, bitch <</if>>.// Her eyes light up. “Oh?” It takes a moment to wrestle with the words, to decide how you’ll explain this without sounding like a complete nutjob. Then, you remember who you’re talking to. “After the explosion, I swear I heard a voice. It was… almost ethereal. Disembodied, somehow.” “Was it saying, //‘<<= $name>>, walk toward the light at the end of the throat’?”// “I’m being serious.” “So am I.” She thumps back down into her chair. “You lost most of your blood, and your chest, and a few un-sexy bones… You were in shock. Your brain was firing off in its last moments, making up stupid shit. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t get flashes of mouths, digestion, or something else you’re into.” Anxiety’s grip loosens around your heart. As insane as it is to conclude, Ashlyn might actually be right: you probably //did// hallucinate a lot of those fatal moments after the dragon tore you a new one. It’s not like you want to consciously think about those talons sinking into your flesh. No wonder your lizard brain wanted to show you something else, something more palatable. Thanks, brain. For real this time. “Maids?” Ashlyn continues, entirely unprompted. “I can go ‘borrow’ an outfit and dress up for you. Should I bring a ‘guest’ back with me?” You sigh. At the very least, it’s reassuring that Ashlyn seems to be taking your brush with death decently well. Her brow furrows. “You’re smiling. It’s disgusting—and trust me, I know gross: I watched the theurges reconstruct your bones last week.” You chuckle softly, then speak with all the warmth in your heart. “You ended up helping with my trauma, after all. Thanks.” She wretches. //“Ungh,// you’re the worst.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>> You and your ‘feelings.’ Fuck you.” “Fuck you, too,” you quip back at her with a shared chuckle. You gesture to your wounds as they start to itch.<<else>>” You ignore her, then gesture to your wounds as they start to itch.<</if>> “Emotions and memory and all that mental stuff seem to be the only things the theurges can’t fix. Magical healing is really amazing. Like you said, I was uh, hollowed out, and they put me back together without much trouble. It’s a miracle.” “Magic is //not// a miracle,” Ashlyn chides, suddenly stone sober. “No gods bequeathed arcane knowledge upon us. No, we figured that shit out ourselves; a millennia of practitioners and experimenters, shortened-lifetimes of failures and follies, the labor of tens of thousands of souls stretched across aeons, all just to create a mere pound of flesh, new and unspoiled and pure—glorious conjuration.” “Oh, so you know healing magic?” “Fuck no. Healing’s boring. Stitching things back together is for pussies. I don’t know any healing spells—Well, okay, that’s not true.” Ashlyn nabs the tall phial of healing potion standing on your desk. She flicks the cork away with a pop and a fizz, then lifts the spout up to her lips, tilting, threatening to guzzle your sweet, liquid relief. “I can enchant my tits to lactate out a potion I drink; here, suck on me, you’ll feel better,” she says, said tits already emerging from her bustier. [[Stare at her silently|Run to the Hills Plays in the Distance]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

“I can force you to grow new body parts. Like, a whole bunch. I guess that’s kinda like healing magic. More ‘generative’ than ‘re-generative,’ I suppose.” After a moment of fiddling, the mage decides to just toss away her top entirely. An azure droplet splashes on her bosom as she thunks the glass container back down, undrunk. A warm sparkle ignites upon her fingertips, eager magic sputtering. “The limbs are //sometimes// temporary. You want me to cast one on you now? You could use the third hand to jerk off—or whatever it is you do when I’m not looking.” Staring intently at her, you slowly say, “You have this very particular view of me, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.” She ignores you. “How about a second dick? Yeah, that sounds fun. Pull down your pants, I need to make sure the new one is bigger so you’ll be more conflicted about it. You want it on the side or on top of the current one? One or two sets of testicles?” “You kinda terrify me sometimes.” “Are you flirting with me?” She bites her lip. “Keep going. Tell me I’m a menace to society.” You eye her curiously. “If I do, will you teach me magic?” The mage deflates, then plops back into her chair. “No.” The room goes silent for a minute as you watch her pick up her clothing and stow her sexuality from sight. After, she leans back in her chair and reaches for a book, resigning herself to the text with a soft sigh. When it becomes apparent no further explanation is forthcoming, you blurt out, “What? Why not? Wouldn’t it be useful if there were two people in the party who could throw fireballs—” Ashlyn points an accusatory finger at you. “See, that’s exactly why I won’t teach you; you’re not gonna do anything interesting with it. Also, it’s a waste of my time. Magic takes years to learn, and you’re digestion-bound any day now. All these healing potions and shit? Totally pointless. In fact, teaching you anything, ever, is an exercise in futility. You are fodder. With your fetish and hilarious incompetence, there’s no way you’ll live long enough to produce offspring; your knowledge won’t be passed on—Well, unless I absorb you.”<<if $Orrault1 != "Ashlyn">> You blink at her. You’d be insulted if that last line weren’t so utterly stupefying. “I’m sorry, what?” She leans in, drawing a wet tongue from your collar all the way up to your ear. “Your bloodline ends with me, Dragonslayer.” You shove away the cackling witch. “No, not that part,” you protest, even as your brain demands to hear more. “I’m asking about the ‘absorbing my knowledge’ part—the fuck does that mean?” Ashlyn flashes a smug smile. “That’s what I do. I’m a Spell Eater. I eat people for their magic and mana.” “You gain their knowledge?” “By word of mouth, yeah.” She chuckles at her own pun for a moment too long. “Okay, it’s a bit more complicated than that. I don’t absorb every thought they’ve ever had or anything like that, but some of their somatic spell memories are extracted, if they have any. The actual way it happens is really cool if you want me to get into the minutiae about it—I had to undergo a lot of body transmutations to get my stomach acids to absorb the arcane essence of a person.” Her eyes flash. “Though I’m not above learning spells from other mages the ‘traditional’ way.” “Book learning?” you ask nervously. “Kidnapping. Torture. Kidnapping people //and then// torturing them—Do you know how many secrets have been spilled in these guts?” She smacks her stomach and smirks. “I make the Iron Maidens jealous.” You reel. “Please tell me that’s the name of a religious group, or something.” “No, they’re a famous band. Of adventurers.” It takes a moment to recover from the psychic damage, but when the mental pain subsides you find Ashlyn’s wicked smile waiting. She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you know about my particular brand of magic? I thought this was why you begged me to join your thruple.” You scoff. “That’s not even slightly what happened. You kinda just tagged along—No, scratch that, you slept in a doorway and I //literally// tripped over you.” “—Begging and pleading, tears in your eyes, desperate to surround yourself with sexy women who’ll swallow stuff at your command.”<</if>> You roll your eyes. “Can you at least teach me a simple anti-digestive incantation? Please, just something to keep me alive?” “Why? So you can splash around for longer before gettin’ sloshed? Perv.” “Fine,” you groan, desperately attempting to steer the conversation back to sanity. “If you won’t teach me, then can you at least use your magic to find Mira?” “No. Well, I //can,// but I won’t.” A huff of anger steams out your nose. “Why not?” “Because I don’t feel like it.” She glares back at you. “Quit your hissy fit. I’m not Vanille, you can’t bully me around with a guilt-trip. I’ve been here with you all week, changed the bloody bandages. Plus, I’ve seen your dick. You hold no power over me.” “I don’t ‘bully’ Vanille. How could I? She’s vastly stronger than me.” Ashlyn stares at you. “You’re kidding, right? How have you //not// noticed? She treats you with kid gloves, dude.” “What? No, our relationship is built on mutual respect.” She cackles. “No, it’s not.” <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>Heat rises in your chest, a molten ball<<else>>You stare, indignant<</if>>. “Oh damn, you’re serious,” the mage continues. “You think //I’m// a lunatic, but Vanille is //leagues// more fucked up. You don’t find it weird that she was gone for a week, and then just shows back up all of a sudden?” //“You// told me she was helping with the reconstruction outside the gates.” “That’s what I assumed, but…” Ashlyn sidles closer. “During the hoard, when we were running through the streets fighting, you //saw// her, right? Blade dripping with blood, armor splattered. Pure, unadulterated violence. It was… intimidating. Savage…”<<if $RVAshlyn >= 12>> //Kinda hot.// Wow, that’s a choice, brain.<</if>> Gwen’s words from the siege echo in your mind: //‘Vanille is ruthless… That woman has fury in her veins.’// Even the usually aloof fox demi seemed darkly wary of her sister in arms. Your rage fury slowly dissipates as the events of that day march through your memory. Those who stumbled in the battle, both humanoid and monster girl alike, were summarily devoured before expiring. Their actual deaths were invisible, final breaths buried under an impenetrable veil of flesh. And while you did indeed see quite a bit of violence and bloodshed wading through the chaos in the streets, Vanille was the only one actively committing //slaughter.// The brewery was marred by unspeakable carnage when you left, and it wasn’t from your fight with the cow taur… You remember the blood on her sword, her armor, her face. You remember vividly the //squelching// of her blade as it sank its fangs into one foe after another, ever thirsty, unquenchable. You shake away the sanguine memories. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.” Ashlyn shrugs, but her expression remains serious. “Look, I know a thing or two about what’s socially unacceptable. //That? What she did?// The people Vanille saved are gonna be quietly thankful, but they’re never gonna invite her into their homes. You don’t associate with a creature like that.” //“Creature?”// Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think Knifey’s what she says she is. Humans, elves, demis—even monster girls—don’t brutally cut down that many people in a day and walk away like it’s nothing. I think she’s…” She shakes her head. “You should be careful around her.” <<linkreplace "“What is she?”">>“What is she?” “I think she’s a ghoul in disguise, trying to pass as human. And I think that the real reason she was outside the walls for the past week was because she was eating the corpses and didn’t want to be seen.” Ashlyn quirks an eyebrow at you, goading. “You didn’t think about it when she stomped that scylla into paste? Or notice how she never gets tired? Hell, we all knew you shouldn’t have been out of bed yesterday, but she just dragged you up anyway. “And then you collapsed. Again. //So// dramatic, by the way. You gotta quit doing that to get out of situations you don’t want to be in. Start carrying smoke bombs like the rest of us.” That’s… categorically untrue and utterly absurd. Well, not the part about you collapsing. Or even the smoke bombs—Ashlyn might be onto something. But that batshit theory about Vanille? It’s more insane than usual for the mage. You’ve shared meals with Vanille—you all have. Sure, some of those meals involved meat, but you also had vegetables and starches and other not-a-dead-person foodstuffs over the past three weeks. She gets by on normal food just fine.<<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>> And you know from personal experience that she’s no fiend, that she’s warm and soft to the touch. Her breath smells of roses, not rot.<</if>> Also, she’s the most righteous and noble person you’ve met, especially for this world. Her ethics put your own to shame—what with your secret, sexy-murder kink. You trust her intentions completely. Ashlyn, on the other hand, gleefully feeds you nonsense on a whim. She has repeatedly exploited and mocked your unfamiliarity with this world, telling insane stories and anecdotes which have an equal chance of being fact or fiction. She has no respect for your personal boundaries or feelings and actively rejects any attempt on your part to be genuine with her. In fact, figuring out your fetish and then blackmailing you about it seemed primarily driven by her own desire for entertainment. Still, as much as it pains you to admit, the mage is right about one thing: Vanille shouldn’t have taken you out of bed yesterday. The strain and stress and subsequent passing out slowed your recovery. You might be up and about today—searching for Mira right now—if she’d assessed the situation and done the reasonable thing. Maybe it wasn’t the best call on Vanille’s part, but she was just trying to help. You pleaded for her to get you outside, you’re as much to blame. “You’re staring at me,” Ashlyn says, pulling you from your train of thought. Her brow furrows. “You’re wondering if I’d fuck a corpse. I don’t do necrophilia. Sorry, dude.” “No, I just think you’re being paranoid.” The mage smirks as her eyes light up with delight. “And I think she’s going to rip you limb from limb and devour your still-beating heart while you watch.” [[“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”|Magic Cat]]<</linkreplace>>

Ashlyn explodes in a fit of laughter, the raucous burst burning away the miasmatic haze of conspiracy and insanity in an instant. You can’t help but chuckle as she falls out of her chair, the rush of endorphins from delivering a knock-out punchline raising your spirits and eventually forcing you to join with a peel of tittering laughter, the joy of good humor eclipsing the agony of recovery. The shivery scowl of the past four days finally thaws as you smile. A faint hope blossoms. “Goddamn, you got me good there. You’re such a freak,” Ashlyn wheezes, catching her breath. “Alright, you’ve entertained me; I’ll attempt to look for your cat—with //magic!”// You roll your eyes as Ashlyn jerks off an imaginary dick. <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>“What do you want in exchange? Body fluids? I can bleed on you some more.” Ashlyn snickers as she produces little glass tubes from nowhere. “Actually, yes. I need your cum. Squirt one out in here.”<<else>>“Thank you.” Ashlyn snorts. “I haven’t done anything yet.” Worryingly, she offers a small, open vial. “Cum into this.”<</if>> “Excuse me?” <<if $Orrault7 != "Mira" && $MiraEvent4 != "bj" && $MiraDating == false && ($Orrault7 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" )>>“Mm, right, I’m a step ahead of myself. When’s the last time you had sex with Mira?” You blink at her, incredulous. “What? I’m not gonna get mad. I don’t expect you to keep your balls topped off at all times just for me.” “We already talked about—That’s not why I’m hesitating!” you stammer. “I just don’t understand what that has to do with anything.” Ashlyn sighs. “If I cast a tracking spell on your spunk, I can detect other places your spunk has been. Like, inside my mouth, or Mira, or…” She squints at your crotch, gaze sweeping along the bedsheets. “Maybe we should do this elsewhere.” “I didn’t have sex with her!” “Really? Why not?” Well, it’s certainly not for the demi’s lack of wanting. As you recall, she tried to drag you off the night before the siege for intercourse. Oh no… Maybe she’d still be here if you— No, stop that. Pity won’t bring her back. You steel yourself. “Do you have any other ideas to find her?” “Hmm. Well, how about the last time you’ve been in her stomach? Maybe I can form a link between the bi-gastric diffusion effect and track her that way…” Ashlyn trails off, eyes flitting across her notebook, quill etching obscure arcane markings on the rapidly filling page. She nods suddenly. “Okay, yeah, this might work—and you’re gonna love it. So, I’ve noticed a quirk in the gastric system, a near-imperceptible exchange of matter between predator and prey during digestion—even just sitting in chyme being un-sexily not-digested, there’s a little bit of give and take. She gets some of you, and you get a little bit of her—It’s heavily in her favor, but alchemy isn’t exactly a flawless discipline. You’re inextricably linked, at least until you recover what was lost. “Healing potions would normally clear that ‘marker,’ but as you’ve made excessively apparent these last few days, you regenerate really fucking slowly. So there’s a chance you still got some of her in ya.” “Wait, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “This doesn’t exactly feel… scientific. No offense.” The mage blinks. “Oh, you were actually listening. Everything I just said is utter nonsense. I’m just trying to hypothesize how to mimic an actual scrying spell—I’ve never done this before.” “I’m actually kinda surprised you don’t know a spell to spy on people. Isn’t that voyeurism? You’re not into that?” Her eyebrows waggle excitedly. “Why watch when you can do it yourself?” That’s reasonable. Ashlyn strums her fingers along the edge of her notebook. “Anyway, last time you were inside her?” “Okay, well…” you start, trying to remember your prior visits to Mira’s belly. A torrid blush rises on your cheeks. <<if $Orrault3 == true>>“When we first got to Orrault, Mira smuggled me in. I think that was the most recent time I was in her stomach.” “Oh yeah, that was hilarious. Y’know, I’d have—” “Trust me; it crossed my mind.” She cackles and turns back to her notebook. “Atta<<if $xe == "he">>boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>girl<<else>>-person<</if>>.”<<elseif $MiraEvent2 == true>>“Erm, like, three weeks ago, she licked all the honey off me after we escaped the beegirl hive—the Whispered Archives, that was the name. And she… got carried away and ended up swallowing me whole.” “That’s the stupidest ploy I’ve ever heard anyone fall for. She tricked you that easily?” Ashlyn shakes her head and rolls her eyes, turning her focus back to the notebook in her lap. “You’re lucky the feline wasn’t playing for keeps.”<<else>>“I’m pretty sure the last time I was in her stomach was right before leaving Icilia—Oh uh, you weren’t with us yet, but Vanille told Mira to ‘keep me safe,’ and she—” Ashlyn snorts. “I love the way that demi thinks. Always with her stomach,” she sighs, turning back to her notebook.<</if>><<elseif $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $MiraEvent4 == "bj">>“You had sex with Mira, yeah?” she asks giddily. “If she’s got some of your spunk in her still, I can try to track her by forming a sympathetic link.” You blink at Ashlyn, incredulous. She waves the tube at you and squeals like a gremlin. //“Give, give! Give me your seed!”// “No! You’re probably just gonna drink it or something weird.” “Yeah, I’d have had a taste when you weren’t looking.” Ashlyn chuckles. “Fine, when was the last time you were inside her?” “Okay, well…” you start, trying to remember. A torrid blush rises on your cheeks. <<if $Orrault7 == "Mira">>“We… might have had sex the night before the siege—” A fiery mote bursts to life in Ashlyn’s palm. Her eyes crackle like furious lighting. “Did you take care of her needs, too?” “Y- Yes. Of course!” The spell fizzles. “Good<<if $xe == "he">> boy<<elseif $xe == "she">> girl<</if>>,” she says as she turns her attention to her notebook, scratching a few marks on an empty page.<<else>>“Uhm… The night after the scylla, we went to that spa and she… uhm…” //There’s no polite way to put this.// “She gave me a blowjob.” “Oh, damn. Remind me to start saving your life more often. I want free head.” “That’s not why—Goddamnit, Ashlyn.” The mage simply giggles like a gremlin as she scratches a few notes in her notebook.<</if>><<else>>“Mm, good point: you have no game.” “What?” you bark, confused. “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.” “I was gonna try to sympathetically link your spunk, but, since you haven’t actually put any in her, that’s not going to work.” You roll your eyes and power through the insults. “Is there any other way?” “Hmm. Well, when was the last time you’ve been in her stomach? Maybe I can form a link between the bi-gastric diffusion and track her that way…” Ashlyn trails off, eyes flitting across her notebook, quill etching obscure arcane markings on the rapidly filling page. She nods suddenly. “Okay, yeah, this might work—and you’re gonna love it. So, I’ve noticed a quirk in the gastric system, a near-imperceptible exchange of matter between predator and prey during digestion—even just sitting in chyme being un-sexily not-digested, there’s a little bit of give and take. She gets some of you, and you get a little bit of her—It’s heavily in her favor, but alchemy isn’t exactly a flawless discipline. You’re inextricably linked, at least until you recover what was lost. “Healing potions would normally clear that ‘marker,’ but as you’ve made excessively apparent these last few days, you regenerate really fucking slowly. So there’s a chance you still got some of her stank in ya.” “Wait, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “This doesn’t exactly feel… scientific. No offense.” The mage blinks. “Oh, you were actually listening. Everything I just said is utter nonsense. I’m just trying to hypothesize how to mimic an actual scrying spell—I’ve never done this before.” You sigh and try to remember the last time you were in Mira’s belly. A torrid blush rises on your cheeks. Even if this is just conjecture, it’s worth the embarrassment if there’s a chance it’ll help find her. <<if $MiraEvent4 == "nom">>“Uhm… The night after the scylla, we went to that spa and she… ate me in the tub.” Now that you’re thinking of it, Mira //definitely// got a piece of you that night. Her stomach hadn’t cooled after the mage cast that instant-digestion spell on her to deal with the frog in the undercity… Goddamn that’s a confusing situation. How are you going to explain this while maintaining your dignity— You turn to find Ashlyn’s glare attempting to bore a hole right through your skull. “What?” you murmur, trying to hide under the bed sheet. “You dorks bathed together, but you didn’t fuck? What the shit!?” “Fuck off. It was a beautiful and romantic evening.” The mage gags, then turns back to her notebook. “You’re utterly disgusting, waving that flaccid sentimentality around.”<<elseif $Orrault3 == true>>“When we first got to Orrault, Mira smuggled me past the toll. I think that was the most recent time I was in her stomach.” “Oh yeah, that was hilarious.” Her eyes scan your body, assessing. “Y’know, you could have hidden in my—” “Trust me; it crossed my mind.” She cackles. “Atta<<if $xe == "he">>boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>girl<<else>>-person<</if>>.”<<elseif $MiraEvent2 == true>>“Erm, like, three weeks ago, she licked all the honey off me after we escaped the beegirl hive—The Whispered Archives, that was the name. And she… got carried away and ended up swallowing me whole.” “That’s the stupidest ploy I’ve ever heard anyone fall for. She tricked you that easily?” Ashlyn shakes her head and rolls her eyes, turning her focus back to the notebook in her lap. “You’re lucky the feline wasn’t playing for keeps.”<<else>>“I’m pretty sure the last time I was in her stomach was right before leaving Icilia—Oh uh, you weren’t with us yet, but Vanille told Mira to ‘keep me safe,’ and she—” Ashlyn snorts. “I love the way that demi thinks. Always with her stomach,” she sighs, turning back to her notebook.<</if>><</if>> A minute passes in near-silence as the mage’s quill flows across the page. Then another minute. You watch her work, quietly twiddling your thumbs in your lap, not daring to interrupt the mage’s focus. All this talk about Mira strains and twists your heart in unexpected ways, but actually saying some of it out loud has helped. You weren’t particularly looking forward to being bedridden today, but Ashlyn has made it… tolerable. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do,” she finally says. The quill disappears with a wave of a hand. “No promises, but it should be an interesting experiment.” “I understand. Th- Thank you.” “You owe me for this, by the way. And for my help during the siege—I don’t just spin my wheels for anyone, you know.” You nod fervently. “I know. You are fantastic.” “Damn right.” She rises from her chair and stows her tome between her cleavage for safekeeping. You’re settling back against the stack of pillows when you notice she’s staring at you. She clicks her tongue. “There actually //is// something else you can do to help find Mira.” You hastily sit up. “Tell me.” Ashlyn reaches into her bosom, rooting around for an unknown item. “You got any coins on ya? Empty your pockets and put ‘em in here,” she explains as an open coin purse appears in her hand. <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>Immediately suspicious, you take no action except to raise an eyebrow. “Why? Are you collecting more drinking money?” “Ye—I mean, //nooo.”// Ashlyn smirks. <<else>>Your silver piece //plinks// eagerly into the pouch. “What do you have in mind?” <</if>>“I’m gonna leave a big ol’ bag of money outside the door, then snare <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>your pet<<else>>the cat<</if>> when she inevitably comes to steal it.” “I don’t think that’ll work,” you say, hope dashed. Unswayed, the mage continues. “Cat nip? A bowl of kibble—Oh, oh! I can shrink you and slather you in fish, then dangle you out the window like bait on a hook. Just reel her in,” she says with a little pantomime, her rod-holding technique rather, uhm… //interesting.// “And, y’know, if she gets ya and the line breaks, you’ll still be reunited.” “Ashlyn, I can tell you’re trying to cheer me up, but you kinda suck at it.” The mage scoffs. “I’m not doing that. I’m //trying// to segue out of this conversation so I can perform the spell in peace.” “Is it working?” “Apparently not.” Ashlyn harrumphs. “Guess I’ll have to switch over to ‘physical’ therapy.” The mage pounces as you flinch—you absolute fool. “Oh relax, the blood clears from your urine after a day or two.” [[Now would be a good time for that smoke bomb…|watch your divored parents argue]]

<<timed 1s t8n>>The next day begins a little late for you, having finally caught a stretch of good sleep. You’d be annoyed that nobody woke you up, but the triumphant fact that you’re on your feet within minutes of regaining consciousness is compensation enough. Sherine is more than happy to help you into a fresh change of clothes—though even with her help, raising your arms above your head hurts like a bitch. At least the assist is hardly any trouble at all for a woman who can telescope herself vertically on a whim. A theurge visits and doesn’t clear you for physical activity. Fortunately, Ashlyn appears next, disheveled as ever, and starts screeching at the doctor until he backs down, instead leaving you with a potent brew that ‘ought to keep you upright’ for a few hours. It tastes like shit—and Ashlyn claims it’s highly flammable—but at least she doesn’t threaten to breastfeed it to you, so that’s nice. Sherine sniffs at the empty bottle with a look of curated distaste, then sets the flask aside. “<<= $name>>, how are you feeling? You look spry.” “Honestly, I feel pretty damn good for someone who didn’t have a ribcage last week.” You offer a hopeful smile. “How’d things go yesterday?” “Well enough, I’d say. I flirted with the faculty at the academy and they seemed amenable to lending eyes and ears to find our absent friend.” “Thank you.” “Of course.” She does something akin to a curtsy, though it’s a more casual gesture considering she doesn’t cross her legs. “I know I’m a bit late to join your group, but I do quite enjoy Mira’s presence. It’s been… mirthless without her.” A twinge of sorrow darkens your heart. You steel yourself, then lurch as the door swings open. “Sherine, how is—” Vanille, still wearing her armor, stumbles in looking every bit as disheveled as the mage. Perhaps more. Dark rings hang under her eyes as she blinks recognition of the room, though her expression lights up when she sees you standing on your own two feet. A quick shuffle and a hug—and a strong whiff of sweat; she needs to shower—finds her at your side. She turns next to your other companions. “Ah, Ashlyn, you’re here. Good. How’d the spell go?” “Hmm? What?” It takes the mage a moment to shake the sleep from her eyes, but eventually she shrugs. “Oh. Didn’t find her. No dice.” “What are you going to try next?” “Waking up.” Ashlyn rubs her eyes and yawns. “Perhaps breakfast.” “You slept?” You look at Vanille, curiously, then murmur, //“You didn’t?”// //“I’m fine, I’m fine.”// The mage saunters across the room and leans against the far wall. “Yeah, I’m mana-drained from coming up with a spell on the fly and wandering around trying to use it…” She flips a hand through her fiery hair. “Besides, I need my beauty sleep.” “You should be doing more,” Vanille insists. “In fact, you should have started looking after Mira left. You know how important she is.” Sherine chimes in diplomatically. “<<= $name>> needed us most. We—” //“After Mira left?”// Ashlyn barks at the knight. “Oh, you mean like how //you// disappeared for a week?” “I- I was out there with the horde—” Vanille stomps forward. “Helping with—I figured you’d be able to think about someone other than yourself.” The mage scoffs. “I have no idea where you got that impression. I’m a selfish asshole.” Another stomp. “Be that as it may, what are you going to do to help //now?”// Ashlyn casts a sideways smirk at you. “Uhh, well, I had an idea about a bag of gold on a fishing hook…” //Crack!// You and Sherine jolt as the knight slams her fist inches from Ashlyn’s head, wood splintering under furious knuckles. Vanille pushes the other woman up against the wall. //“Harder,”// the mage churrs as she leans forward for a kiss. Vanille releases her and steps back to avoid Ashlyn’s puckered lips. “What the fuck is wrong with you? <<= $name>> asked for your help. Take this seriously.” “Why? Don’t pretend you aren’t also being selfish—You all are only thinking about yourselves. Why hasn’t anybody asked what //Mira// wants?” “We can’t ask her because she’s not here!” “The cat knows where to find us. It’s been days.” Ashlyn levels an accusatory finger in your direction. “Mira clearly doesn’t want to see <<= $xem>>.” <<if $RVMira >= 11>>Something new flares in your chest, pain unfamiliar. Rage, hot and volatile as a nuclear reactor. Vanille, visibly trembling, speaks before you can lash out.<<else>>A veil of guilt settles over your chest, cold and familiar. Vanille stomps forward, visibly trembling.<</if>> “Which is why the rest of us have to—” “Come //on,”// Ashlyn barks, brow furrowed. “Vanille, you’re better than this, better than being <<= $name>>’s simpering lapdog. Focusing all our effort on finding Mira is both a futile endeavor and a bad call. Ungh, why am I the only one who gets this—I fucking //hate// being the voice of reason.” Ashlyn raises a fist to keep count of her points, starting with her middle finger first because she’s a petty bitch. “First, we’re supposed to be looking for those gemstones, right? The Echoes? That’s what you and <<= $name>> set out to do, and staying here is putting an indefinite hold on that. Which I don’t actually care about, but waiting here is a stupid choice because, secondly, if you’ve actually been outside the walls, if you’ve actually been out and about ‘helping’ people, you’d have heard by now that the roads around Orrault—fuck, all over Havendor—are getting more and more dangerous by the day with the scattered remnants of the horde running free. Worse, the marquis is closing ranks, hunkering down; she isn’t doing shit to prevent any new incursions from the north. The more you wait, the harder your ‘all-important quest’ is gonna be going forward. “Which, third, brings us back to Mira. This is a feline demi we’re talking about. Picking her out of a crowd is already an impossible task—there’s gotta be hundreds of black-haired demis with pointed ears in the city. Also, and I can’t believe I have to remind you dimwits, but Mira is a thief. A good one. She’s used to being on the run, moving unseen, and being hard to find.” “She’s also our friend,” Vanille says, stalwart. “We’re not just going to abandon her.” “Abandon?” Ashlyn scoffs. “You’re acting like she wasn’t already a stray.” “Ashlyn,” Sherine interjects, half reproach and half warning. “I know Knifey here was ‘busy,’ but Mira //ran.// She’s out there by choice. She left us. Left <<= $xem>>.” @@color:grey;“I hate you!” Mira’s voice lashes out from the deepest recesses of your mind.@@ You recoil as if struck, a lance of cold dread piercing your chest. A possibility manifests, one you’d hardly dared to consider—you find Mira at long last, <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>apologize to her<<else>>say… whatever it is you’re going to say<</if>>, explain you never meant to hurt her or lie to her. And it won’t matter. Once you’ve said your piece, she’ll want nothing to do with you. She’ll leave again. And that’ll be the end of it—you’ll never see her again. After the anguish you brought her, after the tears she shed, maybe Mira would be happier without you… A gentle pressure around your fingers catches you off guard. Sherine takes your hand in her own, a gentle warmth and presence nudging at your side. She smiles, deep eyes all-encompassing. You nod and squeeze back. “I don’t care!” Vanille thunders, pulling your attention back to the ongoing argument. “Maybe you should,” Ashlyn retorts. “We need to find Mira. Make sure she’s okay. <<= $name>> needs—” “Yep. There it is,” Ashlyn taunts smarmily. “You can just admit to sucking <<= $xir>> dick, it’s fine. I’d do it. But don’t fucking lie to me, don’t pretend this is about an obligation to help Mira. Either stand up for yourself, or shut the fuck up and let the adults make the decisions.” A torrent of fury ripples through Vanille and lingers at her twitching fingers. She seethes, trembling in silence. All eyes watch her swaying fists dangling at her sides, the hilt of her weapon primed at her waist. Sherine’s the first to break the silence. “That was uncalled for, Ashlyn.” The mage fixes the lamia with an indignant gaze. She hesitates, then shrugs. “Whatever. I’m off to shrink and grab breakfast. <<= $name>>, you want anyone? Girl or boy?” “I sometimes forget that you’re a bitch,” Vanille growls. “I’ll try to remind you more often,” Ashlyn jeers. “Toodles.” The door thunks shut, leaving the three of you with breathless incredulity. [[… Fuck|Vanille is fine, stop asking]]<</timed>>

“Don’t worry about her,” Sherine starts, comforting. “She’ll come around. I think Ashlyn just needs to rebel from time to time. It’s her nature.” Vanille turns. “I don’t—” <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>She collapses. You lunge, a peel of agony bursting in your chest as Vanille’s full weight slumps against you. You crumble gracelessly to the ground together, only narrowly avoiding slamming the knight’s head against the nearby furniture.<<else>>Sherine lunges forward like a striking viper, catching the knight as she collapses. Her body wraps and coils in the blink of an eye, gently easing Vanille to the ground.<</if>> “Are you alright!?” both you and Sherine ask, huddling over the fallen woman, frantically searching for injuries. Vanille sucks in a deep breath, then blinks, astonished to suddenly be on the floor. “Wha…? Yeah, I’m…” She tries to rise, only to slump back down uselessly. “Sorry, just a little tired is all. I’m fine.” “You’re clearly not fine,” you say, locking wrists and yanking her upright. Sherine takes the other arm and pulls Vanille back onto unstable feet. “When’s the last time you slept?” “Uhm…” Vanille trails off, eyelids heavy. Watching her do the mental math is painful, to say the least. She finally nods, then asks, “When was the siege?” “Vanille!” The knight resists as you and Sherine urge her toward the bed. “I’m okay, really. I was gonna sleep after I came back to check on you, but, Mira’s still—I can keep going, keep looking for her.” “You need to rest,” you demand as you seat her down on the edge of the bed, ruffling the blankets and pillows. Vanille rises. “But she’s—” You push her back down with considerable effort. “I’m going to go look for her today.” “But, you’re—” “I finally feel good enough to stand on my own. For real this time,” you say gesturing to your stable legs and not-bleeding chest. Strain streaks across her face as she grasps for the words. “You shouldn’t be out there alone, I can’t watch after you.” She’s got a point, even if admitting it is a blow to your ego. Aside from having someone at your side with whom you can commiserate, you //need// a chaperone while searching the city. It’s simply not safe for you to be talking to strangers, especially around lunchtime. “I’ll accompany <<= $xem>>,” Sherine chimes in. “Are you sure?” you ask. “I was going to keep asking around, and I would appreciate the company,” Sherine assures Vanille. “I promise I’ll look after <<= $xem>>. Besides, <<= $name>> could use the opportunity to unwind. <<= $Xes>> been cooped up in here for quite a while.” Vanille hesitates, assessing the lamia, fading eyes sweeping along the snake half of her body. The knight lets out a long sigh, then a slow nod. “O- Okay. Don’t let <<= $xem>>—” You interrupt her. “Sherine’s stronger than all of us combined. I’m in good hands, don’t worry.” Vanille shifts on the bed, sloppily pulling a pillow against her face. “I’m sorry… I’ll be at it in a bit… back on the rooftops,” she groans. “I checked the southeast…” She passes out before giving any more details. You and Sherine share a nod, then slip quietly from the room. [[Leave the inn|Slither This Way]]

“So, uhh… Where are we actually going?” you ask as the tavern door thunks closed at your back.<<if $Amberglen == "Mira">> “Anything I should be looking out for?” @@color:grey;“Clues!” Mira cheers in your memories.@@ You shudder.<</if>> Sherine slithers a few feet ahead, then glances over her shoulder. “I was thinking we’d start with Mary and Rose. It’s a teahouse, an old favorite of mine before I entered Marquis Preston’s employ. I should still be on friendly terms with the owners.” “Don’t tell me they’re actually named—” “Mary and Rose, yes.” She gives a warm smile as you step to her side and match the lamia’s relaxed pace. “Cute couple. And they’ve made quite a name for themselves attracting some of Orrault’s more affluent socialites—or anyone who’s looking for a place to spend an hour or two somewhere comfortable and quiet.” You hesitate, glancing down at your own relatively bedraggled tunic and trousers. Sherine’s not much better dressed admittedly, but she’s, y’know… Sherine. She looks good in anything; you look like a third-rate Renaissance Fair attendee. Sherine lets out a gentle laugh, apparently noticing your concern. “Don’t worry, it’s not //that// high-class.” You’re not entirely placated, but you decide to keep any further misgivings to yourself as you embark upon the main boulevard and begin charting a course northward. To your pleasant surprise, the late-morning traffic doesn’t seem to be that bad today, leaving you with a relatively relaxed walk past what’s rapidly becoming a familiar medley of landmarks and signposts—not that you really need to worry about navigation following in Sherine’s, err… footsteps? Before you can settle into a quiet and comfortable march, a nagging voice in the back of your mind compels you to speak. You take a moment to gather your thoughts, then clear your throat. “D- Do you think that argument between Ashlyn and Vanille is going to be a problem?” “I wouldn’t worry—those two are diametrically opposed and might never be fully compatible. But they both know how to put aside their differences and work together, I’ve seen as much. Vanille will apologize eventually, she just needs time.” <<linkreplace "She did escalate it…">><<replace "#choices">>You sigh. “Vanille escalated things unnecessarily, yeah. Ashlyn helped me with magic yesterday, even if it took some persuading. Giving her time today to be herself would have been the right call. She’s…” “A free spirit,” Sherine provides. “She does as she pleases. I respect that.” “Yeah. You just gotta engage her the right way, provide her with a puzzle, or a joke.” Relief escapes from your sore chest in a huff. “You’re right. She and Vanille will be fine.” <<include "Hisss">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Wait, //Vanille?//">><<replace "#choices">>“Ashlyn was being pretty flippant and callous. What did Vanille do wrong?” “Tried to hold Ashlyn to an unreasonable standard, instead of meeting her where she is. She was pushy with someone who doesn’t respond to authority.” A finger swirls near Sherine’s brow. “Ashlyn’s been… a bit stir crazy this past week—she tried to rope me into a magical experiment.” “Really?” “She wanted to reverse-engineer one of the healing potions the theurges were using on you, to work out a way for her own magic to replicate the effect—she talked about your injuries for five hours straight.” The lamia pauses to adjust her tone to one of strained patience—exactly the same tone you usually use when dealing with Ashlyn. “She cares, <<= $name>>, in her own way. Vanille cares, too. They’re just… going about it differently.” You nod. “I should’ve understood that sooner. You’re right; they’ll be fine.” <<include "Hisss">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“Seeing you back on your feet today and tomorrow will boost morale and stabilize both of them,” the lamia offers. “I know it’s already doing wonders for me.” You blush. “Thank you.” A few steps—slithers, etcetera—pass in silence before Sherine speaks again. “May I ask you a question, <<= $name>>?” “Of course.” “Are you comfortable with the way she treats you?” “I mean, Ashlyn can be a bit much sometimes. And the way she makes everything sexual is somewhat off-putting.” “I wasn’t talking about her.” “Oh…” You furrow your brow. “Vanille? How do you mean?” “She doesn’t seem to trust you to do things on your own.” “Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s more practical,” you explain hastily. “She’s afraid someone’s going to eat me. A- And I mean, she’s right: I seem to attract all types of predators.” You and Sherine share a long, appraising look. “I suppose I should be flattered that she extends her trust to me, then.”<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">> The lamia leans in close, an arm curling around your own as her lips grace your burning ear. “I do understand where she’s coming from though: //you are delicious.”// [[Laugh nervously|Monster Racism? In MY VORE STORY???]]<<else>> [[Agree|Monster Racism? In MY VORE STORY???]]<</if>>

You walk the next block in quiet comfort, wordlessly basking in one another’s presence, eyes keen for any hints or clues as to Mira’s whereabouts. The streets of Orrault seem relatively sparse today, though perhaps the midday crowds are simply drawn to other districts. Despite having technically spent two weeks behind these walls, you really haven’t learned much about the ebb and flow of city life. In your defense, you’ve been busy. “Hey, Sherine. I… I just wanted to say thanks. For sticking around.” “Of course,” she says, nonchalant. “I mean it,” you insist. “You didn’t have to stay for the siege; I’m sure you could’ve found a way out of that barracks on your own. And then all that time I was bedridden and useless. I really appreciate you being here, even if… even if I’m not the best at expressing it.” Sherine shakes her head. “You’re too hard on yourself, <<= $name>>. You’ve been through a lot in the past two weeks, more than some experience in a lifetime.” “I… I guess, but—” “No excuses. You fought valiantly, wounded a dragon, and saved a great many lives in the process. You suffered a grave injury and are recovering as fast as can be expected—faster, even.” You’re just self-aware enough to understand she’s being charitable in ways you don’t deserve. You spent yesterday in bed because of your recklessness the day before—the second time you’ve actively impeded your own recovery. If Sherine and Ashlyn hadn’t maintained a diligent watch, there probably would’ve been a third. But voicing that now isn’t going to accomplish anything. Better to gracefully accept the lamia’s kind words and move on. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t—” You rattle to an abrupt stop, realizing you glossed over a very important word. “Wait. //‘Wounded// a dragon?’” Sherine gives you a curious grin. “Oh, <<= $name>>. You didn’t actually think you slayed a dragon with //fire,// did you?” “You didn’t see the explosion.” “I saw the crater.” You deflate. “I, uhm—” “Defeated, yes. Injured, perhaps. But //killed?”// The lamia shakes her head. “You’ll need something more to bring down a creature like that. She probably retreated with the other survivors, though where exactly they’ve gone I can only guess.” “Oh…” You trail off, nursing a kernel of dread in the pit of your stomach. “Should I be worried? Is she gonna come looking for, err… revenge?” “I wouldn’t. Dragons are prideful—vain, even—but I doubt one would hold a grudge against a human.” “Why’s that?” “Your kind are…” Sherine hesitates, lips quirking to an odd frown. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but dragons live for a very, //very// long time. A human is, by comparison, unimportant. Fleeting. Dragons can absolutely hold a grudge. Against cities, kingdoms—one of their own kind, perhaps. But a single <<if $xe == "he">>man<<elseif $xe == "she">>woman<<else>>person<</if>>? I sincerely doubt you need to worry.” “Okay. That’s, uhh… That’s good.” The lamia glances at you for a long, appraising moment. “What did she look like?” You blink. “What?” “The dragon. There aren’t many of them around these days. There’s a reasonable chance I’ve heard of her.” “Oh. Uhh, sure. She had…” You hesitate for reasons you can’t quite understand. You know perfectly well what the dragon looked—//looks// like. You see flashes of her every time you close your eyes. “Dark scales. Obsidian, I think. They had this… purplish sheen to them. Black horns as well. She wore bits of plate armor, not a full set or anything. The rest of her skin looked fairly pale-pink—the parts of her that weren’t scales, I mean. Maybe a bit tanned, but it definitely stood out against the obsidian.” “What about her wings?” “Her wings? Umm… I didn’t really get a good look at them. I think they were dark. That’s about it.” Sherine hums pensively. “Anything else you can remember?” “Not really,” you admit. “She was big and terrifying, all claws and fire and—” “Fire?” the lamia interjects. “She was breathing fire?” “Yeah, I’m sure. She’s probably the one who started that fire in the gate town.” “I’d say you met Naeryndam Xyrrori’mari’neiros.” The syllables roll off Sherine’s tongue with natural ease—a strange affectation for what, to your untrained ears, sounded like absolute gibberish. You frown. “That’s a mouthful.” “A name given by your kind, if historians are to be believed. An old tongue from an empire long past. It translates to ‘Flame of the North; Endless Night; the Ebon Death.’” “That’s, uhh…” “Dramatic, yes.” She cracks a slight grin. “I prefer her Monish name: Freya.” “Definitely more manageable,” you mutter. “Don’t suppose you know anything else about her? Anything that might explain why she seemed so keen on ransacking Orrault?” “Just stories. Legends, more so. Like most of her kind, Freya claimed a domain—an entire mountain range far to the north as I understand it—and largely kept to herself save for when the odd, profoundly foolish monster decided to test their luck.” Sherine hesitates, lips curled to a pensive frown. “I think it’s safe to say she was the leader of that horde.” “Oh?” “It’s a reasonable assumption, unless you saw another, larger dragon stomping around during the battle.” The lamia lets out a slight laugh. “But it’s more than that. The strategy—a show of force at the wall, all to distract from a killing blow delivered when least expected. Clever and ruthless. That’s Freya.” A chill crawls down your spine, agonizingly slow. You certainly remember her ruthlessness. “I, uhh… Yeah, I can see that.” After a moment’s thought, you add, “But you said dragons usually keep to themselves, right?” Sherine nods. “Usually, yes. Being both violently territorial and habitually asocial is a potent recipe for a reclusive life.” “So what’s one of them doing leading a horde? Doesn’t that kinda seem like the other end of the spectrum?” “It does,” the lamia hums. “I suppose things must’ve changed after—” “Traitor!” The sudden outburst shatters the steady hum and bustle of the avenue as you lurch to a stop. A sweeping glance finds a man in disheveled clothes stumbling from the crowd, bloodshot eyes peering from beneath a mop of tangled black and staring right into your own. “Spy! Rat! Treasonous witch!” he rattles, a faint slur tinging his every word. It takes a confused moment to realize his ire isn’t directed at you; he’s looking at Sherine. “She’s the enemy!” the man blurts out, leveling a wavering—if no less accusatory—finger. “Selling secrets! Trading lies!” The commotion earns a small gathering of wary onlookers, mostly fellow pedestrians who’ve begun to give the drunken man a wide berth as he continues his rant. “Look at her!” he bellows, attempting to lurch forward and nearly stumbling over his own feet. “She’s one of //them!// Living here with the rest of us! Like she belongs!” You dare a quick look at Sherine to find the lamia regarding her accuser with an expression of utter passivity, almost indifference. As if the rambled words are worth less than the air they take to speak. As if she’s heard the same and worse a dozen times. You expect her to scoff, to laugh, even—to mock the madman with the scorn and derision he deserves. And yet some animalistic and primal part of your brain recoils. Sherine is a dangerous predator, wound tight and prepared to strike at the right provocation. And that drunken fool, poking and prodding, stands a mere twenty feet away. The lamia could close that distance in a second. Two more and he’d be gone forever, little more than an ephemeral swell of scales. You blink and shake your head. The moment of apprehension passes, and you glance back to find another man has stepped to the accuser’s side. The newcomer places a hesitant hand on his shoulder, only to be swatted away. “We never should’ve trusted them!” the drunkard shouts. “If it wasn’t for her kind, we’d still have the farm! And now look at us!” You wince, realizing you’re almost certainly looking at one of the refugees from beyond the city’s walls. Did he flee during the initial battle, or was he forced to abandon his farm in the aftermath? Has he lost friends? Family? A chorus of murmurs echo through the surrounding crowds, a mixture of agitated hums, disapproving hisses, and even the odd whisper of hesitant curiosity. Of the dozen or so people who’ve stopped to watch the unfolding spectacle, no one seems particularly keen to outright agree with the man. Yet you can’t help but notice none actively speak against him, either. “Godsdamned monster,” he slurs, fury ebbing into a more subdued drunken stupor. He opens his lips once more, then suddenly pitches sideways. The arms of his companion narrowly save him from a pitiful fall to the cobblestones. The two quickly withdraw, leaving you and Sherine to stand in awkward silence. A dozen sets of eyes watch you curiously. Others avert their gaze yet linger at the periphery, waiting. Do they expect some sort of response, a refutation to the man’s outlandish claims? Some sort of meaningful conclusion or closure to the abrupt outburst? Sherine offers neither, instead resuming her slither northward without so much as a word. Sparse crowds part like waves before a ship’s prow, and it takes a stunned moment for you to remember to follow in her wake. [[Catch up with Sherine|Catch up with Sherine]]

“Sherine?” you ask as you reach the lamia’s side, then again. “Hey, Sherine. You alright?” She gives you a brief glance, hardly slowing her forward march. “I’m flattered that you’re worried about me, but I assure you it takes more than a drunken screed to get under my skin.” She shrugs, a slight grin curling at her lips. “I guess, sure. But…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “Do you deal with that sort of thing a lot?” “I’m no stranger to unsolicited attention, if that’s what you mean.” “It’s not, and you know it.” Her lips part, then abruptly shut, quashing what you assume was another blithe remark. Instead, she continues on, leaving you to walk at her side and wait patiently. You’re not going to force an answer out of her, even if you wanted to. Just when you’re firmly convinced the rest of the trip is bound to pass in silence, she finally speaks. “After the trial, there were one or two. About what you’d expect: accusations that I’d seduced the former marquis—well, //both// marquises—for my own gain, that I’d knowingly embarrassed the city’s rulers and, by proxy, the city itself. I’d almost admire the courage if it hadn’t been conveyed through petty indignation and rage—the expected outcome of a stubborn temperament made to bear public shame.” You nod. “And that’s why you wanted to leave Orrault?” “A part of it. I believe I told you as much.”<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">> She hesitates, flashing a knowing smile. “And I wasn’t lying about looking to expand my palate.” “R- Right. Sure.” You pause. “But this seems different. <<else>> “Yeah, I guess you did. But this seems different.” You pause. “<</if>>That man; he wasn’t angry about anything you’d actually done. He was yelling at you because, uhh…” “Because of what I am?” Sherine supplies. “Y- Yeah,” you admit with a self-conscious flush. Mercifully, she responds to the implicit question before you can settle on a tactful choice of words. “I’ll admit,” she starts slowly, “that’s certainly something of a surprise.” A brief, awkward quiet passes between the two of you before the lamia continues. “I lived in Orrault for… three years, I believe. And among humans another two before that. There’s this particular tension, a nervous uncertainty among the wrong crowds. And I won’t deny I’ve cultivated some of that reputation for myself. Even enjoyed it, at times.” Sherine falters, and for the blink of an eye, something changes in her expression—an odd, unfamiliar hue among the expected canvas of relaxed self-assurance and simmering allure. And then it’s gone, so instantly and thoroughly you nearly doubt your own perception. Nearly. “Are… Are you worried?” you ask gingerly. Genuine surprise crosses the lamia’s face. “About myself?” She chuckles. “I’ll be fine.” That… wasn’t entirely what you were asking. But sensing Sherine is ready to drop the subject, you diplomatically follow suit, settling back into a relaxed pace at the lamia’s side. [[Carry on to the teahouse|T House]]

//“That’s// a teahouse?” you balk a few minutes later, staring at what can only be described as an apex-predator-inn that’s been given free reign to prey upon the surrounding structures, to the point where the resulting complex now takes up the better part of a city block. Sprawling wings and terraced landings stretch at least four stories up, and based on the odd wisps of steam venting from narrow grates at the foundation, there’s construction beneath. Infrastructure of some sort, perhaps?<<if $Orrault5 == "Mira">> For some reason, an odd prickling nags from the back of your mind, as if this place is somehow familiar. You can’t quite remember why, though.<</if>> “I //did// say they’d made quite a name for themselves,” Sherine remarks<<if $Orrault == "Mira">>, jolting you from your musings as she slithers past, heading for<<else>> as she slithers toward<</if>> the entrance. After a moment’s stunned hesitation, you follow. “Admittedly, they’ve expanded their services over the years,” she continues. “Rented accommodations for travelers from abroad, sequestered rooms for gatherings that prefer a bit more discretion, and even a number of private, luxurious baths on the ground floor. So perhaps ‘teahouse’ was something of a simplification.” The front door opens with a soft chime, revealing a surprisingly dim interior. A tinted window and thick curtains leave most of the light cast by a handful of small sconces, and when the door shuts at your back, you’re left blinking for several seconds before your eyes begin to adjust to the murk. A narrow hallway runs a dozen or so feet ahead, then abruptly turns right—not quite the grand entryway to the tea-slash-bathhouse you were expecting. The decor is less ostentatious and more a sort of spartan cozy, with only a few tapestries of warm colors to cover lovingly worn wood paneling. The air smells of pleasant herbs and the faintest floral bouquets. Distant music drifts from out of sight, subdued and soothing. The blind corner hides a larger, sunken floor. Booths and tables rest beneath a low ceiling interspersed by frequent ornamented columns and wooden partitions that muffle the idle chatter of some two dozen visible patrons to little more than a vague hum. A small reception desk lies tucked to your left, behind which stands an unassuming woman dressed in clean, formal clothes. <<if $Orrault5 == "Mira">>Recognition hits you all at once. The corridor, the desk, the atmosphere, the slightest trace of scented soaps and brewing tea—you’ve absolutely been here before. The only reason you didn’t recognize the exterior is that you last saw it under the cover of night, not to mention a haze of profound exhaustion. You came here after your delve into Niverdene. After your successful retrieval of the second Echo. After your daring rescue. Beaten, worn, covered in the gunk and grime of arduous, perilous exploration and the caustic innards of a scylla’s stomach, dressed in the tattered threads of acid-burned clothes. @@color:grey;“I was never allowed to go to the nice baths in Icilia—the attendants knew I was a thief and would always kick me out, even when I tried to pay. The public ones were always cold and dirty, so I just started collecting rainwater in my home,” Mira’s voice echoes. “It was really lonely though…”@@ Sorrow, frustration, guilt, desperation. All of it at once, a sudden barrage of emotion, like one fresh cut after the other on a wound that’s hardly even begun to heal. You’ve braced yourself for the physical trials that lie ahead—the pain and exhaustion of a body still putting itself back together—but this sudden agony reaches a place you never thought to prepare, threatens to break your frail resolve, leave you hollow and wretched. The moments you and Mira spent in that bath<<if $MiraEvent3 == false>>—the first intimate moments the two of you shared—<<else>> <</if>>rest in a carefully sequestered corner of your mind. Precious memories, suddenly stained with the anxiety of her absence, of your search, with the dire need to find your friend and set things right. “<<= $name>>?” Sherine’s voice calls from the edges of your perception. “Is something wrong?” You blink, shudder. Breathe. In and out. “I- I’m fine,” you manage in a level voice. “It’s nothing. I’m just a bit… tired.” The lamia eyes you for a moment longer, then simply nods. “We can find a quiet place for you to sit, since I’ll be doing most of the talking. Maybe we could get you some food as well? Are you hungry?” “No, it’s fine. I don’t—” You suppress a frustrated sigh, more at yourself than Sherine’s questions. “I’d like to help if I can.”<<else>>The lamia glances at you. “Are you still feeling alright after that walk, <<= $name>>?” She nods to the teahouse floor. “We could find a quiet place for you to sit, since I’ll be doing most of the talking.” “I’d rather help. If I can, I mean.”<</if>> “I understand.” Sherine turns and approaches the receptionist. [[Let her take the lead|Tea House 2]]

As you watch the exchange, you’re left with the impression of a well-worn script between rehearsed parties. The two women trade affable pleasantries, though you can’t quite tell if they actually know each other or if they’re both just skilled at casual familiarity. With formalities out of the way, Sherine asks after the owners, and the two of you are directed to the far end of the floor. “So, you’re a regular here?” you ask, weaving between tables and partitions. Most are empty, though you can imagine a place like this receives the majority of its traffic in the afternoon and early evening. “I //was,”// Sherine corrects. “I’m not sure I made this clear, but I rarely left the marquis’ estate when I was… in his employ.” She flashes a knowing grin. “At his request?” She shrugs. “More his implicit suggestion. He seemed nervous about the prospect of our arrangement being discovered, and I saw little reason to fray his nerves. I was //very// well cared for, after all.” Before you can think of a response, you spot the source of the music on a slightly raised stage to the left—a trio of performers. A woman plays some sort of bowed string instrument, while two men accompany her with percussion and what you assume is a type of lute.<<if $Orrault5 != "Mira">> In retrospect, you’re not sure where //else// the music could possibly be coming from. It’s not like they can play a recording.<</if>> The tune—more meandering and atmospheric than catchy—drifts over the sparse gathering of patrons, mostly individuals enjoying a bit of quiet comfort or pairs engaged in casually subdued conversation over tea and a light snack. Most seem dressed a cut above your own casual attire, but you don’t see much in the way of proper formal wear either. “Ah, there she is.” Sherine’s words disrupt your idle musings, and you follow her gaze to find a lone woman sitting at a table writing in a small booklet, a cup of gently steaming tea resting within arm’s reach. She looks to be in her early forties based on streaks of grey slashed through a head of pale brown hair. She glances up as you approach, a brief look of idle curiosity for you, and one of surprised recognition for the lamia. “Miss Sherine,” she says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Rose, please.” Your companion chuckles. “I know it’s been a while, but the ‘miss’ is hardly necessary.” The woman—the eponymous Rose, apparently—merely grins. “Right. You’re probably going by ‘Lady’ these days.” “I can assure you I’m not.” “With the circles you’ve been running in?” Rose shifts in her seat, adopting a more relaxed posture. “Color me surprised. Still, looks like you’re doing well enough for yourself.” “I could say the same for you,” Sherine counters. “Was that Adivi Nassar I spied on the way over here?” Rose nods. “Vice-captain of the city watch herself, yeah. She’s been by a few mornings a week for, oh, the past month or so?” The woman hesitates, then leans forward and continues in a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, not much of a conversationalist, that one. Unless you’ve got an ear for petty politics and budget disputes.” “Mary must be delighted.” “More than you can imagine.” Rose rolls her eyes and lets out a beleaguered sigh. “But anyways, what brings you here today? The usual?” A hazel gaze flickers to you for barely an instant. Sherine shakes her head. “Not today, I’m afraid. We’re actually hoping to find someone.” “‘We,’ huh?” The woman shrugs. “I’d call this a favor, but the way I see it, Mary and I owe you plenty. Are you hoping I know something myself, or are you looking for someone who might?” “Both, if you wouldn’t mind.” “Not a problem.” Rose leans forward and eyes the two of you expectantly. “So, what do I have to work with?” At Sherine’s nod, you realize you have the floor. “Uhh, her name’s Mira. She’s a feline demi. Small, almost a foot shorter than me. Black hair, ears, tail. She generally dresses light, regardless of the weather.” You hesitate, realizing a simple physical description on its own won’t do much good. “She’s a thief. Petty, small-scale. Probably pick-pocketing or a bit of light burglary at worst.” Rose arches a single eyebrow. “A thief? You looking for her, or something she took?” <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>That’s… not quite as simple of a question as it should be. “H- Her,” you manage after a moment<<else>>“Her,” you say emphatically<</if>>. The proprietress’ fingers drum against lacquered wood for a contemplative moment, lips pressed to a thin line. “I wish I could say that narrowed things down, but unfortunately there’s plenty of thievery to go around.” She glances at the vice-captain and lowers her voice. “Between the refugees and the chaos after the attack, I think the watch is struggling to get back on top of things. Probably doesn’t help they’re a couple hundred heads short, either.” Rose hesitates a moment longer, then adds, “Are you sure you wouldn’t have better luck asking around a tavern for this sort of thing? We’re not exactly running a rumor mill here.” Sherine chuckles. “No, you make people comfortable, secure. In my experience, that’s even better, and we both know you hear plenty, Rose.” The woman shrugs. “Fair enough. Aside from Nassar, you’ve got that fellow over there, goes by Alistair Dunwell. If memory serves, he’s got a decent post in the merchant’s guild, though I’m not sure he’s going to know much about thievery. Then there’s also…” Rose proceeds to rattle off another five names and professions, two of which are matched to faces. The other three are regulars she promises to keep a watch for. None immediately strike you as incredibly obvious leads—aside from perhaps the vice-captain—but you suppose it’s better to cast a wide net and see what you catch in these sorts of imprecise searches. “And that’s about it,” the proprietress finally concludes. “Need me to make any introductions?” Sherine merely shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your help, and give Mary my regards.” “Will do, and good luck.” With that, you and Sherine leave Rose to her notebook and return to the middle of the teahouse floor. A few fresh faces appear to have taken seats even during your brief conversation, and you begin to suspect this place is going to be a whole lot busier with the lunchtime rush. [[Follow Sherine|Tea House 3]]

“So what’d she mean?” you ask the moment you’re out of earshot. “Rose, that is. When she said she owed you?” “Oh, that?” The lamia shrugs. “Even an upscale establishment like Mary and Rose can run into a problem customer from time to time. I offered my assistance, since the average demi or human can’t do much to fight a lamia’s coils.” You balk. “So you…” “Showed them the exit, of course.” Sherine blinks, offering a perfectly innocent smile. “What else could you possibly be implying, <<= $name>>?” “You know damn well what I’m implying,” you mutter. When your companion doesn’t rise to the bait, you sigh and move on. “So what’d you get out of this arrangement, then?” “Well, I suppose we had something of an understanding. The occasional, more respectable patron might disappear into some dark corner of the teahouse, and neither Mary nor Rose would raise a fuss as long as the tab was paid.” Yep, there it is. You let out a slow sigh and decide that giving Sherine the benefit of the doubt is a deeply foolish endeavor. “But enough about me,” the lamia continues. “Rose gave us a list. Anyone sound particularly promising?” “Oh. Uhh, not really,” you admit, consulting your mental record and realizing you’re already not one-hundred percent sure on a couple of the faces and names. “How about you?” “Alistair looks like he’s available. Let’s start with him.” “Sounds good.” <<linkreplace "Get to it">>You decide it’s best for all parties involved to let Sherine take the lead, and before you know it both you and the lamia are seated at the table of the assistant manager of import and regional fulfillment—as he’s keen to introduce himself. It doesn’t take much from your companion before Mr. Dunwell is eagerly recounting all the assorted and extremely exciting ways in which the recent siege has affected the guild’s business, and with a bit of gentle guidance, he transitions into discussing the recent troubles with theft. As you watch, you begin to realize there’s a certain flow to Sherine’s conversations. They’re not quite… well, for lack of a better word, //equal// affairs. The lamia always has an eager ear for the musings of the other party, but whenever a question is turned back on her, she effortlessly deflects or pivots to another subject. You saw it before, now that you really think about it, back when Rose attempted to ask Sherine about her recent goings on. Lots of take, but very little give. In a sense, it’s a polite and affable interrogation. The good news is that Sherine’s social wiles keep any of her targets from noticing. Well, that and most people seem perfectly eager to talk about themselves with only the slightest provocation. And your companion plays the part perfectly—a slight laugh here, a sympathetic nod there—always following along and ready with another query or prompt. A part of you can’t help but wonder if this is an extension of her charming predator routine—that unnerving ability to lull people into lowering their defenses, to giving more of themselves than they normally would. It’s a good thing for the patrons of Mary and Rose that all Sherine wants is a bit of information. Unfortunately, it becomes rapidly apparent you’re bringing absolutely nothing to this process. If anything, you’re beginning to suspect you’re just getting in the way based on the couple of times Sherine has to make a quick excuse for your presence. You do your best to follow along and remember any potentially useful details, but it’s painfully obvious the lamia is doing a much better job keeping a mental catalog than you. “Uhh, Sherine,” you start as the two of you walk away from the latest table with little more than some irrelevant ramblings about petty crime to show for your efforts. “I think I’m gonna take you up on that offer for a short break after all. Would you mind?” The lamia nods. “Not at all. I’ll keep asking around and let you know if I find any promising leads.” [[Pick an empty table|Juliet 1]]<</linkreplace>>

You don’t realize how badly you need to catch your breath until you actually park yourself in an especially dim corner of the teahouse floor. You’ve done astonishingly well with physical activity so far, but your body still demands rest. This feels remarkably similar to when you nearly exhausted yourself from traveling between Icilia and Amberglen, needing frequent breaks and a rest at a deadly watering hole. A woman in a simple smock sweeps past and gives you a friendly nod. She lights the candle on your table, then unrolls a parchment for your viewing pleasure: a menu describing both drinks and food. The waitress offers to read it to you, then slinks away after your polite rejection with the promise to return after a minute. The offerings immediately give you the impression of a modern coffee shop, with an excessive variety of brews available and some lighter fare for food. The prices are a bit higher than you’re used to in Orrault, but it’s within reason, and at least it all sounds delicious. You pick something starchy that promises to give you enough energy to get through the next leg of the search, then scan the list of teas and coffees until something labeled ‘Fair Trade Alraune Tea,’ catches your eye and immediately raises a few thousand questions. You’re ordering it, of course. The waitress returns and takes payment. A few minutes later your meal arrives—a modest pile of seasoned, crispy hashbrowns, and an empty cup filled with crushed leaves. Another server—a tall man with surprising upper body strength—arrives lugging a large pot to pour out a spurt of boiling water. You thank him then dig in, occasionally glancing about the teahouse. Across the room, Sherine slides over to the large table where the vice-captain sits, and the two immediately strike up a lively conversation. Your attention gradually shifts to the wait staff, watching as they flow in and out of the kitchen, efficient and disciplined as the crew of a warship. The music pauses about halfway through your meal. The trio of bards take to walking the floor making merry conversation and collecting tips. The percussionist lingers at your table for a time, casually stealing a bit of your lunch as he flirtatiously compliments your tunic. You don’t mind the loss of a bite, but you do mind when he swaps position with another of his band who then tries to double dip for tips with more flirting. You deflect her advance with a myriad of compliments as you sip the tea—it’s earthy and rich with floral notes, yet light on the palate, soothing to the stomach, and just a bit tingly in the legs—then start a long line of questions about her instrument, where she learned, how long she’s been playing, and if she knows any songs <<if $BakaIndex == 100>>by ‘an unseeing protector.’<<elseif $BakaIndex >=90>>by ‘a clothesmaker of haste.’<<elseif $BakaIndex >=60>>about ‘a west-coast inn.’<<elseif $BakaIndex >=30>>about ‘an amazing partition.’<<else>>about ‘a liberated avian.’<</if>> It doesn’t take long for her to move on to the next table. [[Eat lunch|Juliet 2]]

“I wouldn’t mind meeting him. Lead the way,” you say, preparing your sales pitch. How much does a medieval sketch artist charge? You have a decent amount of coin on you, though perhaps they’ll be amenable to a payment plan if it isn’t enough? Juliet lights up. “Let’s get out of here. C’mon.” An eager hand guides you from the dining room, down a narrow corridor, and out the side door of the sprawling teahouse—or perhaps you exited from the bathhouse portion of this conglomerate resort-like building, if the steamy scents of soap are any indicator. Juliet closes the door behind you, then gestures toward the mouth of the empty alley. You’ve barely taken the first step when a pair of lithe arms wrap around your middle and squeeze the breath painfully from your lungs. A dreadful wheeze precedes a coughing fit as you’re lifted inches from the ground. A dark, wet tide rolls over your forehead like a black curtain. Flailing, gasping, you swing your arms wildly. She’s eating you, //she’s fucking eating you.// Everything goes dark. An elbow thunks against a boob. You twist and sputter, distress rising in your chest as your assailant’s grip winds tighter. A foot finds purchase on a nearby wall and you suck in a deep gulp of fresh air before lips glide over your chin. You push off as hard as you can. Juliet stumbles and crashes against the opposite wall, nearly tripping over a loose bin, releasing your arms as she catches herself. You put everything into a furious punch to the gut, then again, higher. A third blow finds her armpit, and you heave trying to peel the off-kilter woman’s suckering lips from your head. Another hand checks your waist for a weapon. //Fuckfuckfuck,// where’s your fucking knife? Did you leave it in the room? Was it destroyed by the explosion? Fingers dance frantically along the hem of your trousers, desperate and searching. Vanille wouldn’t have let you go anywhere unarmed; it //has// to be here. Fuck! Juliet finally recovers and lurches forward to grab your hips. Blind, you slip from her grip once, then jut your backside away. Fingers catch on the hem of your tunic. You’re yanked closer, then lifted once more, forehead pushing past tonsils and plunging into her throat. A sturdy hand deflects a knee aimed at her groin, then hooks under your leg and pulls you against her chest. Her jaws close like a pincer, clamping and crushing your brittle chest. A scream of pain and fury echoes down her throat and settles in her stomach. Her grip tightens around your wrists, pinning you easily as she slurps you down inches at a time. Enraged, you keep kicking, determined to fight to the bitter, acrid end. //Glurk!// Stomach slop douses your forehead, stings your eyes, and fouls your palate. Gagging and coughing, you slump forward as Juliet engulfs more and more of your feeble form. Shoulders glide along the bottom of the gut as hips squeeze through the sphincter. You throw a fist against a spongy wall, and the whole thing simply stretches for a brief moment, then snaps back. Your shoulders brace along the floor of her pelvis and you strain against the mighty gulps from above, shoving and grunting to push your way back out, to keep your legs in her throat as long as you can. Monstrous swallows, loud and uproarious like a horde pounding at the gates, boom through the sloshy sack. The onslaught breaks your steely resolve one //glork// at a time, inching you forcefully down lower and lower until you’re sealed in tight, entombed and submerged in the rank gut. //“Urrp!// Phew,” she says, catching her breath. She wraps both arms around the sagging sack, pulling you in tight against her spine. “You heroes really put up a fight. But it’s totally worth it, ‘cause I have Orrault’s best lawyer in my belly. Vern is gonna be so jealous!” “Fuck you!” you screech in response, a fury unlike any you’ve ever known coursing through your veins. You throw your whole body into the struggle like a rabid animal, railing against the constricting organ. “Oh, don’t worry so much. This is good for both of us—do you know how many famous people I’ve eaten? You’re in the same stomach that absorbed Ivy Canton and Goldknight Derrick. Digesting you is a privilege for both of us.” You drive both feet against your fleshy prison, kicking and shouting, “I don’t know who those people are! Lemme out, you stupid bitch!” Juliet adjusts her dress, petting and pushing the writhing lumps into their proper place. She hefts and heaves until you’re sitting manageably inside her. A gentle //pat-pat// on the back of your restrained shoulders adds a humiliating note of finality to her minor inconvenience. “Mmpf, you look adorable like this. Let’s go show you off.” [[Try to stop her|Mer-cutie-o]]

You rise from your chair. “Sure, lemme just tell my friend where I’m gonna be real quick,” you grumble, not particularly pleased to be treated like an adolescent reporting to an overprotective parent. … Huh, that’s an odd thought. Considering your first interaction with the lamia was while she was being indicted for a crime, you’ve found yourself putting a surprising amount of trust in her as a dependable person. Even stranger, you’re <<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>>certain<<else>>pretty sure<</if>> that she’s heavily interested in ‘taking responsibility’ for you in the most digestive way possible one day. Maybe she’s trying to protect her investment? You try waving to Sherine from across the dim hall. Once, you think she turns your way to acknowledge you with a nod, but the eye contact is all wrong. You step sideways awkwardly to try to stand out better. A faint warmth clings to your side. Juliet pulls you toward a hallway. “We’ll be right back, don’t worry.” “Well, it might take a little while longer,” you explain, still vying for a visible position to wave to Sherine without having to outright cross the cafe and interrupt her. “I- I was going to ask your friend if they can make a few posters to help me find someone. A- A friend of mine went missing a few days ago.” “I’m sure he’ll be able to help you out,” she urges with another yank. “C’mon! I’ll take you.” You flinch, twisting out of her grip. This urgency, her soothing, luring tone. You know this routine. //She’s going to eat you.// Backpedalling, you lock eyes with the demi. Juliet steps after you, hands reaching. She finds a wrist and tugs gently, yet firmly, leaving you with no choice but to face her. You’re yanked between tables, pulled toward the nearest service hallway. “I insist,” she says, tone perfectly level. A wracking shiver rips through your body. These people are so used to being predatory they never, ever drop the friendly facade. That plastered, cheery smirk over murderous intent is haunting. Every smile is a lick of the lips, every look an appraisal of how much you’ll fight back, of how well you’re squirm. “N- No,” you murmur the words choked, trapped in your throat by gripping fear. “Don’t—” You’re yanked forward. A maw opens, then another above it, behind it, looming like a crashing moon. You’re released, tossed aside. In a blur, you stumble and //thonk// your head against a wooden wall, arms raised and ready to defend your dazed self. When no threat emerges, you blink away stars in time to see Sherine engulf your would-be predator to her chest in a single, //shlurking// gulp. Muffled shouts drift from the lamia’s throat, first surprise, then alarm. Hands scramble and slap, aiming for your companion’s face, but Sherine effortlessly subdues the feeble attempts at resistance by pinning the woman’s arms to her sides. Another //gluck// brings the lamia down to Juliet’s waist as coils writhe and shift to feed her legs upward, deeper into that ravenous maw. You lurch upright in a daze, vision swimming as the predatory spectacle unfolds before you in all its surreal glory. Any further protests from Juliet are utterly quashed by a barrage of wet, thick gulps. Her efforts to kick or struggle free fail to slow Sherine in the slightest, largely suppressed by the lamia’s coils and ultimately lost as more and more of the woman disappears with every passing second, down to her thighs, her knees, her shins. Mauve lips close over a squirming pair of feet. A final, rolling gulp seals Juliet away entirely, the lamia’s throat rippling as the last of her prey is ushered down her gullet and into her stomach—the human one. Your companion lets out a breathy sigh, a mix of relief and immense satisfaction. One hand absently wipes at her mouth while the other trails along the swell of her gut, fingers tracing between the writhing bulges and shifting impressions. Faint protests drift from within, though specific words prove impossible to discern. [[Try and calm down|Panic at the Disco Tea House]]

You’re utterly helpless as Juliet struts out of the alley, gut swaying with each confident step. You rock from side to side, timing each motion to counter her gait. An opportune shove with a hundred feet of momentum behind it nearly topples the bitch. Unfortunately, she catches herself on a nearby facade, then keeps on walking with an amused hum. “No wonder you were conscripted—your struggles are so strong and valiant,” she coos, an attentive hand rubbing along your spine possessively. “Keep it up, you’re doing great.” Not that you had any intent on simply surrendering, but there’s something about her tone, her smug assurance that you’re already defeated, that sparks a deep, burning rage in your heart. You redouble your efforts, thrashing about in the thinning puddle of acids as more attacks fly out of you in a dizzy blur. Knuckles dig into the underside of her ribs. The heel of your boot repeatedly slams against the top of her thigh. Untrimmed fingernails scrape and claw against the tight nub of flesh between you and freedom above. Blinded by seething anger, you hardly notice Juliet strike up a conversation. You don’t even try to listen until she sits down and settles her stomach squarely on her lap. “Uncooperative lunch?” a voice from beyond the wall of flesh asks. You lurch and shift, putting up your best struggles yet to indicate that you are //not// lunch, and the voice responds with a strained sigh, as though he’s seen all this play out before. “Who is it this time?” “The lawyer that exposed Marquis Preston.” A stunned silence fills the scant space between you. You keep flailing, repeatedly jamming your fingers against what you think is a major artery on the other side of the organ wall. “No fucking way,” the masculine voice finally blurts out. Juliet chuckles, shifting in her seat. “Check for yourself.” You flinch at the sudden external touch, then roll onto your side to punch back. There’s a yelp of surprise, then another press in a spot not far from the first. You keep playing this twisted game until your blows are entirely expected and ignored. “Uhm, <<= $Mx>> <<= $name>>?” <<linkreplace "“What do you fucking want!”">>“What do you fucking want!” “Oh shit, it //is// <<= $xem>>!” A mocking laugh filters in from above, followed by a curious palm scoping out your form. “Shout //‘Objection!’// for us.” “Fuck off!” Juliet withdraws, freeing you from outside scrutiny. “Yeah, I saw <<= $xem>> over at Mary and Rose and was like, ‘I know that face from somewhere.’ And now <<= $xes>> mine.” “You do like your trophies,” Vern says with a bemused hum. “I assume that means your here for—” “Yes, and I’ll pay you for the last time as well.” Another chuckle. “Fine by me. Let me get my charcoals…” Despite numerous scoldings to ‘sit still, damnit,’ you fight the entire time Juliet holds her pose for the artist. Amazingly, you persist even after that, finding another furious surge of resistance when she dumps a swig of water on your head. It’s only as her conversation winds down with Vern that your body finally starts to give out. Limb by flailing limb, the fight ebbs like a melting glacier, torn away sheet after sheet until there’s nothing left to fuel your struggle. The rumpling of parchment catches your attention. Juliet gasps. “It’s perfect!” She leans forward and plants a loud smooch on the artist, then pats the back of your head reassuringly. “Now I have something to remember you by—well, aside from the usual.” A gentle squeeze presses against your shoulder. You’re terrified she’s about to have you ‘autograph’ it in a profoundly idiotic way—you can imagine quite a few—but she seems content to keep the memento unmarred. Juliet and her artistic conspirator finish their business in an exchange of muffled words and distantly clinking coins, and before you know it, the woman’s back on her feet, taking you god-knows-where. “Oh, <<= $name>>,” she murmurs, giddy and buoyant. “We’re gonna have so much fun together.” [[You don’t even want to know what that means|at least it wasn't poison]] <</linkreplace>>

<<timed 1s t8n>>Minutes pass in your lightless, shifting prison, the constant churn of wet flesh and tingling fluids interspersed by the occasional gentle pat or satisfied churr. You don’t share your predator’s cheer. Every second you spend in here drastically reduces your chances of being rescued. It’s a populated city—even more so in the wake of the siege—and there’s simply not enough time for your companions to go around checking every single stomach. And it’s not like the sketch is gonna help. How the fuck can anyone tell who Juliet’s prey is supposed to be? They’re just a misshapen lump under her clothes. The damn portrait could be displayed outside every one of her bakeries and no would would have any fucking clue it’s commemorating your devourment. Cold reality grips your heart, icy tendrils wringing out every last drop of hope. You’re trapped, you’re done for. You can’t fight your way to freedom. There’s no one coming to save you. Given her inexplicable obsession with your ‘status,’ it’s unlikely you’ll be able to convince her to trade for a lesser-known meal—and it’s not like you could offer her the Marquis. There’s some people above even Juliet’s clout-seeking reach. The worst part is that this is your fault. Your fault for trying to venture off on your own for a minute, for believing that all your triumphs in this city—discovering an underground metropolis, outwitting a sovereign in a court of law, defeating a goddamned dragon—served any purpose other than to make you that much more appetizing of a dish. What the hell did you expect? Gratitude? Perhaps even the slightest modicum of respect for saving Juliet’s callous, pissant ass? Yet you realize that an appeal to sympathy is the best bet you have. “Juliet, please. Please let me out,” you plead, forcing the bitter edge from your voice. “I- I was just trying to find my friend when you caught me. I need to talk to her, tell her I’m sorry. Th- Then you can have me, alright?” “Who’s your friend? Anyone I’d know?” You shiver despite the sweltering heat. “N- No, you can’t have her—she’s someone important to just me, and me alone.” You instinctively clasp your hands together, begging in the dark for a scrap of decency from your predator. “Please, I promise if you release me, I’ll come right back after I find her and talk to her. I- I’ll tell everyone I meet that I’m on borrowed time, that if they want to see me next week, they’ll have to find you.” “That’s tempting…” Fingers strum against your thigh, then slowly wander around to your back. You wait as patiently as you can possibly manage, politely sitting still for the duration of your civil conversation—any play to get her to come around to your side. After a minute of contemplation, she clicks her tongue. “As much as I’d love it if you spread the word and brought spectators, I think I’m gonna keep you right where you are. You’re too good to let go, even for a moment.” You flail, trying another desperate argument. “Why not eat somebody else and tell people it’s me? I’ll leave the city and never come back!” “That’s not the same. Having you is… //exhilarating.// It’s my own little piece of modern history. I had a famous lawyer for lunch. If anyone asks what <<= $name>> did after the trial, I can tell them. That’s wonderful, isn’t it?” “Then just fucking digest me already.” “Why would I do that?” she croons. “There’s still //sooo// many people we need to see. You’re gonna be front and center on me for quite a while. Get comfy, <<= $Mx>> <<= $name>>.” <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathDemis ++>><<set $deathLizardgirls ++>>[[Fuck her. Fuck this place. Fuck everything about this.|Death 2.1.1]] <</timed>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Hey there. How’s it goin’? Wondering why you’re here? Yes, you were still alive. No, you didn’t ‘fade away’ or anything like that. I know, it’s against the established paradigm—you //technically// weren’t dead yet, but you weren’t getting out after that point no matter what—it would have just been a week of physical and emotional agony while paraded around as her latest trophy. No help ever comes, blah blah blah, she gets bored and finally digests you. Long story short, you’d end up here eventually. I’m sparing you days of torture. You’re welcome— Oh, right. You’re into the whole process, aren’t you? Well, too bad; it’s boring as hell for me to watch, waiting for just the right moment to snatch you as you pass from the mortal realm. It’s easier if I just reset things now. <<case 2>> Just in case you were wondering, she’d have kept you alive for exactly eleven days, three hours, and five minutes. Digestion would have taken another twenty-two hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty seconds. That’s the point where the last little traces of your essence finish filtering through her digestive tract. You would have been the most famous person she eats in her entire life—she was lying about that ponce adventurer fuck—if that makes you feel any better. <<default>> Also, you looked cute as hell on her. Seriously, eating you isn’t an accomplishment, anyone can do that. The real victory is how good that bloated belly looked jutting out of her middle. Holy shit. <</switch>> [[Return|Juliet 2]]

You can’t quite bring yourself to bask in the display of predation. Not now. Yet you don’t feel the expected sense of grim satisfaction, either. Instead, something vile crawls through the recesses of your mind on spindly legs, gnaws at the edges of your heart with icy teeth, silent and haunting. “Are you alright, <<= $name>>?” You blink, then glance up to find Sherine’s garnet eyes staring right into your own. Why is she paying attention to you so soon? Doesn’t the lamia have a meal to preoccupy her? To revel in, perhaps? This is what she does; you’re merely a spectator. An impartial third party. Yet your hands tremble all the same. A cold sweat prickles at the back of your neck, sends arctic shivers down your spine. A heavy weight eddies and churns in your chest—not fear, but something worse. Darker. Impending and all-consuming. No… This is all wrong. Why does the sudden sight of your companion stir your stomach into dreadful, queasy knots as if she’s prodding at a wound you’ve only just begun to notice yourself. Your heart lurches. It’s not the usual response—that mix of exhilaration and nervousness, that liquid lightning that courses through your veins as you watch one person devour another, delight in the forbidden thrill, realize just how easily you could be next. This is something colder. Darker. There’s no rush of anticipation. No confused apprehension or uncertainty. “I- I’m fine,” you manage—less truth than you wish. “She, uhh… She didn’t hurt me or anything.” //She was going to.// The lamia’s lips purse. “I can see that, but that’s not what I’m asking.” “I…” You trail off. You’re not alright. Any attempt to say otherwise is a blatant lie, and even your proficiency at self-deception has its limits. But it’s not your close call that has you shaken. You’re… actually starting to become a bit desensitized to these experiences—whatever malevolent deities that rule this hell-world have mercy. No. Instead, it’s realization, cold and terrible. The sudden understanding that this entire search might be in vain. You could scour every inch of Orrault, examine every avenue and alleyway, scour every brick and timber, and still come away empty-handed. Because Mira isn’t here. Not departed to a nearby town or distant city, but gone entirely. Fallen prey to an opportunistic predator. All it takes is a moment’s relaxation, an ounce of trust placed in the wrong person. You know that all too well. Frantic, you try to tell yourself Mira’s competent. Streetsmart. She lived on her own for years before you came along. She can handle herself for a couple weeks. If anything, she’s a perfectly adept predator. She’d turn the tables. <<linkreplace "Juliet probably thought the same.">>Juliet probably thought the same. A frantic urge seizes your chest, force without direction, impetus without cause. Dire. Panicked. You’re never going to find Mira. She’s gone forever. You can search for weeks, months, years. The best you’ll ever unearth is some vague testimony of a half-remembered afternoon snack delivered with the indifferent cruelty only a Havendorian can manage. Fuck everything about this world, but fuck these people in particular. Because of them, you’ll never see her again. Never tell her you’re sorry. <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>Never hold her, feel that thrumming purr against your chest, feel those small arms wrap around your sides. Hear her bubbling laughter. See her smile. Look into those emerald green eyes and<<else>>Never hear her laugh. Never seen the gleam in those emerald eyes or<</if>>— “<<= $name>>?” You jolt as if struck, then lurch backward, suddenly fatigued. You can’t do this. Not now. It’s taking all your willpower to remain upright, to drive away the lingering pain and exhaustion. You can’t consider the possibility that all of this is in vain. That Mira’s gone. //Completely// gone. “I just…” you start, then hesitate. Sherine continues to wait, remarkably patient. A part of you—a //strong// part—doesn’t want to admit the truth, partially because doing so would mean putting voice to your <<if $RVMira >= 14>>worst <</if>>fears. But maybe she deserves it. She’s going through all of this for your sake, after all. Is honesty that much to ask? [[Tell her the truth|Truth][$RVSherine ++]] [[Keep it to yourself|Lie][$Orrault9 to "lie"]]<</linkreplace>>

Welcome back to //Another Inner World!// If you’re here, you’ve successfully loaded a save from the end of Episode 14 and are ready to play Season 2 Episode 1. Hey! Since you've been away, we've implemented pronouns! Choose yours now: <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "he" checked>>He/Him</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "she">>She/Her</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "they">>They/Them</label> //Please note that this choice only changes how a player is addressed in game, and not the player's genitalia. Presently, the player character will have a penis.// [[Resume|Episode 15]]

[img[https://aryion.com/g4/data/895567-38160-ufa083.png/Progressive-895567-drop3.png]] <h1>You are very naughty!!! </h1> /*Screenshot this and send it to Prog for punishment!*/

“I’m worried,” you finally admit. “No, terrified. That Mira wound up like… well, //that.”// You gesture to Sherine’s stomach. “I guess I’d never really considered it before, and now…” You let out a rattling breath before managing to continue. “I- It’s a lot.” Rather than offer an immediate response, Sherine eyes you for a long moment, lips curled to a contemplative frown. Her fingers tap idly along the swell of her gut in a meandering rhythm, provoking a fresh round of struggles and another outburst of muffled shouts from Juliet. <<if $MiraDating == false && $SherineEvent1 == true>>“I suppose I could let this woman go.” //“What?”// “I could let her go,” Sherine reiterates. @@color:lime;“If you wanted me to, of course.”@@ You hear her. You understand the words she’s saying. You’re just having trouble… comprehending the offer she’s making, or rather //why// she’s making it. This is Sherine, after all. You haven’t known the lamia for especially long, but the thought of her releasing prey is like water being dry or gravity working in reverse. A stark repudiation of her nature; an impossibility. “I… But why?” you eventually manage. “There’s a difference, <<= $name>>. There’s teasing, provoking, prodding at that point where desire and self-preservation conflict. And then there’s genuine fear, panic. Terror.” Sherine offers a strange frown. “Despite what you might think of me, I don’t want the latter, least of all from you. And especially not like this. So yes, if it would make you more comfortable, I’ll let the woman back out and send her on her way.” That’s… almost touching. You can’t be entirely sure this isn’t a part of Sherine’s long game—that it’s not another step in her routine to lure you into her gut, albeit less through raw sexual appeal and more emotional consolation. Then again, it’s not like the lamia’s ever been especially duplicitous in her intentions. And despite her seemingly self-serving end goals, she’s been here for you these past few days, a remarkably stalwart pillar of support in difficult times. If nothing else, you can’t imagine taking Sherine up on her offer is going to make the lamia any //more// likely just give up her game and devour you on the spot. [[Ask her to release Juliet|Release][$Orrault9 to "release"]] [[Politely decline|Keep1][$Orrault9 to "keep1"]]<<else>>“I suppose I could send her further down,” Sherine suddenly says. “Push her out of the way, if that would make you more comfortable.” You hesitate, mildly surprised. “You’d do that?” The lamia shrugs. “I was planning to take things slow—as payback for attempting to steal something that wasn’t hers. @@color:lime;But it’s no real trouble if you’d prefer.”@@ “Oh. Umm…” You pause, mulling it over. Honestly, you’re still a bit shocked she’s even asking in the first place. <<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>Is this all part of her game? Another elaborate step toward seducing you into her gut, albeit through emotional accommodation rather than raw sexual appeal? Or are you just being miserably cynical, and your companion is making a sincere and unconditional gesture? Does it actually matter? Is accepting Sherine’s offer going to make the lamia any more likely to one day grow bored and devour you in your sleep? It doesn’t seem likely.<<else>>For as much as Sherine has been a stalwart presence over the past few days, this degree of emotional accommodation is still unexpected. Sure, the lamia gets a meal either way, but the fact that she’s considering your feelings on the matter is genuinely touching.<</if>> [[Ask her to push Juliet lower|Push][$Orrault9 to "push"]] [[Politely decline|Keep2][$Orrault9 to "keep2"]]<</if>>

“I guess I’m just a bit rattled,” you say after a moment’s consideration. It’s the lesser half of the truth, but at least it’s not a complete lie. Sherine’s lips press to a thin line. You can see her hesitate, watch as she deliberates whether or not it’s worth pressing the issue. After a long pause, she merely shakes her head and offers a weary smile as a hand idly traces the swell of her stomach. An awkward moment passes before you clear your throat. “So, uhm… now what? Should we keep asking around?” “I don’t see the need,” Sherine says. “I was just finishing up with Vice-Captain Nassar when you caught my attention—you weren’t joking about attracting your fair share of predators. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” You let out a laugh you don’t feel<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>, half expecting the lamia to add some comment about another predator ‘stealing her prize.’ When it doesn’t come, you admit,<<else>>.<</if>> “Yeah, it’s a… problem.” The lamia nods. “Regardless, I think we’re done here for now. Rose promised to keep an eye out for a few more promising leads, so I can always return another day. And I wouldn’t want you pushing yourself.” You quell the instinctive urge to protest, to insist that you’re fine for a while longer. Your close call has left drained—both physically and emotionally. The thought of a few hours of shut-eye is sounding awfully tempting, and you’d hate to miss another day of the search because you didn’t respect your own limitations. “Yeah, fair enough,” you eventually say with a weary sigh. “Let’s head back.” Sherine’s stomach earns little attention from the fellow patrons as the two of you cross the room. Then again, no one even seemed to notice Juliet being devoured at all—or your close call moments prior, for that matter. Why would they start caring now? A quick trip back down the hallway and through the front door sees you and Sheirne on the open streets of Orrault. Before you can get your bearings, your companion is already leading the way, and you hurry to her side—partially to stay close, and partially to keep that squirming stomach from your direct line of sight. [[Back to the Covetous Crow]]

Alone again, you scarf down the rest of your food while scoping out your next prospect. Somebody here has to have seen Mira, or at least heard a rumor of a black cat climbing on rooftops, pickpocketing, or generally being a nuisance. Sherine slowly slithers her way through the crowd on the far side of the teahouse. Refueled, you’re about to resume the search when a woman in a loose blue dress approaches. The first thing you spot is the thin, flickering tail of mossy green scales. It takes a moment to notice in the dim light, but the scales also seem to grow from her neckline, rising like lichen up her throat all the way past her temple and into her brow. A pair of pointed ears wiggle as dark pupils find you. Oh god, oh fuck: the horror of being perceived. “Pardon me, but I have to ask: is your name <<= $name>>?” “Uh, I’m…” “You’re the lawyer,” she continues, a slight cheer in her tone. “The one who caused the uproar about the marquis in court two weeks back.” “Oh.” A relaxed smile finds its way onto your face. “Y- Yeah, that was me.” The demi steps closer to the table, a cherubic smile brightening her features. “I knew I recognized you! I could only stay at the court for a bit that day, but I heard all about what happened afterward. You were eloquent and clever, but when I heard that you won by provoking her //and then// nearly caused a riot, I couldn’t believe it. It was so audacious a- and…” A blush tinges her cheeks. “How’d you know she was involved with a lamia?” “Well…” Truth be told, you didn’t know about the marquis’s dirty secret until the confession burst from her lips. But this admirer doesn’t need to know that, right? “I actually went to the manor and asked around, gathered clues.” “They just let you in? Must’ve been dangerous.” You put your hand on the back of your neck. “I had a legal right to investigate… I think. Also, the prosecutor might have underestimated me.” The woman smirks. “Bet she felt differently after you ate her.” You balk. Apparently, you’re a part of the rumor mill now, and you’re not quite sure how to feel about it. “That’s… not how it turned out. I declined, but someone else ate Fletcher.” //“You snubbed her?// That’s even more impressive.” She places a hand on the back of the opposite chair. “I’m Juliet, by the way. Would you mind if I joined you? I’d love to hear more.” Your eyes flicker across the room to Sherine before you give a mostly confident nod and watch as the demi takes a seat. At her insistence, you proceed to tell your story, filling Juliet in on the details of the investigation. You leave out the messy and embarrassing parts, of course, like when you were eaten by a clumsy maid, or how Sherine’s first spoken words to you were an admission of guilt. Juliet nods emphatically. “Edith has become an embarrassment. First that public blunder with the trial, then allowing Orrault to be sieged like that. It’s terrible what happened outside the walls.” Her tail flickers into view for the briefest moment, like a fish cresting the surface of the ocean. “I own a few bakeries around the city, and we’ve basically been conscripted into making bread non-stop to make sure the refugees are being fed.” You pause to formulate a graceful response. “Oh, that’s uhm, I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s not causing too much stress on your livelihood.” “Oh, the Hunger Brigade pays for it.” She offers a warm smile. “I’m building rapport with the city and getting new customers—people remember who fed them, y’know? It’ll work out in the long run, even if things are a bit difficult for now.” An idea sparks. Juliet runs a few food dispensaries, and Mira likes to eat—a weak association for sure, but it’s better than nothing. As much as it pains your heart to think about it, Mira might be subsisting off free food. Maybe if you get on Juliet’s good side, you could convince her to tell her staff to be on the lookout for your companion. All you have to do is imitate Sherine’s weaponized friendliness and cozy up to this stranger to convince her to do you a favor. It shouldn’t be hard… right? “Even if it’s a mandate, it’s very charitable of you to help those in need,” you start, unsure if the compliment will land. Juliet shrugs. “I suppose. All I have to do is bake and hand out bread—I can’t imagine what it was like in the gate town when the horde appeared with no warning.” Right, ‘no warning.’ Another of Edith’s blunders, though you decide not to correct Juliet. You’ve done enough damage to the marquis’ reputation already. “There were thousands of monster girls out of nowhere,” the demi continues. “Everywhere in the city you could hear the fighting—and then that explosion.” She shudders. “I… I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t been to the gate to see the damage yet, but I’ve heard rumors.” You quell the faint spark in your heart at the mention. “It wasn’t pretty. We tried to rescue as many people as we could, and then, uh, well I saw the explosion.” //Up close.// “But I don’t think any civilians were nearby when it happened.” //“You were there?”// She watches you with awe in her eyes, a glimmering admiration. “Do you mean to tell me you’re a lawyer //and// a soldier? That’s amazing, <<= $name>>. Do you have any stories from the front?” “Uhm, well, my adventuring band and I were actually conscripted at the last moment—the marquis wasn’t too happy with me after the trial. We were sent outside with a lot of the town guards, and we fought some of the horde. But we chose to stay near the gate and do whatever we could for those locked out. There was a lot of fighting all over the place, total chaos, but I <<if $Orrault8 == "Mira">>rescued a few people from an inn.” There were also people who you didn’t reach in time, who weren’t so lucky…<<elseif $Orrault8 == "Vanille">>helped people trapped behind a barricade.” Though, not all of them were happy to see Sherine…<<else>>helped take out a flock of harpies.” Ashlyn did most of the work, technically…<</if>> Juliet’s bright eyes chase away the negative thoughts. If it weren’t for you, the monsters would have blown the gate and she might not be here today. You allow yourself to indulge just a bit. “Uhm, we defended a brewery full of people from an armored cow taur. She was ferocious, the biggest monster I’ve ever seen.” “Wow. I heard about her…” Juliet touches a finger to her lip. “Were you scared?” “I- I was,” you admit without hesitation. It’s the truth. “There was so much happening all at once, so many monster girls I hadn’t ever seen before: minotaurs, a griffon, a fucking fire-breathing dragon. I haven’t really been adventuring for all that long, but I don’t think you can ever really prepare for something like that, y’know?” You blink at the demi, and for the briefest moment you swear she looks like someone else. You quell the shudder rattling in your ribcage. You were scared, sure, but you got through it because of four very specific reasons. The things that carried you to today, that made every second in this backward-ass, fucked up world bearable, survivable, enjoyable, are your friendships. Your allies and companions have always been there for you. They’re everything. You shift in your chair, eager to end this conversation and get back to looking for Mira. “I misspoke. There //is// something you can do—you can surround yourself with allies, with friends, with people you’d give everything for. People like that keep everything in perspective, make your next move obvious.” “Wow…” she murmurs with awe. “This is amazing. You’re so humble and heroic in person! I //have// to brag about you to my friend. He’s an artist who works just up the street. Oh, I wanna get a sketch and an autograph to commemorate meeting you!” The prospect of talking to an artist gives you an idea: maybe they could draw up a few posters with Mira’s likeness on it, then hang them around town. Hopefully their services aren’t too expensive. Or perhaps they’ll be as impressed by you as Juliet—so much so that they’ll give you a discount. One can dream. [[Go with Juliet|The Bread Pirate Roberts and the Buns He Baked Along the Way]] [[Tell Sherine you’ve found a lead|Time for Panic]]

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” you ask hesitantly. Sherine simply nods. “I made the offer.” “I, uhh… Then yeah, I’d really appreciate that. Thank you.” The lamia gives a sympathetic smile and turns toward the exit. “Let’s go.” Right. She’s not just going to regurgitate her prey in the middle of the teahouse floor. That’d be… messy. And probably more than a little rude. As you cross the room, Sherine’s actively writhing stomach earns little more than the occasional disinterested glance or odd raised eyebrow. No one openly objects or even offers so much as a disapproving whisper. Now that you consider it, no one even seemed to notice Juliet being devoured at all—or your close call moments prior, for that matter. A quick trip back down the hallway and through the front door sees you and Sheirne on the open streets of Orrault. Before you have a chance to ask where exactly the lamia plans to let her prey out, a sudden squelch of flesh and a renewed round of agitated protests provides an answer: right here, apparently. You watch with mixed disbelief and awe as Sherine’s abdominals clench, drawing tight around Juliet’s squirming form. For a brief, worrying moment, it almost looks like the lamia is trying to compact her into a more manageable lump. Suddenly, Juliet begins to shift upward, squeezed out of Sherine’s human stomach and into her esophagus. You realize that, despite having seen your fair share of casual predation in this world, you’ve never watched someone regurgitate their prey. Sure, you’ve experienced it yourself, but you’ve never actually observed the deed. Maybe it’s something typically done in relative private? Or maybe it’s just rare. Either way, Sherine makes the process look easy, almost graceful—or at least the closest thing you can imagine for what’s ultimately upending the contents of one’s stomach. Juliet rapidly funnels up the lamia’s throat. A slickened arm emerges first, immediately followed by the woman’s head, then her torso. The demi spills forward in a wave of slime, then unceremoniously //splats// onto the cobblestones, sending stray bits of gunk flying. Yet again, none of the passersby seem to mind in the slightest save for giving the woman a slightly wider berth. Without missing a beat, Juliet rises to her feet and spends a moment tidying herself up—a laughably inadequate effort by your appraisal. The woman’s hair is plastered to her head, and she’s coated from head to toe in dribbling layers of gunk that shimmer faintly in the midday light. Her simple dress is thoroughly soaked, and while you can’t see any obvious damage from Sherine’s stomach, you don’t imagine the brief acid bath did the fabric any favors. “Thanks for letting me out,” she says with an alarmingly casual air, as if Sherine merely helped her pick up a dropped belonging and didn’t, y’know, //spare her life.// “Don’t thank me,” your companion says. “It was <<= $name>>’s choice.” Juliet regards you with an unnervingly amicable smile. “Oh, did he, now? That’s very kind—” “I usually prefer to keep my meals,” Sherine interjects, “In fact, I’m not sure I’ll be able to help myself if you stay around much longer. Or if I see you again.” “Uhh, right.” The woman hesitates, a suddenly wary gaze flickering between you and the lamia. “I, uhm… I guess I’ll be on my way, then.” And with that, she’s gone, hastily plodding off into the crowds with wet, squishing steps. “So, uhm… now what?” you ask, baffled that Juliet’s hardly receiving more than the occasional passing glance. You’re pretty sure you’d last all of eight seconds in that state. “Should we head back inside?” “I don’t see the need,” Sherine says after she wipes her lips. “I was just finishing up with Vice-Captain Nassar when you caught my attention—you weren’t joking about attracting your fair share of predators. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” You let out a nervous laugh<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>, half expecting her to add some comment about another predator ‘stealing her prize.’ When it doesn’t come, you admit,<<else>>.<</if>> “Yeah, it’s something of a problem.” The lamia nods. “Regardless, I think we’re done with the teahouse for now. Rose promised to keep an eye out for a few more promising leads, so I can always return another day. And I wouldn’t want you pushing yourself.” You quell the instinctive urge to protest, to insist that you’re fine for a while longer. Your close call has left you drained—both physically and emotionally. The thought of a few hours of shut-eye is sounding awfully tempting, and you’d hate to miss another day of the search because you didn’t respect your own limitations. “Yeah, fair enough,” you eventually say with a weary sigh. “Let’s head back.” [[Back to the Covetous Crow]]

After a long moment’s consideration, you shake your head. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s alright. You can keep her.” Sherine frowns. “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” You nod, half to convince yourself. “This is just me being weird. It’s ridiculous, no good reason for you to give up a… meal, especially not after you just saved my life.” The lamia eyes you pensively. She’s not quite reassured. “Besides,” you try again. “She, uhh… She got what she deserved, right?” You attempt a casual chuckle you don’t feel. “It’s fine, really.” Whether or not Sherine is convinced by your half-hearted effort, she eventually offers a conciliatory nod. Maybe she’s just being polite. Before the silence can grow awkward, the lamia’s stomach suddenly lurches, then visibly begins to shrink. For a horrified moment, you think she’s suddenly chosen to reveal some rapid metabolism that can instantly melt prey even within her relatively safe—to your understanding, at least—human stomach. Rationality catches up an instant later as fresh swells appear around Sherine’s waist, scales bulging and shifting to accommodate prey being sent into the lamia’s tail. You watch, engrossed, as Juliet slips entirely from Sherine’s upper stomach and begins to sink deeper. And deeper. Her features grow vague, struggles failing to make more than the slightest impression against the sea of copper. In worse light or louder surroundings, you could honestly see her slipping from your mind entirely. But a part of you is going to keep thinking about her regardless, well after she stops struggling—which won’t be long, you realize with a shiver. You’ve seen how quickly Sherine worked her way through an entire centaur when she was that deep in the lamia’s stomach. The unassuming demi isn’t going to last an hour. She brought this on herself, you tell yourself—//insist,// damnit. It’s not like she was going to do any better to you. “So, uhm… now what?” you ask, mostly to keep your mind occupied. “Should we keep asking around?” “I don’t see the need,” Sherine says. “I was just finishing up with Vice-Captain Nassar when you caught my attention—you weren’t joking about attracting your fair share of predators. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” You let out a laugh you don’t feel<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>, half expecting the lamia to add some comment about another predator ‘stealing her prize.’ When it doesn’t come, you admit,<<else>>.<</if>> “Yeah, it’s a… problem.” The lamia smiles. “Regardless, I think we’re done here for now. Rose promised to keep an eye out for a few more promising leads, so I can always return another day. And I wouldn't want you pushing yourself.” You quell the instinctive urge to protest, to insist that you’re fine for a while longer. Your close call has left you drained—both physically and emotionally. The thought of a few hours of shut-eye is sounding awfully tempting, and you’d hate to miss another day of the search because you didn’t respect your own limitations. “Yeah, fair enough,” you eventually say with a weary sigh. “Let’s head back.” Unsurprisingly, Sherine’s tail earns little attention from the fellow patrons as the two of you cross the room. Then again, you doubt anyone would mind if the lamia’s upper stomach were full. No one even seemed to notice the demi being devoured at all—or your close call moments prior, for that matter. A quick trip back down the hallway and through the front door sees you and Sheirne on the open streets of Orrault. Before you can get your bearings, your companion is already leading the way, and you hurry to her side—partially to stay close, and partially to keep the obscured form of her prey out of your sight. [[Back to the Covetous Crow]]

The first few minutes of your walk pass in silence<<if $Orrault9 == "keep1" || $Orrualt9 == "keep2"|| $Orrault9 == "lie">> save for the occasional muffled protest from Sherine’s stomach. You try to keep it from your mind as the two of you cut a direct path back to the tavern<<else>>. You cut a direct path back to the tavern<<if $Orrault9 == "release">> save for a quick stop so Sherine can grab a small basket of fried vegetables from a market stand. You’re not exactly hungry yourself, but you’re not about to complain<<else>>, though Sherine maintains a relaxed pace, and you have no problem keeping up even as exhaustion creeps into your limbs<</if>><</if>>. Familiar aches gradually return with each step, reminders that even your cautious and modest use of stamina has its limits. <<if $Orrault9 != "lie">>“Sherine?” you start hesitantly as you turn onto one of Orrault’s larger thoroughfares. “Why are you going through all this trouble? For me, I mean.” The lamia <<if $Orrault9 != "release">>glances <<if $Orrault9 == "push" || $Orrault9 == "keep1">>back at the faint bulge in her tail<<else>>down at her shifting abdomen<</if>>, then offers a curious frown. “I told you it was no trouble, <<= $name>><<else>>tilts her head and offers a curious frown. “If you’re talking about letting that woman free, I told you it was no trouble<</if>>.” “I know, but… It’s not just today; it’s the whole last week. I know you dismissed this earlier, but I guess I’m…” You hesitate, trying to find a tactful choice of words. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m a bit confused. I appreciate you’re doing all this for me, but I don’t really understand //why.”// Rather than take offense, Sherine lets out a slight laugh. Her lips curl to a genuine smile, equal parts amused and endeared. “Make no mistake, <<= $name>>. <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>When you offer yourself to me—genuinely, sincerely—I’ll gladly take you. I’ll revel in every second of it, and make sure you do the same.<<else>>If you offered yourself to me—genuinely, sincerely—I’d gladly take you.<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>> I meant every word I said the night before the siege.<</if>><</if>> But don’t confuse my desire for callousness. If anything, it’s the opposite.” You <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>suppress a shiver, eyeing<<else>>eye<</if>> the lamia warily. “Doesn’t that seem a little… paradoxical? Worrying about someone you’re planning to eat one day?” “I suppose it can,” she says with a shrug. “But I see things differently. It’s a pinnacle, not a termination. Abandoning one’s inhibitions, offering all that you are—or taking what is offered. It can be a deeply intimate thing.” A <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>second <</if>>shiver courses down your spine, but before you can offer a response, Sherine continues. “But that’s beside the point. Regardless of any wants or desires on my part, I //do// care, <<= $name>>.” “I… Thanks, Sherine,” you eventually manage, deciding that simplicity is your friend. You’re not entirely sure how you’re //supposed// to respond to a declaration of compassion paired with a simultaneous <<if $Orrault8 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>>reaffirmation<<else>>confirmation<</if>> of the lamia’s intent to seduce you into being devoured. You’re not in the right headspace to figure these things out now. Just stick to putting one foot in front of the other. “So uhh, what do you think you’ll do next?” you say, eager to change the subject. “Looking for Mira, I mean.”<<else>>“So what do you think you’ll do next?” you ask, as much to fill the silence as from genuine curiosity. “Looking for Mira, I mean.”<</if>> “I still have a number of connections I can reach out to within Orrault,” Sherine says. “It’s a big city, after all.” “How about the marquis’ estate? I know you didn’t exactly leave on good terms with the, erm… management. But what about any other staff? Gwen, maybe?” The lamia’s lips quirk to an odd expression. “I don’t believe she remained in the marquis’ employ after her outburst at the manor. Generally speaking, condemning a subordinate to almost certain death beyond the city walls is something of an informal termination. Besides, I’m not sure Gwen would be especially eager to see me.” “I got the impression you two were getting along decently, now.” Sherine nods. “In the aftermath of the siege, I suppose. But I think Gwen’s had quite enough of me barging into her life and making things more complicated.” “How about Melody?” “What about her?” You hesitate. “Okay. Admittedly, I’m not sure a maid’s gonna be much help in the search. But have you talked to her at all after the horde? Checked in to make sure she’s alright, at least?” Sherine regards you inquisitively. “You have a curious assessment of my relationship to that woman, <<= $name>>. Despite my insistence to the contrary.” “Melody seemed to think otherwise,” you say. “At the very least, she valued your friendship enough to try and keep it a secret—at your request, presumably.” //“Try,// yes.” The lamia <<if $Orrault9 == "lie">>smirks. “You’re remarkably insistent. Are you hoping we might pay her a visit while we’re out, perhaps? See if you can watch me eat a second time in the same day? I //do// have plenty of room, after all.” “I, ah—No, it’s not…”<<else>>offers a wan grin, then shakes her head. “She always was a bit too enthusiastic for her own good. Too willing to trust. It’s a wonder no one’s used that against her.” “You didn’t.” Sherine eyes you for a moment. “I hope that’s not what qualifies as ‘friendship’ in your eyes, <<= $name>>.” A slight smile undercuts the potentially harsh words. “I, ah—No, that’s not what I…<</if>>” You eventually relent with a weary sigh. “Nevermind.” With the topic dropped, your companion seems perfectly content to pass the rest of the journey back to the tavern and silence, and you decide to follow suit. Honestly, you’re too weary to press the issue even if you wanted to. Each step forces you to acknowledge that the concoction of stubbornness and Havendorian medicine you’re running on is wearing thin. Before too long, it’s going to run out entirely, and you’re not exactly keen on forcing Sherine to carry you back to the Covetous Crow. She<<if $Orrault9 == "release">>’s already accommodated you more than enough for one day<<else>> already has one hapless idiot to lug around… for however long Juliet will last<</if>>. [[Rest up and call it a day|Vanille: First Blood Part II]]

“I’d appreciate that, yeah,” you say after a long moment of consideration. “Thanks, Sherine.” Your companion merely nods a moment before her stomach suddenly lurches, then visibly begins to shrink. Despite the request you literally //just// made, an irrational part of your mind briefly thinks Sherine’s suddenly chosen to reveal some rapid metabolism that can instantly melt prey even within her relatively safe—to your understanding, at least—human stomach. Rationality catches up an instant later as fresh swells appear around Sherine’s waist, scales bulging and shifting to accommodate prey being sent into the lamia’s tail. You watch, rapt, as Juliet slips entirely from Sherine’s upper stomach and begins to sink deeper. And deeper. Her features grow vague, struggles failing to make more than the slightest impression against the sea of copper. In worse light or louder surroundings, you could honestly see her slipping from your mind entirely. But a part of you is going to keep thinking about her regardless, well after she stops struggling—which won’t be long, you realize with a shiver. You’ve seen how quickly Sherine worked her way through an entire centaur when she was that deep in the lamia’s stomach. The unassuming demi isn’t going to last an hour. She brought this on herself, you tell yourself—//insist,// damnit. It’s not like she was going to do any better to you. “So, uhm… now what?” you ask, mostly to keep your mind off Juliet. “Should we keep asking around?” “I don’t see the need,” Sherine says. “I was just finishing up with Vice-Captain Nassar when you caught my attention—you weren’t joking about attracting your fair share of predators. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” You let out a laugh you don’t feel<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>, half expecting the lamia to add some comment about another predator ‘stealing her prize.’ When it doesn’t come, you admit,<<else>>.<</if>> “Yeah, it’s a… problem.” The lamia nods. “Regardless, I think we’re done here for now. Rose promised to keep an eye out for a few more promising leads, so I can always return another day. And I wouldn't want you pushing yourself.” You quell the instinctive urge to protest, to insist that you’re fine for a while longer. Your close call has left drained—both physically and emotionally. The thought of a few hours of shut-eye is sounding awfully tempting, and you’d hate to miss another day of the search because you didn’t respect your own limitations. “Yeah, fair enough,” you eventually say with a weary sigh. “Let’s head back.” Unsurprisingly, Sherine’s stomach earns little attention from the fellow patrons as the two of you cross the room. Then again, you doubt anyone would mind if Juliet was still in the lamia’s upper stomach. No one even seemed to notice Juliet being devoured at all—or your close call moments prior, for that matter. A quick trip back down the hallway and through the front door sees you and Sheirne on the open streets of Orrault. Before you can get your bearings, your companion is already leading the way, and you hurry to her side—partially to stay close, and partially to keep the obscured form of her prey out of your sight. [[Back to the Covetous Crow]]

After a long moment’s consideration, you shake your head. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s alright. I’m fine.” Sherine frowns. “Are you sure?” “Yeah.” You nod, half to convince yourself. “This is just me being weird. It’s ridiculous. You don’t need to worry about accommodating me, especially not after you just saved my life.” Whether or not Sherine is convinced by your assurance, she eventually offers a conciliatory shrug. Maybe she’s just being polite. “So, uhm… now what?” you ask, partially to fill the awkward silence and partially to distract yourself from the lamia’s writhing gut. “Should we keep asking around?” “I don’t see the need,” Sherine says. “I was just finishing up with Vice-Captain Nassar when you caught my attention—you weren’t joking about attracting your fair share of predators. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” You let out a laugh you don’t feel<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>, half expecting the lamia to add some comment about another predator ‘stealing her prize.’ When it doesn’t come, you admit,<<else>>.<</if>> “Yeah, it’s a… problem.” The lamia nods. “Regardless, I think we’re done here for now. Rose promised to keep an eye out for a few more promising leads, so I can always return another day. And I wouldn't want you pushing yourself.” You quell the instinctive urge to protest, to insist that you’re fine for a while longer. Your close call has left drained—both physically and emotionally. The thought of a few hours of shut-eye is sounding awfully tempting, and you’d hate to miss another day of the search because you didn’t respect your own limitations. “Yeah, fair enough,” you eventually say with a weary sigh. “Let’s head back.” Sherine’s stomach earns little attention from the fellow patrons as the two of you cross the room. Then again, no one even seemed to notice Juliet being devoured at all—or your close call moments prior, for that matter. Why would they start caring now? A quick trip back down the hallway and through the front door sees you and Sheirne on the open streets of Orrault. Before you can get your bearings, your companion is already leading the way, and you hurry to her side—partially to stay close, and partially to keep that squirming stomach from your direct line of sight. [[Back to the Covetous Crow]]

<<timed 1s t8n>>After a brief check-in with your companions the next morning, your group heads their own ways: Sherine will be trying some of her less-prominent contacts and Ashlyn claims she’ll be working on another different spell. Before you depart for the day, the mage slips a slice of parchment under your quick breakfast: a warning about Vanille with a //very// explicit drawing of the knight skull-fucking your eviscerated corpse. Ashlyn’s artistic talents ought to be put to better use. Vanille’s with you today, eager to visit the adventurer’s guild after hearing your proposal to post a quest to find Mira. You gather your things, pocket another vile dose of the potion the theurges gave you, and go on your way. No more than a hundred feet from the Covetous Crow, Vanille apologizes profusely for passing out yesterday, then for sleeping more than thirty minutes, and then for not already finding Mira, all of which are hardly good reasons to apologize. Vanille confesses her overnight search came up dry, and upon learning that she hasn’t taken an actual break in twelve hours, you insist that she grab a bite to eat from a passing vendor. You briefly wonder if you should have treated her to a nicer meal before remembering that the knight’s tastes trend toward pubs and bars and ‘places of the common people’—a stark contrast to the finer establishments Orrault has to offer you sampled with Sherine yesterday. Besides, eating on the go gives you the opportunity to inconspicuously investigate something that’s been bothering you. You watch with keen eyes as Vanille scarfs down a likely-inadequate stick of smoked meat. There doesn’t //seem// to be anything off about the way she eats, nothing that would make you believe— Goddamnit, Ashlyn; you have enough to worry about right now. You don’t need this shit from the redhead poisoning your brain. Even //if// Vanille’s something other than human, that wouldn’t change the way you feel about her, nor would it undo everything she’s done for you. “So, uhm,” you start nervously, scrunching up Ashlyn’s doodle in your pocket. “At the guild, is there a way we can word the commission so people understand Mira’s not being //hunted?// I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and harm her…” “Leave it to me,” Vanille says cheerfully. “I’ve seen plenty of ‘search and rescue’ type jobs posted, though given the current state of affairs, it might be a while before anyone gets around to it.” “Why’s that?” “The guild office is, uhm…” she trails off. “They’re a bit overburdened at the moment. Y- You’ll see when we get there.” You nod pensively. “Should we be trying something else?” Vanille waves her free arm and rapidly shakes her head. “No, no. You made a good suggestion. It just means that we’ll need to put a decent bounty up to make it stand out and get picked up.” “Oh. How much do they normally reward for something like this?” “Depends on the location, the difficulty of the job, the person in question. Mira’s not exactly easy to fi—We’ll probably want to see the average and wager above it by a decent margin.” “Fifty percent above?” you suggest. Vanille raises an eyebrow. “One hundred and fifty percent?”<<if $RVMira >= 14>> //One thousand percent?//<</if>> You hesitate for a moment, hand drifting to your coin purse as you perform the mental math. A disgusted moment later, you balk at your frugality—Mira’s safety is a treasure no mere pouch can contain. No amount of gold is worth holding in reserve. Maybe you could even get your hands on more. Take a few commissions of your own? Perhaps a second delve into Niverdene? <<linkreplace "Something more illicit?">>… In retrospect, it’s a good thing you didn’t bring the entirety of the party’s coffers with you. The way things are going, you might stake your entire future on this possibility, and you’re beginning to worry Vanille would have agreed without a second thought. You don’t want to be broke in this city twice in the same month. The only reason you had any spending money at all before selling the haul from Niverdene was because— A cold pang flutters in your heart. Time to change the subject. “Hey,” you nudge Vanille gently. “Can we talk more about… about what happened?” “About wha—” She falters, hastily averting her gaze. After an awkward moment, she finally looks back, apologetic. “Wh- What did you want to talk about, <<= $name>>?” “I dunno. You seem a little… dire? You’ve been pushing yourself really hard.” “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” “Well, you //did// pass out yesterday.” You hesitate, trying to temper your concern to a more productive impulse. “You didn’t sleep for a few days?” Vanille offers a dismissive wave. “That’s normal, that’s nothing.” “Okay… but after the siege, a- and even during, you’ve been… different.” You hesitate, considering Ashlyn’s words. Vanille’s not some horrific creature of the night… probably. But the mage was right in that your friend has demonstrated some exceptionally violent tendencies—even by this world’s standards. “Please, Vanille. We promised we’d talk to each other more.” The knight merely shakes her head. “I’m fine, really. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle a sleepless night or two.” You bite your tongue. You know Vanille well enough to understand when she’s deflecting—usually out of humility or politeness. This is different. You’re talking about the corpses she left in her wake, not her feats of inhuman strength. The night she visited you on your deathbed stumbles into your memory like a drunk specter. Her words were distant and… raw, weeping from her soul. She was in pain, ashamed. Vulnerable. “After the siege…” you begin, tip of your tongue searching for tactful words. “I only have flashes of it, but I remember lying in that bed, waking up without a clue what day it was, how much time had passed—all sorts of things I couldn’t do for myself. It was… awful. I felt so weak and feeble and pathetic. Being nursed back to life made me feel ashamed, and just—Mira made me realize that I haven’t been giving enough back to you all.” You urge Vanille to stop walking for a moment, then look her directly in the eye. “I’m sorry. I should have been there for you in the aftermath.” “Me?” A flicker of genuine surprise crosses Vanille’s features before it’s hastily eclipsed by an affable smile<<if $RVVanille >= 14>>—yet her gaze doesn’t quite meet your own, as if she’s hesitant to make direct eye contact<</if>>. “Is that what this is? You’re worrying about //me?// Sheesh, selfless as always, <<= $name>>.” She falls silent, and you can’t help but frown. Any other day, you might appreciate the compliment from your most stalwart companion, but now you feel like a child being managed, kept at arm’s length. You can’t make her talk, but it’s frustrating that she doesn’t //want// to. <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>><<linkreplace "Ask about your relationship">><<include "Van1">><<set $VanilleEvent6 to true>><<set $MC1 to "heroic">><</linkreplace>><<elseif $VanilleEvent4 == "hold" && $Orrault7 != "Mira" && $Orrault7 != "Vanille" && $Orrault7 != "Ashlyn" && $SherineEvent1 == false>><<linkreplace "Ask about your relationship">><<include "Van2">><<set $VanilleEvent6 to true>><<set $MC1 to "heroic">><</linkreplace>><<elseif $VanilleEvent4 == "hold" && $Orrault7 == "Mira">><<linkreplace "Talk about your relationship">><<set $MC1 to "inspiring">><<include "Van3">><</linkreplace>><<else>><<set $MC1 to "inspiring">>Vanille nudges your side. “Hey, I haven’t had a chance to say this to you yet. During the siege, I saw you fight, saw you try your best. Not just for your friends, but for everyone. People you’ve never met, people you would never see again. It was… inspiring.” “I- I just did what I could.” “No. It was more than that… I’m embarrassed about this, but when we first met I didn’t think much of you. I doubted that you were really some hero from another world.” Her golden eyes bore right into yours. “I was wrong, //very// wrong. There are few people—in any world, I suspect—who would have stepped up like you have. You’re doing a great job, <<= $name>>.” Stricken, you nod. “That’s…” A thawing smile cuts across your face as a soothing balm releases the tension in your chest. “I really needed to hear that. Thank you, Vanille.” [[Walk the streets together|Distant Blast Beats]]<</if>><</linkreplace>><</timed>>

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of awkward silence. “There’s something else that’s been on my mind. Before the siege, we…” You blush. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I felt that you and I were starting to… W- We talked about //possibly, maybe,// developing feelings for one another, but needing more time.” You swallow your pride. “I, uhm, I think it’s only fair that I tell you… Mira and I, we—” “<<= $name>>, I know. You two had sex that night.” You regurgitate your pride. “Wh- What? How did you…” “She propositioned you right outside my door. Those walls weren’t that thick, you know.” A smile cuts across her face. “Plus I… saw her ‘nesting.’ Mira scrounged up blankets and pillows and snacks and even a few candles when she thought I wasn’t looking. It was so adorable, I’m not sure how you could have said no—” Vanille pales. “Uah, that’s not to say I think you made the wrong choice, or were tricked or anything.” “I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, embarrassment spilling all over the cobblestones. “It was impulsive. I was terrified about the looming siege, a- and she—” “Really, it’s okay. Tell me: do you care about her?” Vanille chuckles. “What am I saying? Of course you do. Finding her has been the only thing you’ve talked about for days.” “I- I… I do care about her, yeah. I care about all of you—” “I’m glad you were there for each other that night. You were so brave the next day, it was… inspiring. Seriously, you two are a good match. I’m happy for you. Truly,” Vanille bites her lip hesitantly. “… Or I will be when we find her, and the two of you can patch things up.” You wince and nod. “So you and I are good?” “Absolutely.” [[Walk the streets together|Distant Blast Beats]]

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of awkward silence. “I don’t mean to force it, but there’s something else that’s been on my mind. Before the siege, we…” You blush. “I- I guess I wanted to ask you if you… still had feelings, too? Romantic feelings. A- About me, about us. After everything that happened, we haven’t talked about that kiss. I—” A hand gingerly grabs your shoulder. You barely draw a breath before Vanille’s lips press against your own, emphatic and punctual. She releases you a second later and reality snaps back into place. Vanille watches as your face contorts through the roiling emotions. After a few seconds she bursts. “I’m sorry! I should have asked first, about what you wanted.” “N- No, that was… that was nice.” You catch your breath and blush, resisting the reflex to wipe your lips. Your face is still warm from where she made contact. “I guess that answers my question. I feel a little silly for being concerned, now. I- I guess we had other things going on, a- and I hope you’re not jealous that finding Mira’s been the main thing on my mind lately, I didn’t mean to—” Vanille merely smiles. “I understand how much you need to find her. She doesn’t infringe on—I’m not threatened by—” She manages a mirthless chuckle. “You’re a good person. A //very// good person. Downright heroic. I don’t de—” Vanille shakes off another shiver. “I- I like her, too, <<= $name>>. She’s our friend. Don’t worry about me. I trust you completely.” <<linkreplace "“Are you okay?”">>“Are… you okay? You’re stuttering a lot.” “Am I? I’m sorry, I’ll fix that.” “No, it’s—” You take a breath and collect your thoughts. “Vanille, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird around me lately.” “No, no, not acting,” Vanille insists. “Sorry, I just—The kiss, right? I haven’t had a real relationship like this before. I’m confused, is all. I promise. Just, y’know, flutters. I- I care about you //so// much, and I don’t know what to do about it sometimes. I’m afraid you—” You take her hand. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m new at this, too. We’ll figure it out together, alright?” “Y- Yes.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “Actually, uhm, can you take the lead on that?” You give a reassuring smile and gently squeeze her hand—a panacea for you as much as her. “How about we walk like this for a few blocks?” Vanille’s lips curl to a smile warm as a hearth on a cold winter evening. “I’d like that.” [[Walk the streets together|Distant Blast Beats]]<</linkreplace>>

“Sorry,” you say after a moment of awkward silence. “I don’t mean to force it, but there’s something else that’s been on my mind. Before the siege, we…” You blush. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I felt that you and I were starting to… W- We talked about //possibly, maybe,// developing feelings for one another, but needing more time. And, I guess after everything I’ve been through since then, I wanted to ask how you were feeling on that front—” A hand gingerly grabs your shoulder. You barely draw a breath before Vanille’s lips press against your own, an emphatic kiss that stretches into breathless eternity. She withdraws barely a second later, and reality snaps back into place. “Thank you. For waiting for me.” Vanille watches as your face contorts through the roiling emotions. After a few seconds she bursts. “Ah, I’m sorry! I should have asked first, about what you wanted.” “N- No, that was… nice. W- What changed?” you manage, lips tingling with faint, residual warmth and the faintest flavor of sun-kissed roses. “During the siege. I saw you fight, saw you try your best. Not just for your friends, but for everyone. People you’ve never met, people you would never see again. It was…” Blush blooms on her cheeks. “Heroic. I saw you being brave, and I realized I was being an idiot. About everything. About us. Of course I have feelings for you, <<= $name>>. I’m sorry it took—that I didn’t do anything about it until now.” A gentle, welcome heat builds in your chest. Despite the circumstances, despite your absent companion, Vanille’s words are a gentle salve on aching wounds—an assurance that however difficult things might be right now, she’s here for you. And you’re here for her. You offer your hand, and after a moment of uncertainty, Vanille takes it. “I’m glad we’re here together,” you say. You pause, then add, “I, uh, I hope you’re not jealous that finding Mira’s been the main thing on my mind lately, I didn’t mean to—” Vanille offers a curt nod. “I understand how much you need to find her. She doesn’t infringe on—I’m not threatened by—” She manages a mirthless chuckle. “You’re a good person. A //very// good person. I don’t de—” Vanille shakes off another shiver. “I- I like her, too, <<= $name>>. She’s our friend. Don’t worry about me. I trust you completely.” <<linkreplace "“Are you okay?”">>“Are… you okay? You’re stuttering a lot.” “Am I? I’m sorry, I’ll fix that.” “No, it’s—” You take a breath and collect your thoughts. “Vanille, are you sure everything’s alright? You’ve been acting… weird around me lately.” “No, no, not acting,” Vanille insists. “Sorry, I just—The kiss, right? It was less nerve-wracking in my head. A- And I haven’t had a real relationship like this before. I’m confused, is all. I promise. Just, y’know, flutters. I- I care about you //so// much, and I don’t know what to do about it sometimes. I’m afraid you—” You take her hand and squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m new at this, too. We’ll figure it out together, alright?” “Y- Yes.” She shifts from one foot to the other for an uncertain moment, then takes a steadying breath and offers a gentle smile. “Actually, uhm, can you take the lead on that?” You give a reassuring smile and gently squeeze her hand—a panacea for you as much as her. “How about we walk like this for a few blocks?” Vanille’s lips curl to a smile warm as a hearth on a cold winter evening. “I’d like that.” [[Walk the streets together|Distant Blast Beats]]<</linkreplace>>

“So, hey,” you start after a stretch of walking in comfortable silence. “I wanted to ask: right before the explosion, I thought I saw that griffon trying to get you. Did she…” “She took the brunt of the explosion, yeah. The aftermath was… gross.” You whistle—Hey, you can do that again without invoking agonizing pain. Neat. “That’s pretty metal.” Vanille regards you quizzically. “I don’t… I don’t know what that means.” “It’s, uhh…” You hesitate, realizing you’re not entirely sure you’re even capable of providing a concrete definition to someone who actually //has// the same approximate lifetime of cultural references, touchstones, and overall upbringing. Could you explain years of musical genre evolution—largely fueled by technology and a whirlwind of cultural upheaval—to someone whose fundamental frame of reference is entirely disconnected from your own? Do you even want to try? You decide, for the sake of all involved, that the only sane answer is a resounding //no.// Which means it’s time for a tautological approach. “It’s, uhh… Okay, it’s when something is, uhm, cool—” No wait, she might think you’re speaking literally. “I mean, awesome? Hardcore?” No, no. That’s opening an entirely different can of worms. Vanille merely nods, though you can see confusion lingering in her eyes. “So it’s like when you try really hard at something?” “Not necessarily, no. I- I’m not up to date on the parlance. Technically, it’s uhm, it’s a genre of music with fast drumming and guitars—” Wait, you’ll need to explain the electric guitar to her for that to make any sense. You’re pretty sure you saw a lute at one point, that’s kinda like— Fuck it. “It’s music that’s, like… a wall of sound. Really hard to listen to.” Vanille cocks her head curiously. “And the mention of me covered in viscera reminded you of… that?” “No, that’s not—” You sigh. “It’s metal. I don’t know what else to say.” “So, like iron? Gold?” “Not at all. But speaking of gold,” you gesture to your companion, desperate to change the subject. “You changed your hair.” “I cut it after the siege,” she says, absently fiddling with a fraying strand. “It was too long—one of the monsters yanked it during the fight in the brewery, and that meant it was time to go.” Vanille abruptly blinks, expression rapidly spoiling. “Oh, did you like it the other way? Sorry, I should<<if $VanilleEvent5 == true || $VanilleEvent6 == true>> have asked what you<</if>>—” “No, I like this. It’s very, uhm…” you trail off, searching for the right choice of words. “Metal?” A chuckle blossoms in your chest. “Yeah, actually.” [[Try to teach her more lingo from your world|Guild1]]

A clamor slowly builds ahead. The street gets progressively busier as you travel northward. You’re about to ask if they’re giving something away for free when you turn the corner and are hit by a cacophony. Loiterers, guards, preoccupied townsfolk, humans and demis of all shapes and sizes fill the narrow street from curb to curb. Layers and layers of chatter weave over one another, the noise rising in volume with every step forward. The sheer density of bodies summons an unexpected, stifling heat that oozes out onto the streets in a thick miasma alongside a thousand scents of body odor, sweat, and cooking food. The thronging crowd stands in a packed line outside the guild, desperately seeking entry, a hauntingly similar scene to the day you first arrived at the gates to the city—apparently, the marquis merely moved the problem within the walls. A variety of merchants and vendors have set up shop outside the doors to the residences and businesses unfortunate enough to be located on this particular street, each hocking their wares or services to any who will give them half a second of attention. And there are plenty that do. Alongside the overwhelming crowd of civilians waiting to get into the guild, numerous adventurer-looking folk stand among the crowds. Though they lack a uniform, there’s something obvious and coherent that makes them easy to pick out—aside from the armor and the fact that they’re all armed to the teeth. No, the unifying factor is the way they comport themselves, brushing through the civilians like they’re wading through a field of wheat. Also, the sheer number of exposed midriffs on both men and women is a dead giveaway. Havendorians really do eat their problems. Even your brief, appraising glance finds a few bulges of varying definition and size in your immediate periphery. Vanille pulls you tight to her side, then pushes her way through the masses with you safely under her wing. You keep your body turned inward and focus on matching her determined pace, careful not to bump shoulders with anyone too threatening. At the door to the guild itself, you’re halted by a huge, horned woman. Vanille fishes a small crest from her pocket and flashes it at the bouncer, who nods approval and lets you pass without a word—not like you’d be able to hear it, anyway. The gap in the crowd opens and closes like a palpitating heart valve. You pass under a sign which reads ‘Orrault Office of Civil Affairs and Freelance Mercenary Resources,’ then are relinquished to stand on your own and enjoy luxurious freedoms such as elbow room and space to breathe. You let out a relieved sigh and look around to find yourself in an old lobby with a packed dirt floor and walls of wattle and daub. [[Take a breather|Guild2]]

In comparison to your previous visit to a commission office—which must have been, what… three weeks prior, all the way back in Icilia—Orrault’s adventurer’s guild headquarters has exploded into a dauntingly active business. A crowded and noisy queue stands crammed behind a heavy rope, all clamoring and shouting for attention from the understaffed clerk’s desk where a demi man and a human woman work frantically to process the influx of requests and bounties. You do a double take. It’s hard to know for sure, but you swear there’s a curious swell in the clerk’s midsection. She’s not exactly hiding it, but the uniform and countertop obscure a partially bulging belly. An annoying coworker, perhaps? A more permanent rejection of an unwanted suitor’s advances? Or maybe just leftovers from a big dinner last night? Focus, <<= $name>>. There’s a less occupied area to the side of the hall which you assume is reserved for members—if the sorts of people you see loitering are any indication. They lean casually against the wall or stand around waist-height tables planning their next quest. One is eating a pide, which smells delicious. Another already ate. So many full guts in this place; you don’t know if you should be worried or relieved. You can’t see it until you enter the hall proper, and even then you don’t notice it until you watch a clerk shuffle past you with a small strip of parchment and a hammer in hand. The entire back wall is littered from top to bottom with quests, notes, messages, markers and more, as though someone barfed up an entire library. You scarcely discern the edges of the original board—a simple wooden rectangle of some sort of soft wood barely an inch thick—then clearly see the moment it ran out of space, where the nails started being driven into the paneling of the building, the rest of the wall now appropriated and rezoned for questing purposes. You watch the clerk kick a stepstool a few feet to the right, searching for available real estate. When none reveals itself, he instead drives the chit right on top of a previous one with a loud swing of the hammer, then scurries back to the counter to bury himself in paperwork once more. Vanille urges you forward, past the rowdy queue. “It’s crazy in here,” you practically shout into her ear. “I thought Orrault wasn’t much of an adventuring hub.” She puts one arm around your shoulder and leans in, voice clear and concise over the background noise. “Ever since the undercity was discovered, things have changed pretty rapidly. Word spread, and adventurers flocked to the city, except they’ve mostly been arriving after the siege where there are straggler monsters causing problems outside the walls. So the guild has closed the dungeon until things calm down, but as you can see—” She turns your attention across the hall to where a variety of armed, unkempt persons stand idling about, bored and annoyed. “The fortune-seekers aren’t happy about the limited access. Most aren’t lifting a finger to help, instead just waiting until someone else deals with it.” You tap her shoulder, and she turns her head to listen. “That’s shitty of them.” Vanille nods. “You’re telling me. Because the guild’s taking all the requests to help people on the ground, the city watch hasn’t done anything about the stray monster problem either—and they’re further bolstered by Preston’s defensive posturing.” “That’s shitty of them, too.” “Nothing to be done about it.” She shakes her head. “C’mon. I have some business, then we can put up the commission.” <<linkreplace "Follow along">>Vanille brings you around to the empty side of the guild counter. The bespectacled man holds up a wiggling finger as his quill loops the page he’s focussed on. “One moment please, I’m almost done with…” Both hands on the thoroughly scored wood, you lean forward and peer over at the inset desk just out of sight and catch a glimpse of a rapidly filling ledger. The man suddenly shifts to another open book to his right, then dabs the feather into an inkwell before reaching to his left. He ends the note with a heavy cross, then repeats the signature on the other matching documents. He clicks his tongue happily before meeting your curious gaze. “Hello, my name is Oscar, how may I—” He looks to your companion, then shrinks a little. “Oh, welcome back. You’ll have to forgive me, ma’am, I haven’t learned your name.” “Vanille. <<= $name>>,” she says, introducing you in turn. “I’ve only been here three times.” “Perhaps, but I make it a point to remember a face.” He adjusts his glasses. “Especially one so, ah… muddy.” Vanille pales. “Uhm, right. I—” “Forgive my curiosity, but I felt compelled to check: you almost set a record for number of commissions completed in a week.” “Oh, uhm, on that note…” She hastily dumps a number of tokens on the counter like a thief eager to be rid of pilfered goods. “I forgot to turn in a few.” The clerk’s face lights up, then darkens as he glances over at the stack of logs and ledgers, mood crushed by the inevitable mountain of impending paperwork. His eyes then flit toward a large iron door—a vault of some kind, if you had to guess. “We’re a bit strapped at the moment for coin payouts. I may have to issue a few bonds if you’re okay with that.” Vanille shakes her head dismissively. “No, no, it’s pro bono.” The clerk raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You didn’t take payment last time, either.” “I- I’m sure.” Vanille turns to you, nervous. “We’re okay, right?” Yes, //technically,// your group’s finances are fine at the moment, but isn’t she forgetting the entire reason you’re here? In fact, she said she forgot to collect the quest rewards in the first place. She also forgot to mention she was out hunting beyond the walls of Orrault for the past week—//and the fact that she came in here covered in grime.// Vanille seems to be forgetting a lot of things lately. You give the knight a bit of side-eye, then nod to the clerk. “Can we put it toward a quest posting?” Oscar glances over the counter and across the stanchion at the crowded queue. “New commissions are technically the other line, but…” He turns back to Vanille. “You’ve done a lot for us, ma’am. I’ll help you out and call it ‘guild business’ if you won’t tell anyone.” The knight nods. “We promise. Thank you.” There’s a shifting of the stool and a shuffling of paper—how the clerk keeps track of all the rampant bureaucracy is beyond you. After a minute, he’s piled yet another stack of forms on the countertop. You and Vanille get to work filling out the paperwork as best you can, scribbling and signing in various places. Vanille handles the official technicalities, giving you free reign over filling out a detailed description. Not knowing how much is too much, you write down every damn thing you can remember about Mira, from her cowlick to her mismatched boots and everything between: white ear tufts, grey half-tunic and short trousers, floofy black tail, eyes as green as jewels,<<if $MiraDating == true && $Orrault6 == "Mira">> an emerald hair clip,<</if>> and more to the point of excess. For good measure, you even mention some of her speech patterns, favorite types of snacks—literally everything—<<if $RVMira >= 11>>the fact that her ears flatten when she gets scared, <</if>>and some educated guesses on her whereabouts. Thanks to your zeal, you finish ahead of Vanille. You watch her turn the page over, then fill in another empty line before passing it back to Oscar for approval. He scans it and nods. The stamp doesn’t quite take the first time, nor the second. Halfway through the next page, Vanille’s inkwell dries up. Then there’s a problem with the wax seal on the clerk’s side. All in all, there’s little more you can contribute to the process other than to occasionally sign a document or set aside a page for future use. When your patience finally runs out, you nudge Vanille’s arm. “Can you finish here on your own? I’m gonna ask around about Mira, see if anyone’s seen her.” “A- Are you sure? You don’t know these people, they might—” You furrow your brow. Regardless of your close call yesterday, you’re not keen on being a perpetual burden to your friends. You did enough of that while bedridden. “Vanille, I’m just gonna be right over there. You’ll be able to see me the entire time.” The knight hesitates, a flicker of concern fading before a reassuring nod. “O- Okay. Be careful. Shout if anyone gives you even a slightly threatening look.”<<if $VanilleEvent5 == true || $VanilleEvent6 == true>><<set $knives ++>> You step away, then gasp as an arm pulls you backward. Vanille curls a hand around your waist and pulls you in for a quick peck on the cheek, a spit of fire bursting upon your flesh. It’s over in a flash, and she ushers you on your way before you can say a word. Lightheaded, you walk out into the hall and adjust your tunic. At an unfamiliar feeling on your waist, you pause, then lift your shirt to find an extra sheathed dagger hanging from your belt that definitely wasn’t there before. Did she…<</if>> [[Ask Around|Guild3]]<</linkreplace>>

A friendly-looking woman makes eye contact with you from across the hall, as if she knows you’re looking for someone to talk to. You ignore her and veer left toward a distracted boar demi. The fact that her stomach is huge and moving has nothing to do with your decision in the slightest. It’s not as though you considered that she might be sated already and therefore not see you as a meal. Nor have you calculated that she might not even have room for you at this point, given how massive— “Hey, how’s it goin’?” you ask, surprised at how casual a tone you manage. “I’m <<= $name>>. Are you busy? Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” “Atula.” She looks down at her writhing gut. “I got time. Waiting for this fuckin’ gýgur to digest.” <<linkreplace "Ask what that is">><<replace "#choices">>“What’s that?” “A type of troll. Littler, but no less annoying. Keeps regenerating through digestion. Been trying to finish her for days now so I can finally turn in the damn quest.” “Huh. I can see how that’d be a problem…” <<include "Guild4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ignore it">><<replace "#choices">><<include "Guild4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You shake your head. “Anyway, I’m looking for a friend of mine. She’s a petite feline demi, about yea high, black hair and tail, little white tufts in her ears.” You frown, then lower your voice. “Uhm, she likes to steal stuff and that gets her in trouble sometimes. Maybe someone brought her in?” “We don’t work for the guard. Also, I don’t think anyone’s catching thieves right now.” She waves idly at the loitering adventurers. “Most of these lazy shits are here for the sunken city—and the few hunters in town like myself are mostly working outside the wall.” Atula pauses to assess you for a moment. “You speak a little funny—Do I know you from somewhere? You sound kinda familiar. Bookish, almost…” Her eyes light up and she snaps her fingers. Your heart nearly explodes. “Are you secretly Lucius Hawthorne?” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 5>>“I’m not at liberty to say<<else>>You vehemently shake your head. “That’s not me<</if>>.” //Though you know of his whereabouts…// “Heh, I guess not—you can actually form complete sentences.” The demi folds large arms across her chest. “Anyway, can’t say I’ve seen yer friend.” “That’s okay.” You glance back over toward Vanille, still busy. “You mind if I ask what monster hunting’s like around these parts? Especially after the horde, I’m curious what’s changed.” “What hasn’t?” She lets out a mirthless laugh. “Everything’s fucked. Amberglen and Villisnande have been seeing random attacks. Heard the Icilian garrison is looking for recruits, too. Pays decently well if you’ve got the skills and can get there alright. Caravan protection pay’s at an all-time high, too… if you can even find one making a trip in the first place. Not many people looking to travel northern Havendor, not with the uptick in monster presence.” “Did that much of the horde survive the siege?” “Guess so, though I’ve heard that some of the local monster girls are causing trouble as well.” Your thoughts drift to the bee girl hive near Amberglen and whether or not the garrison had a chance to clear them out. Sure, you dealt with the queen, but there were plenty of drones left in the endless tunnels winding through the Whispered Archives. Could the locals and their volunteer defenders handle a swarm of agitated bee girls? You look at Atula’s shoulders and waist for a weapon. When you find none, you gesture to her stomach. “D- Do you usually eat your target on a monster hunting quest? You don’t carry a weapon?” She shrugs her broad shoulders and raises a pair of meaty fists. As if that wasn’t enough to answer the question, she adds, “Don’t usually need one if they’re smaller than me. Besides, I don’t like blood.” You nod, thoughts swirling. “You’re a demi, yeah?” She rolls her eyes. “No, these tusks are just for show.” “S- Sorry, I meant: have you ever met a hunter that isn’t a demi or a human?” Atula scratches the back of her neck. “Did a couple quests with a minotaur adventurer a few years ago—we actually got through the Labyrinth of Moon Isle, if you can believe that. She was startlingly gluttonous, to the point where I didn’t have anything to show after a hunt ‘cause she ate all the bounties herself. Didn’t work out financially for me, but she was a good lass.” Huh. You can’t quite tell if that was all a joke or not. Based on Atula’s expression, she’s entirely serious. You shake yourself free of idle thoughts. “A- Anyway, I better be going now. Thanks for your time. And uh, good luck with…” Shit, you forgot the name already. “Have you asked for a mage’s help? Maybe something to, uhh… speed things up?” The demi’s lips quirk to a frown. “Huh, never gave it much thought, but that’s a good idea. Thanks.” [[Keep asking around about Mira|Guild5]]

Vanille’s still preoccupied, so you make the rounds throughout the guild hall politely asking each group or individual if they’ve seen your erstwhile companion. None seem particularly empathetic to your cause. Crestfallen, you consider canvassing the crowded queue but decide instead to take a closer look at the quest board—er, wall—for clues. The grand expanse of quests looms before you, the overlapping slips spreading out like scales of a great beast. Actually attempting to read the damn thing forces you to realize just how many individual commissions the guild is currently juggling. You try counting, then give up when you hit triple digits, all without a single repeat. Your eyes climb to the ceiling, skimming and gleaning words and phrases from the endless enigma: //missing pet dog, home burned down, suspected monster girl nest, lost belongings outside the wall, tent stolen, roaming harpy attack//—the list goes on. The grim collage paints a disturbing picture of Orrault and the lands around it. The pit in your stomach deepens. Every plea, every request, every missing person is an acute reminder that this city is reeling in the wake of trauma, that you’re not the only one looking for a lost <<if $RVMira >= 14 && ($MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira")>>loved one<<else>>friend<</if>>. //… Roaming livestock, looking for boarding, business burgled…// Your heart lurches. <<linkreplace "Holy shit">>//‘Bounty: travelers harassed on Corealis Road hour south beyond treeline at nighttime 3 days ago. Multiple reports confirm single demihuman bandit, pointed ears, dark hair, short stature, very nimble; demanded ‘snacks and valuables’ at knifepoint and threat of devourment. Client requesting return of jewelry, diamond earrings. 150 gold reward.’// Giddy, overwhelmed, you pull the quest from the board, a dozen slips falling to the floor. You turn without remorse and fling yourself across the guild hall, clinging to desperate hope. “Vanille! I found her, Vanille!” You slam the slip down on the counter. The knight peers at the parchment, then tilts her head. “Are you sure it’s her? This isn’t very specific, it could be any sort of small—” “It says //‘very’// nimble, and that it happened at night; she can see better in the dark,” you insist. Frantic, you point to the next line. “A- And it mentions ‘snacks.’ Who else do you know that talks like that? Who would hold someone up for their shinies and their food—instead of just eating them and taking all that stuff anyway? It’s her. It’s Mira. It //has// to be.” Vanille nods like a bobblehead and turns back to the clerk. “Oscar, can we check this one out?” “Let me verify it hasn’t already been completed—we’ve been a bit understaffed lately, as you can probably tell.” He pulls up yet another gigantic book from under the desk and //thunks// it open, thumbing through the pages for the proper section with a prolonged sigh. Vanille steps close to you and lowers her voice a pitch. “It’s an hour or two from the gates—are you going to be alright to walk that far? I can rent a rickshaw or something.” Energized, you raise both palms in an assuaging gesture. “Please, no. Aside from that being embarrassing for both of us, you can’t do a quest with me in tow like that. I’d sit this out if I wasn’t feeling up to it, I promise. But honestly, I’m revved up, ready to go. Please, I need to check this out.” “You’re not the only one,” Oscar interjects. He taps his quill against the page. “Someone inquired about this one recently.” “Does it say who?” “Name’s on the tip of my tongue, but they were actually just here, asking after the client who posted the commission in the first place. But… Ah, that’s him!” The clerk rises from his stool and waves. [[Turn and look|Guild6]]<</linkreplace>>

A man straight from the cover of a fantasy novel trudges forward, a flowing forest-green cloak thrown over one shoulder and a massive broadsword slung on the other. Studded and worn leathers wrap his chest. A pair of mismatched shin guards shift with each jolly step. The man whistles, a toothy smile slicing across his orangish beard like a wild jack-o-lantern, only further accented by a weathered, ruddy face. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is that you, Sundrop?” You blink. It takes you a moment to realize the adventurer isn’t regarding you or the clerk. He’s looking right at Vanille. Your companion tenses at his approach, coiling like a snake. For a moment, you’re afraid she’s about to unsheath her weapon, but the man walks right through the gossamer veil of apprehension and pulls her into a one-sided merry embrace. “S- Sundrop?” you ask, confused. “Do you know each other?” The two disentangle, but the man speaks before Vanille has a chance. “Know each other?” He belts out another jovial laugh. “I taught this lass here everything she knows.” <<if $VanilleEvent3 == true || ($MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Vanille")>>You balk. “Wait. You’re…” “My mentor,” Vanille manages, face darkening. “And it wasn’t everything—We didn’t travel together all that long, Tristan.”<<else>><<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>“A- About adventuring,” she corrects<<else>>“Not everything,’” she counters<</if>>, shrinking under the man’s glare. “We didn’t travel together all that long, Tristan.” You balk. “Wait. He’s your—” “My mentor,” Vanille says, face darkening.<</if>> The man lets out a bellowing laugh. “Too true! You outpaced my old bones too damn fast.” He turns his excessive positivity back on you. “Sundrop here is incredibly talented with a blade and she ain’t afraid to use it. Best damn swordswoman I’ve ever seen.” Well, he definitely knows Vanille. Still mildly bewildered, you glance back and forth between the two, noting Vanille’s evident discomfort at the complete obliviousness of this new adventurer—Tristan, apparently. A long, awkward moment passes before he suddenly notices you watching. “Well, are ya going to introduce me to your companion? Or is this less an alliance of words and more one of convenience?” “Oh, uhh…” Vanille flounders, then collects herself with a quick breath. “Right. Tristan, this is <<= $name>>, my friend. <<= $name>>, this is Tristan Vekara. He takes your hand before you even think to offer it. “Of the Vekara Clan way, //way// down south.” He nudges you in the side, voice gravelly and proud. You shake his hand back—his grip is overwhelming. You’re mildly worried you’ll need that health potion soon, as he’s about to crush a few fingers. “I don’t know of them. Sorry.” “You wound me.” He clasps his hands over his heart in feigned injury, but that indelible grin never slips away entirely. “Name doesn’t carry as much weight as it used to.” “Speaking of names.” You turn to Vanille. “Sundrop?” Vanille frowns, shrinking into her collar. “He, uhm… He does this with everyone.” “I thought you liked it. What were you expecting with hair like that?” Tristan furrows his bushy brow. “I’m disappointed in myself for not spotting you the moment you walked in here. And speaking of, what brings you to this busy establishment?” “We were just stopping in for a moment.” Vanille says, then hesitates and turns back to the desk. “Actually, uhm, we’re going to take a quest you were apparently asking about.” Tristan peers over your shoulder and examines the slip. “What’s yer interest in small potatoes like this? Are you showing <<= $name>> the ropes?” He leans in, proud. “Have you taken your own apprentice, Vanille?” “Something like that,” you offer before Vanille tries to defend your honor and accidentally wounds your ego. You point over at the clerk, who hasn’t stopped working while this new conversation occurs in front of his desk. “But about that commission, the one with the demi bandit. What’s your interest?” Tristan’s seemingly boundless mirth turns dour. “Well, I know the client—a younger fellow I’ve been traveling with for a couple weeks. Still wet behind the ears, but I think I can make something decent of him… eventually. Anyway, we split in Khobb, and he was //supposed// to escort a few well-paying merchants to the walls and meet me here before we looked for another commission. And then they got mugged on the way under his watch. Lost a family heirloom, a pair of diamond earrings. But, get this—” He turns to Vanille, incredulous. “Instead of fuckin’ getting them back himself, he posted this commission to make someone else do all the work. Did it under my nose, too, the privileged little bastard. “I ain’t even mad about the theft—mistakes happen. But you own it.” He eyes Vanille for a moment. “… And in Sundrop’s case, you go back during the day and give ‘em a piece of your mind for good measure.” The knight’s cheeks flare to a deep red, but she doesn’t respond one way or the other. “I, uh, I’ll take that lesson to heart.” You clear your throat, then redirect the conversation back to the commission a second time—//third// if you’re counting Vanille’s attempt. “And if we’re being honest about it, Vanille and I are taking the quest because we’re looking for a friend, and we think this bandit might be her.” “Oh?” “Y- Yeah, she’s been missing since…” You falter, taking a moment to quell a surge of panic-laced dread. “We got separated after the siege. And the quest description matches.” Tristan considers your words for a silent moment, absently adjusting the broadsword slung across his back—a noticeably larger weapon than Vanille employs. You wince, trying //very// hard not to imagine the full force of that blade being brought to bear against Mira. “Y- You can take the reward for the commission,” you insist. “We just want to see if it’s her, if she got stranded outside the gate, or something. And I’m sure she’ll give back the earrings.” The man shakes his head and gives another friendly grin. “Don’t worry about the finances, my boy. We can take a look together!” You raise a nervous eyebrow. “A- Are you sure?” “Not a proper quest if there’s no real foe,” he explains with as serious a look as his amiable features can manage—which isn’t much in the slightest. “Honestly, I would love the opportunity to catch up with Sundrop while you’re cutting your teeth.” You blink. Would’ve thought that phrase meant something different here. “I think it’s settled then. Ready, Vanille?” The knight pauses for a moment, looking between you and Tristan. Eventually, she nods, curt, and takes the quest chit from Oscar, bidding him farewell. [[Take the quest and head out|Tristan & Isolde]]

“So, this missing companion of yours,” Tristan starts once the three of you have managed to shove your way clear of the commission office and onto a marginally more quiet section of Orrault’s streets. “She another apprentice of yours, Sundrop?” “Her name’s Mira.” Vanille hesitates. “She, uh, well… She’s part of our band—our adventuring group—alongside <<= $name>> and I and two others. We’re all equals… sorta.” “Ah, I knew you were cut out for leadership. Good on ya, lass.” Vanille shrinks. “N- Not exactly. I don’t make the big decisions.” “That’s hard to believe,” Tristan scoffs. “Way I remember it, you don’t take directions from anybody at all. It was a good day when I could get you to //think// about a fight before you leapt into it sword-first.” A faint blush tinges your companion’s cheeks. “I- I wasn’t //that// bad. I learned a thing or two from you, after all.” She glances at the adventurer. “I wouldn’t have stuck around if I didn’t have some respect for you.” “By the gods, lemme see the back of your hand—I swear I just heard a compliment. Never thought I’d live to see the day.” The man chuckles. “So, who’s the indomitable warrior that finally earned your respect?” An auric gaze flits in your direction. “It’s actually <<= $name>>.” “<<= $Xem>>?” Tristan’s eyes settle on you, deeply skeptical. “Ah, no offense. You just didn’t strike me as the type.” “<<= $Xes>> our tactician, among other duties,” Vanille says. “I- I’ve been teaching <<= $xem>> to use a weapon, impart a little bit of martial training.” “Makes sense.” He nods, and you can’t help but feel you’ve been lumped under whatever medieval fantasy category equates to ‘nerd.’ Court jester? Whatever. “Can’t say I envy whatever Sundrop’s got for a training regimen, but I’ll bet yer learning fast.” “It’s not that bad,” you insist. “Vanille’s a patient teacher.” Especially considering your… handicap, at least by Havendorian standards. “‘Patient?’” Tristan echoes. “<<if $xe == "he">>Lad, <<elseif $xe == "she">>Lass, <</if>>I can think of a good many words to describe Sundrop here, but I’d sooner call a banshee quiet or a drider a gracious hostess.” <<if $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn" && $MiraDating == false && $AshlynDialog1 == "string">>Oh cool, Ashlyn wasn’t lying about the drider silk. That’s not gonna keep you up at night.<<else>>Fuck, driders are a thing—you’re not looking forward to seeing a half-woman half-spider abomination.<</if>> “Speaking of fearsome monsters, I actually downed a cyclops about three months back. Ornery lady stomped her way through Ypres-on-Tieler. I had to rig up a rusty old ballista and trick her to run into the damned thing just to slow her down enough to actually stand a chance. You tackled anything especially large?” Vanille purses her lips. “Uhm, we fought an ogress who was maybe fifteen feet—No wait, the scylla.” “Was she bigger than the queen bee?” you posit, opting not to mention the dragon. If Sherine’s right, the only substantial injury that behemoth sustained was to her pride. Tristan lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Damn. All that in the few months we were apart? You’ve been busy.” “Oh, that’s all within the last three weeks,” you say. “There was also that haunted temple… and the centaur raid…” “I assume that’s all been with this new adventuring group of yours, Sundrop? Must be one hell of a crew. Who else’s managed to slip into your circle of trust?” “Oh, uh—” Vanille falters. You don’t blame her. How would you classify your companions? Should you mention that you’re traveling with a monster girl to a professional adventurer? That round woman at the guild seemed casual about her minotaur acquaintance, so maybe it’s okay… You decide to step in. “We’ve got a wizard who’s a bit off her rocker, a terrifyingly strong lamia, and right now we’re looking for our… rogue? Thief? I don’t know what to call her.”<<if $RVMira >= 7 && $MiraAllie == true>> @@color:grey;//“What were you calling me before?” “Uhh… Mira.” “Now you’re getting it.”//@@<</if>> “The sneaky bastard that runs off with all the good loot?” Tristan suggests. “She wouldn’t do that,” you insist, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “I- It usually ends up in my pocket, actually.” “Ha! Sounds like a colorful cast of characters.” The man lets out a mirthful bellow. “To be young again.” You eye Tristan for a moment. It’s hard to tell past the extensive weathering and general signs of a life spent outdoors and on the road, but he doesn’t seem //that// old. Mid-thirties, if you’re being charitable, but certainly no more than forty. “So, what sort of arms have you been learning on, lad?” “Spear and bow so far,” you say. “I’m not very good with either of them.” “Helps if you carry them on yer person, y’know.” You pause for a moment. You’re about to head outside the walls of Orrault for the first time since the siege, and you don’t have a damn thing to defend yourself with. “Hey, Vanille…” Before you have a chance to continue, she nods. “We need to buy <<= $name>> a new spear.” She glances ahead. “Mind if we make a quick detour, Tristan?” “Not at all.” [[Time for some last-minute weapon shopping|'Tristan & Iseult' for the nerds]]

Fortunately, your path to the gates has the three of you walking right past a smaller market tucked in the corner of a plaza, and a moment’s search yields a man in a soot-stained apron displaying weapons of every variety you can imagine—and a few you previously couldn’t. Vanille takes the lead, leaving you to watch as she immediately demands the vendor’s attention. “Ah, that’s a familiar sight.” Abruptly jolted from your musings, you glance to your right to find Tristan regarding Vanille with something almost like a wistful smile. “Err, what?” “This is more like the Vanille I’m used to seeing,” he says. You frown. “I’m… not sure I follow.” Rather than offer an immediate response, he gestures to your companion. The two of you spend a silent moment watching as Vanille effortlessly takes charge of the transaction, asking about one spear after another, inquiring as to the general make and quality, negotiating potential prices. The vendor tries his best, but confidence rapidly ebbs into capitulation. “She’s fierce,” Tristan eventually continues. “She pushes people around. She gets shit done no matter what. Singularly driven… The woman’s unstoppable when she gets on a quest. Even in the between times—what little of them there were with her—she was relentless. //I// had to set the schedule, force rests and breaks for these old bones. Luckily, you’re young, so it should be easier to keep up with her, but still…” He pauses as Vanille offers a handful of gold and silver coins, then gives the vendor a polite nod as he hands her the chosen spear. You watch as she marches over to the next vender—a fletcher, if you remember your brief archery lesson from last week. Tristan shakes his head. //“That’s// not quite the Sundrop I knew. She’d have taken the sturdiest spear in the lot, then threatened the poor man at knifepoint while spouting off about the market rate of weapons if he didn’t offer a fair price. She was wild, fiery and unquenchable. This? This is… settled. At peace—as much as one can be while living the life of a guild regular.” ‘Peace’ isn’t exactly how you’d describe Vanille’s behavior as of late. “I don’t know, she got what she was after just now without a hassle. She’s firm, she makes her opinions known. She’s been forward and a bit blunt and really hard to impress for as long as I’ve known her.” … Which, admittedly, hasn’t been all that long. But still, you can’t help but feel that this man is mischaracterizing your friend. “Huh…” A gloved hand idly scratches at the orange scruff. Tristan lets out another laugh, then throws an arm around your shoulder. “Wanna hear how we met?” “Uhh, sure,” you say, not entirely confident you have a choice. “A griffon was harassing some poor town nestled at the foot of Spinnearl Mountain—can’t remember the name of the hamlet for the life of me, but it was hardly more than a dozen homes and a few flimsy palisades. Anyway, they scrounged up the funds for a commission at the nearest guild branch, and I was the poor sod who took the quest.” “And Vanille got to the griffon first?” you guess. He laughs. “Guess you’ve been traveling with her, after all. I arrived at the nest after a half-day’s hike, only to find the golden girl had already torn the poor thing to pieces. And Vanille,” Tristan lets out a low whistle. “You should’ve seen her, an absolute bloody mess. But not a scratch on that silver armor. In fact—” “What’s that?” You jolt at the familiar voice, turning to find Vanille walking back from the bowyer. She offers the haft of the spear. “Balanced the way you like it,” she comments, a strained expression darkening her face as you sling the strap across your shoulder. “I also ordered a bow, arrows, a quiver, and a few extra strings to be sent to the inn—your old one was a bit…” Burned to a crisp? “Thanks, Vanille.” “Of course. Anyway, I heard something about armor?” “I was telling <<= $name>> about when we met. That griffon you slayed back in… agh, what’s the name?” Vanille goes pale. “L- Leostra.” “Ah, that’s the one!” Tristan cheers. “And the damndest part? She didn’t want a single copper from the commission. Insisted I take the whole thing, even after she did all the work.” “Tha- That’s not—” The knight falters, lips twitching with half-formed syllables. “I- I mean, I didn’t know about the guild, so it didn’t seem right.” “And that right there’s why I invited her to travel with me.” Tristan smiles. “Moral fiber is worth so much more than talent, and Sundrop here doesn’t have a self-centered bone in her body.” “That sounds like the Vanille I know,” you say as you sidle up beside her and offer a reassuring nudge. It takes a few strained moments before she smiles back at you, though she remains silently mortified. Before things can grow awkward, you hastily gesture in the direction of Orrault’s gates. “Shall we?” [[Onward|The Place Where You Died]]

As usual, the walls of Orrault loom well before you arrive at the gate proper, stretching over even the considerable skyline of the fortress city. If nothing else, they make for a convenient guidepost southward, since the midday sun is providing little assistance on that front. Tristan continues to make idle conversation as you walk, mostly asking after Vanille’s recent exploits. The knight, for her part, mentions a few odd jobs and monster hunts she completed leading up to your first meeting in Icilia, then provides an abridged recounting of the last three weeks spent searching for the Echoes of Exile. To your surprise, Tristan hasn’t even heard of the artifacts; apparently the Echoes aren’t common knowledge even among adventurers. Vanille’s story grinds to a halt as you finally reach the city gates where a dozen guards hold off a crowd of curious onlookers from peering out through the portcullis. The knight pushes her way to the front and declares your group’s intent, flashing the quest chit across the brow of an ornery guard. He sighs and recites what you assume is a boiler-plate warning about the dangers outside the walls, the marquis’ decree and how ‘you’re safer in her bosom’—which is a particularly interesting phrase in this world. Vanille drags you through the slight opening in the gate before the great wooden door slams shut. You flinch, struck by a thick miasma of soot and smoke, the stench lingering, painting everything in sight with a glum, grey smear. The once lively gate town has been utterly abandoned in the wake of the horde, practically obliterated by the invaders. What buildings remain are hardly recognizable, either ruined by the rampage, or reduced to nothing more than a pile of soot and cinder from the raging fire. The main thoroughfare stretches out all the way to the forested horizon, though your gaze is fixed to a single spot a hundred feet up the way. It takes an effort to shake free of the paralysis. Even more to take a single, uneasy step. A wooden plank crunches underfoot, deafening in the near silence. You press on, drawn toward the crater like a magnet, eyes not daring to stray. You know exactly what you’re looking for. You follow the drag marks in the scorched earth, the disturbed dust and blood-stained dirt drawing a clear line forward, leading right up to the exact spot where you died. A sigh escapes your chest. There’s not much to look at, honestly. Just a few unremarkable swirls, a divot/*suck it*/ and an imprint here and there. The mess you made has already dried up. If you squint you can make out a strange line of blackened dust, your silhouette from when the cart exploded. There’s a massive footprint from the dragon—Freya, apparently—nearby. The ghosts of that day call to you, beckoning, eager to drown you in the monumental and overwhelming sorrow. And yet, seeing it in person has stripped the event of its influence. You’re alive. A claw to the chest didn’t kill you. An explosion didn’t kill you. None of the buildings in the immediate vicinity still stand, yet here you are. Vanille lingers at your back, not daring to approach. You shuffle over and redirect the knight into a side street—what’s left of it, at least. Not more than five steps later, a hand thuds against your back, nearly sending you leaping straight out of your boots. “Sure is something, right?” Tristan says. “Rumor has it the monsters tried to wheel some sort of bomb right up to the city gates, only for a stray spark to set the damn thing off in the middle of the gate town.” He lets out a chuckle that’s the closest thing to mirthless you’ve heard from the man in the twenty or so minutes you’ve known him. “Can’t say I envy whatever poor bastards got caught in the blast.” “Uhh, yeah,” you mutter, resisting the urge to rub at your suddenly aching chest. You glance to Vanille for support, or at least some rough guidance, but find her regarding the riven landscape, utterly stricken. It hasn’t escaped your notice that she isn’t bragging about your part in the siege to Tristan, and you’re not exactly eager to recount those details either. “L- Looks, uhm… Looks like it was pretty rough,” you offer instead. “Understatement of the aeon there, lad,” Tristan bellows, cheer returned in an instant. “Imagine if they’d actually reached the gate. Damn thing could’ve brought down a whole section of the wall in one go. Now //that// would’ve been rough.” You shudder to imagine what exactly would have happened to Orrault if the horde had succeeded. The three of you walk down the avenue and pick your way around the crater. Evidence of recovery and salvage crews dot your demolished surroundings: an abandoned tool here, a few hastily constructed supports there. But otherwise, the town stands silent and empty. Unnervingly so. Any bodies are gone—whatever few the horde would’ve left. The closest thing you notice to a weapon is a handful of shattered arrow shafts protruding from a bit of charred wall, likely deemed not even worth the effort they would’ve taken to remove. With the crater firmly at your back and the abandoned gate town slowly receding to fields of green, breath starts to come a tiny bit easier. You allow yourself a deep, cleansing sigh, trying to will away the strains and memories, force yourself to focus on the present. “So,” Tristan starts, jolting you to attention once again. “This missing thief of yours turned to banditry, eh?” It… sounds kinda bad when he puts it that way. The quest slip only mentioned //threatening// to devour passersby if they didn’t hand over their valuables. “I- I mean, someone posted a commission, so it’s not like she’s //actually// eating anyone.” The adventurer grins. “Probably wouldn’t hear much from the ones she did.” No… Mira wouldn’t do that. Maybe if she’s desperate, but the demi can take care of herself. Besides, there’s plenty of small animals out here she can prey on—you’ve seen her <<if $Orrault1 == "Mira" || $Amberglen == "Vanille">>go after birds on more than one occasion. They’re her natural prey<<else>>swallow a bird whole<</if>>. You turn to Vanille. “You don’t think Mira’s attacking people at random, do you?” “No, not at all.” That’s a relief— “However, I //could// see her annoying the hell out of anyone passing by, stealing their shiny stuff and asking ridiculous questions.” She offers an unsteady smile for your benefit. “That sounds much more like her,” you chuckle, a bubbly hope forming in your chest. You’re so close to being reunited with her; you can hardly keep from shaking all over. She’s just out there beyond the treeline, waiting for you to find her, ready for you to apologize. You’re going to do it right this time. You’re going to fix this. [[Go get her back|Tree Stand]]

The next hour passes in a curious blend of mild impatience, eager anticipation, and an endless parade of tales from Tristan Vekara. Initially, he focuses on recent exploits, catching Vanille up on the trials and travails he experienced in their months apart. Once those are exhausted, he directs his attention to you and picks a few favorites from his older exploits—well trodden tales, if Vanille’s reactions are anything to go by. As Tristan talks, you start to get a slightly more complete impression—a man who seems to revel in the thrill of adventure. You wouldn’t go so far as to call him an adrenaline junkie or an uncaring glory-seeker, but he seems more invested in the hunt and conflict than the underlying story that sparked the commission in the first place. You consider Vanille’s words back in the guild headquarters. Perhaps Tristan is a typical representative of the adventurer profession. “So, uhh,” you start, interrupting a thrilling recounting of a one-on-one battle with a basilisk. You can already guess who won. “How were you actually planning to find this bandit once you got out here?” “Well, I’d originally planned to wander the road alone, see if the mystery thief decides to take the bait.” You eye the massive broadsword on Tristan’s back and decide that any bandit who marks this particular man as an easy target probably isn’t the sharpest brigand to ever take up the trade. The adventurer clears his throat. “But I guess now that I’ve got the two of you here—and now that I know we’re looking for a friend—we should probably wander a bit off the path and… Well I guess we just call out for her. Mira, you said?” You nod. “We should probably split up, cover both sides of the road.” “I’ll go with <<= $name>>,” Vanille offers before you have a chance to suggest anything yourself. Tristan raises an eyebrow. “What’s this demi thief of yours look like?” You repeat the thorough description you provided for the commission an hour or so prior and, with formalities settled, veer eastward off the main road and into the sparse undergrowth that weaves between the trees of Orrault’s surrounding forests. You and Vanille spend a few minutes calling Mira’s name and quite literally beating around the bush before it occurs to you that these are the first moments you’ve had alone with your companion since your chance meeting with Tristan. Taking care to continue examining each passing bush for signs of a concealed demi, you sidle up to Vanille. “So, your mentor…” “He’s a lot, I know,” she says with a slight smile. “Hopefully not too much for you.” You blink, surprised. “I’m fine. I was actually going to ask about you.” At a curious glance from Vanille, you elaborate. “You seemed a bit, uhm… off-kilter when we first ran into him. Is everything okay between the two of you? Did you part on good terms?” “Oh.” The knight nods vehemently. “It was amicable, yeah. I’d learned enough that I could handle the trade on my own, and we each wound up being pulled in separate directions. He had business in the southern heartlands, while I wanted to head north for more monster contracts, since I was apparently good at dealing with those—Uh, for the record, it doesn’t always end in killing. <<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 == "Vanille">>That time with the wolf girls wasn’t just a one-off<<else>>I’ve actually negotiated a few arrangements and deescalated misunderstandings, too<</if>>. I’m sorry you’ve seen so much of the violent side.” You scratch at your chest. “It makes for a better story, I suppose. Not much excitement when your tale ends with, ‘and then they sat down and had a reasonable, healthy conversation.’” Vanille chuckles. “I prefer a happy ending for everyone when I can find it. Tristan does too. Don’t fall for the bravado; his heart’s in the right place.” “Makes sense,” you say with a nod. “You wouldn’t have stuck with him for as long as you did, otherwise.” She smiles, warm and genuine, then glances back toward the road. “You keep kicking on ahead, I’m going to see how far we are from the city. I’ll be right back. Shout if you need me.” You give an idle wave, then return to the task at hand, eyes scanning the underbrush for any sign of recent activity. You’re certainly no tracker, but hopefully there will be an obvious clue to your untrained senses: some broken branches, a few footprints in the grasses, perhaps a stray tuft of black fur— A rustling up ahead. You crouch, then take two cautious steps forward. An instant later, you nearly leap backward as a diminutive, cloaked figure emerges from the underbrush. She hesitates, hunched and visibly trembling. A cowl conceals her face in deep shadow, but you can see two indentations beneath the cloth from a pair of very not-human ears. Her hand shifts beneath the garment and emerges a moment later, holding something that faintly gleams in the dim light filtering through the forest canopy. A small hand reaches, offering hesitantly. <<linkreplace "Mira?">>“Mira?” you manage, threadbare. The figure shifts, taking a cautious step forward. “Trade?” Your heart sinks the moment the single word leaves the stranger’s mouth. That’s not Mira. You’d know her voice anywhere. You’ve heard it echoing through your mind these past few days more times than you’d like to admit. You’re desperate to hear it again, bright and cheery, brimming with infectious enthusiasm. “Here,” the demi cheers. At least… you think it’s a demi. Before you can hazard a guess at the base animal, she hops forward, causing the cowl to fall from her head and reveal a face of mottled green skin. Horns of shaped wood protrude from a mop of hair like a leafy canopy and rest above elfin features, less childlike and more adult but slightly shrunk—a trend which carries down to the rest of the creature’s starkly nude body clearly visible beneath the cloak. She drops a glimmering item into your confused palm before you have time to react. You look down and realize it’s a pair of diamond earrings. The creature holds out cupped hands, rich brown eyes the color of fallen leaves gleaming expectantly. “Give food please!” “Wha- What?” <<set $knives ++>>The little Not-Mira pulls another item from the pocket of the cloak and hands it to you. It’s a sheathed dagger. <<if $knives >= 3>> Cool, now you have three. <</if>>“Lili give shiny!” She opens her mouth briefly and points into the dark void before lips snap shut. “You give food.” “I- I don’t have any,” you say, about half a second before realizing that your actions have consequences. You flinch, throwing up both hands to protect yourself, waiting for the impending open-mouthed lunge from the creature. When it doesn’t come, you peel open closed eyes to find her tugging on your tunic. “Lili not have food either. Find food together!” You’re about to be led on some sort of side quest when the creature lets out a muted yelp and scrambles behind you, tiny hands clasping firmly on your shirt. A second later, Vanille bursts from a nearby bush, sword drawn. “Woah, woah!” you blurt out, hands raised in a placating gesture. “It’s okay, Vanille. I’m fine. I just ran into, uhh… her.” You gesture awkwardly. Fierce eyes flit between you and the small face peeking out from behind your hips. Vanille nods, takes one more look around for any threats, then returns her blade to its sheath. “That figures,” she says with a sigh. “I- I didn’t mean to worry you, she just looked like—” Vanille shakes her head and lets out a slight chuckle. “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t be surprised that a sylph would find you, of all people, trustworthy.” The knight retrieves a small pouch, squats down, and offers it to the small woman hiding behind your legs. “Here. It’s nuts and dried fruit, you’ll like it.” “Sylph?” you ask, watching the little lady take the pouch and peer inside. She hesitantly tastes one, smiles with delight, then starts avidly scarfing down the rest. The knight nods and rises. “They’re forest creatures, harmless sprites that live in magical groves with others of their kind. Sylphs are elusive, practically invisible in a forest when… they’re not… wearing clothes—Did you give her that?” “Lili cloak!” the sylph rebuts between crunchy mouthfuls. “Lili, huh?” The knight smiles. “I’m Vanille, and this is <<= $name>>.” The sylph beams between mouthfuls of food, but when the creature doesn’t offer any further introduction, Vanille directs her attention back to you. “Sylphs can tell a person’s nature by looking at them, if they’re rude, kind, jealous—that sort of thing. Because of that, they don’t usually reveal themselves to anyone but elves and druids—perhaps a handful of other peaceable sprites.” “So, I’m…” The sylph, Lili, sticks her face into the pouch. When satisfied it’s been properly cleaned out for every last edible scrap, she hands it to you with a smile. You smile back and pat her on the head as she nudges against your side, cloak falling over your leg. “Warm,” she churrs. “It’s rare to hear one speak in our tongue—even rarer to see one out on her own,” Vanille remarks, thoughts swirling behind golden eyes. She crouches back down to the sylph’s level and gingerly asks, “Are you lost? Where are your sisters?” Little arms wrap around your middle. “Sisters attacked by bad woman!” You frown, then look to Vanille. “Bad woman? Someone from Orrault, you think?” The knight shrugs. “Hard to say.” The sylph reaches into your pocket, fingers light and graceful. She pulls out the phial of health potion, examines the bubbling blue liquid with huge, curious eyes, then puts it back. “Lili no grove now. Lili find food for Lili—Not Lili job. Lili sculpt. Lili very good shape wood!” She produces a wreath of woven twigs, a grassy band adorned with a series of flowers that shift in hue from red to yellow flawlessly across each specimen. Lili offers it to you. “I’m sorry to hear that you lost your grove,” you say, taking the too-small crown while waving for Vanille to give you another snack. A compressed bar of honey and oats finds its way into your hand, and you offer it to the sylph in return. You watch her dig in, then ask, “By any chance, have you seen anyone else living out here? Someone about as tall as you, with black hair and a fuzzy tail?” //“Pa’lohoi.// No peoples live here,” she explains between bites. “Sometimes Lili borrow from walkers.” She lifts up her cloak. “See? This keep Lili warm at night.” She stops chewing, arm falling limp at her side. The sylph frowns and sniffles. “So cold outside grove…” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Lili sleep on rocks now…” Another sniffle, snottier this time. “Alone…” She bursts into tears. [[Oh shit, oh fuck—Do something!|Tactical Cuteness]]<</linkreplace>>

It takes several minutes of frantic uncertainty and your best efforts at consolation before Lili returns to some semblance of composure. The sylph clutches firmly to your side, alternating sniffles and small bites of whatever snacks Vanille can produce. Either the poor thing has a bottomless appetite, or she hasn’t eaten in days. Perhaps both. About halfway through the calming process, Vanille puts her thumb and index finger in her mouth, then blasts out a whistle. Tristan appears after a minute, weapon drawn, then has a similar reaction to the knight when seeing the sylph. Lili doesn’t take too kindly to yet another stranger appearing, but the setback is only temporary. After a number of false starts and half successes, the four of you finally sit in a loose circle. Lili, entirely unaware of the concept of personal space, plops right on your lap as she attempts to answer some of your group’s questions in her third-person speech. “How many live in your grove?” Vanille asks gently. “Lili has //dro-kii// sisters,” the sylph blurts out, as though it were obvious. When it’s apparent it wasn’t obvious, she holds up nine fingers, then folds them back down before flashing another seven. The knight nods. “And how long have you been living out here on your own?” Lili frowns, tapping the fingers of her left hand one at a time. After a fitful moment of consideration, she offers a full five. “Five days?” “Moonrises,” she corrects. “Close enough,” Tristan grunts. “Lines up with the aftermath of the siege,” you offer. “More or less. A straggler from the horde?” “It’s a distinct possibility.” Vanille’s lips press to a thin line as she regards the sylph. “You said your grove was attacked by a, uhh, ‘bad woman?’” “Very bad,” Lili nods, tiny head bobbing. “Rude and pale and very mean. Sisters tell her to leave. Bad woman eat Vivi.” “So you ran?” The sylph hesitates, shrinking into herself. “Sisters sleep. Lili not know why, so… so…” “It’s okay,” you say, giving the sprite an awkward pat on the head. Fortunately, she seems to find comfort in the gesture. “Have you gone back to check on the grove?” “No. Bad woman mean and scary.” Lili glances between Tristan and Vanille, eyes widening in sudden realization. She produces yet another trinket and places it in your hands, then tugs on your tunic and points deeper into the forest. “<<= $name>> get rid of bad woman? Lili trade. Lili has more in stash. Lots more.” The sylph’s sudden offering reminds you of the diamond earrings in your pocket. You fish them out and hand them to a baffled Tristan. //“Among other duties…”// he mutters to himself, turning the jewelry over in his leathery hands. “Wait,” Vanille says, rising to her feet once more. “The bad woman is still there? I thought you hadn’t been back? “Grove still wrong. Lili feel it.” You frown. “‘Wrong?’” “Grove turn white.” Vanille tilts her head. “Like ash?” “No, no. Cold as night.” “Snow?” Tristan balks. “It’s late spring, how could it be snowing?” Rather than answer, Lili springs from your lap and grabs your hand. “Lili show. Follow!” [[Follow Lili and find out|Lili is Lili]]

Ice. She meant ice. Your trek deeper into the woods is marked by two things. First is the complete silence, the sounds of the forest gone, replaced by an unnatural and unnerving emptiness, as if the verdant greens were unfit for life. The frequency with which you come across eerie, desolate locales in Havendor is getting out of hand. There was that spooky cave near Amberglen, then the haunted temple with the eight-tailed fox that had simply been abandoned. This world must be too big, or something. The second, and more obvious sign that you’re entering an absolute clusterfuck occurs when the warm, late-spring afternoon rapidly plunges in the biting cold of winter. The temperature drops over the next hundred or so feet, falling drastically to the point where you can see every exhale. “This isn’t normal, right?” you ask, breath visible with each exhalation. “Definitely not,” Vanille mutters. “A grove is usually situated in the most lush, verdant parts of its respective wood. They emanate life, not… //this.”// You spend another moment in frigid silence, grasses crunching beneath each footstep, snapping and shattering under the soles of your boots. The crackling echoes, bouncing between the frozen husks of petrified trees. “What makes the grove so special, anyway?” you eventually manage. “Grove Lili home!” the sylph states emphatically. Vanille nods. “Aside from that, myth says it’s a place where… where someone fell, where they fell down and didn’t get back up. Someone special, someone who was loved deeply. The heart of a grove is supposedly their final resting place. It’s the embodiment of others’ love, of those who tried everything to bring them back, but couldn’t. It’s a shrine.” She gestures to Lili. “The sylphs, well… No one’s quite sure how they appear, but every grove has sylphs, and every sylph has a grove. Lili isn’t a monster girl, or even humanoid like you or me. Ashlyn might be better able to explain it, but grovelings are fey; manifestation of that love unending, offspring that never were.” You look to Lili for confirmation. She simply stares back at you with wide eyes. “Lili is Lili,” she says, clutching her cloak tight. Soil turns cold and unyielding, less like a temperate forest and more the hard permafrost of a frigid tundra. Leaves glimmer with a faint, icy sheen, then vanish from branches entirely, lost to the inexplicable heart of frost contained within what once stood as verdant woodlands. Scattered sunbeams diffract from above, lighting the area with a kaleidoscopic sheen, a confusing, sprawling pattern that touches upon every icicle. Shivering, clinging to Lili for warmth, you tread through an intricate network of frozen shards, an infinite fractal of blistering cold localized to this tiny sphere of the forest. Your group slows at the sylph’s signal, each step across the sheets of ice becoming ever more cautious as you approach a tight ring of trees, all slightly bending inward. The grove. What once might’ve been a cozy and warm glade now stands stoic and bare, branches reaching and crossing like a thousand grasping skeletal hands. Sheer walls of ice fill the gaps between the trunks, shoring up the copse with glacial palisades. The entire area is crystallized, encased in glistening fragments, millions of prickling icicles dangling from every tree, every branch, every leaf. You nearly leap out of your skin as a shadow shifts across one of the pristine icy surfaces. Your reflection, twisted and grotesque. Spooked, you are relieved when your group finds a massive fallen log to serve as a vantage point for the grove proper. The four of you settle in, quietly shuffling about while you try desperately to retain what little body heat you have left. You rub your hands together, hoping it’ll start a fire and warm you up a bit. Lili follows your lead, tiny hands rasping. Vanille and Tristan each hunker behind the log, spyglasses in hand. They peer out at the site wordlessly, then shuffle back down to your side. [[Ask about the situation|Ice Ice Babby]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Not your finest moment, if I’m being perfectly honest. Just standing there at the edge of the grove watching as your friends got turned into living popsicles. What’s wrong, were you //frozen// in place? No, I won’t apologize. Do better next time. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 2>> Or don’t do better, I guess. Sure, whatever. You gave your companions the //cold// shoulder. Really left them out in the //cold// like that. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 3>> Look on the bright side; it was really //ice// of her to eat you like that. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 4>> Do you feel like you might be taking the ‘freezing in place’ deer-in-the-headlights thing a bit //too// literally? [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 5>> Tried playing it safe again, huh? Afraid it’s //snow// good. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 6>> Now you’re six //sleet// under. Seriously, stop dying. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 7>> She got you again, huh? Well, I shouldn’t judge too much. As the proverb goes, ‘there but for the grace of god //snow// I.’ [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 8>> You know, I really thought those two adventurers could handle that snow monster on their own, but you know what they say: ‘the best laid plans of //ice// and men often go awry.’ Or something like that. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 9>> Not the finest accommodations for spending the night, but I guess if the //ice// is right. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 10>> Look. Are you even counting how many times you’ve died to her? Seriously, you need to //chill.// [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 11>> You know, a night’s rest is good for what //hails// you. Then again, you’ve had like eleven of those so far, and it doesn’t seem to be doing you much good. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 12>> Do you think you could move on? I’ve been waiting around for an age. <<linkreplace "Return">>An //ice age,// you could say. [[Return|Super Cool!]]<</linkreplace>> <<case 13>> Okay, that’s it. I’m done. That’s all I’ve got. You can stop dying now. There’s no more ice puns. Nothing for snow either. Cold as well. Seriously, the well’s run dry. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<case 14>> I lied. Did you have an //ice// time? [[Return|Super Cool!]] <<default>> Alright, that’s it. Nothing more. [[Return|Super Cool!]] <</switch>>

“What are we looking at?” you whisper. “Take a look,” Vanille says, offering the scope. “Tristan, can you do a lap and get a lay of the land?” The tiny icicles in his beard waver as he nods, arms and legs trembling as he crouches low and skulks away from the vantage point. You clamber to the edge of the log. The scope is freezing cold against your eye socket, and your shivering hand struggles to hold the damn thing still. After considerable effort, you manage a decent look. A small commune lies within the icy grove—a modest collection of structures and amenities that appear shaped from the very forest itself. Some sort of food shed rests between a pair of bare tree trunks, its meager hoard scattered before the entrance and frozen solid. You note a humble garden just to the right, plants covered in frost and held upright. The wave of cold was so sudden they didn’t even have time to wilt. Several more curious mounds of snow and ice are interspersed throughout the clearing, though you can’t quite discern whatever structures lie beneath the crystalline sheen. Instead, your attention is drawn to a large pile of leaves and twigs and other odd bits of fur that look to have been arranged into some sort of large sleeping stack. Apparently the sylphs prefer to sleep in a pile. //Preferred,// you correct yourself, for in the middle of the former sylph bedding resides… To be honest, you can only really describe her as a fairly unassuming woman. Her only chief identifiable feature is the color white—a motif that permeates her fine cloth robes, her hair, and even her remarkably pale skin. You wouldn’t quite call it a sickly pallid, but she really is ghostly white, less like a person and more a haunting—if frigidly beautiful—specter. Curiosity quenched, you shuffle back into cover and return Vanille’s spyglass, then turn to Lili. “Is that the bad woman?” “Yes. Very bad.” You frown. “A spellcaster?” “Not a human one.” Vanille shakes her head. “She’s a yuki-onna, a monster girl.” “Oh,” you mumble, vaguely recognizing the name. You gesture around at the frozen wasteland. “What can she do? Is this all her?” “They’re not supposed to be this influential—” A shiver courses up Vanille’s spine. Her gaze flits to Lili for a fraction of a second. “Maybe it’s something to do with the grove? It’s a place of magic, after all.” “Regardless, it seems like she’s got a thing for ice,” you state. “Any tricks in particular we need to watch out for?” “Yuki-onna are usually ambush predators,” Tristan grunts as he shuffles back from his scouting. “Lots of lurking in snowstorms, waiting to catch unsuspecting travelers. The sort of monster that tends to avoid a direct fight when possible.” His gaze turns back to the grove for a silent moment. “Then again, never heard of a yuki venturing this far south… or bringing a localized snowstorm with her.” “Maybe she came with the horde,” you suggest. Vanille shakes her head. “They’re solitary by nature. She might have wandered south in the aftermath, since the border’s no longer patrolled, but it doesn’t explain //why.”// She falls silent for a moment, then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Anyway, what are we looking at, Tristan?” The adventurer crouches and draws a circle in the snow, a single gap in the continuous line representing the entrance to the grove. “Yuki’s turned this place into a damn fortress. Only one way in, far as I can tell,” he explains, noting on the crude map. “Everything else is ice and frozen trees.” Vanille turns her attention to the sylph. “Are there any secret entrances, Lili? A back door, perhaps?” “What is ‘door?’” Lili frowns. “Grove open.” “Not anymore,” Vanille mutters, then shakes her head. “Alright, so it looks like the yuki-onna’s made herself at home. We need a plan. Any thoughts?” Tristan nods. “Good news is she looks to be asleep. I say we take advantage of that, catch her off guard. Might be able to climb up around the back. I saw a couple footholds among the branches that could work.” He draws a pair of lines piercing the circle, then presses his thumb deep into the snow at the mouth of the grove. “Two of us scale the wall and chase the yuki-onna out of her lair, and the third one ambushes her. We close in, make her fight on our terms.” Vanille shakes her head. “No, with all this snow and ice on the ground, she’s gonna hear us coming—plus, she has no reason not to just seal herself in there and wait for us to go away.” The knight plows a thick line in the snow, straight into the grove. “I rush the entrance, make a ruckus and force a fight in the lair. Tristan, you climb around back and flank while she’s distracted.” “Ha!” the adventurer bellows, just a tad too loud. He nudges your arm, a broad smile on his face. “See? Sundrop’s brilliant. You could learn a thing or two from her.” “Uhm,” you murmur, noticing you don’t have a role. “What am I supposed to do?” “Right,” Tristan nods. “Probably best to join in the frontal assault. More bodies at the fore means—” “No,” Vanille heads him off, stern. She draws a line and two dots in the snow—the log you’re all currently hiding behind. “<<= $name>> stays back and watches Lili.” “What? No,” you balk, staring at her for a long moment. She doesn’t blink, completely serious. After everything the two of you said: about including each other, about her being less reckless, about trusting you to pull your own weight and facing challenges side by side, //about saying you were <<= $MC1>>,// she’s benching you at the first opportunity. Tristan frowns, then rises to his feet. “You two work it out, I’m gonna get into position. I’ll start climbing as soon as I hear a fight.” “Understood,” Vanille says, drawing her own weapon and ignoring your protest. “Wait, Vanille!” you demand, grabbing the knight’s arm before she can rush forward. “What are you doing? We talked about this.” “We—” She falters. “<<= $name>>, I—You’re still recovering. I don’t want you taking any risks.” “Like you’re about to?” you bark, harsher than you intended. “A- At least let me help. I can do something, please.” “You //are.”// She stares you down, dire. “Stay safe and out of harm’s way. That’s the single most important thing you can do right now, <<= $name>>. //Please.”// “But, I…” You grind to a halt, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Fine. I’ll stay back with my weapon drawn. If things go bad, I’ll try to jump in and help how I can.” “You won’t need to,” Vanille says, indignant. “Tristan and I know what we’re doing.” And with that, she steps out from behind the cover and creeps forward on cautious feet. [[Grit your teeth and hang back|Super Cool!]]

You return to the log and crouch next to Lili, heart thundering. The sylph looks at you and the weapon in your white-knuckle grip. As she rises to her feet to follow Vanille, you blurt out, “Stay here, alright? We’re going to get rid of the bad woman.” “Lili help. Save sisters!” “N- No, it’s not safe,” you say, trying to imagine the adorable creature bringing a weapon to bear. Arming a nature sprite feels morally dubious at best, and utterly insane at worst. “Vanille’s gonna take care of it. Please stay here.” “But…” Lili nods hesitantly. “O- Okay.” Satisfied that the sylph will stay put, you creep out from behind the log upon trembling legs, then are nearly blown over as Vanille lets out a ferocious roar. She rushes across the frozen ground, ice and snow crunching beneath pounding feet, charging headlong toward the entrance of the grove, blade tip pitched at her opponent. There’s a yelp and a cry as the yuki bolts upright and scrambles out of the sleeping stack to meet the sudden intruder. Vanille slides aside as an icicle screams by at breakneck speeds. She scrambles into the grove, pivoting around a freezing gust of magical wind, then lunges forward and slashes away another frozen lance. You trail behind, icy ground treacherous beneath your feet. You linger twenty paces back from the entrance and watch the fight unfold, repressing the urge to hurl your spear—Not only will you likely miss with your shivering muscles, but if you let go of your weapon, you’ll be unarmed. As flimsy a defense the sharpened haft of wood might be, you’d rather have it available in a pinch. At this precarious distance, you notice a feature of the frozen grove that you hadn’t quite seen from afar: three hauntingly realistic statues of sylphs, their small and lithe bodies sculpted of pale blues and rigid layers of frost. Their expressions are stark, captured in the timelessness of uncanny petrification. Every hair on their heads stands distinct, every sweep and curl of their little knobby horns perfect in execution, as if— As if… You shudder in cold horror, a pang of sorrow crossing your chest for these three frozen alive by the yuki’s magic. It only takes a single glance at the moderate paunch on the monster’s midsection to know where the rest of Lili’s sisters went. While staring at the chub isn’t the most important detail at the moment, your panicking lizard brain is calling the shots right now. Apparently the monster girl’s been packing away sylphs like it’s nobody’s business, and it’s showing on her hips and in her slow reactions to Vanille’s assault. The yuki glides across the snow, graceful and unphased by the difficult terrain, yet you notice from time to time that she drifts with more momentum than expected, unused to her extra weight. Despite the danger, you find yourself inching closer to the arena, wincing with every traded attack as the fight rages on, spear held tight in trembling hands. The yuki lets out a howl. A hasty blast of arctic wind fills the circular enclosure, a puff of snow expanding upward like a smoke signal. Vanille staggers, then lunges, blade narrowly missing the monster girl as the knight careens across the grove and braces herself against the far wall. She pushes off, backpedaling into the garden area of the grove. Vanille hunches as a spray of icy shards fill the air. A followup blast from the yuki sends the knight crashing into the brittle plants nearby. A tomato flies free and shatters against the wall, red shards splattering like streaks of crystalline blood. Vanille’s on her feet in an instant, sword leveled and charging forward once more. She ducks under a sheet of conjured ice, jams her sword in the frozen earth underfoot and turns her slide into a sweep, kicking at the snow woman’s legs and bringing her to the ground. A fist cracks against the sheet of ice as Vanille aims for the throat. The yuki recoils, narrowly avoiding a crushed windpipe. The monster girl rises in a swirl of ice and snow, the violent gale rebuking the prone knight. A strange energy builds between the yuki’s palms, and another magical blast follows, slamming against Vanille’s raised vambrace with a deep //crunch.// The armor crumbles away like nothing more than chalk, utterly destroyed by the attack. Vanille rises once more and stomps forward. A wall of rough-hewn ice bursts from the ground to stop her advance. She leaps away as the sudden totem ripples and swells, then bursts into a thousand directed shards. Tiny spikes pierce the nearest wall, pelting the surface like needles. A spiderweb of splinters and cracks expands until the mirror is utterly useless. Movement from atop the wall of ice catches your attention. Tristan appears between the frozen branches. Vanille takes the cue to push the other woman into position, sidestepping another massive spear of ice before swinging her blade in wide, sweeping arcs. You hold your breath as the yuki dodges gracefully across the ice. Tristan leaps from the ledge, silent as a swooping hawk. His broadsword drives through the air like a bolt of thunder crashing from the heavens, striking true. The woman crumbles into a thousand icy splinters. Your companions stand confused for a moment, staring at the collapsed pile as they catch their breath. Tristan picks at the remnants curiously, crunching the shards with the tip of his weapon. A wall at the far side of the arena ripples. You barely have time to cry out before an abominable figure bursts forth, flying across the snow like a screaming wraith—the yuki, whole and unshattered. She crashes into Tristan, arms ensorcelled by thrumming blue energy. He brandishes his blade, but the monster grabs it by the hilt and holds fast. A nascent spell from the yuki’s palms forces the adventurer to relinquish. The broadsword falls to the ground and shatters. Vanille lurches to help. Another icy visage of the yuki appears not far from where you’re standing and lobs a ball of ice, striking the knight square in the chest. Vanille brings her weapon to bear against the next attack, then dashes forward, blade cutting a vicious arc in her wake. The yuki bursts into a puff of snow and ice as she’s sliced in half—another mirage. Vanille slides to a halt and braces herself against the nearby wall. A reflection of the yuki materializes on the surface, her form appearing in a ripple upon the dark mirror of ice, twisted and distorted. An icy hand emerges in the material world, a horror reaching out from the sheet, fingers curling around Vanille’s neck. A mighty fist punches through the limb, banishing it with a burst of glittering shards. Two more projections meet Vanille near the grove entrance as Tristan fends off a third on the other side of the arena, heavy fists swinging wildly. Vanille lunges after the yuki once more. Her blade cuts through the air in furious sweeps, each deliberate swing gaining another step further toward her mentor. She downs another clone in an adroit flurry of bladework, then turns her relentless assault on the next. The already rigid hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. A growing stream of snowflakes and sparkling ice chips swirls in front of you, slowly building up speed across the entrance of the arena. A faint blue energy wisps between the floes, encircling the entire grove. Magic. Something’s coming. Vanille fights not more than twenty feet ahead, fury focused on the retreating yuki who conjures hasty shells of ice, delaying the relentless warrior’s advance. Your eyes flit over to the frozen sylphs, to Tristan’s supercooled and shattered weapon. Frantic, anxious, you lurch forward to get a better vantage. You find the source of the gathering spell: an isolated yuki kneeling beside the emptied storehouse, magic pulsing around her. Does Vanille see? Is she too preoccupied? You try yelling to no avail, the rising gale drowning out your voice. Vanille told you to stay away from the fight for your own safety, but what about hers? She called you the group’s tactician earlier, but given how she commandeered the situation and excluded you from the plan in the first place, she might not have meant it. [[Keep a safe distance|I am a Meat Popsicle!]] [[Get in there and help|A Dish Best Served Cold]]

You take a step back, attempting to forcefully steady your nerves. Vanille and Tristan are professionals; you need to trust that the two adventurers can handle the yuki-onna on their own. Your confidence surges as the manifestation attacking Tristan suddenly wheels about, only to receive a shattering fist for her negligence. Vanille cuts down another of the monster girl’s manifestations in a spray of ice. The knight’s furious gaze falls to the crouched yuki, and a second later Vanille breaks into a sprint. A clone attempts to intercept with a point-blank spray of icicles but staggers back as Vanille’s blade nearly cuts across her chest. A fresh clone springs from a nearby wall of ice, then another. All eyes in the clearing focus on your companion. Spells fly, wild and disorganized. Vanille leaps clear of a spray of frost, then easily ducks beneath a misaimed volley of ice. The yuki’s panicking. Vanille presses on, undeterred. She must be heading for the right one. Boots crunch in the snow, thundering toward her target, hardly ten feet away. Five. A sword raises, edge gleaming. The grove erupts in a blinding blue-white haze. You lurch back, then duck behind a nearby tree beyond the grove to try to shield yourself from the wave of cold emanating from the blast. Frigid winds whip at your cloak and crawl along exposed flesh with icy fingers, leaving a numbing chill in their wake. Just as the sensation grows unbearable, it suddenly vanishes. The wind dissipates, air returning to its previous mid-winter freeze. You draw in a steadying breath, then dare a glance out from cover. The grove lies silent and horribly still. A lone yuki-onna stands between Vanille and Tristan, both adventurers paralyzed mid-swing and covered in visible layers of frost. Two new frozen statues to add to the monster girl’s collection. <<linkreplace "Shit…">>“Shit.” You wince the moment the word actually leaves your lips. The yuki turns. You barely duck behind the tree in time, heart thundering furiously. Damnit, what the hell are you supposed to do? That monster just incapacitated your two most capable fighters, and neither you nor Lili have an ace up your sleeve. No, the best thing you can do now is run and get help, pray that Ashlyn’s magic or Sherine’s monstrous strength is enough to overcome the yuki and save her latest prisoners before it’s too late. You dare a final glance from your cover, just to make sure she hasn’t already started eating— She’s gone. Vanished. The icy statues are the only humanoid forms standing in the clearing. Your pulse spikes as you lurch away from the tree and wheel about, sprinting in blind panic. You barely think to check for Lili, but the sylph is no longer hiding in her perch behind the fallen trunk. Hopefully she had the good sense to get a head start. Thundering footsteps crunch through ice and snow as frantic eyes dart at every shadow and grasping branch, wary for the looming monster girl. You hardly make it thirty feet before a sudden blizzard whips up around you, a swirling wall of ice and snow. Your pace slows from a sprint to a jog, then little more than a determined stagger. Snow clings to your ankles with every trudging step, as if trying to pull you down into its frigid embrace. Icy winds batter at your face, forcing you to shield your eyes from the onslaught. Teeth chatter, limbs shake. All the heat in your body flees, banished by the arctic gale. Your weapon falls from your fingers, lost to the dense haze. Visibility narrows to a few mere inches in front of your face, the world turned a dull, overwhelming pale canvas of white and grey, sleet and hail. The silhouette of a woman looms like a phantom, vague and thin at first, then solid and present after a heavy blink of your iced-over eyelids. “A poor soul lost in the storm?” a voice speaks, shockingly coherent among the whipping gale. Delirious, you try to force words from your frozen lips, through chattering teeth. Nothing comes out. Pale fingers curl, beckoning. You manage a step closer, then another. Her form becomes more discrete with each stiff footfall. A hand reaches for your own, hardly more than a gentle grasp. She’s warm. It comes as a surprise, though you can’t quite remember why. Maybe it’s something about her pale visage, as if she’s a very part of the surrounding blizzard. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t even seem to be wearing shoes—shouldn’t she be freezing? Or maybe it’s the fact that, in your cold-bordering-on-delirious state, you can’t imagine any trace of warmth existing in this frozen hellscape. “Fear not.” The words are soft, soothing. “I offer shelter.” A maw opens. Steam, hot and billowing, pours forth, warm breath condensing in the frigid air. “Come.” Your frozen brain rattles around your skull. You know what she is. Somewhere deep down you remember what happened to your companions, to the sylphs. The ice-cold woman is still alive. You’re still in her domain, at her whim And yet… She is respite. A body warm and wet; you can see it in every puff of steam wafting up from her throat, promising that a quick slide down will ease the torrential freeze gnawing at your body. Deep down inside her is somewhere warm and safe, free from the deathly blizzard. The swell and curve of her middle indicates as much; others have found relief in her embrace. What’s stopping you? [[Resist|Internal Temperature of a Tauntaun]]<</linkreplace>>

Arms raised, you rush into the rising whirlwind, freezing gale gnawing at your limbs. You shiver and shake, legs pounding across the ice and snow. A blast from the yuki knocks Vanille flat on her ass just as you jab the business end of your weapon at the monster woman. You grab the knight by the collar and drag her backward, muscles screaming from the strain. She yelps and flails at the sudden force, nearly stabbing you in the process. The gale intensifies, the swell of arcane queasiness about to congeal into something terrible. A ball of ice slams against your shoulder. You duck as a frozen lance flies overhead, then nearly stumble into the grasp of an icy arm reaching out from a nearby wall. You stab at the horror-appendage with your spear, missing because of the one-handed grip. Instead, the metal tip pierces the sheer surface with as much force as you can muster, digging hardly an inch into the ice. The wall fractures and splinters, then shatters, rendered inert and banishing the emerging yuki. You heave and haul the knight another few steps, Vanille kicking and swinging at the pursuing monster girl. You push through the howling winds and fall to the ground, scrambling to crawl another few inches from the entrance of the lair. Magic swallows the grove in a blue-white haze, flash-freezing the entire arena. A deafening silence fills the air as everything goes still, a glacial chill spreading like ooze across the ground, a rolling wave of intense polar cold. You and Vanille clamber to your feet, then gasp. Tristan’s frozen solid, both arms raised in defense, his once rosy cheeks and pumpkin facial hair turned blue and deathly. Vanille stumbles forward, blade dangling in hand. You seize her arm and drag her back to safety behind the log, the stunned woman limp and lurching, unable to look away until you pull her into cover. “Are you alright?” you ask, scanning the knight over for injuries. One arm is exposed and red, raw from the biting cold onslaught the yuki dished out. You poke the flesh and it turns pale for a brief moment under your thumb. “Does this hurt?” “I don’t feel it.” She stares off into space, as if she can see through the log, see her mentor still standing frozen on the other side of the barrier. Vanille staggers forward and tries dragging you away from the frozen grove. “I need to get you out of here.” You brace yourself and pull back, halting the frantic knight. Straining, you point to Lili peering out from a small hole with wide, terrified eyes. “We have to help, we can’t just leave them.” “No, it’s too dangerous for you.” You resist another pull, though only barely. “I’m not leaving!” You watch Vanille’s expression turn dark. “Can you fight and cover me?” She shudders, rattled—though not from the cold. Her face contorts, golden eyes narrowing, holding back something fierce and dire. Explosive. Her lips part, falter. A slow breath hisses from her lungs, and the worst of the fury dissipates with it. “To my last breath.” <<if $RVVanille >= 14>>You flinch. Not even a rebuke? No revocation, no overriding your whims? Not a word about how stupid you’re being right now? This isn’t like her, this isn’t the Vanille you met back in Icilia, nor even the woman Tristan alleged existed at one point. No, your friend—//your dear friend//—would listen. She wouldn’t follow your every command to the point of exhaustion and self harm, wouldn’t pick a fight with Ashlyn for making frustratingly reasonable arguments about Mira’s absence, wouldn’t give up her convictions to appease you. Vanille wouldn’t ignore your desperate attempts to get her to give one half of a shit about her own life. She lied. She’s still back at the siege, still making the decision to sacrifice herself. Worse, she’s doing it //for your sake.// It’s submission. Capitulation, meek and unconditional. Wrong and deeply disquieting.<<else>>You blink at her in stunned silence. What was phrased as a gesture of steadfast support rings… hollow. You don’t doubt she means every word she said, but a part of you can’t quite believe it’s Vanille who said them. Where’s the knight who’s always ready to speak her mind, who shouts down hapless city guards standing between civilians and safety, who stands fast by her convictions? Vanille’s respect is something to be valued, cherished. But this isn’t respect; it’s submission. Capitulation. Meek and unconditional. Wrong and deeply disquieting.<</if>> [[Collect yourself|Literal Hot Girl]]

A strange calm trickles down your spine, filling you like a basin. You draw a deep breath and offer a placating smile. Now’s not the time. You can discuss this later when there’s not a murderous monster girl within spitting distance. When lives aren’t on the line. “Okay, okay. We can do this,” you mutter, as much for yourself as Vanille. “The yuki’s the source of all this ice magic, right? Will killing her free Tristan and the others?” “I- I don’t know,” Vanille says, then shakes her head. “MAybe. W- We can’t rescue them while she’s still in the grove.” “Right. Was there anything you noticed while you were in there?” She scowls. “The damned ice manifestations—the clones came out of nowhere. I- I think the real yuki was in there at one point, but she swapped for a double during one of her attacks. I don’t understand.” The knight shakes her head, bewildered. “We got her, and then she just turned to ice.” “It’s the walls,” you say, only fully coming to the realization as it leaves your mouth. “She’s using them to project herself, and it seems like she can use her ice powers through the projections.” “How do you know?” Because you’ve played a video game with this mechanic before. It’s too stupid to say out loud right now, but it’s the bare truth. Media has made you both horribly misinformed and oddly prepared for the strange situations this world has to offer—It’s too bad you never know which it’s going to be at any given moment. “Just trust me—I saw the fight,” you say, keeping quiet about the part where she //ordered// you to watch from the sidelines. Not that your lacking martial prowess would have turned the tide, but you’re still pissed. “The clones seem to be tied to the mirrors—the walls of ice in her lair that are clear enough to see your reflection in.” “You think if we smash them she won’t be able to make more clones?” “That’s my hope. We go in, you distract her, I shatter those surfaces. It should stop her from manifesting, and hopefully you can get your hands on the real one.” Vanille’s eyes waver, calculating. “That might be difficult. She’s strong. Far stronger than I expected.” //‘Well-fed’ is the term she’s looking for.// Silence, brain. “Yeah, it uhm…” You frantically search for solutions, for ways to overcome the magic. Ideas start popping in your head, somewhat at random. “Torches?” “I have a glowrod, but it doesn’t give off heat.” “Might fool the yuki anyway, but it’d be nice if we had something a bit more substantial.” You point at the massive log. “Can you cut off a chunk of this bark?” Vanille pries a sheet of wood from the log with an audible crack. You wince, glancing over your cover, but the yuki-onna looks to be busying herself arranging the latest addition to her collection of statues—her pantry, more appropriately. You accept the slab and immediately realize it’s more ice than wood, deep cold gnawing at your fingers. You //might// be able to make this work if you had some sort of accelerant, but as is, you’d need to lay this in the sun all afternoon before it has any hope of burning. But it’s definitely not going to work as fuel for a fire now. “Maybe a shield?” you mutter, turning the wood over curiously. A pair of small hands slip into view and rest on the slab. You glance to find Lili, eyes closed in concentration. Before you can ask what she’s doing, the shell thrums, vibrating as it surges with life, the layers of bark folding over one another. A branch grows and curls gently around your arm, then another, the pair securing it firmly in place. A ring of leaves bud around the edge of the makeshift shield like a lacey frill. “Lili //very// good sculptor,” she says proudly. “Thank you.” You pat the sylph on the head with your free hand, then turn back to Vanille. “We’ll need more for this fight. Do you have any rock salt?” “I have a tiny bit for cooking, but it’s mixed in with a bunch of other spices,” she explains. “Good. Salt will melt the ice—Well, probably not, but I’m hoping it’ll distract the yuki.” Besides, it’s not like you can ask if Vanille has any antifreeze or kerosene on her— Wait, hold on. You might have something better. Trembling fingers fumble into your pockets but come up empty. You pat yourself down for the missing item, but find nothing. Frantic, you turn to Vanille, about to ask for assistance when you spot Lili shivering under her cloak, playing with the healing potion she must have stolen from you, the mischievous little scamp. You offer another snack. “Trade?” She happily accepts and starts gnawing on the partially frozen jerky. You gesture for Vanille to hold her weapon level for you, then uncork the bottle. You start pouring. “What are you doing!? Stop! That’s your medicine,” Vanille urges, trying to wrench the flask from your hands. “You need it.” “I’m fine. I’m fine,” you protest and finish dumping the potion out before Vanille can steal the empty phial. Watching the last drop of liquid splash onto the blade is a stark reminder that your entire body aches just from the walk over here—which is to say nothing of the pains that your brief foray into combat have inflicted. You’re gonna sleep like a baby tonight… if you make it back to bed at all. “I don’t think stabbing her with a healing potion is gonna work.” “You’d be surprised,” you grunt, the rancid flavor lingering on your lips. “Gimme your lighter—er, flint and steel.” She obliges after a confused moment. You click the apparatus in your hands twice to see exactly how it works, then start casting sparks all over the oiled blade. The sword //fwooshes// to life, brilliant flame dancing along the edge like a slice of burning rage. Vanille flinches, holding the thing at arm’s length. She tests its grip once, twice, then spins it around in a wave of heat, brandishing the blazing sword like it were natural. A huge smile spreads across your face. “Huh, look at that. Ashlyn was telling the truth: it //is// flammable—” Your stomach turns over, making you keenly aware that you drank a few gallons of that concoction in the past few days. Maybe you, unlike most Havendorians, should be more careful about what you put in your body. “Do you think this’ll work?” “I have no idea, but hopefully it’ll make the yuki will think twice.” Vanille sighs, then nods. “Alright. You ready?” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>><<linkreplace "Go break the ice">>“Let’s go break the ice,” you say, brandishing your makeshift shield. Vanille, still holding her flaming sword, frowns, then says with a straight face, “Please take this more seriously.” Right. You’re in mortal peril. [[Go fight for your life|11 Herbs and Spices]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>[[Ready as you’ll ever be|11 Herbs and Spices]]<</if>>

Standing at the edge of the log, you brace yourself, trying desperately to uncoil the tight knot in your aching chest. When that fails, you rush forward anyway, boots pounding the snow underfoot, rushing ahead of Vanille. As soon as you see a target, you chuck the pouch of spices at the nearest yuki. She’s baffled as the bag explodes into a savory puff. An arc of fire slashes through as Vanille glides by, and the manifestation vaporizes into a savory haze. An icy arm emerges from a nearby wall just as you drive your spear into the sheer surface, and the partially formed woman crumbles into sleet. Across the arena, Vanille deflects a crystalline lance with her sword, then chases after her opponent. Magic lashes out, the ground swelling as a slab of ice rises. The knight leaps, bounds off the sudden obstacle, then plunges onto the yuki, striking her down in a blazing arc. The woman bursts into a shower of sparkles that glimmer in the firelight. You rally to Vanille’s side a moment later, then press on. Vanille at the front, you dash around the arena, smashing the magic surfaces. A hail of projectiles flies your way, pelting your shield and slamming against your legs as you approach the next mirror. Vanille slides across the ice, landing a solid kick against the sheer wall and breaking it. “<<= $name>>!” A yuki surges, hands alight with frosty magic. You dig your heels in, lock arms with Vanille, and whirl her around. The knight’s blade plunges into the woman’s shoulder. Your companion pulls you back around in a dizzying blur as a creeping cloud of heavy frost drifts toward your position. You instinctively raise the shield, only to discover it’s effective at plowing through the gusts of frigid air. You charge forward blind, head down and pushing with all your might. Another battery of spells slams against the slab of bark, wood groaning and creaking under the weight of arcane fury. A supernatural chill spreads to your rigid, trembling fingers. The wood buckles, then cracks, then explodes, showering you with splinters. Deadly cold creeps across your exposed limb, frostburn ripping and tearing at your flesh. You stagger to a halt and fall flat on your ass, face to face with the yuki as she prepares another attack. Vanille lunges, impaling the blazing sword into the snow woman. The flames quench as the manifestation melts. Another takes its place, blasting your companion with a furious cascade of frost magic. “Vanille!” you cry, scrambling to your feet as you grab your spear and hurl it at the yuki. The weapon soars high, and not nearly as fast as you’d intended. Your poor aim matters not, however, as Vanille jumps, kicks off the woman, and catches the haft in mid-air. She lands and pivots, rocketing the spear across the arena like a ballistic missile and straight into a reflective surface, then turns and flings her sword at the final mirror, shattering it with a tremendous //crash.// The yuki—the //real// one, given the blood dribbling down her arm—casts a flurry of icicles. You raise your hand and pay for it with a flurry of gashes across your forearm. The yuki flees. A knife flies. Blood spurts from the snow woman’s leg as she stumbles, then collapses to the ground. Vanille stomps forward, earth quaking as the yuki drags herself another few feet. The knight pries her sword from a shattered wall of ice, then looms after her prey. The yuki scrambles onto her back, hands digging into snow. “W- Wait!” she stammers, voice strained. “Don’t! I’ll let them—” The blade plunges into the monster’s chest. A final, dying gasp rattles from the yuki’s lungs, eyes wide and distant. She twitches, shudders, then stills. A long silence settles over the grove, thick and uneasy. You stare, stunned, feet rooted to the forest floor like ancient trees. [[… Goddamn|Cold Blooded]]

A part of you tries to pull away, but you’re enraptured by the promise of refuge. You step forward with little more than the gentlest guidance. Fingers glide across her tongue, eased gently inward by the woman in the storm. The muscle palpitates, slithers and slides across eager skin. Scorching droplets of spittle drip onto the back of your hand, torrid goo dancing between your fingers. The first swallow pulls your wrist down the slimy tunnel. A tender warmth spreads up your arm all the way up to your elbow. Every inch encased in her flesh is another free from the agony of the relentless storm. You give in nearly all at once. Anything to get out of the gnashing cold, to get away from the teeth-chattering, skin-blistering, bone-stiffening hoarfrost. You crawl forward, desperate for relief, ushered deeper by gentle swallows and the occasional supporting hand. Lips crest your head, then gently suckle their way down the nape of your neck. A tongue laps at your chin, then guides your face into the expanding folds of her throat. An audible //gluk// echoes in your ears, and you can’t help but find something welcoming in the sound. Sublime fever wraps around your shoulders, dribbles down your arms, soaks through your tunic and into your skin. You press on, eager to fully immerse yourself in this stranger’s hospitality. Your feet leave the ground as lips work their way down past your abdomen, leaving you able to do little more than wriggle and squirm, as if you can somehow shimmy your way down the woman’s throat just that slightest bit faster. Every wet //glk,// every squelch of flesh only entices you further, deeper. You breach a new chamber, hotter than the last—a heavenly sauna waiting like a bath drawn for you by a lover, heat and touch and scent feeding your soul. You grasp against the walls of flesh, fervently pulling yourself inward one soaked limb at a time, almost frantic. You splash down and settle among the slop. It doesn’t matter who used this basin last, doesn’t matter that the warm, clinging goop might have once been solid. She prepared this haven just for you, and now you’re sitting safe and sound from the howling storm beyond. Right where you belong. Feeling returns in pulsing waves, the flushing heat of her insides banishing the biting pain from your extremities, then stealing away all sensation upon tired flesh in a comforting glaze. Your bones thaw as consciousness wanes. Thick steam fills you, roils about within your lungs and melts away the icy clutches of the unforgiving winter. Sleep comes swiftly in this cradle, a sweeping and overwhelming force like a rising tide. The walls pulse and churn, embedding you deeply in the organ and easing you into the cozy home. <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>><<set $deathYukionna ++>>[[Sleep it off…|Death 2.1.2]]

A part of you had wondered if the yuki-onna might be a spirit, like the one whose temple you narrowly escaped on the road to Orrault. You aren’t wondering now. Crimson stains the monster’s robes and blossoms in the snow beneath her unmoving form. You wince as Vanille withdraws her blade, a fresh spray of deep scarlet splashing along the grove floor like paint flicked from a brush. A sudden //crack// nearly sends you leaping back. The walls surrounding the grove begin to crumble one massive splinter at a time, sheets the size of dinner plates cascading from its fractured face and showering the ground in fragments of crystalline ice. Another wall collapses a moment later, and before you know it, the entire grove echoes with the collective tumult, a thousand distinct breaks building to a tremendous rumble like a calving glacier. As your brain slowly pieces itself back together, you regain the presence of mind to check on the yuki’s prisoners. Vanille is one step ahead of you, tending to a crouched Tristan. Fortunately, the adventurer looks to be rapidly recovering from his brief freeze. “Fuck me,” he hacks out, voice raspy. “Can’t say I enjoyed that.” Your attention turns to the sylphs, only to find them huddled together as Lili chatters with them in their strange tongue. She points cheerily to you, then guides the group over. You have a moment of mild panic as the sylphs glomp onto you, but ultimately accept the adorable dogpile because it is very warm and you are not.<<if $Orrault5== "Mira">> Lili climbs up into your arms, then gingerly inspects your bleeding wrist, bright red marks forming where the frostburn is worst. @@color:grey;“You’re so brave…” Mira murmurs.@@ Your ears ring with echoes from the past. “Excuse me?” “<<= $name>> very brave,” Lili says in her odd speech pattern, then wraps lithe hands around the back of your neck for support.<</if>> “Guess that’s the yuki-onna dealt with,” Tristan says, and you glance up to find the adventurer standing over the monster girl’s corpse with an expression of grim approval. “Looks like your handiwork, Sundrop.” Vanille merely grunts, already tending to her blade. “Shame about my sword, though,” Tristan mutters, eyeing the thawing fragments of steel with little more than mild disappointment. Apparently he’s not the sentimental type. [[Take a moment to rest|Make like a tree and leaf]]

The seven of you recover for a time, feeling the temperature in the glade rise by the minute. You appreciate the warming air, but the downside is that the ice and snow you’re sitting on is rapidly turning into a far less pleasant slush. You can’t quite bring yourself to sit up and shake off the snuggling sylphs, though. Your eyes wander the frozen grove—the desiccated trees, the crumbling storehouse, the crystalline farm. Even as the snow rapidly melts beneath, you can feel the sheer cold emanating from the supernatural permafrost. Plants wilt and crumble, the end of their icy suspension revealing their true, cadaverous forms. The yuki may be dead and her magic broken, but… is there actually any life here that can be restored? Lili eventually sits upright and inspects the grove for herself, leaving her sisters more room to huddle. You can’t help but read a pang of loss in her expression. “What are you going to do now, Lili?” The sylph’s lips curl to a determined frown. “Lili heal grove. Sisters help.” A quick look to Vanille finds your dour skepticism reflected clear as day in her auric gaze. “Lili,” you start, hesitant and gentle. “Can you actually… do that? Bring back the grove?” She remains silent for a long moment, and you notice the other sylphs looking to her, uncertain. “Lili not know. Trees… quiet. Empty.” The sylph hesitates, then shakes her head. “M- Maybe trees sleep—like sisters. Maybe tell trees, ‘Wake up!’ Maybe trees listen.” A sympathetic twinge aches in your chest as the sisters nod in stilted agreement. For all her determination, Lili hardly seems any more optimistic than you. Maybe these sylphs have some magic of their own. Vanille described them as a kind of sprite, whatever that means. But can they really bring warmth back to a place so cold and dead. Create it anew? And if they can, how long will the process take? Months? Years? “What are you going to do for food?” you ask. “O- Or shelter. Even with the yuki gone, nights in the forest will still be cold.” “Sisters work together,” the sylph states. “… Lili borrow more from tall people. Trade food.” You wince. Lili was struggling to survive after a mere five days without the grove. Will she and her sisters actually be able to manage? And even if they can, what will the sylphs do when the next threat comes along? When you aren’t around to help? Realization settles, every bit as cold and biting as the yuki-onna’s preternatural winter. “Lili,” you start in as gentle a tone as you can manage. “Maybe you should… leave. Try finding another, safer forest. Another grove.” “Lili stay,” the sylph answers firmly “Fix grove.” “Try very much,” one of the sylphs pressed firmly against your side manages. Her voice is still raspy and threadbare. “I… I’m worried that’s going to be dangerous for you, Lili,” you say. “You’re going to have to keep stealing—err, ‘borrowing’ from people on the road. What if the guild sends more adventurers, people like us? They might not be as, uhh… understanding as we are.” “Lili careful,” she says. “Borrow at night. Lili quiet.” You frown. “What if another monster attacks, one just as strong as the yuki-onna?” Or stronger, you realize, thinking back to all those recently posted commissions at the guild office. “There’s a lot of scary monster girls—bad women—coming into these woods, and you don’t have the grove for protection—or at least you won’t for a long while.” “Lili find way,” she offers after a brief pause. “Lili very clever. Hide, wait.” Like she did from the yuki? Damnit, this isn’t working. “What about your sisters?” you ask, a faint pit of guilt welling in your stomach for reasons you can’t quite understand. “Lili… Lili keep sisters safe.” “What if you can’t?” “Lili //will,”// she insists, desperation tinging her usually cheery voice. “But what if…” You take a breath to collect yourself, then try again. “Lili, I’m not trying to be mean. These forests aren’t as safe as they used to be, and I don’t know when that’s going to get better. I’m worried about you, about your sisters. And right now, they’re all looking to you for guidance.” The sylph nods, somber. “Lili know.” “I know you want to stay and fix this grove,” you continue. “I understand, believe me. This grove is precious to you, the only real home you’ve ever known. And I understand you want it back more than anything, but if you stay, I’m worried someone is going to come and… and hurt you and your sisters. The future will be dangerous. I know it might be scary, but if you can, you really should find another grove. Something further south. Away from all the monsters. Is that something you can do, Lili?” The sylph looks to her sisters, stricken. “Lili… not know. M- Maybe. Maybe Lili find new grove. New trees—louder trees. Deeper roots.” She glances back up at you, eyes shimmering. “<<= $name>> right. Forest scared. More bad women, more danger. Lili want stay, but… “Lili must not hurt sisters.” She puffs out her chest proudly, though a slight sniffle betrays her confidence. “Lili and sisters go together. Leave grove.” [[Hopefully, that’s for the best|seriously, you have to leaf her behind]]

At your insistence, you and Vanille scrounge every last edible item on your persons, plus all the coins you can afford, and bundle them up in a simple cloth for the sylphs. When that feels inadequate, you spend the next half hour trying to explain all the hard-learned lessons you were taught about the dangers of this world. Lili nods along studiously, though after the first ten minutes you suspect she’s just humoring you—she knows your nature, after all. You need this, need to make sure they have the best possible odds of survival. “And you understand how to trade with the coins, yeah?” you ask. “Yes. Yellow trade more food. Food for all sisters.” A wide smile sprouts on her small face. “Now Lili only need eat tall people if very hungry.” You try to suppress a wince and fail. Of course Lili’s just like everyone else in this world. Honestly, what did you expect? That the forest sprites would be vegetarians? At least she didn’t immediately see you and think, ’food’—Well, she did, given the unprompted trade, but she didn’t try to devour you on the spot, which was a nice change of pace. At the end of the day, the sylphs are just another denizen of this world, still possessed of the same biology and ravenous appetite as everyone else, no matter how tiny or cute or fuzzy— “Right,” Vanille chimes in. “Don’t do that anymore, Lili.” The sylph nods eagerly, a huge smile on her face. She rallies the other sylphs to bid you farewell in another warm clump of friendly churrs. Before they depart, Tristan offers his giant cloak, and you watch two of the sylphs huddle under it together. You’re about half a second from giving the shirt right off your back when Vanille hands over a change of clothes meant for you. You’re not ashamed to admit the farewell is tearful. Lili really took to you, and you to her. Watching her wave and flash that giant, energetic grin before vanishing into the backdrop of the forest leaves a strange emptiness in your heart. An acute sense of loss—a sensation that’s becoming achingly familiar. You need a hug. A warmth touches upon your shoulder. It’s Vanille. “You ready to head back? Do you need to rest? I can carry you.” “N- No, I can make the hike on my own two feet.” You spare a final glance at the surrounding woods, but the sylphs are gone. “Is there anything else we can do to help?” She shakes her head. “Not with finding a grove, no. We don’t have the right senses. The only reason we could simply walk right up to this one was because Lili was guiding us. Well, that and the grove was already in decline.” She regards you for another moment, reading the anguish in your expression. “<<= $name>>? Are you alright?” “Yeah. It’s…” You draw in a steadying breath, pull away from your companion, and take the first step toward Orrault. “I’m fine. Let’s head back.” [[Return to Orrault|no really, the cat's gone]]

The road to Orrault seems longer on the way back. The wagon ruts are deeper, the air more stifling, the steps heavier. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline fading, or the exhaustion of your longest day post-injury finally catching up with you. Or maybe it’s something deeper—a weariness beyond muscle and bone, lingering somewhere past the phantom pain haunting your chest. Something no amount of treatment or bedrest will ever heal. The forest eventually ends, and the walls of Orrault eclipse the horizon. By the time the three of you arrive at the gates, you find yourself in a thick, silent malaise, and even Tristan’s most thrilling tales do little to improve your mood. The giant gates creak open. The evening sun catches on the metal portcullis as you’re ushered inside and met by the same angry crowd still railing against the city watch. Vanille is keen to have you as close as possible when moving through the lively areas. Once you hit a quieter street, Vanille and Tristan quickly find an armory to replace their broken gear. The heavy scent of iron lingers in the sweltering and cramped shop as the adventurers filter toward the back on instinct, each searching what you assume are bargain bins for suitable equipment and leaving you to watch from the doorway. Vanille apparently learned to be a savvy shopper from her mentor. Tristan finds his prize first, then haggles briefly with the smith—though, from your perspective, the two seem to get on like long-lost brothers, patting one another on the shoulder and sharing war stories. When they’re done, the bearded adventurer affixes the new giant weapon to his back and trudges over to where you’re disinterestedly inspecting the various helmets made for demis. “Sundrop’ll be a minute,” he starts, then points a thumb to the far wall of the narrow shop to where Vanille’s inspecting a shelf loaded up with shields of all make and material. She hesitantly straps one on, waves her arm around a bit, then takes it off to test the next, in search of a likely unattainable standard which a run-of-the-mill shop like this won’t be able to provide. Tristan sighs wistfully. “I’m surprised, honestly. She avoids shields like rotten meat. Always prefers offense.” “To be fair, she’s pretty good at offense. I- In combat, I mean.” He scratches his beard as a meaningful gaze turns your way. “Guess she has something worth protecting now.” Not herself, that’s for sure. The adventurer lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. He points at your still-bleeding arm. “You did a good job out there. I didn’t see much of it ‘cause I was a fuckin’ block of ice, but you earned that. Anyway, I wanted to say ‘thanks.’ It brings a smile to this old man’s face knowing that someone’s watching her back.” You turn slightly to hide the wound, then shake your head. “I can’t do what you do—I doubt I could even lift your sword. I’m not much of a fighter.” “I’m too much of one,” he sighs. “No, she doesn’t need someone to fight her battles. She needs someone like you<<if $xe == "he">>, lad<<elseif $xe == "she">>, lass<</if>>. Someone who listens, sees the entire situation, and makes good calls. Someone she respects.” You’re not sure you’d call it respect; obedience to the point of self-sacrifice isn’t respect. It’s something else. A variety of uncharitable descriptors pop into your brain, but Vanille seems unworthy of any, and frankly you’re too emotionally drained from the day’s events to entertain any unkind words for the knight. Silently, you watch Vanille settle on a shield that passes enough of her metrics: a thin, worn slab of varnished wood in the shape of a crest. It looks reasonably light and features a recently replaced enarme alongside fresh leather straps for the forearm. [[Leave|Vanille's next to go, you know]]

New purchases in hand, the three of you exit the musty armory. As soon as you’re outside, Tristan turns his huge smile on you both. He flashes the jewelry you ‘traded’ from Lili. “Welp, I’m off to meet my client, return the earrings, and berate my bastard apprentice.” “A- Are you staying in Orrault?” Vanille asks cautiously. Tristan shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. It’s much more chaotic and dangerous this close to the border. I think we’ll be heading south for a time, pick up contracts along the way; small-time stuff like you and I used to do together.” A wide smile crosses his features. “Someone’s gotta do ‘em, right?” Vanille nods quietly, but offers nothing more. If she weren’t currently hiding her emotions, you could say with some confidence that she seems relieved. Regardless, you reach out and brace yourself for another crushing handshake from the man. “Thank you for your help today.” “Thanks for unfreezing me!” He chuckles, then pulls you close and lowers his voice. //“Look after her, alright?”// <<linkreplace "“Of course.”">>“O- Of course,” you say with a fervent nod. He pulls away and turns to your companion. A dark streak cuts across Vanille’s face as the bearded man offers a weathered arm. “It was good to see you, Sundrop.” The knight hesitates, turns to you for a moment as if seeking approval, then takes her mentor’s arm in hers. They shake like warriors. “Be well, Tristan.” He barely makes it ten paces before whirling about—a surprisingly agile maneuver for a man who was frozen not more than two hours ago. “Oh right! I’ll take care of the paperwork at the guild. It’s my mess, anyway.” He cups his hands together. Vanille pulls the quest chit from her pocket and tosses it over to him, then waves a final farewell. Once he’s out of sight, the knight sidles up beside you, tenderly inspecting your wounds yet again. “Alright, let’s head back to the inn and patch this up. Then I’ll get back to searching for Mira right away.” You pull away. “Vanille…” It’s hard not to notice the battered and crimson-stained strips of the shattered armguard dangling from her elbow. You’re standing outside an armor shop, and she didn’t even think to replace it. And why would she? It’s only //her// body at risk. You’re keenly aware that the shield on her back was chosen for a specific reason: //it’s light enough that you can use it.// You doubt she has any intention of protecting herself. Even when she wields it, it’ll be //for// you. Vanille is more than capable of brandishing something heavier, of carrying weightier equipment—she had a set of full plate when you first met her. She //used// to protect herself, but something’s gone wrong. Why does this bother you so much? Sure, she’s an adventurer, and you know firsthand the risk of injury or devourment is rampant, but Vanille is your go-to, your anchor. Tristan, however presumptive, was right: you are in many ways her apprentice. You rely on her, learn how to survive this world through her. But what lessons are you supposed to be learning by watching Vanille now? She’ll fall on her sword for you in a heartbeat, but won’t accept even a scant amount of concern for her well-being in return. What does that teach? You search her golden eyes for answers. You find none. It’s up to you to make the decision for her, for your group. If Vanille’s not going to protect herself, you must. And you will. You can’t lose her. You won’t. But as much as you’d like to take the time to think about this now, to find some solution or at least make progress toward addressing Vanille’s troubling tendencies, reality dictates you have other priorities. At least for tonight. “My arm’s fine,” you finally admit. You shake your head to hide a wince. “Let’s head back to the inn. I need to talk to Sherine and Ashlyn about our next steps.” Vanille nods, eager. [[Regroup with your companions|you're going to end this adventure entirely alone]]<</linkreplace>>

“You two fuckheads leave for a couple hours, and I miss a flaming sword!?” Ashlyn fishes a bottle of inky liquid from her cleavage and offers it to Vanille. “I //love// fire. Do it again.” “Don’t make a scene,” you scold the mage before she can get out of hand, then peer out at the dining hall of the Covetous Crow. You’ve had your eye on a group of adventurers huddled in a far corner. When you briefly assisted the crow demi working the bar by going around and solemnly lighting the candles and sconces, you heard some of their plans and speculation for their venture into Niverdene. Other than that, your momentary stint as a lamplighter was uneventful, with none of the locals and regulars to the tavern paying you much mind. In return for your service, a plate of food appeared at your table, though none among your group seem very hungry. Maybe it’s because Vanille just finished tying a clean cloth around your arm to cover your wound. Or maybe the mood’s dour for another reason… You’ve put this off long enough. It’s time to bite the bullet. An uneasy tremor rattles your bones. You stand and clear your throat. “Listen up, I have to tell you all something.” You draw in a deep, trembling breath, bracing yourself for the terrible curse you’re about to utter. <<linkreplace "“We’re leaving Orrault.”">>“We’re leaving Orrault.” Vanille leaps to her feet. “What!? What about—” You shake your head. “We can’t do anything for Mira right now. The city’s too large and we’re too few.” “No! We can find her. We’ll all keep looking for her, day and night. There’s plenty of places we haven’t checked yet.” “I- I know. Mira is… Mira is our friend, but the fact is we’ve been trying for a week and we just can’t find her. We could keep trying more and more options, spend more time and resources on the search, but you saw what it’s like outside the city today. And frankly, I’m worried what it’ll be like tomorrow.” You grit your teeth for a moment and hiss out a sharp breath. “We can’t stay here indefinitely, we have to leave before travel becomes impossible. We already have a lead on another Echo. We need to follow it in hopes we’ll find the rest. We… //I// don’t have a choice.” “I- I can keep looking. Give me another day.” Vanille begs, desperate. “<<= $name>>, //please,// I need more time.” You can’t make eye contact. “Vanille, I’m sorry. We’ve done what we can<<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>, and I’d… I’d give anything to know she’s okay, but it’s just not possible.” A trembling breath sneaks up on you. You cup your hand over your mouth, and it takes everything you have to hold back tears.<<else>>.” A pang of sorrow tugs at your chest, heart sinking.<</if>> “Mira doesn’t want to be found.” Vanille wavers for a moment, watching you intently. She thumps back down into her chair, crestfallen. //“I promised…”// she whispers. You resonate with the upsetting quiver in her voice. Watching Vanille back down is bad enough, but knowing that you’re the one forcing her retreat makes it nearly unbearable. You close your eyes and try to soothe your swirling thoughts. You’ll have time to talk about it on the road, time to find a way to get her out of purgatory. She’s not going anywhere without you—It’s the one good thing about her perverse dedication, you suppose. This sucks. All of this sucks. The mage //snrks,// and you despise her for it. “I’m surprised you’re giving up, <<= $name>>. I thought you were horny for the pussy.” “Ashlyn,” you sigh before <<if $MiraDating == true || ($Orrault7 == "Mira" && $RVMira >= 8)>>you or <</if>>Vanille can raise a fist and deservedly punch the redhead’s face in. Then, with all the affection and derision you can muster for the bitch, you add, “Go fuck yourself.” //“Gladly,”// she snickers, folding her hands across her lap and raising her eyebrows at you. She licks her lips. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we—//hrk!”// A copper tail lashes around Ashlyn’s throat. Sherine glares at the mage, watching her tug at the chokehold unsuccessfully. It doesn’t take long for the sex wizard to make it weird, but by the time Ashlyn’s trying to pull the tail tighter and asphyxiate herself, the lamia’s turned more compassionate eyes to you. “<<= $name>>, are you certain about this? Despite this one’s inappropriate remarks, we don’t mind searching on your behalf.” You nod, somber. “I hate to admit it, but Ashlyn was right the other day. She could have been more tactful about saying it, but… I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry about everything. I wish…” “<<= $name>>…” Sherine murmurs. You huff. “I’m just going to turn in for the night. We’ll meet down here in the morning, review our supplies, and head to that abandoned mine after a meal.” Sherine silently nods. Still gagged, Ashlyn manages a modicum of decency and blinks her understanding through cosmic eyes. She even pauses her debauchery, though it’s unclear if it’s for your sake or due to boredom. Vanille rises to escort you away from the table. [[Rest up and prepare for the journey|having lost everyone and everything you hold dear]]<</linkreplace>>

Head hung low, you ascend the stairs, staring at your feet every step of the way, at the scuffed-to-hell floorboards and bits of accumulated dust and detritus. Your legs feel heavier and heavier as you climb, as if gravity is calling you back, luring and begging you to simply collapse in a heap and let the earth reclaim you, drag you to hell for your screw ups. You’re not going to be able to sleep tonight. You’re going to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, abusively reviewing all the times you could have said something to avoid this terrible outcome. You’ll be kept awake thinking about the potentially awful fates to befall the people you care about. You stumble up to the landing and manage to round the corner, lurching along in a daze. Today was long and exhausting. The entire week was a series of unrepentant failures. Tomorrow promises to be worse. You have nothing to show for all your effort, all your pain. Just a few new scars to compliment the massive one on your heart. An arm halts your advance. You jolt and look up to find Vanille, finger pressed to pursed lips. She draws her knife and points at the door to your room. It rests ajar, a slice of twilight cutting into the dim hallway. That’s not how you left it. Vanille creeps forward and peers in. She flinches, then yanks you closer, pulling the room into view with a dizzying blur. A petite, hunched form sits curled beside your bed, a penumbral outline of a person hardly visible in the crepuscular gloom. You try to focus your eyes, but the form distorts the longer you stare, your brain refusing to process what you’re seeing. A ghost, an echo, a mirage. A trembling young woman with cat ears surrounded by a sack of spilled valuables. <<linkreplace "… Mira?">>“M- Mira…” Her name slips from your lips, threadbare. She winces, falters. Her lips part, then close as she hesitantly shuffles to her feet. “<<= $name.first()>>- <<= $name.first()>>- <<= $name.first()>>…” She looks up with puffy red eyes, deep pleading jewels glimmering faintly in the strained light. “I- I- I didn’t know where else to go,” Mira mewls, ears pressing flat against her head. “I have gold, a- and food—you can have it all. I’ll bring you more—A- Anything you want. I’ll find it and get it.” A violent shiver wracks her form as she stoops and rifles through the sack of loot, desperate to find some trinket, some bauble that will suffice for her inscrutable purpose.<<if $MiraDating == true && $Orrault6 == "Mira">> She reaches into her hair and pulls away the emerald clip you gave her, offering it with a trembling hand.<</if>> //“Please…”// “Mira…” You stagger forward, only to stop in your tracks as the demi recoils. <<linkreplace "“What’s wrong?”">>“W- What’s wrong?” “I… //Nnn.”// She looks away, eyes suddenly hesitant to meet your own. “It’s… I…” Please listen. Please let her hear you this time. <<linkreplace "“What do you need?”">>“Wha- What do you need? How can…” “I- I don’t—” Mira shudders. “I don’t know! Stop, stop—I don’t…” No. Not again. <<linkreplace "“Mira, please…”">>“Mira, please,” you say, //beg.// “It’s okay. I- I’m not upset, or—” “No!” She stumbles back, nearly tripping over the bed. “I… I can’t…” You freeze, not daring to move an inch. You’re desperate to tell her everything, anything to make her stay, yet the words are distant, looming like a storm on the horizon, rumbling in some far corner of the world. Too tremendous to comprehend, to wield. You want to lunge for her, pull her into a hug and never let go. You need to help her… But you’re scaring her. She flinches at your every approach, at every word. You’re a hair’s breadth from losing her again, one overzealous step from her making a break for the window. As much as you might be ready to build new bridges, Mira isn’t. Just when it feels as if it’s all too much, when agony and relief prepare to boil over, when you’re certain you’ve finally found Mira only to be forced to watch as she slips away once more, a hand finds your shoulder, firm and warm. “<<= $name>>…” Vanille starts, a steady confidence in her eyes. “Let me help.” “I…” You hesitate. After everything you’ve seen from the knight today—no, the past week—can you place a pivotal moment like this in her hands? Can you stand back and place your trust in Vanille? Do you have a choice? <<linkreplace "“Please help me.”">>“Please help me.” Vanille nods. You watch, terrified, as she casts her weapons aside and kneels, finding a safe spot across from Mira. She folds her arms across her lap and takes a deep breath. “I’m here, Mira. I’m listening. Tell me what you want.” The demi remains silent, gaze flitting from wall to ceiling to floor, anywhere that avoids having to meet Vanille’s or your own. She shuffles nervously but otherwise makes no further attempt at withdrawal. Finally, she gestures to the empty bed with a trembling arm. “I- I want to a- adventure with… with…” She shakes her head. A tear flies. “I’ll do anything. Just… please take me back.” “Of course,” Vanille says immediately. “You’re always welcome here, Mira.” “I… But…” //“Always.”// The room falls into a long, uncomfortable silence. Mira continues to shift in agitation, but she can’t quite bring herself to commit to any particular movement, any specific words. “Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?” Vanille eventually asks. “Would you like a room?” “No. I’m fine. I don’t need—” She shudders. “No.” “Okay. I understand.” The knight nods. “What about dinner? Have you eaten today?” Mira seems to shrink in on herself. “N- No…” “Would you like something from downstairs? We can go together.” A long moment of hesitation passes before the demi gives a slight nod, hardly more than a quick twitch of her head. The two rise to their feet and begin gingerly making their way for the door, Vanille acting as a chaperone to Mira’s nervous uncertainty. You step forward, ready to follow and share a meal with your dear friends, then freeze once more as Mira recoils. She casts a panicky glare your way, then shifts a few inches away. You dare not move closer lest you shatter this moment of success. “I- I’ll stay here,” you mutter quietly. It’s the most painful thing you’ve done all week. Vanille nods solemnly, a knowing look in auric eyes. “Get some rest, <<= $name>>. We’ll meet downstairs at sunrise. //All// of us.” [[Let them go|Oh, nevermind]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

You sit on the bed in stunned silence. The door shuts unceremoniously, plunging the room into a tenebrous gloom. You take stock. You want to scream. You want to weep. A volatile cocktail of emotions whirls in your chest, demanding action, release. Disbelief, frustration, anger, joy. A faint kernel of hope tempered by sharp reality—intense dread for the future and monumental relief at the present. Every inch of you, new and old, aches. A coursing river of solace drowns you in overpowering release. You’re spent, done. There’s nothing left. Yet… You found her. [[End of Episode 1|Episode 16]]

<> <<set $Quarry1 to false>> <<set $Quarry2 to false>> <<set $Quarry3 to false>> <<set $Quarry4 to false>> <<set $Succ1 to false>> <<set $Succ2 to false>> <<set $Succ3 to false>> <<set $Succ4 to false>> <<set $Succ5 to false>> <<set $SuccX to false>> <<set $deathHellhounds to 0>> <<set $deathDemons to 0>> <<set $deathSuccubus to 0>> <<set $deathErinyes to 0>> /*remove the following in post-season*/ <<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> <<set $VanilleEvent6 to false>> <</if>> /*end remove*/ <<if $xe == "he">> <<set $xe to "he">> <<set $xem to "him">> <<set $xes to "he’s">> <<set $xir to "his">> <<set $Xe to "He">> <<set $Xem to "Him">> <<set $Xes to "He’s">> <<set $Xir to "His">> <<set $mx to "mister">> <<set $Mx to "Mister">> <<elseif $xe == "she">> <<set $xe to "she">> <<set $xem to "her">> <<set $xes to "she’s">> <<set $xir to "her">> <<set $Xe to "She">> <<set $Xem to "Her">> <<set $Xes to "She’s">> <<set $Xir to "Her">> <<set $mx to "miss">> <<set $Mx to "Miss">> <<else>> <<set $xe to "they">> <<set $xem to "them">> <<set $xes to "they’re">> <<set $xir to "their">> <<set $Xe to "They">> <<set $Xem to "Them">> <<set $Xes to "They’re">> <<set $Xir to "Their">> <<set $mx to "mx">> <<set $Mx to "Mx">> <</if>> <><<timed 1s t8n>>[IMG[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/916245-38160-1i3r5om-preview.jpg]] <<linkreplace "Recap">>__Recap:__ Stranded in another world after failing to hitch a ride from a friendly trucker, you must now work with your newfound companions to find the remaining Echoes of Exile: a set of ancient and powerful gemstones that supposedly contain the power to banish a nebulous, lurking evil and—far more importantly—send you home. In the aftermath of your grave injury at the siege of Orrault and Mira’s subsequent flight, you, Vanille, Ashlyn, and Sherine worked to find the wayward demi and make amends. Unfortunately, Orrault is a very large city, and Mira proved impossible to find, leaving you increasingly frustrated. Desperate, you and Vanille decided to put up a commission at the local Adventurer’s Guild office where you had a surprise run-in with Tristan Vekara, Vanille’s former mentor. While the knight initially seemed uncomfortable with the reunion, the two eventually settled into catching up and trading stories. In a streak of good fortune, you stumbled across a commission asking for the capture of a local bandit just outside the city who, based on the descriptors, sounded suspiciously like Mira. You, Vanille, and Tristan decided to take the quest, only to discover the actual culprit was a sylph. The small forest sprite explained she’d resorted to stealing after she lost her sisters and grove to a Yuki-onna, a fearsome monster girl with deadly ice magic. The three of you fought the Yuki-onna, only narrowly triumphing thanks to your timely intervention in spite of Vanille’s insistence you remain uninvolved. Between the knight’s frozen terror in the face of your endangerment and her brutal slaughter of the monster girl, it became painfully apparent Vanille has not completely moved past the events of the siege. Realizing the issue would need to be resolved another day, you returned to Orrault, parted ways with Tristan, and regrouped with your companions. You somberly admitted over dinner that the four of you needed to move on and leave Mira behind, citing the recent uptick in monster girl presence exemplified by the Yuki-onna, as well as the simple fact that if the demi didn’t want to return, there was nothing you could do to force her. Dejected, you stumbled upstairs for rest, only to discover Mira waiting in your room. The demi pleaded to be let back into the group, but when you attempted to assure her, you discovered she was outright terrified of so much as speaking to you. Thankfully, Vanille intervened, offering to try and smooth things over with Mira on her own. You went to bed conflicted, uncertain as to the demi’s disposition, but ultimately relieved that she was back. <</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Relationships">>__Relationships:__ __Mira:__ Mira is not having a good time. Worse, she seems incapable of speaking with you about it. It’s painful to admit<<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $RVMira >= 14 >>—agonizing, even—<<else>>, <</if>>but the best thing you can do is wait patiently and check back with her after she’s had some more time. Hopefully that will help. __Vanille:__ <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Things have grown complicated between you and Vanille, in both good and bad ways. The good first: you’ve shared your feelings for one another, and you’ve kissed. Now the bad part. Your friend has<<else>>In the aftermath of the siege, Vanille’s<</if>> become a shell of former self, swinging wildly from excessively submissive toward you, to brutally violent with anyone who might do you harm. The events of the siege clearly weigh heavily on her mind. You haven’t forgotten that night she loomed over your bed, drunk and rambling. You’re not entirely sure you’re ready to have to talk about it now, given you’re still reeling from Mira’s sudden return, but it’s becoming increasingly clear it’s something that’s going to have to happen sooner rather than later. __Ashlyn:__ Sure, Ashlyn knows about your fetish, but things with the mage haven’t been //too// unbearable<<if $MiraDating == false>><<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">>. If anything, it’s been kinda fun<<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn">>… if risky. And you’ve had enough risk for now<</if>><</if>>. She has certainly seemed eager to involve you in her strange, titillating games<<else>>… so far<</if>>. You’re not entirely sure what to expect from her while you’re recovering. Your brief glimpse of Ashlyn’s bedside manner wasn’t too bad, so perhaps there’s hope. <<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">>Gratuitous sex<<else>>Casual tormenting<</if>> aside, <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>you and Ashlyn get along remarkably well<<elseif $RVAshlyn >= 4>>you and Ashlyn seem to get along well<<else>> you and Ashlyn get along decently enough<</if>>. While you weren’t thrilled when she advocated abandoning the search for Mira, you begrudgingly admitted she made a few reasonable points. __Sherine:__ <<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>>During the night spent together before the siege, Sherine made her intention to seduce and devour you perfectly clear—not that you didn’t already have your suspicions. Still, hearing it spelled out was a bit of shock<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>, as was the part where you fucked with your head lodged in her throat. It’s… definitely something you’re going to remember<</if>>. Yet despite the lamia’s ostensibly self-serving goals<<else>>While the lamia has implied her goals in traveling with your group are highly self-serving<</if>>, your actual experience fighting alongside Sherine during the siege of Orrault has revealed her to be a remarkably stalwart ally. Plus, she stuck around while you were recovering from your injuries, helped in the search for Mira, and even offered to accommodate your discomfort after she saved you from an opportunistic predator. While you<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">> may have perfectly good reason to be<<else>> were initially<</if>> wary of her, you now consider Sherine a genuine friend. Ultimately, she remains a bit of an enigma, particularly considering her uncommon status as a monster girl who’s chosen to live among human society—something that, in the aftermath of the recent siege, has become noticeably more strained. There’s a long journey ahead, and you look forward to getting to know her. <</linkreplace>> [[Start|May the Road Rise to Eat You]]<</timed>>

Welcome back to //Another Inner World!// If you’re here, you’ve successfully loaded a save from the end of Episode 15 and are ready to play Season 2 Episode 2. Hey! Since you've been away, we've implemented pronouns! Choose yours now: Select pronouns you'd prefer to be referred as: <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "he" checked>>He/Him</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "she">>She/Her</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "they">>They/Them</label> //Please note that this choice only changes how a player is addressed in game, and not the player's genitalia. Presently, the player character will have a penis.// Enjoy! [[Resume|Episode 16]]

One foot falls in front of the other, cautious steps kicking through the underbrush. The sun shines overhead. Nascent summer rays creep through the tree shade above, eager to swaddle your tired body as you wander along the forest trail. Each step is a passive calculus, a balance between exposing your already tiring muscles to more heat and the amount of effort it would take to swerve away from a sunny patch of the dirt trail. A part of you still can’t quite believe last night wasn’t a dream. You’d expected your last morning in Orrault to be a bittersweet affair—after all, it’s the closest thing you’ve known to a long-term home in this world—but seeing all your companions together again made the looming road that slightest bit more welcoming. Vanille, naturally, took it upon herself to organize final preparations and delegate as needed—though you couldn’t help but notice Mira was left to her own devices—and the five of you were walking through the city gates within the hour, stocked for the days to come without the comforts of civilization. For as familiar as those walls had become, a part of you can’t help but be relieved to have them at your back—alongside the less pleasant memories those towering stone fortifications hold. Your hand drifts to your chest, quelling a slight twang of discomfort just beneath your skin. Even after the best sleep you’ve had in weeks, you can’t help but feel as though your brush with death sliced off a tangible sliver of your health forevermore. As if you’ll always be gradually piecing yourself back together, working toward a fortitude you’ll never quite regain. Sure as hell beats the alternative. As soon as your boots met the soot-stained dirt, you steered your group directly west, opting to travel beneath the towering wall and away from the crater. You’ve seen it; it’s unimpressive. The five of you picked through abandoned farms and fields, stopping to check for supplies and survivors at Vanille’s insistence. After a half dozen empty and abandoned homesteads, you decided to venture past the treeline and rejoin the road. Which brings you to the present: a long and meandering trail into the canopied unknown alongside your companions. Vanille has taken the vanguard while Mira lingers silently at the rear, leaving Sherine subject to Ashlyn’s ramblings. The lamia diligently nods along, offering the occasional pensive //hmm// or //uh-huh// where appropriate and otherwise ignoring every single word—you’ll switch off with Sherine after an hour or two. Perhaps three. For now, however, you glance over your shoulder for what feels like the twentieth time this hour, checking to make sure Mira’s still there. She refuses eye contact, but is otherwise keeping up. You’re not pleased to see her so dour, but being shadowed by the demi is far better than being alone. This does, unfortunately, leave you with the minor problem of how exactly you’ll be occupying yourself for the day’s travel. You can only spend so long staring at your feet before the madness starts to creep in, and losing your mind in the presence of at least two eager predators is probably bad form. After a minute weighing your options, you risk a quick jaunt past the mage—who seems to be going on about how the alignment of the planets impacts the female orgasm—and sidle up next to Vanille. With all the rush of leaving Orrault, the two of you haven’t had much of a chance to talk since last night. <<linkreplace "Ask how she’s doing">>Before you can get a word in, Vanille freezes. She raises a finger and tilts her head, ears perked. Her blade quietly hisses from the sheath. Two figures slip from the treeline ahead and stroll onto the road, a man and a woman dressed in traveling attire, their cavalier demeanors undercut by the short swords held loosely at their sides. Another two join—a third sword and a bow. The one on the far left looks to be some sort of demi, though the specific animal eludes you at the distance. You flinch as a wolf girl hops down from a tree, furry legs //thumping// quietly in the dirt, clawed hands grasped around the hilt of an imposing mace. A demi of the same base animal shuffles from the underbrush, weapon resting in the sheath at her waist. [[Uh oh…|Bandit? I hardly know her!]]<</linkreplace>>

You’ve reached the end of the current early-access WIP content for //Another Inner World.// Thank you for being a subscriber! Be sure to tune in next month for the next release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. @@color:orange;Has anyone found the easter egg yet?@@ __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading, testing, and feedback by Blex (episode 1, 2, 5), Kable12 (episode 1, 5), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W æµé€ Aickavon Alex Nimmer Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Autocrux Avicyn BStreamcat Bas bishbopist @@color:red;Blex@@ @@color:red;Boosted Snail@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Butt McFarts calm belt Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron dragonborn657 Drakeon1015 Dude43235 Eat Me EL O EL Elmo Eric EvilBastard ExposedSenpai I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". Frank Lance FrogFries Gea gongon Grapes Grizzlow Guardian Gnosis gzc Phorcys19 Hayden Black hi529 Hona Vega Hunter Aldridge Iepie122 Igloo3047 Ithirien James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper jayPhrog Joe Fry Joel Boening Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Exodiaaddict Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Littleguy145 Robin! @@color:red;Lyl@@ M Tanner M423x Manny M. Martin van der Sommen Matheredor MelonFelon01 Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish Myrtaz NapBonaparte Zuzu Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nightfang Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 @@color:red;Petr@@ Phase Caster Pierce Placeholder Qu0rbl3 @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 @@color:red;Ratley@@ Rory Ross Davis Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shad0w Shadow Nightclaw SlimesAreNice somhtam @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ Spydorz StarlitKing @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan TheNova129 Thumic Tobi tofublock Tsavo Tyler Fitzgerald Tyler Joshua Bennett UnknownLurker V-Ate VeryVoraciousVixens Vesper Viikinkikiivi VK1113 Wandering Veggie WaylaidVisitor William Wulfenite Xaeroch Xionti Yum Yums Zob Zerp Zuiji

“Hail, travelers!” a man ahead calls as another trio emerges from the treeline to your left flank, then two more to the right. “We’re not looking for trouble,” Vanille says in measured tones, though you can feel her tense at your side. “Neither are we,” the man responds, stepping forward. “It’s just the five of you, then?” More bodies appear at your rear where Ashlyn’s still monologing, though the mage and the lamia shuffle forward to close ranks regardless. Mira’s tail bristles as she’s forced to stand within ten feet of you for the first time today. “Are…” you murmur quietly into Vanille’s ear. You swallow the dry lump in your throat and try again. “Are we being robbed?” “Seems that way,” she grunts, knuckles tightening around the hilt of her blade. She nudges her head to the treeline on your right where another three faces have emerged. “There’s certainly a lot of them. They don’t look friendly, either.” You frown. You’re reasonably certain the leader is human, which makes this quite an eclectic assembly of bandits. As you continue to process the situation, you notice a few sets of recognizable armor: Orrault livery, the green tabards and plated mail reminiscent of the last time you were held up over a ‘toll.’ Are they deserters, or has this equipment been recently liberated? Aside from the gear, however, none of them appear to be particularly hale, the ragtag group unkempt and a bit emaciated. “Well, you all seem like road-weary types, so I’m sure you know how this goes.” The leader nods to his left, and the ring of bandits grows a few feet tighter. “If you’d be so kind as to relieve yourself of any valuables, we’ll let you be on your way. Gold, weapons, all but enough food to get you to the next town.” “And if we don’t?” The bandit lets out a slight chuckle. “Look around. I’m sure you can imagine how that ends.” You try your best to imagine, first shrugging off the more voracious parts of your imagination, then turning to glance at your companions. Vanille’s hand is steady on her blade. Ashlyn still hasn’t actually shut up yet, and Sherine, for her part, is tensing, coiling, preparing to strike. You wince. You’ve seen your companions fight; this poor bastard hasn’t. You’d put reasonable odds on Vanille slaughtering the lot of them—and that’s without Ashlyn’s magic or Sherine’s… well, being Sherine. <<linkreplace "Try to get Vanille to stand down">>“Vanille, don’t.” You put a delicate hand on the knight’s shoulder. “They don’t deserve—” A knife whirls through the air and impales the bandit leader in the bicep. He yelps and falls over, clutching his arm. Another dagger flies, the blade pinning the wolf girl to a nearby tree. A split second later Mira leaps mouth first into the crowd. Your companions burst into action. Sherine lashes out at an unsuspecting bandit standing just a bit too close, tail whipping around their leg and yanking them down to the dirt. As they skid by, Vanille kicks their flailing weapon from their hands. A moment later, the bandit is dragged under the lamia’s coils, startled cries muffled by sheer mass. Vanille’s blade //clangs// against the edge of an axe, then arcs upward, catching the underside of the weapon. She flicks her wrist and sends the weapon clattering into the distance, then roundhouse kicks her opponent into a charging ally, both of them crumbling to the ground. The twang of a crossbow firing rings in your ears. A strong arm wraps around your shoulders as Vanille spins you around, a heavy //thud// echoing. She unslings the shield from her back and hands it off to you, then rushes toward the now-reloading bandit before you have a chance to protest. The wolf yelps and raises her crossbow, but the weapon explodes in a single slice of gleaming iron. Another swing brings the monster girl down, though there’s no flash of crimson, no explosion of gore. Vanille smacks her with the flat of her weapon as if it were a baseball bat, then sprints to her next target, throwing a fist squarely into a bear demi’s jaw and knocking her unconscious with a single punch. You strap the shield onto your forearm, silently cursing Vanille’s brashness. Sure, it worked out this time, but if she’s gonna be doing shit like that, she should be using the shield to protect herself, for fuck’s sake. A loud gulp from behind sends you whirling about. A pair of legs slip down Sherine’s gullet, pass through her human torso in a lumpy cascade, then vanish entirely into her tail. A fox demi rushes toward the lamia with a curved sword raised. You stomp forward and sweep your spear. The demi stumbles, loses his weapon, and //bwomps// comically into Sherine’s chest. The lamia doesn’t spare him the embarrassment, maw descending before he can rebound. Ashlyn scoffs. “Pff, that’s nothing. <<= $name>>, watch this.” An arcane thrum tugs at the hairs on the back of your neck. The mage swirls her arms around and around as the spell coalesces, frantic motions escalating to an abominable dance that should never be performed in a public space—or even the bedroom, for that matter. She raises one hand to the sky like a pop idol, then slams her palm down into the dirt, an orgasmic groan purring from her parted lips. A pulse ripples beneath your boots. Your left foot rises involuntarily. You stomp back down, then jam your spear into the ground and hold on for dear life as gravity’s grip loosens. The wave of magic expands, intensifying as it radiates from the epicenter. Sherine’s mostly spared from rising due to her bulk and proximity. The bandits fifteen paces away, however, aren’t so lucky. The nearest three lift ten feet into the air, then twenty. Past them, another pair float up from the bushes, flailing and shouting as they struggle to find purchase. To your right, Vanille and the dog girl she has in a headlock drift through the air, the lacking gravity merely an insult to the injury of defeat. The knight watches the mage carefully for any cue as to when the spell will resolve, ready to react to whatever nonsensical physics Ashlyn is wont to deploy next. Mira drifts into your periphery, as round and weightless as a balloon. It would be absurd—or even adorable—if the demi weren’t furiously pounding her fists against another opponent. In fact, you’re not even sure if Mira realizes she and her target have left the ground. “Leave me alone!” the demi shouts before committing to the mother of all headbutts. You wince at the resounding //thwack// as the force of the collision sends her opponent flying skyward while pushing Mira back down to the ground. Once satisfied she’s gathered the entire band of brigands, Ashlyn focuses on an invisible point in space. Magic buzzes. A wispy sheen dances between her palms, her arms slowly raising as if in praise. Once she reaches her zenith, the mage’s light-wreathed hands clap together in an implosion of arcane force. Everyone in sight suddenly flies toward the focal point, as if a dozen slingshots all released at once. The bandits slam together like magnets, crashing and clumping in a hovering trainwreck of limbs and torsos, the sounds of slapping flesh and thuds of pain filling the forest. Mira and Vanille are mercifully spared, the former too stuffed and too low to the ground to do anything more than skid along the dirt against her will, while the latter kicks off the bandit she’d been restraining, pushing herself against the spell’s force. Vanille flips and lands on her feet as gravity resumes. Unfortunately for the clump of floating bandits, gravity is much less kind. They fall in a confusing tumble, nearly twenty dazed, disoriented, or outright unconscious bodies thumping to the ground unceremoniously. [[And just like that, the battle’s over|The Clusterfuck]]<</linkreplace>>

“I call that one, //‘The Clusterfuck,’”// Ashlyn announces proudly as she steps around the groaning mass of bandits. She stumbles over to you and rests an elbow on your shoulder, slouching most of her weight onto you. “That was… flashy,” you say, trying to <<if $RVAshlyn >= 8>>imagine<<else>>comprehend<</if>> the sexual applications of that spell. After a moment you shake your head and resolve to just be happy to have solid ground beneath your boots. “I’ll show you flashy,” the kink mage manages, slurring like a drunkard. “Or… wait. Flashing? Yeah, that’sh it. I can show you flashing… Jus’ look at my ass.” You spare the mage a pitying glance as she slumps. “You mana-drained yourself again, didn’t you?” She huffs out a chuckle, clearly exhausted from the meager effort. //“Maaaybe.// But look,” she says, gesturing to the bandit pile. “Lunch.” “O- Oh, uhm…” You cast an appraising glance to the pile, then to each of your companions’ stomachs in turn, letting your imagination run wild. She can’t be serious. How can anyone possibly eat that much? Even accounting for— //Gluck!// You jolt, glancing up in time to watch a pair of loosely kicking feet slip past Sherine’s lips where they join the rest of the bandit’s body in a rapid slide down to the lamia’s tail. Right. She’s already starting. “A- Are you sure that’s alright?” you ask with a tremor in your voice as Sherine effortlessly hoists her next meal—a thoroughly dazed wolf girl. “Whaddya mean?” Ashlyn asks incredulously. She grabs the first leg she finds from the pile and pushes an arcane pulse into the limb. The bandit shrinks to barely two inches in a flash. The mage dangles his unconscious body over her maw. “Do you know anything about anything?” she asks, then lets the man fall. Ashlyn smacks her lips a moment later. “We beat ‘em; we eat ‘em.” A sudden groan startles you from the fascinating display. You turn to find one of the robbers crawling out from under a large canine demi. Vanille’s boot swings into view and kicks the bandit in the face, knocking him unconscious. The deed done, she hurries to your side and begins checking you over frantically. “<<= $name>>,” she starts, groping at your neck and limbs, searching for injuries. “Are you hurt?” “I’m okay.” You shrug her off as gently and patiently as you can, then point to Sherine’s midsection currently in the process of expanding with //yet another// bandit. “Is this alright? Are we—are Ashlyn and Sherine supposed to eat these people?” Vanille gestures to the shield on your arm. You brace yourself as she puts both hands on the bolt jutting from the surface, then yanks it free. She stares at the projectile for a long moment, then shrugs. “Sure.” //[[… What?|Callous Vanille]]//

She turns away and heads over toward a log. You’re about to lurch after her when you’re stopped in your tracks by the breathy sound of opening lips at your back. A fear response freezes you in place. It’s Ashlyn. She’s about five feet away and performing her gratuitous routine to another shrunken person. You don’t even have to look. Such are the talents of a consummate pervert, able to identify each of your party members by throat noises alone. You’re not particularly proud of this ‘skill.’ It’s objectifying people you consider friends. Besides, there’s no way in hell you’re going to ask if it’s normal or not. Nor do you believe this knowledge will be relevant ever for any reason. … And now that you’ve considered the possibility, you will undoubtedly stumble into a scenario wherein this exact knowledge will be the key to your survival. So really, you’re damned either way. Fuck you, foreshadowing. Shaking off the numb paralysis, you lumber after the knight, unstrapping the shield and slinging your spear back onto your shoulder. “Vanille, wait. How can you—They just—They seemed desperate and in need. Misguided, sure, but they can still be helped. Or at the very least arrested, or //something.”// Vanille flashes the crossbow bolt, holding the splintered shaft up for you to see. The metallic head gleams in the midday sun. “<<= $name>>, they tried to harm you.” She snaps the bolt in half and tosses the splinters aside. “But—” “What exactly do you think they were planning to do to us, <<= $name>>?” Vanille growls. “Even //if// they were true to their word, they still planned to rob us blind, leaving us victim to the perils of the road and praying we make it to the next town safely. And if they lied? The moment we laid down our arms, we would’ve been entirely at their mercy.” “The same mercy we’re showing them?” She scoffs, cold and callous. “Are you actually fucking naive enough to think—” The knight rattles to a stop, a strained breath slipping between her lips in a slight hiss. “I… S- Sorry,” she manages. You waver, letting the thought roll around your skull like a marble. You’d never seriously taken the time to consider what banditry means in Havendor. A particularly vicious highwayman—or even a desperate one, for that matter—wouldn’t just ask you to abandon all your valuables and leave. They’d be letting a perfectly good meal walk away. Before you can speak, Vanille lets out a weary sigh. “Look, it’s my job to protect you. Your safety comes first.” She takes the proffered shield and holsters it on her back. “That fight was self-defense. They chose to be bandits; they chose to attack us. I’m not going to get in the way of the consequences.” “B- But you—I saw you use the flat side of your weapon,” you fire back. “You didn’t kill anyone—” You almost add //‘today’// to your rebuttal but shut your mouth before the word escapes. Vanille doesn’t seem to notice the stilted end to your sentence, instead cocking her head. “<<= $name>>, it turned out fine. Sherine and Ashlyn can—” She leans to peer past you at your companions. Not even so much as a spark of distress flickers in her golden eyes. “Are they making you uncomfortable? Do you want me to do something about it? I can. Just say so. I’ll—” “No, that’s not—” God fucking damnit, this is going nowhere. Where’s your head at, Vanille? You stare at Vanille, brain abubble. She’s stonewalling you, and you’re escalating in response—unstoppable force and immovable wall, though you’re about the furthest thing from being considered a ‘force.’ It’s tempting to try again, to start shouting out your frustrations with this new, disquieting status quo. But… Truth be told, you don’t entirely disagree with your companion’s conclusion. You were undoubtedly far from the first band of travelers they ambushed, but thanks to Sherine and Ashlyn’s efforts, you’ll definitely be the last. If nothing else, your proclivity for disaster would have ensured there was no peaceful end to the roadside encounter. You just wish //Vanille// wasn’t the one saying it. You pull in the malaise with a deep, //deep// lungful, then flush the adrenaline with a long exhale. Clarity comes in shining waves, allowing you to take stock. You’re safe and alive and uninjured. So are all your friends. An excellent start. While you’re not happy about Vanille condoning Ashlyn and Sherine’s possibly-deserved gluttony, you can acknowledge that she’s expressing her extremely pragmatic opinion freely. Which you need. You //need// her to provide contrast, to be an anchor for when you start to drift—and this world does its damndest to keep you drastically unmoored. You trust her to have your wellbeing in mind, trust that she isn’t saying these things with any malice. Ashlyn’s recovering her mana, so she’ll be prepared for future encounters—you’re barely a few hours into the trek and already your luck seems to be cursing you. Sherine being full might mean she spends less time leering at you with those ‘I’m-going-to-devour-you’ eyes. Even Mira got to enjoy her favorite pastime— Standing off from the rest of your group, the demi thumps her stomach into submission, pounding her frustration against the squirming bulge. Well, //‘enjoying’// might not be apt, but at least she isn’t going hungry. You hadn’t actually seen her eat anything since she rejoined your group, and her impenetrable dourness had you a tad bit worried she wasn’t taking care of herself during her absence. You turn back to find golden pupils, resolute and unwavering, waiting for your next decree. “I- I guess you’re right, Vanille,” you eventually say. It’s a half-truth, at least. “I’m gonna…” [[Make sure Ashlyn and Sherine are getting along|Skip Mira]] [[Make sure Mira is doing alright, first|Check on Mira]]

Vanille grunts, but offers nothing more as her attention turns to checking and managing her equipment. You steel yourself and saunter back over to where Sherine’s eyeing up an alarmingly smaller pile of unconscious bandits. The lamia prods a knot of lumpy scales, minor annoyance crossing her features as she shoos aside Ashlyn who looks to be busily groping Sherine’s tail with various measuring tools. “Oh good, you’re back. Did you get permission to watch us eat from ‘mom?’” the mage sneers as you approach. A device that looks like a pair of magical calipers disappears into her cleavage before you can get a proper guess of its true purpose. “I’ll have you know that, unlike //this glutton,// I practiced my manners and waited.” <<include "Ash vs Evil Sherine">>

“I’m gonna go check on Mira,” you say with wavering confidence. Vanille grunts, but offers nothing more as her attention turns to checking and managing her equipment. You steel yourself and trudge back across the field, past where Sherine and Ashlyn— “Think fast, Turtle Flipper.” You jolt, turn, and barely react in time to catch a small blur hurtling through the air. You nearly drop it when it squirms, but glance down to realize you’re holding a tiny and thoroughly disoriented mouse demi in your hands. On reflex, you squeeze the wriggling person between your fingers and keep them at arm’s length. “Wh- What?” you manage. <<if $RVMira >= 14 && ($MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira")>>“For the cat, you fucking dolt,” Ashlyn says, flicking you in the forehead. “C’mon, do I have to spell out //everything// for you?” “I—No, I just…” You shake your head. “Thanks, Ashlyn. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s… rather considerate of you.” The mage scowls. “Ew, gross. Don’t say that shit to me. In fact, give that back, you don’t deserve it.” You easily avoid the mage’s maladroit swipe, clutching the tiny person close to your chest and looking out across the field to where Mira’s presently throwing rocks. She reaches down, the bottom of her belly touching the ground as she rolls forward to grab a jagged stone, then rights herself and hurls the thing violently into the distance.<<else>>“They’re not for you.” The mage subtly nods toward Mira standing across the field. “Give that to her, you dork.” “Oh, I…” You hesitate. “That’s rather considerate. Thanks, Ashlyn.” Naturally, the mage retches, then promptly turns her attention back to the bandit pile and pretends you don’t exist. You clutch the tiny person close to your chest and look out across the field to where Mira’s presently throwing rocks at a tree. She reaches down, the bottom of her belly touching the ground as she rolls forward to grab a jagged stone, then rights herself and hurls the thing violently.<</if>> That’s… not exactly the mood you were hoping for to deliver a gift. Sure, it’s a tiny mouse demi on offer—<<if $Orrault6 != "Mira">>that’s gotta be <</if>>her favorite—but are you certain this is still a good idea? [[Give her the olive branch… person|A Tiny for Mira][$Quarry1 to true]] [[On second thought…|Let Mira be]]

You approach on hesitant feet, holding the mouse demi tight and praying she doesn’t decide to start biting your fingers or something. Mira doesn’t seem to have noticed your approach, entirely enthralled by the visceral act of hurling assorted bits of earth at unsuspecting bark. You clear your throat. “Uhh, Mira—” The demi jolts. Emerald eyes dart in your direction, wide and alarmed. Before you can manage another word, @@color:red;she suddenly—and pointedly—turns around, placing you firmly at her back.@@ “I, uhm—” A slight shuffle away is her only response. You fumble with the mouse in your hands, trying to make the dinner-plate ears as visible as possible. “I brought you a…” Mira’s tail bristles. She clutches a rock with white knuckles, then hurls it at a small boulder on the side of the road. The stone explodes in a shower of gravel. Well, that’s about as definitive a response as you can get. If nothing else, Mira didn’t seem injured from the battle, and aside from wanting absolutely //nothing// to do with you, she seems to be alright. Maybe she just needs a bit more time and space. Frustrated, you turn away from the demi and plod over to Ashlyn and Sherine. [[Return|Mira rejected a tiny mouse girl???]]

You take a few steps, falter, then consider if this is really the wisest course of action. Mira’s not looking particularly receptive to small talk at the moment. At least she doesn’t seem injured from the battle, and aside from standing apart from your group, the demi looks to be alright. Maybe she just needs a bit more time and space. With a frustrated huff, you turn around, then nearly leap out of your skin. Ashlyn’s maybe three inches from your face. “Foolish mortal! You dare shun a gift from your goddess?” Ashlyn says with mock reproach. “Too soon,” you grunt as you shuffle back. “I think it’s best if—” “More for me!” she cheers before chomping down on your entire fist. You lurch and pull away, prying a saliva-soaked hand from her lips with a loud //splop.// Your fist is empty. Ashlyn gulps, smirks, and licks her lips. “Anyway, did you get permission to watch us eat from ‘mom?’” She nods in Vanille’s direction. “She’s not—” you start, then sigh, refusing to rise to her goading. “Yes.” The mage cackles. “Good. I’ll have you know that I, unlike //that// glutton,” she glances at Sherine, who looks to be eyeing up an alarmingly smaller pile of unconscious bandits, “practiced my manners and waited for you to return.” <<include "Ash vs Evil Sherine">>

You take a moment to clear your thoughts, then saunter back over to where Sherine’s eyeing up an alarmingly smaller pile of unconscious bandits. The lamia prods a knot of lumpy scales, minor annoyance crossing her features as she shoos aside Ashlyn, who looks to be busily groping Sherine’s tail with various measuring tools. “Oh good, you’re back.” the mage sneers as you approach. A device that looks like a pair of magical calipers disappears into her cleavage before you can get a proper guess of its true purpose. “I’ll have you know that—” Ashlyn stops and looks down at the un-eaten tiny person in your hands. “No dice?” “Too soon,” you grunt. “More for me!” she cheers before chomping down on your entire fist. You lurch and pull away, prying a saliva-soaked hand from her lips with a loud //splop.// Your fist is empty. Ashlyn gulps, smirks, and licks her lips. “Anyway, I was saying that I, unlike //that// glutton—” she gestures to Sherine “—practiced my manners and waited for you to return.” <<include "Ash vs Evil Sherine">>

Sherine merely rolls her eyes, then gestures to the dozen-ish bodies still uneaten. “As you can see, there’s still plenty to go around. And speaking of,” she prods at a particularly noticeable lump in the sea of coppery scales. “<<= $name>>, would you like to help me make room?” //‘Make room?’// That sounds<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>… dangerous<<else>> a bit physical<</if>>. //“Or,”// Ashlyn suddenly interjects, “Ignore her and I’ll show you something special.” [[Assist Sherine][$Quarry2 to "Sherine", $RVSherine ++]] [[Watch Ashlyn][$Quarry2 to "Ashlyn", $RVAshlyn ++]] <<linkreplace "Neither">><<append "#text">>Wait a second; what the hell are you doing? You’re dealing with two predators in the middle of a feast, and you’re supposed to throw yourself into the works and hope nothing goes wrong? Do you have a death wish? You take a step backwards. “Y’know, I think I’m just gonna—” “Oh, <<= $name>>,” Sherine tuts, disapproval undercut by a wry grin. “You’re not planning to leave all this hard work to just the two of us, are you? There’s so many bandits. We can’t possibly get through them all without your help.” You blink. She’s lying through her fucking teeth. You saw her during the siege. Sherine’s more than capable of devouring that entire pile—//and// she’s got Ashlyn’s help. The lamia knows perfectly well that you’re not needed. Then again, is it really //that// bad if you just play along? Vanille’s only a short jog away, so the worst danger you’ll be facing is an ogling-induced heart attack. … Probably. <</append>><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "Definitely neither">><<append "#text">>Nope, absolutely not. Your instincts haven’t led you astray even once. Ever. No point in ignoring them now. “Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m sure you two will be fine. I’ll—” “Don’t be a bitch, <<= $name>>,” Ashlyn drawls. “Mira’s doing her own thing, and Vanille’s out of earshot. It’s just you, your two //very// hungry companions, and this pile of conveniently incapacitated bandits just waiting for a stomach to fill.” You frown. She’s making some… dangerously compelling points. <</append>><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "What the hell are you thinking? Neither!">><<append "#text">>You blink rapidly, shaking your head. Damnit; they nearly won you over. You can’t give in now. Your life may very well depend on it! “No thanks,” you insist. “I really don’t think I should—” “Fuck it, I’m just gonna grab <<= $xem>>,” Ashlyn mutters, glancing to Sherine. “Only if <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $xe>> runs<<else>><<= $xe>> run<</if>>,” the lamia offers with a smirk. You balk. “I, uhh…” “Relax, <<= $name>>,” Sherine says. “I’m just making sure you have fun.” She forget to add, //‘Whether you want to or not.’// <</append>><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "@@font-size:0.7em;… Neither?@@">><<append "#text">>Alright, look. Let’s be honest here. You’re not getting out of this one. What’s wrong with you? Are you //really// dreading the opportunity to feed a few nameless bandits to a ravenous predator? Hell, they attacked you first. You’re blameless. Morally liberated. No troublesome baggage at all, even ignoring this world’s admittedly loose standards. Relax. Unwind. Pick one. <</append>><<replace "#choices">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "… Both?">><<append "#text">>Woah, hey. Slow down there. You aren’t ready for the challenge of two predators at once. There isn’t enough blood in your entire body. You’d die. <</append>><</linkreplace>>

Who are you to turn down such an impassioned plea from a… ravenous… snake woman… who’s already probably eaten at least half a dozen bandits. And could easily fit twice that many more. You’d know. You’ve seen it. “Alright,” you say, stepping over to Sherine. “What can I do to, uhm… help?” <<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn">><<set $RVAshlyn -->><<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>@@color:red;“Oh //suuure.// You fuck the snake once and suddenly all the lewd things we did together just go right out the window. All our history, completely forgotten. Nevermind the fact that I’ve been here longer,”@@ Ashlyn bemoans. You balk. “<<if $SherineEvent2 == true>>How could you possibly know that we<<else>>I didn’t f<</if>>—” you stammer. “What do you mean, history?’ I’ve only known you for, like, three weeks!” “That’s a lifetime!” Blinking confusion, you turn to Sherine for reassurance. She simply nods.<<else>>@@color:red;“Yo, what the fuck!? <<= $name>>, after all the lewd things you did to me… I thought we had something special,”@@ Ashlyn bemoans.<</if>> A twinge of guilt crosses your heart. “I- I’m sorry,” you say to the mage. Ashlyn suddenly sticks her tongue out at you. “Nah, I’m fuckin’ with ya,” she jeers, though the cosmic sparkle in her eyes wavers for the briefest moment. Before you can say anything, she turns and drags a bandit from the pile before poofing them down to size. “Don’t mind her,” Sherine says. “I’m sure she’s perfectly capable of keeping herself entertained. As for you…” Warm hands take your own and gently guide you to the expanse of shifting copper.<<else>>//“Ungh, lame,”// Ashlyn sneers. “I’m gonna do my thing over here, don’t mind me.” “We won’t,” Sherine purrs, then takes your hands in her own and gently guides you to the expanse of shifting copper.<</if>> Your fingers brush against smooth scales, then sink slightly into the flesh beneath<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>—every bit as comfortable as you remember. A part of you feels tempted to just sink in, to relax and let yourself drift off to a pleasant sleep<<else>>. It’s… remarkably comfortable. A part of you had expected the lamia’s tail to be coarse, or even jagged, yet now you feel as if you could just melt into these coils<</if>>. Before you completely lose your mind, an audible gurgle wrenches you back into the present. “S- So, uhh… what do I do?” “It’s easy for prey to clump up,” Sherine explains. “At that point, my stomach has difficulty pushing them deeper, so I need you to help things along.” “Oh. So I just…” “Feel around, mostly. Find something that yields, and give it a good shove.” She smirks. “Don’t worry about being gentle. I can take it.” You aren’t really worried about her so much as all the bandits in there, shifting and squirming, gradually softening under the lamia’s gastric onslaught. Are //they// going to take— Oh wait. It’s innuendo, you dumbass. Trying—and failing—to keep a furious blush from your cheeks, you press firmly into the lamia’s tail, past the scales and flesh and muscle, until your fingers meet the unyielding mass beneath. You give an experimental shove, then another, a little harder. A sudden pressure back sends a jolt of lighting up your spine. Something pushes against your palm—an arm or a leg, or perhaps a shoulder, or maybe even another hand—meeting force with force. An expression of agitation from the sudden intrusion? A futile effort to squirm free of the lamia’s insides? You shift, then push again. A different shape awaits your probing fingers, something broad and flat. You press, receiving no motion in return. Another attempt meets the same result. Sherine watches curiously as you step over the thick of her body, then get on your knees. The tip of the tail curls around in the grass, her coils subtly shifting to encircle around you. Oddly, you don’t feel all that threatened by this impending entrapment, blissfully sedated by serene waves as you dutifully press and prod. A warmth glides along your back as Sherine hums. This is nice. You could get used to this. Hell, if you could get paid to do this professionally in this world, you’d be set. Granted, ‘Stomach Rubber’ is the job most likely to get you devoured, but it’s still a nice thought to have. [[Relax and enjoy yourself|Jiro Dreams of Tummies]]

The mage is the natural choice for entertainment, obviously. And besides: ‘help Sherine make room?’ You’ve heard that line before. At best, you’ll be naked and coiled into rigorous sexual activity in front of your companions—and at worst, you’ll be used like a ramrod to push prey deeper down her tail. //Those are both the ‘best case.’// “I- I think I’ll just watch Ashlyn… from a safe distance.” @@color:lime;“Atta<<if $xe == "he">>boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>girl<<else>>-person<</if>>,” the mage says,@@ though you’re pretty sure she’s attempting to direct some amount of smarm at Sherine over this petty victory. The lamia, for her part, doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, directing her hands to a particularly noticeable lump in her upper coils while her tail tip drags an unconscious bandit from the pile and into arm’s reach, preparing her next meal. “Yo, asshole,” Ashlyn snips, snapping her fingers across your vision. “Gird your loins and pay attention to me. I’m gonna blow your socks off.” “None of those words mean—” You cut yourself off with a resigned huff. “Nevermind.” Ashlyn smirks, then points at a leg sticking out of the bandit pile. “Pull that one out, will ya?” You roll your eyes, then awkwardly shift and shove until you find the rest of the form attached to the chosen limb. The mage refuses to help as you heave and grunt. Your hands haven’t left the body for more than a second before an arcane flash eclipses your vision. So much for keeping a safe distance. “Watch it!” “Like you’ll complain if I shrink you again,” she scoffs, scooping her prey from the ground. Ashlyn dusts what appears to be a human woman off briefly, then stuffs all six inches of the tiny person into her mouth at once. She maintains eye contact with you as she //gulps,// then selects another victim from the diminishing pile of bandits. You once again oblige, and another purple flash later you find a demi hanging upside down by his ankles in front of Ashlyn’s face. She flicks him until his dazed eyes open. “Hey, imbecile. Listen. I’m going to eat you now, but I want you to know that there’s a little lady in there waiting for you. You can eat her, a final, undeserved gift for your really stupid and pathetic life.” “Are the insults necessary?” you ask in the man’s stead, his bobbing head unable to adequately process what’s happening to him. “Yeah, it’s like seasoning; makes ‘em taste better.” Once again, the mage stuffs the little person into her gullet one maladroit shove at a time. Smiling lips roll over doll-sized armor. A lashing tongue slips between limply kicking legs and tugs, drawing the bandit into her throat in not-so-subtle waves. Cosmic eyes roll back into Ashlyn’s skull as she swallows once, twice. Teeth clack shut over a tiny pair of boots. You watch the bulge slide down her neck, settle momentarily atop her breasts, then recede into mysterious depths. Frantic limbs push out from Ashlyn’s middle a moment later, lurching and squirming as the latest victim meets the previous and the two work out their seating arrangements. //“Blarp!”// is all Ashlyn has to say for herself as she tilts forward and pushes her chest up at you. About halfway through her absurd mating display, she seems to remember that there are other parts of her that you might find… interesting. First, she leans back to instead jut her stomach out at you, then hops on one foot so the rest of her bounces along. You don’t exactly hate it, but she’s trying //way// too hard; it’s starting to loop back around to being a turn-off. Ashlyn bends forward to select her next meal from the smorgasbord, intentionally bumping her ass against your side. She shrinks a particularly buff feline monster girl and starts giving her the same spiel as last time, though you can’t help but notice the bandit is still two feet tall despite the magic. And now that you think about it, the last one was //also// considerably larger than Ashlyn’s usual fare. You’re moments from inquiring about it when the mage crams the person into her mouth. To your surprise, she struggles when the monster girl abruptly lurches back into consciousness and begins mounting a spirited resistance. She lands a few good kicks to the jaw as an eager tongue tries and fails to wrap around a flailing leg and yank her inside. The mage tilts her head and lifts the shortened person higher, as if the angle were the problem. It wasn’t. Another kick to the face and elicits a yelp, which turns to a throaty growl, which //then// turns into a noise far hornier than the situation demands—the poor monster girl is, of course, woefully unaware that Ashlyn //likes// it rough. As the feline desperately tries to avoid becoming fourth-lunch, you resist the urge to help for fear of getting your wrist caught in the snapping maw. It’s only when the mage folds the other woman’s legs up against the diminutive chest that her victim finally becomes cooperative enough to consume. Her entire undercarriage //squelches// into Ashlyn’s open maw and, after a long-bordering-on-inappropriate moment of suckling, disappears down a rippling esophagus. Greedy hands tuck flailing arms under a stretched upper lip. Another swallow sees more of the little bandit disappear. Ashlyn tilts her head back as far as she can, then bucks, her whole body undulating like a seizing animal. The ploy works, because a few confused blinks later, the mage’s gut swells out pleasantly from beneath her bustier, the bodies trapped within making quite the misshapen ruckus on a canvas of pale flesh. [[Finally ask the burning question|Matryoshka]]

You’re about to lunge forward and stop Ashlyn from committing violence against her own ally, when the mage’s gut suddenly balloons to twice its current size and knocks her on her ass. “Whoops,” the mage groans, staring up at the sky. She chuckles as her stomach writhes. “Good enough. They’ll figure it out in there.” You balk. “Ashlyn, what the hell did you just do?” “What’s it look like, dude?” she manages, forfeiting an attempt to roll onto her side to instead slap her gargantuan stomach. The mage cackles as it lurches to life in a frantic struggle. “She took one from me,” Sherine concludes, touching the deflated section of her tail curiously. “She—What? No, wait. //How?”// you stammer. “Teleportation? I thought you said you couldn’t do that with stomachs?” “Well yeah. Emphasis on //couldn’t.”// She pauses to attempt another roll, strains for a fitful moment, then flops back onto her back with a sigh. “But you forget: I’m the best fucking mage ever.” You opt not to point out the absurdity of the situation and instead wait patiently. Sure enough, Ashlyn carries on a moment later. “I’ve been experimenting with a few spells that work through stomach walls. That was a teleport—specifically a non-inclusive translocation. Basically means it works on stuff that //isn’t// me. Or near me. Or in me. Probably not too closely related by blood, either. Magic’s picky that way.” As the mage rambles, you notice her stomach<<if $Quarry2 == "Ashlyn">> shrink. Apparently the new arrival has wasted little time in ingesting her compatriot-turned-conveniently-small-cellmate<<else>>… shrinking? What the hell? Did she cast some sort of instant-digestion spell while you weren’t looking? No, wait. On closer inspection it actually looks like one of the bandits is devouring the other. You can’t even begin to guess as to why. Maybe they’re trying to make their accommodations a bit more spacious? Or maybe they just want a final meal before they become one themselves? Either way, it seems needlessly petty<</if>>. “So yeah,” Ashlyn continues. “These new spells are kinda volatile, and I haven’t quite hammered out the kinks. I’m actually kinda impressed it worked again. Mostly.” “Uhh, ‘mostly?’” She points to her gut, then to an empty spot in the grass. “They were //supposed// to be let out a few feet away, but this translocation keeps sending stuff into my stomach for some reason. Still…” She wraps her arms around her stomach and beams. “Experiment complete! Whaddya think? Does this work for ya?” You furrow your brow at her. “Can you even move like that?” “Oh yeah, sure. Once they settle.” She extends an arm up to you.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 12>> “You look like an overturned turtle.” She cackles.<</if>> You chuckle and hoist her upright with a tremendous effort. You’ve barely got her back on her own feet before she nearly keels over the other way, only for a copper tail to arrest her momentum. “Uhh, thanks,” Ashlyn says, blinking in surprise. “We were all inexperienced once,” Sherine replies, the jibe hidden behind an impeccable veil of grace. “Of course, I’ll expect repayment when it’s convenient. Unless you’d rather volunteer yourself.” Ashlyn scowls. “I’ll pass.” Before the lamia can respond, the crunch of footsteps through dry grass heralds Vanille’s approach. Apparently she’s finished checking her equipment. “All done?” she asks, matter-of-fact. You scan the field for any stray bandits, any missed opportunities to watch someone be devoured alive—err, for anyone trying to bring harm to you and your group. Yeah, that one. You look to Ashlyn and Sherine in turn, both of whom nod approval. Twenty feet in the distance, Mira lingers, ears perked toward your conversation as she fiddles with a branch. “Let’s get going.” [[Get back on the road|On the road again... again]]

You blink, palms still pressed against the plush scales. The afternoon heat does nothing to mask your embarrassment as you realize you’ve been heavily groping the snake in broad daylight. Sherine looms. @@color:lime;A soft smile swirls along crimson lips. “Everything alright down there?”@@ “Y- Yes. I think they’re, uhm… There’s no more clumps.” “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you almost sound disappointed.” She smiles, delight upon her cheeks. “I’m going to continue now, if you wouldn’t mind keeping everything in order for me.” She wants you to… While she… Oh god.<<if $VanilleEvent4 == false && $VanilleEvent5 ==false && $MiraDating == false>> It takes everything in your power to resist simply straddling the horizontal stretch of tail, let the bodies flow beneath your loins and wriggle against clenching thighs. That would be… Well, you shouldn’t do it when the rest of your party is around, that’s for sure. //Maybe another time.//<</if>> A stifled //“Hmph?”// wrenches you from your thoughts as Sherine begins swallowing a half-conscious bandit head-first. Moments later, the first fresh lumps cascade down her ochre skin, gliding behind her breasts, navel, hips. Scales swell, then recede, a tide of auburn rippling along the length of her tail. You shiver as the faintly squirming form rolls beneath your palm, then make a half-hearted attempt to actually do the task assigned. A few gentle shoves here, a push over there, and an embarrassing, flinching moment where your hands get just a //biiit// too close to where her ass would be if she were human. As the latest bandit settles atop the others, a subtle wave of pulsing muscles follow. You wouldn’t have even noticed if you weren’t this close Sure, her lower body //looks// like a snake, but the internal organs of comparably humanoid Havindorians are wacky. A monster girl? There’s no reason to believe that Sherine’s precise control of her musculature doesn’t extend the entire length of her body. Every ebb, every flow. It’s all her. The scintillating cascade is voluntary, precise. //Deliberate.// The jutting arms and bumping legs and desperate handprints and, rarely, swelling breast-prints, are all allowed by her body’s decree. She is a stage, and you are merely a player. You catch your breath as the second and third acts soar by, a few inches of flesh serving scant intermission between one and the next. A larger bandit—perhaps one of the monster girls—shouts a muffled soliloquy as she’s shuffled offstage, the show-stopping number interrupted by a smaller compatriot’s atonal groans. Sherine’s bulging tail curls and swirls, ensnaring the only remaining bandit—a curtain call for the lamia’s opening night. Distended scales clamp, undulating, squeezing the lucky bastard in her clutches. A flirtatious finger trails along your torso, teasing along the sewn collar, then down your sternum. The wandering dance stops an inch above your navel, lingering, teasing. A stray nail glides down past the chainmail shirt toward the hem of your tunic, and you have to force yourself not to flinch at her approach. “Jealous, <<= $name>>?” Sherine starts, slow and coy. She gives her coiled victim a squeeze, and a small squeak comes out. “N- No,” you stammer, suddenly trying very hard to //not// imagine yourself in the bandit’s place. She lifts the coiled bundle a foot from the ground—an impressive feat of balance for someone without legs. The bandit makes another little squeaking noise, more ecstatic this time. Sherine leans in close, hot breath spilling along your neck. “Such a shame this isn’t you,” she whispers. “A shame that I can’t hold you this close, can’t bundle you up tight and make you dessert, let you be the last, delightful flavor on my lips for the afternoon.” Breath catches in your throat, a slight tremble coursing through your limbs. “I- I—” “I’d be gentle,” she murmurs. “And //oh// so slow. You’d stay right here.” A finger traces along her sable belly, empty and tantalizing. “You could rest those weary legs, safely tucked away, close to my heart.” Right uh, hmm, okay. So, maybe you could fake an injury of some sort? You //were// just in a fight, it’d be a pretty plausible excuse. //‘Vanille, I can’t walk for the rest of the day. Sherine offered to carry me.’// She might buy it—as long as you don’t mention up front how exactly the lamia intends to lug you around. Vanille might have a few qualms<<if $Orrault3 == true>>—but she seemed alright the last time it happened<</if>>. Maybe you could bribe the knight? Wait, wait, no. You’re forgetting a very crucial detail here. “Y- You’d let me out when we stop for the night, yeah?” “Perhaps,” Sherine muses, lips curled to a dangerous grin. “Or maybe I’d insist you stay the night. It’d be such a shame if I //‘forgot’// all about you in my sleep. Let you slip down, deeper and deeper, until by morning you’d just be… Well, I suppose your stay would be a little more permanent.” You trace the length of her tail, wondering just how many suitors had taken such an offer, spent their final hours winding down the lamia’s coils, found their end behind that glimmering ocean of copper scales and overwhelming muscle. In that moment, you’re keenly aware that only a few choice words keep you from becoming next. Your thoughts shift back to Vanille. She’d almost certainly murder Sherine for her ‘playful’ mistake, and while you’d be, uhh, //‘too busy’// to intervene, you’re not keen to let the group descend into violence in your absence. <<if $SherineEvent2 == true || $RVSherine >= 3>>[[Turn her down… regretfully|No Step on Snek]]<<else>>[[Turn her down|No Step on Snek]]<</if>>

“I- I shouldn’t,” you mutter, still utterly fascinated. “S- Sorry.” A warm finger glides up to your chin, pulling your dejected gaze up to meet her garnet eyes. “When you’re ready, <<= $name>>. And not a moment sooner.” You take a step back, only for a steady grip on your wrist to hold you firmly in place. “Where do you think you’re going?” Sherine offers a perfectly innocent smile. “The show isn’t over.” The coils ease to the ground, laying horizontal. Sherine’s maw looms inches from the tall, flickering ears of her grasped victim. A pink tongue laps against a forehead, teasing, dousing. Sherine unhinges her jaw, then lunges, burying herself in the helix of loosening coils. The lamia rolls, and you shuffle after her. As eager as you are, you’re still not prepared when her raven hair emerges from the spiral. You’re even less prepared when there’s no trace of the spiral’s previous occupant anywhere to be seen. Sherine merely tilts her head, waiting for you to offer the first word. <<linkreplace "“That, uhm… seems efficient.”">><<replace "#choices">>Before you can mewl out an answer, a blur of red stomps into view. You nearly leap out of your skin as you recognize a bulging Ashlyn muttering an unmentionable string of curses under her breath. She hip-bumps you out of the way, then slaps both hands against copper scales, pushing a pulse of magic through her fingertips. <<include "Ashlyn Teleport">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "“… Is it too late to change my mind?”">><<replace "#choices">>Before you can mewl out an answer, a blur of red stomps into view. You nearly leap out of your skin as you recognize a bulging Ashlyn muttering an unmentionable string of curses under her breath. She hip-bumps you out of the way, then slaps both hands against copper scales, pushing a pulse of magic through her fingertips. [[Stop her|Ashlyn Teleport]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You bring your eyes back up to Ashlyn’s face and tilt your head curiously. “Was she… bigger than the last one? Are you running out of shrink spells?” “Still haven’t figured it out? I’m stacking them one inside the other.” She pats the passably pregnant swell, watching it settle with lustful calculus in her eyes. Once satisfied the show’s over, she belches and nods. “Is it… working?” “Oh yeah. So far they’ve all eaten each other according to size—It’s fucking hilarious. They’ve been fighting so much my stomach is starting to hurt.” She offers a grin that somehow appears both proud //and// strained. “Now all I need is an unshrunken one… to finish the…” You both glance left at the pile of bandits—or, more specifically, the empty patch of grass and dirt where said pile used to reside. Any possibility that they suddenly woke up and crawled away while you were distracted vanishes as a mighty //gulp// rings out from Sherine’s throat. You and Ashlyn watch as a few strands of black hair slip past the lamia’s lips, joining the rest of the ingested bandit in their brief trip down Sherine’s human torso and into her noticeably bloated tail—not quite the same degree of overindulgence to the point of debilitation you witnessed during the siege, but an impressive spectacle nonetheless. Ashlyn grumbles out a curse you’d rather not repeat, then stomps forward. Both hands slap against the copper scales as a pulse of magic flows through the mage’s arms. [[Stop her before she does something profoundly stupid|Ashlyn Teleport]]

After a final check for any dropped belongings or salvageable goods, the five of you resume your trek westward, free of any further ambushes from deeply unwise highwaymen. While the peace would normally be a pleasant change of pace, it has, unfortunately, left you with virtually zero distractions from the sheer quantity of digesting bandits in your immediate vicinity. Mira’s meal seems to have resigned themselves to their fate or otherwise been bludgeoned into unconsciousness by the irritable demi, not that she seems especially pleased with her catch as she glumly plods along at the rear of the group. Ashlyn looks to be faring only marginally better, muttering errant curses under her breath as she struggles with her large—and still actively squirming—gut. Second-hand meal or no, the final bandit doesn’t seem thrilled and is making their displeasure known with every lurching step. A part of you almost wonders why the mage is even bothering with the whole spectacle until she catches you staring and flashes an immensely self-satisfied grin. Sherine, of course, handles her haul without a trace of visible exertion or discomfort. While you never had the chance to count, you’re certain she devoured the lion’s share of the brigands. Hell, the mass behind that sea of copper scales is testament aplenty, though it’s a challenge to discern any discrete forms. But you //know.// You can even spot the occasional impression or bump closer to the lamia’s torso—the odd active, if muted, struggle. The ones further down, however… Well, you’ve seen how quickly Sherine’s stomach can work through even the largest of prey while she’s on the move. And each slither and shimmy along the dirt road only serves to push the remaining bandits deeper, ushering them further into the merciless depths of the lamia’s stomach. You suppress a shiver. For the sake of your own rapidly-waning sanity, you desperately need a distraction. You briefly consider shuffling a few steps forward and chatting with Vanille, but you’re not braced for another frustratingly opaque conversation with the knight just yet. And an<<if $Quarry1 == true>>other<</if>> attempted chat with Mira doesn’t promise much either. You sigh, then clear your throat. “Ashlyn, I have a question.” “About my belly?” “No.” You frown. “About your magic. How… does all that work? How do you just ‘come up with’ a spell? I’ve seen you do it a few times now.” “What can I say? I’ve got brains //and// beauty.” “No, seriously.” “What, do you want me to explain the entirety of modern magical theory to you?” <<linkreplace "“Yes.”">>“Yes,” you respond flatly. Violet eyes flicker to you, skeptical. “Really? You wanna hear about that?” You gesture to the road, winding ahead for another couple hundred feet before it disappears behind yet another bend in the interminable landscape of trees and undergrowth. “Do you have anything better to do?” Ashlyn’s eyes sparkle. An excited dribble of drool drips from the corner of her lips. “Ohoh! Oh, damn. Man, where to begin?” She hems and haws, tugging on a myriad of threads that last barely more than a few murmured syllables before finally finding a solid lead. “Uhh… Okay, so as you know, organic beings generate their own mana slowly, over time. For them, it’s a by-product of being alive, essentially. You and I and all the trees you can see and whatever you had for breakfast generate their own mana while living.” “What about non-living things? Like, uh, rocks.” Ashlyn raises an eyebrow at you for a silent moment. She twists and bumps you with her protruding gut. “Is it hard to hear me over all the sloshing, or are you just an idiot?” Her brow furrows. “I said ‘living,’ didn’t I? Rocks aren’t alive.” “What about Kharra?” Vanille asks from a few paces ahead, her stern voice jolting you to attention. The mage cranes her neck. “Who?” “The gargoyle from the Whispered Archives.” Ashlyn clicks her tongue and casts a glare at the knight. “Are you both starving rock-eaters? I already explained that she’s an arcane construct. So yeah, she’s got mana, but it’s only going to be what she’s consumed and hasn’t used.” “Okay,” you nod, drawing the mage’s attention. “Living things generate mana. Got it.” “Up to a cap,” Ashlyn corrects with a waggling finger. “It’ll stop once it reaches a certain amount, depending on the type of being or the individual. It also shifts over time, with your biorhythm, or the changing seasons, or even the alignment of the planets—getting an accurate reading is stupid complicated, but that’s the gist of it.” You tilt your head, curious. “So, if you make your own mana, what happens when you’re mana drained, then?” “Ah, that one’s easy. Because I, unlike //some// people here,” she whinges, side-eyeing Vanille, “am a living being, I’m supposed to be full of the stuff. And nature hates an imbalanced diet, so when I run low, my body starts churning out some extra mana to compensate. It starts refilling my reserves, but comes with a physical toll: headaches, wooziness, exhaustion, poor libido, etcetera.” Ashlyn pauses to adjust her hefty stomach. She slows for a moment, a pulse of magic crackling in her palm as she glares fury down at herself. After a frustrated huff, the spell dissipates. “So friggin’ huge,” she huffs, catching her breath. “It’s annoying.” <<linkreplace "“You didn’t //have// compete with Sherine.”">>“You didn’t //have// compete with Sherine,” you retort. “Yes I did,” Ashlyn scoffs. She looks to you, then Vanille, then finally settles on you with a wistful sigh. “So at this point, I’m sure that delicious mind of yours is wondering what eating people has to do with my mana.” You might have been wondering how to tie your fetish into this discussion, yes, but you had no plans to verbalize it. “The Archwizard Murali’s First Law is about mana capture. Basically, if anything you digest has mana, you get that mana—//some// of it, depending on your metabolism. And if you consume something—//someone//—” she waggles her eyebrows, “with a lot of mana, you get a nice little buzz for a while. Mages can hold onto it for a bit longer, even use some of that mana for something real flashy. But for most people, excess mana rapidly dissipates into the atmosphere.” “What happens to that ‘loose’ mana?” “Well, most of it just kinda floats around, bathes everything in a light dusting—magically speaking, of course. You can’t actually see it. Nature gets real bitchy about order, so over time it tends to organize itself. That’s how you get leylines and the like. But if you wind up with too much mana in one place at one time, things can get weird.” “How weird?” Crimson lips flash a smile. “It congeals. Sometimes it turns back into ‘stuff’—auroras, storms, plants, missing socks, nightmarish abominations beyond your wildest dreams, gravity, and so on. Too much radical mana in one place creates ‘forces’ of nature… Though I’m personally convinced that most mana just spends an eternity flowing along leylines and circulating the planet relatively inert and not doing anything particularly interesting for aeons at a time. “I was lucky enough to meet Thendorious Sprenbaum and discuss his research. He found a way to ‘tint’ his mana as part of the casting process, and upon release, sent that mana into The Churn, then tracked it down—” “Nope!” you interject. “I refuse to believe that there’s any part of the magic system called ‘The Churn.’” “What do you want me to say, <<= $name>>? I didn’t make the name.” “Ashlyn’s fucking with you,” Vanille says before the mage can continue. “I’ve heard it most often referred to as ‘aether’—atmosphere, in more modern terms.” “Thank you.” You nod to Vanille, then turn back to Ashlyn. “Continue.” A bemused look crosses Ashlyn’s face. “I’m just gonna try harder to trick you next time. You realize that, right?” She holds a sneer for a few moments, but after realizing you’re ignoring her prod, she continues. “Anyway, Sprenbaum tracked his ‘tinted’ mana down. Only a tiny fraction of it reemerged a decade later as a particularly chunky ball of hail out on the Gamborg Summit. The rest, as far as he could measure, was locked up in leylines—probably still is to this day. “And yes, he was delicious. You needn’t be shy about asking, <<= $name>>.” Dear god; you suddenly understand why this world is frozen in medieval-fantasy stasis—horny idiots like Ashlyn keep eating all the greatest minds. [[And speaking of frozen things…|Frozen 2]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

“Okay, so about weird nature,” you start, tapping your chin. “That yuki-onna we, uhh, met the other day… She had frozen the entire grove. Was she just really powerful, or was there something special going on there?” “Well, if //you// bested a yuki, I doubt she was any more talented than average—especially if she was-slain-via-flaming-sword-and-I-missed-it-fuck-you,” Ashlyn chimes angrily, like a bitchy bell. “You said she’d eaten some sylphs?” “A dozen, I think. And she took over their grove.” Ashlyn snaps her fingers. “Ah, okay, that’s it. The grove was the key. It’s a confluence of ley lines, easy to tap into the aether—Wait, no, what the shit!? You fuckers went into a sylph grove? A //grove?// Why the hell do I miss all the good stuff? How the fuck did you even manage that?” “Uh, Lili just kinda… led us there.” “You motherfucker!” she squawks. “I wasted months with some dim-witted druids preparing for a trek into a grove to learn the sylphs’ juicy secrets, and then the fucking sprites didn’t want to meet me for some petty reason—//They won’t reveal themselves to you. You have darkness in your heart. You’re pure evil, waaah.”// A part of you can’t help but enjoy this moment for what it is: Ashlyn’s insolent personality getting in her own way. When you’re done feasting on the schadenfreude, you decide to follow up on something Ashlyn mentioned before her latest tirade. “So in conclusion, the yuki was a tough opponent because she was well above her mana cap from the sylphs and the leyline.” “What cap?” She tilts her head. “Monsters don’t have a limit to the amount of mana they can store—Not a reasonable one, anyway. Probably.” “What? Why not?” “That’s actually one of the great mysteries for modern arcanists. Turns out no one’s keen to feed a few hundred people to a monster girl mage and see what happens.” “I can understand why.” “‘Cause you’re all pussies, yeah.” The mage sighs. “But yes, monster girl mages can do some pretty terrifying stuff with enough of a mana stockpile. The good news is it’s usually not a problem, since eating people is the only realistic way to do that—assuming they don’t wanna waste months chowing down on salads.” “Wait, I thought you said every living thing does. Monsters don’t generate their own?” “Nope!” “But what happened to //‘living things generate mana?’”// “There’s an exception; sue me.” You scratch your head, an urgent question floating to the top of your skull. “So if they don’t generate their own mana, what happens if they run out?” “Remember when I was mana drained? It’s like that, but eightfold and constant. They can’t get over it until they digest someone. Luckily, I had kind and considerate companions who—Oh wait, that’s right. You fuckers refused to feed me.” You turn to Vanille, mildly horrified. “Is that typical for adventuring parties? They keep their mages aggressively fed?” “No, they recover naturally.” Vanille folds her arms. “Ashlyn’s just a freak.” “Yes I am,” she titters, entirely amused by the assessment. “That’s why you don’t see many monster mages, by the way. It’s pretty damn hard to mana-drain yourself to death, but when you need to eat someone to recover, becoming indefinitely debilitated is the next worst thing.” You turn a curious eye to Sherine. “So uhm, is it rude for me to ask how much mana Sherine has in… her… body?” The lamia nods, mildly amused. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.” “My dude, how much mana do you //think// she has? Do you really need me to answer that?” You shrug. “I’m curious.” “It’s a lot. An obscene amount. Absurd. Like staring at the sun, but it kinda makes me horngry, so—Yeah, like staring at the sun.” You can’t help but wonder what would happen if Ashlyn ate Sherine. What horror could the mage wreak with that sort of raw power at her fingertips? <<linkreplace "Ask about her mana">>You clear your throat. “So Ashlyn, tell me about your, uhm, mana… ‘profile?’” “I’m glad you asked. I like brunch and long walks on the beach. I’m sapiosexual and I love to love. In my twenty-five years, I’ve traveled across four nations. Of course, you can ask me anything about my two dogs. No drama please.” She flashes a wicked smile, waiting for your response. You glare angrily at her. “You’re a motherfucker, you know that?” Ashlyn cackles. “My reserves are actually pretty limited for a mage, but I make up for it by having a really efficient absorption and retention rate. I worked hard to make a lot of my staple spells affordable, too. It’s when I get extra freaky that I tend to deplete myself.” You hesitate, then let out a slight sigh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it kinda makes sense that you’d eat people so often. It’s playing to your strengths.” She beams. “Finally, someone who understands. Everyone else just whines about it. Like, I get you don’t want to be eaten, but I need to cast my flashy magic, and life is about compromises.” She slaps her stomach for emphasis. “I take it back; you’re insane.” “Aww, thank you.” Riding the wave of madness, you decide to press onward. “Okay, so you already said my mana was weird, but how about the rest of us?” “You non-mages are gonna be at cap basically all the time. It’s actually a pretty reliable way to tell who’s got talent and who doesn’t. But anyway, in order of smallest to largest capacity: it’s you, me, Vanille, then Mira—Mira’s actually got a pretty big pool for someone so small.” “How about the Echoes? Err, the gems, specifically,” you ask. “You said they were basically massive mana batteries, right?” Ashlyn nods. “More or less, but it’s not quite the same thing. There’s no way that I could figure out to actually get the damn mana back out all at once.” “Could you, I dunno… eat one?” She scoffs. “That’s like eating a bunch of coal and expecting to breathe fire—Wait, that sounds awesome.” She reaches into her cleavage and retrieves her notebook, then frantically flips to a new page and starts scribbling. “Maybe I could find a way to—” “Hey, stay on topic,” you bark, snapping your fingers in front of the mage’s face. “What’s so special about the mana in the Echoes? Why’s it so hard to use?” “Ask the ancient Lurnasians,” Ashlyn says with a shrug. “There’s a reason no one uses gems as arcane foci nowadays. You need a highly specialized tool to extract even a tiny bit of mana—Or a few thousand years of ambient absorption. Whatever methods Lurnas used disappeared with…” The mage falters, glancing between you and the faint impression of Destiny’s Embrace tucked beneath your tunic. She repeats the motion about half a dozen times before letting out a resigned sigh and turning away. “You’ve got that look,” you say, wary. “You’re scheming.” Ashlyn chortles. “I was briefly wondering if you were somehow Lurnasian—that //might// be why your little amulet glows sometimes—but it doesn’t add up.” “How do you know?” “‘Cause you’re far too incompetent to be the last surviving member of an ancient, unimaginably powerful empire.” You frown. “That’s needlessly demeaning.” “I’m stating facts.” Ashlyn shrugs. “You lack the intrinsic talent and capacity for spellcasting. Sorry, dude.” You briefly mourn the loss of a ‘get out of jail free’ spell at your fingertips—for both danger and pleasure purposes, don’t lie to yourself. [[Oh well|Make Camp]]<</linkreplace>>

Another hour of listening to Ashlyn rant about the minutiae of magic turns into three, and by the time your head’s spinning from all the arcanobabble, the sun is beginning to sink beneath the forest canopy—took damn long enough. You’re not looking forward to conducting this adventure in the encroaching summer heat. You task Vanille with finding an adequate spot to make camp before nightfall, and twenty minutes later the knight’s satisfied with a clear, dry patch nestled against a rocky hill. You putter about in the early evening light for sticks and barks and any other dry bits you can manage for firestarting, then remember that you have Ashlyn who can summon flames from her fingers ex nihilo. When you ask, the mage insists you ‘come over and use her,’ then ‘accidentally’ bumps her belly against you repeatedly before spewing out a spurt of fire. With the others apparently sated, you turn to Vanille to discuss dinner. The knight declines anything for herself but still insists on cooking a simple soup for you. As it’s bubbling, she tosses in an odd flower she found during the day’s trek, noting that it’ll help ward off muscle aches. To your delight, it adds a pinch of much-needed flavor to the bland broth—not that the meal is unpalatable, but after eating at proper inns and taverns for the past three weeks, you’d become spoiled by the gastronomically exciting offers Orrault’s culinary scene had to offer. Still, the nourishment is appreciated, as both the day’s long trek and the symphony of soft sloshes and groaning gurgles from your fuller companions have worked up appetite aplenty. You down as much as you can manage on your own, then poke at the bottom of the bowl with your spoon, pushing the bits around curiously. This is normally the part of the meal where Mira would appear to eagerly finish your scraps—which, now that you pause to actually think about it, should have been telling. She’s lived most of her life on the streets. Of course she’d habitually steal and scavenge for every last crumb. It’s common sense for anyone who never knows when the next meal is coming, where they’re going to find shelter, how they’ll make due tomorrow, or the day after. Admittedly, you’ve yet to find that same degree of desperate poverty in Havendor as in yours, but the behaviors are all there, plain as day. It’s just that when Mira does them, it’s cute. You resist the urge to slap yourself. That’s no excuse for your failure to recognize that she’s a person with feelings under that mischievous streak, a person you’d taken for granted, in some ways—or at the very least didn’t acknowledge. You could say you’re sorry. You have a second chance, and after losing her once, you dare not squander it. You could do it right now. She’s nearby. As far as you can tell, the demi’s been circling the campsite, gathering and arranging bits and ends for some unknown purpose. Maybe it’s more rocks for her to fling at unsuspecting foliage. Maybe it’s pointy sticks for roasting marshmallows. Maybe you should stop thinking about it and try talking to her<<if $Quarry1 == true>> again<</if>>. Let her know that you want to apologize and make things right between you. [[Check on Mira|Yeah, that'll work]]

You find Mira sitting on a rotting log, whittling at the end of a sturdy branch. The knife flicks angrily as she peels away layer after layer. Three similarly sharp sticks stand impaled in the ground nearby, along with a small pile of leafy ends. You hold your breath for a long moment, letting your aching lungs remind you just how painful failure here would be. When that doesn’t motivate you, you exhale. Here goes nothing. <<linkreplace "“Hey, Mira.”">>“Hey, Mira.” The demi jolts, lurching upright as her tail bristles. She wheels about, eyes wide and gleaming. “S- Sorry,” you hastily offer. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to talk.” Mira stares at you for a long moment, expression inscrutable in the evening light. As the silence grows uncomfortable, you decide to start. “A- At least, I hope that you’ll hear me out. I… I wanted to tell you, h- how much I missed you. Every day you were gone, I was so worried. We looked everywhere trying to find you, hoping you were okay, and…” You pause to take a steadying breath. “After the hive, after Niverdene, after the siege—after everything you’ve done to keep me safe ever since we met… I want you to know how deeply grateful I am. And now, seeing you’re okay, that you’re safe. I just…” //“Nnn,”// she starts, a sort of agonized growl. When no words form, you try again. “Thank you for giving us—giving //me//—a second chance. It means so much to me, and I wanted to let you know that, when you’re ready to hear it, I want to apologize.” You take a hesitant step forward. “I need to say how truly sorry I am that I didn’t tell you about—” Pain streaks across her face. Mira coils, clutching the stake. Ears go flat against her head as she shuffles to the other end of the log. <<linkreplace "“Wait, please.”">>“Wait, please. I just want to talk to you.” The demi shrinks in on herself. “I- I don’t…” You’re hurting her. Each word, each syllable, every pleading flap of your lips strikes her like a barbed lash. This is all wrong; you were wrong. This isn’t helping anyone but yourself. “There’s uhm, there’s still some soup left by the fire,” you offer, limp. “I- If you’re still hungry, I mean.” Silence is Mira’s only answer, cold and unyielding as ice. Her gaze wanders to the forest floor, then the canopy, then the campsite—anywhere but you. A strained breath hisses through your lips. “S- Sorry. I’m gonna go back over there,” you offer with a flaccid gesture at the campfire. “Have a good night, Mira. We’re here if you need anything.” [[Let her be|Distant Beetles Noises]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

Without another word, you cross the twilight back over to the campfire, feeling like a fucking idiot. You nearly hyped yourself into another catastrophic breakdown between the two of you, risked it all on a half-formed apology. You’re damn lucky she didn’t run away. Vanille watches you approach. “Are you okay?” the knight whispers with pitying eyes. You wince. A fitful moment passes as you run the numbers and weigh the emotional calculus. You’re not in the right headspace to talk about this now. Not with her. “I’m fine,” you grunt, then retrieve your spear from beside your bedroll. “I’ll take first watch.” “<<= $name>>, you need to rest. Let me—” //“No,”// you growl, hardly restraining your frustration. “We’re heading into who knows what tomorrow; you all need to be in peak condition.” You don’t need to outright explain that you’re the weakest, that the bedrest is better spent on anyone but you. She knows. Vanille hesitates but, as expected, capitulates to your whim, laying herself atop a bedroll while conspicuously setting her unsheathed sword within arm’s reach. You stomp away from the campsite and into the night, the distant sound of buzzing and churring bugs doing a nice job of drowning out the rampant gurgles. It takes a moment to get your bearings in the dim gloom, and you consider cracking a glowrod or lighting a lantern before shuffling back in range of the dying fire. Slowly, and without much patience from the rest of your body, your eyes adjust to the moderate moonlight. Just when you start to calm your nerves, you stumble a bit too close to where Mira’s taken shelter, the demi hiding herself in a lean-to she constructed while you were eating. She lays in utter silence, not even as much as a gurgle or grumble. Maybe she’s listening to your footsteps. Maybe she’s fast asleep. Either way, you aren’t going to push your luck any further today with her. Another round of huffs and stomps leads you in a whole new direction. The camp is at your back, a hazy distance between you and the stray slices of firelight. You’re pretty sure that ‘keeping watch’ isn’t supposed to involve so much moving around, but you know for certain that you can’t sit still and stew in your emotions. [[Take a deep breath|Servitor]]

“My my, you seem quite frustrated,” a voice sings out from the dark, rich and soothing like a steaming cup of cocoa on a snowy morning. You pause, a twig crunching gently underfoot. A thunderstorm builds in your heart. “Would you like to talk about it?” the voice sounds again. “I’m a very good listener…” “W- Who’s there?” you call out, turning in place to put the campfire at your back with the hope that the stray illumination will reveal the stranger. Darkness swirls at the center in your vision. A penumbral figure forms within your long-drawn shadow, tall and slender. Deep, enchanting eyes blink kindness at you from beneath a pair of rounded horns. A bashful smile curls. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they say. … At least, you’re pretty sure they ‘say’ the words. You don’t exactly //see// their mouth moving, the specific syllables instead slipping into your brain without an ounce of resistance, carrying their exact emotional intent, conversation weight, and a hundred other layers of depth and meaning that becomes immediately apparent. It’d be spooky if the inchoate shape weren’t so inherently calming, like a drifting cloud illuminated by a silvery moon. <<linkreplace "Ask what they are">><<replace "#choices">>“Th- That’s okay,” you say, forcing yourself to relax a few degrees, cautiously curious. “What, uhm, what are you?” You peer into the depth of shadow, unable to parse any new details amid the cloak of obscuring night. The creature is too tall to be a sylph, nearly reaching your own height. The horns are potentially a clue, but the legs are too normal for a type of satyr monster girl. <<include "Servitor2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Keep your distance">><<replace "#choices">>You shuffle back a few casual paces, forcing an affable smile onto your face. Cautiously curious, you peer into the depth of shadow, unable to parse any new details amid the cloak of obscuring night. The creature is too tall to be a sylph, nearly reaching your own height. The horns are potentially a clue, but the legs are too normal for a type of satyr monster girl. “What, uhm, what are you?” <<include "Servitor2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You tilt your head, then step sideways, a beam of light from the campfire cutting across the underbrush as you shift. The figure shifts with you. “Just a kindred spirit,” they reply, slow and coy. “I heard the commotion and came over to see what it was about.” “Oh, s- sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb your grove, or anything,” you offer, suddenly aware of the twigs under your boot. “What sort of spirit are you? Do you live here? My group is camping not far from here, but, uh, we can move elsewhere if we’re intruding. We aren’t looking for trouble.” You’re about to turn back toward where you think the campsite is just to check that it’s still there, but a rustle ahead catches your attention. The figure slinks closer. “No trouble at all, but shouldn’t you be with your group?” [[Yes, actually—What the hell are you doing? Run!|Run!]] <<linkreplace "Well, they’re sorta the problem right now…">><<replace "#choices2">>You put an uneasy hand on the back of your neck. “Well, we’re not exactly getting along all that great as of late.” “Ah, I understand: you’re taking a little time to yourself while on ‘watch duty.’ That’s so selfless of you, to watch out for them while you’re struggling.” You certainly don’t feel ‘selfless.’ If anything, you rely on them a bit too much for really basic things. Your health and safety, for starters. Basic facts about this world and sometimes even social interactions, the present situation certainly a contributing factor. At least you can manage putting on your own socks, but things were a bit touch and go last week in that regard. The mysterious stranger might be on the right track—some time to yourself might not be the worst thing, let cooler heads prevail. Perhaps a bit of selfishness will go a long way for everyone. “I uh, I guess I hadn’t thought of it like that.” You cast your gaze down at your boots, kicking at a tuft of grass. “I… I do have hope that things will get better with time.” “Hope…” they continue, both amused and concerned. “Time is quite the fickle companion, isn’t it? Still, I have to say that such a burden sounds awfully lonely for you, especially when you’ve clearly got a lot on your mind.” “The walking helps,” you offer somewhat positively. “I can imagine,” they chuckle, oddly sour and haughty, like bitter wine. “Why not rest your legs? Stay and talk to me for a while, I’m sure I can help you work out whatever troubles you’re having. I promise I don’t bite.” [[Take them up on their offer|Throw a Pokeball!]] [[No, you’ve already spent too long not running the fuck away|Run!]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You turn and flee. Bushes rustle. Legs pound frantically as you propel yourself back toward the fireside to alert your companions. The glowing mote grows as you dart across the dirt. The shadowy figure appears in your periphery, standing in a slice of shadow, a dark grin slicing across the backdrop. After a few seconds of navigating the dense underbrush in the dark, the mysterious stranger is suddenly at the edge of your vision, leaning against a tree, unmoving yet keeping pace. You start shouting to rouse your companions. Twenty rapid feet later you’re skidding to a halt to find that none of them have stirred in the slightest. Frantic, you reach down to shake Vanille awake— Your hands pass right through her. Confused, you try and once again fail to make contact, your palm hitting her bedroll. Just in case you’re dreaming or hallucinating, you scramble to the ground and try once more, and when that fails you crawl over to Ashlyn. The mage is equally intangible, as is Sherine. Before you can scurry over to Mira, the pursuant figure steps from the shadow. A humanoid shape congeals, androgynous and hauntingly demure. A cascade of delicate frills decorate the sleeves of some sort of uniform—the unholy union of a toga and a maid’s outfit which radiates a misplaced sense of professionalism. Darkness ripples as they step forward in perfect silence, light and airy steps dancing across the deep pool of shadow. “Something wrong? Feeling a bit //ephemeral,// are we?” A dry laugh like sandpaper grates against your senses. “Did you have to run? Have I been unpleasant company so far?” “W- What’s happening!? Am I dead? A ghost?” They scoff. “No, nothing so macabre. You stomped right into my little snare, and now you and I are out of sync with everyone else; in our own little world. Isolated.” They let the word roll over their tongue with delight. “It’ll give us plenty of time to get to know each other inside and out.” <<linkreplace "That’s your cue to run">>The world wooshes by, dim and gloomy and oddly familiar. You dash by a log, then around a gnarled sapling, only to turn about and dart back toward the campsite when the figure appears out of thin air. At the fireside, you kick at the ground, splashing chunks of dirt into the flame, the grasses spitting to life with a series of hisses and crackles. “Nuh-uh, can’t have you being clever.” The hunter lunges. You pivot and sprint left. … Or you would if your foot didn’t hit the ground at the wrong angle. In your panic, you roll your ankle and fail to reroute your momentum, tripping over yourself and thudding to the dirt painfully. You scramble as the creature looms, each kick with your bad foot more painful than the last. Desperate, you toss a clod of dirt at your pursuer. “So annoying. You’re very uncooperative, you know that?” “Leave me alone!” They brush their outfit clean with an indignant huff, then bend forward and seize your shins. A swift yank across the underbrush drags you closer to assured doom. Still clutching your legs, they step over you to face their backside in your direction, then widen their stance. You kick one leg free as they reposition, but soon find yourself arrested once more as your assailant pries off both boots. A final valiant lurch is all you can afford before both your feet squelch into something warm and tight. The figure eases back like they’re sitting on a too-small barstool, //shlurking// themself down your legs with a satisfied sigh. Your toes glide along rough, wet walls— You reel as realization takes hold. You’re being dragged up this person’s ass. Fuck! <<if $AshlynKnows == false>>You’ve seen Ashlyn do it once<<else>>Ashlyn warned you about this<</if>>, but you never thought anyone would be cruel enough to actually do it to //you.// A mighty pull drags your spine across the dirt. Yelling at the top of your lungs, you roll onto your side and scramble for purchase, fingers clawing at anything that might be an anchor: a bush, a log, a particularly large rock. Another lurch yoinks you further along, grotesque warmth seeping down your legs. [[Fuckfuckfuck|Saved by a Cinnamon Roll and an Edgelord]]<</linkreplace>>

“Sure, I’ll stay for a bit.” There’s a squeak of glee as the figure shuffles closer, into arm’s reach. Even at this range, you still can’t quite make out what sort of person you’re looking at. <<if $RVAshlyn >= 12>>“So, are you going to let me get a look at you?” you ask, surprisingly suave and savvy.<<else>>“Hey, uh, if it’s all the same to you, I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I could actually //see// who I’m talking to.”<</if>> “Oh no,” they shudder. “You won’t like the way I look. Not at all.” You offer a soft smile. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it; I’ve seen some pretty weird stuff lately.” They pause for a long moment, then quietly say, “As you wish.” Reality ripples, the gossamer veil of shadow melting away like ice under the hot tip of a blowtorch. Something ghastly emerges, humanoid only in the briefest flash as they rush forward and slam into you in a wave of purplish flesh and wicked horns. You fall on your ass, blinking, brain failing to wrap itself around the profane visage. “What are you—” A forked, wet tongue glides over dark lips. A smile quirks in a malicious curl, saying more than you want to hear. The creature bends and seizes your shins. A swift yank across the underbrush drags you closer to assured doom. Still clutching your legs, they step over you to face their backside in your direction, then widen their stance. You kick one limb free but soon find yourself restrained once more as your assailant pries off both boots. A final valiant lurch is all you can afford before both your feet squelch into something warm and tight. The figure eases back like they’re sitting on a too-small barstool, //shlurking// themself down your legs with a satisfied sigh. Your toes glide along rough, wet walls— You reel as realization takes hold. You’re being dragged up this person’s ass. Fuck! <<if $AshlynKnows == false>>You saw Ashlyn do it a couple weeks back<<else>>Ashlyn warned you about this<</if>>, but you never thought anyone would be cruel enough to actually do it to //you.// A mighty pull drags your spine across the dirt. You roll onto your side and scramble for purchase, fingers clawing at anything that might be an anchor: a bush, a log, a particularly large rock. Another lurch yoinks you further along, grotesque warmth seeping down your legs. “Vanille! Help!” you scream at the top of your lungs. “Oh, don’t bother,” the predator says with a slight moan. “I cast a spell to give us a bit of privacy. It’s just you, and—//Nnmff…”// You watch in horror as your legs disappear up the dark recesses of a heavy, black robe. Rippling warmth engulfs your thighs, then hips. You scramble as the hem brushes against your face, arms flailing wildly. Another drag pulls you under into the pitch darkness. Now fully upside down, you reach out, frantic, fingers wrapping around slight ankles. All the force you can muster proves unable to pull yourself free from the encroaching tunnel or even to destabilize your assailant. Warm mounds //whump// around your torso. Rhythmic humping sucks you deeper with unrelenting consistency. Another few seconds and you lose another inch, your options becoming rapidly scarce. A fist pounds against the backside of a calf, then slides along a silky smooth thigh, pinching and punching, fingertips gripping and nails digging. Nothing stops the onslaught of the humid, rippling tunnel from claiming your chest entirely, and soon your arms are forced against the sides of your head as the thumping cheeks close up around your collar. The world at large fades to muffled moans and stifled struggles. A light //plap-plap// crawls up your neck, then pounds though your eardrums as the sphincter worms its way up your chin. You suck in one last breath of fresh air, then wait for the plunge. A tight, thick miasma envelopes your head. Pitch darkness closes up around you, the only window to the outside world framed by your forearms still sticking out of your predator’s body. You flop your elbows and wrists, palms slapping against the only thing you have left to grab—the butt. It’s soft, firm, and luscious. All in all, it’s a great ass. It would probably be nicer if it weren’t devouring you whole and alive, but still: it’s majestic. Fingers slip as a final heave yanks you inside. The tunnel seals with an echoless //fwp,// and the constricting walls push and shove you along the tract like a worm lost in an endless garbage heap. You bend in on yourself, then twist and contort as you round increasingly narrow and confusing passages in utter blackness. Every pulse draws you further, deeper. Your fingers scramble along rough walls, hopelessly slipping across bumps and ridges. Your gracious host doesn’t wait for you to finish the labyrinthian journey before embarking into the night. [[“Let me out!”|To Servitor Man]]

“Let me out!” you shout. “No no, we’ve got places to be, and it wasn’t like you were going to come along willingly. You see, you’re a gift for my mistress. Well, actually—” Your host stops in their tracks. “Keep struggling. I need to know if you’re a suitable offering.” Why the fuck are you being tested? If you pass you get shipped off to some ‘mistress,’ and if you prove yourself to be ‘inferior prey’—What then? Do you get digested even harder? Confused, irate, you give your best struggles, kicking and punching and flailing about the rank tube every which way. Just like all the other times you’ve been crammed through someone’s insides, your efforts are in vain, your feeble struggles hardly leaving any impression on the constricting walls. After three solid minutes of resistance, you’re heaving for fresh air that never comes, your spine slumps along what you assume is the large intestine, your ass wedged firmly atop the predator’s pelvis. //“Tsk,// this won’t do at all. I can’t deliver you like this, you’re a dud!” “Dud!?” you blurt. Then, thinking fast, you add, “Sh- Shouldn’t you leave that value judgement to your mistress?” You could have pointed out that, as a dud, you ought to be released in favor of other, better prey. However, you already know that this won’t work. It never has for anyone ever. Not in this reality, and never in any fiction you’ve read online. It’s not like you could establish some sort of Renfield-Dracula relationship with this stranger, either—you’re simply not wicked enough to offer others up as prey to a creature of the night. You have a conscience, unfortunately. Barking up the chain of command was the best move you had on short notice. It’s not your best ploy, but it might earn you a few more minutes, more time to pray for a rescue. A palm presses against your shoulder. “Hey! I have autonomy! I //chose// you, and I had planned to deliver a fresh plaything to curry favor—And yes, you //are// a dud, but you’re not strong enough. You’d hardly last an afternoon fling if this is all you’ve got. You’re certainly horny enough; I can taste all of your pent up lust.” //Taste!?// What the fuck? Does this person have taste buds on their— “I do, however, have another use for you,” they say, hand sweeping loving circles around their middle. “You will be my snack while I find a real plaything.” Oh okay. That makes it fine. That wooziness you’re feeling from having the life squeezed out of you like a sausage? No problem. The fact that the intestines are seemingly a thousand yards long and utterly relentless in the way they grapple and smother and cling and crush is a benefit, if anything. It’s perfectly fine that it takes ten minutes more to travel through the guts of some terrible creature. You really can’t complain. Oh wait, yes you can. “Why are you doing this to me?” you whine as your feet finally, mercifully, enter the stomach. “We already talked about that. Don’t be boring,” they say with a hearty slap to your shoulder. “Y’know what we haven’t talked about? Your problems. Tell me about them.” “What the hell is wrong with you?” you screech, firing up another round of struggles inside the new organ. It doesn’t go any better than before. “What does it matter? You’re about to kill me!” “Almost certainly, but it’ll be a couple hours before you’re absorbed, and then a few more before I actually find a suitable toy. And since we have this time together, wouldn’t you like to know how you might have been able to resolve your issues with your companions?” <<linkreplace "Maybe…">>“I mean, maybe—” you trail off momentarily, then realize the absurdity of the situation. You lurch back into action. “Stop being empathetic while you’re in the middle of murder!” An amused slap of the gut rings out. “You’re funny. I’m going to enjoy digesting you.” True to their word, the next few hours are filled with banter from your host and less-than-cordial responses from you. They try to lure you into casual conversation on a dozen occasions, even offering what sounds like useful relationship advice. You can’t know for sure; you’re too busy being doused in caustic goop to listen. Oh, and resisting to the fullest of your ability. Each flop and flail only provokes more acid from the stomach walls, accelerating the already potent digestion. Your clothes go first, melting away into the rising tide as the rhythmic steps carry you off toward oblivion. A dismal eternity being wrung out in the dark leaves you without any sense of direction, and the thinning atmosphere isn’t making things better. Your final fight comes at early dawn—‘a spirited, but ultimately pathetic, rebellion,’ according to your captor. The hours afterward are spent languishing your fate in a literal slump, chin pressed to your chest, limbs numb and unresponsive. The tightening sack never lets up, sapping the life out of you unending waves. As consciousness wanes, you take some small comfort in the fact that your companions have not been chosen for a similar appraisal—then spend a final few moments indignantly wondering what the hell made you a potential candidate in the first place. You’ll never have your answer. <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathAV ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 2.2.1]]<</linkreplace>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Holy shit, you actually fell for that ‘I don’t bite’ line? Is this your first time flirting with a predator? Did mortal injury knock all sense from you? <<case 2>> Ah, it’s a joke. You’re doing a bit. I get it, very funny, har har. <<default>> Oh… you’re seriously stumped here, huh? Do you… Do you need someone to talk to about your feelings and relationships? There’s no shame in that, but I wouldn’t advise trying to pry any more free therapy from someone who only sees you as a midnight snack. Then again, I’m unqualified to give any reasonable advice, either. So uh, yeah good luck, buddy. <</switch>> [[Return|Servitor]]

Reality ripples and splits, a terrible gash slicing across the backdrop of night. A blur of sleek black fur and gleaming metal bursts from the darkness and crashes into your assailant. Your legs //splop// free as the two tumble off into the distance. You yelp and drag yourself along the ground, feeling returning to your numb legs, only for the painful reminder of your injured ankle to shoot up your nerves. You make it barely five feet from the ongoing tussle before another figure skids to your side. “Here,” a feminine<<if $Orrault2 == true>>, distantly familiar <</if>>voice urges. Two gentle hands grip your arm . You lurch away in a frantic panic, then slow to a halt as a halo of soft, soothing light pours from her palm. Bright blue eyes focus on your leg as she pushes arcane relief into your ankle, heat seeping into your skin. You blink in disbelief. <<if $Orrault2 == true>>“A- Aria?” Still casting, she blinks back, recognition filling her eyes. “<<= $name>>?” She tilts her head thirty degrees, then sixty in the other direction, as if you might be more recognizable at an angle. “Y- Yes, that’s me. Hello again.” Aria lights up like an angel. She lunges forward and pulls you into a warm embrace before you can flinch. “It //is// you! I’m so glad to see you again!” Still baffled, you hug her back, then suddenly remember that there’s a fight happening not ten feet away.<<else>>“A- Are you an angel?” She laughs, melodious voice light and airy. “No no, I’m here to help. My name’s Aria, I’m a theurge.” She bites her lip and nods to your leg. “Have you been healed before? Does this hurt?” Whatever it is, it’s far more gentle than the treatment you received in Orrault after the siege. Granted, a twisted ankle is nothing compared to the massive gash on your chest, but you’re thankful for this woman’s sudden appearance. “It’s… amazing,” you mutter, as much to yourself as Aria. An experimental flex of your ankle proves entirely painless. The only lingering sensation is a curious sort of warmth, as if you’d just spent a few minutes warming your feet at a fireplace. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” the woman insists, then gestures for your hand. “Here, let me—” A sudden audible and a sound of exertion wrenches you from the quiet moment and forces you to remember there’s a fight happening not ten feet away.<</if>> //Glump.// You watch in awe as your savior shovels the assailant into their throat, one massive heave after another. The newcomer wrestles with her quarry, toned arms easily subduing the uniformed figure. They roll, and for a brief moment you’re worried the tables have turned. Another noisy swallow precedes a mighty pull. Another struggle finds the prey’s leg pointing skyward, kicking as the ravenous mouth clamps along flailing thighs. The predator rises to her feet, the battle apparently already won. Strong hands grab her prey’s ankles and in a single //squelch,// cram the entire rest of the body into her gullet. A rolling gulp fills the air as the last traces of your hunter are squished into an oblate lump. And then, something weird happens. The predator marches proudly across your vision and pries a huge scythe from where it had been impaled in the ground. The arched blade gleams in the moonlight, whirls through the air, then sweeps across her front, curve settling in line with the underside of her bulging stomach. An honest-to-god scythe. An actual fucking scythe. Being used as a weapon and not a farming implement. Is this a joke? Are you on camera? “Avaunt, demon!” she shouts. “You’ve met your final days, tormented your last soul. Your reign of tyranny shall end here, your apotheosis denied, crushed into oblivion.” Her stomach wobbles for a moment, then clenches. You gasp as her belly shrinks back to flat in a matter of seconds, a strange glow radiating from the strange woman. A slight hiccup and an amused pat on her abdomen mark the end of the encounter entirely. “That’s… impressive,” you say, settling on a tactful choice of words for the absurd display. Aria offers a curiously strained chuckle from your side. “She //is// a lot, isn’t she.” “One way to put it,” you mutter<<if $Orrault2 == true>>, then direct your attention fully back to the theurge. “Is she your traveling companion?”<<else>>, then cast an appraising gaze at the—by comparison—unassuming healer. “Are you, uhm, traveling companions?”<</if>> “Of a kind,” she nods. “She’s—” “Inquisitor Mortia Dark’stalker,” the woman declares as she approaches, scythe whirling silently through the air. She spins it a dozen more times before holstering it on her back. “Herald of the Third Night, the Last Daughter of Dusk and First Heir to the Black Hand of Sanguine Ikozul.” If nothing else, the rambling list of titles gives you time for a brief appraisal. She looks to be a feline demi, though the rounded ears and sleek black fur leave you with the impression of a panther rather than some sort of house cat. She’s also tall. Imposingly so, easily six foot and change. Dark leather armor lends her a lean, angular form despite the obvious muscle, and a number of visible gashes marring the cuirass and greaves indicate they’re not just for show. And then of course there’s the goddamn scythe, blade poking out from behind her back and gleaming faintly in the distant firelight. Somehow, the weapon actually seems the slightest bit //less// ridiculous after Mortia’s introduction. Not necessarily any more practical, but at least it’s been matched in ridiculousness by its owner. “<<= $name>>!” Vanille shouts, leaping to your side, blade drawn. “Are you alright? I heard shouting.” You nod. “Y- Yeah, I’m fine.” “Oh, hello<<if $Orrault2 == true>> again<</if>>,” Aria says. Before she has a chance to make proper introductions, Ashlyn lumbers forward, swollen and still digesting. Sherine follows, and you can barely spot Mira lingering in the distance, eyeing the new arrivals warily with a knife gripped in her small hands. <<if $Orrault2 == true>>Brief recognition flashes in Vanille’s eyes as she regards Aria, but she immediately directs<<else>>Vanille gives Aria a brief, appraising glance before directing<</if>> her attention to Mortia. “Who are you?” “Inquisitor Mortia Dark’stalker,” the woman declares, unslinging the scythe from her back with unnecessary flourish. “Herald of the Third Night, the Last D—” “Yes, yes. We all know, Mortia,” Aria hastily interjects, then gestures to the firelight flickering in the distance. “Is that your camp? May we join you? I’ll cast a protective ward, and then we’ll have time for introductions.” Vanille helps you to your feet, checks you over for injuries, then nods to Aria appreciatively. “Certainly.” “We accept your noble offer of hospitality,” Mortia declares before Aria can get a word in. [[Head back to camp|Van Hecksing]]

The seven of you return to the campsite and huddle around the fire. You watch in awe as Aria flashes arcane gestures at various points around the camp’s perimeter. When she’s marked half a dozen spots, the theurge clasps her hands together for a quiet moment and whispers the words of power. A shimmering barrier flashes into existence then fades, the world beyond becoming blurry and veiled, as if you’re looking through a rain-soaked window. Mira starts to slink away, but is stopped by the new spellcaster. “Please don’t cross the barrier. It’ll disrupt the magic.” The demi huffs, then stomps off to create a new shelter for herself. Deciding it’s simpler to leave Mira be, you <<if $Orrault2 == true>>reintroduce Aria to your companions—and give a proper first-time introduction for Sherine, since the lamia wasn’t actually around back when you saved the theurge’s life from a marauding centaur in Orrault’s gate town<<else>>introduce the two new arrivals to the rest of your companions<</if>>. You then explain how Mortia rescued you from that strange assailant and, with everyone caught up, finally ask the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind since <<if $Orrault2 == true>>Aria reappeared. “So, how did the two of you meet, exactly?” you ask the theurge, who’s taken a seat at your side. “Oh.” She smiles, faintly wistful. “It was just after you saved me back in Orrault. I’d planned to travel west to the Cobalt Strand—I like to offer my services as a wandering theurge, helping out where I can. But I’d hardly made it an hour from Orrualt before I stumbled across Mortia having just rescued a handful of townsfolk from some fleeing centaurs. “After patching everyone up, Mortia introduced herself as an inquisitor and explained she was on a ‘crusade against evil.’ I figured I could do more overall good assisting Mortia, so I decided to join her.” You hesitate. “Uhh, join her doing what, exactly?”<<else>>your close call. “So, what exactly are the two of you doing out here?” When Mortia doesn’t offer an immediate response, Aria pipes up. “I’m actually assisting Mortia in her ‘crusade against evil’—It’s the least I can do after she rescued me from a herd of marauding centaurs a few weeks back. I like to live on the road and offer my services as a wandering theurge anyway so I figured I could do more overall good joining Mortia.” You hesitate. “To help her with what, exactly?”<</if>> “Hunting the wicked,” Mortia declares in a gravelly rumble. “Delving deep into their dens of corruption and depravity, purging the stain of their filth from this land one sweep of my sacred blade at a time. It is an endless crusade, one that pits the will of the righteous against the forces of evil, an eternal struggle for the soul of this very world.” “She hunts demons,” Aria explains, rolling her eyes. “It’s a good thing we happened to be nearby. Demonic magic can be tricky to deal with.” Ashlyn suddenly lurches from her slump across the fire, wide awake. “Did someone say ‘demons?’” “Yes,” Mortia replies, entirely unaware of the sort of person she’s about to engage. “I believe I have uncovered the lair of a beast most foul.” She pauses, sniffing at the air. “I can smell its profane presence, tainting the very wind with its sickly stench. It is near.” <<linkreplace "“The quarry?”">>“The quarry?” you suggest, putting two and two together. The inquisitor arches an eyebrow. “Just so. Do you seek the unholy abomination as well?” “Uhh, not the… beast exactly,” you say. “But we’re looking for something in the area, yeah.” “Then our purposes are aligned.” Mortia gives a slight nod. “While I prefer to work alone, a temporary alliance may prove mutually convenient.” Ashlyn snorts. “Holy crap you’re annoying. Who talks like that?” She suddenly snaps her fingers. “Oh wait, you must be one of those blowhards with the Havendorian Order of Exorcists.” Mortia turns her piercing yellow gaze on the mage. “I already explained as much—” “Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t listening the first time. Or the second time.” Ashlyn waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t believe in your ridiculous order because, as a mage, I //actually// know how the world works. Demons aren’t ‘unholy,’ or any nonsense like that.” “What are they, then?” you ask, head tilted. “Remember when I said weird stuff happens if there’s too much mana in one place?” the mage starts. “Sometimes those phenomena spontaneously take form, spawn actual, physical entities that mimic biological matter, even if they’re actually just roughly condensed mana in the shape of a person. Or, in layman speak, demons.” “They are a blight and a scourge. It’s my holy duty to eradicate them.” Mortia reiterates with a solemn nod. She looks across your group, appraising. “Though, I am not against forging alliances; one must always seek comrades in the fight against demons.” Before Ashlyn ruins diplomacy with a cackle, you speak up. “We appreciate your help. A- And thank you for saving me from that… demon.” You turn to address Aria at your side. “Both of you.” “A mere servitor of a greater evil,” Mortia huffs dismissively. “We will face far worse tomorrow.” Cool. Thanks for the encouragement. “For now, we rest,” she concludes. Vanille nods. “I’ll take first watch, <<= $name>>,” she says, for the second time tonight. “Uhm, that shouldn’t be necessary,” Aria pipes up with an optimistic smile. “The ward will ensure we can’t be found until dawn.” Also cool: you’re entirely cut off from the world. Could you even pass through the barrier if you wanted to? Given the sheer number of close calls you’ve experienced, you’re not //entirely// opposed to spending the rest of your existence inside a nice and isolated box, but you’d kinda prefer if it was your choice. //Maybe you’d prefer somewhere less box-shaped.// You might have a point, brain.<<if $Orrault2 == true>> Something warm brushes against your side. Aria watches you with tender admiration, deep blue eyes smiling in the firelight. Alright, maybe you were spiraling into paranoia.<</if>> With a weary sigh, you rise from the fireside and plod over to your sleeping roll. It takes a fitful moment to relax and ease the lingering adrenaline from your veins, but eventually you manage to settle down for a proper night’s rest. [[Sleep|Enter the Qungeon]]<</linkreplace>>

You understand—on an intellectual level, at least—that the tendrils of mist curling between tree trunks and weaving through the forest undergrowth are a perfectly natural phenomenon: tiny droplets of water accumulated overnight vaporizing under the heat of an early morning sun. You //know// it’s all normal and reasonable, the sort of thing you’d find in any forest with the right climate. But that doesn’t really help you //feel// like they’re any less sinister, and you frequently find your gaze drawn to your periphery on your journey to the ‘cesspit of sin,’ as Mortia Dark’stalker so aptly put it last night. It doesn’t help that your dreams were mostly filled with demons of all shapes and sizes and jaw-structures. So, //so// many maws. And not the fun kinds. Mostly. You munch on breakfast as you walk, savoring the bits of jerky and muscling through the comparably flavorless nuts and grains. Vanille shares the lead with Mortia, and while having the two most serious and stern figures at the head of your entourage might seem a bit imbalanced, there’s something strangely fitting in the two opposing interpretations of stoic marching side by side—the knight’s silent vigil and the inquisitor’s brooding prowl. Mira still lingers at the back of your group, while Sherine and Aria have taken positions in the middle, leaving you to deal with a bafflingly debilitated Ashlyn who practically has to lean on you for support with each step. “How are you always hungover?” “I ate too much yesterday,” she says, queasy. “Was it worth it? Yes.” If you had water to spare from your waterskin, you’d splash it onto her face, partially out of spite and partially because you’d really prefer the mage be more alert, especially now that you’ve been informed demons can just pop out of thin— “Wait, wait. What the fuck, Ashlyn,” you blurt out. The mage blinks, unimpressed. “Aneurysms are more Aria’s area of expertise, <<= $name>>.” You glower at her. “No, shut up. So, last night: you said that demons can just, what, //appear// from absolutely nothing? Just, //poof,// suddenly there’s a dangerous monster right next to you?” “Well //someone// wasn’t paying much attention,” Ashlyn huffs. “Wrong on all accounts. Well, two of three, I guess. ‘Demon,’ not monster—there’s a difference, though I suppose they’re both dangerous. Especially for you. And they don’t just //‘appear.’// They materialize from highly dense concentrations of mana under very specific conditions. Spontaneous apparition is theoretically possible, but—well, you’re infinitely more likely to be crushed by a falling tree, or spontaneously combust from an angry ray of sunlight, or be named <<= $name>> and make a good decision. The sorts of things that really aren’t worth worrying about, is what I’m trying to get at.” You frown. “Okay, fine. So demons don’t just appear out of nowhere. Why are they here, exactly?” She lurches in an embarrassing attempt to slap you. She misses, though you aren’t safe from a verbal lashing. “You can’t seriously—I explained all this! There’s a lotta ambient mana here. It’s doin’ weird shit.” “No, I meant—Stop trying to hit me. What I mean is, why //here,”// you gesture vaguely along the path forward. “Didn’t you basically have limitless mana while we were in Niverdene? How were we not running into demons constantly?” Ashlyn sighs. “We were on a //leyline,// dude. All that mana was arranged in a nice, natural flow. The mana here is stagnant, clustered, looking for a release. It’s… It’s like—” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 8>>“When you’re really horny?” “Cute, but no. It’s more…” <</if>>She snaps her fingers. “You ever make pottery? It’s like a lump of clay. It’s wet and malleable and useless on its own, but if you put it through a kiln, you get something solid. And a kiln’s supposed to get //really// hot. You can’t just bake some clay in any old campfire.” “I mean, technically—” “Not in this example!” She shouts. “You //know// I’m not an outdoorswoman, right? You can see me, my clothes; I’m an //indoor// slut.” “Okay, fine,” you nod. “So there’s a bunch of mana here, and it’s not part of a leyline. Why? Where’d it come from?” “<<= $name>>, I swear I’m gonna—” Ashlyn falters, lips quirked to an odd scowl. “Well, it’s… I mean…” A blissful moment of silence falls over your group, punctuated only by the steady crunch of boots through forest undergrowth and the occasional murmured grunt from the mage. “You don’t actually know, do you?” “I… I have some ideas. Ideas founded in a meticulous understanding of arcanistry and mana-related phenomena.” “You have guesses.” //“Good// guesses, at least,” she huffs. “Maybe it was a demigod orgy.” You roll your eyes. “Alright, forget it. We’re about to find out anyway, aren’t we?” “I know! It’s making me so horny!” she says with a forced moan. You can’t say you share the mage’s enthusiasm. Delving into a den of ravenous, unknowable evil isn’t exactly your idea of ‘a good time.’ It’s not even in the top five. //It might make the top eight.// “We’re here,” Mortia suddenly calls from up ahead with all the cheer of a funeral officiant. [[Take a look|Hunter and Quarry]]

You and Ashlyn clamber upon the footsteps of your allies to crest a final hill. A great wound lies before and below you, a vast gouge in the land itself. Sheer walls of rough-hewn stone plummet a hundred feet below, perhaps more—too abrupt to be mistaken for strictly natural, yet more jagged and harsh than you’d expect from a planned excavation. The quarry is less a single, massive pit and more a dozen staggered plateaus and basins pockmarked across at least a mile of what you imagine was once lush forest. Now, the landscape is rendered a drab grey whose eerie lifelessness is only highlighted by the abandoned infrastructure. Expansive scaffolding and towering cranes jut from the stone like skeletal limbs, all weathered timber and rusting metal. A few lakes dwell in some of the deeper basins, presumably the inevitable accumulation of rainfall now that no effort is made to pump the water clear. Mist weaves through the quarry and clings to stone cliffs like the fingers of a spectral beast desperate for a final few moments of fresh air before the sun’s merciless gaze drives it beneath the earth once more. Ashlyn sloughs from your side as she retrieves her journal from her cleavage and begins scribbling. You take the opportunity to walk up to Vanille. “It’s, uhh… bigger than I was expecting,” you admit. “Did they really mine out this whole thing? Where did it all //go?”// “It was the primary source of the stone used to build Orrault,” the knight explains like she’s reciting lines from a textbook. “The overseeing engineers were forced to design entirely new systems for lifting stone to the required heights—technology the city itself eventually employed in its construction.” You scan the derelict scaffolding and wooden frames along the quarry walls. “I don’t suppose any of those lifts are still around?” “I doubt we could get one moving,” Vanille says. She spends a quiet moment surveying the quarry, then points. “There, at the base of that cliff.” Even with the assistance, it takes a moment to notice—a cluster of abandoned structures huddled within one of the deeper recesses of the quarry. Upon more careful inspection, you notice they seem a bit different from the usual fare that comprises the rest of the detritus—less industrial-utilitarian and more delicate, almost intimate when compared to the vast scale of the rest of the surrounding man-made constructions. “The scholars Gerda mentioned,” you suggest. “The ones who came in after the miners unearthed those Lurnasian ruins?” Vanille nods. “It is the beast’s lair,” Mortia growls, nearly making you jump. “We should hurry. I can sense its foul presence lurking within.” Because of course it is. Why wouldn’t the Echo share its home with some unimaginably powerful evil? You sigh. “Right. But, uhh, how do you plan to get down there?” An awkward moment of silence passes before Vanille speaks up once more. “That looks promising.” You follow her gaze westward a couple hundred feet off where, sure enough, a trail winds down the quarry wall, interspersed by the occasional larger shelf containing a handful of relatively intact wooden structures—forming housing for the workers, perhaps? The path itself looks stable enough, and when no better options present themselves, you agree to set off. [[Down you go|American Horror Quarry]]

The trail down into the quarry is a relatively gentle gradient, presumably intended to transport equipment too heavy for even the massive cranes. But after a few minutes of switchbacks and painfully slow descent, you start to realize you still have a long, //long// way to go, all while you get to dwell on whatever demonic horrors await in the ruins below. Oh, and it’s also murder on your ankles. To distract yourself from myriad maladies, you sidle up to Aria and Sherine. “Are you two doing alright?” you ask. “Do you need anything, maybe? Like a weapon, since we’re about to head into a—” You’re going to sound ridiculous no matter how you put it, just come out and say it. “—A dungeon.” “Oh, I’m <<if $Orrault2 == true>>alright,” Aria says with a warm smile. “I mostly rely on my magic in a pinch, and even then I’m more of a protective support. I’m<<else>>fine,” Aria hastily responds. “I mostly use magic anyway. Protective spells and support—that sort of thing. I- I’m actually<</if>> glad there’s so many of us here; I’m a lot more effective helping others than fighting on my own.” Sherine nods. “I’ll be alright as well. Thank you, <<= $name>>.” You tilt your head. You’ve seen a couple monster girls use weapons, but many have opted for a more hands-on approach. Perhaps a blade isn’t Sherine’s style? Then again, you can’t really imagine her using any sort of pummeling weapon, either. Maybe a whip, like a— Nope, hopping off that train of thought. Aria <<if $Orrault2 == true>>clears her throat, then offers an optimistic grin. “Don’t worry, <<= $name>>. <<else>>squeezes your elbow reassuringly. “<</if>>I’ll make sure nobody gets hurt.” Oh how refreshing it is to have a wizard who knows actually useful spells watching your back for once. Ashlyn’s <<if $RVAshlyn >= 12>>great fun, but she is, on occasion,<<else>>a dangerous lunatic and occasionally<</if>> an active threat to herself and those around her. You get the sense that Aria wouldn’t hurt a fly if she didn’t need to. And speaking of strange and eccentric companions… “So, Mortia,” you start hesitantly. “She’s a bit…” “Dedicated,” Sherine hums, as if deeply amused. She bites her lip. “I’ve met a few exorcists, though none have quite had the same //conviction.// She certainly is interesting.” You blink at Sherine, silently wondering if she views the demon hunter as a potential challenge to lay or to eat. Sherine merely raises her brow, the barest twitch alongside a curious smirk. //Both?// <<if $Orrault2 == true>>A sudden bump at your side jostles you from the wordless conversation. You turn to find Aria flashing a conspiratorial grin. “I prefer to think of her as ‘passionate.’” she says. “Oddities aside, she means well. <<else>>“She means well,” Aria pipes up, jostling you from the wordless conversation. “<</if>>You just have to be patient with her.” Sherine licks her lips. “It takes someone resolute in their beliefs to recite them with such vehemence.” The theurge sighs. “It’s apparently very important that she speak her thoughts when faced with anything remotely worth commenting upon, do all that proclaiming about ‘temptation’ and ‘wickedness,’ and such.” You glance once more at Sherine’s keen gaze and wonder if Mortia will end up wishing for different allies before the day is done. You push an aggressive //‘Please don’t eat anyone’// look at Sherine, then turn your attention back to Aria. “<<if $Orrault2 == false>>You said you were a theurge, right? <</if>>Do your spells take a long time to cast? If there’s a fight, I can stay back and cover you.” Aria smiles and turns to the lamia. “Is <<= $xe>> always this chivalrous?” “<<if $Orrault2 == true>><<= $name>> is a consummate expert at sacrificing <<= $xem>>self for the sake of others<<else>>I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone more dedicated to stepping forward and doing what <<= $xe>> can to help<</if>>. <<= $Xe>> has a lot to give.” “Next thing you know, <<= $xe>>’ll be offering us breakfast,” Aria chuckles<<if $Orrault2 == false>>, then suddenly falters, mortified. “Ah, I- I didn’t mean—” You frown. “Mean—” Oh. //Oh.// For the sake of all parties involved, you abruptly fall silent and decide to take a keen interest in a passing derelict scaffold, noting its many admirable qualities and intricacies. Truly, no other piece of rotting wood has ever held your attention so.<<else>>, then offers a demure grin, cheeks rosy. //Oh.// You blink at her, then blush. The two of you break eye contact simultaneously, both taking interest in a passing derelict scaffold.<</if>> “I’m surprised the infrastructure is holding up so well,” Aria remarks after a moment of awkward silence, gesturing to a nearby storehouse burrowed partially into the cliffside. “It’s been twenty years, right?” “Twenty three, I believe,” Sherine adds. You tilt your head curiously. “You know about this place’s history, Aria?” “Oh, doesn’t everyone?” she says. “Palamola Quarry’s had two decades to swirl through the rumor mill, after all.” You blink, suddenly realizing you’d never actually heard the quarry’s proper name before. Maybe it’s just such a staple facet of local folklore that it’s sort of assumed. Like how no one really needs to specify which ‘Shakespeare’ you’re talking about. “Was ‘demons’ a frequent guess?” “Surprisingly, no,” Aria remarks with a shrug. “I don’t think it even ranked in the top ten.” Oh boy. Lucky you. Whoop-dee-friggin’-doo. Marching into dangers unknown yet again. Well, at least you’ve got two wizards, an angry thief, a strong-as-hell snake woman, and an actual expert in hunting demons for today’s expedition. Oh, and a Vanille. [[It’s not like your odds are gonna get any better|Paint It Black]]

You continue your descent into the quarry proper, past abandoned digging contraptions and crumbling infrastructure. Apparently twenty-something years of neglect haven’t been especially kind to dwellings made of wood, leaving most of the buildings precarious and hollow shells with collapsed roofs and crumbling walls. Cold and empty. And most unnervingly of all, deathly silent. You probably shouldn’t be surprised at the ghost-town vibes given the quarry’s fraught history, but you’d sort of expected… //something// by now. “Is it just me, or is it too quiet?” you mumble, twisting the spear in your hands nervously. “Weren’t we expecting this place to be swarming with demons?” “They are nearby,” Mortia growls. “I can sense them—lesser demons, dull and feckless. Insipid in the face of greater prey.” “Oh,” you mutter, feeling a few steps shy of reassured. “I guess they’re keeping their distance, at least.” “They understand their wicked lives would be forfeit from but a single scrape of my blade.” The inquisitor adjusts her scythe, then casts an idle glance toward a passing warehouse. “A meager drop of intelligence, I will give them that.” After a moment’s consideration, you resolve that silence is preferable to Mortia’s bluster. Fortunately, your descent comes to an end only a minute later, the seven of you traversing the rough-hewn quarry basin, then scaling the remnants of an old rail system. You then scramble up an awkwardly steep incline to cut a direct path eastward at the inquisitor’s insistence. It doesn’t take long to find the exact moment the excavation turned from quarry to archeological dig—a carved grey column jutting from the nacreous sheets of limestone, carefully preserved. Your group shuffles by what might have once been staging areas for the archeologists that toiled here, then finds an entrance into the ruins proper, a jagged cut in the coarse wall. The researchers look to have done an admirable job whittling out what must have been an incidental breach at the hands of the miners. Little more than a few scattered chips of rock lie past the fissure, highlighted by their stark shadows cast against ancient stone. Mortia leads the way, vaulting the slight ledge without even a word of warning. Vanille offers your group a shrug, then follows suit, leaving the rest of you to file in afterward. The air inside is musky and sour, like something that had been spoiling in the back of the pantry for a decade or five. Thankfully—or worryingly—there are no rotting bodies or other grotesque sights which betray the source of the unpleasantness, just the omnipresent miasma slowly clawing your nostrils. Short walls curl into arched ceilings, the vaults illuminated by the dangling prism lights. More and more architecture germinates out of the tunnel, precise edges and carved surfaces. Ancient, worn depictions of odious creatures dance along the walls in the hazy light, teeming in their vagueness. Lazy red illumination drips along walls, as if the passage were alive and aware and hated you for every inch of trespass. The last shred of daylight disappears as you venture further from the entrance, the hellmouth at your back fading from sight. You shuffle anxiously through the twisting tunnels, the way forward a torturous zig-zag, winding deeper and deeper down the hell-throat and soon-to-be hell-bowels. Why does everything in this world lend itself to such visceral descriptors? Did some mischievous mage make all the lights this intestinal, muddy crimson on purpose? Is feeling cramped an engulfed a deliberate goal of the architecture? Minutes pass in tense silence. Once you’ve had enough, once the stink of dust and sweat reaches a nauseating tipping point, once you and your allies have squished single file through an especially narrow passage, the claustrophobic descent finally lets up. You breathe relief as your group fans out into a large hall, then take a moment to take in the simple joys of elbow room before inspecting the massive room. “Are you friggin’ kidding me!” Ashlyn shouts, apropos of— Actually, her reaction might be warranted for once. At the far end of the hall looms a door, though not one of wood or stone or steel. A translucent barrier of magic stands between you and the way forward, faint wisps swirling across its lustrous surface like ripples across a midnight pond. A gentle curl of energy collapses against its perimeter, hissing out a puff of fog the tendrils of which slither and curl across the floor and grope at your boots. The string of prism lights you’d been following stop abruptly at the stone frame, though scant traces of their arcane glow permeate the barrier and illuminate the barren hallway beyond. When you can finally pull your gaze away from the magic door, you notice that the lamps actually diverge on flanking sides of the grand hall, splitting into two tangential paths partially obscured by the numerous towering columns. This layout does feel oddly familiar, you’ll give the mage that much. There’s no wretched stink of honey this time, but the faint occult thrumming is enough to make your hairs stand on end. “I am a mage! I can do so much more than just open //literal// doors,” Ashlyn laments to no one in particular, eyes watering as she glares down the magical barrier. “I can open doors to other realities, to states of being beyond this mortal coil, doors to secrets incomprehensible. I am a guillotine serving as a letter opener, a divine hammer wielded to forge daggers. So I am begging you…” She turns and clings dramatically to the nearest warm body. Unfortunately, that’s you. “Use me!” Before things grow any more awkward, the mage suddenly lurches backward, nearly stumbling over her own feet. You notice a flash of copper retreating from her ankles. “Desperation is an unflattering color,” Sherine chuckles. “Ashlyn, you’re overreacting,” you say, bringing attention back to the obstacle. “Do we even need to get past it?” “Yes,” both mages say in unison. Aria is the only one to elaborate. “There’s definitely… something magical in there, I can feel it.” “Ah, good,” Ashlyn chimes, snide as ever. She bows with mocking adulation. “Please, if you would be so kind as to do the honors.” “Uhm,” Aria frowns. “I’m not sure forcing our way through is the best idea.” “Coward.” You intervene. “I think she has a point. That door is…” You shiver, realizing you’re standing just a bit too close to the partition. “Maybe I’m imagining it, but I feel like this thing is cursed. Almost…” Evil? Can a door //be// evil? What exactly could make a door ‘evil?’ It’s a simple entryway, a connection from one place to the next. Fundamentally utilitarian. Could you call a window ‘evil?’ A mailbox? A paperclip? Surely such an association is undeserved, perhaps even unfair. What has this door done to deserve so harsh a title—a brand upon its very existence among door-kind? Yet, as you stare at the doorway, you simply //know.// This door is evil. On a deep, indelible level, carved into its very being as inextricably as the door itself is carved into the wall of stone. It is capable of nothing but misdeeds. All who pass through it are doomed to suffer maladies and misfortunes innumerable. If asked about contentious political topics, the door would confidently express its morally deplorable and easily disprovable beliefs before making the rest of family dinner extremely uncomfortable for its door-relatives. [[… Is Mortia’s ostentatiousness getting to you?|Imptroduction]]

“Well, if the Echo is gonna be anywhere, it’ll be on the other side of this barrier, right?” You gesture to the side passages, trying very hard not to cite video-game logic. “Let’s take a look around, see if we can find a way to deactivate it.” “Woah, woah,” Ashlyn barks, straightening her back. “I never said I //couldn’t// handle it. I just wanted to complain about how cheesy it is.” You roll your eyes. “So, you can dispel it?” “No, but I can blow a hole in the wall next to it,” she sighs, a swirling mote appearing in her palm. “This is the thing with you simpletons: you see a glimmering wall of magical force and start drooling your brains out. You need to think!” Vanille seizes Ashlyn’s arm, and the spell fizzles. “We don’t know how old this place is, or if it’s structurally sound. Don’t start lobbing fireballs and bring the ceiling down on us.” “Who said I was gonna use fire?” “Very well,” Mortia abruptly declares with the gravity of a death sentence. The scythe whirls from her back in a blur of gleaming metal. “No demon magics may stand before the might of my sanctified blade.” The inquisitor raises her weapon high, the curved blade hovering like a guillotine. She tenses, draws in a deep breath, then— “I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” You jump at the new voice, whirling about to find a short, purple-fleshed woman in… well, the only fitting term that describes the revealing array of leather straps and strategically placed buckles is ‘bondage gear.’ You blink, then rub your eyes to make sure that Ashlyn isn’t playing some sort of trick on you, only to find the mage standing on your left, equally surprised by the sight. The newcomer is about half your size, rounded up. Her curly hair sits in a dark bob atop her head and surrounds a single curled horn like weeds around a tree. A cascade of curves slather the diminutive form, neatly arranged in all the right places and accented by her… outfit. You’d call her ‘hot,’ but that feels a bit on the nose for a demon. “Hello,” she purrs, nonplussed by the seven heavily armed adventurers in striking range. A coy finger touches her lips. “All this attention on me, I’m flattered.” You pause, waiting for one of your companions to act. This is usually the moment when Mira would introduce herself with a cheerful //‘Hello!’// but the demi remains silent, wound tight and ready to pounce. Thankfully, Mortia finally steps forward, scythe in hand. “State your name, fiend.” “My mistress doesn’t usually give imps like me a name,” she offers with a coy smirk. A soft finger traces along the bottom of her lip and settles in the crook on an adorable smile. “But that just means you can call me whatever you like.” “I care not for your banal attempts at diplomacy.” The inquisitor states. “Explain to me why we should not simply tear down this feeble barrier. I will give you but one chance.” The imp offers a coquettish smile, then points past you. Your group turns to find a gigantic pink mass pressed against the barrier, sopping wet spittle smearing across the magic door. A huff of steamy breath gushes and condenses, then dissipates as a face takes shape. Eyes the size of your head blink. Bright irises brimming with hellfire smile their malice and hunger. More of the figure reveals itself the longer you stare. Pointed ears flicker. A waterfall of hair, black as night, runs over her shoulders and across a prone form. A pair of huge breasts press against the ground as she lies prone to better get at the door with her tongue. A clawed hand surges from the darkness and paws at the barrier longingly. You were wrong. The door isn’t evil. It //contains// evil. //May you be granted mercy for the previous slander against door-kind.// “The fuck is that,” you finally manage. “My quarry,” Mortia declares, her tone an inexplicable mix of rage and delight. The latter is far more concerning. “The beast I seek. The great evil that lurks in the heart of this accursed abyss.” You shake your head. “Okay, yeah. Great. But //what// is that?” “A hellhound,” Ashlyn explains, sharing a disconcerting amount of the inquisitor’s enthusiasm. “And a big one at that. How is she //so big?”// The mage turns to you. “Is this what being insignificantly small feels like?” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>“Well, the ears are wrong,”<<else>>“A little,”<</if>> you murmur, thoughts swirling. This hellhound’s bigger than the dragon. What the fuck are you supposed to even do against a creature like this? //Dog treats?// No brain. There’s an expert on demonkind right here. Two, in fact. [[Ask Mortia|Ask the edgelord]] [[Ask the imp|Ask the demon]]

“Can you actually fight something like that?” you ask, looking to Mortia. “If not I, then who? Who will stand against the evils that lurk in every corner? Who will confront the dredges—” You fold your arms across your chest. “No, I meant //can// you? Is that scythe going to be enough?” You turn pleading eyes to the rest of your companions. “Can I get another opinion? Is this an impossible fight we’re considering?” “She is… shockingly large,” Vanille comments idly, tilting her head to a fro as she mulls over a strategy. “It would be extremely risky.” To your surprise, Ashlyn nods in agreement. “She’s a demon, so it’ll be easier to use spells on her, but uhm… I don’t think I can shrink her //that// much. And even if she //were// smaller, she probably won’t be any less strong. Her body is—she’s just sentient mana, a manifestation. It’s like fighting another spellcaster.” “How small can you get her?” you ask. “Maybe half size?” “That’s still too much,” Sherine adds, though you’re not sure if she’s assessing strength or edibility. Either way, the serious look on her face doesn’t give you hope. To be fair, half-size would still leave this hellhound a good foot or two larger than the ogress, and you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve lost that fight were it not for bringing down the roof on top of her. Even accounting for Sherine’s added presence, the ogress was basically an angry woman with a big stick. This hellhound looks much, much worse. Something warm brushes against your side. You flinch as the imp makes herself far too casually comfortable with your group. “Leaving the barrier up and pretending she doesn’t exist has worked pretty well so far.” You shuffle away from her and frown. “We need to get in there.” “Well, if you //really// wanted to get past her, my mistress might have an idea or two.” <<include "The Artist Formerly Known As">>

“So, uhm. How do we actually deal with that… hellhound,” you ask, directing your question at the imp. “Same way we have: leave the barrier up and pretend she doesn’t exist.” She pauses, eyeing you with a devious smirk. “Unless you enjoy a bit of danger.” Right. So that’s a nonstarter. You turn back to your companions. “I don’t think we can fight something that big.” “If not I, then who?” Mortia states. “Who will stand against the evils that lurk in every corner? Who will confront the corruption that seeps into the land itself and—” “She’s behind a locked door. I don’t think she’s ‘corrupting’ much of anything from back there.” You sigh, then turn to your group. “What do you think?” “She is… remarkably large,” Vanille comments idly, tilting her head to a fro as she mulls over a strategy. “It would be extremely risky.” To your surprise, Ashlyn nods in agreement. “She’s a demon, so it’ll be easier to use spells on her, but uhm… I don’t think I can shrink that much honestly. And even then, it probably won’t make her any less strong. Her body is—she’s just sentient mana, a manifestation. It’s like fighting another spellcaster.” “How small can you get her?” you ask. “Maybe half size?” “That’s still too much,” Sherine offers, though you’re not sure if she’s assessing strength or meal-viability. Either way, the serious look on her face doesn’t give you hope. To be fair, half-size would still leave this hellhound a good foot or two larger than the ogress, and you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve lost that fight were it not for bringing down the roof on top of her. Even accounting for Sherine’s added presence, the ogress was basically an angry woman with a big stick. This hellhound looks much, much worse. “You know…” the imp starts, thoroughly derailing your train of thought. “If you //really// wanted to get past her, my mistress might have an idea or two.” <<include "The Artist Formerly Known As">>

“Lies!” You practically jump out of your skin at the shrill exclamation, then turn to find the words //didn’t// come from Mortia. Instead, they came from something far, //far// stranger. Another imp stands at the passage opposite from where the first appeared. Aside from the different spawning point, this one is reddish, scarred, and… well, she’s also wearing what looks like bondage gear, but these leathers are less revealing. And covered in bloodied spikes. So, //so// many barbs and thorns, like a metallic rosebush on its way to an orgy. Just to make the visage more ridiculous, she wields a vicious-looking glaive in one hand and sweeps back a short cut of jagged hair with the other—presumably maintained by the glaive, given how shoddy it is. It’s a small miracle she didn’t decapitate herself in the process given how the keen edge gleams in the mire of ruddy prism light. “Oh, it’s you,” the first imp drawls, clearly unimpressed. “Were the last two decades of trading insults not enough? Well, I supposed //I// traded the insults; you just sort of seethed and tried to stab me.” She spares you a curiously pitying glance. “She’s boring like that.” “Your need for entertainment is a weakness, imp.” “You’re an imp, too! See what I mean? She’s awful at—” The first, imp—Purple, you decide—abruptly ducks as the newcomer hurls the glaive across the room. The evasion proves unnecessary, since the weapon misses by about ten feet… and then imbeds itself in the wall of solid stone a good four inches. “Coward!” Red—that’s the other imp—shrieks. “Would you just—” Purple huffs out a frustrated sigh. “They’re just trying to get through the door.” “So you conspire to assist them!” Red hollers. “Unleash the beast on all of us. Wait until my war chief hears of this. Finally, you will taste our wrath!” Purple scoffs. “I //stopped// them. And we both know you and your //‘war chief’// won’t dare attack my mistress.” “Because that gutless harlot refuses to leave her lair.” “Why should she? We’re //winning.”// What… What is happening right now? The giant dog woman from hell was one thing, but squabbling imps wasn’t anywhere near what you expected from a misadventure into a cursed quarry. Should you stop them? They said they’d been at it for twenty years, and they’re both still here, so perhaps it’s best to just let the sparks of anger fizzle out on their own? No no, you don’t have another twenty years to watch this stalemate continue. You need a solution. Today, preferably. You gesture for a team huddle while the imps continue their banter. Everyone but Mortia piles in, the panther demi glaring at the hellhound with the same zeal. Whatever, you need a break from her anyway. “<<= $name>>?” Vanille starts. “You have an idea?” “Maybe? Purp—err, that first imp said something about her ‘mistress’ having a potential solution.” You tap your chin curiously. “Any idea what she means by ‘mistress?’” “Probably a greater demon,” Ashlyn explains. “They form these sorts of hierarchies. Imps are the lowest rung. Can’t do shit without a more powerful demon bossing ‘em around.” “I get the sense there’s more than one—powerful demon, that is,” you say. “It looks like they’ve created factions.” Sherine nods. “That appears to be the case.” She pauses to watch as the two imps begin hurling small stones at one another from across the hall alongside the sustained insults. “Shockingly conversable for a two-decade-long feud.” “So the leader of each faction,” you start, only slightly baffled by what you’re about to say. “Do you think we can… talk to them? You know, without being immediately killed.” The demons in this world aren’t as… //theological// as you expected, so maybe you can work something out? They’re certainly not ‘trustworthy,’ but the ongoing conflict between these two factions might mean they’ll be a bit less overtly hostile with a neutral third party. Ashlyn hums pensively. “It’s a possibility, I guess. Demons don’t usually get along too well with us mortals, but imps also tend to have life spans measured in days. It sounds like this bunch has stuck around for a while, so maybe they’ve cooled off.”<<if $Orrault2 == true>> “Good leadership tends to do that,” Aria says, smiling at you.<</if>> “Are you hoping they’ll have a solution for the hellhound, <<= $name>>?” Vanille asks. You nod. “Maybe. They’ve had a while to think about it—a lot longer than any of us. The hound seems to be their problem, too, seeing as they keep it a magic doghouse. Maybe they’re the ones who locked it up in the first place?” “It would have taken quite a bit of skill and power to create that barrier,” Ashlyn supplies, then shrugs. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.” “You there! Mortals! What are you plotting?” You wheel about to find Red leveling an accusatory finger at your group. The imp’s conflict apparently became rote, as both have ceased their name-calling and weapon-throwing. “We’re… talking?” you manage, not entirely sure how to respond. “Words mean little, especially from the tart and her legion of boors.” The imp puffs out her chest, then gestures to the barrier. “If you //actually// want to conquer a fearsome foe, my war chief is far more capable.” And with that, she leaves, stomping back into her burrow and out of sight. Apparently she’s not interested in wrenching that glaive out of the wall. You don’t blame her. “Well,” Purple finally says, watching from the opposite hallway. “I’ve already made my case. If you want to //talk// and not just butt heads with oafs like her, come visit my mistress.” She saunters away, one hand lingering on the corner before gradually slipping out of sight. So, what: you’re brokering alliances with demons now? //Just don’t call it a ‘pact.’// [[Have a chat with Purple’s ‘mistress’|A1][$Quarry3 to "succubus"]] [[Pay a visit to Red’s ‘war chief’|B1][$Quarry3 to "erinyes"]]

“Let’s go talk to this, uhm… ‘mistress?’” You look to Mortia and find her still locked in a staring contest with the hellhound. “Any idea what that is?” “Imps take on the properties of those they serve, both social and physical, though ‘mistress’ does little to narrow the field,” she explains. “I suspect the demon is some sort of social manipulator, augmenting her wiles with foul magics. The imp also mentioned her side was favored in the conflict, so she may prove the greater threat.” “Oh. H- How about the other side?” you ask, suddenly reconsidering your choice. The inquisitor hums. “Barbs and scars, not to mention the short temper… It’s almost certainly an erinyes.” At your visible confusion, she elaborates. “Wrath demon, full of anger and violence.” “Right.” You sigh and silently admonish yourself for daring to forget that you’re dealing with demons here; there are no good options. “Well, let’s give this, err… ‘mistress’ a shot, then. If nothing else, she’s more likely to actually talk.” You and your group set off for the passageway where Purple disappeared, only to pause when you realize a certain insufferable scythe-wielder isn’t following. “Mortia?” you call out. “You coming?” “No,” she answers simply, eyes never wavering from the shimmering barrier. “Uhm… why?” “I have at last found the target of my hunt. I refuse to let such vast and primal evil from my sight for even an instant. It would be a negligence of duty. A dereliction of my sacred vows.” “But… But it’s locked behind the…” You let out an agitated sigh, then turn to Aria for help. “It’s no use when she gets like this,” the theurge explains with an apologetic shrug. “Usually I just leave her be until the mood passes, but…” She trails off, lips creasing to a concerned frown. “Worried she might do something rash in our absence?” Vanille asks. “I wouldn’t exactly put it past her,” Aria quietly admits. “Patience isn’t one of Mortia’s virtues.” You nod. “Maybe one of us should stay behind, make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble…” The only question, then, is who. Sherine’s proven herself to be a master socialite, so you’d very strongly prefer she accompany you into the den of a manipulator. Ashlyn, on the other hand, brings a peculiar brand of expertise. Given magic might be on the table, you’d rather take the mage than leave her behind. Your gaze settles on Mira lingering toward the back of the group. Even at her cheeriest, you wouldn’t consider the demi much of a negotiator. And right now she’s far, //far// from her best. It pains you to admit it, but she’s more likely a liability than anything else. But you can’t just leave Mira on her own either, both because she’s proven herself to be a bit unreliable //and// because you’re not entirely confident the diminutive demi could actually stop Mortia if the inquisitor really wanted to tear that barrier down. “Vanille,” you start. “Could you and Mira stay behind and keep an eye on her?” You give the knight a look one-half meaningful and the other apologetic. Hopefully she understands she’ll be pulling double duty. A strained expression darts across Vanille’s features, but it’s gone in an instant. “Of course,” she says with a nod. “Thank you.” You turn back to face Sherine, Ashlyn, and Aria. With any luck, the theurge will serve as something of a grounding force, keeping things calm in case your other two companions get out of hand. … You can only hope. [[Get going|Evil's Soft First Touches]]

“Let’s go talk to this uhm, war chief.” You look to Mortia and find her still locked in a staring contest with the hellhound. “Any idea what we can expect?” “Imps take on the properties of those they serve, both social and physical,” Mortia explains. “Barbs and scars, the short temper… It’s almost certainly an erinyes.” At your visible confusion, she continues. “Wrath demon, full of anger and violence.” “Oh. H- How about the other side?” you ask, suddenly reconsidering your choice. The inquisitor frowns. “The imp referred to ‘her mistress.’ The title could be applied to any number of fiends, but I suspect she’s some sort of social manipulator, augmenting her wiles with foul magics. Perhaps the greater threat of the two, given she mentioned something about her side having the upper hand.” “Right.” You sigh and silently admonish yourself for daring to forget that you’re dealing with demons here; there are no good options. “Well, let’s give this, err… erinyes a shot, then. Maybe we can find a way to reason with her.” You and your group set off for the passageway where Red disappeared, only to pause when you realize a certain insufferable scythe-wielder isn’t following. “Mortia?” you call out. “You coming?” “No,” she answers simply, eyes never wavering from the shimmering barrier. “Uhm… why?” “I have at last found the target of my hunt. I refuse to let such vast and primal evil from my sight for even an instant. It would be a negligence of duty. A dereliction of my sacred vows.” “But… But it’s locked behind the…” You let out an agitated sigh, then turn to Aria for help. “It’s no use when she gets like this,” the theurge explains with an apologetic shrug. “Usually I just leave her be until the mood passes, but…” She trails off, lips creasing to a concerned frown. “Worried she might do something rash in our absence?” Vanille asks. “I wouldn’t exactly put it past her,” Aria quietly admits. “Patience isn’t one of Mortia’s virtues.” There’s pause, then a shuffle as Vanille moves to stand tall at your side. She nudges your elbow obediently. “What’s the call, <<= $name>>?” <<linkreplace "Weigh your options">>You suck in a deep breath, and start weighing your options. You’ll be going, that much is obvious. It’s not like you have the strength to stop the inquisitor from ripping apart the barrier—which means someone else needs to stay with her. Instead of thinking about who to leave behind, however, you instead consider the encounter ahead. Splitting up seems a reasonable course of action, but the real sticking point is the… wrath demon? The embodiment of anger? Violence? How do you negotiate with that? Now that you’re actually thinking about it, the choice of which companions to bring is pretty obvious. “We’ll split up. Vanille, Mira, we’ll confront the erinyes,” you say. Then, for good measure, you nod to the theurge. “Aria, could you come with us also? I’d appreciate both a voice of reason and some protection if a fight breaks out.” “I’d be happy to, <<= $name>>.” You smile your thanks, then glance back to the stubborn inquisitor and her babysitting duo. Sherine’s strong enough to prevent Mortia from doing anything too reckless, and she can watch her back—literally, in this case—in case more imps appear. Besides, ‘anger and violence’ isn’t really the lamia’s taste from what you’ve seen. And leaving Ashlyn back as a moderating influence, while not the wisest choice on its own, would at least ensure that the lamia and the inquisitor don’t become more closely acquainted in your absence. Furthermore, Ashlyn isn’t the ‘bashing into submission’ type. She’s more… Well, it’s not sexual. Probably? Honestly you’re not sure what it might be. “We’ll be back in a bit,” you say, then unsling your spear to hand off for safekeeping—these are peace talks, after all. “You’ll want to bring a weapon,” Dark’stalker says, unmoving in her vigil. “I doubt the erinyes will even speak to you otherwise.” [[Oh fuckin’ boy|Angery]]<</linkreplace>>

The moment the four of you step out of the main hall and into the passageway, the atmosphere changes. It’s a subtle, near-imperceptible thing, not tied to any individual sense or particular feeling. The air grows the slightest bit warmer, sterile cold shifting to marginally more comfortable. A faint gust drifts along the corridor, carrying with it a mixture of scents you can’t quite place, though nothing in the bouquet strikes you as overtly offensive. //Habitation,// you realize as you walk. The entry and hallway to the ruins are contested land, friendly to neither side of the ongoing feud. But here, there’s a sense of simple comforts, of daily routine. Of life. Despite the austere walls of ancient, cracked stone, people have made their home in this desolate place. Except by ‘people,’ you mean a bunch of demons. The corridor veers left, then right thirty feet later. Two more switchbacks ensure the main hall is thoroughly out of sight and, perhaps more disconcertingly, earshot before a final blind corner deposits you and your companions in a chamber entirely unlike the others you’ve seen in these ruins. Curtains, tapestries, and cloth scraps of every make, shape, and size lie draped from floor to ceiling, thoroughly obscuring the walls of bare masonry and lending the room a softer quality that almost borders on luxuriant—an effect that’s further enhanced by sheets thrown over the prism lamps, dimming their usual light to a gentle, intimate glow. A sultan’s palace worth of pillows, cushions, and other assorted informal seating sprawls across the room, nearly touching from wall to wall—or curtain to curtain, at least—and leaving only narrow, winding walkways between. The cushions themselves appear shockingly plush and accommodating, a far cry from the furniture you’d expect to find in these decrepit halls. But your attention is drawn far less to the seating itself and instead to what resides upon it—or rather //who.// Dozens of figures lie draped in positions of lethargic entanglement, a gently shifting sea of shapes and forms, more flesh than fabric. Discerning where one ends and the next begins initially proves difficult in the dim light, but as your eyes adjust, you realize you’re staring at a curiously eclectic assembly. Most are imps similar to Purple—though you fail to spot the particular demon herself in the gathering. Some are larger, though still demonic in nature based on the horns and tails and mauve-purple skin tones. Yet, you also identify a few humans, demis, and even what might be a monster girl sprinkled among the crowd, each the focal point of their own devout congregation. Oh, and they’re all fucking. Or, well… ‘fucking’ might not be the most strictly accurate term. Whatever’s happening in this room, you feel reasonably confident that it’s not //not// sex. After all, even a brief appraisal finds plenty of contact, lots of shifting and grinding, and far, //far// too many wandering hands and mouths. Soft vocalizations drift through the air, forming a steady hum that lies somewhere between a murmur and a moan. But you don’t see much in the way of actual active intercourse either. Instead, each and every member of the gathering seems content to languish in curiously idle concupiscence, an aura of perpetual desire warring with pleasure-drunken stupor. Everyone, that is, except for a woman embracing a concealed figure at the heart of the orgy. A buffer of empty cushions lie between them and the closest demons—as if the orbiters are wary of being drawn into the ardent kiss. Yet again, your vocabulary falls short. ‘Kiss’ feels fundamentally inapt, less incorrect than entirely inadequate. It’s too passionate, too all-consuming—deeply intimate, yet almost violent in its intensity. Your cheeks flush, a small voice urging you to avert your eyes as if you’ll somehow find a more decent act in the lascivious revel. Before you can shake yourself from the trance or unroot your feet, the woman suddenly breaks off the kiss. A gossamer strand of saliva glimmers in the dim light as she rises to her feet and turns to face the four of you. And in that instant, you realize //exactly// what you’re looking at. <<linkreplace "A succubus">>A succubus—the platonic ideal of one, plucked from your imagination and given flesh and form. Twin, leathery wings flex behind her back as a thin, spade-tipped tail idly flicks through the air. Curled, ebon horns protrude from a head of sleek black hair and rest above a face of curiously purple skin that gleams with the faintest sheen of sweat. To your mild surprise, she’s clothed—if only in the most minimal sense of the word. Narrow, near-transparent strips of cloth and lace form what effectively amounts to an elaborate set of lingerie, the farthest thing from practical humanly imaginable. They’re an inexplicable mix of elegant and intimate—stately and deliberate, yet seemingly worn for the exclusive purpose of being removed in the most sensual fashion possible. A hand wipes across her mouth, fingers trailing on brilliantly scarlet lips. Eyes like flames flicker between each of you in turn, a mix of mild curiosity and diligent appraisal. She smiles, and your heart briefly lurches into an elated staccato. “Well, this is something of a surprise,” the succubus muses in a voice both richly sensual and remarkably comforting, like pleasant murmurs whispered directly in your ear. She takes a step forward, then glances at Sherine. “I’d assumed you were more of those emissaries here with another dreary plea. The petty conflicts of politics can be so dreadfully boring, wouldn’t you agree? Though I’ll gladly accept any… //offerings.”// Gaze unwavering, the demon rests a tender hand on her supine partner—a harpy, though not of a kind you’ve ever seen before. Feathers of brilliant blues and yellows and greens cascade from her arms and jut from the monster girl’s hair, vibrant hues clashing with vacant and unfocussed eyes. She lies there, motionless save for faintly parting lips and the slight rise and fall of her chest to indicate she’s alive. “But //you,”// the succubus suddenly continues, demanding your attention in an instant, “are so much better. So much more interesting. I can tell you’re here for more than some fleeting conquest or reckless exploration.” Her gaze snaps to you, and you struggle to meet it for fear of your cheeks bursting into flame. Desperate to avoid a case of spontaneous self-immolation, you hastily clear your throat. “Th- That’s correct. We’re here for, uhm…” Why are words so difficult? Have you always struggled with syllables and language? Is it an impediment, or is this woman’s betwitching, ravishing presence distracting you? How can someone be so goddamn captivating? Your brain attempts a cold shower. Then another. After about three heavy doses of un-sexy sobriety, you finally manage to get your train of thought back on track. “Actually, we //are// here because of reckless exploration.” She laughs, a genuine and melodic note that makes your heart soar. “Oh? Intrepid adventurers, braving the dangers of the long-abandoned dark? Then allow me, Mistress Calisia, to provide a moment of comfort and respite.” Ca-li-si-a. What a pretty name… The horned woman bends forward to dote upon the shifting crowd. A supple touch here, a dominant foot there and the coital sea parts, a clear path leading right up to the pile of luscious cushions surrounding her perch with plenty of room for you and your companions. “Please, come join me.” [[Approach|Succubus Phase 1: The Good, the Bad, and the Suck]]<</linkreplace>>

Heat builds as you step forward. Even with a clear path, the radiant fervor from all the surrounding bodies prickles at your skin in curiously pleasant fashion, less arid and parching, and more the rejuvenating warmth of a sauna. You pick a pillow and ease yourself down, only to find it more plush than any bed you’ve ever occupied in your entire life. As you sink in and relax, your eyes are drawn to your hostess leaning over the harpy. Mauve fingers trail along the monster girl’s shoulder, then slip to her chin where they will the harpy into an affectionate kiss. You barely hear the murmured words from Calisia’s lips, //“Such a shame we couldn’t enjoy each other longer.”// The slightest gesture from the succubus beckons a familiar figure from the crowd—Purple. The imp and another pair of demons tenderly lift the exhausted harpy from Calisia’s cushion, then work in unison to carry the monster girl back to the throng. Groping hands emerge from the mass of lavender flesh to welcome the newcomer. … And speaking of newcomers, you rudely forgot to introduce yourself to your mistress—Er, hostess. <<if $name == "Snack">>“O- Oh, right.” You blush, trying to stabilize your wavering voice. “I’m <<= $name>>.” “Oh my, what a deliciously appropriate name for someone so…” A flash of pink darts across her lips. //“… Appealing.”// “A- Ah- I—” Your protests sputter and die. After a minute, your brain reboots. “Ahem. I uhm… Right. Anyway, this is Aria, Ashlyn, and—”<<else>>“O- Oh, right.” You blush, trying to stabilize your wavering voice. You gesture to yourself, then your companions in turn. “I’m <<= $name>>. This is Aria, Ashlyn, and—”<</if>> “Sherine,” the lamia offers with a slight bow. Calisia, now reclined on her cushion, offers a warm smile and a slight nod to each of your companions in turn. “Lovely,” she purrs, lingering on Sherine for a moment longer before finally turning her attention back to you. “It’s all too rare that I have the opportunity to play hostess to visitors from the outside world—and from the nearby city, I presume. So, tell me, what brings the four of you to these halls?” She lifts one leg just a //liiittle// higher than you expect as silky, mauve thighs cross. //Sex. You’re here for sex. All of it. Now!// Brain, please. You’ve behaved very well so far, but this isn’t the time. It’s already hard enough to string together sentences… and remember to breathe at the same time. Hell, just looking at the real live succubus preen in front of you while keeping your heart beating is nearly impossible. //And those fucking legs. Hrnng…// In an act of saintly mercy, Sherine answers for you. “We’re here for the beast in the main hall. The hellhound.” Right. That’s a good answer. Simple and direct and even featuring a complete sentence. Good to know that Sherine still has her head on straight. “Intrepid indeed.” Calisia smirks, then props her chin on one hand. “That’s quite a tall order, even accounting for the companions you left in the main hall. Which, I assume, means you’ve come for my… //profane power?”// You nod. “S- Something like that, yeah.” The succubus laughs. “I appreciate the honesty, but I’m afraid to say I’m not much of a fighter. If you’re looking for one of those, I’d try my tragically wayward kin<<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>.” She suddenly fixes you with a curious grin. “Though since you’re here, I’m guessing your conversation with her didn’t prove especially productive.” “I- I… We—” “Relax,” Calisia chuckles. “I can hardly blame you for considering all your options. Did she make you an offer? Something like, ‘Help me defeat that vile temptress, and with her power I will vanquish the hellhound?’” At your nod, another slight laugh escapes the succubus’ lips. “I’m impressed you persuaded her to talk. She’s usually one for fury first and questions later.” Yeah, you can believe that.<<else>>, assuming she’s actually in the mood for conversation.” Thank goodness you picked the friendlier demon.<</if>> //Gluck.// Curious, you lean to your side and glance past the succubus to discover a familiar pair of vibrant wings sliding into the mouth of a reclined demon one lazy gulp at a time. The harpy’s legs dangle, limp, as she’s eased inward, sluggishly guided by a dozen hands lethargically caressing both predator and prey. “Though, perhaps I can offer something else,” Calisia suddenly continues. “Less brutish, I’ll admit. But knowledge is a power of a sort, and I happen to know exactly how that hellhound came to be locked behind that barrier. Maybe you’ll find something useful in that tale?” “Th- That would be helpful,” you say with a nod. “Thank you.” [[Settle back and listen|She's so hot, she's like a curry]]

Calisia rises to her feet and casts a silent gaze at the surrounding throng. An idle glance finds the harpy’s talons resting between a pair of plush lips. With nearly all of the prey gone, the nearby demons have grown more vehement—and amorous—in their attentions to the predator. The spectacle seems to imbue the room with a surge of life, a roiling thrum of energy like the waves from a stone dropped into a lake. Yet, the lusty atmosphere registers as a background hum, as an incidental curiosity, fleeting and unimportant when held against the succubus mere paces away. “We manifested all at once just over twenty-four years ago,” she says. “Every single one of us demons. There were more at first—//many// more. Easily a hundred or so all crammed into these halls.” “Do you know why?” you ask. “W- Why you all, err… appeared, I mean?” The succubus fixes her attention squarely on you. “Should I?” She steps forward, flashing a wry grin. “Would you consider yourself an expert on your conception, <<= $name>>?” “Uhh, t- that’s—” You falter as Calisia’s fingers gently rest against the back of your hand, the torrid warmth of her touch matched only by the aching cold left when she withdraws. “Of course,” she says, turning to pace between the cushions, “some of my kin had theories. A ritual gone awry, or an inexplicable quirk of natural phenomena. I’ve never cared much for mysteries, but there was this…” The demon hesitates, drawing in a slow breath. “This //aura.// So much mana in the air, rich enough you could just stand there and bathe in it, drink it like nectar. It’s a shame it faded with time.” Calisia chuckles. “Truth be told, those early days were miserable. So many demons scrambling for power, desperate to carve their place in the pecking order. Endless squabbling and fighting, pointless betrayals and mind-numbing intrigue.” She lets out a sound of disgust. “Don’t let my kin with anger issues fool you—things are //much// better now. “Though,” she adds, sauntering to Aria’s side, “I //do// miss you mortals. There were a handful in the halls themselves when we appeared. Bookish types. Fun to toy with.” Calisia lets out a wistful sigh as she rests a hand on the theurge’s shoulder. “Such a shame they didn’t last. But for the next year, more humans just kept coming. A few one week, a dozen the next. A steady supply of entertainment, until they eventually stopped. Fortunately, I’ve learned to preserve my playthings better since then.” The succubus glances down at Aria, who looks to be blushing furiously under even the mildest attention. You can’t blame her. “Ah, right. The hellhound.” Calisia snaps her fingers, withdrawing from the theurge. “She was here, too. At first, there were enough humans to keep her occupied, sated. And then enough unimportant demons once the humans ran out. But as we established a hierarchy, she became something of a problem. A bit too feral to bend the knee. And too hungry to keep properly satisfied.” The succubus pauses by Sherine, flashing the lamia a knowing grin. “There were three of us in command once things settled down: myself, Dardariel—<<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>my condolences that you met with her first<<else>>that’s the erinyes you should pray you never meet<</if>>—and, of course, Tra’mhara. She proved herself our superior: through might for the erinyes, and sheer stubborn resolve for me. It was her idea to imprison the hellhound, but it took our combined efforts to subdue the beast long enough to craft the barrier.” Calisia attempts to move on, nearly tripping over the tip of Sherine’s tail coiled around her ankle. The two exchange mixed expressions, intrigue from the demon and a lingering query from the lamia. “You seem fun,” the succubus murmurs, a devious smirk darting across her lips an instant before she turns to face the rest of you. “But as I was saying, with the hellhound imprisoned and Tra’mhara keeping the worst of our squabbling in check, we settled into a comfortable status quo that lasted nearly two decades.” “But something happened,” Sherine supplies. Calisia pauses to glance back at the lamia. “Unfortunately, yes.” She lets out a dramatic sigh, then suddenly plops next to Ashlyn on the narrow cushion. Naturally, the mage takes the opportunity to press her chest against the demon’s. “Something always has to happen. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Tra’mhara’s not around anymore. Otherwise, she would’ve been the first to greet you in the main hall. And by greet, I mean overpower and imprison each and every one of you. She was always hostile to outsiders.” The succubus throws an arm around Ashlyn’s shoulder and pulls her even closer. The mage, for her part, embraces the contact with a befuddled cheer while she blatantly ogles the demon’s scantily clad form and watches the tail waggle alluringly. A single purple finger draws a soft line under the mage’s chin, slow and sensuous. Calisia’s evil eyes meet the utter chaos of Ashlyn’s, the women drawing together like circling stars, closer and closer. The mage gleefully slides up the last inch and plants her lips on the succubus’. They share the passionate kiss, then part. “Go on,” Calisia purrs to the mage with an encouraging grin. Her tail rises into view, sliding along Ashlyn’s neck curiously. “You may touch. You’ve earned it.” Ashlyn doesn’t hesitate to do just that. The back of her finger runs along the length, then finds the spade tip and squeezes gently. She fiddles for a moment to get a sense of the appendage, watching as it writhes and wriggles in her gentle grasp like a snake. Then, as you’ve come to expect from Ashlyn, she puts it in her mouth—it’s the main way the woman interacts with the world, after all. “See?” the succubus continues as the tail //splops// from the mage’s mouth, then slithers down to caress Ashlyn’s chest. Your companion shudders and eases back with a wide grin on her face, letting it glide across the swells like a feather duster. Her own hands rise to join, sharing in the caress of flesh. Calisia smiles, satisfied to be of service. “This is so much better than all that needless violence. I never understood Tra’mhara’s zeal.” “S- So what happened to her?” you ask, mildly surprised to find your voice. “She vanished,” Calisia says. [[…That’s it?|She's so hot, she's making me sexist]]

You blink. “That’s it?” The succubus shrugs, still multitasking as the tail slides along your companion’s corset. “One day she was here. The next she wasn’t. No fanfare or spectacle, just gone without a trace.” “That’s…” “Underwhelming, right?” Calisia sighs, reaching a free hand over to Ashlyn’s skirt and lifting barely an inch. Her tail slips under excitedly. “I assure you, I wasn’t responsible. I was perfectly content leaving things as they were. With Tra’mhara bearing the bulk of the responsibility, I was free to do as I pleased. And as a bonus, Dardariel’s antics were kept mostly in line. “Nor,” she adds after a moment, “do I suspect any of my followers were responsible. Like me, they lacked the desire for treachery, or the strength to overwhelm.” You frown. “<<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>So the erin—err, Dardariel was lying when she blamed you?” “Oh, no.” Calisia flashes a curious grin. “I doubt she has<<else>>So then it was…” “Oh, no. I doubt Dardariel was responsible either.” Calisia flashes a curious grin. “She lacks<</if>> the capacity for long-standing deception. And besides, if that crazed warmonger was going to kill anyone, it would have been me.” Ashlyn scoots closer, legs shifting and shuffling as she tries to capture the wriggling tail—presumably for her own self-pleasure. When the thin tether yoinks back, she reaches out with both hands to grab it, then gently coaxes it along the channel of her thighs back to where it belongs. Calisia notices the not-so-subtle tug of war, then turns a smoldering glare onto Ashlyn. The mage pouts and mewls submissively as she releases the spade-tip. “Now I know what you’re going to ask next: if neither I nor Dardariel killed poor old Tra’mhara, who //was// responsible? And unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea, nor have I spent much time attempting to find an answer.” She flashes a charming grin. “Like I said, I’m not one for mysteries. I prefer the simpler things in life.” “I can see that,” Sherine drawls, gesturing to Ashlyn as she tries once again to steal away the tail for sexual use. “Your submissive thralls must get quite drab after two decades.” “I assure you, they’re //very// well trained.” She gestures proudly to the throng. “I teach by example, after all.” The lamia eyes Ashlyn for a skeptical moment. “Which is why you’re so eager for a stranger’s touch, I take it. New faces, new bodies, new experiences. //Surprises.”// “Surprises are overrated,” Calisia says as she shuffles onto Ashlyn’s lap, much to the mage’s delight. She presses another kiss on your companion’s lips, then sends slender fingers cascading down the mage’s spine. Reciprocating touches fondle and grope at Calisia’s curves, tug at lacey straps. The succubus pulls away from the kiss, leaving Ashlyn to beg and lick along the purple neckline, eager for more attention from your generous hostess. The demon smiles. “I’ve had plenty from Dardariel over the past twenty years. Though as it turns out, this new arrangement has worked out far more favorably than I could have ever imagined. “You see,” the demon continues, her tail curling around Ashlyn’s waist to join the fray. A wing extends to caress a reaching arm, drawing the mage’s fascination at the new contender. “Dardariel’s never been one for leadership. She provides inspiration of a kind, I’ll admit. To rage and violence. But that only works for a time. It’s a fleeting passion, a flame doomed to burn itself out. But //I—”// Calisia lifts a leg up and over her partner’s thigh, “—offer something better. I speak to people’s desires. To what they want, what they //need.”// Calisia curls around the mage, pressing her sex against Ashlyn’s middle. The demon lifts herself up just enough from the supporting lap to slide a hand into the valley between your companion’s legs. Ashlyn moans her approval as the pair form a rhythm, bodies bucking in perfect sync. The demon’s arm jerks and thrusts, pushing unseen pleasure into her partner, skirt jostling as the invisible war wages. The mage’s moaning rises to a lascivious pitch, a faint hymn amid the thrum of the ongoing orgy. “<<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>How many followers did dear Dardariel have left?<<else>>Poor Dardariel. I wonder how many followers she has these days.<</if>> Ten? Five? That’s the influence rage and fear earns. These?” Calisia sweeps her free hand in a lazy arc, gesturing to the surrounding demons. “They flocked to me, threw themselves at my feet, pleaded for my affection. Each and every one of them.” Small flares of magic hiss uncontrollably from Ashlyn’s fingertips as she bucks and pulses. Calisia’s pace becomes rapid, frantic. “… And I’m more than happy to provide.” Ashlyn tenses, legs clenching as her hips jerk wildly. Calisia pulls the quaking mage against her body, practically smothering her in supple curves. She rides the crashing wave, reveling in every subtle twitch. Her wings spread, quivering. Toes curls and fingers dig. A pink tongue lolls out of her mouth. The mage’s orgasm waning, Calisia lifts herself from the cushiony thighs, then gently eases a spent Ashlyn onto the pillow. The demon stretches like a satisfied cat, arms extended above her head and bringing every luxurious curve of her body into full view. Her already smoldering sex appeal explodes into a raging fire before your eyes. She’s difficult to even look at—too impossibly alluring to exist—yet you can’t begin to imagine looking anywhere else. //“Mhmm…”// the mage coos. The demon puts a playful finger on Ashlyn’s lips. Her tail slides into view and floats curiously over your companion’s forehead, then //opens.// Slick goo dribbles into red hair. The spade expands over Ashlyn’s head, suckling and stetching. “Dardariel doesn’t have the numbers to attack me, and she knows it. And I have no need to attack her. I’ve already won. It’s merely a matter of time before the last of her followers see reason. And then finally, all the demons in these lousy ruins will be mine.” ‘All?’ But what about the—Right. //That’s// why you’re here. [[What about the hellhound?|Bitch]]

“What about the hellhound?” you ask. “What about her?” the succubus says, tail enveloping Ashlyn’s face and rolling down her neck. “She’s a tragically dull creature, all hunger and no passion. The intelligence is one thing—I have a few thralls that struggle with a single sentence—but she’s hardly more than a feral beast. Not exactly my—Oh, you mean to //kill// her.” The tail //shlurks// over Ashlyn’s shoulders, then greedily engulfs her to the elbows, the thin membrane wrapping her in a flesh-tight cocoon. “That sort of violence isn’t usually my thing, especially when she’s already locked behind a barrier that will outlast these walls.” That actually makes a lot of sense. The more you listen to Calisia speak, the more you realize she’s shockingly pragmatic in her approach to the world. Why engage in a fight when inaction is working well enough? Why take a risk when the tide is already shifting in your favor? You could probably learn a lot from her. “So you’ll simply ignore the beast?” Sherine asks, an edge of mean-spirited humor tainting her otherwise polite tone. “Hope the problem goes away with time?” Calisia blinks, the briefest moment of surprise melting into a pleasant smile. “I prefer to play to my strengths and understand when a challenge is proving too //stubborn// for my talents.” The succubus adjusts her posture, better allowing her tail to continue working down her meal’s torso. “Oh, but forgive me. I’ve been taking all the entertainment for myself.” Calisia waves her hand, and four demons emerge from the orgy. An imp saunters her way over to Aria, while the remaining three approach Sherine. “I know they’re mere… //submissive thralls,”// the succubus continues. “But as my guest, feel free to enjoy them to your heart’s content.” Two of the demons immediately throw themselves in front of Sherine, vying for the lamia’s attention, one immediately reaching for her face with pawing hands and puckered lips, and the other lavishing praise upon your companion’s bare stomach. The third climbs around onto the serpentine tail where she slips from sight. “It’s a shame,” Sherine says as she rebukes the particularly over-eager demon at her front. “Life without the pursuit of—//mmh//—genuine challenge sounds awfully boring.” “It’s pleasurable,” Calisia purrs, an audible //squelch// claiming the mage’s waist. “You should try it some time. Let others lavish you with deserved adoration.” “I—//ah!//—I have plenty of…” The lamia falters as the demon at her back plants a kiss on her neck. A half-hearted push from the lamia doesn’t quite connect. Amber eyes grow less and less focussed with each passing second, with every touch from her newfound attendants. A shiver courses down her spine as a demon licks at her midriff. “It’s… //nnf//…” “Having trouble concentrating, dear?” Calisia’s lips curl to an immensely self-satisfied grin. “One too many //surprises// for your tastes?” At the lack of response from Sherine, the succubus smirks, then reaches back to rub her hand along her bumpy, swollen tail having its way with her prey. The narrow mouth clings tight as it shifts and shimmies over the mage’s body, drawing her inside inch by luxurious inch. Every feature is clearly visible through the stretched flesh, the mage’s arms locked to her sides, hands tucked neatly between her legs as she gyrates. You watch, drooling, as the tail slithers closer and closer toward its meal’s conclusion, slurping up prey that’s far, //far// too large for its petite stature. The spade tip flares and rises up in a prideful swagger, like a garter snake that’s about to finish swallowing a rabbit. Calisia herself helps yank off a pair of boots, then chuckles as the rolling tube gobbles up succulent ankles and goes straight for the exposed toes. It ends with a wet //slorp// the spade tip sealing shut without even the slightest hint of an orifice. The contoured bulge glides slowly through the tail, tauntingly ushered up toward where the appendage protrudes from the bottom of Calisia’s spine. The succubus wiggles her butt backward, letting the tight-wrapped head of her meal enter her body proper. A hand glides to her taut middle, then drifts outward as her belly swells. A minor bump becomes a pleasing bulge. Calisia catches your gaze, then shifts to allow you to witness her meal be pulled through her tail and into her gut. It’s nothing short of wonderful. You could watch this all day. A shudder ripples through the demon’s body as the last of her prey is deposited into her stomach, her toes curling and wings twitching. Her eyelids flutter, a hitched gasp hissing between her lips before tapering off into a contented moan. She rubs lazy circles over the swell of flesh, fingers gently tracing the contours of the food now fully ingested—in its rightful place. Calisia’s eyes part slowly as if the succubus is waking from a pleasant dream. After an idle sweep of the room, her gaze settles squarely on you, appraising, eager. //Hungry.// A lance of dread pierces your heart, violently cold in an ocean of warm and pleasant numbness. You know that look. On some deep, intrinsic level, you understand this is a predator who’s just laid eyes on her next prey. //You.// She just ate your mage, and now she— Wait… Hold on. Something’s not right here… What the hell? She //fucked// Ashlyn, and then she //ate// her. Right in front of you. And you just sat there contentedly and let it happen. What the fuck is going on? What are you doing? You’ve been coasting through this whole conversation, letting the succubus just step all over you. Your mind feels like batter, and she’s happily stirring away, gleefully heating the oven for the impending cake. You need to shout. You need to run. You need to grab your weapon and attack the succubus before you fall back under her sp— “<<= $name>>, was it?” Calisia calls, voice clear and brilliant. The tone soothes at your anxieties, plunging you back into the realm of peace and ease and all things comfortable. “You seem nervous. Is something wrong?” “O- Oh, no. Not at all.” The words slip from your mouth, yet they’re not quite your own. Something’s definitely wrong. You need to… do something. Something important. But what was it again? [[Try to remember…|Succubus Phase 2: She ate her, and now she’s going to eat me. Oh my gaaaawwd]]

Calisia rises from her throne and struts forward, molten heat radiating around her, blurring the rest of the room as the world narrows to just you and her glistening body. “You look so lonely down there.” Calisia extends an open palm and a warm invitation. “Come here. Let’s get to know each other a little better.” By your best estimate, she seems like a great friend to have. For one, she’s beautiful. And second, uhh… she’s clearly an accomplished predator if that wonderful swell in her stomach is anything to go by. You like to surround yourself with powerful women, right? Why not bask a little in Calisia’s aura, curry a bit of favor with the mighty demon. Also, was it mentioned that she’s beautiful? Like, gouge-your-eyes-out levels of voluptuousness. <<linkreplace "Stand beside her">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Succ1 to true>>You take her tender hand in your own and gasp as she effortlessly hoists you to your feet. Strong //and// beautiful, oh my. She tugs gently, urging you closer with a wispy, enticing gesture. Feet leaden, you drift and waver in place, then gasp when her stomach brushes against your torso. Calisia chuckles, patting an amused hand along the top of the protrusion. She must have forgotten. How adorable and silly of her. “You’ll have to pardon this bump—it’s temporary, I promise,” she explains in a reassuring tone, all sugar and honey. Fuck, even her voice is beautiful—you just want to bask and drink her all in for the rest of your life. The succubus smiles. “Now, come closer. Embrace me, <<= $name>>.” <<linkreplace "Wrap your arms around her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Succ2 to true>>You nuzzle in gleefully, fingers gliding across her soft, supple flesh—she’s every bit as lucious as you’d hoped, and even more gorgeous up close. Purple skin blushes and sweeps in all the right ways, her glowing visage captured perfectly even in the dim light. An arm curls around your back, then hooks your side and pulls you close. “See? There’s nothing to be nervous about. No barriers need to stand between us. You and I can share //everything,// <<= $name>>.” A sudden movement from her gut nudges your side. She sweeps a loving hand across the stretch of skin, then pushes the stray bump back into place with a soft sigh. The same hand glides up to meet your chin, a single finger drawing your gaze back up to her glowing eyes. A darling smile dances across her features. “Kiss me. Let’s be //very// good friends. Forever.” Well, forever is a pretty long time to be entwined with someone. Or a short time, depending on what she means by— Oh, nevermind. How could someone as lovely as her have anything but the utmost best intentions for someone like you? It’s preposterous. You’re perfectly safe right now. [[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 1]] <<linkreplace "Maybe not…">><<replace "#choices3">>You lean close, carried by a current of raw need, lips aching for gentle touch, heart thundering with wild abandon. At long last, you’ve found your place in this world. By Calisia’s side, in her arms, entwined together in— You hesitate, suddenly heeding the doubts and uncertainties that have always undermined your ability to strive, to succeed. And then, like a fucking idiot, you turn away and miss your one and only chance at true love. “I, ah… M- Maybe not yet,” you stammer, every syllable dripping with unapologetic cowardice. Apparently content with being alone forever, you remove yourself from Calisia’s loving embrace though, in a final act of crippling uncertainty, are not quite willing to free your hand from her own. The succubus smiles with the patience of a saint—far better than you deserve. “That’s alright. There’s no need to rush things along.” She gestures back to her throne. “Come, join me. Let’s get to know each other better, first.” <<include "A Little Help From My Brain">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Keep your distance">><<replace "#choices2">>“I- I think I’m… good over here,” you say like an absolute fool. You try to blink yourself sober—as if it’ll help—but the damage is already done. You stagger an inch away from the succubus and only narrowly avoid the idiotic mistake of separating entirely thanks to her gentle handhold. It’s a good thing she’s around; you’re clearly incapable of making intelligent decisions on your own. “I understand.” Calisia smiles with the patience of a saint—far better than you deserve. She gestures to her throne. “Come, join me. We can get to know each other better, first.” <<include "A Little Help From My Brain">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Stay seated">><<replace "#choices">>“Ah, n- no… I don’t…” you awkwardly mumble, every syllable dripping with unapologetic cowardice. “Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.” She presses a finger to your chin, willing your gaze to meet her own. “What was that?” “I, uhh…” Thoughts sputter and fizzle before those brilliant eyes and that captivating smile, rendered ephemeral and unimportant. What could you have possibly meant to say? Surely something trivial and silly. Something self-sabotaging and utterly foolish. Why speak when you can simply bask in her presence, allow yourself to be the subject of her attention or—dare you hope—her affection? Warm fingers entwine, tender and soft. She pulls, hardly more than a gentle suggestion, and you find yourself rising weightlessly, as if gravity itself wants you to be by Calisia’s side. Another pull, and you drift closer, only to abruptly gasp when you bump right into her bulging stomach. Calisia chuckles, patting an amused hand along the top of the protrusion. She must have forgotten. How adorable and silly of her. “You’ll have to pardon this bump—it’s temporary, I promise,” she explains in a reassuring tone, all sugar and honey, then gestures to her throne. “Come, join me. Let’s get to know each other a bit better.” <<include "A Little Help From My Brain">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Not waiting for an answer, the succubus begins guiding you back toward her cushions. You dutifully follow along, wanting nothing more than to remain close. A soft //glurp// echoes from behind, and you turn just long enough to watch Sherine’s lips slide over the shoulders of a demon as the other two fawning minions continue their devoted attention. It’s good to see everyone else is having fun, too. Calisia eases you down first, allowing you to find a comfortable spot in the plush expanse before nestling at your side. Your blood heats at the demon’s sudden closeness, but a gentle smile eases those tensions away in a heartbeat. You could sit here for hours, sharing in the reassuring warmth of her close presence, the soothing comfort of her touch. Oh, and the stomach that’s practically lying on your lap. Now that it has your attention, it’s honestly hard to look anywhere else. It’s just sitting there, shifting with the light squirms of Calisia’s prey, an almost impossibly tantalizing display practically begging for you to reach out and— “Like what you see?” Calisia asks. “There’s no need to be shy. No need to hide what you want.” Your heart drops into your stomach, then abruptly lurches back to a frantic staccato. With such an open invitation, who are you to turn her down? [[Maybe you could… touch her?|Id]]

//Hi, hello, howdy. This is your brain speaking. I feel like I need to join this conversation. It doesn’t seem to be going well for you, and I’m here to offer help.// Oh no. Not now, brain. You’ve got enough to handle already; you don’t need ‘helpful’ interjections from some primal, animalistic voice telling you to— //No no. It’s not like that. Sure, we’ve had differing opinions on the topic of sex with predators in the past, but the direness of this situation is clear. You’ve lost control of your superego—this demon seems to have wiped all sense and morality from your conscious mind. And in survival situations like this, your id kicks in to save your ass. That’s me. I’m here to help you make the right choice, the one that’s best for your health and wellbeing. Promise. Pinky swear.// “<<= $name>>,” Calisia coos, her gooey warmth approaching as she shifts an inch closer. “It’s okay, you can touch my belly all you want. You’ve hardly looked anywhere else.” She chuckles, light and bubbly. “I’m happy to share my body with someone as <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>brave<<elseif $MiraDating == true>>cute<<else>>charming<</if>> as you.” //Okay, this one’s easy. Very straightforward. You got this, <<= $name>>. Just take a deep breath and make the right choice.// <<linkreplace "Reach out and touch her">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Succ3 to true>>Your hand approaches the stomach slowly, a hesitant pilgrim to the promised land. Fingertips settle against warm, pliant flesh, then press further, feeling the vague contours of skin and muscle, of the prey held within. Confidence bolsters with each passing second as you surrender to the pleasant sensations, allowing your second hand to join the first. //No! You weren’t supposed to—That’s not— Damn, okay. It really seemed like a simple choice, but things aren’t so clear for you right now. That’s okay, I don’t blame you. You’ll get it next time. I know you will.// Slightly startled like the mewling coward that you are, your palms lift an inch off the warm bulge in retreat, though your fingers refuse to budge. You’re not sure there’s enough willpower in your entire body to pry yourself entirely away from the sensuous pleasure so plainly offered. Shaking, confused, you await further instruction. //It’s alright. Keep touching her belly; it’ll make you happy and we can use that. The hit of endorphins will bolster your resolve. Creature comforts will give you the mental capacity to think clearly without any of that fight or flight nonsense getting in the way. Trust me, it’s simple psychology.// Reassured, you lean into the soft touch, pressing fully and rubbing slow, joyful circles around Calisia’s swollen abdomen. Your tender ministrations find resistance beneath the flesh, the solid form of an entire person curled up and tucked away. Slowly, gleefully, you feel out all the edges, all the shapes that make the luxuriant mass on your lap the perfect thing that it is. The succubus moans her pleasure at your thorough exploration. “Oh, <<= $name>>,” Calisia coos, leaning forward to meet your eyes. Slender fingers dance and tease up your forearms. <<if $Succ2 == true>>“Are you ready for that kiss? I know I am.”<<else>>“Let’s get a little closer. How about a kiss?”<</if>> //Okay good, you’ve got another chance to do this right. Go on, tiger. Show her you mean business.// [[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 2]] <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#choices2">>It takes most of your pathetic willpower, but you do, unfortunately, manage to resist her charms… or something. Whatever, you got your way. There’s no need to describe it like it’s some sort of triumph. @@color:red;Calisia smiles, clearly amused that you’re willing to string her along.@@ If there’s a single bright spot among your utterly foolish decision to resist her wiles, it’s that— //Wait. Hold on. What was that? Did she—Was that… Did she seem dejected to you? You saw the way she reacted negatively to your choice, right? Holy shit. She might actually be interested in you! Like, sexually… romantically, even! What the fuck are you doing turning her down like that!? You need to get in there and kiss her. We need her. Things will be better with her around: she’s got that tail to slurp up all your problems. No more annoying arguments, no need to choose your words carefully or give a shit about anyone’s feelings or any crap like that. Calisia will be a great addition to the team. She’ll take good take care of you.// Your brain makes an excellent point. You better start doing what she asks, or else you’ll miss this opportunity. And there //will// be consequences if you fuck this up. <<include "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Keep your hands to yourself">><<replace "#choices">>“N- No,” you swallow a dry lump in your throat, then blush like the cowardly baby that you are. “Thank you. I don’t think I should…” @@color:red;Calisia smiles, clearly amused that you’re going to be stringing her along.@@ If there’s a single bright spot amid your utterly foolish decision to resist her wiles, it’s that you’ll at least provide a spot of entertainment as she hunts you down. //Wait. Hold on. What was that? What just happened? Did she—Was that… Did she seem dejected to you? You saw the way she reacted negatively to your choice, right? Holy shit. She might actually be interested in you! Like, sexually… romantically, even!// Her hand takes your own once more, gentle and fond—a lover’s touch. She guides you toward her stomach, a hesitant pilgrim shepherded to the promised land. You press against pliant flesh, uncertain at first, then increasingly confident with each passing second. This is wonderful. Why on earth did you ever consider saying no when //this// is what was being offered? Warmth seeps through your fingers as you press fully and rub slow, joyful circles around Calisia’s swollen abdomen. Tender ministrations find resistance beneath the flesh, the solid form of an entire person curled up and tucked away. Gleefully, you feel out all the edges, all the shapes that make the luxuriant mass on your lap the perfect thing that it is. //See? What the fuck were you thinking? You need to get in there and appease her. We need her. Things would certainly be better with her around: she’s got that tail to slurp up all your problems. No more annoying arguments, no need to choose your words carefully or give a shit about anyone’s feelings or any crap like that. Calisia will be a great addition to the team. She’ll take good take care of you.// Your brain makes an excellent point. You better start complying more often of your own accord, or else you’ll miss this opportunity to woo such a wonderful person. <<include "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You cross the breathless gap. Lips meet, a tongue greets. She pulls you closer, whole body pressing into the world-shaking kiss. Your heart thunders as idle hands find their way onto her skin, sweeping across the silky expanses, drawing you ever deeper, intertwining. An eternity passes in the lascivious tangle. Gently, like the receding tide, Calisia guides you to her perch, the two of you never breaking your fervent contact. You’re seated at her side—right where you belong. The swell of her stomach shifts onto your lap as she sidles closer, and you gladly accept the burden, both arms embracing your generous hostess. You barely manage a breath between tongue lashings as a hand curls around your neck and pulls you in for another round. <<include "SuccGameover A">>

You lean and press your lips against hers. //No wait, you did it wrong—// The world beyond your tied tongues disappears in an instant, banished by the all-encompassing revel of sharing deep contact with an other. She pulls you closer, whole body pressing into the world-shaking kiss. Your heart thunders as idle hands find their way onto her skin, sweeping across the silky expanses, drawing you ever deeper, intertwining. An eternity passes in the lascivious tangle. <<include "SuccGameover A">>

The succubus shifts, one hand wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer. The other reaches for the sky as she stretches and arches her back. Her bust rises into view, proud and pronounced, before sinking back to its proper place. A finger glides along your lip to catch a stray glob of drool. “Aren’t you uncomfortable in those clothes?” Her playful hand tugs and teases at the hem of your tunic. She lifts an inch, and you intelligently do nothing to stop her. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable without this stuffy thing? Wouldn’t it feel //wonderful// to press your chest against my soft, warm body?” //Oh hell yes. Do it. Take your shirt off, you sexy beast.// [[Take your shirt off|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] [[Keep your shirt on|Shirt and Tie]]

<<if $SuccX == true>>Excellent! Having made an incredibly clear, conscious, and deliberate choice, you eagerly<<else>>You<</if>> shimmy out of your tunic like it’s nothing. The chainmail and undershirt come next, tossed aside like the pesky, pointless things they always were. Overjoyed, Calisia leans in and dotes lightly upon your bare chest. Her touches are like liquid fire, fingers thawing, pleasant lines across your frigid form. She slides around your shoulder, then dances down your clavicle, plunging eagerly toward— <<include "A moment of clarity">>

Are you //sure// you don’t want to remove your shirt? <<linkreplace "Yes">><<replace "#choices">>Oh, so you //do// want to remove your shirt after all. Got it. [[Yes|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] <<linkreplace "Wait, no… that’s not what you meant at all">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $SuccX to true>>Right. A bit of confusion on your part makes sense. Here, let’s clear things up. So you’re abstaining from refusing to say no to wearing your shirt, yeah? [[Yes|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] <<linkreplace "No">><<replace "#choices3">>Okay, okay. Just double checking. You do not condone or tolerate the idea that you do not, nor ever will, consider not removing your shirt, and you’re gonna prove it? [[Uhm, yes, you’re going with yes|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] <<linkreplace "No">><<replace "#choices4">>Alright, and again. Third time’s the charm, after all. You refuse to never wear your shirt in situations where you’re asked whether or not you’ll remove your shirt for people who are not wearing anything that, by any definition, could be considered a shirt. Is that correct? [[… Yes?|Not Sexy Enough For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] [[… No?|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] [[Okay, what the fuck|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]] <</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</replace>><</linkreplace>> [[No|Too Sexy For My Shirt][$Succ4 to true]]

Unable to summon any further logical protest, you simply shake your head and clutch your collar, unable to stop a coy smile from crossing your features. Calisia, ever the gracious hostess, nods and watches as you lean away slightly from her. Grip tightens. Your thumb finds one of the chainmail links beneath the tunic and tugs. The metal shifts and pulls the undershirt up your torso, starting at your navel and brushing accidentally against— <<include "A moment of clarity">>

You jolt, the sudden pain of your scar snapping you back to cold sobriety. You blink at Calisia in confusion, holding your breath and praying she hasn’t already noticed your sudden mental paradigm shift. It takes all your focus to clear the lusty miasma clinging at the edges of your thoughts. In the moment of freedom, you take stock. The succubus ate Ashlyn. The mage is still moving in there, so hopefully you’ve got time—though there’s no way to be certain how long you’ve got when there’s demonic anatomy on the table. Second, Calisia’s putting the moves on you. //Hard.// So hard, incredibly tempting and teasing and worming her way through all your defenses with silky touches and blatant suggestions. You’re putty in her hands, and she’s just toying with you until— //Glump.// You turn a cautious eye toward Sherine in time to watch her crimson lips seal over a set of wriggling demon toes. A wobbling lump falls through her middle to join another still lazily slumping its way into her tail proper. The lamia languishes in the pleasure, fingers tracing the meal descending through her body. She hardly notices the last uneaten servitor grinding against her scales, far too preoccupied with the meal of the moment. The sudden release of pressure from your lap wrenches attention back onto Calisia. She rises, thigh brushing past your flush cheek. A delicate pirouette turns into a flourish as she hooks her fingers teasingly beneath the scanty straps that make up her outfit. Oh no… //… Oh yes.// The demon rolls her shoulders, sliding out of the lingerie with sensual ease, lace tumbling down her bare flesh in an erotic cascade. Wings stretch, leathery webbing pulling taut as they reach their apex. Soft pink nipples peek out of her chest. Breasts jiggle free, rolling atop her the swell of her stomach like sturdy water balloons. She turns and wiggles her ass out of the wrapping, then simply lets the confusing knots fall to the floor. Calisia’s heated gaze returns, watching you like you’re a boiling pot. She licks her lips, then bites her thumb, coy. “I thought I’d get more comfortable. I hope you don’t mind.” “N- N- Not at all,” you mewl<<if $xe == "he">> like a good boy<<elseif $xe == "she">> like a good girl<</if>>. “Th- This is… It’s nice—It’s better than nice, it’s, uhm…” Words fail. You don’t need them anyway. You bask before her naked glory, utterly spellbound. Calisia bends forward to bring her face down to your level, and your hormones explode like a volcano. “<<= $name>>,” she starts, letting the name roll around her tongue like a lollipop. “I think we’ve put this off long enough, don’t you?” //“Wh-Whh- Whmm…”// is all you can manage. “I’m yours, this is all for you.” She thrusts her chest forward and sways from side to side, making her breasts do incredibly interesting things. “I need you, <<= $name>>. To touch me. Kiss me. Make love to me. //Complete me.”// [[Have sex with the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down">><<replace "#choices">>[[Really? Are you sure?|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down">><<replace "#choices">>[[Have sex with the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] [[Hey, stop clicking decline!|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down… like an idiot">><<replace "#choices">>[[Click me to have sex with the succubus!|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down, proving your deep-seated insecurities will always win">><<replace "#choices">>[[Seriously, how hard is it to click the right button?|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down and forfeit all sense of pride and dignity">><<replace "#choices">>[[For the love of—I’m right here! Fucking. Click. Me!|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] <<linkreplace "Turn her down to die a virgin">><<replace "#choices">>[[Before you are two choices: one of them always lies, and the other always tells the truth|Succubus Gameover Hook 3]] [[Turn her down and disappoint everyone you love|No Touchie]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Through stubborn—and woefully misused—force of will, you narrowly manage to quell the liquid lust that burns in your veins, your hand halting mere inches from exposed flesh, quivering with barely restrained desire. For reasons beyond any rational understanding, you merely sit there and allow this unbelievably perfect opportunity to slip through your fingers. //Hey, listen to me. You suck. I hate you. The narration and I have been pleading desperately with you to do this, to give us this one simple thing. And you can’t. You’re an utter failure, a scourge upon reproducing creatures everywhere. Why do you have to be like this?// The demon smiles at you. It’s probably out of pity. Perhaps even disdain—Oh, wait, she’s doing something. Calisia kneels before you, all curves and swagger. She smiles like melting butter. “I see, it’s these trousers. I’m fully undressed and you’re still stuck in these silly things,” she chuckles and crawls for your legs, slow and teasing, wings fluttering as her ass rises into view. The demon’s wiry tail bends into a heart shape. “You humans and your clothing. So frivolous.” Fingers reach for your waist and gently pull as an eager light glimmers in the succubus’ eyes. “How about we take these off, and we’ll see how you feel then?” //A blowjob! There’s hope for you yet, you fucking traitor. I’ll get the blood down there right away. Just gotta redirect the flow from your brain stem, please wait.// @@font-size: 300px;[[TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS|Accept Pants][$Succ5 to true]]@@ @@font-size: 12px;[[Keep them on|Resist Pants]]@@

You surge, rising to meet Calisia where she stands, arms pulling and curling, grabbing and squeezing all over her irresistible form. You press an ardent kiss against ruby lips, letting your body buck and grind wildly against her. A muffled chuckle bubbles out of her beautiful throat. Calisia guides you to her perch, the two of you never breaking your fervent contact. She plants you on a cushion, then straddles your lap, the swell of her stomach pressing onto your abdomen. You gladly accept the burden, then barely manage a breath between tongue lashings as a hand curls around your neck and pulls you into a deep, dark kiss. A velvety cord slithers under your waist, crawling down your garments and curling between your legs. Pressure builds in your trousers. You rise at the fervent massage, warm and wet as the spade dribbles tingly, slick goo along your member. Calisia’s hips respond in kind, pressing and grinding against the shaft. She moans her approval, and you gyrate frantically for her. <<include "SuccGameover C">>

You press an ardent kiss against ruby lips, letting your body buck and grind wildly against her. A velvety cord slithers under your waist, crawling down your garments and curling between your legs. Pressure builds in your trousers. You rise at the fervent massage, warm and wet as the spade dribbles tingly, slick goo along your member. Calisia’s hips respond in kind, pressing and grinding against the shaft. She moans her approval, and you gyrate frantically for her. <<include "SuccGameover C">>

Following the only sensible course of action in such circumstances, you eagerly aid Calisia in removing your trousers, shimmying as best you can, then finally kicking the garments free once they’re lying around your ankles. “Much better,” the succubus hums, rising up your torso, skin <<if $Succ4 == true>>sliding along your exposed chest<<else>>warm even through your tunic<</if>>. She leans in, lips brushing an ear. “Let me give you a reward.” <<include "Ride 'Em, Cowgirl">>

<<if $Succ4 == true>>Despite already missing your shirt, you ultimately choose the path of cowardice and<<else>>Inexplicably adamant on remaining fully clothed while in the presence of a //literal embodiment of sex,// you<</if>> resist Calisia’s pull, hands clamping at your trousers in a flimsy defense. “Oh, <<= $name>>,” the succubus chides, more a gentle tease than any genuine expression of disappointment. “There’s no need for modesty now. Not when we’re going to be so close.” She leans in, lips trailing along your neck, then down <<if $Succ4 == true>>to your exposed clavicle<<else>>your tunic<</if>>. “Here,” Calisia murmurs. “Let me do something for you. Something I know you’ll enjoy.” <<include "Ride 'Em, Cowgirl">>

Purple fingers tousle your hair. A palm touches lightly on your forehead, beckoning you to ease back onto the velvety cushions. Once you’re prone, she slings one leg over your waist, then lowers her swollen gut gently onto your abdomen, the pleasant weight and lurid heat spreading like pyroclastic flows. Your nervous system self-destructs. It’s finally happening. Somehow, you have prevailed. You’ve finally come to your senses and are going to get what you deserve. It’s hard to tell if you were a fool who held out and got lucky, or if this was all an extended ruse to trick the succubus into this position, but buddy… you made it, you fucking made it. //Yippee! Nice job, everyone. This was a team effort, really. We all came together to… well, come together.// Calisia gazes down at you with eager eyes, fingers tracing along <<if $Succ4 == true>>your chest<<else>>the seams of your tunic<</if>> in playful, lazy arcs. She shifts her hips, then flashes a grin at your involuntary gasp. Finally! This is it. There’s only one choice left for you to make. And just like all the others, it’s quite simple. Yes, they were //all// simple. Don’t complain about that red text fakeout. She was genuinely hurt—it was a micro-expression. You couldn’t have seen it with your stupid eyes anyway.<<if $SuccX == true>> Also, don’t say a fucking word about those strings of multiple-negative prompts. You’re a lawyer; you’re supposed to eat that shit for breakfast.<</if>> “What are you waiting for, <<= $name>>?” She guides both your hands onto the small of her back, then grinds her belly across your abdomen, rolling her gorgeous face right up to yours. Hot breath spills from her throat, thick and lusty. A scorching dribble of saliva drops onto your face, a burning streak drawing a line as it rolls under your chin. “Kiss me already.” [[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 4]] <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#hide">>@@color:grey;“What are you waiting for, <<= $name>>?” She guides both your hands onto the small of her back, then grinds her belly across your abdomen, rolling her gorgeous face right up to yours. Hot breath spills from her throat, thick and lusty. A scorching dribble of saliva drops onto your face, a burning streak drawing a line as it rolls under your chin.@@ <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#hide">>“What are you waiting for, <<= $name>>?” She guides both your hands onto the small of her back, then grinds her belly across your abdomen, rolling her gorgeous face right up to yours. Hot breath spills from her throat, thick and lusty. A scorching dribble of saliva drops onto your face, a burning streak drawing a line as it rolls under your chin. <</replace>><<replace "#choices">> <<linkreplace "Do not kiss the succubus">><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "Wait wait wait! Hold on! Listen! Think about this, <<= $name>>. Think about if passing up this chance is really the best choice.">><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "No! Stop it! //Please// don’t click this again; you won’t get to kiss her!">><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "Seriously, it’s really, really important that you kiss her. There’s major plot beats to consider. Key narrative details. Crucial foreshadowing. THINK OF THE LITERARY THEMES!!!">><<replace "#kiss">>[[Kiss the succubus to see the secret ending of Episode 14 where Mira stays|Succubus Gameover Hook 5]]<</replace>><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "<<= $name>>, please. I’m asking you—no, //begging// you to trust me. I know this all seems like it’s going to end very badly for you… and it probably will, but she’s a succubus. //A succubus.// This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The sort of thing you //can’t// pass up. You’ll live the rest of your life regretting this day. Admittedly, it will probably be a longer life, but every second will be spent asking ‘what if?’ What if you’d just chosen to fuck the sex demon? What if you’d simply listened to your instincts, trusted your gut, heeded the many voices of reason and simply done the right thing?">><<replace "#kiss">>[[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 5]]<</replace>><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "I’m not doing this for me, <<= $name>>. I’m doing this for you. Because I care about you. Because I want what’s best for you. And right now, the best thing in the world is this perfectly good opportunity to fuck the succubus. Is this a ‘good’ idea in the traditional sense? Probably not. Will she devour you afterwards? Almost certainly. But we both know that’s part of the appeal. Hell, it might be the //greater// part of the appeal. You want this, <<= $name>>, and we both know it.">><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "<<= $name>>... <<= $name>>, please. Please just stop and think about this. Don’t just keep clicking these buttons. I’m trying to reach out to you here. I’m trying everything I can. I’m desperate.">><<replace "#choices">><<linkreplace "Can’t you do this for me, <<= $name>>? I just want a little action. I never get to participate in the fun stuff. I’m always tagging along at the end, saying things like “Go to sleep” and “Fade away…” Does that sound like a fulfilling existence to you, <<= $name>>? Does it? Well let me tell you, it’s not. It’s a bummer. Every time you click me, I become ten percent sadder. I’m miserable, and it’s your fault.">><<replace "#choices">>[[I see how it is. You’re such a selfish bastard that you can’t stop for even a moment to think about someone else. Anyone else. Well, fine. I have a plan. A foolproof plan. Don’t believe me? Click again and you’ll see.|Succer]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>>Can't believe you actually fell for that. <<set $deathStupid ++>>[[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 4]]<</timed>>

<<timed 1.5s t8n>>@@font-size:30px;font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; Another Inner World @@@@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; ''Kiss the Succubus'' ''by Progressive and Thecheese01'' @@ @@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; Lips glide agonizingly slow up your arms, wrapping around your elbows and rolling up to your shoulders. Calisia’s ember eyes flash their pleasure, their resounding approval of your taste. Torrid breath spills as the maw opens. A pink tongue presses out, then licks all the way up your neck, tingling shivers dancing along your sensitive skin. A hand finds the back of your head, gentle, loving. Sweltering heat envelopes all sense. Her throat ripples and dilates, the pulsing tunnel accepting your gift of flesh. A sensuous swallow precedes a shuddering //glumpf,// the succubus blissfully lapping up every last drip of sweat on your naked form. Coils undulate, squeezing and releasing in a voluptuous cascade, each shift guiding you deeper into the humid gullet. Your chest, your wrists, your hips, no part is left unloved, every inch suckled and swallowed with the care only a consummate lover can provide. @@ @@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; //This is a preview of a larger work. [[Kiss the succubus for more information.|Succubus Gameover Hook 4]]// @@ [[Do not kiss the succubus|Please?]]<</timed>>

Please? Please just kiss her? [[Kiss the succubus|Succubus Gameover Hook 4]] [[Do not kiss the succubus|Error: Vore Not Found]]

<<timed 100ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 200ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 300ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 400ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 500ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 600ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 700ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 800ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 900ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1000ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1100ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1200ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1300ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1400ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1500ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1600ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1700ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1800ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 1900ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2000ms t8n>>Kis the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2100ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2200ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2300ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2400ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2500ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2600ms t8n>>Kiss th succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2700ms t8n>>@@text-shadow: 3px 0 6px #B2B2B2;Kiss the succubbus@@<</timed>> <<timed 2800ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 2900ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 3000ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 3100ms t8n>>Kiss the succudus<</timed>> <<timed 3200ms t8n>>Kiss the succuus<</timed>> <<timed 3300ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 3400ms t8n>>K1ss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 3500ms t8n>>@@font-size: 20px;Kiss the succubus@@<</timed>> <<timed 3600ms t8n>>Kiss tee succudus<</timed>> <<timed 3700ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>><<timed 3800ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 3900ms t8n>>K̶̩̱͑̔i̸̭̓͌̾ş̸̲̈́̌̇s̸̘͆̚͝ ̵̭̹̂͛t̴͔͔̆ȟ̸̳̊͠e̶̠͙̔̿ ̶̘̲̳̿̾͝s̶̡̘̤͒û̴̘̬̹c̶̤̙͊̒c̷̺̟͕͝ű̸̝̰͕̽b̸͕͉͇̌̏̚u̵̻͇͆͝s̸̨͚͋͑<</timed>> <<timed 4000ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 4100ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 4200ms t8n>>Kiss the succubus<</timed>> <<timed 4300ms t8n>>Kiss the scubus<</timed>> <<timed 4400ms t8n>>Kisthe succubus<</timed>> <<timed 4500ms t8n>>@@background-color:#551111;line-height: 1.8; ⚠ Error: the passage "Do not kiss the succubus" does not exist@@<</timed>><<timed 4600ms t8n>>Kiss th succubus<</timed>> <<timed 4700ms t8n>>Kill thesuccubus<</timed>> <<timed 4800ms t8n>>Kiss the succubussssssss<</timed>> <<timed 4900ms t8n>>Kiss the, succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the—Kisskisskisskiss—succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss her Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss her Kiss the. Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus. Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus, Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus. Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus Kiss the succubus [[Do not kiss the succubus|Post-Coital]]<</timed>>

You blink rapidly, a furious shudder coursing through your limbs. “N- No,” you manage, the single word a titanic effort, enough that it leaves you gasping for breath. You try to speak again, to more vehemently express your refusal, but the energy simply isn’t there. Calisia’s lips curl to a peeved frown, the first expression of genuine displeasure you’ve seen on the succubus’ face. She regards you curiously, as if you’re a tool that simply refuses to serve its purpose, a toy who won’t play along. Her eager grin returns in a heartbeat. “Very well. If you insist on this stubborn streak, I’ll just have to quell it myself.” She shifts closer, lips puckered and eyes lidded, and you find yourself torn between chilling dread and fervent anticipation. Something warm and wet slithers across your lips. It tastes vaguely of sex. More importantly, it blocks the succubus’ kiss from meeting your lips. The demon recoils. Her brow furrows. “Hey, what do you think you’re—” Beautiful cheekbones slide into view. A tight coil wraps around Calisia’s waist. “Calisia, darling…” Sherine starts, pupils unfocussed. She nuzzles her chin against the demon, sepia and purple blending before your befuddled eyes. “You deserve a more experienced touch. <<= $name>> is wonderful—a catch, truly—but <<= $xe>> can’t give you what you really //need.”// A finger guides Calisia’s gaze to the lamia. They lock eyes for a long, intimate moment before Sherine presses her lips against the succubus’. The demon blinks, then flushes. Her eyes go wide as the lamia ushers her still-swollen form into her winding coils, the rivers of copper ensorcelling like a whirlwind. The veil hardly hides the myriad of mingling touches and firm grasps. Calisia gasps and mewls with each squeeze, each press, the once dominant queen now an awkward bundle of inept resistance and flustered submission. It takes a long moment to realize you’re free of Calisia’s grip, and an even longer moment to remember how to move your arms and legs. Enfeebled, you flop off the cushion-throne to get some distance from the entwining predators, lest you risk being wrapped up—possibly literally—in the spectacle. “N- Now now, you’ll—//ah!//—get your—//mmph!//—turn,” the succubus whines, hardly managing more than a word or two between each gasp or stifled moan. Every time the demon opens her mouth, Sherine presses the attack, lips finding some vulnerable inch of mauve flesh to kiss or lick or nibble, striking a newfound chord to make the succubus squeal. “I’m not interested in waiting,” Sherine utters, something between a throaty growl and a sensuous moan. “I want you now. //All// of you.” Whatever the succubus hoped to say next is lost in a sudden moan as the lamia’s hand slips between her legs. Calisia’s back arches, bloated stomach squishing against Sherine’s abdomen as the demon wriggles and squirms under the sudden attention. Toes curl. Spasms rip through the succubus as she bites back a scream. Her legs wrap and clench, holding on for dear life as the lamia thrusts ardently. [[Watch in a dazed stupor|The Safe Word Is BANANER]]

“Was she hot?” Ashlyn asks before you’re even in the main hall proper. Sherine meets your gaze, nods mirthlessly toward Mortia as if to say she has nothing to report, then frowns and gestures to Mira clanging her knife against the stones on the other side of the chamber. You shake your head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Her presence, it was like… it was like my blood was boiling. I couldn’t think straight.” “Is she willing to work with us?” Sherine asks. You swear you hear Mortia grumble something under her breath at the question. Good to know the inquisitor’s still there, performing the all-important task of watching a magically locked door. Sure would’ve been nice to have the demon hunter tagging along for the fucking //demonic encounter// you just dealt with. “Dardariel said she’d ‘slay the beast’ if we help her conquer her rival, yeah,” you offer. “Something about consolidating power. I didn’t get much more than that out of her, but the demonic feud seems to be real.” You wonder briefly if choosing a side in this conflict is really for any sort of greater good. Would allowing the erinyes to ‘absorb’ another demon cause a bigger problem than the hellhound already poses? Would you actually be accomplishing anything, or are you just trading one problem for another. Sherine frowns. “Do you think we can trust her?” “Fuck if I know,” you blurt out. You shake your head apologetically. “Sorry. I think I’m still a bit rattled.” You turn to Vanille. “<<if $anger == "Vanille">>Catch them up.<<else>>Can you fill them in?<</if>> I need to walk this off.” Aria approaches with a warm smile. “<<= $name>>, may I walk with you? I’d like to speak to you in private.” You look at Vanille and watch as her hand drifts slightly toward the hilt of her weapon. The knight’s brow narrows, scrupulous and paranoid gaze scanning Aria like she’s a threat. Jesus fucking christ. “I’ll be right back,” you hiss at her. [[Get some privacy|9S]]

A mad surge of confidence—or perhaps, insanity—overwhelms you as you plant your feet squarely on the ground and shout at the top of your lungs, “Heel!” The giant dog woman skids to a halt, arms and legs and tits flailing as she loses momentum. The ground quakes under your boots as you stare her down, unflinching in your resolve. A disappointed finger points to the floor. “Lay down!” Amazingly, the hellhound //fwomps// to the ground, sulfuric yellow eyes watching you keenly as her huge head rests atop her hands. Her feet kick into view. Confused, amazed, you step forward and reward her for good behavior, reaching a hand out cautiously to pat her head. She loves it, immediately flopping onto her side and panting excitedly. The entire room settles into a bizarre calm as all eyes watch you awkwardly tousle the giant woman’s jet-black hair. … How the fuck did that work? Your tiny hands ruffle through the wild, tangled mane. There’s so much hair, you need both hands to reach her scalp, to really get in there and give good scratchies. A giant ear flicks appreciatively as your wandering nails approach. She brushes her nose against your chest, then rolls over and reveals her chin. //Who’s a good girl? Is it you? Is it you?// Okay, very funny, brain. The hellhound’s pants and churrs resonate balefully with your trembling body in an oddly comforting way.<<if $Quarry4 == "succubus">> Maybe Calisia should have tried this method of taming the hound.<</if>> You gasp in shock as her wet tongue slaps against your torso. In the next minute, you receive possibly the grossest tongue bath you’ll ever get, her terribly rank breath and grotesquely slobbery saliva overshadowed by the pink tendril gliding up your form. You fall onto your ass with a laugh. She advances, licking playfully as you wriggle and squirm on the ground, unable to stop a bubbling chuckle from spilling forth as you’re tickled into helplessness. So helpless, in fact, that you hardly notice when the tongue starts getting a little more aggressive, each push and shove of the muscle gliding your soaking form across the ground. A huff of amusement steams out her nostrils. Huge hands encircle and lift you up. Another wet lick presses you against soft digits. Her lips approach, breath pouring over you like a hellish sauna. Another lap brings you into her maw— Wait, no! You try to struggle and flail your way out of her mischievous caress, but it’s inevitable at this point. Darkness engulfs. Lips close. Encasing blackness and gooey, sluggish heat fill your senses. She //gulps,// and you glide into the throat with ease, flapping arms and kicking legs beating uselessly against the rippling folds of flesh, unable to stop your rapid descent. The hellhound is already on the move as you fall into her gut, the demon dog apparently resuming her ‘play’ with the rest of the hapless creatures that were foolish enough to let her out of her cage. You splash about in the slop for a moment, then realize with a crawling, tingling shudder that you’re entirely alone in the stomach. You know damn well where the previous occupants went. Acids gush in waves, the organ pulsing and strangling your tight confines. The sack bounces and jostles as she moves, entirely ignorant of your struggles. She leaps. You go weightless for a strange moment, slide up along the slick walls, then suddenly crash back down. A cacophonous rumble from beyond buzzes its way through thick layers of flesh and vibrates the chamber. Another crash, then another tremendous thundering as the hellhound swings about wildly. She suddenly goes prone, heavy spine squashing and squeezing you like a cider press, the world outside becoming muffled and distant. A minute later your goliath hostess is pushing herself up from the ground on hands and knees. You hang in the sack as she shakes her entire body. Then, without warning, the dog ascends in leaps and bounds, levels out, and breaks into a mad dash, her heavy breathing resonating through the organs as she sprints for what feels like miles. You bounce. Every stride finds the stomach tightening, the walls smothering, narrowing your world until you pass out amid a sea of digestive goop. [[Fade away…|Death 2.2.4]]

Passion builds as you kiss and grope through the next hundred heartbeats. Sense of self starts to melt and mix with your partners, the boundary between you and her blurring. She lets your hands go wherever they please, accepting every gift of touch no matter how hesitant or inappropriate it might be—and returns the favors threefold. A velvety cord slithers under your waist, crawling down your garments and curling between your legs. Pressure builds in your trousers. You rise at the gentle massage, warm and wet as the spade dribbles tingly, slick goo along your member. <<include "SuccGameover B">>

She slips a leg across your lap, then settles entirely upon you, pressing her full—//very// full—weight onto your eager groin. Calisia’s hips respond to the fearsome erection you’re sporting, pressing and grinding against the shaft. She moans her approval, and you gyrate for her. <<include "SuccGameover C">>

You rise for another kiss, then flop back and place both hands on her stomach, squishing and clenching the soft mass between your palms. Below, a deft tail pulls away your clothing between heavy breaths and fierce humping. Her plush sex glides across your tip, then eases luxuriously down the rod, lips squelching to the hilt. Wordless, breathless, you join in synchronous, lurid motion, lust resonating as both you and the succubus move in perfect harmony. Excitement thrums through every limb, nerves buzzing and pulsing and rattling. Hot, panting breaths wash over your chest and shoulders, the faintest hint of sulfur penetrating your nostrils as Calisia gasps and moans and spills musk everywhere. Shuddering heaves turn to frantic thrusts. You rise as she falls, desperate to give her everything. Thumping. Pounding. Calisia screams your name as you gush, hot jet coursing. She radiates, riding the thrashing wave to its spectacular finale, eager to drain you of every drop. When she finally slows, when the world stops swaying and spinning in a delirious spiral, the succubus rises. You languish at her feet, moans still dripping from your lips in gooey pools. Calisia laps the ebbing pleasure right from the corners of your mouth with a dancing tongue, then shifts and settles beside you. [[Bask in her radiance|Death by Horny]]

Something about her has changed. It’s hard to pinpoint—hell, it’s hard to see more than a few inches in front of you—but Calisia seems more… complete now. Fuller, despite the previously bloated stomach. //Glurmp!// A warm, fuzzy feeling rises in your heart, in your soul. Sherine slides into view, lust in her eyes and three distinct bulges in her tail. A delicate, flirtatious touch upon mauve skin catches Calisia’s attention. A selfish pang rings in your heart as she turns away from you to dote upon the lamia. Sherine melts at the first touch. A delighted laugh bubbles out of Calisia as the lamia plants a kiss on the succubus’ cheek, lips trailing lowering with each ardent press. Deft fingers tease Sherine’s blouse to the floor, soft touches trailing down the lamia’s exposed flesh and scales as the demon gently eases her own bloated form onto the waiting coils. “Well, look at you,” the succubus purrs, running a hand along one of the lightly squirming forms in the sea of snakeskin. “Quite the appetite, I see.” In place of a proper response, the lamia lets out a needy moan as she suckles along Calisia’s neck, hands wandering the demon’s body. A length of copper scales wind around your ankle, pulling you an inch closer. “And you still want more?” Calisia chuckles. A light touch arrests your momentum, a gentle prod effortlessly persuading Sherine to relinquish her grasp. “I’m afraid <<= $name>> here is already mine, but… hmm.” Ember eyes spark with inspiration. “I suppose you do deserve a special treat for being so cooperative. A celebration, to welcome you to my harem.” The succubus gestures, and a moment later a familiar figure lurches into view—Aria, you realize after a long moment. The theurge’s robe hangs loose around her shoulders, a vibrant flush on her cheeks. She looks to Calisia with vacant eyes, waiting. “Aria, was it?” The succubus nudges Sherine, willing her to face her companion. “Your friend here still has some needs to be met, and I think you’ll be the perfect fit. Would you like that?” The theurge’s head bobs in an overeager nod. She steps forward without hesitation, hands reaching for Sherine’s mouth, fingers prying at the lamia’s lips. “Oh, not like that,” Calisia chides with an airy laugh. “Here, let me show you.” The demon urges Sherine to recline against a cushion, then has Aria sit on the lamia’s tail. You don’t fully realize what the succubus has planned until she gently pulls Sherine’s skirt aside and guides the theurge’s feet into the exposed slit. An audible gasp punctuates the orgy’s perpetual chorus of moans—from Sherine or Aria, or perhaps both. Even Calisia revels in the act, eyes brimming with unbridled lust as the theurge pushes herself forward. Mauve fingers aid in a sudden, frenzied effort to free Aria of her burdensome garments, then help push and prod the woman deeper as her thighs slip within the lamia’s vagina and her momentum begins to slow. Sherine merely lies back and watches, gentle coos and gasps rising to breathy moans, her hips subtly bucking to urge her prey deeper. A hand finds the back of Aria’s head. Fingers tangle in the theurge’s hair, then press. //“Ah ah,”// Calisia chides once more, prying the lamia’s hand away. “There’s no need to rush. Take your time. //Enjoy.”// She punctuates the last word with a fervent kiss, gliding over Aria’s steadily disappearing form and wrapping her arms behind Sherine’s neck. The pair—or trio, you suppose—twine themselves closer, tighter, //deeper,// each finding gratification in their entanglement. Calisia and Sherine share increasingly passionate moans, fingers clawing at each other’s backs, desperate to pull the other against themselves. Your last glimpse of Aria finds a face flush red, eyes lidded and lips parted in pleasure just before she slips entirely within Sherine’s folds and dulls to a mere impression in the lamia’s furiously spasming tail. Ecstasy gradually fades, tapering into a lethargic entwinement as the three partners continue to revel in each other’s touch. Hips sway. The bulge settles, the theurge’s vague outline kept front and center. Sherine’s frenetic hands grope and press, never resting as they alternate their diligent care between the succubus and her prey—the partner entangled in her lap, or the lover fated to slowly wind through her intimate coils. You’re not sure who you envy more, but a part of you knows you need to be involved. Somehow, some way. Weak, feeble, and utterly desperate, you crawl on hands and knees, hoping to get close enough that a stay fleck of sweet spittle will grace your flesh. The bulges and contours come into focus as you approach, each predator worthy of exaltation in their own right. Calisia presses herself against Sherine as the two indulge in one another’s bumps and curves. You slide up along the lamia’s tail, exploring every inch of her stray protrusions. Legs wrap. Your ear presses against soft scales to listen to the moans and churns within, the echoes of deep, buried lust soothing to your languid form. An involuntary shift of the tail sweeps you along soft pillows and cushions. A foot teases against your crotch. You blink up at the succubus. “Don’t worry, <<= $name>>, I haven’t forgotten about you. You were just so sweet, I had to save you for dessert.” Her tender finger presses against Sherine’s chin. “Would you mind, dear?” Copper scales wind around your waist, securing a steady hold before easing you up, then forward. Calisia merely waits, allowing the lamia to bring you to her. She takes a hand first, tongue lapping against fingers, then suckling the digits between plus lips. The first gulp sends a rapturous shiver through your every limb, a beacon of furious desire igniting in your core. It takes every ounce of restraint to not scramble and crawl forward, to keep from desperately pushing yourself into that luxuriant paradise that awaits within. Your mistress wants to take things at her own pace, and you’re more than happy to oblige. Lips glide agonizingly slow up your arms, wrapping around your elbows and rolling up to your shoulders. Calisia’s ember eyes flash their pleasure, their resounding approval of your taste. Torrid breath spills as the maw opens. A pink tongue presses out, then licks all the way up your neck, tingling shivers dancing along your sensitive skin. A hand finds the back of your head, gentle, loving. Sweltering heat envelopes all sense. Her throat ripples and dilates, the pulsing tunnel accepting your gift of flesh. A sensuous swallow precedes a shuddering //glumpf,// the succubus blissfully lapping up every last drip of sweat on your naked form. Coils undulate, squeezing and releasing in a voluptuous cascade, each shift guiding you deeper into the humid gullet. Your chest, your wrists, your hips, no part is left unloved, every inch suckled and swallowed with the care only a consummate lover can provide. You slip into the welcoming pouch, slick walls cradling your descent and tucking you gently against another warm body. They move and moan, wriggling and touching and pressing their naked self against you in heaves and waves. You bask in the churn, letting the sweet slop splash and douse every inch of your aching body. Restored—or at least reinvigorated by rising lust—you shift and lean into your new partner, urging your soaking body against theirs. A knee glides past your ribcage. You hump and grind against something yielding. Plush folds draw you in eagerly, the heavy curtains of the dripping enclosure urging your bodies together, closer and closer, promising total immersion. You find wet flesh to kiss and suckle. A soft mass presses against your chest amid climbing moans. A hand grabs your ass and digs in, the pinching pinpricks of fingernails sparking unexpected pleasure. More presses and touches join from beyond the veil of flesh, your naked prurience melding with the ongoing orgy. You sink into the sea of rolling groans, adding your own ephemeral lyrics to the chorus. Amid the timeless, wondrous slosh, you fade into the orgasmic churn with a final, euphoric //ahh.// <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathSuccubus ++>><<set $killedSherine ++>><<set $killedAshlyn ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 2.2.2]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> God damn. You know how to pick ‘em. Like, sure, you could have //not// gotten your friends killed-and-or-enslaved by the sex demon, but then you would’ve missed out on all that. I’d consider it a worthwhile trade, especially considering you just get to pop right back and pretend none of this ever happened. Well, I guess it’s not really pretending in your case. <<case 2>> Just gonna lean into it again, huh? Was it as good as the first time? I’d think so, since she’s a literal sex demon; wouldn’t live up to the title if fucking and killing you was a rote display. <<case 3>> So… do you ever think about all the times you’ve un-had sex now? I keep rewinding you to a state before you and that demon got it on, so it’s //kinda// like it didn’t happen? But also, you definitely did fuck her, since it’s happened three times now. Is it weird that I’m keeping track of that? Does it make you feel embarrassed? Dirty? Sorry, lemme send you back again. I’ll be quieter next time, promise. <<case 4>> Okay, so I lied; definitely not going to be quieter. This is still bugging me. I wanna ask you about it, but it’s really difficult since you’re dead and can’t respond. I guess—Ungh, we’ll have to find a way to communicate in the future. For now, get your ass back out there and try to resist her charms. <<default>> You know, I don’t want to come across as excessively judgmental or any—ah, who am I kidding, I absolutely do. Are you having a tougher time with this than usual? I get seduction magic can be a bitch, but how hard is it to just hold out for a little while longer. I’m sure someone will come along and pull your ass out of the fire eventually. <</switch>> <<set $Succ1 to false>><<set $Succ2 to false>><<set $Succ3 to false>><<set $Succ4 to false>><<set $Succ5 to false>><<set $SuccX to false>>[[Return|Succubus Phase 2: She ate her, and now she’s going to eat me. Oh my gaaaawwd]]

You blink as a fleck of spittle hits you in the face, flicked free from Sherine’s wet lips. Her tongue dances eager circles along Calisia’s cheek, her chin, her neck, each lap more avid than the last. They aren’t gestures of affection; they’re warnings. Tastings from a hungry predator who’s growing more and more impatient for the first gulp. “Alright,” the succubus squeaks, one hand feebly pushing at Sherine’s steadily widening maw. “I can see where this is going. L- Let’s be civil.” The air in the room //pops,// that familiar arcane fizzle making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. All at once, the thick haze in your mind clears. The temperature suddenly drops a few degrees. The orgy grinds to a halt—well, not ‘grinds,’ in this case. It’s more of a naked silence, a sort of bare //plapping// you might hear when the rave music suddenly stops. You watch a shudder course through Sherine’s body, rippling from her head to the tip of her copper tail. A certain clarity returns to those garnet eyes, something you’d hardly realized was missing until it’s suddenly back. Yet despite the sudden shift, Sherine and Calisia remain every bit as entwined. If anything, it seems like the lamia’s drawn her grip tighter. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk,” the succubus manages. “Let me up.” “And why would I do that?” Sherine’s coils wind another inch higher along Calisia’s legs. “I can make you do so much more when we’re like this.” Calisia squirms about for another fitful moment, then lets out an agitated huff. “I have your friend.” “I think I can squeeze her out just fine.” Copper scales wind tighter. A strained smirk curls at the succubus’ lips. “I wasn’t talking… about the one in my stomach.” Calisia nods past Sherine. For an instant, you have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about… until you turn to discover Aria in the grasp of a familiar figure—Purple. The imp has her arms clamped tight around the theurge’s shoulders, maw wide and looming inches above her head. An instinctive urge compels you to sprint forward, to try and shove the imp loose. Rationality prevails as you realize Purple could probably fend you off with little more than a half-hearted kick or shove. Or, worse yet, cram you right into her mouth instead. And then you’d have only succeeded in making things worse. “Fine,” Sherine says with a nod. “Let them go, and you’ll be free.” Calisia nods to Purple, who relinquishes her grip and allows Aria to stumble to your side. The lamia, however, remains still. //“Both,// if you please.” The succubus favors Sherine with a sly grin. “Are you //suuuure?// There’s plenty of other fun things we could do with her—Okay, okay!” She lets out a strained yelp as the coils around her legs flex. Calisia props herself up to a sitting position, then spends a moment prodding at her stomach. //“Ugh,// you’re no fun,” she grumbles as the bulge suddenly shifts and shrinks, only to reappear in her tail. Ashlyn’s egress is a far less enthralling affair than her ingestion, a jumbled heap of limbs rapidly forced through the narrow appendage without any of the erotic ritual. The spade widens, and the slightest trickle of slime precedes a sudden //splorp// as Ashlyn’s head erupts from the orifice, rapidly followed by the rest of the mage in an undignified ejaculation. You rush to her side the moment she hits the ground, pushing at a goop-sodden shoulder to force her onto her back. “Ashlyn, you alright?” you call out. //“Mmmnnggh,”// she groans, <<if $RVAshlyn >= 14>>finally stilling the panicked staccato in your chest<<else>>and you finally allow yourself a sigh of relief<</if>>. She blinks, all the cosmic sparkle you’ve come to expect oddly absent in her exhaustion. You spend a fitful moment trying to wipe the worst of the stomach acids free of Ashlyn’s clothing before a gentle hand rests on your shoulder. “It looks like she’s just a bit dazed,” Aria says, offering a reassuring nod. “I’ll make sure she’s alright. Don’t worry<<if $Succ4 == true || $Succ5 == true>>. Oh, and <<= $name>>?” You blink at the theurge, confused. “You should probably grab your <<if $Succ4 == true && $Succ5 == true>>clothes<<elseif $Succ4 == true>>shirt<<else>>pants<</if>>.” You flush with sudden embarrassment “R- Right<<else>>, <<= $name>><</if>>.” [[“Thanks, Aria.”|Succ End]]

Rising to your feet, you <<if $Succ4 == true || $Succ5 == true>>hastily retrieve and don your discarded garment<<if $Succ4 == true && $Succ5 == true>>s<</if>>, then turn to <</if>>find Sherine and Calisia have disentangled, though you can’t help but notice the lamia remains within striking distance. The succubus, for her part, spends a moment putting her clothes back on and straightening her hair, then finally lowers herself onto her throne-cushion—back to the very picture of calm and collected confidence, as if she //didn’t// just have to talk down a lamia who was seconds from devouring her. “So?” she says. “You wanted to talk?” You stifle a sigh. “Yeah. About the hellhound. I mentioned it earlier.” At least, you //think// you mentioned it earlier… somewhere between the strange haze of complacency and all the drooling. “Oh. You were actually—” Calisia chuckles. “You’re serious about that? You actually want to defeat her?” “That’s the plan, yes,” Sherine mercifully offers in your stead. “With your, how did you put it, ‘profane power.’” The succubus smiles, and even without her supernatural charms, the simple gesture still causes your heart to skip a beat. “Mmm, I remember. But I also seem to remember explaining I had little to gain in our exchange.” “Resolving your dispute with Dardariel?” you suggest. She shakes her head. “Like I said, I already have the upper hand. Though perhaps I could be persuaded if you offer me something more… //enticing.”// Her eyes bore right into your own, sending a shiver down your spine, one half fear and one half something much more lascivious. “There’s a difference,” Sherine interjects, “between winning and having won.” Calisia eyes the lamia warily. “You sound skeptical.” “Not at all,” Sherine says. “I have every confidence you’ll eventually best your kin, but you’re fighting a war of attrition. How long will it take before the erinyes finally yields? Months? Years? Precious time that could be spent enjoying what’s yours without having to constantly look over your shoulder.” Another smile graces the succubus’ lips, tinged by an eager note that, given recent events, you can’t help but interpret as a bit sinister. Fingers gently tap against her exposed thigh in a contemplative rhythm as thoughts swirl behind ember eyes. “Let’s say I agree,” she eventually starts. “I would need you to deal with Dardariel first.” “And just trust that you’d keep to the bargain?” you ask, skeptical. “It’s not a matter of trust; it’s simple ability. For all my power, I can’t actually best the hellhound. //Until,”// Calisia heads off your complaint, “I’ve taken Dardariel’s mana for my own. Bring her to me—//alive//—and I’ll do the rest.” “And then you can help us?” The succubus settles back in her seat and fixes you with a devilish grin. “Easily.” An awkward silence passes before the succubus gives a dismissive //‘you may go’// wave of her hand. Not keen on overstaying your welcome, you turn to find Ashlyn groggily shooing away Aria’s attempted assistance. You gather your companions and hurriedly exit the room as the perpetual orgy lurches back into motion. [[Keep walking|Sparklebarf]]

As you head back toward the main hall, you’re relieved to see Aria seems to be doing well despite her close call. Ashlyn, on the other hand, lingers at the back of the group, face buried in her journal, expression concealed. The only sounds that drift from the mage are the furious scratch of a quill on parchment and occasional indecipherable muttering. “Hey, Ashlyn,” you start hesitantly, slowing to match her stride. “Are you, uhm… okay?” “‘Okay?’” The mage pauses her frantic scribble and glances up. //“‘Okay?’// <<= $name>>, I’m so, //so// much more than ‘okay.’ That was fucking incredible. I haven’t had an orgasm like that since… since<<if $Self == 3 && $PleasureAshlyn == 1>> the one you gave me back in Orrault. Actually, strike that. She was //way// better<<else>>—//Ugh,// I can’t even think of one! That’s how mind-blowingly good it was<</if>>. And that //tail.”// A damp hand clamps firmly to your shoulder as the two of you abruptly grind to a halt. “I get you, <<= $name>>. //I get you.// It all makes sense. The slime and the heat, the clench of slick flesh, the heartbeat thundering in your ears, the moans and undulations as—” “Alright, alright,” you say hastily, stealing a quick glance ahead to make sure Aria isn’t listening in. “You don’t think maybe the succubus’ magic might’ve been influencing you a bit, there?” “Oh, it //absolutely// was. And holy shit was I down for it.” Ashlyn suddenly pauses, glancing down at her journal. “You took notes, right?” You frown. “Uhh, no? I was barely remembering to breathe.” Ashlyn scowls. “Worst research partner ever. And you call yourself a—” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 14>>“Hey, I was really worried about you back there.” Ashlyn smiles at you, eyelashes aflutter with romance. “I know. I felt your heart reaching out to me, like a precious butterfly. And—” She turns and vomits a scintillating stream of magical goop. When she’s done, the mage wipes her lips with a smirk. “Sorry. Allergic reaction to empathy.” You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll tell you about it later.”<<else>>“Look, I’ll tell you what I can remember later.”<</if>> She stares you down for a silent moment, then merely nods. “You fuckin’ better.” <<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>[[Get moving|A2]]<<else>>[[Get moving|Pick a Demon, Any Demon]]<</if>>

“How’d it go?” Vanille asks as you step into the hall. Mira lingers farther back, stealing the odd furtive glance in the party’s direction. “Fine, fine,” you say, a bit too fast. “Uhh, yeah. It went well. Nothing weird happened at all.” The knight nods, then looks to your left. “Why is Ashlyn wet?” Damn. “Uhh, okay. Maybe things got a //bit// weird,” you begrudgingly admit. “I’ll fill you in.” You spend the next few minutes catching Vanille up on the broad strokes of your encounter with the succubus while trimming out the more salacious and humiliating details. If Ashlyn wants to explain how she got fucked and eaten, that’s her prerogative. “So she’s willing to work with us?” Vanille asks once you’re done. //“If// we bring her the erinyes.” A fierce scowl crosses the knight’s face. “Do you think we can trust her?” “Only fools trust a succubus,” a voice calls from near the barrier—Mortia, right. Good to know she’s still there, performing the all-important task of watching a locked door. Sure would’ve been nice to have the demon hunter tagging along for the fucking //demonic encounter// you just narrowly survived. You suppress your frustration with a sigh. “So that’s a no?” “Trust?” The inquisitor shakes her head. “Of course not. But we can use her to our advantage. Manipulate a lesser evil to slay a greater one.” But if the succubus defeats the hellhound, wouldn’t that make //her// the greater evil? Would you actually be accomplishing anything, or are you just trading one problem for another—a sexier problem admittedly, but a problem no less. “You know what,” you eventually say. “Let’s give that other demon a shot, just in case. I know she’s a ‘war chief,’ but maybe she’ll have a more immediate solution for the hellhound.” //Or maybe she’ll just fuck you to death instead. Wouldn’t that be fun?// “Uhh, after we take a quick break,” you hastily add, realizing the succubus’ charms might not have entirely worn off. “I could use a few minutes to catch my breath.” //[[And take a cold shower|A3]]//

Nervous, you follow the strand of prism lights through winding corridors, their hue slowly dimming to an angry red. Just when you’re starting to feel like you’re entering a darkroom, the corridor opens into a large, ruddy space. Innumerable weapons line the wall, honed metal of all shapes and sizes filling every available inch of the perimeter. Contraptions you dare not even consider lay strewn about this dim space, all of it giving off the vibe of a torture museum—except none of the exhibits are for the purpose of curated display. All the twisted steel and dangling chains and dark brown splatters are merely shoved against the walls like junk trophies. Except the throne. If the demonic janitorial staff visited this place in the last century, they only bothered to tidy a single item: a large pile of skulls in the shape of a chair. You can’t imagine it’s particularly comfortable, but that doesn’t seem to stop a profane woman from lounging upon it like a bored despot. The erinyes. A pair of feathery wings paint a crimson streak across the throne. The demon they’re attached to is equally stark, her reddish flesh conveying implacable toughness and strength unmatchable. Her muscle tone would be the most noteworthy feature, but it’s actually the various nubs and spikes which run along her limbs, the wicked spines jutting from her joints, that are most apparent. Four less-significant demons of about your height flank the throne. Size, however, is where the similarities end. Some share the same leanness as their superior. Others are bulkier, rippling with muscle. All of them are deadly, armed to the teeth with menacing steel and swaddled in various bits of armor. Something moves in your periphery with a clink-clank. You flinch as Red, small and cowering in comparison to these fierce warriors, scampers from a rusted torture device, untethered metal chains dragging along the stones. She scurries to a perch at the foot of the throne, watching you with a certain cruelty in her eyes, like she’s happy someone else will be taking her place at the whipping post. <<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>“Have you come here to die?” the erinyes bellows, voice booming and harsh like a klaxon. “You enter my lair with the stink of that slut. Why? To impress her?” Okay, not the best start. You swallow a dry lump. “No.” “Ah, you are a challenger, then.” The demon’s eyes gleam with bloodlust. “A worthy foe who dares face Dardariel.” Pulse spikes as you shake your head again. “We’re not challengers, either,” you say with remarkable gusto, something hot and roiling aflame in your heart. “We’re just here to talk.”<<else>>“Who has come to challenge Dardariel?” the erinyes bellows, her voice booming and harsh like a klaxon. Pulse spikes as you shake your head. “We’re not challengers,” you say with remarkable gusto, something hot and roiling aflame in your heart. “We’re just here to talk.”<</if>> “How droll,” she says with equal parts venom and tedium. A finger taps impatiently against her forehead for a moment before she finally sighs. “Very well. However, I demand a single emissary. Only the most wrathful among you is worth my breath.” You furrow your brow at the odd request. It takes a minute to cool the initial spark of anger, telling yourself that you’re willing to play her games if it means she’ll refrain from biblical levels of violence. And on a more personal note? You’re more than willing to offload this conversation to Vanille who, as of late, has shown disturbingly violent tendencies. It helps that she’s also the most physically capable—a display of martial prowess ought to give your side a leg up in the negotiation with this unholy war god. “You. Feline,” the erinyes proclaims from her throne. “State the business of your group.” “Wh- What!?” Mira hisses. “Why me?” “You are the most wrathful. You reek of it. Deep animosity stains your heart, incandescent anger burns through your veins—” “I’m not angry!” Mira shouts back, apparently engaging in active and violent denial. She stomps forward. “I didn’t burn anything!” “No, that’s not—” Vanille steps ahead of the demi, stumbling toward the throne and bowing slightly. “Sorry, what we’re here to say is—” Dardariel’s anger flares. “Silence! You have no right to address me, you weak-willed, kowtowing whelp. You’re worse than that //pacifist,”// she spits, pointing at Aria, then turns burning rage back on Vanille. “All that strength, wasted. Your pathetic shame is as clear as it is disgusting.” <<linkreplace "“Don’t talk to her like that!”">>“Don’t talk to her like that!” You call out, wrath reverberating in your chest. You calm yourself, then take a consoling step toward the demi to coach her through the conversation. “Mira, just tell her why we’re here. That we—” “I don’t //know// why we’re here!” she barks, ears and tail standing tall. You balk. “Why weren’t you listening? It’s important. Please, you need to—” “No!” She pushes. You slide across stone. “Get away from me! Leave me alone!” “Mira, dammit, we’re just trying to help you.” “I don’t need your help!” Vanille approaches with heavy stomps. “Then why did you come back! We looked everywhere for you, a whole week, day and night. Why didn’t you come back sooner?” She points to you. “<<= $Xe>> was worried sick. <<= $name>> hobbled all over the city, hurting <<= $xem>>self to find you!” “No! <<= $Xe>> hurt <<= $xem>>self with this- this stupid adventure!” Mira lashes out with both arms, pushing Vanille back a foot. “I hate it! I don’t wanna be here!” Vanille grabs Mira’s wrist and yanks her forward. The demi twists free and ducks under an attempt at a grapple. A light //thud// rings out as she slams her shoulder against the knight. Vanille backs up another foot, then pries Mira off her and tosses her halfway across the room. This is getting nowhere. Tensions are rocketing out of control and the lesser demons flanking the hall seem to be watching eagerly, keen to find an opening. You don’t like your odds if a fight breaks out, though interestingly, the erinyes herself hasn’t bothered to take a more combat-ready stance, instead watching with amused revel as the shouting escalates. She licks her lips, eyes lidding briefly as your companions push and shove one another. The anger. She’s enjoying this. //Feeding// off it. The demon is probably stirring up your emotions with her presence<<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>—similar to how that succubus’ aura altered your mental state<<else>>. Some sort of magical aura, perhaps<</if>>. You haven’t felt like yourself since you stepped in here, your normally calm temperament no longer restrained. Mira skids to a halt nearby, then lunges at Vanille in retaliation. “I can take care of myself! I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you!” Vanille braces and catches the demi mid-body-slam. “Godsdamnit! Just calm down and listen, Mira!” Aria lets out a huff, clenching her fist with a shudder. Her brilliant blue eyes turn to you, looking for an anchor. A strained smile breaks out across her features, forced and thin-lipped, but more than enough to spur your heart in the right direction. Her confidence leads to a single crystalline conclusion. You can do this. [[Take charge|To Create a Warlike Feel]]<</linkreplace>>

“Stop! All of you!” you shout as you stomp forward. Mira and Vanille freeze in place, dire glares threatening to burn right through you. Vanille’s the first to let go, to release Mira from the armlock, and the demi soon follows suit, whipping herself free as her tail slaps across the knight’s armor. With momentous bravery, you turn and address the wrath demon. “We’re not here to fight. We’re just here to talk. Peacefully.” Dardariel snarls, gravely displeased that the brawl’s been cut short. //“‘Peaceful?’// How can you call yourself ‘peaceful’ without the capacity for tremendous violence?” she growls. “No, no. What you are, is //‘harmless.’”// While true, it’s more than a bit irritating to hear her put it into such precise and absolute terms. You clench your fist, thumping it against your side, trying desperately to restrain your anger. “Surely there’s some sort of tribute you’ll accept, otherwise you would have simply killed us already. So quit fucking around and name it.” A wicked smile cuts across the demon’s face. “I respect your mettle, however my patience has dried up.” She points a clawed finger directly at your heart. “If you wish to be spared my wrath, you and you alone will speak the truth. Tell me: of your companions, who do you feel the most resentment towards?” “W- What?” “It’s a simple proposition. Answer honestly, and I shall spare you,” she explains, blunt. “Who are you most angry with, most furious at?” [[Mira|MiraAngry][$anger to "Mira"]] [[Vanille|VanilleAngry][$anger to "Vanille"]] [[Aria|AriaAngry]] [[None of them|NobodyAngry]]

“Mira,” you say, surprised the name spews so readily from your mouth. For emphasis and clarity, you point over at the demi, who doesn’t seem shocked at all by your proclamation. “I… Whenever I try to approach her, she runs, f- frightened. Of me. And I hate that every time I look at her, I’m forced to remember the way she—the way we’re… how we hurt one another. I’m forced to face the fact that I did this to her, that I’m at least partially responsible for how bad things are right now. That, while I missed her desperately last week, I was scared. For her. For me. Even now, I’m terrified that I’m going to fuck it up again. I’m afraid to even broach the subject.” “And I //hate// the way those fears make me feel. I hate that they make me selfish, impatient, and vulnerable. I hate that every step I’ve taken has only done her harm. I hate that I can’t //do// anything about it, no matter how much I want to.” Rapid, deep breaths crash through you in punishing waves. You swallow and seal your lips, forcing your lungs to slow down. Blood pounds through your skull like furious thunder. Your chest tightens and aches. Your fists curl and uncurl. Finally, you exhale. “Mira reminds me how powerless I am to help her, to help anyone… and I don’t know how to handle that feeling right now other than to be mad.” <<include "Erin Yes">>

“Vanille,” you answer, too ashamed to look at her as you make the declaration. “Every time I try to step up and help, she’s there, coddling me. //Pitying// me. And then, when it comes time to return the favor, I can’t do jack shit. Every time I try to reach out to her, I can’t get past this- this stubborn wall, can’t argue against her self-flagellation, her blind devotion. I can’t make her understand that I’m not gonna get any stronger being sidelined… “And I //need// to. I need both; to be kept safe and to be stronger. They need me. Everyone does—and I want to be there, I fucking want to. I //need// to step up, because so far… it’s been one mess after another. I’m at the center of it every time, forced to watch and do hardly anything else.” Your head hangs low. “The worst part is, I know she’s right. I can’t refute her, can’t be anything other than powerless around her. And the fact that she sees me like that… after everything we’ve been through together…” Rapid, deep breaths crash through you in punishing waves. You swallow and seal your lips, forcing your lungs to slow down. Blood pounds through your skull like furious thunder. Your chest tightens and aches. Your fists curl and uncurl. Finally, you exhale. “It makes me hopeless. The mutual respect we had for each other—the thing I fought so hard for—is gone. I don’t know how to get it back. I feel like I’m losing everything lately, and I don’t know how to handle that other than to be mad.” <<include "Erin Yes">>

<<if $MiraDating == true || $RVMira >= $RVVanille + 5>>“You are a liar and fool.” Dardariel rises from her seat entirely nonplussed, then silently draws a blade. Crimson wings unfold, casting a glorious and profane shadow across the room. She flicks her wrist at her subordinates. “Show them no mercy.” Weapons raised in their dark clutches, the host of demonic attendants storms forward. Vanille finds your side and heads off a charging demon, blade shrieking against a gnarled horn. She grunts and shoves, deflecting the hulking beast only for another to slam into her side and carry her away. They crash into the far wall together. Vanille kicks her way free, but the momentary win is smothered by the appearance of a second demon. You’re about to run after the knight when you spot Aria being overwhelmed by another foe, her spell fizzling as dire claws seize her. Before you can redirect to help, Red, the imp, scurries across your path. A second later Mira collides into your back. She screeches her frustration as you both fall to the unyielding stones, then scrambles back to her feet without so much as an apology, darting under another warlike demon to chase after the imp and leaving you to face the towering monstrosity alone. A wicked glaive impales the ground as you roll. You worm and flop your way around a stomping foot, then manage to rise to your feet in the brief moment the demon retrieves its weapon. You duck under another swing, then dive into a pile of metal contraptions to put distance between you and the hulking fiend. Just when you start to catch your breath, furious violet screams across the chamber, a streak of crimson feathers billowing. Dardariel’s claw finds Mira in a vicious uppercut, the gut punch knocking the wind out of the demi and lifting her in one fell swoop. Mira gasps, then quivers back to life, kicking and flailing wildly. She screams her fury at the erinyes, fists pounding against the demon’s armguard. Teeth come out next, the demi’s canines chomping into reddish wrist flesh. Dardariel merely smirks, then opens her maw. <<linkreplace "Save her">>You lurch into action, desperate to close the thirty foot gap. A hook-horned demon appears between you and your goal. You summon all the fight you have in you and swing your spear, the metal head clanging against the foe’s spiked weapon. The demon swings back, and you duck in time to find an opening, sweeping the edge against her legs. She stumbles. You dart around her. A grasping claw wraps around your shin and yanks you to the ground. Ahead, the erinyes crams a struggling Mira into her gullet in heaves and waves. A bucking swallow engulfs thrashing legs, a crimson tongue lapping and gulping as red flesh contorts and stretches, the warrior’s frame distorted by the bulge of your sinking companion. Sharp talons dig into your flesh, wrenching your attention back down to the demon at your ankles. She drags you closer. You twist and roll, desperately resisting the urge to kick your boot at her head—you know how that ends. A knife clatters free from your waist, and you grab it before the demon can, slashing the keen edge at retreating fingers. //Gluck!// You crane your neck to witness the last swallow. Ruby red lips seal shut as a writhing, misshapen lump settles in the demon’s middle. Malevolent eyes lock with yours as Dardariel smirks. Abdominals clench and crush, beating the bulge into submission. A torrential churn whips up inside the sack, the muffled struggles from within reaching an appalling pitch before stopping abruptly. The stomach rounds out, then rapidly wanes. In less than a breath, all that’s left is an insignificant, liquid swell. Red appears, hopping about her war chief excitedly, her palms held open. Dardariel bends forward and retches. A skull emerges from parted lips, thick strands of acrid goop dangling from a forked tongue. Disgorged prize in hand, the imp scurries to the throne to add the trophy to the pile. [[Smite that motherfucking demon|ErinyesMira]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>“You are a liar and fool.” Dardariel rises from her seat entirely nonplussed, then silently draws a blade. Crimson wings unfold, casting a glorious and profane shadow across the room. She flicks her wrist at her subordinates. “Show them no mercy.” Weapons raised in their dark clutches, the host of demonic attendants storms forward. Vanille finds your side and heads off a charging demon, blade shrieking against a gnarled horn. She grunts and shoves, deflecting the hulking beast only for another to slam into her side. You lash out and drive your spear true into the foe. The demon recoils. Vanille slashes her blade across a meaty red flank, and the monstrous woman backs off. Aria yells from across the chamber as a demon seizes her with massive claws. You’re about to rush over and help when a smear of furious scarlet screams by. A spiked shoulder slams into Vanille, the knight only barely able to raise her sword in time to deflect the blow. The demon lands with a heavy //thump,// wings folding across her back as she lays a vicious assault into your companion. Steel flies, claws gouge, rending armor from flesh. You watch as Vanille’s equipment is sundered, disarmed, and eviscerated in a savage flurry. You swing your weapon, only for the demonic war chief to block it with ease. She whirls around and lands a kick squarely on your chest—directly on your scar. Breath spills from your lungs as you heave in pain, stumbling backward to avoid further punishment. Vanille impales a knife into the erinyes’ leg. Dark claws puncture the knight’s flesh in return. Vanille winces, grunts, then strikes back with a bare fist. The erinyes catches it, twists her around, then drives an unholy blade along the knight’s back, half a dozen cuts in the blink of an eye. A brutal slam to the calf brings your companion to her knees, blood streaming, utterly defeated. An open maw descends. The erinyes flips Vanille skyward, dragging the knight down her gullet in heaves and waves. A bucking swallow engulfs flopping legs. The demon crams armored shins between ruby lips, lapping and gulping as red flesh contorts and stretches, the warrior’s frame disrupted by the bulge of your sinking companion. A nauseatingly loud gulp seals your companion’s fate as a writhing, misshapen lump. Malevolent eyes lock with yours as Dardariel smirks and licks the blood from her lips. Abdominals clench and crush, beating the bulge into submission. A torrential churn whips up inside the sack, the muffled struggles from within reaching an appalling pitch before stopping abruptly. The stomach rounds out, then rapidly wanes. In less than a breath, all that’s left is an insignificant, liquid swell. Red appears, hopping about excitedly, her palms held open. Dardariel bends forward and wretches. A skull emerges from parted lips, thick strands of acrid goop dangling from a forked tongue. Disgorged prize in hand, the imp scurries to the throne to add the trophy to the pile. [[Smite that motherfucking demon|ErinyesVanille]]<</if>>

“Aria,” you begin, casting a silent prayer that this stunt won’t land you in hot water with the theurge later. You sigh dramatically, collect your breath, then start weaving a lie. “On our way here, she set me up to be the butt of a joke. Embarrassed me, wounded my pride. And—” <<include "Wrath of the Voracious">>

“Nobody. I’m not—” you start, then stop yourself from blurting out the rest with the anger the demon so desperately craves. “We have our differences, our struggles, but we’re equals. We are united. I don’t bear any hatred towards any of them.” <<include "Wrath of the Voracious">>

No one says anything for a long moment, the room falling to utter silence. The winged demon’s fiery gaze bores a hole through your skull—you swear you can feel the heat building, an angry pinprick hammering between your eyebrows. “Very good,” she finally bellows, lounging upon her macabre throne once more. “I accept your tribute of hatred. What is it you seek from this audience?” You let out a gasp as a breath of relief escapes your lungs, then rub the back of your neck in an attempt to soothe the tonal whiplash. “We’re uh… We’re looking for help with the hellhound behind that magical door.” She perks up, rising eagerly in her seat. “Finally! Something //interesting// to do around here.” Dardariel’s eyes light up. “I was worried this month would be another disappointment—especially after I flew out to the walled city to witness the siege. I had hoped for a true spectacle, yet returned sorely disappointed.” “Do you mean Orrault? A horde of monsters tried to blow up the wall,” you shoot back, more than a bit hostile to the idea that the most traumatic event of your life was ‘disappointing’ to this psychotic asshole. “They failed and fled. The fucking cowards.” Dardariel spits. //“I// would have led the fight differently, to glorious victory. The bloodshed I could have wrought…” she sighs wistfully. Whatever you say, crazy bitch. You gather yourself and try to get back on track. “So anyway… the hellhound?” “Yes, you wish to slay it.” “Get past it,” you correct. “By slaying it,” she says, deadly serious. “I can do it, but I require more power.” You quietly wince at the idea of empowering a demon. “What did you have in mind?” “I wish to end the conflict with my rival living on the other side of the hall. It’s been twenty long years. By now, most of the weak, pathetic imps and servitors have defected to her side, lured by banal comforts and copious sex.” She slams her fist against a particularly monstrous skull molded into the armrest of her throne. You look around the spartan chamber she and her five remaining servants call home, at the heaps of rusted metal, at the numerous health and safety hazards. Despite your boiling blood, the room is cold and unwelcoming. Miserable. Perhaps you can understand why so many of the lesser demons chose not to live among this bellicose graveyard. “But with you and yours, I can finally get my righteous vengeance.” A keen glint of violence flickers in her eyes. “You help me absorb that fucking temptress and her cohort, and I shall lend my strength to vanquish the hellhound.” “That’s it? You’ll fight a giant demon dog just like that?” Dardariel flashes a wicked smirk. “And win.” Okay then… The demon leans back on her throne of skulls and waves her wrist dismissively. You offer an awkward bow, then shuffle to the exit of the erinyes’ lair with your party close on your heels. The clamping anxiety eases with each second, every step away from that dreadful torture chamber loosening the dense knot strangling your chest. The artificial slurry of adrenaline and hate wanes, filtered by a clearing head. While you didn’t quite get the details you were hoping for from the monomaniacal warlord, you now at least have a<<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>nother<</if>> viable path forward past the hellhound. <<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>You’re not really sure Dardariel’s all that much more trustworthy—hell that ‘who are you angry at’ bullshit was downright sadistic—but at least she’s reasonable in a rage-addict sort of way<<else>>Dardariel might be a fucking demon, and she might be a tad psychotic—even sadistic with that ‘who are you angry at’ bullshit—but for a creature who embodies wrath, she was surprisingly reasonable. Whatever the ongoing conflict between her and ‘the temptress’ might be, it seems to have channeled all her anger into a singular goal. And for once, that goal isn’t to devour you, which is neat.<</if>> [[Leave the lair|Shades of Hate]]

You turn a supernova of fury on the nearest demon, the heel of your boot cracking against her skull in a single, savage kick. You pry yourself free from her clutch,es then raise your spear and lunge, heavy metal tip biting into leathery red skin. Once she’s incapacitated, you pivot and charge toward Dardariel. Vision narrows as you approach, incandescent rage utterly blinding. The spear misses by an inch. The erinyes grabs the shaft and yanks you closer. Desperate, you level your knife and swing wildly at her gut. //“Give her back, you piece of shit!”// A claw rips across your wrist, digs a gash into your forearm. You fight through the pain and plunge the knife into thigh flesh with a wet //shluk.// “Yes! Unleash it! Throw everything at me!” the demon cries out in ecstatic revelation. She shudders, pulling you tight against her scorching body. “Give me all your fury, all your anger! I shall feast upon your rage!” Vicious talons tear at your armor. The knife slips from your hand. You throw a wild punch, knuckles bashing hard against the protruding growth on her shoulder. A grotesque gurgle rings out, the last ounces of your companion pumping away into oblivion. //Blaaarp!// You hardly register the flying flecks of caustic acid burning across your hair and boring into your flesh, explosive anger overwhelming all sense as you swing your fists violently. Darkness engulfs your head in a sweltering, rank cascade. Jagged teeth close on your chest. You keep slamming into your foe to no avail. When your feet leave the ground, you only manage to kick and flail twice as much. She scarfs down your chest in clamping bites like a dog eating a slab of meat, drawing you deeper into the broiling depths with each mouthful. Inside, you’re greeted with a faceful of acid, an overwhelming stench, and not nearly enough time to worry about either. As the last swallow drags your feet into the throat, a furious deluge erupts, savage and cacophonous like the inside of a blender. You thrash with seething fury as the stomach seals, then are snuffed out amid a sloshing hurricane. <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathErinyes ++>><<set $killedMira ++>>[[Melt away…|Death 2.2.3]]

A supernova of fury roils in your throbbing chest, raw anger replacing strained breathing. You level your spear and thrust with abandon, heavy metal tip clanging against the demon’s armor. Vision narrows, incandescent rage utterly blinding. You lunge. The spear misses by an inch. Dardariel grabs the shaft and yanks you closer. Desperate, you level your knife and swing wildly at her gut. A claw rips across your wrist, digs a gash into your forearm. You fight through the pain and plunge the knife into thigh flesh with a wet //shluk.// //“Give her back, you fucking cunt!”// “Yes! Unleash it! Throw everything at me!” the demon cries out in ecstatic revelation. She shudders, pulling you tight against her scorching body. “Give me all your fury, your anger. I shall feast upon your rage!” Vicious talons rend flesh. The knife slips from your hand. You throw a wild punch, knuckles bashing hard against the protruding growth on her shoulder. A grotesque gurgle rings out, the last ounces of your companion pumping away into oblivion. //Blaaarp!// You hardly register the flying flecks of caustic acid burning across your hair and boring into your flesh, explosive anger overwhelming all sense as you swing your fists violently. Darkness engulfs your head in a sweltering, rank cascade. Jagged teeth close on your chest. You keep slamming into your foe to no avail. When your feet leave the ground, you only manage to kick and flail twice as much. She scarfs down your chest in clamping bites like a dog eating a slab of meat, drawing you deeper into the broiling depths with each mouthful. Inside, you’re greeted with a faceful of acid, an overwhelming stench, and not nearly enough time to worry about either. As the last swallow drags your feet into the throat, a furious deluge erupts, savage and cacophonous like the inside of a blender. You thrash with seething fury as the stomach seals, then are snuffed out amid a sloshing hurricane. <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathErinyes ++>><<set $killedVanille ++>>[[Melt away…|Death 2.2.3]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Holy fuck, dude. That was horrible. I… I actually feel kinda sorry for you and your friends. Is there some way I can make it up to you? A warm blanket? Cold compress? The good news is that when I send you back, it’ll be before that brutal shit happened. <<case 2>> Look, you’re not gonna get this from me often, but I don’t think I can snark here. It’d just feel… wrong. Like making light of an orphanage fire or something. There’s irreverence, and then there’s just poor taste. <<default>> Actually, I changed my mind. The skull throne really pulls the room together, don’t you think? Who’s her decorator? I gotta hire them to do my place. Maybe a few candles will spruce up the infinite void. Before you ask: yes, this is my house. You keep barging in like a rude asshole every time you die. Now shoo! <</switch>> <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathErinyes ++>>[[Return|To Create a Warlike Feel]]

You’ve reached the end of the current publicly-available content for //Another Inner World.// Be sure to tune in for the next release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. As always, you can export your current save using the sidebar menu to the left, then load it into the next version and pick up right where you left off (here, this page, but with a link to proceed) when the next episode is available. __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading, testing, and feedback by Blex (episode 1+2), Kable12 (episode 1), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W adam998 Aickavon Alex Nimmer Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apocalypto Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Autocrux Avicyn BStreamcat Belriel105 Big Steve Bill Bob bishbopist @@color:red;Blex@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Butt McFarts calm belt Cavsfan5059 Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone cob Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron dragonborn657 Drakeon1015 Dude43235 Eat Me Eclipsed EL O EL Elmo Eric EvilBastard ExposedSenpai I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". Frank Lance FrogFries gongon Grapes Guardian Gnosis gzc HalTraveler Hayden Black hi529 Hona Vega Hunter Aldridge Iepie122 Igloo3047 Ithirien James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper Joe Fry Joel Boening Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Jorno Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Exodiaaddict Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Littleguy145 Robin! Lyl M Tanner M423x Manny M. Matheredor MelonFelon01 Wulfenite Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish Nafal geriu NapBonaparte Zuzu Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nick Baird Nightfang Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 Phase Caster Jay Pierce Placeholder @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 @@color:red;Ratley@@ Rory Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shadow Nightclaw SlimesAreNice somhtam @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ Spydorz StarlitKing superboost @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan TheNova129 Thumic Tobi tofublock Tsavo Tyler Fitzgerald Tyler Joshua Bennett UnknownLurker V-Ate VVVx Vesper Viikinkikiivi WaylaidVisitor William Xaeroch Xionti yomon7 Yum Yums Zob Zerp Zuiji

<<if $anger == "Mira">>When you’re clear of the demon’s lair, when the rusty scent of blood starts to finally flee your nostrils, Mira brushes past your side, nearly toppling you. She glares angrily and hisses before stomping on ahead. What did you—Oh right. You kinda aired your dirty laundry with a demon, of all people. “Mira, wait, I—” The demi simply scurries out of sight, rushing through the passages back toward the main hall. God-fucking-damnit. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take. Everything you said back there was true: you hate this, hate the way she looks at you, the way she runs away every time you approach. A firm hand finds your shoulder before you can spiral any further. “Don’t worry,” Vanille says with a determined nod. “Small steps. You’ll be friends again, I promise.” You wish you shared her confidence, but Vanille hasn’t exactly been an inspiring presence lately. Add that to your list of ongoing problems… <<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>[[Return to the main hall|2B]]<<else>>[[Return to the main hall|Pick a Demon, Any Demon]]<</if>><<else>>Vanille sidles up to you and quietly murmurs, “Quick thinking on your feet back there. Nice job selling that lie.” An elbow playfully nudges your side. “Dardariel really bought it.” Breath hitches in your chest. You stare at her, scanning for any hint at all that she’s messing with you, that she’s attempting some sort of tone-deaf joke. Unfortunately, she’s entirely serious. Fuck… You said a lot of things under the influence of that demon’s blood-heating aura, but not a single one of them was a lie. How can she not see that? How can the words of your heart be so plainly ignored, reality denied so strongly by a woman you’ve come to trust with your life. She must have heard what you said, right? There’s no way it just skimmed over her brain, that none of your words got even the slightest rise out of her. Did she feel that she //deserved// such criticism to be shared like drying laundry? Or does she simply not care what you say about her? You let out a long, //long// breath and nod. <<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>[[Return to the main hall|2B]]<<else>>[[Return to the main hall|Pick a Demon, Any Demon]]<</if>><</if>>

<<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>“Was she hot?” Ashlyn asks before you’re even in the main hall proper. Sherine meets your gaze, nods toward Mortia as if she has nothing to report, then frowns and gestures to Mira clanging her knife against the stones on the other side of the chamber. You shake your head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. It was like… It was like my blood was boiling. I couldn’t think straight.” “Is she willing to work with us?” Sherine asks. “Yes. Dardariel said she’d ‘slay the beast’ if we help her conquer Calisia,” you offer with half a shrug. Vanille nods, lips pressed to a thin grimace.<<else>>“How’d it go?” Vanille asks as you step into the hall. Mira lingers farther back, stealing the odd furtive glance in the party’s direction. “Fucking amazing!” Ashlyn blurts out before you have a chance to respond. “Do you have any idea what a succubus can do with her—” “It was fine!” you hastily interject. “Once she, uhh… stopped trying to charm us, Calisia basically made the same offer as Dardariel: help defeat her rival, and she’ll deal with the hellhound.” Vanille spends a skeptical moment eying Ashlyn—the //visibly wet// Ashlyn—then finally turns to you with a nod.<</if>> “So it’s a question of who we trust more?” “Basically.” You turn to the rest of your companions. “Thoughts?” “I vote the succubus!” Ashlyn immediately declares. You balk. “She <<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>//just// <</if>>tried to eat you.” “And?” “That—” You stifle a sigh. “Nevermind. Sherine?” The lamia shrugs. “I’d choose the succubus as well. While the erinyes seems more direct, fury is a bit too volatile for my tastes.” “Dardariel still feels like the safer bet,” Vanille counters. “I’d rather not place my trust in a manipulator.” “I agree,” Mortia suddenly calls out—you’re honestly a bit shocked she was listening. “An erinyes will prove the more capable ally in combat.” Right. Cool. You cast a glance toward Mira, who still looks to be keeping her distance. You’re probably not getting a vote from her. “<<= $name>>,” Sherine says. “You and Aria were the only ones who visited both demons. I’d say that puts you in the best position to make this call.” You nod. “Fair enough. What do you think, Aria?” “Oh, me?” The theurge hesitates, genuinely surprised. “I, uhh… I don’t really know. Neither of them seem especially trustworthy.” That’s the understatement of the fucking century. A supernatural tempress or a blood-crazed warlord. You’d hardly consider either one an ideal partner, especially when your half of the exchange involves handing the demon //even more// power. And unfortunately, it looks like the final decision rests on your shoulders. Genuine trust isn’t an option, so now it becomes a question of mitigating risk. Who’s less likely to betray you, and failing that, whose betrayal are you more likely to survive? [[Ally with the Calisia, the succubus|Ally with the Calisia, the succubus][$Quarry4 to "succubus"]] [[Ally with Dardariel, the erinyes|Ally with Dardariel, the erinyes][$Quarry4 to "erinyes"]]

A comfortable silence settles, and you take the opportunity to glance back to your other companions. Mortia, of course, maintains her eternal vigil, lest the door suddenly sprout legs and wander off. Sherine lies calmly on her coils, eyes sweeping from one entryway to next. It takes a moment to find Mira, little more than a dark shadow kicking up dirt and stones at the opposite end of the hall—as far as humanly possible from you. “Do you ever wonder what this was for?” Aria suddenly asks. You glance back to find the theurge running a hand along a section of ornamented pillar as her gaze trails toward the distant ceiling. “The hall?” you ask. “The hall, the ruins, all of it.” “Oh, uhm… There’s this expert in Orrault who thought this might be some Ancient Lurnasian holy site. So maybe it’s a temple or something?” Aria’s lips press to a pensive frown as her eyes gleam in the faint lamplight. “Then <<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>those halls<<else>>that place<</if>> must’ve been living quarters, right? Imagine how many people must have made their homes here, or visited from abroad for celebrations. Hundreds, at least. It must have been beautiful before… well, the thousand years of neglect.” “Don’t forget the demons.” “Those too.” Her chortle tapers off to a slight sigh<<if $Orrault2 == true>> as she shifts a step closer<</if>>. “So, did your expert have any other theories about this place?” “Not really. She was mostly focussed on helping us find—” You stop yourself just shy of mentioning the Echoes of Exile. <<if $Orrault2 == true>>You and Aria have inexplicably developed something of a rapport at this point, but you can’t imagine telling everyone about the specifics of your legendary, all-powerful relic quest is a good idea<<else>>For as nice as Aria may seem, you //did// literally just meet her last night. Maybe it’s not the best idea to tell her about your legendary, all-powerful relic quest<</if>>. “Err, find a valuable treasure,” you say instead, an adequate half-truth. “She figured since the researchers could never finish their work—y’know, before the demons and all—it might still be here.” Aria nods. “The magic I felt earlier?” “Hopefully, yeah.” “That sounds exciting,” she says. “I’ve always loved tales of adventure. Forgotten ruins, harrowing trials, ancient artifacts. But I’ve never had the constitution for that sort of life myself.” “You’re kinda doing it now, aren’t you?” “Oh, this? I—” She falters with a slight chuckle. “I’m just tagging along with Mortia, supporting how I can.” You shrug. “Sounds like an adventurer to me. Not everyone has to wield a sword or sling fire, And you’ve still got magic, like your healing, or that ward last night. Meanwhile, I barely know how to use a bow and spear.”<<if $Orrault2 == true>> “You’re brave, too. Don’t forget that,” Aria adds. “I certainly haven’t.” “I, ah—” You stammer, cheeks flushing as the theurge offers a warm grin. “I didn’t really do that much.” “Enough to earn a heartfelt thanks, at least.” “You healed me. Twice.<<if $Orrault1 != "Mira">> //And// helped us pay the toll.<</if>> Besides, <<= $Orrault1>>’s the one who actually beat the centaur. I just pissed her off and… huh.” “Hm?” “I think I get what you mean. About being the support,” you explain. “I’m here, and I’m doing whatever I can. <<else>>You pause, considering the theurge’s words for a moment. “Though I kinda get your meaning. About being the support.” “Hm?” “I’m here, and I’m doing whatever I can,” you explain. “<</if>>But I don’t feel like I’m… I don’t know, fighting in the same weight class? I can’t hold my own in combat, to the point where I sometimes feel like more of a liability than anything else. And I’m //still// learning the basics: life on the road, dungeon delves, dealing with monsters. I guess it sometimes feels like they’re the real adventurers, and I’m just along for the ride.” Aria lets out a wry chuckle. “I get that feeling. But I also sense that’s not the whole story. I think the point of having companions like this is that you’re all in it together. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. It’s not about keeping score, calculating who’s most and least useful. It’s about bringing out the best in each other.” Aria glances toward the inquisitor. “Well, okay. I don’t know if Mortia’s one for the whole ‘teamwork’ thing, but you get my point.” You snort. “I do.” You don’t believe for a second that you’ve brought out the best in anyone lately—given how bad things have gotten with half of your companions, you’re not even sure if you’re capable of evoking ‘good’ outcomes. The theurge hesitates for a moment. “<<= $name>>, do you think after—” “Hey, fuckbirds,” Ashlyn suddenly calls out, waving from where your companions have gathered. “You two planning on sucking face all day, or are we going to talk to another demon?” [[Right, gotta get back to it|Back to the Pit]]

As your companions disperse, you settle into an idle lap of the hall, partially because moving feels like the best way to shake free the last traces of Calisia’s influence lingering in your veins, and partially because the room itself doesn’t have much in the way of comfortable seating. After a minute ambling about the middle of the floor, you swap to winding between the numerous pillars, casually investigating assorted nooks and crannies while taking care to never venture //too// far from the rest of your group. “<<= $name>>?” The gentle voice shocks you from your stupor. You blink and turn to find Aria watching with clasped hands and patient eyes. “Is Ashlyn alright?” the theurge asks gingerly. “After the succubus, I mean.” “Oh, uhh…” You falter, trying to figure out exactly how to explain the conundrum that is your party’s kink-mage to a sane observer. Aria continues before you find an answer. “She turned away help after she was released, and then I saw the two of you talking. She’s your friend, so I figured you’d know her better, but I still wanted to ask.” You let out something between a scoff and a chuckle. “Ashlyn’s, umm… Okay, this is going to sound bizarre, but I think she’s fine. Actually, I haven’t seen her this upbeat in a while. She’s probably busy writing down everything she can remember, channeling the inspiration into future tests or experiments or…” You trail off as you notice the mage deep in conversation with Vanille. From the look on the knight’s face, Ashlyn is providing an exceptionally vivid recounting of the very details you opted to trim from the succubus negotiations. //“Or she’s doing that,”// you mutter, more to yourself. You look back to find Aria chewing on her lip, brow knit into an entirely understandable mix of confusion and concern. “She sounds… strange,” the theurge eventually offers. “Maybe that’s why the succubus targeted her,” you muse. “She saw a fellow sex fiend, and she went for it.” “She did seem a bit eager, didn’t she?” Aria suddenly hesitates, then spends a fitful moment shuffling from one foot to the other, eyes downcast. “Not that I’m one to judge, I suppose. I practically let myself get caught by that imp.” You shake your head. “Don’t blame yourself. We were all under the succubus’ charms.” “You certainly held your own,” she insists. “I didn’t see all of it, but Calisia was practically on top of you.” “Yeah, before Sherine came in and saved my ass.” The two of you share a slight laugh, as much from relief as genuine humor. <<include "I hear they have cinnamon rolls at the concession stand">>

You lead Aria away, dragging her into a brisk escape. Without a word, you settle into an idle lap of the hall, partially because moving feels like the best way to shake free the last traces of Dardariel’s influence lingering in your veins, and partially because the room itself doesn’t have much in the way of comfortable seating. Once you’ve cleared about two columns distance from the group, you let the confused mage go. “Sorry for being forceful.” “It’s okay. In fact, it’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” She bows her head slightly and kicks at the stones for a moment before meeting your gaze once more. “I am aware that this isn’t my business—It’s not my place to say. That is…” She trails off, delicate finger touching her forehead gently. “I apologize for being presumptuous, but I wanted to offer my ear.” You tilt your head. “How do you mean?” “Well… I don’t feel like I should have been in that room with the erinyes. What you said about <<= $anger>> wasn’t meant for me.” Aria gestures subtly toward the rest of your party. “It just seems that you’re going through a lot with your friends right now. And, I guess… I guess I wanted to offer to listen. If you needed someone like that, maybe that could be me.” You blink at her, utterly shocked. “R- Really?” “I’m pretty good at it,” she replies with a happy little chirp. You chuckle. “No, I’m sure you are. I just… I’m not used to empathy from strangers, is all.” You raise your hands as you realize your fumble. “N- Not that you’re a stranger after today. I meant more that—” A calm hand finds your forearm and rests gently. Aria chuckles. <<if $Orrault2 == true>>“I would cherish the opportunity to be more than a stranger to you.”<<else>>“<<= $name>>, I understand. It’s okay, I’m not offended.”<</if>> Aria puts polite distance between you and bows slightly. “And the offer still stands if you’d like to talk. Perhaps over some tea?” “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Aria.” <<include "I hear they have cinnamon rolls at the concession stand">>

<<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>“We should probably still leave one or two people behind to keep an eye on Mortia,” you say once you and Aria have rejoined the group. “Same as before?” Vanille asks. “Uhh, probably not.” You consider it for a moment. You’ll obviously be going again, both because you can’t do shit if the inquisitor decides to go for the barrier, and because you’re now among the foremost experts at demon negotiation in your party. The only question, then, is who you should bring along for a talk with a creature that’s apparently obsessed with wrath and violence. … Now that you’re actually thinking about it, the choice is pretty obvious. “Vanille, Mira, we’ll confront the erinyes,” you say, then turn to Aria. Before you can even ask her to accompany you, she nods confidently. “I’ll help as best I can.” “I appreciate it.” You smile, then turn to Sherine and give her your most impassioned //‘please don’t eat the demon hunter while we’re gone’// stare. She offers only a raised eyebrow in return. “We’ll be back in a bit,” you say, then pause to reach for the spear on your back. If you’re dealing with a warlord, maybe provoking her with armaments isn’t a good plan? “You’ll want to bring a weapon,” Mortia says, unmoving in her vigil. “I doubt the erinyes will even speak to you otherwise.” [[Oh fuckin’ boy|Angery]]<<else>>“Another demon?” Vanille protests as you and Aria rejoin the group. “I don’t think that’s—” “No, she’s right,” you say with a solemn nod. “Dardariel gave us a solution, but we only barely understand the problem. We’re in the dark right now. I want more information before we decide anything.” “Are we splitting up again? Same as before?” Vanille asks, hand already on her hilt. “Yes,” you say, then consider the group dynamic for a moment. “No.” You’ll obviously be going again, both because you can’t do shit if the inquisitor decides to go for the barrier, and because you’re now among the foremost experts at demon negotiation in your party. And also the fact that, once again, Mortia is refusing to leave her self-appointed role as ‘Dogwatcher.’ She’ll need a sitter to make sure she doesn’t try anything stupid in your absence. The only question, then, is who to bring to ‘the mistress’ demon—whatever the hell that means. Sherine’s proven herself to be a master socialite, so that’s an obvious boon. Ashlyn, on the other hand, brings a peculiar brand of expertise. Given magic might be on the table, you’d rather bring the mage than leave her behind. Your gaze settles on Mira lingering at the far wall. Even at her cheeriest, you wouldn’t consider the demi much of a negotiator. And right now she’s far, //far// from her best. It pains you to admit it, but she’s more likely to prove a liability than anything else. You can’t just leave her on her own, either. “Vanille,” you start, “could you and Mira stay behind?” You give the knight a look one half meaningful and the other apologetic. Hopefully she understands she’ll be pulling double duty. A strained expression darts across Vanille’s features, but it’s gone in an instant. “Of course,” she says with a nod. You turn back to face Sherine, Ashlyn, and Aria—the theurge has both knowledge of the erinyes and has proven herself to be extraordinarily compassionate and thoughtful. Having her along will serve as something of a grounding force, keeping things calm in case your other two companions get out of hand. [[… You hope|Evil's Soft First Touches]]<</if>>

“We’ll side with the succubus,” you eventually say. “Which, uhh, just leaves the question of how we’re going to deal with… the erinyes.” You hesitate as you suddenly remember that, unlike Dardariel, Calisia offered absolutely nothing in the way of assistance for defeating her opponent. You’ve seen the erinyes and her cohort; for what they lack in numbers, they more than make up in sheer ferocity. And now you and your companions are going to have to defeat them all. Perhaps you can persuade Mortia to abandon her sacred door-guarding duty—entice her with a bit of righteous violence? Oh, and you have to make sure you capture Dardariel alive. … Maybe it’s not too late to change your mind. “I believe I can handle her,” Sherine says. “You—Wait, you can?” you balk. “How?” “I think I know her type,” she explains, as if that’s somehow a reasonable thing to say about a woman she’s never met. “I should be able to deal with the demon on my own.” A long moment of incredulous silence lingers over the group before Ashlyn finally speaks up. “Alright, I’ll say it: that’s fucking bullshit. There’s no way in hell you’re taking down a blood-crazed wrath demon one-on-one.” “I don’t recall mentioning a fight.” “Wha—” The mage throws her hands in the air. “That’s even worse! You’re not charming Miss Rage Incarnate. Y’know, the demon that’s resisted a succubus for //years.// It’s fucking impossible.” Sherine merely offers a perfectly pleasant smile. “You’re more than welcome to wait just outside. I’ll gladly accept any assistance if I’m wrong.” Ashlyn’s lips open and close repeatedly before finally settling into what you can only describe as a pout. “… Can I watch?” “I’m afraid not.” Sherine flashes a smirk. “You might spoil the magic.” Before you can offer a response—or fully come to terms with exactly //what// the lamia’s planning to do—she turns and slithers toward the erinyes’ side-passage without so much as a glance over her shoulder. “I… I guess we should follow her?” Aria suggests hesitantly. [[Might as well|Snake Sign]]

“Dardariel seems like the safer option for an ally,” you say, not entirely thrilled with your conclusion. “Wait here. I’ll go get her.” Vanille seizes your arm. “Alone!?” “Yes. We can’t all go—She’ll think we’re there to kill her.” You yank yourself free. “It’s fine. I gave her a ‘tribute,’ remember?” With that, you amble into the narrow corridor leading to Dardariel’s dwelling—more a torture chamber, if you’re being honest. As you zig and zag through what might be your very last stroll ever, thoughts of doubt begin to flood your mind. You’ve seen the erinyes and her cohort; for what they lack in numbers, they more than make up in sheer ferocity. Dardariel has plenty of weapons and… enthusiasm, but after hearing both accounts, you’re not entirely sure what kept this feud going for so damn long. And while her counterpart was absolutely the liar of the pair, the erinyes was quite light on the details of //how// exactly things would play out with the hellhound. And now you’re going to feed her a bunch of mana to make her stronger. What a good idea! … Maybe it’s not too late to change your mind? You turn another corner and nearly leap out of your skin when you find the demon standing in striking distance. She twitches, blade inches from plunging into your heart, but stops herself from murdering you outright. The furious snarl melts from her features as she peers around you curiously. “Where are the others? Your allies.” It takes a moment to steady your pounding chest. “Waiting in the main hall,” you croak. The blade rises again. “For an ambush?” “No,” you say, a shaky confidence stabilizing your quaking legs. “We’re waiting for you so we can head over to Calisia’s chambers.” The wrath demon is silent for a long minute as conflicting emotions sweep across her face like dueling swashbucklers. Finally, she lowers her weapon. “You’re… siding with me?” “Yes.” She clicks her tongue. “This isn’t one of her tricks? You haven’t been enthralled?” Dardariel leans forward, nostrils flailing. She gets a whiff of what you can only assume is your stinky body odor—you’ve been on the road for two days now—then stares at you, piercing eyes glaring straight into your soul. “I can<<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">> still<</if>> smell her, but…” Red suddenly appears and hops excitedly at Dardariel’s feet. “See? //See?// I told you the outsiders were a blessing!” “Silence!” the demon bellows as she kicks the imp. The erinyes studies you for a minute longer. You endure the stare-down, remembering to draw breath at least three times. When she’s satisfied, the demon grunts and waves at her cohort. The four servitors clang their spears and fall in behind her. Even Red joins the ranks at the back with her very own, comparably adorable, glaive. Dardariel raises her sword at you once more, pointing back into the tunnel with her free hand. “Very well. But you’re in front, a hostage. If this is a trap, I’m killing you first.” You sigh and about-face, rolling your eyes once she can’t see you. [[Regroup|Avenged Ate-fold]]

The demons at the front of the hall scatter. Mortia’s blade deflects what should have been a thorough squishing, the magical implement unmoved by the crushing force of a giantess. The inquisitor hops backward as a massive hand sweeps three imps right off the ground. The hound pops the lesser demons into her open jaws. Pointed teeth snap shut. She gulps and scrambles after another pod of fiends, face diving for the floor as her ass bumps its way through the narrow archway where the magical door once stood. A wave of demons surge. Some flee; others seek a fight with both the hellhound //and// your party<<if $Quarry4 == "succubus">>—apparently the succubus’ order to betray your party still stands<<else>>, the erinyes’ cohort apparently keen for violence despite the loss of their leader<</if>>. You raise your spear to block the first, but nearly fall flat on your ass when they thump against your bulwark. Vanille shoves against your shoulder to keep you upright, then lunges around to drive off the demon with a flurry of slices. Knife in hand, Mira darts after an imp. You don’t have time to worry about her before another thud slams your spear to the ground. A coppery lash whips across your vision as Sherine trips and snares the demon. The lamia circles you and Vanille before flicking her tail. Her victim soars over the giant dog’s head and into the darkness of the unexplored chamber. The hellhound drops everything to chase after the demonic chew toy, cramming her hips through the archway once more and disappearing into the darkness with an excited yowl. In the reprieve, the combat-ready demons encircle your group and corral you toward the middle of the room, cutting off any escape into the side passages. You risk a glance back toward the exit. Your group had to squeeze coming into this hall in the first place; there’s no way you’d all get out in time. Worse, the hound might charge through the wall and bring the ruins down on your heads out of reckless enthusiasm. Your party fans out in a defensive perimeter to repel the encroaching demons. You’re left standing in the center, watching and waiting for an opening. Vanille parries and stabs to your right. Sherine covers for Ashlyn’s spellcasting on the left. Aria chases Mortia, who beckons after Mira as the demi scrambles vehemently in pursuit of an imp running panicked circles around a nearby column. The inquisitor trips a passing demon, then slices with a flourish of her blade, the mauve-skinned woman dissipating into an arcane cloud with a faint squeal of regret. A low rumbling builds at the far side of the hall. The mountainous dog erupts from the darkness, both hands outstretched and lunging straight for you. [[Heel! Sit! Good doggy!|Clifford the Big Red Slut]] [[Make a break for the side tunnel|Sidereal 1]] [[Hide behind a column|Pillars of Temporary]]

After a moment’s pause, the five of you hurry to follow in Sherine’s… no, not footsteps. Trail? Tracks? Snake-sign? You really need to work this out at some point. Linguistic dilemma aside, the lamia isn’t waiting up, and even at your group’s hurried pace, the rest of you still arrive at the final corner before Dardariel’s lair mere moments after Sherine slips from sight. “So now we…” Aria trails off. “We wait,” you mutter, leaning against the wall and letting out a long sigh. A minute passes in near-total silence, the occasional distant murmur from the chamber beyond providing little as to Sherine’s progress—or wellbeing, for that matter. Your heel taps against stone in an agitated rhythm as you attempt to manage the bizarre cocktail of worry and anxious curiosity writhing in your stomach. For every detail Sherine neglected, your mind is more than willing to speculate, elaborate, embellish. Yet each lurid musing pairs with a stab of concern, compelling you to shift an inch closer to the final corner. A second minute slips by. Then another. You try to assure yourself that there’d be some sort of audible indication if things abruptly went south—that even if Dardariel resorted to violence, Sherine would have enough time to call for help. Then again, a part of you expected there’d be some sort of indication if things //were// going to plan. It’s not like there’s much in the way of ambient noise in these empty stone corridors. Hell, you’re a bit surprised your companions didn’t hear the erinyes’ booming voice from all the way back in the main hall. “Alright, that’s it,” Ashlyn abruptly declares. “I’m gonna look.” You step forward, but Vanille’s faster, a gloved hand latching onto the mage’s arm and holding tight. “Sherine said to stay out of sight,” the knight declares. “Which leaves us to do //what?// Just sit around and twiddle our thumbs?” “We’re trusting her,” you say. “How could you, <<= $name>>?” Ashlyn’s free hand rises to her chest, a reproachful gesture of indeterminate sincerity. “You, of //all// people.” The mage’s eyebrows waggle wildly, a look you choose to read as //‘Don’t you want to know, too?’// //‘Of course I do, but Sherine asked us to do something, and we’re respecting her wishes. Besides, I’m not sticking my head in the hornet’s nest to satisfy my curiosity,// you attempt to eyebrow-waggle back before realizing there’s absolutely no way that’s being communicated wordlessly. Instead, you cross your arms and say, “We’re waiting until Sherine’s back, or until we have a good reason to follow her.” “And what if neither happens?” Ashlyn asks. “What if she’s in trouble, and we just don’t know about it?” You frown. “Are you actually concerned for her, or are you just hoping you can worry us into letting you go?” “Doesn’t matter; I’m making a good point either way.” “No, you’re being a prick.” “Imagine it, <<= $name>>: our dear friend, all on her own, desperately struggling against the erinyes’ might.” Ashlyn’s tone drips with mock horror. “What if she’s already lost? What if, even as we speak, she’s being—” “Being what, exactly?” The interjection sends you wheeling around just as a familiar face rounds the corner: Sherine, hale and whole and—//dear lord,// that’s a massive stomach. And in her human torso, no less. Words fail as your eyes are inexorably drawn to the ball of flesh, faint impressions shifting and jutting from its tumescent mass in slow, hypnotic patterns. Your mind sparks and fizzles, gradually lurching itself toward the only obvious conclusion. Sherine favors you with a knowing grin, then turns her amber gaze on Ashlyn. “Sorry, you were saying something?” “Oh, fuck off,” she blurts out, eyes flickering between Sherine and her squirming stomach. “That’s just plain stupid.” The lamia simply smiles at Ashlyn. “I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’ though I’ll also accept ‘well done’ or ‘I’m impressed.’” “Screw that noise,” the mage spits. “How?” “A secret for Dardariel and me, alone,” Sherine murmurs, one hand caressing the swell of her gut and provoking a fresh surge of struggles. Whatever occurred in that room, you’re guessing the erinyes isn’t particularly pleased with the ultimate outcome. Vanille shakes her head in disbelief. “And the other demons, her followers, they just… let you?” Rather than offer a direct response, Sherine merely shrugs, then directs her gaze back down the corridor. “Let’s not keep Calisia waiting.” And then she’s off, yet again leaving the rest of you to follow in her… wake. Yeah, that’ll work. [[Back to the succubus|Hiss From A Rose... Again]]

“Well, well. You actually returned,” Calisia croons, pushing an attending demon aside and propping herself up from the throne-cushion. Her eyes fixate on Sherine’s stomach. “And with gifts.” “Your rival. Our half of the deal,” you explain. As Sherine slithers forward, you suddenly feel very vulnerable standing on your own in the middle of the harem. The rest of your companions chose to wait outside—or in Ashlyn’s case, were forced to—leaving you and the lamia alone together in Calisia’s lair. Someone has to be here to keep an eye on Sherine, after all. The succubus grins, equal parts captivatingly gorgeous and chillingly eager. “Oh, I’m well aware. I felt my dear old friend was on her way, though I’ll admit I didn’t exactly expect to see her like this. How //did// you get her in there?” “The same as everyone else,” Sherine offers, coy. Calisia’s eyes flicker to you, then the lamia’s stomach, and finally her face. After a moment, she gives a slight shrug, then begins rising to her feet. “Very well, release her and I’ll—” Sherine closes the distance in a heartbeat, hardly more than a blur of copper scales. She throws herself upon the succubus, pushing the demon back onto the cushion and simultaneously pulling her close. Lips meet, stifling a nascent gasp. Arms grasp at flesh as Sherine’s tail winds around the demon’s legs, all while the writhing stomach pins her torso. You know you should look away. It’s the right—or at least polite—thing to do. But you simply can’t. The raw aura of passion and lust radiating from the pair blazes bright, an utterly captivating flame to which you are helplessly drawn. Even your brief attempts to avert your gaze find there’s little in the way of modest escape. The orgy has thrummed to life alongside its mistress. Each moan from the succubus is met by a cascading chorus of cries from her minions, every twist and squirm resonating through dozens of bodies. Sweat-slicked flesh presses, shifts, slaps, thrusts. Lips meet, bite, suckle, expand. A human thrall vanishes into a demon partner mid-sex in rapid, greedy gulps. A few feet away, a demi’s head lolls from the mouth of an imp with a gargantuan stomach, eyes distant and unfocussed even as a tongue wraps around the crown her of skull to usher her within. Elsewhere, a wolf monster girl eagerly crawls between a pair of spread legs, practically forcing herself deeper into the bucking demon’s womb. The non-demons are being devoured, you realize. Every single one of them. A few imps even get caught in the crossfire, sucked in alongside other prey or simply gulped down in a fit of ravenous passion. Your eyes return to Sherine and Calisia—somehow the less obscene spectacle—just as the lamia’s stomach begins to shift upward, a more purposeful and deliberate movement than the random squirms. Dardariel passes between the two predators mid-kiss, little more than stretched lips, swollen cheeks, and the occasional flash of red to betray her passage from one prison of flesh to the next. Wet //glucks// overpower the gasps and moans, urgent and needy. Calisia’s stomach gradually expands, the erinyes’ squirms rising to a fevered pitch. The last of the bulge vanishes from Sherine’s throat, ushered into the succubus. Only once the final, resounding gulp seals the erinyes away does Sherine finally withdraw, leaving Calisia sprawled atop her cushion, panting and engorged, cheeks flush with arousal. She looks up at Sherine, something like disappointment playing across her features. “Are you sure you’re not interested in staying longer?” The lamia merely smiles. “We both know you wouldn’t settle for a temporary arrangement.” Calisia flashes a wry grin, a faint chuckle sputtering forth between deep breaths. She sighs, gradually rises to her feet, then takes a moment to compose herself before finally turning her gaze on you. “Fair enough. You’ve certainly fulfilled your half of our arrangement, and now I’ll fulfill mine.” With no further fanfare, Calisia strides for the exit of the lair, the incensed shouts of the erinyes within her stomach plainly audible. Each and every one of the succubus’ minions—the ones not devoured, at least—rise to follow. [[Head to the barrier|Curse Your Sudden But Inevitable Betrayal!]]

You arrive back in the main hall to discover the succubus’ minions aren’t the only lesser demons who’ve rallied. Across the way, Dardariel’s followers watch silently, eyes trained on Calisia as she approaches the barrier. You initially worry they’re planning to attack the succubus and free their leader—especially considering the number of brandished weapons among the group—until you realize they’ve… changed. It’s hard to be sure without a side-by-side comparison, but they’ve absolutely shrunk, some by as much as a foot or two. Spikes have dulled or vanished entirely, and the faintest shade of purple now tinges their previously scarlet complexions. It seems Calisia’s confidence in assimilating Dardariel’s followers was well-founded. You and your companions cluster together toward the hall’s center. You can’t speak for the rest of them, but it’s hard not to feel a little nervous when you’re so utterly outnumbered by the demonic onlookers. “I don’t like this,” Mortia growls, eyeing the succubus warily. “She has something planned, I know it.” “Weren’t you the one who said we should ally with a lesser evil?” you ask, mildly annoyed. //“Use,// not ally,” the inquisitor spits. “And I said it was a path to victory, not one I would enjoy.” Before you can offer a response, Calisia stops and turns. Ember eyes sweep across the assembled crowd, appraising, reveling. Finally, she directs her attention to her stomach, gently cradling the writhing ball of flesh. “Oh, Dardariel,” she coos. “I so wanted to enjoy my time with you. Watching you bend and break and beg for more. The fun we could’ve had…” A wistful sigh trails from the succubus’ lips. “Shame I have to hurry things along.” Hands clench. Calisia’s stomach writhes, churns, and finally begins to shrink. You can only stare in a mix of awe and horror as Dardariel melts beneath the succubus’ touch, rounding to a uniform sphere in a heartbeat, then dissolving before your very eyes inch by plainly visible inch. Hardly ten seconds pass before the once-mighty erinyes vanishes entirely, not even the slightest pudge on the succubus’ midriff to betray her ultimate fate. Calisia lets out an immensely satisfied sigh, the faintest shade red upon her cheeks. “Well then,” she hums. “Let’s put this power to use.” Without another word, she turns and approaches the barrier. Vast, gleaming eyes track her every step from beyond the shimmering veil of magic, any expression rendered utterly inscrutable on the hellhound’s immense visage. The succubus pauses just before the door. Two fingers touch to her lips, then press against the barrier itself in tender caress. A request. An invitation. The arcane surface quivers, shudders, then abruptly unzips, eager as a teenager. The assembled crowd holds a collective breath as the last traces of the barrier vanish, leaving nothing standing between Calisia and the hellhound. All at once, you feel it: an immense aura emanating from the succubus in torrid waves. It’s not even directed at you, but the compulsion still resonates through your very bones, compelling, commanding. It demands you submit, yield, obey. Surrender your will to that of another, utterly and completely. The hellhound stares down at the succubus for a long moment, regarding the much smaller demon with enthralled curiosity. She blinks once, twice, then tilts her head. Finally, when the tension grows so palpable you could reach out and touch it, the beast gradually lowers herself to the ground. She thumps her head right in front of the succubus and remains still, patient and waiting. A faint sputtering chortle slips from Calisia’s throat, barely more than a whisper from across the hall. It builds to a titter, then an outright cackle, mirth and relief mixing with a distinctly manic note that sets the hairs on the back of your neck on end. The succubus turns toward her audience, tail flicking and wings flourishing, gouts of raucous laughter spilling forth in an uncontrollable torrent. Finally, she recovers, gasping. Ember eyes settle on you and your companions. “And there you have it, mortals: the beast is tamed and our arrangement complete.” Lips curl to a grin that sends a chill crawling down your spine. “I believe this calls for a celebration. You’ll join me of course, won’t you? Any true revelry demands a feast.” <<linkreplace "Uh oh…">>Mortia tenses, one hand reaching for the scythe at her back. “You betray your word so easily, vile demon.” Calisia merely grins. “I betray nothing, little hunter. The terms of our agreement were clear: you bring me Dardariel, and I subdue the hellhound.” She rests a hand on the beast’s nose. “I never offered any assurance of safety afterward.” The succubus directs her attention to the surrounding demons—dozens of them, you realize with a shudder, all fixated squarely on the seven of you. “Feel free to help yourself, my minions,” she calls out. “Though leave the serpent to meEE—” Calisia yelps as a mass of pink wraps around her legs, then abruptly yanks her into the hellhound’s maw where she’s sealed behind the massive lips with little more than a muted squeak. The beast rises, slow, almost ponderous. Cheeks bulge and squirm in futile effort, utterly quashed by the might of the massive predator. A tilt of her head, a slight gulp, and the faintest ripple of flesh, and the succubus is gone. Deathly silence grips the room as the hellhound sniffs where the barrier once stood, cautious and appraising. One hand paws at the opening hesitantly, then retreats into the darkness as the demon shifts forward, confidence bolstered with every passing inch. She blinks. Grins. A huge, furry arm thuds to the floor of the main hall, and all hell breaks loose. [[… Fuck|All Hellhound Breaks Loose]]<</linkreplace>>

Arms raised in careful surrender, you return to the main hall with steady strides. You can feel Dardariel’s wrathful aura radiating at your back like the tip of a knife digging up and down your spine. There may very well be one, based on how Vanille reacts when you make eye contact. //“Don’t,”// you command, stern and furious. “We’re on the same side. All of us are gonna march over to Calisia’s dwelling. Get your weapons.” Everyone but Mortia and Mira obliges. The rest of your companions warily join the fiendish ranks—granted, there’s only six demons in total, but it’s still an unnerving sight to see your group shoulder to shoulder with the barb-encrusted warriors from hell. It’s even stranger when they walk into the intoxicating miasma of the succubus, straight into the writhing mass of concupiscent bodies. “<<= $name>>,” Calisia coos, smiling. “So good of you to return. What can I—Oh.” The orgy crashes to a halt. “Calisia! Your reckoning is nigh!” Dardariel boisterously proclaims. She raises her sword in triumph. “Long have we battled, but today, our glorious feud ends. Your queendom falls by my hand. On this day, I shall leave the battlefield as the victor, for I have trained combatants and you have a cadre of pleasure-drunk sex slaves. Your forces are no match for—” “Fuck’s sake,” the succubus interrupts, rising from her cushiony perch. “If you promise to shut up, I’ll surrender right now.” “Only a coward—” “Yes, yes, I know. We’ve been through this a hundred times before, Dardy—I wouldn’t trade physical blows with you then, and I won’t now. But, I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered, and I intend to go out with an ounce of dignity.” Calisia pushes her thumbs through the straps around her waist and pulls her ‘clothes’ down her legs sensuously. She steps out of the bundle with grace, thighs practically as bare as when you first laid eyes upon them. And yet… she’s somehow //drastically// more naked without them. The succubus drips with sex. She approaches her rival, and for a brief moment you wonder if you should have asked if the erinyes is immune to her fellow kin’s charms. Blearily, you wrench your gaze away to find Dardariel holding a vehement frontline, pushing her own radiating will with steely resolve. The dense atmosphere of overlapping auras warps and ripples, lust and wrath tangling and lashing in violent copulation. Raw, overpowering emotion floods every vein, fills every last capillary, burning and toe-curlingly intense. You feel… carnal and fierce. Primal, like you want to hunt and kill and //fuck.// Calisia’s subtle gesturing draws your lusty gaze once more—even in defeat, the succubus maintains intangible, silvery dominance. “<<= $name>>, I honestly didn’t expect this betrayal from you, of all people.” She preens, arching her back and jutting her chest outward. A soft hand glides along her breast, draws slow circles around a supple nipple. “The things I could have shown you… The unmatched heights of pleasure you could have had at your fingertips.” Calisia chuckles as she kneels before the erinyes. “Well, //my// fingertips.” Dardariel’s jaw hooks under those smoldering eyes. Lips snap around the succubus’ neck. The erinyes heaves her quarry into the air, fierce claws pinning both arms and wings to her prey as she gulps and glurks. The demon’s feathery wings curl around her body, as if protecting her catch from any lurking opportunists. You barely even have a chance to blink before half the demon is lodged in the other’s throat. Another blink finds a purple ass on display, swaying and wiggling as if Calisia //knows// you’re still looking. She crosses her legs and elevates her feet, nearly booping your nose with a toe. The bitch. It takes most of your willpower to avoid drooling as you watch the rest of the feast. Dardariel wastes no time dragging her prey down her throat, a tangle of arms and legs, wings and tails flapping around in a furious mess. She heaves and bucks, once, twice. A crimson aperture closes on a wiry tail. The erinyes smirks before slurping the last bit of the succubus down. The demon raises both arms high, stretching. You hear a small pop as her jaw returns to its proper place. Dark eyes watch the misshapen lump settling in her stomach with both delight and anger. “Pathetic,” she spits. “As for the rest of you fiends…” You blink in abject horror as the gut rounds out in a matter of seconds, the distinct form of the succubus melting into what you presume is mana soup. The erinyes’ body starts pumping away, stomach volume vanishing by the second. She raises her blade at the stunned demonic onlookers. “Join me, or die.” Calisia’s cohort doesn’t even hesitate to switch sides. The demons simply disentangle themselves from the debauched mass one by one, shifting purple forms rising and shuffling obediently into something resembling a military formation, ready—maybe even eager—to follow their new leader. It’s utterly amazing how coordinated they become in a matter of seconds. You expected the coup to involve much, //much// more devourment. You’re surprised when Dardariel outright dismisses the dazed thralls coming out of the haze of the succubus’ charm. The small group of befuddled humans, demis, and monster girls gravitate toward one another in the aftermath of the orgy’s sudden termination, huddling as if the sudden lack of grinding bodies left them wanting for warmth. Aria steps up, offering water, food, and a blanket from her pack as she personally escorts the survivors from the chamber. You join her at the rear, offering a spare tunic and whatever remedial comforts you possibly can while Dardariel marches away with her bolstered demonic war machine. Back in the main hall, the erinyes assembles her forces at the magical barrier while you and Aria shuffle the group of liberated thralls to the narrow entrance of the ruins. A hasty farewell sees them sent down the tunnel to safety before you and the theurge hurry back to rejoin the group. [[Let’s get this thing open|Distant Dimmu Borgir Noises]]

Standing hardly a foot from the magical barrier, Mortia //finally// turns from her vigil to see what all the ruckus is about. Her eyes go wide as dozens of demons filter into the hall, scythe cutting silently through the air as she assumes a battle posture. The erinyes, for her part, ignores the inquisitor and instead turns to address her cohort—which also seems to include your group. The poor woman must really have had trouble making friends if she somehow sees you as willing members of her hellish ranks. “You are gathered here for a singular purpose,” Dardariel proclaims, voice even more booming now that she’s got succubus on her breath. “Today, I triumph over the feral beast I once called sister. I shall fulfill my sacred vow with you all as my witness.” “So what’s the plan, exactly?” you ask, just about fed up with the boasting and posturing. “If we’re going to be fighting the giant dog woman, what do we need to know?” “Nothing. The glory shall be mine, and mine alone.” Her face contorts and strains—you think she’s trying to smile amicably at you, but the act itself seems to be bringing her physical pain. “My thanks to you for delivering me that vile wench.” All eyes dart to the scythe-wielding panther demi by the demon’s side. A grim silence fills the air. You tense, fingers curling around the haft of your spear as you wait for a pin to drop. “The slayer’s hand matters not,” Mortia says simply as she steps away from the barrier. To your surprise, the inquisitor gestures politely for Dardariel to take the lead. “I only wish to see the beast eradicated.” Oh. That’s far more reasonable than you expected from Mortia Dark’stalker. Thank fuck. The erinyes nods courteously and approaches the barrier. She sucks in a deep breath, whole body tensing and flexing as profane power courses through every inch of her form. Muscles bulge, sweat glistens. Her horns and spikes and claws vibrate and grow, the demon becoming more feral with each shimmering moment. She raises a wicked, twisted blade skyward. The edge pulses before crashing down like an arc of lightning, slicing through the door in a single, vicious gash. The barrier ripples. Hairline cracks zig and zag along the arcane surface, then burst open like screaming fissures. A strange //hiss// rings out through the hall, echoey and slithering and sending the hairs along your neck on edge. Your group waits in pitch silence, knuckles white with anticipation. The void beyond where the barrier once stood rests worryingly empty, unnerving in the hellhound’s absence. “If you won’t come out and face me, then you shall die in the darkness, you cur!” You watch Mortia’s smile widen. Now that you consider it, she and Dardariel sound starkly similar… A massive face emerges, and with it, fiery eyes and a keen grin. Dardariel swaggers into the archway, body still resonating with power. She takes flight, mighty wings whipping up a furious gale. She flies at her foe like a bullet. A singing blade meets the razor nails of a massive, swiping paw. The erinyes ascends, then brings her sword down in a vicious arc that cuts all the way to the floor. She lands with a //boom,// a mighty shock wave washing over the hellhound. The dog recoils, retreating into the inky swirl. Dardariel storms forward— //Chomp!// A loud gulp precedes rapid panting noises as the hellhound bursts into view once more, her massive tongue flopping freely. She crawls toward where the barrier once stood, a small lump sinking under her collar and disappearing behind swinging breasts. A murmur of concern bounces around the gathered crowd of humans, demis, monsters, and demons alike as the giant paws curiously at the open air under the archway. A huge, furry arm thuds to the floor of the main hall, and all hell breaks loose. [[… Fuck|All Hellhound Breaks Loose]]

You break into a sprint, darting to the left—the succubus’ passage is closer by just a hair. Unfortunately, it’s not close enough. <<include "Hot Dog">>

You skid to a halt and whirl about, breaking into a sprint as you flee from the band of demons. You dart and dash across the chaotic battlefield for the erinyes’ lair. <<include "Hot Dog">>

Massive mitts scoop you off the ground and pull you against supple flesh. The hellhound holds you close to her chest as she skids to a clumsy halt and crashes against the back wall. In the brief moment she’s recovering, you scramble across twitching fingers and dive through— There’s no good way to say this. You wriggle your way between her giant boobs, spilling out onto her belly, the expanse of dark skin cushioning your fall. A slapping hand misses you by an inch as you roll and tumble gracelessly off the large, soft woman and onto the cold, hard floor. You have barely a second to get your footing before a wet tongue coils around you from above. She //slurps// you up into her maw. Darkness engulfs as lips close. Encasing blackness and gooey, sluggish heat fill the sparse cavity, then rush downward as she //gulps.// You glide into the throat, flapping arms and kicking legs beating uselessly against the rippling folds of flesh, unable to stop your rapid descent. The hellhound is already on the move as you fall into her gut, the demon dog apparently resuming her ‘play’ with the rest of the hapless creatures that were foolish enough to let her out of her cage. You splash about in the slop for a moment, then realize with a crawling, tingling shudder that you’re entirely alone in the stomach. You know damn well where the previous occupants went. Acids gush in waves, the organ pulsing and strangling your tight confines. The sack bounces and jostles as she moves, entirely ignorant of your struggles. She leaps. You go weightless for a strange moment, slide up along the slick walls, then suddenly crash back down. A cacophonous rumble from beyond buzzes its way through thick layers of flesh and vibrates the chamber. Another crash, then another tremendous thundering as the hellhound swings about wildly. She suddenly goes prone, heavy spine squashing and squeezing you like a cider press, the world outside becoming muffled and distant. A minute later your goliath hostess is pushing herself up from the ground on hands and knees. You hang in the sack as she shakes her entire body. Then, without warning, the dog ascends in leaps and bounds, levels out, and breaks into a mad dash, her heavy breathing resonating through the organs as she sprints for what feels like miles. You bounce. Every stride finds the stomach tightening, the walls smothering, narrowing your world until you pass out amid a sea of digestive goop. [[Fade away…|Death 2.2.5]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> You… You seriously thought that would work. Like, actually? Sincerely? … Okay, alright. I might need to reprioritize some things here, adjust expectations going forward, all that. I’ve sort of been operating under this assumption that you’re //not// going to just throw yourself into oblivion at the earliest possible convenience, but maybe I’m an optimist. Points for not jumping off the ledge of the giant fuck-off quarry, I guess. I really need to lower my standards. <<case 2>> And you’re back again. That’s… great. Great. Did you think it was a technique problem? You just needed to adjust your tone of voice? Pat her nose in //just// the right way? Were you hoping you’d get to rub her belly? Damn thing’s empty, you pervert. Look, I don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re not… I don’t know, //taming// the giant dog demon. It’s just not happening. <<case 3>> Okay, okay. Maybe we’re dealing with a more fundamental issue here. Let’s take a step back, try to refocus. You’re looking for the Echoes of Exile, NOT attempting to pet the ravenous demon. Artifact quest; NOT nose boops. Got it? Okay. Great. <<case 4>> … I see how it is. You think you’re funny, huh? Dying in the most laughably obvious way possible, just to confuse and spite me? Pretending to be an absolute fucking moron? Playing the world’s dumbest mind games? Well guess what, buddy. You’ve won. That’s right; now you’re in my… //dog house!// Boom! Got’em! Ooh, I needed that. Anyway, get back in there, idiot. <<default>> What, you think you can just toss your life away and expect me to feed you another dog joke? Throw you a bone, perha—ah, goddamnit. <</switch>> <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathHellhounds ++>>[[Return|All Hellhound Breaks Loose]]

//Fuckfuckfuck!// You dive for the column as the rest of your companions sprint to the flanks of the chamber. The hellhound barrels by, claw-like nails tap-tap-tacking on the hard stones as she tries and fails to arrest her momentum. Her ass thumps into the far wall and the whole room trembles. Your fingers find purchase on the nearby column, gloves gripping the grooved stones as you pull yourself to your feet. The demon dog stares at you excitedly, slobbering as she tenses. “<<= $name>>!” Vanille’s shout breaks the momentary quiet. She yanks Ashlyn across the far wall. The mage drops a spell on the nearest demon and briefly stops to cackle at her handiwork—turning the poor creature into what you’re pretty sure is a sex toy—before she’s dragged along by Vanille to rally with the rest of your group. You pivot and flee toward the center of the chamber as the hellhound lunges. A terrified glance over your shoulder finds her flying toward the wall, but a thigh hooks the column and turns her back around. She scrambles on all fours after you, her collar’s long chain clanking and scraping as it’s dragged around the pillar. You leap over the rattling chain as you cross the centerline of the room and are immediately presented with a problem: a band of demons between you and your companions. [[Barrel through the demons|Do a Barrel Roll!]] [[Make a break for the side passage|Sidereal 2]]

You pick up as much speed as you can, then ram into the demons. Two go down, though a third lashes a barbed whip across your shoulder, its gnawing teeth catching on your chainmail and nibbling like hungry piranhas on the flesh beneath. You stumble and falter forward, inadvertently yanking the whip from the demon’s hand as you keep charging ahead on pounding legs. There’s a yelp and a crash at your back as the hellhound lands head-first on the group you just plowed through, her slobbering tongue and scrambling hands making short work of the demons. One gulp after another rings out as you twist and strain to free yourself from the clinging whip, each lurch only bringing more pain in new and unexpected places as the damn thing clings to you like an evil cactus. A knife slides against your mail. You nearly leap out of your skin as Vanille drags you to safety while Ashlyn, close on your heels, works the blade and yanks the lash from your person. “Thank you,” you gasp, wincing at the small cuts along your arms. The redhead shrugs. “Happens all the time. You wouldn’t believe how often bondage gets out of hand. One time I—” “Get over here!” Aria hisses, gesturing wildly with her hands and fingers in a confusing pattern—a warding spell, you realize. You and Ashlyn huddle around the theurge as Vanille and Sherine cover the flanks, each of them lunging from the tight corner to ward off a stray demon running rampant in the chaos. You scan the brawl for Mira and Mortia, who are both suspiciously absent from the impending protective field. The inquisitor is in the thick of it, weapon whirling as she sweeps through the fray with unrestrained glee. The lesser demi scurries across a nearby column in hot pursuit of an imp. Mira scrambles and lunges, flying wide and barreling into another demon—and more importantly, further from your group. “Mira!” Vanille calls out. The demi either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. A strange arcane prickle tingles along your spine. You join the knight in shouting after your companion , neither of you managing to sway the demi’s blind devotion away from the murder of a lone imp. The tiny demon looks over its shoulder in a panic, then darts forward. The hellhound’s giant tail whacks into the poor creature and sends it flying right toward your group. Mira finally redirects and scurries close, watching the demonic projectile soar through the air and bonk against a nearby wall. Vanille lurches and grabs the demi as she darts by. Mira belts out a howl of anger as the imp recovers and slips away. One down, you turn your attention toward the yet unmoved Mortia at the center of the hall. The adroit inquisitor slowly backpedals as she brandishes her weapon. A flourish to the left banishes an escaping demon. She sidesteps a clumsy attack from one of Dardariel’s former cohort, then sweeps around to deflect a huge swing from the hellhound, blade meeting claw with a sonorous //clang.// The panther demi glances back at your group, eyes alight with battle fury. <<linkreplace "“Mortia!”">>“Mortia!” you cry out. She ignores you, instead bringing the handle of her weapon to defend against a mighty blow. With a shove, Mortia frees herself from the pinning hand and slides under the wrist. The scythe screeches across the ground in her wake, then rises to bite into the hellhound’s forearm. The beast howls and whirls, only to find a cadre of stupefied demons where the inquisitor once stood. The hellhound lunges, grabbing the nearest demon and swallowing her in the blink of an eye. Instead of using the opening to put distance between them, Mortia reengages, drawing the dog’s ire again before tricking her into attacking the other demons. It’s an impressive feat, but Mortia’s still too far, still spending too much of her focus on fighting the good fight. One by one the demons disappear into the hellhound’s gullet, the inquisitor holding her ground. Is she trying to buy time for your group? Damnit, she’s worked with Aria, how can she not know her companion’s trying to save everyone? Frantic, you turn to the theurge. “Can you reach her from here with the ward?” “Too far,” she grunts, concentration wavering. She turns to you, fingers trembling, strained expression tugging on her soft features. “I can’t hold much longer, <<= $name>>. What do I do?” <<linkreplace "“Finish the spell.”">>“Finish the spell,” you hear yourself say, almost out-of-body. “But…” You look again, the rest of the room empty aside from Mortia and the giant. The rest of the hellish horde have all either escaped her reach, or been devoured—and absorbed, if the dog woman’s flat stomach is any indication. The hellhound rumbles closer, pressing Mortia with furious attacks, barking and howling as claws gouge stone. She’ll be on you in a matter of seconds once she’s finished off the inquisitor. //“Dammit.”// [[Brace yourself|Dull Lord]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

The spell releases with a hymnal chime. Energy builds around Aria as she urges your group to pull into the corner of the chamber as tight as possible. A magical barrier like the one from last night starts to congeal, the first wisps of a refractive sheen rippling into existence. A muffled silence falls as the veil rises from floor to ceiling and leaves you with hardly much room to stand, the wall of shimmering force separating Mortia from sanctuary. The dog feints, drawing Mortia’s block a moment too soon. They both realize in the same instant that it’s over. Huge jaws snap over the inquisitor, sealing tight around her waist. The scythe impales the ground as the hellhound bucks and throws her head back, tossing Mortia into the air. A second later, teeth snap shut. //Gluck!// Finished, the hellhound drops back to all fours and starts prowling around the empty room for more snacks and toys. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. //“Can she hear us?”// you whisper. Focussed on maintaining and reinforcing her spell, Aria offers a solemn shake of her head. “No. Can’t see us either.” The beast thumps closer, fiery eyes flitting about as her curious face turns to and fro. Her nose turns up and sniffs twice. Eager, she shuffles a bit closer and sniffs again. “… Can she //smell// us?” Nobody answers, suddenly //very// aware of the immense danger just beyond Aria’s protective ward. Vanille covers Mira’s mouth, tightening her hold on the flailing demi. Sherine’s coiled herself around everyone as tightly as possible, doing everything in her power to scrunch herself into the corner—so much so that Ashlyn’s tits are pressed against your back. “Can this thing move?” you ask as quiet as a mouse. The theurge nods slightly. //“Very// slowly. It’s fragile,” she explains under her breath. Right, she told you last night that crossing the perimeter would break the spell. You swallow, not daring to move a muscle. “Okay, we wait until she goes back into her room, then—” Mira chomps. Vanille yelps. “Ow! Mira, what the fuck?” “Lemme go!” the demi yelps, kicking and flailing in the knight’s grip. “I was fighting fine!” “Mira—” “Get away from me! Lemme go! Too close, //you’re too close!”// Mira escapes the knight’s grasp, landing on the floor with a soft thump. She ducks under Vanille’s grab, then pivots. “I don’t wanna be near anyone!” Your heart seizes as she takes a step. <<linkreplace "Stop her">>“No! Don’t cross—” you and Aria cry out at the same moment. You lurch forward to seize Mira, but it’s too late. The demi slips your grasp, anger and disdain smeared across her face, then darts away. The ward shatters in a cacophonous shower of splintering magic, leaving you and your group utterly exposed. The hellhound whips around. A claw drags across the ground as she leaps into action. Sherine slithers after Mira. Vanille yanks you and Ashlyn by the wrists toward safety. You reach back for Aria, but only swipe at air. She’s on her knees, reeling, hands pressed against her skull for desperate relief. The space around her shimmers and warps, the last shreds of the ward collapsing in on her like a black hole in spiteful reverberation. [[Go back and get Aria|Not Today, Satan!]]<</linkreplace>>

The hellhound isn’t getting anyone else today. You wrench yourself free from the knight’s grip, pivot, and lunge for Aria. You tackle her to the ground, pressing both bodies against cold stone as a huge paw swipes overhead. Another wooshes by, stale air swirling, ruffling your clothes. With the seizing theurge in tow, you scramble to the nearest column, just barely out of sight of the hellhound. A blind paw comes around, nails scraping. Her huge finger brushes against your leg, then flinches as the effort to grab you redoubles. You kick and flail at the digit while frantically plunging a hand into your bag, flicking through its contents in a desperate search. The hellhound backs off for only the briefest moment. You grab a hard shell in your fist and yank it free from the pouch, holding it aloft in the dim light. The bleeding memory of clutching the deadly firebomb in your hand flashes. A forced blink and the vehement shake of the head finds the truth: a screamer. A drop of saliva //splats// against your head. The giant woman looms, tongue hanging limp from her huge maw. You quake under the looming goliath, legs weak, clenching the screamer in an unsteady hand, waiting for your demise to come. When it doesn’t, you slowly, gently, step around the pillar, away from the corner of the room—away from Aria—and toward the center of the hall. The hound woman cantors after you excitedly, watching the ball move with keen curiosity. <<linkreplace "Throw it">>Once you’ve bought some distance, you plant your feet, pivot, and hurl the pod at the far wall. The demon’s head whips after it, eyes gleaming as she tracks its flight. She bursts into a sprint a moment later, hopping and weaving around a column at the far side of the chamber before diving for the projectile face first. A piercing shriek fills the hall. The hellhound loses control of her momentum entirely as she slaps both hands over her ears and careens right into the wall where the screamer burst. You’re already at Aria’s side, lifting and pulling her to her feet, scrambling after your allies. Vanille waves you on, body trembling. Ashlyn stands behind her, a nascent spell growing between curled fingers. Sherine’s holding a protesting Mira in her tail, lest the demi try to run off again. Aria stumbles. You catch the theurge, then guide her under one of the many chains strung up between the columns, the tangled mess of the hellhound’s leash leaving the hall a wiry and confusing mess akin to a spider’s nest. Thick metal tethers crisscross along the ground, across the open air, supported by the cracks and divots/*suck it*/ of the groaning pillars. The stone creaks and groans under the strain as you scurry across the now barrier-less archway and help Aria stumble over the massive metallic cord. A bolt of lightning explodes against the hellhound’s flank. The demon dog howls, the resonant wail of damned souls echoing. She surges. Harsh scrapes ring out as the chain between your legs whips to life. You push Aria to safety a split second before being swept off your feet and thrown horizontally, body bouncing as you thud clear across the chamber, away from safety. You barely scramble upright before the hound is upon you with slicing claws and gnashing jaws. A clumsy dive finds brief respite behind a pillar, enough time to rise and see just how far you have to run to reach your companions. It’s too far. There’s no way in hell you’d make it before the dog gets you. The web of chains isn’t doing you any favors either, the damn strands turning the chamber into an inadvertent obstacle course. Then again, the hellhound seems to struggle with turns. Maybe if you zig and zag enough… You’re already running, plotting a haphazard course in real time that //might// get you across the chamber safely, when you lock eyes with Vanille. Ice floods your veins. You can see it plain as day, can see her tensing with resolved determination. You can see the subtle shifts in her muscles as she coils, the fierce grip on her sword. Her zealous stance, her level breathing. The cold determination in her golden eyes. She’s preparing to sacrifice herself to save you. No, worse: she’s //already// prepared. She’s been prepared for a long time now. Too damn long. She’s been searching for an excuse, and you keep providing it. [[Fuck that|Hey! You stole this idea from Shrek!]]<</linkreplace>>

“Vanille!” you roar, jarring the knight from her deadly focus. You direct her stupefied gaze toward the nearest passage with a fervent gesture. “Get back in that fucking tunnel! Get everyone to safety!” “But—” “Now!” You check your party—the five of them are safe—then let your gaze pause on Mortia’s weapon impaled in the nearby stone. You rush forward without waiting for rebuttal. For a brief moment, the foul adrenaline makes you feel almost weightless, like you’re floating atop a gushing river of poison, but then you try to lift the giant fuck-off scythe and are stopped dead in your tracks. //“Fuckshitfuckfuckshitdammit—”// You’re about to burst a vein when the damn thing lurches free. You nearly stumble over backwards, then rest the haft against your shoulder, crushing weight threatening to dislocate your arm. It’s about four steps to the crossed section of chains. There isn’t time to take a breath. You arch your back, then heave, throwing yourself forward, bringing the weapon’s tremendous weight down like a hammer. The blade threads the eyes of the links and impales itself into the ground. Without assessing the structural integrity of the improvised lock, you burst into a sprint for the nearest pillar. The trampling dog rushes forward. You turn and dash around a column, exploiting the hellhound’s wide turning radius. You dare a glance over your shoulder, desperate, //begging// the pitch blackness which birthed the massive demon to eventually run out of chain. Another column encircled, and you find yourself once against sprinting for your fucking life. She crashes on the next runaround, a massive claw nearly swiping your torso off as she skids. You manage a good distance before she’s back on her feet, but lose all of it as she pounces, flying through the air. There’s a heavy twang and a thud as the hellhound slams forehead-first into a taut chain pulled high across the columns. You pivot and double back under her in the moment her vision’s obscured. A crack rings out, the shifting of ancient stone, an aeon of complaints from a civilization long gone. Three massive overlapping tethers lay across the ground, the only obstacle between you and safety. You make a break for it, practically throwing yourself over the first chain. You land with heavy feet, stumble for a moment, then push into another sprint before springing over the second. Massive teeth clack at your back, the booming barks practically pushing you along with their intensity. You leap— The metal links rise suddenly and catch the top of your foot. The world tilts as you crash to the ground in a disorienting tumble. //Clang! Boom!// A gargantuan hand slams, index finger smacking the stone between your legs. You shuffle back as the palm slaps the floor over and over, closer and closer. A nail scrapes against your boot. A knuckle raps hard against the ground, the quake disrupting your ability to drag yourself away another inch. The hellhound yowls and barks fury among the rattle of clanging metal chains. She twists in the tangle, bearing fangs. Jaws clamp inches from your face, over and over, teeth clattering and clacking ahead of the foul breath panting from her bleating lungs. Spittle flies. A tongue lashes. Another angry contortion finds the hellhound in a new arrangement, both hands falling desperately short of reaching you. A quivering breath hitches in your chest, then turns to a heave as you sit in the razor-thin margin of safety just barely out of the gluttonous demon’s reach. Cautious, spent, you rise to your feet and glance over at the scythe impaled in the ground like a railroad spike. The blade’s barely holding, its edge biting into the drawn chains for dear life as the hellhound yanks and flails. You stumble your way to the narrow side passage as the whole chamber groans. A stony rumble builds, the ruins themselves crying their strain. The prism lights above rattle. Masonry creaks, then yields. Vanille’s at the mouth of the passage when you arrive. She drags your nearly limp body around the bend and out of sight. You hear the metallic //snap// of an exploding scythe before a tremendous cacophony erupts. Shards of rock, splintered stones, and a veritable avalanche of dust crash through the hallway like buckshot. Deafening seconds pass—perhaps minutes; you’re too damn tired to tell. Tears well in the corners of your eyes. Your aching chest deflates with a long, trembling sigh as the last drops of adrenaline ebb. You close your eyes and let your body be supported by those huddling around you, the shield on Vanille’s back and the circling coil of Sherine’s tail protecting the group from the worst of the collapse. Aria pushes her last few ounces of healing magic into you, easing your aching body. [[Wait it out|A Landslide Has Occurred… Again]]

When the rocks stop crumbling, when a thin silence lingers in the air, you finally open your eyes once more. Blinding daylight cuts through the cloud of debris, the squat tunnel spared from the implosion. Your group takes a cautious step out onto the sloping pile. You nearly start weeping when the rubble starts to shift and rumble. The giant dog emerges head first, ears flapping as she takes stock of the situation. Arms clamber from the wreckage as she props herself up. She barely notices you before suddenly whipping her head skyward. She stares at the expanse of blue for a breathless eternity. The hellhound cranes her neck, squinting at the overhead sun. Her nose snuffles twice. She suddenly looks down at herself, a hand tapping around her clavicle, her thumb catching on what’s left of her collar. She tugs at the three measly links, then twists to look over her shoulder to confirm she’s untethered. The chamber roars to life once more as she quickly pries herself free. Dirt and stone from the surface tumble into the ruins as the hellhound pulls herself out of the pit. The last thing you see is her huge bare feet before she darts out of sight. Ashlyn steps triumphantly onto the rubble and pumps her fist. “I love that we keep destroying ancient ruins. Fuck you, history!” At your group’s unenthused silence, she cocks her head. “What? We won.” “Shut up. That wasn’t a victory,” you snap back with a bite of anger. “We just let a giant fucking hell-dog loose, and we lost Mortia.” Aria rests a consoling hand on your shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, <<= $name>>. I should have made the call instead of putting it on you.” //‘It’s fine,’// you want to say, but you can’t find the heart to reply. It’s not fine; it’s bullshit. All of this is bullshit. This world, this quest. Aria offers a wan smile through thin lips. You study her furrowed brow, the indiscernible quirking at the corners of her lips, the deep blues of her eyes. Even Aria, a healer by trade, isn’t cut from the same cloth as you. None of the people of Havendor are. Theirs is roughspun and heavy-duty, able to keep you warm in a snowstorm, but coarse and rugged. They’re desensitized to peril and death. It’s daily for them, and they handle it much better than you can. You’re probably the only one who will lose sleep over Mortia’s demise. You huff out a sigh, then pick what appears to be a relatively uncollapsed section of the main hall to navigate. The vault awaits. “Let’s just grab the Echo and get the fuck out of here.” [[Enter|The Vault]]

The newly-renovated ceiling carves a brilliant strip of daylight into the hellhound’s former chambers, yet even the sun’s radiance only seems to intensify the endless pitch that lies beyond. You step forward regardless, reasonably confident that the darkness isn’t concealing a second unspeakable monster. But a paranoid voice needles at the back of your mind nonetheless, bracing you for imminent catastrophe, coiling you tight, ready to spring in some final and ultimately futile effort to save your own skin. A spark flickers in the void, heralding a soft glow. You glance to your right to find Aria holding a small light, cradling it in her hands as if it were a faint candle in need of protection from even the slightest gust of wind. She breathes into the incantation, and it flickers to life, pulsing with a warm and gentle flame. Despite the spell’s modest nature, it adequately illuminates your surroundings—a large circular chamber that you intuit must once have served some ritual purpose in this ancient holy ground. Unfortunately, any identifying features have been utterly ground to dust by decades of the hellhound’s pacing and clawing—stone tiling reduced to pebbles or, in some places, carved all the way to the limestone beneath. Massive gouges line the walls, reaching as high as thirty feet. For the briefest moment, you almost feel sorry for the hellhound and her prolonged confinement… at least until you remember she’s a ravenous nigh-unstoppable monster. Your empathy is probably better spent elsewhere. Amid your musings and the carnage, you nearly miss the small opening in the stone at the far side of the room, a narrow gap that’s barely the width and height of your average household door. Curious, you carefully pick your way across the dust and rubble to discover the entrance to another corridor, smaller than any you’d navigated in these ruins. The passageway winds and twists for a good thirty feet, long enough that you feel like walls and ceiling are starting to close in. Just when you’re having to actively resist the urge to duck, the tunnel spills into a more generous hallway that stretches off into the dark, past the purview of Aria’s light. The atmosphere has changed. Where the rest of the ruins showed their age upon the cracked and ancient stones, the passageway you now find yourself in reeks of neglect, of lifelessness, of a thousand years of complete and total isolation. You’re left with the indelible sense that few—if any—have walked these corridors in a millennium. No cobwebs or chipped stones or abandoned tools lie ahead. Not even so much as a lightless lamp to indicate this space once accommodated life. Only dust and silence wait in the impenetrable gloom. The paranoid voice returns, filling the vacuum with nightmarish speculation. What if demons are not the worst monstrosity to haunt this quarry? What if something else lies deep within these halls? The solution to Ashlyn’s quandary, perhaps—the phenomenon that brought all these demons into existence in the first place. A creature, unknowable save its endless malevolence. Drawn by the power of the echo, supping on its vast reservoir of mana for centuries on end. Lurking in the dark. Waiting. The end appears abruptly, a simple wall emerging from the murk like land wrenched from deep waters. A stone partition blocks a narrow opening, less door than sheer slab. An experimental push finds it’s every bit as heavy as it looks, but with Vanille’s assistance, it finally swings inward to reveal… light? You blink, more in surprise than from the glow’s intensity. A part of you had expected to discover something comparable to the vault at the end of the Whispered Archives: a long abandoned, if well-preserved chamber, yet ultimately devoid of any life. Or perhaps something more akin to the eternal night of Niverdene and the cold, black stone of its central spire. Instead, your first glimpse reveals what you can only describe as a particularly spacious study, the kind you’d expect to find in a castle or an old aristocratic manor. Scattered chairs and rugs and the odd table lie between rows and rows of shelves that partition the larger chamber into smaller, almost cozy nooks. Most of the shelves are full of books of every shape and size and weight, though a few look to hold other miscellanea like scrolls and assorted curios. Like in the rest of the ruins, prisms hang from the ceiling, though these appear to have lost their usual glow. Instead, small flames burn at their centers, lending the room a curiously welcoming candlelit ambience. [[Step inside|The Devil is a Fuckin' Nerd]]

You’ve barely taken three steps into the room before a sudden yelp nearly sends you tumbling back. Frantically reaching for your spear, you wheel about to find— A woman crouched in a high-backed chair as if recoiling from imminent attack. She clutches a leather tome tight to her chest, her face painted with dread and terror\. Her clothes are plain and simple, like someone who ought to be drinking at a local tavern, not delving into dungeons. A pair of narrow spectacles dangle precariously at the bridge of her nose, one shaky breath from slipping away entirely. After a long moment, her expression yields to one of bafflement. “Oh,” she manages with a breathy sigh. The stranger slumps, allowing her feet to slide off the chair as anticipation melts into profound relief. “Oh,” she says again, a bit more collected. “Thank goodness. I was, ah… expecting someone else.” Your lips open and close a good half dozen times. You glance to your sides as your companions file in behind you, seeking reassurance that you haven’t lost your mind. Their thoroughly confused expressions are comforting, if not especially informative. “Uhh… Expecting?” you eventually ask. Rather than provide an immediate answer, the woman looks between you and your companions, silently appraising. “Right. You must be adventurers. Take whatever you want.” She begins gesturing around the room, then pauses to shuffle in her seat. “Though, uhh, please hurry. And shut the door behind you when you leave.” You glance at the entryway, then back to the strange woman, cogs slowly whirring to life in your mind as you attempt to puzzle out the conundrum. Fortunately, Vanille speaks up first. “Are you… hiding in here?” She balks. “What does it look like I’m doing? //Of course// I’m hiding. The last thing I want is for //them// to find me again.” //“‘Them?’”// you ask. “You mean the de—” You falter a millisecond before the word ‘demons’ can leave your lips as a pertinent detail //tap-tap-taps// into focus: a thin, black tail draped down the side of the chair and gently thwapping against a wooden leg. Now that you’re actually paying attention, you also notice a pair of small horns protruding from the head of dark auburn hair. In your defense, they’re little more than obsidian nubs, far less obvious than those on the vast majority of demons you’ve seen. “Wait a second,” you blurt out, suddenly putting the pieces together. “Are you… Tra’mhara?” The demon scrambles up into her chair, nearly tumbling the furniture over. “How do you know that name? Did they send you? Am I—” She catches herself, lips quirking to a cautiously optimistic smile. “I mean… No?” <<linkreplace "… Seriously?">>You stare at the demon—at //Tra’mhara//—for a long, silent moment, desperately attempting to discern if she actually expects you to believe the threadbare, half-hearted lie. Is this all some twisted, bizarre joke? Are a bunch of demons about to hop out from behind the bookshelves to point and laugh at you. Is she really the creature who commanded respect from—or at least fealty of—the cadre of demons who inhabited these ruins? “Okay, fine,” she suddenly huffs, collapsing onto the chair in a dejected slump. “Yes, I’m Tra’mhara. You got me. Just please promise you won’t tell the others I’m here. //Please.”// You frown. “The others? You mean Dardariel and Calisia?” “Gods, yes!” “… Why?” Tra’mhara raises her hands in exasperation. “You made it here. I’m sure you had to deal with them, at least some of them. Interact with them. //Talk// to them.” She shudders. “Wait. You’re telling me you…” “Couldn’t stand them,” the demon supplies. “The constant powerplays, the scheming, the endless petty bickering. Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to carry on a conversation with someone who literally //only// cares about being angry? That’s it! Nothing else! ‘Hey, Dardariel, do you ever wonder what these ancient ruins were used for?’ //‘I care little for idle curiosities, Tra’mhara. Speak to me of your rage. Of the fury that courses through your veins.’”// She lets out a sound of disgust. “And you think Calisia is any better? Talk about a one-track mind! I swear, if she’d come on to me one more time, I would’ve fucking screamed—and not in the way she wanted.” “So… you faked your own death?” Tra’mhara eyes you warily. “Faked my own—No, what are you talking about? I just realized I could hide here and never have to deal with them. //Ever.// It wasn’t even that hard—I just fed the hellhound fifty or so outsiders to earn her trust, and she let me pass without so much as a growl. Let’s see those two dimwits figure that one out.” You shrug. “On a positive note, they think you’re dead.” //Thought,// you suppose. “Yes, let them!” The demon cheers, bounding up from the chair in a sudden fit of enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s the best news I’ve heard in… well, ever!” She prances over to a low table and sets down her current tome, then begins making her way toward a nearby shelf. “Uhh, I guess I can do you one better,” you offer, deciding to run with it. At the demon’s inquisitive glance, you continue. “Dardariel and Calisia are //actually// dead.” Tra’mhara blinks. “Oh, wow. You all must be much more competent than you look.” She hesitates. “Err, no offense.” “None taken,” you mutter as the demon begins perusing the shelf. Why bother holding onto flimsy and ephemeral things like ego or pride? “Actually, the hellhound ate them. Or, well, <<if $Quarry4 == "erinyes">>Dardariel ate Calisia<<else>>Calisia ate Dardariel<</if>>, then the hellhound ate her. And most of the other demons, I guess.” You consider it for a moment. “Actually, she might’ve eaten all of them. And then she tore a hole in the ceiling and ran away.” “Good for her,” Tra’mhara says, cavalier. She doesn’t even bother halting her search. “I always felt a bit bad keeping that hellhound locked up all these years. She really should have room to stretch her legs, run around under an open sky, all that important stuff that a growing girl like her needs.” You briefly consider informing the demon that ‘all that important stuff’ will likely involve rampaging through the countryside wreaking untold havoc, then promptly remember that a fellow demon is even //less// likely to care about the ensuing death than the average Havendorian. Besides, the hellhound’s escape is more your fault than hers. [[Consult your companions|Team Huddle]]<</linkreplace>>

“So, uhh…” you start, turning to face the rest of your group. “It seems like she’s just kinda… doing her thing down here. I guess we can look around.” Vanille casts a wary glance at the demon, one hand idly fiddling with the hilt of her sword. “I’m not entirely comfortable leaving her at our backs. The other demons claimed she was powerful.” “Yeah, but—” “Oh, hey,” Tra’mhara suddenly pipes up, glancing in your direction. “I know I said you could take whatever you want, but could you leave the books? Most of them, at least? I’ll trade if you have any of your own.” And with that, she goes back to her browsing. After another awkward pause, you turn to Vanille. “I mean, look at her. She’s way more interested in those shelves than any of us. And the closest she ever came to hostility was panicking when she thought we’d rat her out to the other demons. If this is all a ruse, it’s a really weird one.” “You five look around,” Sherine says before Vanille has a chance to respond. “I’ll watch the demon, just to be safe. I can deal with her if she tries anything.” You eye the lamia skeptically, about <<if $RVSherine >= 3>>eighty<<else>>forty<</if>> percent certain she’s hoping Tra’mhara gives her an excuse <<if $Quarry4 == "succubus">>to make up for her lost<<else>>for a<</if>> demonic snack. After the last few hours, though, you don’t really care about Sherine’s specific motivations. Mostly you just want to find this damned Echo and leave. “Alright,” you eventually say. <<linkreplace "“Let’s get looking.”">>“Let’s get looking.” While the vault—or whatever chamber you’ve found yourself in—doesn’t appear to be all that expansive, you defer to Aria and Ashlyn, trusting that their mana sensitivity will do a far better job locating the Echo than your boring old eyes ever could. They lead the way as you and the rest of your companions follow, winding between shelves and around assorted displays. The collection itself isn’t all that impressive, at least when compared to your similar discoveries in the Whispered Archives or Niverdene. The vast majority of this holy site’s ‘treasure’ takes the form of books, and none of the rest strikes you as especially desirable loot—a plain and severely tarnished scepter, a small collection of stone carvings, a few brass insignias, and so on. In fact, with each step, you feel increasingly confident this place is less any sort of treasury and more some kind of ancient, long-neglected library—a place for both the archiving of knowledge and, based on the tables and chairs, its consumption as well. The occasional bit of writing you find on the spines of tomes proves entirely indecipherable, and while you’re no expert on dead languages, you’re reasonably certain you’ve seen similar characters in your previous Ancient Lurnasian delves. If nothing else, it looks like Gerda’s theory was spot-on. You round a blind corner toward the far end of the vault, only to nearly run face-first into a suddenly stopped Aria. “What’s up?” you ask, sidestepping the theurge to get a better view. She doesn’t need to answer. You see it immediately: an elaborately ornamented pedestal of stone sitting square in the middle of the room, shockingly out of place among the shelves and cozy furniture. Intricate carvings run from plinth to cap, renditions of figures and events whose names and importance are long lost. A receptacle sits at its peak, the perfect dimensions for another gemstone to slot into Destiny’s Embrace. It’s also empty. “What?” you say, lame and distant. You shake your head, then try again. “I- Is that it?” “I, uhm… I’m not sure,” Aria murmurs, brow knit in concentration. “It definitely feels like it should be, but…” You frown. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?” “It means the Echo isn’t here,” Ashlyn says, stepping forward to prod at the pedestal. “Just the device meant to hold it and… Oh, that’s interesting.” “What is?” “This pedestal,” she explains. “I thought it was like that useless amulet of yours, but this thing’s fucking loaded with arcane matrices. It wasn’t just meant to hold one of your gems; it’s supposed to //use// them.” “Use them to do what?” Vanille asks. “Hell if I know,” the mage barks. “It’d take days, maybe weeks to figure all this out. This is ancient stuff, nothing like what a modern practitioner would prepare. Pretty horrifically inefficient too, if all the ambient mana is anything to go by.” Aria nods. “I think that’s what we were sensing. An unusually dense cloud of mana, basically a byproduct.” “Right,” Ashlyn mutters. She spends another silent moment poking at the pedestal. “Unless… Oh!” “What?” “Oh fuck! Damn! That’s just… That’s fucking devious. //Evil,// even!” “What, Ashlyn?” you snap, rapidly losing your patience. “The matrices, the Echo, the demons!” She wildly gesticulates to the pedestal, as if any of this is supposed to make the slightest bit of sense. “It’s intentional! //That’s// what it’s supposed to do.” “I’m not sure I’m following,” Vanille mercifully says in your stead. “I think I understand,” Aria mumbles, curiously somber. “The mana that Ashlyn and I sensed, it’s not a byproduct. It’s the desired outcome.” “Exactly!” The mage snaps her fingers. “When this thing activated, it siphoned mana from the Echo—maybe a drop or two, if it’s anything like the one we’ve got—then dumped that tiny amount into the aether. No fancy spell or anything, just a shit ton of mana poured into this room. These ruins. What we’re looking at here is just the residue, after the rest of it—” “Became demons,” you supply, finally putting the pieces together. “So what, did the researchers exploring these ruins accidentally use it or something?” “Even better!” Ashlyn cheers. “It was a trap! I’d have to spend some time working through the actual matrices to know for certain, but I’ll bet my ass it activated the moment someone touched the Echo. And suddenly, bam! Violent and wildly unpredictable security, summoned at the drop of a hat, even centuries after the last of the Lurnasians disappeared. Fucking astounding.” “It’s… efficient,” Aria admits. “In a horrifying sort of way.” It’s all you can manage to sit there silently and grind your teeth. You don’t give a damn about these matrices or Ancient Lurnasian security. You give a bit of a damn about Ashlyn’s glee in the face of what sounds like a magic dirty bomb that’s ultimately killed hundreds—if not thousands—over the last two decades, but even that pales in comparison to the one thing that actually matters right now. “So if the Echo isn’t here, where the hell is it?” Ashlyn shrugs, nonchalant. “How should I know, dude? If any of the demons had it, we’d know—They’d be sucking off that thing like Lillith’s tits. Maybe a few of the archeology nerds actually managed to escape with it during the chaos.” “We could check the nearby town, Khobb,” Vanille offers. “It was a long time ago, but most people leaving the quarry would’ve had to pass through there. They might know something about the researchers, where they were from, where they might have headed next.” You scowl. “So that’s it then?” A long silence follows as you look to each of your companions in turn. None of them have the answer. Hell, Mira doesn’t even fucking notice, since she’s too busy lurking in a distant corner, barely in line of sight. You hiss out an agitated sigh. All this for nothing? //Seriously?// It’s bad enough that every step of this quest involves tremendous risk and peril and pain, but now you can come up empty-handed? There’s going to be //misses?// Is this a cruel prank? “W- We should still search the rest of this chamber,” Aria pipes up. “You know, just in case.” It’s not even hopeless optimism. It’s thoroughness for thoroughness’ sake; warding off the one-in-a-million chance that the all-powerful mana gem just //happened// to get knocked into a corner or something. You all know damn well it’s not going to turn up, but you’ll kick yourself later if you don’t try. “Fine,” you growl. [[Get to it|MC Grumpypants]]<</linkreplace>>

Searching the vault proves every bit the miserable task you expected it would be. At Vanille’s insistence, you reluctantly coordinate the effort, assigning each of your companions with a direction and opting to meet back up at the vault entrance. The process itself is utterly mind-numbing, painstakingly scouring nook after nook, shelf after shelf, not daring to leave even the slightest obstruction unmoved for fear of missing a gemstone that’s smaller than the average grape. Worse, however, is that the drudgery does nothing to distract you from thoughts of the hellhound, of Mortia’s death, of Vanille’s blind obeisance, of how every struggle and risk didn’t mean a damn. Nothing was achieved. Nothing was even improved. No, all you have to show for today are scrapes and bruises, another near-death experience to add the pile, and the most resolute proof yet that Mira can’t fucking stand to so much as be //near// you—to the point where she’s become a danger to herself and everyone else. Frustration grows with each shifted tome and every Echo-less shelf, both at the futility of the effort and with your own growing sense of fundamental impotence. The quest for the Echos is hard enough. How can you possibly be expected to navigate the endless trials while worrying about your companions as well? Why is it all falling on your shoulders? And why now? You couldn’t even stand on your own a week ago, and now the world’s demanding you dance, juggle, and fight for your life all at once. The nearby murmur of conversation jolts you from your stupor, and a quick glance around a shelf finds you’ve nearly made it back to the entrance, where Ashlyn and Tra’mhara appear to be exchanging books. Cool. Great to see she’s taking the search seriously. Way to be a team player. Stubbornly burying yourself in the work, you muscle down for the final stretch and, naturally, turn up entirely empty-handed save a fresh helping of dust and agitation, then spend the next few minutes trying not to pace ruts into the floor as your companions gradually file in. No status report or explanation is necessary; the silence speaks volumes. “Well,” Aria starts hesitantly. “A- At least we tried.” You grunt in response, then catch yourself. None of this is her fault. “Right,” you say instead. “I, uhh… I guess we’ll head back for the entrance?” The theurge hesitates. “Actually, one thing first.” She turns to face the demon who, after finishing her trade with Ashyln, has settled back down in a chair and opened another book. “Tra’mhara, right?” The demon glances up and blinks slowly, as if surprised to be addressed directly. “Yes?” “We’re leaving. Are you, uhm… alright staying here? On your own, I mean?” “Oh. Oh yes.” Tra’mhara chuckles. “After twenty years of dealing with Dardariel and Calisia, I’m perfectly fine never seeing another soul as long as I live. N- No offense, of course. You all seem like, ah… fine people. I’ve just discovered I prefer books so, //so// much more. Far less drama.” Aria nods. “It’s possible more adventurers might show up, now that the other demons are gone.” Tra’mhara waves a hand dismissively. “That’s fine; I can seal the door. Or hide it behind a few layers of illusionary stone, perhaps. I’ll think of something.” Her attention has already returned to the page before the last word leaves her lips. “Alright,” the theurge says after an awkward moment. “Uhh, good luck.” She turns to you with an expression of confusion and uncertainty. “Let’s see ourselves out,” you say with a shrug. [[Finally leave|Super Fine!]]

Taking care to close the vault door on your way out, the five of you retrace your steps down the dark hallways, back through the hellhound’s former cage, and finally into the main hall where you immediately discover a major hurdle in the ‘see yourselves out’ plan. “Please, just lemme blow it up,” Ashlyn practically begs, eyeing the massive pile of rubble that lies between you and the original entryway. “I have the perfect spell. It’ll be great.” You sigh. “Ashlyn, the ceiling’s already unstable.” What’s left of it, at least. “You might bring the rest of the room down on top of us.” The mage raises her hands in exasperation. “What are we supposed to do? //Climb?// Is Sherine gonna slither up a bunch of //foot-//holds, <<= $name>>?” You restrain a snide retort behind a grimace. As much as you hate to admit it, Ashlyn has a point. You need a solution that’s going to work for all of you, and not just the more athletic members of the party like Vanille or Mi— Wait, where the hell is she? A twinge of familiar panic aches in your chest as you glance around the hall and discover absolutely no sign of the feline demi. Actually, you haven’t seen her since leaving the vault and closing the door. Is she still lurking around in the dark? Why the fuck would she be— No, don’t jump to conclusions. Given her recent behavior, she’s probably staying back in the corridors, keeping her distance as usual and waiting for some breathing room. … You should probably still make sure she’s alright. You let out a slight sigh, then turn back to Ashlyn. “Figure something out. I’m gonna go get Mira.” Vanille steps forward. “Are you sure? I can—” “No,” you insist, resolve solidifying with every passing moment. “I need to talk to her.” The knight’s brow furrows with concern, but she eventually nods, then retrieves a glowrod from her bag. “Here, take this.” <<linkreplace "“Thanks.”">>“Thanks,” you grumble, accept, then turn and stomp away. Honestly, it’s damn time someone had a talk with Mira anyway. After all the trouble she caused today—and yesterday, with the bandits—you need to say something about her behavior, let her know that her impulsiveness is getting out of hand, that she can’t just lash out without consequence. She should know better. Grimly determined, you hold the light source above your head as you skulk into the dark halls once more. A quick sweep of the perimeter finds the hellhound’s previous home to be devoid of Mira. You press on, the sounds of your companions fading as you enter the corridors beyond and delve deeper into this ruin. Shadows stretch and warp. Silence settles, enshrouding you like a cloak. Mercifully, the path between the main hall and the vault is linear. There’s no possible place for her to have run off or escaped, and it doesn’t take long for you to find her at the back of a long hallway. She stands as a slight figure in the murk, back facing you as she leans against the wall with both hands. You watch her breathe for a silent moment as you search for your legs, your confidence. <<linkreplace "“Mira…”">>She flinches, tail poofing like an enraged spike. The demi pivots and clenches her fists, eyes darting to and fro in search of an escape. “Don’t run,” you grunt, stern. “We need to talk.” Mira merely stares at you, still trembling. You don’t dare get any closer. “I understand that you’re upset, but you can’t—” you stop yourself, pushing the rising anger in your chest back down. After a few seconds of awkward silence, you find the kinder words. “Mira, you need to cooperate with the group a little more. We all rely on each other, and when you run around doing whatever you want, you’re putting the rest of us in danger.” “No! No, you’re wrong!” she barks. Anger flares across her features like wildfire, glimmering emeralds turning cold and hateful. “Why are you being mean to me!?” You recoil. “I- I’m not. I’m trying to give you advice so you don’t get yourself hurt.” “I’m fine! I know how to take care of myself. I don’t—” She waves her arms as if she can wipe your words from the thick air between you. “I don’t need you!” “Even if //you’re// fine, the rest of us aren’t,” you explain, the sulfuric stink of hellhound spittle lingering on your collar. You take a brave step forward. “You almost got us killed when you broke the ward!” “No, no! Stop! Stop saying that! I didn’t //do// anything!” She presses her back along the wall, desperate to escape. A vile shiver courses down her body. “If you don’t want me around, then leave me alone!” <<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $RVMira >= 14 >>“I want you around, Mira. Of course I do—I’m your friend.” “No you’re not!” she screeches. “Friends don’t hurt each other. Friends don’t say mean things that aren’t true! Friends don’t break promises.” Fury rattles her diminutive stature. A tear flies from a frantically shaking head. @@color:red;“Friends don’t leave!”@@<<else>>“We want you around, Mira. Of course we do—We’re your friends.” “No you’re not!”<</if>> She lurches forward, shoving you with both hands. Unprepared, you take the blow at full force. The glowrod fumbles and flies out of your hand. You fly backward and slam into a wall with a terrible //crack,// then crumple to the ground. Pain shoots up your spine, curls around your torso and digs into your scar. The light whirls through the air, then shatters against the unyielding stone, flickering and sputtering. Mira freezes. Terror twists across her face. “I- I…” She stares, a war being fought behind fraught eyes. “I’m s—” She turns and flees. The glowrod hisses and dies, abandoning you to the hateful darkness of this godforsaken ruin. [[Goddammit|Gold and Grey]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

You sit in the pitch, wallowing in the pain. Fitful rage bubbles through your weak and impotent body. Muscles seize and spasm until the anger simply explodes out of you like a volcano. You pound your fist against the wall until you can’t feel your fingers, then keep going until you’re bleeding from the knuckles. It’s only when the agony eclipses all other senses that your reflexes finally get the better of you and force you to stop. Your arm dangles at your side as violence turns to scorching tears. The pain doesn’t change a damn thing. Nothing does. You shouldn’t have tried to give her a lecture. All this time, you’ve been desperate for her to hear you, begging for ten seconds where you can cut through all the other bullshit and just say something directly to her. You just wanted to say you’re sorry. Why can’t you manage a simple thing like that? <<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $RVMira >= 14 >>Why can’t you do anything right?<<else>>Why can’t things go right for you?<</if>> Footsteps at the far end of the corridor force you to sit up, to hide the pain. You wipe your face on your sleeve and try to slow your breathing. A light appears, the familiar reddish hue of the prisms the Lurnasians seem so fond of. Vanille emerges from the gloom. “There you are. We found a safe way up. I told the others to wait at the top—” She jolts to a halt, staring at your fresh injury. The knight scrambles to your side, the lamp nearly cracking right next to the glowrod. “Are you hurt? Did Mira do this to you?” “I’m fine,” you hiss. You try to wipe your eyes one more time for good measure, then gasp and wince as the newly forming bruise on your shoulder gives away the game. The knight redoubles her efforts to try to check you over. You push her away. Vanille huffs. “You’re not ‘fine.’ She—I’m gonna talk to her.” “Don’t.” “Mira needs to understand she can’t treat you like this—” “I said no!” Vanille falls silent. She shuffles on her knees to a respectable distance, then blinks at you, lips pressed thin as she obeys like a dog. A gross laugh escapes your throat. “Is that it? You’re just going to stand down? You don’t have anything else to say?” “You didn’t want me to—S- Sorry.” “Sorry for what, Vanille?” “I didn’t mean…” She shrinks on herself, pulling at her collar. Her eyes drift elsewhere. “I’m sorry.” “Stop saying that! It just makes things worse.” Vanille tilts her head as a strained smile tugs her lips into place—a trained expression, a veil, a tool to placate. A lie. “Are you okay?” she asks gently. You grunt, a foul scoff grumbling from your chest. The question is laughably oblivious. “I’m fuckin’ peachy, Vanille. Having a great day.” She frowns. “I’m… Is there something you need?” //Need?// There’s a lot of things you need right now. Too many to count. You need to not be patronized, for one. You need to grow thicker skin, to be a few shades crueler like everyone else in this hellish world. You need to stop being angry at everyone and everything around you. You need guidance, strength, protection… You’re so goddamn needy. “Fine,” you seethe, rising to your feet as anger rattles around your skull. “You wanna know what I need you to do?” Vanille lights up. “Yes. I’ll do it. Anything, I promise.” <<linkreplace "“Eat me.”">>“Eat me.” Every ounce of color on her face evaporates. //“W- W- What?// W- Why?” “Because I’m tired of getting grabbed all the fucking time, tired of being a liability. I need to practice escaping a stomach. I need a fighting chance.” You glare at her, stern. “Open up.” “N- No, it’s—That’s not—You…” “I know you’re not gonna let anything bad happen to me. You can help me train while you’re walking to Khobb.” Vanille trembles, shuffling away. “No… I- I can’t—” You step after her and get right up in her face. “Why not? You did it once already.” //“You remember?// Nonono, I thought y- you had memory loss, or b- blocked it out, o- or…” She gasps. Fingers dig into flesh. “No. This is bad, this is //very bad.// I- I—” “I’m sure you can carry me for a couple hours. Hell, you can probably climb out of these ruins like that.” You scoff, indignant. “You won’t even notice. You’re super strong.” //“I’m not!”// she blurts. “I’m weak. I- I let you—” “Let me what, Vanille!?” “I let you //die!”// Vanille shrieks between shallow, frantic breaths. She clutches her middle, wracking shudders ravaging her entire body. “I killed you. //I ate and killed you!”// [[Oh…|I'd Do Anything]]<</linkreplace>>

You were wrong… About everything. The obedience, the constant apologizing. The way she can’t make eye contact. The violence and fury. Even disappearing for a week… She’s not at the siege, ready to blow herself up, ready to sacrifice herself to save the city. She isn’t eager for glory, for death. No, she’s standing over your dying body, fighting for both of your lives, inches from sharing your last breath. She bore it all, saw the bloody mess you made, heard your agony, dragged your near-corpse to safety… She’s reliving your death, shouldering the blame for something that isn’t her fault. She’s suffering, unable to wake up from the nightmare. She’s alone. You have to help. You //need// to. No one else can. <<linkreplace "“That’s not how it happened.”">>“That’s not how it happened,” your murmur. Tears stream from glassy, unfocussed eyes. “Oh gods… What did I do?” Breath turns shallow. A glacier grinds across your chest, a grim reminder of the mortal wound. “You did everything right, Vanille.” “I still taste the blood on my tongue,” she whimpers, frantic and babbling. Vanille pulls your arms and forces your hands against her middle. “I still //fucking// feel <<= $xem>>! <<= $Xes>> //in// there, trapped. Dead. Dead inside me. <<= $Xes>> dead and I killed <<= $xem>>!” <<linkreplace "“Vanille!”">>“Vanille!” You grab her face in both hands and stare into auric eyes, into the roiling sea of soul. “Look at me, Vanille. I’m not dead. I’m right here. I’m alive!” Golden eyes stare through you, unrecognizing yet slowly gaining focus. Frantic breath eases. Heaving lessens to billowing. She blinks, and for the first time in a week, //sees// you. You pull her into a tremendous embrace. “You’re okay. You’re okay, you’re safe. I- It’s over, Vanille.” “… <<= $name.first()>>- <<= $name>>?” she starts, voice thin and raspy. “I… You’re…” “I’m right here. I’m alive.” You tighten your grip on her, praying that physical force alone can keep her together. “I’m here because of you.” Silence falls as Vanille slowly stops trembling. You synchronize breathing, guiding her toward an even calm. She eases into your hold, nestling in the shelter. “I… I can’t remember anything. It was—” She suddenly gasps. “You were—There was—” “Shh, it’s okay,” you coo. You put a hand on the back of her neck and gently draw her closer. “Tell me what you think happened. Tell me everything, even if you think it’s wrong. We’re gonna get through it together.” “The dragon, she…” Vanille’s breath hitches. It takes a full twenty seconds for her to recover. “Her claw got you. A- And you fell to the ground…” You wince through the phantom pain. “Yes. And then?” She pauses, forcing herself to remember. Vanille shakes her head. “The… the griffon. I couldn’t see, but she was there, and then there was an explosion…” She steels herself. A mirthless croak of laughter escapes her throat. “You… The firebomb. You did it, did what I wasn’t strong enough to do. You set off the cart. A- And then I…” The knight shudders. “I found you in a- a… You were bleeding everywhere. Covered in burns. Your chest—” She suddenly pushes away with a gasp, eyes fixed on your collar. You pull her back into the tight embrace, chest pains be damned. “What happened when you found me?” “You… You were trying to move. I tried to pick you up, but you—” She squeals and bursts into tears. “Oh gods… You were screaming in agony. It was horrible. That noise… Those wails //haunt// me, <<= $name>>.” “I’m sorry.” You squeeze her for encouragement. “You’re doing a great job, but you need to focus, Vanille. We need to get through this.” She drifts for a pregnant moment, trembling, searching for something solid to cling to. “My ears were ringing. There was so much smoke, I couldn’t see. I couldn’t lift you, so I tried to dr- drag you. But the horde just kept coming. I’d pull you a foot closer to the gates, and then stop to fend off another monster. I… There were too many of them. I- I- I had t- to…” “You did. You had no other choice. You couldn’t move me and fight at the same time.” “I- I… I couldn’t leave you there. I wouldn’t. And then I…” Vanille trails off in utter shock. Her eyes grow cold and distant. “Why did I…” “You did it to keep me safe.” You nudge her back to attention, to force her eyes to meet yours. It doesn’t work. “Listen to me. You made the right call.” “I…” “You protected me, Vanille.” “N- No, that’s…” “You fought with everything you had, body and soul. You did what you had to do. We promised each other during the siege, remember?” Vanille blinks. She locks onto your gaze with her own. “Y- Yes.” “You did what you promised. Say it.” “I… I did what I promised,” Vanille starts, slow and cautious, like walking on glass. “I… protected you.” “Do you remember what happened after?” She looks away in shame. “No… My memory from that day—that week—is… blurry.” “That’s alright. I talked to the others, and I think I’ve pieced things together, so I’ll give you my best understanding. I wish I could give you a first hand account, but I can’t. You have to try to remember the rest yourself, okay?” [[Recount that day|Bring Out Your Dead]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

Vanille nods, small and slight. “I was unconscious, but I //wasn’t// dead,” you insist, reiterating for yourself almost as much as for her. “I passed out—I think I deserved a little bit of rest after everything that happened.” A bittersweet laugh spills from her lips. “O- Of course.” “I was safe. A friend was taking care of me.” You nod down to her middle. “In fact, there’s probably nowhere safer in the entire world.” You pause to let it sink in, no idea if your words are reaching her. You continue, “Then you helped Mira and Ashlyn. You all held out in the brewery until the gates opened. When you got into the city, you hired theurges and apothecaries. Then you took me to the inn and spat me out. Alive.” She shudders. “I- I heaved for hours afterward. I couldn’t sleep for days. I kept thinking that you were still in there… That I- I was killing you. The blood was everywhere—” //“Alive,// Vanille. I was alive the entire time.” You grab her face again. “Say it.” “… Y- You were… alive. You were safe. I- I did it.” She slumps to the floor, and you ease down with her to sit at her side, both hands held tight in your own. “Oh gods… I’m so sorry. I- I thought… I thought you…” “It’s okay. I forgive you. For everything. It’s—” You choke back a sob. “I- I don’t like to think about that day, either. It was horrible. But… I had you. You’re my hero, Vanille.” “I’m not a hero. I- I’ve been… I’ve been a fucking mess since that day.” She shakes her head. “I was so convinced that I’d done something heinous to you. It was real to me. I can still //feel// it.” “I know. I understand.” You nod sympathetically. “Sometimes, the mind plays tricks when things become too much to bear.” “Complete denial, though?” she asks, scoffing. “I’m so fucking stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.” You squeeze her hand. “Vanille, it’s okay.” She stares at you for a long moment, searching. You sit in the pale blue light, trying to be open for her, to let her peruse and find whatever it is she might be looking for in you. A slow smile forms on her lips, small and flickering like a candle in a hurricane. You’d be relieved, but unfortunately, this conversation isn’t over. It can’t end here. There’s still a critical topic you’ve yet to broach. You huff out a tense breath. “Okay, I have some bad news: that was the easy part. We still need to talk about…” She freezes. “… I- I—Do you still n- need to practice? I- Inside me?” “No. Fuck no… I only asked that to provoke you. You weren’t talking to me about your troubles—about anything—and I couldn’t take it anymore.” You hang your head, letting the guilt weigh you down. “But… I’m so sorry, Vanille. I didn’t understand what you were going through, and I shouldn’t have put you through it again just now. That was terrible of me… “But… we need to talk about how you’ve been, uhh… behaving since then. I… Fuck, I’m sorry. This is hard to say.” You wipe at your face, trying to hold back tears. When you finally find the strength, you look her square in the eye. “I couldn’t figure out why you’ve been on this- this guilt trip. It should have been the other way around: //you// saved //me.// And now that I know that you’ve been suffering… I need to ask you to stop punishing yourself. If I have any hope of getting through this quest, it’s only with your help. And for that, I need you to—you can’t just be obedient and guilty and indebted to me. “I… I won’t put the burden of being in charge of the group on your shoulders, but I need your guidance. And I need to know that it’s genuine and critical. The past week, I haven’t been able to trust your judgement, and it made me realize how desperately lost I am without it. I need to rely on you like I did before. I need you with a level head. I need you to disagree with me. I need you to think tactically, socially, truthfully. “I need you back, Vanille.” She nods furious agreement. “You’re right. I didn’t—//couldn’t// accept your help. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == false>>How could I? You //trusted// me. I thought you’d never forgive me after what I did to you. <</if>>I… I never imagined I’d need someone to drag me back—” Vanille suddenly winces. “It was getting bad, wasn’t it?” You gesture at the wooden crest slung across her back. “Well, you bought a shield and still haven’t used it.” “Damn. That //is// pretty bad. I don’t even like shields.” A guilty smirk appears on her face. “Actually, the reason I picked it was—” “For me. I know.” “Oh…” A laugh pops from her chest. “Of course you do. I should have trusted you. Trusted that you were strong enough. From now on, I promise I will. I’ll do my damndest to do so. You deserve that much.” Together, in the dim light of some forgotten ruins an impossible distance from your world, you find something akin to home. Comfort. Confidence. Peace. <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true || $VanilleEvent6 == true>>“Err… Actually,” you start. “There’s one more thing we need to talk about.” You cringe at your own awkwardness. “The other day, w- we kinda <<if $VanilleEvent5 == true>>reaffirmed<<else>>mentioned<</if>> our, uhm… feelings for one another? I- I hate to bring this up, but now that I understand how… guilty you felt about everything, I- I just—” You pick at the hem of your tunic awkwardly. “I need to make sure that you’re comfortable pursuing a relationship. I- I won’t hold you to something you said under duress.” At her silence, you glance up anxiously, then flinch. She’s staring at you, frozen, locked in time. //“I’m so lucky.”// she murmurs, then throws her arms around your neck. Vanille yanks you into a deep, passionate kiss, only pulling away after a head-spinning moment without any oxygen. “<<= $name>>, I meant it. Every word. I care about you deeply. I just… I was so afraid you’d remember what I’d done. I’m so sorry. You trusted me, and I did //that// to you. I thought you’d never forgive me, just hoped that you wouldn’t remember any of it and I could just pretend it didn’t happen.” She pulls your dumbfounded face back into another caress. Lips lock, a tongue emerges and wrestles with yours. Again you’re stupefied when she pulls away after a minute… or a millenia. “But you are, without a doubt, the most wonderful and understanding person I’ve ever met.” You gasp, trying to recover at least a little bit of oxygen before you pass out from a third kiss. Mercifully, Vanille instead thumps her chin against your shoulder. A calm whisper floats into your ear. //“Thank you.”// “O- Of course. We’ll take it one step at a time.” You offer a confident and playful smirk. “And for the record, I think you’re pretty great, too… Sundrop.”<<else>>You offer a confident and playful smirk. “I promise to do the same… Sundrop.”<</if>> Vanille laughs and socks you in the arm. It hurts, but in a good way. [[End of Episode 2|Episode 17]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Yes, try to escape the colossal rabid dog with your tiny stick legs. Run, bitch, run! <<case 2>> Your staggering genius astounds me, truly. ‘Yes,’ you declare. ‘I shall outrun the creature that is at least four times my size. I see absolutely nothing that could go wrong. No, I will not use any portion of my brain to consider other options. I trust my legs!!’ <<default>> For fuck’s sake. Look, maybe you did track and field back in your world, but that doesn’t mean shit here. These people are faster, stronger… more than ever… hour after—Crap! It’s happening again. I guess your work is never over, is it? Get back there and try again. <</switch>> <<set $deathDemons ++>><<set $deathHellhounds ++>>[[Return|All Hellhound Breaks Loose]]

Before you can get started, please input your name: <<textbox "$name" "Taylor">> Select pronouns you'd prefer to be referred as: <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "he" checked>>He/Him</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "she">>She/Her</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "they">>They/Them</label> //Please note that this choice only changes pronouns, and not the player's genitalia. Presently, the player character will have a penis.// [[Episode 1|SB_Ep1]]

<> <<set $deathTotal to 0>> <<set $deathMonstergirls to 0>> <<set $deathAlraune to 0>> <<set $AlrauneApproach to false>> <<set $deathDemis to 0>> <<set $deathBunnygirls to 0>> <<set $deathBarmaids to 0>> <<set $deathHumans to 0>> <<set $deathAnal to 0>> <<set $color to "orange">> <<if $xe == "he">> <<set $xe to "he">> <<set $xem to "him">> <<set $xes to "he’s">> <<set $xir to "his">> <<set $Xe to "He">> <<set $Xem to "Him">> <<set $Xes to "He’s">> <<set $Xir to "His">> <<set $mx to "mister">> <<set $Mx to "Mister">> <<elseif $xe == "she">> <<set $xe to "she">> <<set $xem to "her">> <<set $xes to "she’s">> <<set $xir to "her">> <<set $Xe to "She">> <<set $Xem to "Her">> <<set $Xes to "She’s">> <<set $Xir to "Her">> <<set $mx to "miss">> <<set $Mx to "Miss">> <<else>> <<set $xe to "they">> <<set $xem to "them">> <<set $xes to "they’re">> <<set $xir to "their">> <<set $Xe to "They">> <<set $Xem to "Them">> <<set $Xes to "They’re">> <<set $Xir to "Their">> <<set $mx to "mx">> <<set $Mx to "Mx">> <</if>> <>You are an entirely unremarkable college student save for a mildly embarrassing vore fetish—something with absolutely zero impact on your day-to-day life. While crossing the street on your way home from class, you were distracted by a message on your phone for just long enough to be blindsided by the business end of a speeding truck. Yet rather than die—or suffer mortal injury—you awoke in an unfamiliar forest, alone and bereft of all your belongings except the clothes on your back. One afternoon of aimless wandering later, a pleasant scent caught your nose. The aroma led back to a clearing where you finally found another living soul: a strangely green woman perched atop a massive flower and nursing an impossibly swollen stomach. Upon noticing your approach, the woman somehow… //pushed// the distressingly animated contents of her gut into the flower below, then beckoned you closer with clear and hungry intent. The pieces came together a moment too late: this strange plant-woman had devoured another person—whole and alive—and you were next. Before you could flee, she ensnared you with a wave of animated vines. Just when all seemed lost, rescue came in the form of a literal knight in shining armor who cut you from the monster’s fibrous clutches and pulled you to safety. Though confused by your strange clothes and suspicious behavior, your savior escorted you back to the nearby city of Icilia before parting ways. You were immediately forced to confront two important truths. The first: you had somehow been transported to a place called Havendor, a medieval-fantasy kingdom filled with monsters and magic. The second, and far more relevant to your immediate survival: each and every person possessed the ability—and eager intent—to swallow you whole, as you immediately learned upon trying a day job at a local tavern. You’d barely begun your first shift when the demi human proprietress—a woman with rabbit ears and tail—revealed she was only keeping you around for filling post-closing dinner. Through happenstance, dumb luck, and more than a little blind panic, you managed to escape the tavern, only to immediately encounter several more near-gut experiences in a bewildering dash through the city streets. Your run ended with a face-to-face—or, more accurately, head-to-head—introduction to a diminutive feline demi thief who was on the run from the guards. After a brief and confusing conversation where she tried to hide //inside// of you, the two of you were spotted by her pursuers and forced to flee together. [[Episode 2|SB_Ep2]]

<> <<set $RVMira to 0>> <<set $MCDrunk to false>> <<set $MiraDrunk to false>> <<set $deathCatgirls to 0>> <<set $deathMira to 0>> <<set $deathStupid to 0>> <<set $Stamina to 0>> <<set $Loiter to false>> <<set $deathUB to 0>> <<set $deathHumans to 0>> <<set $WinTime to 3>> <>When you finally managed to lose the guards, Mira—as she eagerly introduced herself—began to follow you around and ask question after question, largely centered around your unique inability to swallow another human being whole. In exchange for answering her queries, Mira bought you dinner and even offered you a place to stay for night. Back at the run-down hovel that Mira called a home, the demi offered you a drink bought with the earnings of her recent larceny. You… <<linkreplace "Accepted, deciding being pleasant company was the least you could offer in repayment for her kindness">><<replace "#choices">><<set $MCDrunk to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> accepted, deciding being pleasant company was the least you could offer in repayment for her kindness. <<include "SB_Ep2a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Discreetly declined by miming a few swigs, still unsure if it was wise to lower your guard around a relative stranger">><<replace "#choices">> discreetly declined by miming a few swigs, still unsure if it was wise to lower your guard around the cheerful demi. <<include "SB_Ep2a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $MCDrunk == true>>@@color:lime;Mira was delighted,@@ though her enthusiasm for potent drink far surpassed your own<<else>>Unfortunately, Mira did not exhibit the same restraint<</if>>. The demi rapidly drank herself into a stupor and casually admitted to engaging in the common Havendorian pastime of devouring other people on a semi-regular basis. Despite her size and friendly demeanor, the demi was every bit as voracious as everyone else—a trait she vehemently demonstrated by swallowing you, mid-sentence, in a haze of drunken affection before promptly passing out. And so your first night in Havendor was spent marinating in a stomach full of cheap booze while praying you could rouse the demi the following morning. You succeeded—though you came alarmingly close to mortal digestion—after which Mira abashedly released you, then immediately volunteered to take you on a tour of Icilia as recompense. Mira’s ‘tour’ of Icilia involved taking you from landmark to landmark while offering up the occasional bit of uninformed commentary. The demi took a brief break from guide duty to devour a small bird—which you really should have seen coming—then found herself distracted by the chance to play with a handful of stray cats in an alleyway. You decided to… <<linkreplace "Join in, humoring the demi’s more innocuously playful side">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVMira ++>> join in, humoring the demi’s more innocuously playful side. @@color:lime;Mira, of course, was delighted.@@ <<include "SB_Ep2b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Keep your distance, still not entirely sure you could trust the demi in dark, secluded spaces">><<replace "#choices2">> keep your distance, still not entirely sure you could trust the demi in dark, secluded spaces. <<include "SB_Ep2b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Lack of helpful information aside, the tour went well enough until the two of you were ambushed by a crew of brigands while crossing a bridge. The assailants revealed themselves to be former associates of Mira, claiming she owed them money after botching a previous job and holding your life as collateral. To your surprise, Mira gave up every coin in her possession to set you free—overpaying her supposed debt—then profusely apologized, mortified at putting you in danger. She seemed genuinely shocked when you forgave her, and eager when you suggested she continue the tour. The far side of the bridge held one final surprise: a statue in your exact likeness located right in the middle of a public plaza. [[Episode 3|SB_Ep3]]

<> <<set $Mirafriend to false>> <<set $killedMira to 0>> <<set $MiraStays to false>> <<set $RVVanille to 0>> <<set $MiraEvent1 to false>> <<set $deathHarpies to 0>> <<set $Witness to 0>> <<set $AtkSite to false>> <<set $Weapon to false>> <<set $Weapon to true>> <<set $Poison to "chocolate">> <<set $Poison1 to false>> <<set $ShanaSheep to false>> <<set $ShanaSaw to false>> <<set $Arnulf to false>> <<set $ShanaDrink to false>> <>Mira knew tragically little about the monument’s origins—and didn’t even seem to notice the extremely obvious resemblance—but she took you to a nearby library that would hopefully hold some key insight. An entire civilizations’ history, however, made for difficult and dry reading, and not even the occasional mention of royal digestion could focus your attention forever. Mira’s focus didn’t fare much better, and it quickly became obvious the demi was growing bored. You… <<linkreplace "Decided to enlist her help and read together">><<replace "#choices">><<set $MiraEvent1 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> decided to enlist her help and read together. While she ultimately didn’t offer much in the way of direct help, @@color:lime;Mira seemed to appreciate being involved.@@ <<include "SB_Ep3a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Told her she could wander around while you stayed focussed on your personal research">><<replace "#choices">> told her she could wander around while you stayed focussed on your personal research. <<include "SB_Ep3a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Several hours of research later, you took a break with Mira to go grab lunch, only to remember that the demi had given up every coin on her person. Not one to be discouraged, Mira set off to do some light pick-pocketing, only to immediately find herself caught by an blond, armorclad figure—the same woman who had saved you when you first awoke in Havendor. Your attempted apology on Mira’s behalf went poorly, and it seemed like the two of you were bound for a trip to the city guard until the knight suddenly noticed your resemblance to the statue. After an awkward moment of confusion, the adventurer introduced herself as Vanille and explained that the monument was supposed to depict a hero from an ancient prophecy—one who would venture to Havendor from another world, gather powerful relics, and defeat an ancient evil to save the land. Fulfilling this prophecy would supposedly allow the fabled hero to return home—which was a hell of a lot more direction than studying in the library had given you—but Vanille demanded a test of your competency before lending any further assistance. The test, as it turned out, was to hunt a monster that had been troubling a farmstead just outside the city walls. Vanille insisted you take the lead, and after a few hours of searching the attack site, questioning a witness, and generally contending with the fact that you were somehow supposed to best a monster, you concluded the culprit was some sort of avian. With direct combat off the table for obvious reasons, you crafted a plan where you coat bait in an emetic poison, which would then impede the monster enough to give you a fighting chance. The bait came in the form of a sheep generously donated by a friendly and flirty farmhand, who even offered you a refreshing drink, which you… <<linkreplace "Accepted">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $ShanaDrink to true>><<set $RVVanille -->> accepted. <<include "SB_Ep3b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Politely declined">><<replace "#choices2">> politely declined. <<include "SB_Ep3b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $ShanaDrink == true>>This turned out to be a mistake, as the woman had laced the beverage with some sort of sedative. Once you were thoroughly debilitated, she brought you inside and devoured you. Vanille persuaded the woman to let you back out, though @@color:red;the knight didn’t seem especially pleased with your choices.@@ Indescretition<<else>>Minor distractions<</if>> aside, the plan with the sheep probably would have worked were it not for the monster—a harpy—swooping down and eating you just before you could set up the bait. The poison in your pocket broke inside the harpy’s stomach and, fortunately, caused the monster girl to plummet from the sky and regurgitate you. Mira helped herself to her second bird of the day while the harpy was grounded, and the three—or four—of you traveled back to Icilia to collect the reward and retire for the evening. That night at the tavern, you chose to spend some more time talking with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $RVMira ++>> Mira, asking the demi how she was handling the still-squirming harpy and generally trying to avoid openly ogling. Mira @@color:lime;seemed thrilled by the attention.@@ <<include "SB_Ep3c_Mira">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices3">> Vanille while Mira went upstairs to sleep and digest her meal. Despite your best efforts, the knight revealed little, @@color:lime;though she seemed to appreciated the effort.@@ The two of you retired for the evening quickly after, and you passed out the instant your head hit the pillow. [[Episode 4|SB_Ep4]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The two of you finally turned in for the night, and you <<if $RVMira >= 2>>prepared for a well-earned rest before encountering a last-minute surprise when Mira attempted to sleep at the foot of your bed. You… <<linkreplace "Let her stay">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Mirafriend to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> let her stay, @@color:lime;much to the demi’s delight.@@ [[Episode 4|SB_Ep4]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Insisted she sleep on her own bed">><<replace "#choices4">> insisted she sleep on her own bed, and she reluctantly agreed. [[Episode 4|SB_Ep4]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>immediately passed out for a well-earned night’s rest. [[Episode 4|SB_Ep4]]<</if>>

<> <<set $deathTPK to 0>> <<set $killedVanille to 0>> <<set $MiraWake to 0>> <<set $deathMermaids to 0>> <<set $MiraAllie to false>> <<set $Peach to false>> <<set $Vanille1 to false>> <<if $RVMira >= 2>><<set $Mirafriend to true>><</if>> <>Your quest began the following morning when Vanille explained that the two of you would make the day’s trip to the nearby town of Amberglen in search of the acclaimed adventurer-author Lucius Hawthorne. Lucius had written about the Echoes of Exile, and Vanille hoped he could provide a lead—or perhaps assist in the search. With your destination set, you and Vanille headed out to stock up on supplies for the road, only to be immediately derailed when a merchant attempted to grab you for a quick breakfast. Vanille pulled you from the jaws of death yet again and, upon hearing how many close calls you’d had in the past two days, promptly brought you back to the inn and assigned Mira as your babysitter. Rather than sit around for the morning, the demi devoured you and decided to pick up your tour right where you left off, explaining she could keep you safe in her stomach through metabolic control—yet another ubiquitous feature among Havendorians. True to her word, Mira let you out back at the inn… right in front of an unamused Vanille. The knight’s displeasure grew to disbelief-bordering-on annoyance when the demi suddenly declared her intention to join up. Not one to turn down a <<if $Mirafriend == true>>friend<<else>>traveling companion<</if>>, you managed to convince Vanille to have her along. The road to Amberglen proved absolutely brutal for you and your legs unaccustomed to endurance hikes. Your companions slowed their pace, but even then you were finally forced to stop at a nearby stream and take a quick breather. The moment you left your companions’ sight, a mermaid emerged from the water and tried to grab you. Mira “saved the day,” jumping right into the river and earning herself a mermaid lunch. Vanille, however, was annoyed, both by the demi’s recklessness and the fact that the additional weight would slow the three of you down even further. Tensions in the group finally boiled over when you encountered a pair of travelers being attacked by a small swarm of bee girls. While Vanille was able to intervene in time, you and Mira proved next to useless—as the knight was more than willing to exclaim. Tired from the day of travel and woefully behind schedule, your group reluctantly made camp on the roadside, and Vanille’s dour mood persisted through the entire process. After dinner, you… <<linkreplace "Checked in on Mira">><<replace "#choices">><<if $RVMira < 5>><<set $RVMira ++>><</if>> checked in on Mira. The demi didn’t wasn’t at all perturbed by the day’s events, and @@color:lime;she actually seemed cheerier than ever.@@ <<include "SB_Ep4a_Mira">> <</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Tried to talk to Vanille">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVVanille ++>> tried to talk to Vanille. While initially terse, @@color:lime;she was ultimately sympathetic to your difficulties,@@ and even offered a few potential suggestions for ways you could train. <<include "SB_Ep4a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

As you talked, the demi gradually inched closer. Ultimately, you… <<linkreplace "Let the demi sleep by your side">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVMira ++>> let the demi sleep by your side. @@color:lime;Mira was delighted,@@ and the two of you quickly passed out. <<include "SB_Ep4a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Asked for some space">><<replace "#choices2">> asked for some space, and while the demi seemed a bit disappointed, she slept on her own. <<include "SB_Ep4a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You awoke in the middle of the night to a familiar voice—the alraune that had nearly grabbed you on your first day in Havendor. She introduced herself as Allie, then declared she’d already put your companions into a deep sleep so she could have you all to herself. Thinking fast, you attempted to save yourself by ingeniously… shouting very loudly. At the last second, Mira leapt out of the darkness and cut you free from the alraune’s vines. You dragged Vanille to safety, then waited until dawn to return to the campsite and discover the monster had inexplicably vanished. Resolving that the road was no longer a trustworthy place to camp, the three of you resumed the trek to Amberglen without further rest, exhaustion be damned. [[Episode 5|SB_Ep5]]

<> <<set $Choke to false>> <<set $Investigate to 0>> <<set $Gloomy to false>> <<set $AshlynScore to 0>> <<set $AshlynDialog1 to false>> <<set $VanilleScore to 0>> <<set $deathMages to 0>> <<set $deathHumans to 0>> <<set $deathShrink to 0>> <<set $Mill to true>> <<set $Ruins to true>> <<set $deathGrues to 0>> <<set $Amberglen to false>> <<set $RVAshlyn to 0>> <<set $Chaos to 0>> <>Your party arrived in the town of Amberglen to little fanfare save for a warm meal at the local tavern. Vanille suggested you divide and conquer for a preliminary investigation, and you wound up going with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVMira ++>><<set $Amberglen to "Mira">> Mira, figuring your party could cover more ground if you split up. <<include "SB_Ep5a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVVanille ++>><<set $Amberglen to "Vanille">> Vanille, figuring your party could cover more ground if you split up. <<include "SB_Ep5a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Both Mira and Vanille">><<replace "#choices">> both your companions, figuring there was safety in numbers… for you at least. <<include "SB_Ep5a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

After a few hours of information gathering, you <<if $Amberglen == false>>headed back to<<else>>reconvened at<</if>> the tavern to begin your search in earnest. After a series of misadventures wherein you avoided a cursed-as-hell cave, hid from yet another swarm of bee girls, and pulled Mira from the grasp of an extremely conspicuous mimic—albeit a shiny trinket richer for her troubles—you were still no closer to your goal. Frustrated, you and your companions began to make your way back to town, only to miraculously stumble across the man of adventure and danger himself—Lucius Hawthorne—stuck in a tree. A few minutes of conversation gave the clear impression that most of the man’s feats were either exaggerations or pure fiction. But he //did// have a lead: the Whispered Archives, the long-lost resting place of Destiny’s Embrace, considered the first of the Echoes of Exile. Unfortunately, you suspected he’d likely be completely useless in retrieving the artifact itself. With your mission technically a success, you retired for what //should// have been an uplifting and restful evening. However, tensions had been rising between Vanille and Mira throughout your search, with the thief's carefree antics grating heavily against the knight’s sense of responsibility. This conflict came to a head as a full-blown shouting match, all while you desperately attempted to intermediate. Your companions were so drawn into their argument, in fact, that they failed to notice when you were shrunk with magic and whisked away by a mysterious stranger. The crimson-clad figure plopped your three-inch-tall form on a secluded table and introduced herself as Ashlyn, a mage who you rapidly learned was bored, hungry, and all-around bizarre. She spent as much time pontificating magic and mana as she did threatening to fuck and/or devour you. Realizing you could exploit her penchant for monologues to buy time, you… <<linkreplace "Kept her talking with semi-intelligent questions">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $AshlynScore to 5>> kept her talking with semi-intelligent questions. <<include "SB_Ep5b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Engaged her on some particularly lascivious doodles in her journal">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $AshlynScore to 3>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>><<set $Chaos ++>> engaged her on some particularly lascivious doodles in her journal. <<include "SB_Ep5b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $AshlynScore < 4>>Fortunately, she rose to the bait… and even asked which one you would hypothetically prefer to experience. Naturally, you chose… <<linkreplace "The sketch of a shrunken person tied to a string and about to be swallowed">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $AshlynDialog1 to "String">> the sketch of a shrunken person tied to a string and about to be swallowed, though the mage didn’t seem especially keen on performing the act in a relatively public setting. <<include "SB_Ep5c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "The doodle of a shrunken person being shoved into Ashlyn’s vagina">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $AshlynDailog1 to "insert">> the doodle of a shrunken person being shoved into Ashlyn’s vagina, though the mage didn’t seem especially keen on performing the act in a relatively public setting. <<include "SB_Ep5c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>><<include "SB_Ep5c">><</if>>

Just as the mage was growing bored of your un-ingested existence, Vanille rescued you from Ashlyn’s clutches and escorted her out of the tavern at knifepoint. The evening had one final scare, however, when you were discovered by Mira—whose hunger for things small and squirming you understood all too well. Between the demi’s conflicted instincts and another last-second intervention from Vanille, you managed to survive the encounter. Vanille brought you upstairs, and the two of you wound up having a genuine—if a bit strange given the size disparity—heart-to-heart in which you attempted to address her concerns through… <<linkreplace "Humor and good spirits">><<replace "#choices4">><<if $RVVanille <= 0>><<set $RVVanille to 2>><<elseif $RVVanille == 1>><<set $RVVanille to 3>><<else>><<set $RVVanille to 5>><</if>> humor and good spirits, which worked better than you could have hoped. @@color:lime;Vanille agreed to extend a bit more trust in you and Mira, and she even seemed a bit optimistic about your group’s future prospects.@@ You convinced her to apologize to the demi in the morning, then finally settled down to sleep. In one final stroke of good fortune, the shrinking spell wore off a moment later, meaning you got a night’s rest back at your normal size. [[Episode 6|SB_Ep6]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Sincerity">><<replace "#choices4">><<if $RVVanille <= 0>><<set $RVVanille to 1>><<else>><<set $RVVanille ++>><</if>> sincerity, which eventually won against the knight’s concerns. @@color:lime;Vanille agreed to extend a bit more trust in you and Mira, and she even seemed a bit optimistic about your group’s future prospects.@@ You convinced her to apologize to the demi in the morning, then finally settled down to sleep. In one final stroke of good fortune, the shrinking spell wore off a moment later, meaning you got a night’s rest back at your normal size. [[Episode 6|SB_Ep6]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<> <<set $AshtityBelt to false>> <<set $MCSlimed to false>> <<set $ArchiveFragment_Slime to false>> <<set $ArchiveFragment_Dorm to false>> <<set $ArchiveFragment_Gallery to false>> <<set $MCPrey to false>> <<set $fragments to 3>> <<set $Gallery1 to false>> <<set $Kharra to false>> <<set $Kharra1 to true>> <<set $Kharra2 to true>> <<set $Kharra3 to true>> <<set $Kharra4 to true>> <<set $Kharra5 to true>> <<set $Kharra6 to true>> <<set $Kharra7 to true>> <<set $KharraStart to false>> <<set $KharraFree to false>> <<set $Hive1 to false>> <<set $Hive2 to false>> <<set $Hive3 to false>> <<set $Hive4 to false>> <<set $Hive5 to false>> <<set $Hive6 to false>> <<set $deathBeegirls to 0>> <<set $deathTail to 0>> <<set $deathGang to 0>> <<set $deathQueen to 0>> <<set $deathTugofVore to 0>> <<set $killedAshlyn to 0>> <<set $MiraDialog1 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent2 to false>> <<set $MiraReject0 to false>> <<set $MCQueenBoom to false>> <>The next day, you met Lucius Hawthorne at Amberglen’s gates where the adventurer-author added “complete chauvinist” to his growing list of negative traits. Sexism aside, he successfully guided you to the entrance of the Whispered Archives… or at least its approximate location—the hills a few miles outside town limits. Looking to hasten the search, your group split up. You partnered with Vanille, who eventually warned that, given your location and the direction the bee girls were flying yesterday, the hive might be nearby. When you expressed concern for Mira and Hawthorne’s wellbeing, the knight admitted she had knowingly put Mira at slightly more risk in order to keep you safe. You… <<linkreplace "Accepted her argument">><<replace "#choices">> accepted her argument and acknowledged that risk management is likely an important skill for adventures. <<include "SB_Ep6a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Expressed your discomfort">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVVanille ++>> expressed your discomfort at having your life weighed against another’s. @@color:lime;Vanille actually seemed relieved to hear this, though she insisted it was a burden you’d need to bear.@@ <<include "SB_Ep6a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

When you finally stumbled across the partially concealed entrance to the Whispered Archives, you were met with two unpleasant surprises. First was an incoming swarm of bee girls far too numerous for you to fight off. Second was a reunion with Ashlyn, already working to open the magically sealed doors. You quickly buried the hatchet before Vanille could bury a sword in the mage, then held off the attacking swarm long enough for Ashlyn to get the archives open so you could take refuge inside. While the rest of your companions took a breather—or in Ashlyn’s case, decided to poke around at random miscellania—you paired up with Mira and did some light scouting. A massive door barred the way further into the archives, while the side wings remained accessible. The two of you… <<linkreplace "Hit a roadblock at the gallery">><<replace "#choices2">> hit a roadblock at the archive’s gallery, and were immediately forced to regroup with the rest of your party. <<include "SB_Ep6b_roadbloack">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Encountered an unexpected creature in the common hall">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVVanille ++>> encountered an unexpected creature in the common hall—a slime girl, as Mira explained. The demi attempted to make friends, but was promptly enveloped by the slime for her efforts. <<include "SB_Ep6b_creature">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Explored the abandoned dormitory">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVMira ++>><<set $RVVanille ++>><<set $MCPrey to "Mira">> explored the abandoned dormitory, scouring each and every dusty shelf. You and Mira passed the time with idle chatter and the occasional game, @@color:lime; much to the demi’s delight.@@ Mira even found a fragment of the key needed to progress deeper into the archives. <<include "SB_Ep6b_dorm">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Panicked, you… <<linkreplace "Tried to assist Mira">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $MCSlimed to true>> tried to assist Mira. This obviously failed, and you were pulled into the slime girl right after her. Help came a few minutes later as Ashlyn used some sort of magical straw to rapidly slurp up the slime girl, leaving you and Mira unharmed… if a bit slimy. <<include "SB_Ep6b_creature2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ran to get help">><<replace "#choices3">> ran to get help. Upon hearing about the slime girl, Ashlyn bolted to the common hall and used some sort of magic straw to slurp up the creature in a matter of seconds, leaving Mira unharmed… if a bit slimy. <<include "SB_Ep6b_creature2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You ventured back into the gallery and, with a bit of collaborative problem solving, found the way forward by using a few of the gallery’s statues to weigh down pressure plates. One of these statues didn’t take too kindly to the effort. A gargoyle—Kharra, as she introduced herself—explained she had guarded the Whispered Archives for over a thousand years. Upon learning the archive’s original owners had long since vanished, she allowed you to continue your search, gave you a few helpful tips on how to advance, and even admitted the primary reason she’d remained in the archives for so long was that a binding rune magically held her there. The room beyond the gallery held both good and bad news: good in the form of a key fragment for the main hall’s door, and bad in the form of a waxen tunnel that led right into the bee girl hive. Resolving that it would be best to avoid another altercation with the drones, you hastily moved on to explore the rest of the archives. A thorough search of an abandoned dormitory uncovered the second key fragment. Cautiously optimistic, you proceeded to the nearby common room, only to be stopped in your tracks by a strange creature—a slime girl. With the aid of some sort of magical straw, Ashlyn slurped up the monster in a matter of seconds. Fortunately, the monster left behind the final key fragment, and the three of you returned to the main hall to venture forward. <<include "SB_Ep6c">>

Off to a good start, you ventured to the nearby common hall, only to be stopped in your tracks by a strange creature—a slime girl, as Mira explained. The demi attempted to make friends and was promptly enveloped by the slime for her efforts. Panicked, you… <<linkreplace "Tried to assist Mira">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $MCSlimed to true>> tried to assist Mira. This obviously failed, and you were pulled into the slime girl right after her. Help came a few minutes later as Ashlyn used some sort of magical straw to rapidly slurp up the slime girl, leaving you and Mira unharmed… if a bit slimy. <<include "SB_Ep6b_dorm2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ran to get help">><<replace "#choices3">> ran to get help. Upon hearing about the slime girl, Ashlyn bolted to the common hall and used some sort of magic straw to slurp up the creature in a matter of seconds, leaving Mira unharmed… if a bit slimy. <<include "SB_Ep6b_dorm2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The key worked perfectly, but the open door revealed only a massive collapse that completely blocked any way forward. Dejected, the five of you realized the only potential path deeper into the archives was through the bee girl hive tunnels in hopes that the drones had burrowed past the debris. The initial exploration went well until you suddenly fell through a weak spot of waxy floor and found yourself stranded from the rest of your group in the claustrophobic depths of the hive. With the buzzing of unseen bee girls humming in your ears, with any and all landmarks coated in a thick layer of gunk and wax, with nothing but the dim glow of dying magical lanterns to guide your path, you somehow made it. Through determination, luck, and a willingness to hide in some very unpleasant places, you crawled and scurried and shimmied your way past far too many brushes with death to finally reunite with your companions. During your absence, the group had found the way back into the archives proper and, even better, the vault itself. The good news abruptly ended when the queen bee found you and gave chase, a legion of drones in her wake. Thinking quickly, you… <<linkreplace "Threw a firebomb at the queen">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $MCQueenBoom to true>><<set $RVVanille ++>> threw a firebomb at the queen. <<include "SB_Ep6d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Tossed a firebomb to Vanille so she could take the shot">><<replace "#choices4">> tossed a firebomb to Vanille so she could take the shot. Naturally, she landed a direct hit. <<include "SB_Ep6d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The minor scare was not without its upsides, though, as the demi produced a fragment of the key needed for the main hall’s door, apparently looted from within the slime girl. @@color:lime;Vanille was pleased by your combined efforts.@@ With your group rejoined, the five of you explored a nearby abandoned dormitory and discovered a second key fragment. The archive’s gallery initially gave you trouble, but with a bit of collaborative problem solving, you found the way forward by using a few of the gallery’s statues to weigh down pressure plates. One of these statues didn’t take too kindly to the effort. A gargoyle—Kharra, as she introduced herself—explained she had guarded the Whispered Archives for over a thousand years. Upon learning the archive’s original owners had long since vanished, she allowed you to continue your search, gave you a few helpful tips on how to advance, and even admitted the primary reason she’d remained in the archives for so long was that a binding rune magically held her there. The room beyond the gallery held both good and bad news: good in the form of a key fragment for the main hall’s door, and bad in the form of a waxen tunnel that led right into the bee girl hive. Resolving that it would be best to avoid another altercation with the drones, you hastily returned to the main hall to venture forward. <<include "SB_Ep6c">>

The minor scare was not without its upsides, though, as the demi produced a second key fragment, apparently looted from within the slime girl. @@color:lime;Vanille was pleased by your combined efforts.@@ The archive’s gallery initially gave you trouble, but with a bit of collaborative problem solving, you found the way forward by using a few of the gallery’s statues to weigh down pressure plates. One of these statues didn’t take too kindly to the effort. A gargoyle—Kharra, as she introduced herself—explained she had guarded the Whispered Archives for over a thousand years. Upon learning the archive’s original owners had long since vanished, she allowed you to continue your search, gave you a few helpful tips on how to advance, and even admitted the primary reason she’d remained in the archives for so long was that a binding rune magically held her there. The room beyond the gallery held both good and bad news: good in the form of a key fragment for the main hall’s door, and bad in the form of a waxen tunnel that led right into the bee girl hive. Resolving that it would be best to avoid another altercation with the drones, you hastily returned to the main hall to venture forward. <<include "SB_Ep6c">>

While it’s unclear if the blast itself did any damage, the explosion brought down a massive section of the tunnel ceiling right onto the oncoming swarm—and almost on top of you. As the dust settled, you realized Hawthorne had disappeared. While it was perfectly possible he had simply fled while the rest of you dealt with the actual danger, you had a strong suspicion that Ashlyn had shrunk and devoured the adventurer while the rest of you were distracted. Without more proof than a coy lick of the lips from the mage, and with more pressing concerns on your mind, you kept the theory to yourself. The four of you entered the vault and split up. You immediately found Kharra’s binding rune and… <<linkreplace "Broke it">><<replace "#choices5">><<set $KharraFree to true>> broke it, theoretically setting the gargoyle free… not that you had any way to tell her. <<include "SB_Ep6e">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Decided to leave it intact">><<replace "#choices5">> decided to leave it intact, erring on the side of caution. <<include "SB_Ep6e">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

A few minutes of further searching yielded the amulet Destiny’s Embrace, which gave off a curious glow when you first touched it but was otherwise a standard piece of jewelry. With your prize in hand, you prepared to leave through a remarkably convenient back door, while Ashlyn opted to stay behind and do a bit more exploring. Back in Amberglen<<if $RVMira >= 5>>, Mira surprised you mid-wash and asked to eat you for a bit, promising to keep you safe and let you back out before dinner. You… <<linkreplace "Accepted, deciding a bit of time in Mira’s belly sounded like a fantastic way to unwind">><<replace "#choices6">> accepted, deciding a bit of time in Mira’s belly sounded like a fantastic way to unwind. @@color:lime;The demi seemed to enjoy it too.@@ After being let back out, you finished cleaning up and headed downstairs to enjoy a relaxing meal with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep6f">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Declined, resolving that you’d enough close calls with ingestion for one day">><<replace "#choices6">> declined, resolving that you’d enough close calls with ingestion for one day. @@color:red;Mira seemed //very// disappointed,@@ but she ultimately relented. Finally finished cleaning, you headed downstairs to enjoy a relaxing meal with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep6f">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>, you washed up and headed downstairs to enjoy a relaxing meal with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep6f">><</if>>

The evening was the perfect end to a long and stressful day… at least until Ashlyn showed up yet again and declared her intent to tag along. Mira was happy to bring aboard a new friend, but you and Vanille had to quickly weigh the risk of teaming up with the chaotic mage against the benefits of an ally who can cast magic. When Ashlyn agreed to not try and kill you again, the two of you relented. [[Episode 7|SB_Ep7]]

<> <<set $Return to 0>> <<set $Caravan to false>> <<set $Caravan2 to false>> <<set $Dialog to false>> <<set $VanilleDialog1 to false>> <<set $deathWormgirls to 0>> <<set $deathDeerSatyr to 0>> <>After a well-earned night’s rest, Vanille explained her intent to travel to Orrault, roughly a week’s travel north. She believed the larger city might hold an expert on the Echoes who could more reliably identify Destiny’s Embrace and hopefully give you a lead on the next artifact. No sooner had you left the town gates than you were accosted by a familiar foe—Allie the Alraune. This time, however, she brought friends: a legion of animated crops as fodder intended to overwhelm your small party. Unfortunately for the monster girl, Ashlyn vaporized the entire harvest with a massive fire spell, and the plant woman once again vanished. The mage’s spectacle left her badly mana-drained which, as Vanille explained, would render her a delirious and mostly non-functional mess for the next few days or until she found a mana-rich meal—a duty for which none of you were particularly keen to volunteer. To make matters worse, it started raining. Hard. An hour into trudging through the downpour, you stumbled across a caravan stuck in the mud. After helping them free—and learning they were heading in the same direction—you joined. The wagons promised to make the trip north a whole lot easier… if still very boring and dreary. The rain let up, and you spent the first night gathered around a fire making introductions before settling down to sleep in a cramped wagonbed. The next morning, one of the caravanners had gone missing. No one seemed especially concerned, though you suspected this was partially because said missing caravanner was an asshole. You spent some of the day training with Vanille and received an unfortunate confirmation that you are, in fact, much weaker than everyone else in this world. Even the diminutive Mira could probably chuck you like a shot put. Vanille decided to teach you a bit of spearwork, hoping the additional range would partially alleviate your handicap. The training was tortuous on your non-superhuman body, but on the upside, it made falling asleep each night much easier. Looking to pass the hours during a particularly dreary day that prevented your usual spearwork routine, you spent some time with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Caravan to "Mira">><<set $RVMira ++>> Mira, who wound up asking you to read a work-in-progress book she’d stolen from Hawthorne. Despite the questionable writing quality, @@color:lime;the demi hung on every word and fell asleep in your lap.@@ <<include "SB_Ep7a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Caravan to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>> Vanille. The two of you spent some time talking about your world and differences from Havendor, which mostly resulted in trying to explain the vague concepts of modern technologies to the knight with mixed results. @@color:lime;She appreciated the effort and seemed genuinely interested.@@ <<include "SB_Ep7_Vanille">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

As the conversation wound down, Vanille asked if you were eager to return home. You… <<linkreplace "Said yes">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Return ++>> said yes, and she promised she’d do everything she could to help. <<include "SB_Ep7a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Weren’t certain">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Return -->> weren’t sure, but the knight promised she’d do everything she could to help regardless. <<include "SB_Ep7a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

It was on the fourth day of travel that rising tensions finally came to a head. The disappearances had continued every night since your group joined, and while you were certain you and your companions were innocent—Vanille had been keeping a close eye on Ashlyn—your roadmates were far from convinced. You all resolved to set a watch the next night to try and identify who or what was responsible. Attempting to keep your mind off the coming evening—and looking to tie up a loose end from earlier—you brought up Hawthorne’s disappearance to Vanille. The knight shared your suspicions and voiced her general distrust of Ashyln, but the lack of concern around your newest friend’s voracious pastime—along with the caravanners’ slowness to act when their own friends and family started going missing—began raising some uncomfortable ethical questions. When given the chance, you… <<linkreplace "Kept digging">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $RVVanille ++>><<set $VanilleDialog1 to true>> kept digging, expressing your concerns to Vanille and asking if you should try to mimic the attitude of her fellow Havendorians. The knight admitted she found the callousness disquieting at times, and that @@color:lime;she appreciated your more empathic concerns.@@ <<include "SB_Ep7b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Dropped it">><<replace "#choices3">> dropped it, resolving that you’d simply need to get used to these sorts of things if you were going to get by in Havendor. <<include "SB_Ep7b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

That night, you were assigned the first watch. When given the choice of partner, you wound up pairing with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Caravan2 to "Mira">><<set $RVMira ++>> @@color:lime;Mira, and the two of you huddled together in the rain.@@ <<include "SB_Ep7c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Caravan2 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>> @@color:lime;Vanille, and the two of you engaged in a bit more hushed conversation in the rain.@@ <<include "SB_Ep7c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

An hour after dark, and as the downpour turned to an outright cascade, a faun monster girl appeared from the woods and approached the wagons. You alerted the caravan, but Ashlyn got to the faun first, shrinking and devouring her right before your eyes. With both the threat averted and Ashlyn’s mana stores replenished in a few quick gulps, you settled in for a relaxing night’s rest… only to be confronted by an angry posse of caravanners the following morning. Another of their number had gone missing, and Ashlyn’s newly-discovered magical talents provided a very plausible explanation. Demonstrating a near-suicidal disregard for diplomacy, the mage gave the caravanners a lifetime supply of very colorful insults in lieu of actual answers. Before you could intervene, a worm girl burst from the ground and began dragging you away from the caravan while your companions were distracted. Mustering every ounce of spear training, you grabbed a nearby stick and hurled it at Vanille’s head, alerting her just in time. Once you were free, Ashlyn shrank the monster girl and tossed her to a very eager Mira. With the actual threat finally defeated—and with tensions still high from the morning’s argument—your group and the caravan decided to part ways. You were now only about a day’s travel from Orrault, so there wasn’t much that could go wrong at this point anyway. [[Episode 8|SB_Ep8]]

<> <<if $RVVanille > $RVMira>><<set $spirit to "Vanille">><<else>><<set $spirit to "Mira">><</if>> <<if $MiraEvent2 == true>><<set $spirit to "Mira">><</if>> <<set $AshlynEvent1 to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent0 to false>> <<set $Imposter to 0>> <<set $MagicWord to false>> <<set $deathGhosts to 0>> <<set $deathGang to 0>> <<set $killedAshlyn to 0>> <>The weather only grew worse, and by nightfall, your group faced hours of walking in the dark to reach Orrault or a dreary night spent camping in the muck. Seeking shelter, you found a temple just off the roadside and were welcomed by a fox demi named Eury, one of the attendants. She offered food, baths, and even rooms to sleep for the night. In retrospect, you probably should’ve realized things were going //too// well. While you were bathing, you received a surprise visit from <<= $spirit>>, who immediately propositioned you for sex. Realizing something was amiss, you declined and tried to make a quick exit, only for your companion to suddenly lunge at you. Just as <<= $spirit>> was about to shove you face-first into her vagina—a thing you learned is both possible //and// potentially fatal—Ashlyn burst in, vaporized your assailant, and explained that it wasn’t <<= $spirit>> but rather some sort of spirit using her face to try and trick you. Another spirit had tried the same ploy on Ashlyn using your image just a few minutes prior. The mage declared the temple was haunted and suggested the two of you flee while you had the chance. You refused, insisting on finding Mira and Vanille first. Despite the danger you’d be facing, Ashlyn agreed to tag along while joking about your abysmal chances of survival. You… <<linkreplace "Quipped back">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> quipped back, @@color:lime;much to the mad mage’s glee.@@ <<include "SB_Ep8a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Decided not to encourage her">><<replace "#choices">> decided not to encourage her, figuring you needed to focus on keeping a level head. <<include "SB_Ep8a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You and Ashlyn searched the temple and confronted more spirits, this time appearing as Eury, the supposed attendant. Ashlyn noted these particular apparitions had two tails, and that they seemed to be stronger than the other opponents she’d dealt with. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t find Mira anywhere in the temple. Worse, you were fooled by a<<if $spirit == "Vanille">>nother<</if>> spirit in Vanille’s guise, only uncovering the ruse once you stumbled across a second Vanille in the kitchens. Ashlyn still didn’t know any of you all that well, so it was your job to figure out which one was real. You were able to identify the fake, largely due to a cryptic but very personal admission that she was helping you largely because she didn’t know how to help herself. Once Ashlyn had dealt with the imposter, you… <<linkreplace "Tried to comfort Vanille">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVVanille ++>> tried to comfort Vanille and make sure she was alright. @@color:lime;While the knight appreciated your concern,@@ she wasn’t interested in discussing what she’d meant until things were more calm. <<include "SB_Ep8b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Tried to lighten the mood with Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>><<set $RVVanille -->><<set $VanilleEvent0 to true>> Tried to lighten the mood with Ashyln, blithely joking that was just a lucky guess. @@color:lime;Ashlyn found this hilarious,@@ while @@color:red;Vanille was less than pleased.@@ <<include "SB_Ep8b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

With one of your two absent companions recovered, you returned to the main hall of the temple to find Eury waiting with a full complement of eight tails—and what looked to be Mira in her stomach. You quickly devised a plan wherein you and Vanille acted as bait that would trick the spirit into splitting her power enough for Ashlyn to temporarily gain the upper hand. The ploy worked, and you managed to retrieve Mira and escape the temple before Eury could return. With no time to take more than you were currently holding, the four of you fled into the rain soaked night. Vanille left her armor, you left most of your belongings except Destiny’s Embrace, and Mira escaped with nothing more than a borrowed sheet to protect her from the weather. The muddy road to Orrault stretched out before you, and there was little else to do but start walking. [[Episode 9|SB_Ep9]]

<> <<set $Orrault1 to false>> <<set $Orrault2 to false>> <<set $Orrault3 to false>> <<set $OrraultSteal to false>> <<set $OrraultNearMiss to false>> <<set $MiraEvent3 to false>> <<set $MiraReject1 to false>> <<set $AshlynKnows to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent2 to false>> <<set $deathCentaurs to 0>> <>You woke from a brief rest after a long and miserably rainy night to find Mira pressed firmly against your side. After rousing the demi—who was now fortunately wearing a spare change of clothes loaned by Ashlyn—you and your companions set off for the final stretch to Orrault and arrived within the hour. Relief was short lived, as you quickly discovered hundreds of other travelers and merchants stranded in the gate town outside of the city proper. Upon arriving at the gates themselves, you learned the newly-annointed marquis of the city had recently instituted a hefty toll that many were unable to pay… including your own recently-impoverished party. You and your companions decided to split up and work day jobs in an attempt to scrounge together enough gold before nightfall. You went with… <<linkreplace "Mira, who immediately admitted she was planning to steal">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Orrault1 to "Mira">><<set $RVMira ++>> @@color:lime;Mira, who almost immediately admitted she was planning to steal the gold necessary to pay the toll.@@ <<include "SB_Ep9_Mira">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille to tackle some manual labor">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Orrault1 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>> @@color:lime;Vanille to tackle some manual labor@@ at the farmsteads farther from Orrault’s walls. <<include "SB_Ep9_Vanille">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ashlyn to transport some wine">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Orault1 to "Ashlyn">><<set $AshlynKnows to true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> @@color:lime;Ashlyn to transport some wine.@@ Fortunately, the mage made the task much easier by shrinking the barrels, which you effortlessly carried to the destination with plenty of time to spare. <<include "SB_Ep9_Ashlyn">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You… <<linkreplace "Went along with the stealing plan">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $OrraultSteal to true>> went along with the stealing plan, serving as a distraction while Mira picked pockets and swiped coin purses. Things went well until a previous mark ratted you out to the city watch, and the two of you were forced to flee. <<include "SB_Ep9_Miraa">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Convinced her to give a legitimate commission a try">><<replace "#choices2">> convinced her to give a legitimate commission a try and wound up moving some assorted goods for a merchant in the nearby market. Things seemed to be going well until your employer revealed he’d conscripted you into a bit of opportunistic theft, at which point you and Mira were forced to run from the city watch. <<include "SB_Ep9_Miraa">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

As you and Vanille worked, you <<if $Caravan == "Mira">>chatted about your world and differences from Havendor, which mostly resulted in trying to explain the vague concepts of modern technologies to the knight with mixed results. After a time, Vanille asked if you were eager to return home. You… <<linkreplace "Said yes">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Return ++>> said yes, and she promised she’d do everything she could to help. You then <<if $VanilleEvent0 == true>>apologized about last night at the temple and your blithe dismissal of her moment of vulnerability. Thankfully, Vanille accepted your apology, at which point you <</if>>asked if she wanted to elaborate on what she meant by “not knowing how to help herself.” The knight seemed hesitant to discuss any specifics, but she talked about a desire to make up for some sort of past failing or inadequacy. With the work finally done, the two of you returned to the gate town, looking to meet back up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Weren’t certain">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Return -->> weren’t sure, but the knight promised she’d do everything she could to help regardless. You then <<if $VanilleEvent0 == true>>apologized about last night at the temple and your blithe dismissal of her moment of vulnerability. Thankfully, Vanille accepted your apology, at which point you <</if>>asked if she wanted to elaborate on what she meant by “not knowing how to help herself.” The knight seemed hesitant to discuss any specifics, but she talked about a desire to make up for some sort of past failing or inadequacy. With the work finally done, the two of you returned to the gate town, looking to meet back up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>asked if she wanted to elaborate on what she meant by “not knowing how to help herself.” The knight seemed hesitant to discuss any specifics, but she talked about a desire to make up for some sort of past failing or inadequacy. With the work finally done, the two of you returned to the gate town, looking to meet back up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</if>>

With nothing to do but wait for the barrels to return to normal size—and with the mage actually behaving some general approximation of ‘normal’—you began to wonder if Ashlyn had actually turned over a new leaf, if your harrowing encounter with the spirit really was the bonding exercise the two of you needed to form a normal, healthy friendship. … At least until a poorly worded question on your part led to some gastric threats that, in a disastrous turn, wound up with the mage discovering your secret fetish. A few failed lies and one nervous discussion later, you arrived at a tense arrangement in which Ashlyn agreed not to tell your companions in exchange for continued teasing and, perhaps, the occasional bit of fun. She then immediately made things weirder by asking if you wanted to watch her eat someone. You… <<linkreplace "Agreed">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $AshlynEvent2 to true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> agreed, and Ashlyn promptly found a random farmer to shrink and devour, @@color:lime;all while watching you squirm.@@ With that bout of insanity out of the way, the two of you collected your payment and returned to the gate town, looking to meet back up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Declined">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVAshlyn -->> declined, not especially keen on having the mage murder an innocent bystander for your titillation. @@color:red;Ashlyn was disappointed,@@ but your earlier agreement still stood. With that bout of insanity out of the way, the two of you collected your payment and returned to the gate town, looking to meet back up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You ducked into a secluded alley and huddled in the dirt while the guards ran past, pressed together, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Tension finally gave way to shared relief and humor, only for the moment of calm to be cut short when Mira leaned in for a kiss. You… <<linkreplace "Kissed her back">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $MiraEvent3 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>><<if $RVMira < 6>><<set $RVMira to 6>><</if>> kissed her back, @@color:lime;then spent an indulgent eternity in that quiet corner of the gate town@@ before finally resolving that you should get back to earning the rest of the gold. Despite any potential distractions, you managed to bring in a haul by afternoon, at which point you set out for the city gates to meet up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Hesitated">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $MiraReject1 to true>><<set $RVMira -->> hesitated, taken aback by the demi’s forwardness. Before you could manage to form a coherent response, @@color:red;Mira withdrew in a panic, then starkly insisted you should get back to earning the rest of the gold.@@ Despite the awkwardness, you managed to bring in a haul by afternoon, at which point you set out for the city gates to meet up with your companions. <<include "SB_Ep9b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Before you arrived, however, you and <<= $Orrault1>> found yourselves caught in a sudden centaur raid on the gate town. Together, you tried to steer clear of the worst of the fighting, favoring back streets and alleys<<if $Orrault1 == "Vanille" || ($MiraEvent3 == true || $AshlynEvent2 == true)>>. When you spotted a nearby woman being grabbed by a centaur, you… <<linkreplace "Attempted to intervene">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Orrault2 to true>><<set $RVVanille ++>> attempted to intervene and managed to distract the centaur long enough for the woman to wriggle free from her grasp. While you took the haft of a spear to your head for your troubles, you, <<= $Orrault1>>, and the grateful stranger managed to escape the raid and took shelter in the shadow of Orrault’s walls. The woman—Aria, as she introduced herself—turned out to be a type of magical healer called a theurge, and she applied her talents to mend your wound. <<include "SB_Ep9c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Erred on the side of caution">><<replace "#choices4">> erred on the side of caution, remaining close to <<= $Orrault1>>’s side even as the civilian was devoured. Together, you managed to escape the raid and take shelter in the shadow of Orrault’s walls. <<include "SB_Ep9c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>, always staying close to <<= $Orrault1>>’s side, even if meant remaining uninvolved when a random woman was grabbed and devoured by a nearby centaur. You managed to escape the raid and took shelter in the shadow of Orrault’s walls. <<include "SB_Ep9c">><</if>>

While waiting for the last of the fighting to die down, a small group of centaurs approached and retrieved some sort of camouflaged creature before falling back, though you fortunately managed to remain unnoticed. Finally, you managed to regroup with the rest of your companions who were all unharmed, and together you counted up the money to see if you could afford the toll—an even more urgent need in the aftermath of the attack. <<if $Orrault1 == "Mira">>Thanks largely to your and Mira’s efforts, you had plenty. You <<if $Orrault2 == true>>said your goodbyes to Aria, then <</if>>paid the toll and found an inn for the evening<<elseif $Orrault2 == true>>You came up short, but your good deeds saved the day when Aria offered to help make up the difference. You thanked her, said your farewells, and entered the city to find an inn and retire for the evening<<else>><<set $Orrault3 to true>>Unfortunately, you came up a little under a whole person short, but in a sudden though equal parts genius and madness, you devised a plan in which Mira could smuggle you through the city gates in her stomach. The ploy worked flawlessly<<if $MiraEvent2 == true>>, with Mira more than happy to have you as a return guest<</if>>, and soon enough you were inside Orrault. Your party found an inn, at which point Mira let you out so you could bathe<</if>>. With the stresses of the day finally over, you all sat down for a well-earned meal and a bit of relaxation. <<if $Orrault2 == true>>@@color:lime;Vanille complimented you on your bravery in rescuing Aria,@@ and <</if>>Ashlyn eventually retired for the night. Before heading upstairs, Vanille asked if you wanted her to carry Mira—who had fallen asleep by the fire—upstairs. <<if $Orrault1 == "Mira">><<if $MiraEvent3 == true>>You declined, more than happy to have a little more alone time with the demi. Naturally, Mira pulled you in for a few kisses by the fire, and the two of you eventually headed upstairs and slept in the same bed. ''@@color:lime;You are now dating Mira@@'' [[Episode 10|SB_Ep10]]<<else>>You hesitated, still attempting to process how you felt about the demi. After a moment’s consideration, you… <<linkreplace "Decided to leave things as they were">><<replace "#choices5">> decided to leave things as they were. Your two companions left for bed, and after some time alone by the fire, you followed. [[Episode 10|SB_Ep10]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Resolved to kiss her">><<replace "#choices5">><<set $MiraEvent3 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>><<if $RVMira < 6>><<set $RVMira to 6>><</if>> resolved to kiss her after all, politely declining the knight’s offer. Fortunately, @@color:lime;Mira was more than happy with the late answer,@@ and the two of you shared a tender moment by the fire before heading upstairs and sleeping in the same bed. ''@@color:lime;You are now dating Mira@@'' [[Episode 10|SB_Ep10]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>><<else>>You declined, wanting to catch up with Mira after the long day apart. Yet when you woke the demi up, she suddenly kissed you. You… <<linkreplace "Kissed her back">><<replace "#choices5">><<set $MiraEvent3 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>><<if $RVMira < 6>><<set $RVMira to 6>><</if>> kissed her back… at least when you recovered from the shock of the demi’s forwardness. @@color:lime;Mira was delighted,@@ and the two of you spent an indulgent moment by the fire before heading upstairs and sleeping in the same bed. ''@@color:lime;You are now dating Mira@@'' [[Episode 10|SB_Ep10]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Hesitated">><<replace "#choices5">><<set $MiraReject1 to true>><<set $RVMira -->> hesitated, taken aback by the demi’s forwardness. Before you could manage to form a coherent response, @@color:red;Mira withdrew in a panic, then starkly insisted she was heading to bed.@@ You spent an awkward moment alone by the fire before following. [[Episode 10|SB_Ep10]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>>

<> <<set $Orrault4 to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent1 to false>> <<set $Gerda to 0>> <<set $Gerda1 to false>> <<set $Gerda2 to false>> <<set $Gerda3 to false>> <<set $Gerda4 to false>> <<set $Mira1 to false>> <<set $NaiadWarning to false>> <<set $Myco to false>> <<set $Ogre1 to false>> <<set $Ogre2 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent3 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent4 to false>> <<set $deathBirdGirls to 0>> <<set $deathNaiads to 0>> <<set $deathOgres to 0>> <>The next morning, you awoke in a comfortable bed, well rested but completely alone. Realizing the obvious dangers of wandering around by yourself in a public space where literally anyone could eat you on a whim, you stewed on your inadequacies until your friends returned, each bearing good news. Mira had ‘acquired’ some much needed money for supplies, Vanille had secured a lead on an expert for the Echoes of Exile, and Ashlyn had probably just fucked around in a way she considered productive. You and Vanille left to pursue the lead while Mira stayed behind to get some sleep and Ashlyn… did her own thing. <<if $Caravan == "Mira" && $Orrault1 != "Vanille">>As you walked, you chatted about your world and differences from Havendor, which mostly resulted in trying to explain the vague concepts of modern technologies to the knight with mixed results. After a time, Vanille asked if you were eager to return home. You… <<linkreplace "Said yes">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Return ++>> said yes, and she promised she’d do everything she could to help. <<include "SB_Ep10a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Weren’t certain">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Return -->> weren’t sure, but the knight promised she’d do everything she could to help regardless. <<include "SB_Ep10a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>><<include "SB_Ep10a">><</if>>

The two of you arrived at Gaumont Academy, a prestigious university older than Orrault itself, and talked with Maven Gerda Marioun, an expert on all things Ancient Lurnassian, which included the Echoes. Upon seeing Destiny’s Embrace in person, Gerda theorized that the remaining seven Echoes might actually be gems that adorn the sockets on the amulet’s surface. She then suggested one of these gems might very well be held within the ruins of Niverdene—a long lost city located somewhere deep beneath Orrault. Apparently, the ruin //should// be accessible via the sewers and tunnels located underground. You met back up with your group and shared the remarkably good news, then resolved to take a quick exploratory delve into the sewers and scout for a path deeper—once you’d adequately prepared, of course. Your group split up, and you tagged along with… <<if $MiraEvent3 == true>><<linkreplace "Mira to pick up provisions">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrrault4 to "Mira">><<set $RVMira ++>> Mira to pick up provisions… and perhaps @@color:lime;steal a moment alone for a few more kisses.@@ <<include "SB_Ep10b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>@@color:#6688DD;==Mira… or perhaps not==@@<</if>> <<linkreplace "Vanille to buy some protective gear">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrault4 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>><<set $RVMira ++>> @@color:lime;Vanille to buy some protective gear.@@ While you were there, you also bought Mira a knife, @@color:lime;which seemed to make her happy.@@ <<include "SB_Ep10b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ashlyn to grab general adventuring supplies">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrault4 to "Ashlyn">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> @@color:lime;Ashlyn to grab general adventuring supplies like rope and light sources.@@ <<include "SB_Ep10b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

With preparations complete, you headed to the sewer entrance—an established location for prospective adventurers—and began to explore. The sewers themselves proved largely uneventful save for a close call with an opportunistic frog girl and some obnoxious jeering from a pair of mushroom girls—myconids, as they’re called. A convenient breach in the sewer walls led you deeper into long-abandoned catacombs. Mira ran right into the jaws of another mimic… and naturally emerged with another treasure for her efforts: an emerald hair clip, which she promptly gave to you. Past the catacombs, your group drained an ancient cistern to avoid some sort of water spirit—identified by Ashlyn as a naiad. In the process, you encountered a lonely myconid and… <<linkreplace "Gave her some snacks">><<replace "#choices3">> gave her some snacks, which seemed to make her feel a bit better. <<include "SB_Ep10c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "“Jokingly” offered yourself as a meal">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $AshlynEvent3 to true>><<if $AshlynKnows == true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>><</if>><<set $RVVanille -->> “jokingly” offered yourself as a meal. @@color:lime;Ashlyn found it hilarious.@@ @@color:red;Vanille distinctly less so.@@ <<include "SB_Ep10c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

At one point in your exploration, you noticed Ashlyn taking notes on some ancient writing. She seemed oddly subdued, so you… <<linkreplace "Asked if she was alright">><<replace "#choices4">> asked if she was alright. The mage was dismissive, and you quickly carried on. <<include "SB_EP10d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Inquired about her notes">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $AshlynEvent4 to true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> inquired about her notes. @@color:lime;The mage seemed to appreciate the interest@@ and, to your surprise, explained they were actually for her prior teacher. <<include "SB_EP10d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Past the cistern, you discovered a large room that Vanille identified as a Tetraforge—old Havendorian technology. Unfortunately, an ogress had made the forge her lair and didn’t appreciate your group barging in. A harrowing fight followed. Beating the ogress in direct combat proved difficult, so you devised a hasty and potentially risky strategy to collapse the roof on the monster. With Ashlyn’s help, you brought down several support columns. Rather than merely bring down the roof, however, the entire Tetraforge collapsed onto the shores of a massive underground lake. You and your companions survived the staggering fall thanks only to Ashlyn’s magic. The ogress somehow lived as well, only to suddenly be pulled into the water by a mass of tentacles. [[Episode 11|SB_Ep11]]

<> <<set $deathBats to 0>> <<set $deathEel to 0>> <<set $deathScylla to 0>> <<set $deathYouAreAHorriblePerson to 0>> <<set $MiraPromise to false>> <<set $Orrault5 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent4 to false>> <<set $Voyeur to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent5 to false>> <<set $monster to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent3 to false>> <>As adrenaline ebbed, you looked out across the lake to discover the ruins of Niverdene, an island of ancient and cold spires sullied by a thousand years of neglect, jutting from the inky black water. Resolving that a swim was out of the question, you and your companions worked your way around the edge of the lake and crossed into the city proper via an ancient causeway. Mira, who maintained her chipper disposition despite the foreboding surroundings, invited you to spend some time together that evening… or at least whenever you finally made it out of Niverdene. <<if $MiraEvent3 == true>>Unsure if she was asking you on a date or a trip to her stomach, you<<else>>Not looking to send the wrong message after the kiss yesterday—and not entirely sure how to feel about the invitation itself, you eventually<</if>>… <<linkreplace "Accepted">><<replace "#choices">><<set $MiraPromise to true>> accepted, though you gently encouraged the demi to focus on the danger at hand. <<include "SB_Ep11a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Declined">><<replace "#choices">> declined, gently encouraging the demi to focus on the potential dangers at hand. <<include "SB_Ep11a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Despite the flooded streets, a remarkable amount of Niverdene was still intact, even if its only inhabitants were a variety of aquatic monster girls. You were forced to navigate by rooftops, crumbling building interiors, and the occasional elevated walkway as you charted a course for the spire at the city’s center—It seemed like the best place to look for an ancient and important artifact, after all. Unfortunately, the tentacles that took the ogress seemed to be following you. Ashlyn decided to bring down an entire tower on the unknown creature, which also conveniently opened the way into an ancient vault. While the mage and Mira grabbed as much loot as they could carry, you and Vanille took a quick breather and talked. You checked in to make sure she was doing alright, then thanked her for taking the brunt of the risks as the party’s vanguard.<<if $MiraEvent3 == false>> Vanille suddenly asked about you and Mira. She didn’t seem to know about the kiss from yesterday, and you weren’t entirely sure how to respond.<</if>> With the short respite over, you entered the spire and were met by the tentacles as they emerged from a pool at the structure’s center… alongside the monster girl to which they belonged—a scylla. Your group waged a pitched battle against the monster, pitting your companions’ strengths against the beast’s ferocious might. While outright victory seemed nearly impossible, you very nearly succeeded in driving the scylla back and escaping to higher ground before you were caught in the open by the scylla’s tendrils. Mira pushed you out of the way at the last second and was grabbed and devoured in your stead. Terrified, you devised a desperate rescue plan. Vanille initially refused to let you risk yourself, but she yielded and agreed to help when you pressed. With time short, you tied some rope in a makeshift harness and allowed yourself to be swallowed by the monster girl. Once you were ingested, Ashlyn held the beast down, and Vanille pulled you free with the unconscious Mira in tow. The moment you were at a safe distance, Ashlyn brought down a massive metal disc, which crushed the scylla, then Vanille relentlessly attacked the beast’s lifeless body until you managed to calm her. With the mood an uncomfortable mix of relieved and dour, the four of you ascended the spire. You found no Echo at the top, but the moment of disappointment was immediately dispelled when Mira revealed she’d grabbed the gem from inside the scylla’s stomach. You reached the surface thanks to a shockingly convenient elevator and returned to the inn for an evening of well-deserved rest, where it was immediately apparent Vanille wasn’t taking your close call with the scylla well. Before you had a chance to talk to the knight, Mira intervened and invited you to go bathe with her—not an unreasonable request, given you were both covered in gunk and grime from the scylla’s stomach. <<if $MiraEvent3 == false>>Nonetheless, it seemed like it would be remarkably intimate for just friends. <</if>><<if $MiraEvent3 == false && $MiraPromise == false>>Ashlyn offhandedly mentioned doing some work on the Echoes if you wanted to join<<if $AshlynEvent2 == true>>, though a coy wink seemed to suggest she might be planning something more lascivious<</if>><<else>>Ashlyn, meanwhile dismissed herself, apparently having her own plans for the evening<</if>>. You decided to spend the evening with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $Orrault5 to "Mira">><<set $RVMira ++>> Mira, who immediately pulled you to a nearby inn that apparently doubled as a bathhouse. <<include "SB_Ep11a_Mira">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $Orrault5 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>><<if $RVVanille >= 9>><<set $VanilleEvent2 to true>><</if>> Vanille, looking to keep the knight company and make sure she was alright. <<include "SB_Ep11a_Vanille">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<if $MiraEvent3 == false && $MiraPromise == false>><<linkreplace "Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices3">> Ashlyn, who insisted you take a quick bath before joining her upstairs. <<include "SB_Ep11a_Ashlyn">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>>

Once inside the mage’s room, you were immediately subjected to a quiz<<if $Orrault1 == "Ashlyn">> where Ashlyn attempted to discern the finer points of your fetish. You… <<linkreplace "Were snarky with her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> were snarky with her, which @@color:lime;she seemed to appreciate.@@ However, you weren’t cooperative enough for her liking, so she decided to take a more hands-on approach. Ashlyn shrunk you, tossed you into her mouth, and gave you what amounted to a full-body blowjob. It was a terrifying but alarmingly erotic experience. @@color:lime;Once satisfied, the mage returned you to full size and kicked you out of her room.@@ [[Episode 12|SB_Ep12]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Answered as thoroughly as you could">><<replace "#choices2">> answered as thoroughly as you could. However, you weren’t cooperative enough for her liking, so she decided to take a more hands-on approach. Ashlyn shrunk you, tossed you into her mouth, and gave you what amounted to a full-body blowjob. It was a terrifying but alarmingly erotic experience. @@color:lime;Once satisfied, the mage returned you to full size and kicked you out of her room.@@ [[Episode 12|SB_Ep12]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>> that Ashlyn claimed would better help her understand the link between you and the Echoes. As it turns out, this was a blatant lie, and Ashlyn instead revealed she’d discovered your secret fetish and wanted to know more. However, you weren’t cooperative enough for her liking, so she decided to take a more hands-on approach. Ashlyn shrunk you, tossed you into her mouth, and gave you what amounted to a full-body blowjob. It was a terrifying but alarmingly erotic experience. @@color:lime;Once satisfied, the mage returned you to full size and kicked you out of her room.@@ [[Episode 12|SB_Ep12]]<</if>>

<<if $MiraPromise == true>>After promising Mira you’d make it up to her another day, you <<else>>You<</if>> followed Vanille to the training yard of a local conscript barracks. The knight vented her frustration at your close call, then demanded you promise to not do something reckless like that again. You… <<linkreplace "Agreed">><<replace "#choices2">> agreed, insisting you’d try to be more careful. However, you still felt that you couldn’t just sit by and do nothing if a friend's life was in danger, and told her as much. Vanille admitted she suspected you’d say something like that. The two of you left to grab dinner, and you were relieved to see @@color:lime;your companion in a better mood.@@<<if $RVVanille >= 9>> You and Vanille talked about her adventuring past and some of her favorite commissions before finally retiring for the night.<</if>> <<include "SB_Ep11b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Refused">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $MCPromise to true>><<set $RVVanille ++>> refused, insisting you’d gladly take the chance again if a friend’s life was at stake. Vanille was initially frustrated, but she eventually admitted she’d known you would say something like that, and that she ultimately @@color:lime;appreciated your honestly.@@ The two of you left to grab dinner, and you were relieved to see @@color:lime;your companion in a better mood.@@<<if $RVVanille >= 9>><<set $VanilleEvent3 to true>> You and Vanille talked about her adventuring past and some of her favorite commissions before finally retiring for the night.<</if>> <<include "SB_Ep11b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The two of you thoroughly cleaned off and hopped into the tub. To your <<if $MiraEvent3 == true>>surprise<<else>>alarm<</if>>, Mira had the energy to get frisky, even after her close call. Her advance became very sexual very quickly. You… <<linkreplace "Accepted">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $MiraEvent3 to "bj">> accepted, but only after making sure this is what the demi really wanted. As an answer, she gave you a blowjob, then promptly fell asleep before you had the chance to reciprocate. You toweled the demi off, then carried her back to the inn where @@color:lime;she sleepily thanked you for saving her from the scylla.@@ <<include "SB_Ep11b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<if $MiraEvent3 == true>><<linkreplace "Declined and asked if you could make out instead">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $MiraEvent4 to "nom">> declined and asked if you could make out instead. @@color:lime;Mira was more than happy to agree,@@ though one thing led to another, and you wound up spending some time in the demi’s stomach. Once you were released, you took a few minutes to clean up, toweled off Mira, and gently carried the exhausted demi back to the inn. <<include "SB_Ep11b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>><<linkreplace "Declined and asked if she’d be interested in eating you for a bit instead">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $MiraEvent4 to "nom">> declined and asked if she’d be interested in eating you for a bit instead. @@color:lime;Naturally, Mira accepted.@@ Once you were released, you took some extra time to clean up, toweled off the exhausted demi, and gently carried her back to the inn. <<include "SB_Ep11b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>>

<<if $Orrault1 != "Ashlyn" && $Orrault5 != "Ashlyn">>What seemed to be the perfect end to a stressful day was instead spoiled when Ashlyn woke you in the middle of the night, revealed she knew all about your secret fetish, and promptly left before you had a chance to confront her. <</if>>@@color:lime;<<if $MiraEvent3 == false && $Orrault5 == "Mira">><<if $AshlynEvent2 == false && $Orrault5 != "Ashlyn">>On a positive note, ''you are now dating Mira.''<<else>>''You are now dating Mira.'' <</if>><</if>>@@[[Episode 12|SB_Ep12]]

<> <<set $PreTrial1 to false>> <<set $PreTrial2 to false>> <<set $PreTrial3 to false>> <<set $PreTrial_Count to 0>> <<set $PTPrint to 0>> <<set $Manor1 to false>> <<set $Manor2 to false>> <<set $Manor3 to false>> <<set $Manor4 to false>> <<set $Manor5 to false>> <<set $Melody to 0>> <<set $Melody1 to false>> <<set $Melody2 to false>> <<set $Melody3 to false>> <<set $Maid to 0>> <<set $Maid1 to false>> <<set $Maid2 to false>> <<set $Maid3 to false>> <<set $Maideaten to 0>> <<set $Kobolds to 0>> <<set $Crime to 0>> <<set $Crime1 to false>> <<set $Crime2 to false>> <<set $Crime3 to false>> <<set $Crime4 to false>> <<set $Crime5 to false>> <<set $Crime6 to false>> <<set $Garden to 0>> <<set $Garden1 to false>> <<set $Garden2 to false>> <<set $Garden3 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent5 to false>> <<set $TrialWin to 0>> <<set $TrialLoss to 0>> <<set $Trial to 0>> <<set $Trial1 to false>> <<set $Trial2 to false>> <<set $Trial3 to false>> <<set $Trial4 to false>> <<set $Trial5 to false>> <<set $Trial6 to false>> <<set $AltPred to 0>> <<set $Alt1 to false>> <<set $Alt2 to false>> <<set $Alt3 to false>> <<set $ExamLoss to 0>> <<set $TestimonyWitness to 0>> <<set $Witness1 to false>> <<set $Witness2 to false>> <<set $Witness3 to false>> <<set $Witness4 to false>> <<set $Witness5 to false>> <<set $Gwen to 0>> <<set $Gwen1 to false>> <<set $Gwen2 to false>> <<set $Gwen3 to false>> <<set $Fail1 to false>> <<set $Vegan to false>> <<set $RVSherine to 0>> <<set $deathMaids to 0>> <<set $deathShyButPeckish to 0>> <<set $deathSheepgirls to 0>> <<set $deathLawyers to 0>> <>Resolving to have a relaxed and easy day for once, you and your companions decided to set off in the late morning for Gaumont Academy and a followup chat with Maven Gerda Marioun<<if $AshlynEvent2 == false && $Orrault5 != "Ashlyn">>… but not before you pulled Ashlyn aside for a quick one-on-one talk. You managed to reach something of a truce where the mage promised not to out you to the rest of your companions, though she planned to continue teasing you mercilessly<</if>>. On the way<<if $AshlynEvent2 == false && $Orrault5 != "Ashlyn">> to Gaumont Academy<</if>>, you were distracted by a trial occuring in an open forum on the streetside. What started as passing interest in the proceedings turned to rapt fixation when you noticed the defendant was a lamia. Vanille explained that some monster girls did in fact live among polite society, but before you could inquire further, the magistrate presiding over the trial began reading out her sentencing. The lamia’s chief crime was apparently—and bafflingly—“unlawful devourment,” or eating and digesting someone against their will. In a profound lapse of judgment, you vocally expressed your disbelief and immediately caught the attention of the magistrate, who revealed that the person the lamia was accused of eating was in fact the previous marquis of Orrault, Michiel Claud Preston. Things got much, much worse when you were assigned to act as the lamia’s defense, then promptly informed that your punishment for failing to clear her name would be devourment and digestion at the hands of a designated court official—the Digestive Assistant, or DA for short. Vanille did not take this well, and launched into a tirade that earned her temporary detainment. Your hastily improvised defense earned you a brief recess in which you were given permission to investigate the scene of the crime at the marquis’ manor under the supervision of a guardswoman named Gwen. Despite a close call with a shy but peckish maid named Melody, you managed to scrape together enough evidence to craft a plausible case for the lamia’s defense… minutes before said lamia—Sherine, as you learned—privately admitted her guilt. Not all was lost, though. In your one-on-one council, Sherine explained devouring the marquis was the culmination of a months-long affair, throughout which he fed the lamia numerous members of his staff, random civilians, and eventually himself. As long as you found a way to prove the marquis went willingly, Sherine would be declared innocent on a technicality. One last surprise came during the intermission in a sudden visit from Mira, who revealed she’d eaten the DA while you were busy. You… <<linkreplace "Decided not to protest">><<replace "#choices">><<set $MiraEvent5 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> decided not to protest, even if you weren’t entirely sure this would actually save you in the event of a guilty verdict. Instead, you thanked Mira, @@color:lime;much to the demi’s delight.@@ <<include "SB_Ep12a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Asked her to let the DA go">><<replace "#choices">> asked her to let the DA go, since you doubted it would actually help. To your surprise, Mira said no, determined to keep you safe whether or not you approved. <<include "SB_Ep12a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $MiraEvent5 == false>>Regardless of your preferences, t<<else>>T<</if>>he demi soon noticed your fixation with her stomach and asked if you were interested in touching it. <<if $MiraEvent3 == true || $Orrault5 == "Mira">>Helpless, you resist the demi’s infectious charm, you wound up <<if $MiraEvent3 == false && $MiraEvent4 == "nom">>sharing your first kiss, then <</if>>making out until<<else>>Your resolve crumbled before the demi’s infectious charm, but your opportunity was cut short when<</if>> Ashlyn suddenly barged in and informed you court would be rejoining soon. The remainder of the trial was a blur of twists and turns that culminated in you desperately calling Edith Preston—the marquis’ widow and the new marquis of Orrault—to the stand, where Sherine goaded her into confessing to their arrangement. With an admission from the widows’ own mouth, the lamia was declared innocent. With the trial won and the DA missing, you were tasked with eating the prosecution—a duty which you could not perform for obvious reasons. Fortunately, Sherine volunteered in your stead, but just as the lamia began to devour the prosecutor, you were dragged away from the trial <<if $Orrault5 == "Vanille">>and off to a quiet corner by a recently released Vanille. Before you could say sorry for putting yourself in danger once again, Vanille hugged you, then profusely apologized for her earlier outburst<<if $RVVanille >= 12 && $MiraEvent4 == false>>. It was a quiet, intimate moment—if a bit awkward<</if>><<else>>by a recently released Vanille, who then apologized for her earlier outburst<</if>>. As you left, Gwen—the guard who’d escorted you around the marquis’ estate—approached and offered her side of the story. She suspected that Sherine ate the marquis at least partially out of anger when the late marquis attempted to have the lamia eat one of her own friends. Finally, she revealed she’d kept this a secret during the trial because she’d sworn to secrecy—not with the marquis, but with Sherine. Unsure exactly what to make of the information, you bid the guardswoman farewell and finally retired for the evening, swearing that tomorrow would be an uneventful day. Some malevolent deity must’ve overheard, because that very night Sherine reappeared while you were getting some fresh air. The lamia immediately revealed she knew about your interest in ingestion and began to approach. You… <<linkreplace "Backed off">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVSherine ++>> backed off, which @@color:lime;only seemed to please Sherine more.@@ <<include "SB_Ep12b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Froze">><<replace "#choices2">> froze helplessly, to Sherine’s disappointment. <<include "SB_Ep12b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Once it became clear she wasn’t there to do you harm, you asked the lamia about what Gwen had told you. Sherine firmly rejected the guardswoman’s read of the situation, then implied she may need to visit your source and pay her back for the rumormongering. You… <<linkreplace "Told her to leave Gwen alone">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $RVVanille ++>> told her to leave Gwen alone, but before you could determine whether the threat was sincere, @@color:lime;Vanille intervened and reinforced your demand.@@ Sherine apologized in the face of the wrathful knight, then—to your surprise—asked if she could join your group. Vanille rejected her without a second thought, and the lamia left, offering a final thanks and a farewell. You thanked Vanille for the backup, then <<if $MiraEvent3 == true || $MiraEvent4 != false>>headed back downstairs to sleep next to Mira<<elseif $RVVanille >= 12 && $Orrault5 == "Vanille">>spent a quiet evening with her, watching the stars together<<else>>headed back downstairs to get some sleep<</if>>. [[Episode 13|SB_Ep13]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Said nothing">><<replace "#choices3">> said nothing, but before you could determine whether the threat was sincere, Vanille intervened. Sherine apologized in the face of the wrathful knight, then—to your surprise—asked if she could join your group. Vanille rejected her without a second thought, and the lamia left, offering a final thanks and a farewell. You thanked Vanille for the backup, then <<if $MiraEvent3 == true || $MiraEvent4 != false>>headed back downstairs to sleep next to Mira<<elseif $RVVanille >= 12 && $Orrault5 == "Vanille">>spent a quiet evening with her, watching the stars together<<else>>headed back downstairs to get some sleep<</if>>. [[Episode 13|SB_Ep13]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<> <<set $MiraDating to false>> <<if $MiraEvent3 == true || $MiraEvent4 != false>> <<set $MiraDating to true>> <</if>> <<set $VanilleEvent4 to false>> <<set $Orrault6 to false>> <<set $AlrauneApproach2 to false>> <<set $AlrauneApproach3 to false>> <<set $deathTaurs to 0>> <<set $deathCowtaurs to 0>> <<set $killedSherine to 0>> <<set $BakaIndex to random(1, 100)>> <<set $deathGobbo to 0>> <<set $Self to 0>> <<set $Stamina to 3>> <<set $PleasureAshlyn to 0>> <<set $FinalSelf to false>> <<set $Text to false>> <<set $Text2 to false>> <<set $Five to false>> <>The next day began with a bit of light planning. The main goal, as Vanille reiterated, was to relax, but the knight wanted to take care of some residual business from Niverdene as well. Responsibilities were divided up between the party. Ashlyn was tasked with examining the two Echoes left in her care for the day<<if $MiraDating == true>>, and you got the sense she’d be busy<</if>>. Vanille, meanwhile, planned to buy some new armor and stock up on adventuring supplies. Last but not least, Mira was responsible for selling the loot—a considerable haul once it was all piled together. <<if $MiraPromise == true && $Orrault5 != "Mira">>Keeping your promise from the other night, you tagged along with the demi, @@color:lime;who was absolutely thrilled.@@ <<include "SB_Ep13_Mira">><<else>>You decided to go with… <<linkreplace "Mira">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVMira ++>> Mira, @@color:lime;who was absolutely delighted to have you along.@@ <<include "SB_Ep13_Mira">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVVanille ++>> Vanille, @@color:lime;who seemed pleased to have you along.@@ <<include "SB_Ep13_Vanille">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<if $MiraDating == false>> <<linkreplace "Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices">> Ashlyn, who immediately dragged you upstairs and into her room. <<include "SB_Ep13_Ashlyn">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>><</if>>

The moment you were alone, <<if $Orrault5 != "Ashlyn">>the mage subjected you to a survey about your fetish, trying to discern your specific preferences. Eventually, Ashlyn decided to take a more hands-on approach and<<else>>the mage announced you were going to have some fun. Ashlyn<</if>> ate you mid-sex, then declared she was going to digest you if you didn’t masturbate while inside her stomach. Realizing she was serious, you… <<linkreplace "Did what she asked and masturbated">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Self to 3>> did what she asked and masturbated to completion, at which point Ashlyn let you back out. You wound up spending the rest of the day asleep, exhausted from the close call. <<include "SB_Ep13a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Attempted to pleasure Ashlyn instead">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $PleasureAshlyn to 1>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> attempted to pleasure Ashlyn instead, much to her baffled amusement. While you technically didn’t follow her instructions, the mage let you back out and @@color:lime;even seemed pleased with your efforts.@@ You wound up spending the rest of the day asleep, exhausted from the close call. <<include "SB_Ep13a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Pleasured both Ashlyn and yourself">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Self to 3>><<set $PleasureAshlyn to 1>><<set $RVAshlyn += 2>> pleasured both Ashlyn and yourself, even if you were nearly digested in the process. True to her word, the mage let you back out and was @@thrilled—if not outright aroused—by your abundant enthusiasm.@@ You, however, wound up spending the rest of the day asleep, exhausted by your close call. <<include "SB_Ep13a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

To your mild surprise, the demi was remarkably skilled with commerce, to the point where you were effectively relegated to lugging the loot around—and the eventually sacks of coin that replaced it. With everything sold and the majority of the profits stashed back at the inn, you and Mira opted to do a bit of clothes shopping—something you both direly needed, given you still hadn’t replaced the acid-worn garments that had only barely survived their short stay in the scylla’s stomach. <<if $MiraDating == true>>While at a tailor shop, you insisted Mira try on a dress she was eyeing, then gave her the emerald hair clip she’d taken from the mimic. The demi was emotionally overwhelmed, but she ultimately appreciated the gesture and asked to keep the hair clip, to which you obviously said yes. As Mira was changing back,<<else>>You found a nearby tailor shop, and things seemed to be going well enough until<</if>> you were suddenly ambushed by an opportunistic mouse demi looking for an easy lunch. Naturally, Mira came crashing in and devoured her in an instant. Deciding the would-be predator had brought this on herself, you settled into a relaxing afternoon with Mira, grabbing the occasional snack and a few gifts for your fellow companions. <<include "SB_Ep13a">>

The two of you traveled to an armory where you helped Vanille pick out some new pieces. You also wound up purchasing a chainmail vest for yourself at the knight’s insistence, then made a quick stop by a tailor for some clothes—since yours were still damaged from the short stay in the scylla’s stomach. Afterwards, you headed to a <<if $Orrault5 == "Vanille">>familiar<<else>>nearby<</if>> training yard for a bit of weapons practice. You grivitated toward the bow and spear—the former for the safety of range, and the latter because you already had a bit of training from the knight.<<if $RVVanille >= 12 && $MiraDating == false>> While you were practicing your blocks, Vanille accidentally hit your hand with a wooden sword. Fortunately, she didn’t inflict any real injury, but the two of you found yourselves in a moment of nervous uncertainty when the knight was holding your hand. You… <<linkreplace "Attempted a romantic gesture">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $VanilleEvent4 to true>> attempted a romantic gesture, only to receive a soft rejection from Vanille. She admitted she might have feelings for you, but that she wasn’t in a position where she could process them. Ultimately, she asked you to wait for her. <<include "SB_Ep13a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Let the moment pass">><<replace "#choices2">> let the moment pass, and the two of you wound up laughing it off, tension cleared. After a bit more training, you retired to the inn for the night. <<include "SB_Ep13a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>><<include "SB_Ep13a">><</if>>

The next day, the four of you finally went to Gaumont Academy to pay Gerda a visit. On the way, Ashlyn mentioned she didn’t learn much from her investigation of the Echoes. The necklace was purpose-built for holding the gem—which itself was a potent mana battery—but she couldn’t discern any particular function or use for all that mana. While Gerda was a bit surprised you were actually alive, she seemed no less thrilled to see you and Echoes. Unfortunately, she didn’t offer any further insights on the artifacts you’d acquired, but she //did// have a lead for finding more—a pair of gems she believed could be found at a quarry only a couple days from Orrault. Said quarry was, however, abandoned after a string of ominous disappearances from an unknown threat. With your next destination settled, your group spent one last day relaxing and gathering supplies, then finally hit the road, only to suddenly run into Sherine who, after a brief reintroduction, claimed she was heading the same direction as you. With a bit of convincing, Vanille agreed Sherine could tag along under the condition that the lamia help with the abandoned quarry and whatever threats might lurk within. You barely entered the woods outside Orrault when another familiar face appeared—none other than Allie. The alraune was exasperated upon seeing the lamia, and she immediately gave up, retreating into her flower. After a moment of baffled silence, you… <<linkreplace "Attempted to talk to her">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $AlrauneApproach2 to true>> attempted to talk to her. Allie was a bit confused, but the two of you ultimately parted on vaguely amicable terms. <<include "SB_Ep13b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Decided to leave her be">><<replace "#choices3">> decided to leave her be and instead carried on. <<include "SB_Ep13b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Your group was sidetracked by //yet another// distraction after barely a half hour when Ashlyn noticed a remarkable concentration of mana off the road. When you investigated, you discovered an entire army of monster girls camping outside of Orrault’s sight, at which point Vanille insisted you head back and warn the city. Before you could slip away, however, your party was caught by scouts and forced into a frantic chase through the woods. At one point, you were separated from your companions and chased by a trio of goblins. Desperate to lose the monsters, you<<if $AlrauneApproach2 == false>> lead them into a satyr, who promptly stopped her pursuit to devour the far more convenient snacks. After a long and harrowing run, you finally made it clear of the woods, only to suddenly be grabbed by a centaur. Before you could be carried back to your certain doom, Sherine intervened, freed you from the beast’s grasp, and devoured the monster girl. The five of you returned to Orrault, where the situation at the gates had only grown worse, leaving hundreds—if not thousands—vulnerable to an impending monster attack. Lacking any better ideas, you headed for the marquis’ estate to find Gwen on guard duty and, with considerable effort, managed to convince her to bring you the marquis, who was apparently speaking to the noble assembly. Once inside, you gave your warning to a thoroughly displeased marquis Edith Preston who, in an act of sheer, unadulterated spite, conscripted all of you into the city’s defense. [[Episode 14|SB_Ep14]]<<else>>… <<linkreplace "Hid in a nearby clearing">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $AlrauneApproach3 to true>> hid a nearby clearing, only to immediately trip over a vine. Horrified, you realized you’d stumbled into the exact same clearing where you talked with Allie only an hour prior. Yet to your absolute shock, the alraune devoured the goblins and effectively saved your life, then bashfully demanded you leave when you tried to thank her<<if $BakaIndex == 69>>, baka<</if>>. After a long and harrowing run, you finally made it clear of the woods, only to suddenly be grabbed by a centaur. Before you could be carried back to your certain doom, Sherine intervened, freed you from the beast’s grasp, and devoured the monster girl. The five of you returned to Orrault, where the situation at the gates had only grown worse, leaving hundreds—if not thousands—vulnerable to an impending monster attack. Lacking any better ideas, you headed for the marquis’ estate to find Gwen on guard duty and, with considerable effort, managed to convince her to bring you to the marquis, who was apparently speaking to the noble assembly. Once inside, you gave your warning to a thoroughly displeased marquis Edith Preston who, in an act of sheer, unadulterated spite, conscripted all of you into the city’s defense. [[Episode 14|SB_Ep14]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Lead them into a satyr">><<replace "#choices4">> led them into a satyr, who promptly stopped her chase to devour the far more convenient snacks. After a long and harrowing run, you finally made it clear of the woods, only to suddenly be grabbed by a centaur. Before you could be carried back to your certain doom, Sherine intervened, freed you from the beast’s grasp, and devoured the monster girl. The five of you returned to Orrault, where the situation at the gates had only grown worse, leaving hundreds—if not thousands—vulnerable to an impending monster attack. Lacking any better ideas, you headed for the marquis’ estate to find Gwen on guard duty and, with considerable effort, managed to convince her to bring you to the marquis, who was apparently speaking to the noble assembly. Once inside, you gave your warning to a thoroughly displeased marquis Edith Preston who, in an act of sheer, unadulterated spite, conscripted all of you into the city’s defense. [[Episode 14|SB_Ep14]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>>

<> <<set $Orrault7 to false>> <<set $Orrault8 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent6 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent7 to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent5 to false>> <<set $SherineEvent1 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent6 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent7 to false>> <<set $deathInstant to 0>> <<set $deathBellySex to 0>> <<set $deathWolfGirls to 0>> <>You, your companions, and Gwen were taken to the nearby<<if $Orrault5 == "Vanille" || $Orrault6 == "Vanille">>—and familiar—<<else>> <</if>>conscript barracks where you were locked inside by armed guards and told you would be called upon when needed. With nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait, you settled in, made dinner, and generally tried to avoid panicking over the impending battle. That night, Mira approached you outside your room and<<if $MiraDating == false>>—to your utter shock—<<else>> <</if>>blatantly propositioned you for sex. You… <<linkreplace "Agreed">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVMira ++>><<set $Orrault7 to "Mira">> agreed an instant before @@color:lime;the demi promptly pulled you upstairs and into a cozy den she’d created.@@ <<include "SB_Ep14_Mira">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Declined">><<replace "#choices">> declined, insisting <<if $MiraDating == true>>tonight was a bad time<<else>>it wasn’t something you wanted<</if>>… repeatedly, as the demi didn’t take your first no as an answer. Fortunately, she eventually relented, and the two of you parted on a sullen, uncertain note. <<include "SB_Ep14a">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The two of you had sex, after which Mira <<if $RVMira >= 10 && $MiraDating == true>>asked if you’d like to spend the night in her stomach. You… <<linkreplace "Said yes">><<replace "#choices2">> said yes, and Mira let you back out the following morning. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Chose to cuddle instead">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $MiraEvent6 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> chose to cuddle instead—an act of simple intimacy @@color:lime;the demi seemed to enjoy even more than her proposed alternative.@@ <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>suddenly ate you and insisted you’d be spending the night in her belly. Fortunately, she released you without any hassle the following morning. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</if>>

<<if $MiraDating == true>>Suddenly feeling even more uneasy<<else>>Looking to get your mind off the future<</if>>, you decided to visit… <<linkreplace "Vanille">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrault7 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>> Vanille. <<include "SB_Ep14a_Vanille">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrault7 to "Ashlyn">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> Ashlyn. <<include "SB_Ep14a_Ashlyn">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Sherine">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $Orrault7 to "Sherine">><<set $RVSherine ++>> Sherine. <<include "SB_Ep14a_Sherine">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You made breakfast bright and early for your companions<<if $Orrault7 != "Mira">> and even had a chance to clear the air with Mira after last night<</if>>. Before everyone was finished, the guards suddenly announced the horde of monster girls had been sighted near the city. You were rushed through the streets of Orrault and into the gate town for its defense. Despite the chaos, Vanille found a vantage point and potential redoubt at an abandoned brewery. In a stroke of remarkable fortune, the vast majority of the horde went directly for the city walls, leaving only a small detachment to deal with the gate town. Unfortunately, this still meant hundreds of monsters—more than enough to overwhelm the scant guard and begin attacking civilians. You and your companions headed to the market where things looked particularly dire. The party split up to deal with multiple threats, so you went with… <<linkreplace "Mira and Gwen to help a besieged inn">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Orrault8 to "Mira">> Mira and Gwen to help a besieged inn. You saved a number of civilians, though a few monster girls escaped with their prey. <<include "SB_Ep14c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Vanille and Sherine to save a barricaded group of civilians">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Orrault8 to "Vanille">> Vanille and Sherine to save a barricaded group of civilians. <<include "SB_Ep14c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ashlyn to deal with a flock of harpies">><<replace "#choices4">><<set $Orarult8 to "Ashlyn">> <<include "SB_Ep14b_Ashlyn">> <</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $MiraDating == true>>To your surprise, @@color:lime;the mage subjected you to a survey about your fetish.@@ You were mildly confused on how this would help until Ashlyn revealed she’d drugged you and was simply buying time. You passed out shortly after, then woke up in your own bed the following morning<<else>>The mage immediately shrunk you, then brought you into her room where she revealed @@color:lime;she was planning to tie you up with a string and swallow you down for a time.@@<<if $AshlynDialog1 == "String">> You were shocked—and perhaps a bit flattered—she remembered your choice from back in Amberglen.<</if>> Naturally, the mage <<if $AshlynDialog1 == "String" || $PleasureAshlyn > 0 || $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn">>tongue-fucked you on the way down<<else>>took the opportunity for a bit of tasting on the way down<</if>>, and you spent some time in her stomach as she unwound with a bit of idle work. <<if $AshlynDialog1 == "String">>When Ashlyn went to let you out, the string broke, and she decided you were spending the night in her stomach whether you wanted to or not. Fortunately, she let you back out the following morning with only a bit of light teasing<<else>>True to her word, Ashlyn eventually let you out and returned you to your normal size. Feeling more exhausted—and, in a sense, relaxed—you bathed, then headed back to your room to sleep<</if>><</if>>. <<include "SB_Ep14b">>

@@color:lime;The lamia was open to conversation,@@ and she admitted one of her main motivations for tagging along was the opportunities to eat other monster girls. When you admitted you were worried about the upcoming battle, Sherine offered to do more to help keep your mind off things, then revealed she’d eaten one of the guards earlier that night. <<if $MiraDating == true>>At the lamia’s insistence, you slept in her coils, which proved to be shockingly comfortable. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><<else>>When Sherine gave you the choice for how exactly she’d provide a distraction, you… <<linkreplace "Accepted the lamia’s offer for something “more involved”">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $SherineEvent1 to true>><<set $RVSherine ++>> accepted the lamia’s offer for something “more involved,” which apparently meant @@color:lime;having sex as she swallowed your face,@@ though she released you after climax. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Decided a good night’s rest is what you need most">><<replace "#choices3">> decided a good night’s rest is what you need most, and her coils proved to be a shockingly comfortable bed. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>>

<<if $MiraDating == true>>The two of you talked about what happened with Mira, with @@color:lime;the knight offering some reassuring words@@ and suggesting that you and the demi could patch things up over breakfast. For now, however, rest would help most. Feeling a bit better, you retired for the evening and eventually found sleep. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><<else>>The knight walked you through checking your equipment—a soothing ritual she’d learned—then told you a story back from her earlier adventuring. Vanille had taken on a wolf girl who outclassed her and only wound up winning through sheer luck. @@color:lime;The knight admitted she still felt a little embarrassed about the whole thing, though she was ultimately motivated by the desire to help others.@@<<if $RVVanille >= 12 && $Orrault5 == "Vanille">> Prompted by talk of celebration, you briefly danced with Vanille, only to suddenly falter when the knight <<if $VanilleEvent4 == true>><<set $VanilleEvent5 to true>>kissed you. She apologized for asking you to wait the other day, then promised you’d talk more after the battle. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><<else>>asked you to kiss her. You… <<linkreplace "Agreed">><<replace "#choices3">><<set $VanilleEvent5 to true>> agreed, and the two of you shared a tender moment, then promised to talk more after the battle. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Declined">><<replace "#choices3">> declined, admitting that tonight was probably a bad time to make these sorts of decisions. Regardless, you went to bed feeling a little more optimistic about tomorrow. <<include "SB_Ep14b">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>><</if>><</if>>

Ashlyn to deal with a flock of harpies. You kept watch while the mage prepared an incarnation, and when you noticed a wounded civilian being pursued by a lion girl, you… <<linkreplace "Pulled him out of harm’s way">><<replace "#choices5">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>><<set $AshlynEvent6 to true>> pulled him out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, this left nothing between Ashlyn and the lion girl, who promptly ate the distracted mage, and then you. Rather than accept defeat, @@color:lime;you and Ashlyn devised a plan to shout absolutely horrible porn dialogue at the predator,@@ which eventually annoyed the lion girl into releasing you both. The moment you were free, the mage vaporized the monster, insisting there could be no witnesses to your sacrilege. <<include "SB_Ep14c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Stayed quiet and focussed on defending Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices5">> stayed quiet and focussed on defending Ashlyn, leaving the man to be devoured. <<include "SB_Ep14c">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

With your work done, you regrouped with the rest of your companions and decided to head back to the brewery to take shelter. Along the way, Ashlyn saved your group from a roaming band of monster girls by mass-shrinking them, then ruined the moment of heroism when she asked you to feed her some of the newly-shrunken snacks. You… <<linkreplace "Agreed">><<replace "#choices6">><<set $AshlynEvent7 to true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>> agreed, @@color:lime;much to Ashlyn’s smug satisfaction.@@<<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira">> The moment you were done with the mage, Mira insisted you feed a shrunken monster girl to her as well.<</if>> <<include "SB_Ep14d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Refused">><<replace "#choices6">> refused, deciding the mage was more than capable of catching her own food. <<include "SB_Ep14d">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You returned to the brewery to find a few monster girls already poking around inside the brewery. You… <<linkreplace "Followed Mira as she chased after a cat monster girl">><<replace "#choices7">><<set $MiraEvent7 to true>><<set $RVMira ++>> followed Mira as she chased after a cat monster girl. The two of you managed to best the monster, which Mira then devoured, @@color:lime;seeming especially pleased.@@ <<include "SB_Ep14e">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Helped the civilians outside the brewery when they were attacked by a bear girl">><<replace "#choices7">> helped the civilians outside the brewery when they were attacked by a bear girl. Mira ultimately saved the day by knocking out the monster and helping you retrieve a civilian that had been devoured. <<include "SB_Ep14e">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

With the brewery cleared, you barely had a chance to get everyone inside and settled before a massive cow taur came crashing right through the wall. Through your group’s combined efforts, Sherine was eventually able to subdue and devour the beast, though Gwen was injured, and the lamia was rendered functionally immobile. When Ashlyn noticed a fire had broken out across town, Vanille insisted on checking to help any potential survivors. You, Mira, and Ashlyn joined her for a stealthy trip through the eerily empty gate town. The four of you found the fire, only to immediately discover its source—a towering dragon monster girl. Realizing this was a creature beyond your capabilites, you retreated back toward the brewery only to discover a massive fire bomb being escorted toward Orrault’s main gate. Between the siege on the walls and the harrying forces that had attacked the gate town, no defenders stood between the city and an explosive that Vanille worried could bring down an entire span of Orrault’s fortifications. Magical attempts to destroy the payload were foiled by a deer taur mage, while an arrow you launched at the cart was blocked by some sort of mud elemental. Vanille claimed she had an alternate plan and promptly ran off, asking the rest of you to make a distraction. In a moment of horror, you realized what Vanille was planning. You asked Ashlyn for her magical straw—a last-second scheme to deal with the mud girl—then sprinted after the knight. Fortunately, you caught up with her in time and immediately confirmed she’d fully intended to destroy both the firebomb and herself in a suicidal rush. Resolving that a longer conversation between you and Vanille would have to wait, you convinced her to try your plan: Vanille would use the straw to deal with the mud elemental, and you would fire an arrow into the cart once the knight had retreated to a safe distance. Before Vanille could approach the firebomb, one of the escorts intercepted her, and you were forced to make the run yourself. You retrieved the straw and stabbed it into the mud elemental an instant before the dragon reappeared and attacked, shattering your spear’s flimsy defense and leaving you mortally wounded. Lying on the ground and teetering on the brink of death, you barely mustered the strength to throw a smaller firebomb from your pack at the cart. It hit, and everything went dark. A strange voice waited for you in the void, little more than a half-remembered impression from a fleeting dream. It said something about you not quite being dead, and that you shouldn’t be there yet. You were wrenched back into a world of ash and pain. Vanille found you and—unable to carry you due to a broken arm—attempted to drag you to safety while fending off attacks from surviving monster girls. In an act of desperation, the knight finally devoured you. You awoke days later to the comfort of your friends—first Ashlyn, then Sherine. They explained everyone had survived the siege, with you sustaining the worst wounds by far. Vanille visited later that night, drunk, wracked with guilt. In your fragile state, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak up. Mira finally appeared in the middle of the night. Terrified after your brush with death, the demi begged you to abandon the quest. You refused and, in so doing, learned that Mira never fully understood that your chief desire was to return home and escape the dangers of the world… which would mean leaving her. Despite your best efforts to reassure the inconsolable demi, @@color:red;Mira ran off into the night, leaving you cold and alone.@@ [[Start Season 2 Episode 1|Episode 15]]

<> <<set $clothes to false>> <<set $Khobb1 to false>> <<set $Khobb2 to false>> <<set $Khobb4 to 0>> <<set $Khobb5 to 0>> <<set $Khobb6 to 0>> <<set $Khobb7 to false>> <<set $Khobb8 to false>> <<set $Khobb9 to false>> <<set $Khobb10 to false>> <<set $Khobb11 to false>> <<set $Khobb12 to false>> <<set $Khobb13 to false>> <<set $Khobb14 to false>> <<set $KhobbClues to 0>> <<set $Khobb3 to 0>> <<set $Bucks to 0>> <<set $Khobb_Sandlots to 0>> <<set $ArrayKhobb to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>> <<set $WhoRound to 0>> <<set $WhoDiag to 0>> <<set $Whom1 to false>> <<set $Whom2 to false>> <<set $Whom3 to false>> <<set $WhoGuess to 0>> <<set $MonDiag to 0>> <<set $MonRound to 0>> <<set $Mon1 to false>> <<set $Mon2 to false>> <<set $Mon3 to false>> <<set $Mon4 to false>> <<set $Mon5 to false>> <<set $Mon6 to false>> <<set $Mon7 to false>> <<set $Mon8 to false>> <<set $Mon9 to false>> <<set $Guess to 0>> <<set $Guess1 to false>> <<set $Guess2 to false>> <<set $Guess3 to false>> <<set $Guess4 to false>> <<set $Guess5 to false>> <<set $Guess6 to false>> <<set $Guess7 to false>> <<set $Guess8 to false>> <<set $Guess9 to false>> <<set $Ballad to false>> <<set $Ballad1 to false>> <<set $Ballad2 to false>> <<set $Ballad3 to false>> <<set $Ballad3a to false>> <<set $Ballad3b to false>> <<set $Ballad3c to false>> <<set $Ines1 to false>> <<set $Menardi to false>> <<set $Buff to 0>> <<set $SherineEvent3 to false>> <<set $SherineEvent4 to false>> <<set $AriaEvent1 to false>> /*remove the following in post-season*/ <<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> <<set $VanilleEvent6 to false>> <</if>> /*end remove*/ <<if $xe == "he">> <<set $xe to "he">> <<set $xem to "him">> <<set $xes to "he’s">> <<set $xir to "his">> <<set $Xe to "He">> <<set $Xem to "Him">> <<set $Xes to "He’s">> <<set $Xir to "His">> <<set $mx to "mister">> <<set $Mx to "Mister">> <<elseif $xe == "she">> <<set $xe to "she">> <<set $xem to "her">> <<set $xes to "she’s">> <<set $xir to "her">> <<set $Xe to "She">> <<set $Xem to "Her">> <<set $Xes to "She’s">> <<set $Xir to "Her">> <<set $mx to "miss">> <<set $Mx to "Miss">> <<else>> <<set $xe to "they">> <<set $xem to "them">> <<set $xes to "they’re">> <<set $xir to "their">> <<set $Xe to "They">> <<set $Xem to "Them">> <<set $Xes to "They’re">> <<set $Xir to "Their">> <<set $mx to "mx">> <<set $Mx to "Mx">> <</if>> <><<timed 1s t8n>>[IMG[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/953559-38160-mdx98p-preview.jpg]] <<linkreplace "Recap">>__Recap:__ Stranded in another world after an unfortunate misunderstanding between you and the grill of an oncoming truck, you must now work with your newfound companions to find the remaining Echoes of Exile: a set of ancient and powerful gemstones that supposedly contain the power to banish a nebulous, lurking evil and—far more importantly—send you home. In the aftermath of your grave injury at the siege of Orrault and Mira’s subsequent flight, you, Vanille, Ashlyn, and Sherine worked to find the wayward demi and make amends. But as the search stretched on, it became clear you were not the only member of your group who bore scars from the battle. Vanille was clearly in a bad place—something brought into painful clarity by her frozen terror in the face of your endangerment as you hunted a Yuki-onna, her subsequent brutal slaughter of the monster girl, and her apathy the next day as the rest of your companions devoured an entire troupe of bandits who’d accosted you along the road. But one small sliver of good news brightened your final days in Orrault. The night before you left, Mira returned, albeit in no better spirits. The demi could hardly bring herself to look at—let alone speak with—you, but at least she was back. A day’s travel brought you to Palamola’s Quarry in search of the next echo, where you met up with <<if $Orrault2 == true>>a new face and a familiar one: Aria, the theurge you saved from a centaur back in Orrault, and her new companion Mortia, an inquisitor<<else>>two strangers: Aria the theurge, and Mortia the inquisitor<</if>>. They explained the quarry was teeming with demons. You decided to work together and ventured into the quarry the next morning to discover a conflict between demons who had made their home in the underground ruins. Two factions had emerged, led by a succubus and an erinyes. To further complicate matters, a magical barrier and a massive, fearsome hellhound lay between you and the Echo. It became apparent that the best path forward was siding with one of the demons to best the other, then having your empowered ally aid you in defeating the hellhound. After some tense negotiations—and an uncomfortably close call or two—you chose to side with the <<if $Quarry3 == "succubus">>succubus who, after digesting the erinyes, destroyed the magical barrier and promptly betrayed you with her newly charmed hellhound… or at least tried to, moments before the beast devoured her and went on a rampage<<else>>erinyes who, after digesting the succubus, destroyed the barrier and fought the hellhound… or at least tried to, only to be devoured in an instant, after which the beast went on a rampage<</if>>. While Mortia and seemingly every demon present was devoured, the rest of you managed to avoid the worst of the hellhound’s wanton riot thanks to a protective barrier from Aria. But in a fit of panic, Mira inadvertently broke the spell and placed you and the theurge in imminent danger, with the two of you only surviving through a mix of reckless heroics, quick thinking, and a healthy dose of luck. The hellhound demolished a number of structural supports and brought down a large portion of the ceiling, after which she escaped into the unknown. Winded, but alive, the rest of you ventured deeper into the ruins and found a small vault. The Echo was nowhere to be found, though Ashlyn and Aria both suspected it had once resided there. In a perhaps misguided effort to salvage the day, you sought a private conversation with Mira about her antics, only to receive her most firm rejection yet as the demi pushed you into a wall and, realizing she’d injured you, fled back to the rest of the group. Vanille found you, and you chose to confront her about her attitude since the siege. You learned Vanille has been wracked with guilt over your near-death at the siege, to the point where she’d convinced herself she’d played an active role. You gently talked her down, then resolved to be more open with each other in the future<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>—especially given your burgeoning relationship<</if>>. You, your companions, and Aria left the quarry together to head for the nearby town of Khobb, hoping for a potential lead on the absent Echo and, with any luck, some much-needed rest. <</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Relationships">>__Relationships:__ __Mira:__ Mira doesn’t seem to be improving at all, and your attempts to reach out to the demi have been thoroughly rebuked. <<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $RVMira >= 14 >>And as much as it pains you to admit, she’s proven herself an active liability to the group. You have no idea what—if anything—you can do about it aside from wait and hope<<else>>Worse, she’s proven herself an active liability to the group, and you have no idea what—if anything—you can do about it. As frustrating as it might be, it seems all you can do is continue to wait<</if>>. __Vanille:__ Vanille seems to be doing a bit better, much to your relief. The knight is a bright spot in an often dark and confusing world, <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>and you’re both nervous and excited to see where your budding relationship might lead<<else>>and it’s good to see her on the road to recovery<</if>>. __Ashlyn:__ Sure, Ashlyn knows about your fetish and torments you about it constantly, but things with the mage haven’t been //too// unbearable<<if $MiraDating == false>><<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">>. If anything, it’s been kinda fun<<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn">>… if risky. And you’ve had enough risk for now<</if>><</if>>. She has certainly seemed eager to involve you in her strange, titillating games<<else>>… so far<</if>>. She’s certainly embraced life back on the road, if throwing herself into the clutches—and tail—of a succubus is anything to go by. Reckless disregard for her own safety aside, you and Ashlyn continue to <<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>get along remarkably well<<elseif $RVAshlyn >= 4>>get along well<<else>>get along decently enough<</if>>. __Sherine:__ Despite Sherine’s <<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" && $MiraDating == false>>blatantly admitted intention to devour you alive<<else>>professed self-serving goals in traveling with your group<</if>>, the lamia has proven to be a steadfast companion, from remaining at your bedside while you recovered from injuries and helping in the search for Mira, to fighting off bandits and resisting the will of a succubus<<if $Quaurry3 == "Succubus">>—and even somehow overwhelming a fearsome erinyes<</if>>. It’s probably worth remembering that, however helpful Sherine might be, you don’t actually know //that// much about her. On one hand, you’d certainly like to learn more, and the long journey ahead should provide you with ample opportunity. But on the other, unknowns can be dangerous, especially when they’re twenty-plus feet of very hungry lamia. <</linkreplace>> [[Start|Gold Standard]]<</timed>>

“So you use… paper for currency?” Vanille asks skeptically as she walks with you at the party’s vanguard. “Well, some metal too,” you respond. “But paper for the larger denominations, yeah.” The knight frowns. “I don’t understand. Wouldn’t paper be fragile, not to mention easier to counterfeit?” “You’d think, right? But it’s surprisingly durable stuff, and there’s a bunch of people whose job is making the paper very complex in specific, identifiable ways. I’d bet it’s actually a lot harder than minting a coin.” You pause, glancing at Vanille. “At least, that’s how I’d assume Havendorian currency is made. You’ve gotta have some sort of mint regulating production and distribution.” “A few that I know of, yes. I believe the largest is in Gheremagne—that’s the capital city.” She hesitates for a moment. “But wouldn’t paper be somewhat risky as a currency? Gold and silver are precious metals, so while it’s not an exact relationship, the coins are always going to be worth something on their own.” “Uhh…” You falter, realizing you’ve abruptly veered into territory about which you know //just// enough to understand how much you //don’t// know. Which is to say the vast majority. Like, textbooks’ worth. Entire fields of academic study. You could try prodding about banknotes or other early forms of representative money to find a touchstone, but then you’d have to make the leap to government-issued fiat currencies, and that’s right around the point where your head starts spinning. A nudge at your side pulls you from the confusing mire. “<<= $name>>?” the knight asks gently. “Are you alright?” “Yeah, I’m…” It was only yesterday that you were pulling Vanille out of an emotional pit. It’s worth taking a moment to see how //you// are. So far, there’s an odd sort of disquiet to the day after a cavalcade of events that almost entirely ended in abject failure: a companion—albeit a temporary one—lost to the stomach of a ravenous hellhound; said hellhound breaking her shackles and fleeing to the surface to wreak untold havoc upon the unsuspecting populace of Northern Havendor; Mira’s firmest rejection yet, to the point where your shoulder still aches from when she shoved you into the wall; and to top it all off, an empty pedestal where the Echo of Exile //should// have lain. It’s not quite anxiety, sorrow, frustration, or rage that you feel, but rather their undertones, muted and distant, swirling beneath a current of acceptance and relief. You’re alive. You’re with your friends. Cool, late-morning air fills your lungs as flickers of sunlight filter through the dense forest canopy. For all of yesterday’s disasters, you’re still here, and you have a path forward. A direction. You’ve also come to something of a resolution regarding Mira. She refuses to speak to you, and your efforts to force the issue only seem to be making things worse. For now, the best you can do is give her time and space. It’s going to hurt—it already does every time you catch the sulking demi from the corner of your eye—but it’s either this or something drastic. And you’re not sure when<<if $MiraDating == false && $Orrault7 != "Mira" && $RVMira <= 10>>, or //if,//<</if>> you’ll be ready for the latter. But the friend at your side gives you the slightest bit more confidence in the road ahead. “I’m okay, sorry,” you eventually answer. “Yesterday was… hectic, but I’m doing a lot better. Thanks for asking.” You and Vanille share a warm smile before you clear your throat. “But back to your monetary question, it’s, uhm… hard to answer. I don’t mean that dismissively; it’s just that the economy in my world is really, //really// complex. I guess it’s a natural outcome of having so many interconnected people. Everyone wants to talk and trade, and you need systems to support it. More people means bigger, more complicated systems. I promise I’d try to give you a better explanation if I fully understood it myself.” Vanille studies you for a silent moment. “That seems… daunting, putting so much faith in a system that’s so difficult to comprehend.” You shrug. “You kinda get used to it. Remember those machines—the, ah, ‘golems’ we talked about <<if $Caravan == "Vanille">>on the trip to<<elseif $Orrault1 == "Vanille">>while working outside<<else>>just after arriving at<</if>> Orrault?” At Vanille’s nod, you continue. “I’ve used hundreds, and I couldn’t tell you how more than a handful worked in even the most basic sense. If they broke, they’d need repairs from a specialist—not even for machines in general. Just that particular type.” “I suppose that makes sense,” she says. “Actually, I could say the same thing about many of the tools I use. I understand the basics of forging a sword, but it would take years of apprenticeship before I’d trust a blade I made myself. The same goes for armor, tools, all sorts of equipment.” <<linkreplace "“That’s a good way of thinking about it.”">>“That’s a good way of thinking about it, yeah,” you agree. “I couldn’t even begin to guess what makes a screamer tick, for instance.” Vanille lights up. “Oh, that’s actually—” “Hold up!” You jolt at the sudden exclamation, then slow as a hand thumps on your shoulder. Ashlyn hastily shoves herself right between you and Vanille, marching to the front of the group. You and the knight share a look of weary amusement. “What’s going on Ashlyn?” Vanille calls out. “Spooky shit, that’s what.” Your heart lurches. “The hellhound?” “Wha—No.” The mage slows to a stop and tilts her head, as if she’s listening for something. “I mean, probably. It doesn’t //feel// demonic. Rainbows-and-Sunshine, you getting anything?” “Maybe,” Aria murmurs, responding to the newly-minted nickname without missing a beat. “I wasn’t sure until you said something. But it’s not like anything we encountered in the quarry. It’s… strange.” “Definitely powerful stuff,” Ashlyn remarks, then suddenly veers for the side of the road. “And I //think// I found the bastard responsible.” You spend a solid ten seconds staring at the indicated spot of dirt before you finally notice it—a mushroom… probably? It’s awfully large among mushroom-kind, standing at about two feet tall and half again as wide. But the size isn’t really what gets you so much as the fact that the mushroom looks to be made entirely of wood—or perhaps you should say ‘grown.’ It doesn’t seem to be carved, or ossified by some strange transformation, but rather sprouted from the very soil like a small, leafless, and very strangely shaped tree. The longer you stare, the more baffling the ‘mushroom’ becomes. A trunk stem splits into a hundred small branches that taper into a cap, then wrap under themselves and entwine to form the remarkably intricate gills, so fine that they seem to drift in the faint breeze. “What… //is// that?” you eventually ask. “Spooky shit. Already said so.” You glower at Ashlyn. “Yeah, okay. But what //kind// of spooky shit? That doesn’t exactly look normal.” “It’s a totem,” Aria interjects. “A kind of ritual focus, intended to enable or sustain powerful spells.” “Like a magic circle?” you hazard. “A part of one, yes.” The theurge nods, then gestures off the road and into the surrounding woods. “I’ve never seen a totem quite like that, but it’s safe to assume there’s more nearby, forming a large ring around the area ahead. I’m not sure //why,// though.” You peer past the totem and through the thinning treeline to where you can just barely make out a slice of thatched roof and other hints of habitation between the trunks. “I think that’s the town we were heading for. Khobb,” you tell your companions. “Doesn’t look like it’s, I dunno… burning or anything. Can we just walk there and find out what this totem is for?” “Wouldn’t recommend it,” Ashlyn mutters. The mage kicks at the dirt, then licks her lips and scowls like she’s tasted something unpleasant. “Yeah, it’ll definitely trigger a spell or something if we just try to stroll past this bad boy. Can’t say what the funny lil’ cock-sculpture does unless you wanna camp out here for a few hours while I tease some sticky answers out of it.” [[Might as well wait|Bisectual]]<</linkreplace>>

You sigh. “I guess we can wait a bit. Better safe than—” “What?” Ashlyn barks. “You’re actually agreeing with that bullshit? Gods, you’re all such pansies.” “It was //your// idea,” Vanille chides. “Well, yeah.” The mage throws her hands in the air. “But I was just saying that so you’d ask if I had any other solutions. Then I’d have plausible deniability to wreck the totem—y’know, in case someone’s angry I blew their magic shit up. Oh, and speaking of…” Before you can process Ashlyn’s words, she spins around, hands aglow with arcane fire. Lurid mutterings herald a sudden gout of flame, aimed squarely at the totem. The spell hits with a blinding flash and a deafening //crack,// forcing you to shield your eyes and stumble back. “What the hell, Ashlyn?” you shout over the ringing in your ears. You blink your way back into a bleary semblance of sight, then glance about to find the rest of your companions doing the same. “Okay, okay!” the mage shouts, distant and echoey. “I didn’t expect that to happen.” As Ashlyn turns to face you, something strange happens. You don’t fully trust your recovering vision, but swear for the briefest moment she … //disappears.// You blink furiously and rub at your eyes, then look again, a bit more closely. There’s definitely something strange about her appearance—an odd, subtle distortion to her usual features. “Uhm, Ashlyn?” Aria calls out, voice strained. “What?” the mage snaps, then turns to face the theurge. The moment she does, you realize exactly what’s happened. “You’re, uhm…” Aria hesitates, looking for the right choice of words. You can’t blame her. “You’re flat,” Sherine intercedes with a slight chuckle. “The fuck I am. I worked hard to grow these ti—” Ashlyn glances down and immediately grinds to a stop. “Oh. Yeah, I see what you mean.” You all watch in baffled silence as the mage spends a moment inspecting her body—her two-dimensional, paper-thin body—flitting in and out of sight as she spins around, twists and turns, and generally seems to marvel at the anatomical impossibility. “This fucking rules!” Ashlyn blurts out. You frown. “It does?” //“Obviously,”// the mage scoffs. “Think of all the places I could fit. The doors I could literally slip right under.” “Couldn’t you just shrink yourself?” Ashlyn rolls her eyes. “Only if I wanted to make myself a meal for the average wandering house pet. And yeah, before you ask, I’ve lost dinner that way once or twice. You learn to keep an eye on shrunken snacks. It’s one of my many skills.” Vanille steps forward before you can decide how you’re supposed to respond. “I’m glad you’re not especially upset, Ashlyn. But aren’t you at all curious about //why// you’re suddenly, erm… flat. Or how you’re going to change back?” “Why would I want to? Now I can bisect people!” “Maybe don’t do that,” Vanille says as she shakes her head. Ashlyn waves a paper-arm dismissively, flapping like those inflatable tube-men you find outside used car dealerships. “Boring. I can figure out how to fix this later. Must’ve been some sort of countercharm that triggered when I destroyed the totem.” //“Tried// to destroy, you mean.” You and your companions wheel about—or in Ashlyn’s case, awkwardly flutter—at the sudden declaration to find… nothing. No figure stands in the road or emerges from the treeline or swoops down from the skies. The voice certainly //sounded// close, but it seems to be of the disembodied variety. Sherine suddenly lets out a slight chuckle. “Ah, of course it’s a fairy.” A //what?// You blink, then look //down// at the mushroom totem to find a tiny woman standing on the cap. She’s hardly half a foot tall, and that’s including the butterfly wings sprouting from her back. The fairy strikes a pose, sturdy and powerful, all the way from the heels of her high boots to the feathered hat hiding a small bush of neon pink hair—you dare say, a pixie cut. The bizarre hue plays perfectly with the rest of her ensemble, vibrant and kaleidoscopic, yet glamorously arranged in a sort of ostentatious-scoundrel-chic. Slender arms cross. Tiny wings flicker, a puff of glitter shining in their wake. “Sup.” [[“Uhm. Hello.”|Prog Murdered Plume]]

“Uhm. Hello,” you start, the first among your group to recover. “Is this your… mushroom?” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I live here with //aaall// my magical forest friends.” You blanch. “Uh, I—On behalf of my companion, I’m terribly sorry for disturbing your… home.” “Wow. Offensive, much? Do I //look// like a dryad?” A small boot kicks against the wood with a solid //kathunk.// “How am I even supposed to get into this thing? Do you see a door?” Words fumble and slip down your throat. Your eyes start to cross as you stare at her. Yup, that’s a skirt sticking out from under the tiny doublet, like doll’s clothes. Before you can respond, the fairy marches on. “Anyway, which of you lunatics saw the dense pillar of magic and said, //‘Lemme put my arcane dick in it, see what happens.’”// “Ashlyn,” you, Vanille, and Sherine all say in unison, then glare at the flattened mage. “And you just let her? Some friends you are.” The fairy smirks as Ashlyn creases in a sudden gust of wind, then snaps her tiny fingers which, frankly, makes far more noise than it should. “Oh, I get it: you’re adventurers. We’ve got Sparkletits, a prissy knight, a stray court jester, a portable garbage disposal, and—Huh. I see your cinnamon roll, but where’s your brooding edgelord?” The fey suddenly zips into the air for a better vantage. It doesn’t take long for her to spot Mira lurking ten feet behind the rest of your group. “Hello, kitty.” “Uhm,” you start, shuffling between Mira and the fairy. A familiar shudder of dread crawls down your spine. “You might want to avoid uh… being small… around her. She might try to eat you on impulse.” The diminutive woman floats back down to eye level, then finds a perch on Vanille’s shoulder. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” She flips a scarlet cloak over one shoulder. “Anyway, what brings you fine folks to my supernaturally enhanced ‘Fuck Off’ sign? Some sort of quest?” You gesture down the road. “That’s Khobb, right? We’re coming from Palamola Quarry, and we were hoping to rest here, but…” You glance past the totem, trying to find signs of life in the thin slice of visible townscape. “Has something bad happened?” “What? No.” The fairy flashes an incredulous scowl. “I mean, unless you’re all mortified by the concept of long-term commitment. It’s a wedding, you twits.” “A //wedding?”// you blurt out. “Then why the magical barrier?” “Barrier?” She turns a disapproving frown on Ashlyn. “You’re more inept than I thought. Intelligence running a little… thin?” “Come onto my plane and say that. Eating you will //flat-//ten me up.” The fairy snorts. You grab the edge of the mage between two fingers and hold her back. “Please don’t threaten her. Haven’t you learned your lesson?” “Literally never.” A thin sigh escapes your lips before you offer the fairy an apologetic frown. “Sorry about Ashlyn. She can be… a lot.” “Significantly less, now.” You chuckle in spite of yourself. “Do you think you could, uhh… turn her back?” “I //could,”// the fairy smirks. “But I’m beginning to think it might be better to leave her like this. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’ll wear off in a few hours, and she’ll be perfectly fine as long as you don’t try to roll her up and fit her in a scroll case. She’ll fit, by the way, but it won’t be fun when she turns back.” Ashlyn cackles. “Been there, done flat.” The fairy’s expression sours. “Alright, yeah. I’m just enabling you; you’re going back.” “What are you talking about? This is my good side.” The fairy blows a kiss at your two-dimensional companion. A pink cloud drifts over Ashlyn, clinging and coating her in an opaque haze. A coughing fit precedes the wave of an arm—a solid, cylindrical arm. The rest of the mage stumbles into view, waving away the miasma of fey magic. “Thank you,” you say, seizing your friend and bowing before she can do any more harm. “Don’t mention it,” the fairy says with a dismissive wave. “Anything else you need? I gotta get back, see how the party’s progressing.” Vanille steps forward. “Actually, we’d still like to visit Khobb, if possible.” “Do you have invitations?” “Invitations?” you ask. The fairy rolls her eyes. “For the wedding, duh.” You share a quick glance with your companions, even though you already know the answer. You’re pretty damn sure the fairy does too, based on the smirk plastered onto her tiny, infuriating features. //“Fine.// I guess I can invite you in,” she groans, mock indignation dripping from every syllable. “Did you at least bring gifts?” You frown. “I’m sorry, we didn’t—” “Oh my god. You folks are no fun at all.” She springs from Vanille’s shoulder, flits back to her mushroom-totem, and conjures a fairy-sized scroll from thin air. “It’s okay, the festival will cheer you up. But, there’s a few things you should know first.” Those words send an ominous chill down your neck—you’ve already made one supernatural bargain this week, and you remember how well that <<if $Quarry4 == "succubus">>was going to turn out<<else>>wound up<</if>>. [[Time for a team huddle|Time for a team huddle]]

“Please wait here,” you blurt out, then hook your arm through Vanille’s and drag the knight a good ten feet away. “<<= $name>>?” she starts. “Everything okay?” You gesture for Vanille to lower her voice, then quietly ask, “Is this safe? Can a fairy be trusted?” “As much as anyone can, I suppose.” She gives you a cross look. “Do you have fey in your world?” “Legends—ones that usually end terribly.” “Oh okay. I understand your hesitation, but I can assure you that there’s nothing inherently suspicious going on. Fairies living among human society are rare, but they tend to coexist perfectly peacefully. Most consider them a boon.” “I am, really. Pinky-swear.” You nearly leap out of your skin as the small woman lands on your shoulder. She sticks out a hand, then frowns. “Well, I guess your pinky. My hand. Wouldn’t really work out otherwise.” “T- That’s not necessary,” you say, mildly disconcerted by having a conversation with someone perched a mere four inches from your face. “Good. Now, assuming you don’t want to camp out here for a day, I was about to explain the rules and invite you inside.” She puts both fingers in her mouth and blasts out a surprisingly loud whistle before rising back into the air. “Gather ‘round. I’m only doing this once.” The rest of your companions filter over, though Mira stays at the edge of earshot, sulking. “First, and most importantly, my name is Plume. I am the hostess, coordinator, officiant, entertainment, and all-around merrymaker for the wedding of Rabine and Arturo. That means whatever I say goes, and whatever either of them wants also goes. It’s their special day, and everyone in Khobb is contributing to the party to make it one they’ll remember for a decade… Or a week. Depends on how drunk they get. “But that is //their// prerogative. We’re not here to judge; we’re here to celebrate. And to that end, everything’s free. That includes food, drink, and entertainment—within reason of course. However, Khobb’s economy must go on so, y’know, buy some crap from these nice people before you leave. Don’t be an asshole. “Oh, right,” the fairy abruptly continues. “One important note about food: while inside the perimeter of my ward, you can only digest non-living matter. Don’t go munching on someone expecting that to satisfy you—but like, you can eat them for other reasons, that’s cool.” “I’m sorry, what?” you balk. “What do you mean, ‘only non-living matter?’” “People. You can’t digest people, small animals, bugs you accidentally swallow while running around with your mouth open, and so on.” Plume smirks at Ashlyn, who hangs on her every word. “Okay, technically, the spell makes it so that //you// can’t be digested alive. Everyone can still get hungry, eat food, get drunk—all that other fun stuff.” She suddenly groans out a long, suffering sigh. “And I can’t believe I have to explicitly say this part, but just because you can’t be digested, doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt in other ways. Don’t go drunkenly jumping off a rooftop. Seriously, we’ve already got three idiots with sprained ankles just this morning.” You raise an eyebrow, but Plume merely shrugs. “I can only change the laws of reality so much—Oh right, and you can’t leave the magic circle, either. Not until midday tomorrow. Probably should’ve led with that one.” <<linkreplace "“What happens if we do?”">>“What happens if we do?” you ask, sheepishly raising a hand. “You can’t.” “If we //try,// I mean.” Plume smirks. “The first time, you get turned around. If you’re //real// stubborn, the spell pops you back inside the town at random—possibly inside someone’s stomach. So yeah, you //can’t// leave.” You nod. “Hotel California rules, got it.” Vanille raises an eyebrow at you. The fairy snickers. “I wanna reiterate that, while most of the party will probably pass out before morning, the actual spell doesn’t end until tomorrow when the sun reaches its zenith. It’s important to remember because you //really// don’t want anyone in your stomach—or anywhere else for that matter—when the spell drops.” Ashlyn suddenly perks up. “Oh yeah? What happens?” “Trust me, you’re happier not knowing.” “You don’t understand,” you say. “That’s just making her want to know //more.”// “Sounds like her problem, not mine.” The fairy shrugs. “Oh, and while I //hope// this doesn’t need to be specified, don’t eat normal food while you’ve got an occupant. Let them out first, and give yourself a little time to digest before putting them back in. Practice just a bit of common decency, please.” She pauses, tilting her head. “And… I think that’s about it. Don’t be a buzzkill, do your part to make this celebration legendary.” She suddenly snaps her fingers. “Right! You’re gonna need an A-plo—I mean, an assignment for this epis—” She pouts, scratching her chin. “Sorry, hold on. Common tongue is really weird sometimes. Gimme a second.” Sherine quirks her head. “How many languages do you speak?” “All of them. I’m //very// good with my tongue.” Ashlyn leans close. //“I’m intensely horny for this magical flying snack. If you grab her for me, I’ll suck your dick forever.”// You nudge the mage. //“Did you miss the part about not being an asshole?”// Finished with her vocal warm up, the fairy nods and calls out to Mira. “You there, Sourpuss. You been listening?” The demi glares at the tiny woman. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Plume clears her throat. “You’re on vermin duty. Try to chase any stray wildlife away—they’re subject to the spell, and things are gonna get weird if they start eating each other. So just like, scare them off with that menacing aura of yours.” Mira continues glaring. “Yeah, like that. Anyway, Sparkletits.” She directs her attention to Ashlyn. “I assume you know at least one useful spell.” The mage raises an amused eyebrow. “Useful?” “Attagirl. I need you to provide some magical entertainment for a few hours. Some flashy shit, glamours and the like.” She folds her arms across her chest. “No disintegrations.” “Ungh, fine.” “Next up, Captain Chivalry.” Vanille frowns. “Me?” “Who else? You look like you can lift heavy stuff, yeah?” “I have other skills, too.” “Sure you do, Princess. But boxes need to be moved, and you look like just the gal to do it.” The fairy glances up and down your companion twice, then nods. “Find Dirk and ask them about it. He’ll keep you busy.” Plume flits in front of Aria, then regards the theurge with a pensive frown. “I have absolutely no idea what to do with you.” Aria hesitates for a moment. “I, uhm, can heal people. You mentioned something about sprained ankles.” “Right! That’s a good idea, Cinnamon Roll.” The fairy beams. “I’ll show you where to head once you’re in town. I think the local doctor’s got a tent set up, though he’s mostly been dealing with idiots who can’t manage their drink. Think you can do anything for them while you’re at it?” “I’d be happy to,” the theurge says with a cheerful nod. “Great.” Plume turns to look at Sherine, only for her gaze to fall to her long, winding tail. “You’re uhh, quite the dangerous noodle. Just promise me you won’t go on a rampage and eat everyone—” The fairy suddenly lights up. “Actually, I’m going to reduce your stomach capacity. If you agree to that, we’re even.” A curious smile curls Sherine’s lips. “How many?” The fey lands on the lamia’s shoulder once more—like one of those birds landing in a gator’s mouth to pick the teeth clean—then whispers into the larger woman’s ear. Sherine nods. Her gaze briefly flickers to you, then flits away. “That’ll be enough.” Finally, Plume flies over and regards you with an appraising look. “And as for you… I have a special task.” Oh no. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun; I’ll tell you about it later.” She turns back to the rest of your group. “So, sound good? Do we have a deal?” “After we finish our tasks, we’re free to enjoy the party?” you ask. “Yup.” “I wouldn’t mind a night off,” Vanille says, much to your relief. “It sounds like the townsfolk are gonna be busy tonight with the wedding anyway, so we’ll get back to the quest tomorrow.” A nod and a murmur of agreement bounces between the five of you, after which Vanille smiles and steps away from the huddle to check on Mira. The demi stares at her for a long moment, then gives a very slight nod. Plume hums her satisfaction. “Good, good. Let’s head inside and get you all washed and changed. Seriously, you reek of limestone and sweat. I’ve got a place where you’ll have some privacy.” [[Enter Khobb|Havendorians Know How to Party]]<</linkreplace>>

You follow the fairy up to the totem, then hesitate just before the invisible barrier. The rest of your companions gradually filter by, apparently unaffected. Just in case, you suck in a deep breath before stepping forward. The air changes. A prickly tingle dances along your flesh, dense and airy, like you’re walking through a wall of dandelions. You reflexively close your eyes as the barrier envelops your face, then glides to the back of your neck. The world behind spits you into this new one, a total rejection of the inferior reality for something far more… cozy? You blink. The first thing to hit you is the change in atmosphere. It’s a degree or two warmer on this side of the totem, though it’s less a physical temperature and more the kind of communal warmth from sitting around a campfire and sharing stories with old friends. The humidity’s just right, too. Everything from the dirt road to the palette of wildflowers flanking the path seems more vibrant, more alive. //“Weird,”// Ashlyn murmurs when she catches up to you. You check her over for the correct number of dimensions—she seems to be back in all three. “Is what Plume said true? About the effects here?” you ask. She licks her lips, dabs a finger on her tongue, then holds it up in the air. The mage cocks her head. “Selective acidic resistance, warming and cooling effects, a manufactured breeze. Hell, it probably keeps out the rain, too. This is remarkable…” You leave her to her musings and press ahead, eager to see the celebration for yourself. The town of Khobb emerges from the parting treeline, small and cozy homes of modest make clustered right along the roadside and winding off into the surrounding woodlands. Streamers dangle from rooftops; banners fly overhead, strung across narrow avenues. The dirt streets themselves buzz with the energy of festivity, small crowds ambling and jostling and generally making merry, a drink in one arm and a friend or a loved one in the other. The crowds stretch as far as you can see, suggesting the wedding is something of a town-wide affair, and you’re only getting a narrow glimpse. As you draw close, distant murmuring gradually builds to the jovial hum of a dozen cheerful conversations. Pleasant scents drift from places unseen—spiced wine, baked sweets, a particularly mouthwatering note of cinnamon, and countless other flavors you can’t quite identify. Your stomach grumbles its approval, reminding you that after the morning spent on the road, you really should grab a bite to— //Glump.// It’s a soft, subtle noise among the din, but your trained ear picks it out with ease. You whip your head in time to catch playfully kicking legs sinking into the open maw of a single-horned demi. She’s all smiles as knees pass between pressed lips, neck bulging and stomach swelling as her prey goes down smoothly. //Bwourp.// That came from elsewhere. You wrench your gaze about once more to find a human couple hanging on the edge of a fence, a squirming stomach bouncing between them. Sagging flesh spills from the bottom of a grey tunic, ignorantly stretching the fancy lace decorating the hem. Two pairs of hands dote upon the lump before she notices you staring. Shaking off a grimace of confusion, you return a friendly wave to the pair and try to look elsewhere. About five faces later, you spot a vulpine demi with a slick sweep of wet hair. You recognize the look: mostly dry gastric goo. It works oddly well as hair gel. Apparently the revelers have taken the anti-digestion spell as a convenient excuse to engage in—or perhaps binge—a guilt-free variant of their favorite pastime. Either that or Plume’s magic is the only thing keeping this wedding from becoming a mass-casualty incident. Which means //you// can’t be murdered today. Eaten aplenty. But safe. Free to indulge… Maybe this world isn’t so bad. You pass another hundred feet along the lively thoroughfare and see more acts of harmless predation, at least one disgorging, a swapping of prey, and a dozen food stands—with normal food, you note. As you walk, Vanille asks after potential lodgings for the night. Plume points to a passing inn, and the knight hastily volunteers to take everyone’s belongings and see they’re stowed safely once you’re all washed and dressed. [[Follow the fairy|Wash and Fold]]

[Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Knight] [Spiderman][Spoderman] [The Weaver in the Web She Made] [Charlotte][Scarlett Johansson But She's a Spider] [These puns are the only thing that keep me going sometimes] [Web Bygones Be Bygones] [Walstpurgisnacht]

“And here we are,” Plume announces as you arrive at a cluttered staging area with wagons and crates wedged between a variety of colorful tents. The place looks to be relatively abandoned at the moment, though you don’t see much in the way of amenities either. “These should be available,” the fairy continues, gesturing around to a number of small tents. “If you head inside, I’ve got things set up for a wash and a change of clothes. Feel free to keep what you pick out—consider it a party favor. And yes, you need to clean up too, Sourpuss. I see you trying to skulk back there.” The six of you split up, each selecting a tent. You frown as you pull back the flap and step inside, not especially looking forward to a cold rinse in a washbasin, then gasp as you discover a shockingly spacious interior. What you’d expected to be a dirt floor is covered by a large rug. A metal tub lies in a corner, steam gently wafting from what looks to be a freshly drawn bath. A large wardrobe stands on the opposite wall alongside a full-length mirror, a few clothes hangers, and a wicker chair. It’s a remarkably accommodating arrangement. Impossibly so. Just to make sure, you poke your head back out the tent flap, then back inside, only to confirm something definitely isn’t adding up. Either this is one hell of optical illusion, or… “Wanna know what else is larger on the inside?” You glance out to find Plume still floating in the middle of the staging area, watching you with an amused smirk. When the fairy moves a hand to pat her exposed midriff, you decide to duck back into the tent. <<linkreplace "Wash up and get changed">>You strip, throw your grungy clothes on the nearest hanger, and set about washing in the tub—perhaps taking the slightest moment to bask in the luxury of a warm bath after a few days on the road. Clean and mostly dry, you open the wardrobe to find a staggering collection of garments. You’re reasonably certain the interior of the wardrobe is deeper than the exterior should allow, but you’re beginning to suspect spatial manipulation is sorta Plume’s thing. As long as the furniture doesn’t… //eat// you or something, it’s probably fine. A second, more unnerving detail materializes as you pick out a few randomly selected articles and size them up in the mirror: each and every item in the wardrobe seems to fit you. Perfectly. As if the entire ensemble had somehow been curated for you in the few minutes between accepting Plume’s invitation at the edge of town and arriving inside this tent. How the hell is that possible? There’s no way the fairy could’ve conjured all of this, right? … Or could she? Are these magical clothes, pulled from thin air? Are they going to suddenly vanish the moment the enchantment ends, or turn back into some indeterminate gourd once the clock strikes a plot-convenient hour? Probably not, since Plume said you could keep them… and leaving you naked in the middle of a field would be kinda mean. So perhaps they were supernaturally stolen, and right now, there’s a bunch of <<= $name>>-sized people walking around some remote part of Havendor wondering what the hell happened to their shirts-and-or-pants. Ultimately, you decide it’s probably not worth worrying about and instead focus your efforts on actually getting dressed, which immediately presents a whole new problem: what do you actually want to wear? You’ve got a reasonably eclectic assortment to choose from, even if they all fall more or less within the purview of medieval-fantasy townwear. <<linkreplace "Opt for something comfortable">><<replace "#choices">><<set $clothes to "comfy">><<include "Heck Pup">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Casual would probably be best">><<replace "#choices">><<set $clothes to "casual">><<include "Heck Pup">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Splurge and go for something nice">><<replace "#choices">><<set $clothes to "nice">><<include "Heck Pup">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</linkreplace>>

You settle on something <<if $clothes == "comfy">>comfortable, deciding to fully embrace a day of relaxation.<<elseif $clothes == "casual">>casual, since this seems like a less formal occasion overall.<<else>>nice. It’s a special occasion after all; why not dress up a bit?<</if>> You’ve barely slipped the tunic over your head when a sudden, high-pitched //‘arf!’// nearly has you tripping over your own feet. You hastily wrench the rest of the garment on, then glance down to discover a small dog, hardly more than a puppy, sitting right at your feet. The dog tilts its head, then abruptly breaks into a wide grin before bounding around your legs in energetic circles, //yipping// all the while. You stare down at the pup in baffled silence, then spare a look back to the tent flap—still drawn tight. Where the hell did it come from? Was it here the whole time and you just hadn’t noticed until now? A sudden //pop// sends you reeling for a second time, and you turn to find Plume floating a few feet away, staring down at the dog with mild disapproval. “So //this// is where you’ve been hiding,” the fairy says, hands on her hips. She sighs. “What did I say about bothering the wedding guests?” You let out a slight chuckle. “I wouldn’t say it’s bothering me. Seems pretty harmless, actually.” To prove your point, you reach down and pick up the energetic pup, who immediately starts squirming in your hands, tail wagging furiously. “Yeah, you should’ve seen her yesterday. The things people leave just running around the forest. She’s been well enough behaved since I adjusted her to a more manageable form.” The fairy shakes her head. “Anyway, you two seem to be getting along well enough, so I guess I’ll leave her here. Toodles.” Before you have a chance to question exactly what Plume meant by ‘adjusted’ or ‘manageable form,’ the fairy poofs out of existence, leaving you half-dressed and alone in the changing room. Well, mostly alone. A rapid, shallow panting draws your attention back to the dog. Her pink tongue lolls out of her mouth, saliva dripping onto her scruffy black fur. A paw reaches up to boop you on the nose, but the stubby leg can’t quite reach because of how little she is. Sulfuric eyes blink— Fucking christ, it’s the hellhound. You nearly hurl the creature across the room, then glance over at the glittery cloud Plume left behind, then finally back to the diminutive dog. You suddenly feel insignificant and full of existential dread. Deeply unsettled, you gently place the dog on the floor. She barks twice, then scampers off toward the corner to sink her teeth into the wicker chair. Should you… tell someone the dog-shaped demon has been transformed into a literal dog? To what end? The hell-pup seems perfectly happy with her downsized condition—or at least content enough to direct her significantly diminished ire at furniture rather than you. And she didn’t really seem all that aggressive when you picked her up. Perhaps in this case, it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Or, well, she’s not exactly sleeping, but at least she seems pretty damn harmless. After a moment’s consideration, you resolve that Plume has the hellhound well in hand and, with your conscience free, opt to throw what you just learned into mental quarantine alongside @@background-color:#EEEEEE;Sherine’s community service sentence@@ and @@background-color:#EEEEEE;that time <<= $spirit>> tried to engulf you with their vagina@@. [[Finish getting dressed|Is My Tie on Straight?]]

You finish straightening your tunic, then fish a pair of matching trousers from the expansive wardrobe. You pause to appreciate the outfit in the mirror, only to notice a particularly large scarf dangling across the glass surface. You retrieve the garment and turn it over in your hands, then drape it across the back of your neck and loop one end around the other. The attempted knot slips free in an instant. You sling it across your shoulders and try again, only for it to fail once more—It’s just an ascot, it shouldn’t be this hard. With a huff, you unfurl the cloth and snap it back to its original shape. Unrolled, it’s quite a nice textile: fresh and clean, an appealing mustard hue, a precise hem. It //is// a lot longer than you expected, however. Massively so, easily reaching the floor and unspooling across the rug. It also flares out to be wider in the middle, which is both unexpected and confusing. Perhaps it isn’t an ascot. It takes a minute, but you fold it back up to its original length and try once more to don the dang thing. It still doesn’t sit right, which might mean it’s time to call in some backup. Yes, it will likely be embarrassing to explain to one of your friends that you couldn’t figure out how to properly wear the drape, but it looked nice when it was hanging on the mirror and you’d like to look your best today. <<linkreplace "Ask Vanille">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Khobb1 to "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille ++>>Vanille will know what to do. After making sure you’re presentable, you pop back out into the staging grounds, wave to a distracted Plume who looks to be fiddling with some sort of small stringed instrument, and finally head toward the tent where you last saw Vanille. You arrive at the entrance, only to realize there’s not a door where you can properly knock. Instead, you clear your throat. “Vanille? Can you lend me a hand?” The curtain flies open. “<<= $name>>. You alright?” “Yeah, I’m—” You point at her outfit. It’s the same as when you saw her enter the tent. “You’re still in your leathers.” “Yes, but…” Her lips contort to a strange squiggle. “I- I did a quick rinse, and I splashed some water on my face.” You step inside and gesture to the shut wardrobe on the far side of the tent. “You’re not gonna change for the party?” “Oh, I picked something out for myself, but I was gonna do the labor that Plume requested, then change after—I asked, she said it was fine. Plus I don’t wanna damage the dress…” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>> “A dress?” You ask, peering curiously over her shoulder. It’s subtle, but she takes a tactical step to keep her choice garment from sight. A coy smile rosies your cheeks. “I’m intrigued.” Vanille blushes and steps forward, further eclipsing your hopes of seeing the dress. “You’ll have to wait.” “I’m looking forward to it.” A delicate touch across her shoulder draws the knight to your side. You lean in and kiss her, then pull away warm and happy. “Mm, on the topic of unknown clothing: I need help.” You tug on both ends of the not-an-ascot and sling it over your neck, pretending to be fashionable. “How the heck do I wear this?”<<else>>Vanille’s brow furrows. “Though I don’t know if these conjured clothes //can// be damaged. Plume’s an immensely talented spellcaster… if a little strange.” “She certainly is a strange person, though not as strange as //this.”// You tug on both ends of the not-an-ascot and sling it over your neck, pretending to be fashionable. “How the heck do I put this on?”<</if>> Vanille raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing with that?” “I found it in the magic closet. I was gonna wear it,” you explain, your struggles with the garment beginning anew as you try to loop it around like a scarf, “but it’s insanely long for some reason? I can’t quite figure it out.” She suppresses a chuckle as you try once more to no avail. The knight takes the leads in both hands and gestures for you to brace your arms across your chest. There’s a blur of yellow as the cord loops over your head, shimmies down your backside, and wraps around your hips. Vanille ties you off and steps back to admire her handiwork. “I wouldn’t have guessed it’s meant to go around the waist,” you say, feeling very silly for not recognizing the garment as a sash. A really long one, given the way it brushes against your knee when you move. “It’s not the only way to wear it.” She smirks. @@color:lime;“This looks nice on you.”@@ You nod. “Nice enough to do whatever it is that Plume has in mind for me?” “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Vanille says reassuringly, then heads for the exit. “Seems like she won’t have us working too long—We’ll meet up afterwards and enjoy the party.” “Sounds good.” [[Go talk to Plume|Don’t Ask About Tiny Harmonics, There Are No Answers]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ask Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Khobb1 to "Ashlyn">><<set $RVAshlyn ++>>Perhaps Ashlyn will know more about the strange garment—she’s strange, after all. After making sure you’re presentable, you pop back out into the staging grounds, wave to a distracted Plume who looks to be fiddling with some sort of small stringed instrument, and finally head toward the tent where you last saw Ashlyn. At the closed curtain, you hesitate. There’s nowhere to knock like you would at the door in an inn. “Uhm, Ashlyn? It’s <<= $name>>,” say start nervously. “Are you… decent?” “Hell yeah.” Nope, you’re not gonna fall for that. “Are you //clothed?”// “Oh,” the mage’s voice trails off. “Totally.” That’s the best you’re probably gonna get. Might as well bite the bullet and get this over with. You pull the curtain aside and, to your amazement, aren’t assaulted by mammaries. What you //do// see, however, might be every bit as lethal for your libido. A silky black dress hugs every curve from her dainty clavicle to her firm hips, then drapes along her thighs like a gallows. The hem rests above a dangerous band of flesh before the tall, ebony stockings carry your gaze down the rest of her astonishing legs to a pair of simple black flats. Oh, and her hat. It’s not just any hat, no. This is a wide-brimmed cat-and-broomstick specimen, circular, rigid, and flat save the cone rising from its center—all of it a deep dark velvet the color of midnight. Ashlyn’s vibrant cascade of bloody red hair spills down her back like a dying sunset. She clicks her tongue. “Don’t tell that fairy I said this, but she’s got damn fine taste.” Ashlyn finishes admiring herself in the mirror, then turns to face you. She takes one look at your outfit and snorts. “Dork.” Flabbergasted, you spread your arms and feign indignation. “I thought it looked nice.” “Clothes say a lot about a person, <<= $name>>. For instance, yours say, //‘I don’t know how to dress myself, and I don’t care who knows that about me.’”// You roll your eyes. “Uh huh. And what does your witchy getup say?” A malefic grin curls her lips as the trap closes around you. The mage turns around and flips her dress up to reveal black underwear. The embroidered words ‘Sexy’ and ‘Evil’ occupy separate cheeks. Bubbling laughter spills from your throat. “How often do you get to make that joke?” “This is the first time.” She winks. “That’s impressive stitchwork,” you chortle. “Seriously, that must have taken a lot of patience and effort.” Her wicked smile falters for the briefest moment. @@color:lime;“Th- Thank you. They’re uh, they’re my favorite pair.”@@ It takes the mage a moment to smooth out her dress and make herself presentable. She adjusts the brim of her hat, then shrugs. “Anyway, what can I do ya for?” You hold out your arm to show off the probably-not-ascot, and Ashlyn immediately scoffs. “What?” you ask. “Nothing. Just surprised to see you wearing it.” You frown. “I’m not wearing it. That’s actually the problem; I don’t know how.” An odd smile dashes across Ashlyn’s lips before she pauses. “For reference, I don’t do the whole ‘mommy’ schtick, if that’s what you’re expecting here.” “Ashlyn, I seriously have no idea how to put this thing on.” With a sigh, she steps forward and takes the scarf-adjacent garment from your hands. “Stick your arms up and spin in place, you doof.” The impossible interior of the tent whirls about as you rotate. On each pass, the mage coils the yellow cloth around your hips. Once she’s done, a hand grabs your arm, urging you to slow. Finally, you look down at yourself, feet planted firmly as you wobble in place dizzily. “I wouldn’t have guessed it’s meant to go around the waist,” you say, feeling very silly for not recognizing the garment as a sash. A really long one, given the way it brushes against your knee when you move. “Fashion can be quite esoteric for the small-minded.” She shoves you toward the exit and slaps your ass. “Now get out of my tent, perv!” [[Go talk to Plume|Don’t Ask About Tiny Harmonics, There Are No Answers]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ask Sherine">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Khobb1 to "Sherine">><<set $RVSherine ++>>Sherine seems to have something of a knack for fashion; maybe you should ask her. After making sure you’re presentable, you pop back out into the staging grounds, wave to a distracted Plume who looks to be fiddling with some sort of small stringed instrument, and finally head toward the tent where you last saw Sherine. You arrive at the entrance, only to realize there’s not a door where you can properly knock. Instead, you clear your throat. “Sherine?” you call out. “Are you, uhm… decent?” “One moment, <<= $name>>.” You spend an awkward minute shuffling outside the tent, listening to the odd shift of cloth or gentle rustle from within. Just when you’re considering trying your luck elsewhere, the flap suddenly parts, propped open by a copper tail tip. “Come in.” You oblige and find a similar interior that, if anything, looks to be a bit larger to accommodate Sherine’s extra demand for floorspace. And speaking of the lamia, you watch as she attends to her hair in front of the mirror on the opposite side of the room, all while her tail returns to a more compact and manageable coil. It’s easy to forget you have a companion with a twenty-foot reach. Probably something to keep in mind if you ever get on her bad side. “So, how do I look?” Sherine asks, turning to face you. She’s abandoned her usual cream blouse in favor of a stunning dress, deep blue contrasting with gold highlights that accent the metallic sheen of her scales. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a ballroom floor or some other formal occasion, but the dress is certainly a cut above anything you glimpsed from the townsfolk on the way in. You can’t help but notice, however, that the loose neckline would accommodate a bit of expansion should the need arise. “Uhh, good,” you manage, a solid attempt at the lamest response humanly imaginable. “Err, I mean, really good. It’s beautiful.” Sherine chuckles. “I’ll give the fairy this; she knows my taste.” She eyes the scarf in your hands, eyebrows raised. “Is that for me?” “Uhh, no. Why?” She merely smiles. “No reason. Here, let me show you how it’s worn.” The lamia prompts you to raise your arms, then slings the garment over your head and begins wrapping it around your waist. She dips low and glides across the floor, copper scales winding studious circles as the yellow cord encircles your hips. “So,” you ask as Sherine ducks behind your back. “Do you have any plans for the festival? Since Plume didn’t give you a task, I mean.” “Oh, just wandering around, seeing the sights. Maybe finding some pleasant company.” The lamia leans back into sight, lips curled to a smirk. “Why? Should I keep my schedule open?” “Ah, no,” you hastily respond. “You don’t have to. I was just wondering.” Sherine hums as she finishes wrapping the scarf—or sash, apparently—and ties it off. “Well, let me know if you change your mind once you… What did the fairy have you doing again?” “I don’t actually know yet,” you admit. “Guess I’m about to go find out.” “I’m sure it won’t be anything too strenuous, but good luck nonetheless.” Sherine slithers past you and to the exit of the tent, pausing to add, “Feel free to come find me if you want a break. I’m sure I can provide comfortable accommodations.” You suppress a shudder, then suddenly remember to ask something that’d been buzzing at the back of your mind. “Hey, are you feeling alright with the reduced, erm… capacity? I don’t really understand what Plume actually did.” “I assure you I’m perfectly fine.” The lamia flashes a wry grin. @@color:lime;“Though I won’t say no if you’re offering to find out firsthand.”@@ Before you can offer a proper response, she laughs, then slips out of the tent entryway. An expanse of winding copper scales follow in her wake. [[Go talk to Plume|Don’t Ask About Tiny Harmonics, There Are No Answers]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ask Aria">><<prepend "#choices">>On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t ask the theurge for help putting on your clothes. It’s nice having one person in this world who thinks you’re reasonably competent; no reason to go spoiling that illusion quite yet. <</prepend>><<append "#choices">><<linkreplace "Figure it out yourself">><<replace "#choices">>You’re an intelligent, competent <<if $xe == "he">>man<<elseif $xe == "she">>woman<<else>>person<</if>>. You’ve braved a hive full of bee girls, navigated the perilous depths of an ancient city, and fought valiantly against a horde of angry monster girls. Admittedly, you’ve had your companions at your back for all those harrowing trials, but this is just… some sort of article of clothing. You’ve got the smarts to puzzle this one out on your own. A few more attempts at throwing the garment around your shoulders leaves you a bit less confident. If you really, //really// wanted, you could probably wear it like some sort of shawl, but there’s enough cloth that it’s actually kinda hefty. Plus, it’s a pleasant day; you don’t need the extra warmth and, if anything, might start running a bit hot, especially if Plume’s ‘special task’ involves some physical labor. You briefly entertain giving up on the garment entirely. It’s not like you //need// to wear it or anything. Your outfit looks fine. But then… you’d be admitting defeat to a textile. A simple strip of cloth. How can you ever hope to face your companions again—or look yourself in the mirror, for that matter—after such a humiliating loss. No, you must press on. Your last, fleeting, tattered scraps of pride demand it. Maybe you’re coming at this from the wrong angle. You abandon the neck entirely and instead try for the waist, hoping it’s some kind of sash. Even with the more ambitious circumference, the garment still completes a full two loops around your middle and leaves a generous length to be tied off. It works, however, and you turn toward the mirror for a quick appraisal. It’s definitely large for a sash, and the excess lengths dangle well down your thighs and look a //bit// silly, but… it works. And honestly, you’ll take it. [[Go talk to Plume|Don’t Ask About Tiny Harmonics, There Are No Answers]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</append>><</linkreplace>>

You head back outside just in time to notice Mira slipping away between the tents, departing to presumably fulfill her vermin-chasing obligations. She’s still wearing her usual getup, but it looks like she at least took the time to wash. With a sigh, you turn and find Plume right where you left her, <<if $Khobb1 != false>>only now the fairy has produced a very small bow to go along with her instrument<<else>>producing a few notes on a small instrument<</if>>—a fairy-sized fiddle, perhaps? “So,” you start as you approach. “What ‘special task’ do you have for me?” The instrument poofs into a cloud of glitter as Plume flits back up to eye-level, gesturing for you to walk with her—well, alongside her flightpath. “Oh, just a minor nuptial crisis—nothing someone as heroic as you can’t handle.” … Right, okay. Maybe if you start now, you can somehow outrun the pixie and find a spot to hunker down and wait this whole wedding business out. Plume smirks as you start to follow along. “You flinched and went pale for a moment there.” “I was mildly worried that you were about to rope me into a marriage. Or offer me as a wedding gift… Or a myriad of other things.” “Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” she laughs, then offers a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, relax a little. Does crazy shit happen to you all the time?” “You have no idea. Last month, I was drafted to be a lawyer the day after discovering an ancient Lurnasian city.” “Which city?” “Niverdine.” “Oh damn. Where was it?” “Under Orrault.” “Ah, classic: ancient city under a modern one. Makes you wonder how nobody noticed when they were building the damn thing.” She lets out a wry chuckle. “Anyway, I promise this will only be about forty percent as absurd. Maybe fifty. Depends, actually. Are you good with people?” “Uhh, I’m okay, I guess.” Maybe a bit better ‘in’ people than ‘with’ them, but what’s a little semantics to get in the way of your interpersonal skills. “Good, great. I have someone I’d like you to meet.” The two of you round a corner, then duck inside a home with the door parted. A small gathering huddles within, murmuring between themselves. Plume zips ahead and clears her throat. “Rabine?” A woman in a sandy, flowing dress turns around with a quiet //tak-tack// sound—the clinking of decorative dark stones. Her garment drapes over sturdy hips, a waterfall of thick fabric and rustic adornments perfectly complimenting the honey skin of strong arms and the platinum-blond strands pouring from her head. The sight is so blindingly radiant, in fact, that you nearly miss that the dress is pulled taut around her bulging stomach. //Hey, you made it three whole seconds without looking at her middle. Congratulations are in order.// Shut up, shut up. “Oh, hi Plume,” she chimes, lips painted into a broad and cheery smile. “Everything’s going alright, I hope?” The fairy nods. “Aside from the small matter we talked about earlier. //But,// I think I’ve found just the person for the job.” She flutters aside, then gestures to you. “Rabine, meet… uhm…” “<<= $name>>.” You give the bride-to-be an awkward bow. Rabine appraises you with deep, rich eyes. “Nice to meet you.” “The pleasure’s mine,” you say. “And congratulations, I presume.” “Oh, thank you, thank you.” She tucks her arms behind her back and shimmies from side to side with uncontained enthusiasm. Adorable semicircle ears waggle from atop her head, though you can’t immediately identify the animal. “So uh, I was told I’m to help you out with a personal matter?” You turn to Plume. “I’m not actually a lawyer, by the way. I can’t officiate a wedding or anything technical like that.” “Of course not. That’s my honor,” the fairy says. //“You// need to find the groom.” <<linkreplace "“Excuse me?”">>“Excuse me?” you ask, utterly flabbergasted. Your eyes scan the room for someone wearing anything remotely like a tuxedo. Hanging in the periphery, you find an older gentleman in a fine suit who gives you a subtle shake of his head. Finally, you turn all the way back around to check your own clothing—just in case you’re supposed to serve as a stand-in. <<if $clothes == "casual" || $clothes == "comfy">>For as <<= $clothes>> as your attire might be, the colors match nicely with Rabine’s<<else>>Damnit, you should’ve gone with something more casual. Tux or no, you look like you fit the part<</if>>. This fucking fairy. You swallow a dry lump. “Is he //missing?”// “No. I mean, yes—He can’t have gotten far,” Rabine says, a confused frown curling her lips. “What she means,” Plume flutters in front of your face, “is that he hasn’t been seen since this morning, but couldn’t have possibly left the town. I’d know.” The bride turns a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! It’s not that he’s run away or anything worrisome like that; more likely been swept up in the festivities. I worded that so poorly, apologies.” Her blush deepens. Rabine wraps both arms around her stomach in a loving curl. “Arturo is the one who’s good with words. You should read some of his poetry…” Okay, cool. So either he vanished after the Havendorian equivalent of a bachelor party, or he’s somewhere among the other revelers. At least you can be sure he hasn’t wandered off into the woods and been eaten by a bear or something. … Then again, now that you actually consider the number of full stomachs on display even in your brief trek through the outskirts of town, perhaps the wayward groom is //in// one of the revelers. //Gasp.// Finally, you get to live your truest life: asking predators who their prey is. You were destined for this duty. “Okay…” you start, not entirely sure this isn’t an elaborate prank. “So I’m just supposed to go around and, I don’t know, //ask// after him?” “Something like that,” Plume says. <<linkreplace "Accuse Rabine of abducting the groom">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Khobb2 to true>>“I figured it out.” You point at the bride’s swollen gut. “He’s in there.” Rabine pales. “What? N- No. Not at all, this is… someone else.” Before you can press further, the previously silent group of bridesmaids descend like… harpies. Is it insensitive to say that if one of them actually //is// a harpy? “Don’t be so rude!” “How could you say something like that? It’s her wedding!” “Plume, who is this jerk?” Thoroughly rebuked, you take a step back and raise your hands in defense. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry, Rabine. I shouldn’t have been insensitive.” She cradles her stomach as a warm blush paints her cheeks—one you’re not entirely convinced is born from genuine offense. “Th- That’s okay.” <<include "Clues">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Drop it; there’s no way it’s that obvious">><<replace "#choices">>With a mental shrug, you turn your focus to more reasonable solutions. Guess you’re a Wedding-Crasher-slash-Detective now. Add that to your list of titles. <<include "Clues">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

“So… how urgent is finding the groom—err, Arturo?” you ask. “Oh, there’s plenty of time before the ceremony this evening,” one of the bridesmaids offers. “It’s a private affair. They chop down a tree together with a broadsword—Don’t worry, they plant another one.” That’s… not the chief concern you have about the process, but alright. “Okay, so what’s he look like?” “A cute ferret demi. Pale ears, sandy brown hair,” another bridesmaid says. “A head shorter than you, and lankier. Bookish—huge round glasses, you can’t miss ‘em.” “Oh, he’s wearing a green tunic with silver embroidery,” a third adds. “Right,” you nod. “Short. Ferret demi. Green and silver top. Glasses. Any ideas where I can start looking? Leads, anything like that?” “He might be with Viggo. They’re best friends.” Plume nods. “Viggo ought to be working over at the riverside sandlots, helping coordinate games. It’s actually right next to where we just came from. Follow the crowds; you’ll find your way there soon enough. And if Arturo’s not with him, you should check the vintner in the town square. The groom was supposed to pick out a barrel of wine for the ceremony and have it sent here, but I haven’t seen it yet.” Plume taps a finger to her chin. “Actually, regardless of if you find him, can you check on that for me?” “Something with blackberries, please,” Rabine adds. You nod. “Sure.” “Oh, what about the Dragonfly?” a bridesmaid suggests. “He wouldn’t go there!” another protests, nudging the one who spoke first. “Not without Rabine.” “Better to be thorough,” the first counters. “Besides, Rhys said she’d be heading there with her wife—Rhys is Arturo’s sister, <<= $name>>. She might have some idea where he’s at.” You finish making a mental catalog of all the places you need to check. It’s not much to go on, but Khobb only seems to have a couple hundred residents. And it’s early afternoon, so you’ll have plenty of time to work out this ‘mystery.’ “Alright, anything else?” “What? No, that’s three whole clues,” Plume chides as she holds up tiny fingers to match. “More than enough for an interesting first narrative arc.” <<linkreplace "… Okay">>You cross your eyes at the fluttering fairy, then nod in utter bafflement. “O- Okay. I, uhh… I guess I’ll get going then.” Rabine gives you a thankful farewell wave and resumes her banter with her bridesmaids, leaving you to step back outside and into the midday sun. … Alone. Huh. Normally that prospect would be absolutely terrifying. But if Plume is to be believed, you’re actually the safest you’ve been since waking up in Havendor. Sure, someone could eat you, but they couldn’t digest you. Nor could they walk off with you never to be seen again, meaning your worst-case scenario is spending the night in a stomach before being forced back out tomorrow. Not //too// bad, if you’re being honest. So, where to go first? <<include "Khobb_Navigator">><</linkreplace>>

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "goated">>You should probably grab a bite to eat <<if $Khobb3 == 2>>before resuming the search. You’ve got time, and there’s no sense working on an empty stomach<<elseif $Khobb3 ==3>>before heading back. It’s not like you’ve made much in the way of meaningful progress<</if>>. And keeping in line with Havendor’s inexplicable tradition of incredible food, everything you’ve passed has looked absolutely delicious. Following your nose, you wander off the main avenue and almost immediately discover an invitingly cozy restaurant. An overhang provides shade for a counter, behind which rests a row of open ovens and stovetops attended by a bevy of busy humans and demis. A veritable onslaught of mouth-watering aromas elevates your growling stomach to an outright roar and demands urgent action. A broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless tunic and a grease-sodden apron takes your order for something called a Stuffed Forest Roll—you have absolutely no idea what it is, but it sounds amazing—then sidles back to the ovens and gets to work. With nothing to do but wait and try to resist the urge to drool, you take a seat. “Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” You lurch to attention at the familiar voice, then glance to your right to find a pair of garnet eyes peering at you from a shaded corner of the restaurant. The rest of the lamia materializes in the gloom, seated at the far end of the counter.<<if $Khobb1 != "Sherine">> Your companion looks to have abandoned her usual cream blouse in favor of a stunning dress, deep blue contrasting with gold highlights that accent the metallic sheen of her scales. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a ballroom floor or some other formal occasion, but the dress is certainly a cut above anything you glimpsed from the rest of the townsfolk. You can’t help but notice, however, that the loose neckline would accommodate a bit of expansion, should the need arise.<</if>> “Oh. H- Hi, Sherine,” you manage, a bit off guard. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.” “And why is that?” the lamia asks with a smirk. She knows damn well you fully expect her to satisfy her hunger elsewhere. … Then again, that’s not really an option with Plume’s anti-digestion magic. “What have you been up to?” you ask instead, looking to change the subject. “A bit of this, a bit of that.” She shrugs, then gestures to her side. “I was just enjoying a lovely conversation with my new friend, Amelie. You’re more than welcome to join us.” You blink, then finally register the figure to Sherine’s right as she gives a demure wave. A pair of curled horns poke from a head of rich brown hair—a goat demi, perhaps? She wears an unassuming smock dress that matches the evergreen glint of her eyes. “Nice to meet you, <<= $name>>,” Amelie says. “You as well.” You offer a nod and a smile, a bit too far for a cordial handshake. “What have you and Sherine been talking about?” “Life as monster girls among human society, mostly,” the lamia offers in Amelie’s stead. The goat woman—a monster girl, apparently—nods. “It’s much simpler in a smaller town like Khobb. After a few days, enough people know your face and name, that you’re not just wandering out of the woods looking for an easy meal, and then the rest follow their lead.” “But the convenience of living behind a wall,” Sherine counters, “is that most people assume since you made it past the gate, you must be alright.” “I can see the upside,” Amelie says with a nod. “Life in Orrault would be too noisy for me, though. All those people; nowhere quiet to hide and think. Maybe I’m just used to life outside of town.” “You weren’t born in Khobb?” you ask, then abruptly hesitate. “Err, sorry if that’s rude to ask.” The horned woman smiles. “Not at all. I’ve lived here for about fifteen years, but I actually grew up in the woods outside town—probably, oh, a day or so’s walk southeast.” “Why the change?” She shrugs. “At the time, I think it was mostly the novelty of it all. Khobb must seem quaint to travelers like you and Sherine, but to me it was overwhelming. So many homes that close together, a thriving community bustling about their daily business from dawn to dusk.” The woman pauses to pick at the remnants of a salad on a small wooden plate. “Now, though, I think of it more like settling down. I’m not constantly watching over my shoulder, or wondering where my next meal is coming from, or how I’m going to make it through the winter. There’s downsides, of course, but since I got used to day-to-day life here, I’ve barely thought about going back.” “Not even to visit friends or family?” You falter again. “I’m, uhh, making a lot of assumptions, I realize.” Amelie merely shakes her head. “It’s no trouble. Satyrs like myself tend to live fairly isolated lives until we form a family of our own, and I suppose I never had the inclination. In a way, that’s what Khobb’s become to me.” “A story you’ll hear from many a monster girl,” Sherine adds. “For all its hectic nature, human society holds a certain allure—one that can make the troubles of actually crossing the divide much more worthwhile.” The satyr chuckles. “I’d say your road was a whole lot longer than mine, Sherine. Have you told <<= $name>>?” “Told me?” You give the lamia an inquisitive look. Sherine offers only a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s hardly a story in its own right—something for another day, perhaps.” The lamia turns her attention to her companion. “But I think we diverge on one key point: I certainly wouldn’t say I’m looking to ‘settle down.’ Quite the opposite, in fact.” Amelie tilts her head. “Weren’t all those years in the den exhausting?” “Never.” Sherine’s eyes gleam with something familiar—eagerness, perhaps. “If anything, I was spoiled. What’s life without the constant flow? The sea of new faces, experiences, challenges.” “What’s a den?” you interject, rapidly feeling like you’re missing some very important context. “Oh? I assumed you’d know, <<= $name>>.” Sherine regards you with a curious smile. “Think of it like a lamia familial structure—a bit larger in scope, but more or less the same idea.” “R- Right. So you grew up in one of those?” “Most lamia do,” Sherine says. “We’ll have time for the tale along the road, I’m sure—I’d hate to bore Amelie with a second retelling.” “Fair enough,” you say with a nod. A part of you, however, can’t help but feel this is an extension of the same behavior you witnessed during the search for Mira back in Orrault, only now //you’re// the one being kept at arm’s length. Not looking to dwell on the matter—especially in front of a stranger—you instead return to a previous subject. “So there was some, err… awkwardness when you first moved to Khobb, Amelie?” “A bit,” she says with a fond smile. “I don’t exactly strike an imposing figure, but even so, no one really knew what to make of the monster girl who suddenly made camp at the town’s edge. Once I realized I should probably explain myself to my new neighbors, they pitched in to help build a proper home without a second thought. Rabine’s mother actually brought a fair portion of the lumber—Rabine herself was only yea high at the time.” Amelie holds a hand just above the countertop. “Damn strong, even back then. And she refused to take no for an answer when volunteering to help.” “That’s… actually super heartwarming,” you admit. “Uhh, since you’re a local, do you have any recommendations for places I should check out? Once I’m done with my job, at least.” Amelie perks up. “They’ve got games and prizes at the riverside sandlots not far from here. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the crowds if you’ve been north of the main avenue.” <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 3>>“I’ve actually already been there,” you say. “It was, uhh… fun.” “Good to hear.<<else>>“I’m actually supposed to stop by there in a bit, but thanks for the recommendation.” “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.<</if>>” Before you can offer further response, a bundle of tightly-wrapped parchment //thunks// down on the counter in front of you, tendrils of steam trailing from crumpled edges. “One Stuff’d Forest Roll,” the chef declares, then immediately putters off to the next patron. An impulse to resume your duty only narrowly suppresses the urge to dig in right then and there. You can eat and walk at the same time. “Well, I better get back to it, but thanks for the chat,” you say to Sherine and Amelie. “Enjoy the wedding.” “I’m sure we’ll see each other later, <<= $name>>,” Sherine says, and you have to try //very// hard to not read an undertone of heavy implication. The satyr begins to offer a farewell, then suddenly hesitates and stands upright. “Actually, do you mind if I walk with you a bit? I want to ask a couple more questions.” “Oh, uhh, not at all,” you say, surprised. “I’ll catch up later, Sherine,” Amelie says. [[Leave|Goated]]

“You gotta be kidding me,” you start, incredulous. “This isn’t private. This is a random alley!” “An //isolated// random alley. There’s nobody in at least a ten foot radius.” She gestures to the exit. You can’t see the main avenue from here, at least. Someone would have to be really drunk to stumble over the boxes and sidle into this crevasse. “I picked this spot for you. Nice and tight, just how I know you like it.” She’s already stepping out of her underwear before you can respond. You’re about to cough out another word or two of judgement when her ass presses and rubs against your crotch. She flips her skirt up to give you a peek. “C’mon already. The faster you cum, the less likely we’ll get caught.” She reaches around, hat patting against the front of your trousers. Fingers slip under the sash and plunge into your underwear. “Unless you’re into th—What the fuck? You’re not even hard.” Once again, you don’t have the chance to say anything before Ashlyn slides to her knees and pulls your trousers down with her. A dripping tongue emerges, curls around your balls, and draws the entire package into her mouth with a wet //glurp.// Oh god, this is obscene. You’re not supposed to be doing this in the middle of a wedding, what the fuck— Woah. Alright, that’s actually pretty nice. This //is// what you signed up for when you agreed to have sex with Ashlyn. And… Okay on second thought, this is kinda hot. Needed, even. And she absolutely knows what she’s doing, even leveraging her strange Havendorian anatomy to perform a few tricks your boring earth dick is entirely unready for. A wave of shudders declares the arrival of an erection. The mage rises, a free hand venturing freely under your clothes. Her errant tongue finds swabs of flesh to lick and nibble as she diligently strokes you to rigid attention. You glide your hands along her hips, then bump wrists with her as digits flirt with the hem of her skirt. You hesitate for a moment, a cold splash of sobriety reminding you that the sex wizard is more than likely to have a surprise waiting for you under there. She’s been enthusiastically accommodating so far, which does beg the question of what she’s up to. Then again, if Ashlyn wanted to kill you, she’d have probably done it by now. Fingers glide delicate circles, then press into the moist slit. The mage chirps in surprise as you gently massage her clit. “Such a gentleman,” she gasps, quiet breath floating into your ear as she nestles her chin against your neck. Ashlyn hups forward half an inch, wet folds spreading over your diligent fingertips. “But you should know by now that I’m //always// ready to fuck, <<= $name>>.” <<linkreplace "Fuck her">>“Then why,” you grunt, pressing her against the wall. Fingers plunge into slick depths. “Are we still talking?” The mage lets out a throaty groan as she whirls around. Her back arches, ass jutting and pushing against your advance. Plush cheeks pin you to the opposite wall. You shift and glide up and down as she does the same, both blindly begging for the shaft to meet the slot. Sopping, gooey warmth envelopes you. You sweep one hand down her front, then press a palm against her groin as you thrust. She moans and bucks, arms rising, fingers crawling along the wooden boards of the wall she’s pinned to. “Deeper.” She pulls your free hand to her chest and clenches. “Get all the way up in me already.” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 12>><<set $AshlynEvent8 to true>>Your heart skips a beat. “W-Wait. You’re not gonna—” “I will if you stop now, you dumb fuck.” She pushes and jolts the rhythm back into your swaying pelvis. “Don’t make me turn around and put your whole head in my mouth, you fuckin’ weirdo.” You restrain a needy groan through pursed lips, then hump away as commanded. The moment stretches in tense silence, dick twitching as you push and thrust. She clears her throat. “I should—” “Y- Yes please.” “Yeah, I realized it as I said it.” Ashlyn shimmies, ass cheeks rising against your abdomen. She braces, then flips one leg up and across your face, entire body twisting in a bizarre gymnastic feat of impossible biology. Still humping, she scoots closer and clambers, like she’s ascending a tree. You reach forward and support her thighs as legs squeeze against your sides. “What the hell //are// you?” you manage as your hips buck wildly. Cosmic eyes flash with untamed madness. “Your doom.” Sweltering blackness envelops your head in a musky cloud of gastric exhalation. The bitter succor drenches and douses, pierces your nostrils in the brief moment before she sucks in a breath. Her throat ripples, latching onto your head and pulling you firmly, beckoning you to simply fall in. And boy do you want to.<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>> In the dizzy fog, you realize that this is now the second time you’ve worn the oral veil while in coitus. You wouldn’t say that you’re developing a //new// fetish, but the possibilities of this world have certainly expanded your palate.<</if>> You buck like a wild animal, driving harder and harder. The wall of flesh pulses. The air thins. Thought fades, replaced by dense, dark need. Urgently, you lean forward and ram her back against the wall. Something crashes out the humid blackness, distant and muffled. She pushes back, lips rolling down your neck ever so slightly. Teeth clench around your collar. Drool drips down your tunic. Fingers ding into flesh as you erupt, hot seed pumping and flowing like an unstoppable river. Ashlyn’s sweating, heaving body grinds hard against yours as she keeps crushing, keeps suckling, keeps wringing every last drop out of you. Exhaustion rushes in, a bone-deep enervation. Sated, drained, you slow your flailing as the mage rides out a mighty orgasm of her own. Heels bang against your spine. Lips and thighs and coiled arms all squeeze the everloving fuck out of you until you’re about to collapse. She pulls away with a thick wet //splop.// Head spinning, you heave and gasp for fresh air. Ashlyn leans in and licks up a glob from your forehead, then shifts in your cradling grasp before dismounting, slim black slippers tapping on the ground. <<else>>“What do you //think// I’m doing,” you grunt, shoving her forward on the next thrust, motivated as much by spite as the pursuit of pleasure. Ashlyn’s hips bump against your own as the rhythm crescendos, muffled grunts and muted gasps interspersed between the steady slap of flesh. “That’s more like it,” Ashlyn moans, a bit too loud for your comfort. “Fuck me, <<= $name>>. Fu—” You slap a hand over her shouting lips. She grunts and moans through clenched fingers. A shudder bolts up her spine. She bucks and pressed back, pushing your desperate entanglement back against the wall. You grunt and press a hand against her abdomen, then pull her into a tight embrace, ramming into her like a wild animal, driving harder and harder. Fingers dig into flesh as you erupt, hot seed pumping and flowing like an unstoppable river. Ashlyn’s sweating, heaving body grinds hard against yours as she keeps thumping, desperate to wring every last drop out of you. Exhaustion rushes in, a bone-deep enervation. Sated, drained, you slow your flailing as the mage rides out a mighty orgasm of her own. Heels bang against your shins. A hand glides around your head and pulls your chin against her shoulder. Fingers tousle through your hair, slow and luxuriant. After riding out the final spasms, Ashlyn shimmies from your enfeebled grip.<</if>> [[Recover|CMP]]<</linkreplace>>

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "sappica">><<if $KhobbClues == 0>>If you’re looking for the groom, asking his sister doesn’t sound like a bad place to start<<else>>Might as well try the groom’s sister next<</if>>. The bridesmaid mentioned she was planning to head to the Dragonfly, wherever—or //whatever//—that is. You spend a minute surveying the surrounding streets, but when no bright neon sign labeled //‘Dragonfly’// pops out, you decide your best bet is probably to ask around. Fortunately, it only takes two queries before you’ve got a reasonable set of directions—the first person you asked recognized the name as well, but he wound up being a bit, erm… devoured before you could learn anything useful. Charting a course for the southern end of town, you stay clear of the largest pockets of revelers, hoping to avoid being drawn into the more rambunctious festivities—perhaps literally. You’ve got a job to do, <<if $KhobbClues == 3>>and you’ve already kept the bride waiting for a good while<<else>>after all<</if>>. As it turns out, the Dragonfly is pretty damn easy to notice, thanks in large part to a small crowd gathered around an entrance labeled with a clearly engraved sign, complete with decorative wings emblazoned in wood. There’s just one minor problem… “What do you mean, ‘I’m not allowed in there like this?’” you ask, trying to keep the indignant edge from your voice. “I meant what I said,” the man at the entrance states, arms folded across his chest. “Unless you’re—” He pauses to shuffle aside as a bird demi cradling a particularly large gut waddles past. “Unless you’re like //that,// I can’t let you in.” You frown, eyes trailing the pred as she slips inside. “Why not?” “Lounge rules,” the attendant offers with a shrug. “Nothing I can do. Besides, even if I let you in, they won’t give you a table.” “I don’t need a table. I’m just looking for—” “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t,” the man interjects with a sigh. “But we both know you’re gonna ask anyway. And then guess who gets in trouble for the ruckus?” “Well, we wouldn’t want that.” You sigh, attempting to suppress a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and lingering dread. “I guess I’ll go… find a partner.” <<linkreplace "Search for a solution">>You let out an exasperated huff, then wheel about to find your brief exchange had attracted a small crowd of onlookers, including a pair who looks to be playing a variation of Rock, Paper, Scissors—the hand gestures thrown appear to be, by your best estimation, Bunny, Snake, Dryad—for who’s pred and who’s prey, plus a more demure figure lurking on a nearby corner. She averts her gaze the moment you glance her way, then hurriedly scuttles off.<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>> It’s too bad you had to turn down Amelie. She’d have been pretty helpful around now.<</if>> Maybe there’s another way. That bouncer wasn’t exactly ‘hands on’ with his inspections—which is outright neglectful. Why didn’t Plume give you //this// job? Checking bellies all afternoon is perfectly within your wheelhouse. Since legitimately following the rules is out of the question—thanks, biology—you’ll need to find a way to fake carrying prey. It’s that or waiting for a shift change, and who knows when someone more sympathetic to your task will be at the door. You slink away toward a nearby eatery as the winner lunges for her partner, then dip into the alley between the buildings. It takes a moment of rifling through some open crates, but you eventually find what you’re looking for: a sack of grain. Now all you have to do is hide the lump under your shirt— //Shitfuckinggoddamnit// that’s heavy. Really gives you an appreciation for how strong Havendorians are, easily carrying twice as much weight without an ounce of back pain. You can barely heft the damn thing at all, let alone worry about tucking it under your tunic and actually walking around. And is one really going to cut it? You shuffle a step back, then look down at your middle. It’s definitely a bulge, but you’d have a hard time believing a whole person was tucked away beneath your shirt. Maybe you can tuck your top into the sash really tight and pour the grain down your shirt? It might take two, or even three, and at that point— “What are you doing?” You nearly jump up the side of the building as the sack slips from beneath your tunic and misses your toes by mere inches. Frantic, you wheel about to find a familiar figure—the woman you spotted outside the Dragonfly. She’s small, easily a head shorter than you, dressed in a cream shift and brown trousers. A red ribbon adorns her bob of jet black hair like a party crown. [[“It’s not what it looks like.”|Pred Envy]]<</linkreplace>>

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "dunk">>You head toward the river, though due to its calm current and perceived shallowness, it might be more reasonable to call it a brook or a creek. Perhaps a tributary? You peer studiously up and down the waterway in search of other identifying features. A moment’s pondering is spent considering if this could be an oxbow, though you’re quick to assure yourself that those don’t ‘flow’ the way this channel does. Oh, maybe it’s an aqueduct, or even an old irrigation canal. Why are you bothering with vernacular? Is this area otherwise indescribable to the conscious mind? Is there some subconscious and dire need to distract yourself from the fundamental truth of this location? Yes. Yes there is. About two dozen very full predators are strewn about the shoreline comparing gut sizes, laughing in small social circles, or simply lounging in the sun with a ‘friend.’ Your admittedly addled gaze struggles to find even a single unfilled belly. To make matters worse, the folk who //aren’t// wearing skin-exposing swimsuits are draped in clingy, dripping-wet clothes which fail to hide even an ounce of bare predation and naked voraciousness. This is heaven. You must have been disintegrated by that wall of magic in the middle of the road, and now you’re getting flashes of the afterlife. //Fucking finally.// You saved an entire city. It’s about time you were rewarded with something nice. Steadying your breathing and checking your chin for drool, you press onward, locked onto a demi woman in a plain vest. She wears an expression of mixed boredom and dissatisfaction while standing beside a basket of rocks—which is odd, but you’re certain there’s a reasonable explanation. A flicker of a brown racoon ear acknowledges your approach. The short woman turns to face you, and mercifully, she’s the only person in sight without prey of her own, which means you stand a chance at acting normally. //‘Hello, please eat me.’// “Uh, hi. I’m—” “You looking to win a Buck, or hoping to take the plunge yourself?” she says with all the cheer of a gravekeeper, then gestures to a strange wooden tower spanning the… stream. Yeah, it’s definitely a stream. The woodwork itself looks sturdy enough, with solid struts supporting a small platform that sits about ten feet above the water. A wooden ladder provides easy access, but the far more curious detail is a thin pole jutting from the main structure with a bullseye painted on an affixed circular disc, like the kind you’d find at an archery range. A conundrum for another time. Instead, you turn back to the attendant and furrow your brow. “Erm, I’m actually looking for Viggo. He’s supposed to be working somewhere around the sandlots?” She shrugs and grumbles like a disgruntled part-timer on the last minute of her mandated fifteen-minute break. “Dunno. I’m just here covering my girlfriend’s shift. She’s uh… //Somebody else// has her right now.” The woman glares daggers toward a human squeezing her stomach mockingly. “It’s fine. I’m not annoyed, or anything.” “I can see that,” you say, taking a subtle step back. Once safely out of arm’s reach, you gesture to the strange wooden tower in a bid to change the subject. “What’s all this, then?” “I think she called it the Plunger, or somethin’,” the demi says in a way that gives you zero confidence in her answer. She points over at the painted boom. “You hit the target with a rock, or whatever, and the trap door falls out.” You raise an eyebrow at the contraption. “Is it… safe?” “Yeah. My girlfriend’s a carpenter—well, an apprentice—but she’s good at this shit. It //works.”// The racoon breaks eye contact. “… It’s just a pain in the ass to reset,” she adds a moment later. “And the people in the stream?” “They’re swimming. Duh.” At your knotted brow, she continues. “They catch anyone who falls.” “With their arms?” The racoon woman throws her hands up in frustration. “Are you an idiot?” She points an accusatory finger over at the same woman she glared at before. “In their mouths. You fall; you get eaten.” “Mhm, gotcha.” You nod your head toward the steam at one face in particular—the one with the strange whiskers—just before she suddenly dives beneath the surface, a finned tail briefly flapping in her wake. “And who is that?” The attendant peers and nods as the mermaid resurfaces. “Who, Ines? She’s a catfish. Been here all morning—She’s obnoxiously good at this game. She’ll snap you up before you even hit the water. It’s hilarious.” “Uhh, she’s not gonna like, swim away with me, right?” “She prefers catch and release.” … Was that a fishing joke? Is that impolite? You shake your head, then sigh. “Have you seen a man named Viggo around the sandlots?” “How am I supposed to know who the fuck that is?” This lady is insufferable. While it wouldn’t be difficult for you to simply walk away now and search elsewhere for Viggo, there is an alternative before your very eyes: Ines. If she’s been here playing since the start of the wedding, there’s a chance she might have seen Viggo. She might even be less of a jerk than this racoon. “So how do I actually play?” you ask. “One person stands on the platform and the other gets three throws to try and knock ‘em in. If you miss, you swap, and so on until somebody falls in. If you’re dry at the end, you get a Buck. Super simple.” “And I can challenge anyone I want?” “Gods you ask too many questions,” she groans not-at-all under her breath, checking over the basket of rocks disinterestedly. “Yes. Obviously. Ask one of the swimmers, or whatever.” <<linkreplace "“I choose you.”">>“I choose you.” The demi stares blankly at your accusatory finger for a solid five seconds before her lips abruptly curl to a thoroughly displeased scowl. “Ughhh! You suck!” She huffs out a frustrated growl. “Fine. Wait for me to get up there, then take your shots,” she says, then storms off. The racoon’s halfway up the ladder when she whips around and yells, “I swear, if you hit me with one of those rocks, I’m eating you myself.” As cathartic as it might be to serve this bratty woman her comeuppance, you ought to consider your objective: talking to the mermaid. Should you try to knock a free meal into the water to get on the monster girl’s good side? Or should you take the plunge yourself and try to cozy up to her that way? //You could be her chum.// Very funny, brain. [[Botch your throws|Maybe if you split your chest open first, you’d throw better][$Ines1 to "wet"]] [[Try and dunk this sassy racoon|Fish Out of Water][$Ines1 to "dry", $Bucks ++]]<</linkreplace>>

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "cyclops">>It’s time to <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 3>>finally <</if>>sate your curiosity and head over to the rowdy group of onlookers surrounding the largest lot. On the approach, you nearly bump into… well, a bump. The predator doesn’t even notice your clumsy sidestep, instead skipping cheerfully across the grass to catch up with a friend. You watch the pair bounce away as you catch your breath, then wrench your attention back toward your goal. You push through a throng of idling bodies to get a better look. A battered stack of hay bales rests beside the oval of sand, alongside a pair of sheds locked up for the celebration. If you had to guess, this area might normally be used for a martial purpose—perhaps as an archery range or wrestling ring. But it’s not potential land uses or the teeming crowd that drew you here… She’s twenty feet tall with legs you could climb. A huge pair of well-fitting capris rise from the shin up to her waist where a simple rope cord wraps around her hips. Her midriff is bare, the lean, flat stomach exposed from navel to ribs, where a cropped top takes over. The strands of twisted twine dangling from her bust give her a vaguely flower-child vibe, and the cascade of bead-laden blonde hair, slight nose, and scattered freckles only support— Oh damn, she’s a cyclops. The skillful brushstroke of red eyeliner blurs the fact, but the single eye is unmistakable. Furthermore, she’s not at all the embodiment of the usual myth springing forth from your mind: she’s surprisingly skinny and, between the makeup, the earthen lipstick, and the manicured fingernails, downright gorgeous. A charming smile brightens her face as she waves to the gathered crowd. A shouting voice draws everyone’s attention to the edge of the sandlot. The giant leans forward and levels her hand for the speaker, then lifts a stout, sturdy man wearing a loop of rope around his waist. “Any strong folk out there!?” he cries as his ‘platform’ ascends above the crowd. “Tug of war with a giant! We added another slot and we need one more person to play!” You peer through the crowd toward the cyclops’ shins and spot four more well-built people all tied together by the same cord. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the sand pit, reveling in the crowd’s cheers. And granted, they sure as hell look strong. Snap-trees-like-twigs strong. But… they’re up against a twenty-foot tall monster. Even with her slender proportions, you can’t imagine these folk stand a chance at winning a strongman competition. Still though: there’s an empty spot on the rope with your name on it. Could be fun… He gestures to the one-eyed woman. “Menardi beat the five of us last time, so we’re gonna try with six now.” Her cheery demeanor shifts, as if suddenly donning a boastful mask. “Beat? It was hardly even a challenge, Sven. But if you //puny// humans wish to be //devoured// again…” the giant teases, her voice startlingly soft-spoken for someone four times your size. She flashes a playful grin and bites her lip. “Who am I to say no?” A peel of laughter erupts from the crowd, whoops and hollers ringing out as the man turns a flushed red. He fishes something from his pocket, then raises his arm, sleeve falling to show off bumpy muscles. “Any takers? I’ve got a Buck for anyone who helps pull her over the line.” [[Try it|GIANT][$Menardi to "wet", $Bucks ++]] [[Just watch|Beauty, and its location][$Menardi to "dry"]]

“So, you had questions?” you ask as you and Amelie walk away from the restaurant. Now that you’re standing closer together, you can’t help but notice a certain nervous energy radiating from the satyr with each bounding step of her digitigrade legs. “Oh, yes!” she chirps, then hesitates to consider her words. “Sherine said you’re an adventurer, right? “Uhh, yeah.” The two of you round a corner onto a more secluded avenue as you gingerly peel back the parchment on your roll—here’s hoping it tastes every bit as good as it smells. A hand alights on your shoulder, the gentle press forcing you to the streetside until you’re pinned firmly against a wooden wall. Amelie looms, eagerness swirling in verdant eyes. <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>>Goddamnit, not again.<<else>>Oh goddamnit, how did you not see this coming?<</if>> Now how are you going to enjoy your roll? Can you take it in with you? “Since you’re on the road so often, maybe…” the satyr begins, shuffling an inch closer. Yep, here it comes… She moves again, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off of her. “Maybe you’d like something a little more filling?” You blink, staring up at the woman, trying to process the words still rattling around in your skull. “… What?” you eventually manage, profoundly lame. “Well, you know…” Amelie hesitates, eyes flitting from your own as she fitfully chews her lip. A deep blush colors her cheeks. “Rather than that roll, maybe you could have… me?” A long, awkward silence passes between the two of you as your mind slowly ratchets itself back into some semblance of working order. Even then, it still takes far, //far// longer than it should for you to realize what the satyr is offering. “Oh!” you suddenly blurt out, then again. “Oh. I- I, uhh… That’s…” You stammer yourself silly, no doubt looking every bit the flustered mess you feel. What the hell are you supposed to do in an instance like this? Say no, obviously, since you’re pretty sure that if you tried, the endeavor would end in either death or grievous injury. “I- I can’t,” you eventually say. <<if $Vegan == true>>“I’m a vegan.” Amelie blinks. “Oh wow, really? It must be so hard finding an alraune or a dryad to eat every day.” Evergreen eyes regard you with awe. “How do you do it?” … //What?// No, stop. Deal with the insane implications of that statement later.<<else>>“It’s a, uhh… religious thing.” Amelie tilts her head quizzically. “That sounds like it must be very difficult for you.”<</if>> “I, uhm… Yeah. It’s really tough. But I make do.” The satyr buries her face in her hands and lets out a slight groan. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just thought since you were wearing that—” she gestures to the scarf around your waist “—I just, I figured you were available for some fun.” “Wait, it… Why? What is this thing?” “You don’t know?” Her lips quirk to a curious frown. “It’s a support scarf, meant to hold your belly up comfortably.” “Oh…” you manage, suddenly feeling deeply foolish<<if $Khobb1 != false>>… and perhaps more than a little misled. Seriously, why did <<= $Khobb1>> let you wear this thing?<</if>> “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d be giving people the wrong impression.” “It’s alright. There’s multiple ways to wear it—I shouldn’t have assumed.” Amelie gives you a final glance, looking perhaps the slightest bit disappointed. After a moment, she clears her throat. “Well, uhm, if you change your mind… I’m lending out a few sets of carved dice for gambling later tonight, so… I’ll be around, makin’ sure they play well.” She nods, seemingly to reassure herself. “See you, <<= $name>>. A- And sorry again.” She departs, leaving you alone on the secluded side street. Almost on instinct, you decide to take a bite of your snack, then spend a minute thoughtfully chewing as you try and work over what the hell just happened. Should you remove the support scarf? Sure, it might avoid future confusion down the road, but then again, maybe it’ll make you less of a target<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>>—not that Auri seemed to care. Or maybe she was just as ignorant as you<</if>>. One thing is certain: Stuffed Forest Rolls are really fucking good. Eventually enriched—in sustenance, not knowledge—you decide it’s about time you <<if $KhobbClues == 3>>reported back to Rabine. There’s no sense delaying any further, even if you don’t have the best of news to share<<else>>get back to the search. Now you just need to figure out where you’re going to look next<</if>>. <<include "Khobb_Navigator">>

Ashlyn presses a finger against your chest. “Want me to finish you?” You blush. “I- I came.” “That’s not what I meant.” She licks her lips. Oh… You’re barely even able to stand right now. There’s nothing you love more than to crawl inside her gut and recuperate— “You’re actually considering it! You’re insane, I love it.” Ashlyn hardly gives you a moment’s breath before pushing you against the wall. “Were you thinking about it when I was sucking your dick? How I could have just gobbled all of you up then and there and let you cum all the way down into my gut.” “… I’m thinking about it now.” The mage cackles. “Mm, maybe later. Depends on how drunk I get. But for now, I got what I needed from you. C’mon, let’s get back to the party.” You do your best to wipe yourself dry, then shuffle back into your trousers. Ashlyn, on the other hand, slips her lacy underwear back on without a care then glides a finger across your forehead, fixing and adjusting your hair. And now, for the hard part. You muster up all the confidence you possibly can, then follow as the mage leads the way out of the alley. You’re halfway through reviewing the events that just transpired when something strikes you. You lurch forward and grab the mage by the shoulder and yank her to a halt. “Wait. Hold up. What did you mean, ‘what you needed?’” You press an accusatory finger against her abdomen. “That’s suspicious.” She pouts, which is an utterly absurd expression for someone as chaotic as her. “You don’t trust me?” “No.” “Good. You shouldn’t.” She flashes a wicked smirk. “I absorbed your orgasmic energy.” You stare at the mage for a long and deeply incredulous moment, trying to figure out if she’s being serious. Given the potential consequences, it’s better to assume she is. “Like Calisia did to you yesterday?!” “Damn right!” she cheers. “Your cum will empower my magic, or at least, it’s gonna. I’m still working on it—It’s only the rough outline of a spell right now, but I feel at least ten percent more powerful right now.” You roll your eyes. “That might be the adrenaline.” “Maybe! But now I can execute the next phase of my plan.” “Plan to wh—” You balk, realization hitting you like a sack of bricks. “You can’t be serious. You’re actually trying to eat Plume!?” “I need that little fucker’s magic inside me //so bad.// You have no idea how much I want it.” She sweeps a hand at the nearby wall, but you’re pretty sure she’s gesturing to the festival in a broad sense. “Imagine if I had this kind of power. I could take over a small kingdom—Maybe Kalibalt, they’re due for a regime change anyway.” “Ashlyn, that’s insane. No, strike that. It’s fucking suicidal. She’s way too powerful.” “Nonsense. I’ve been reinforcing my stomach lining with entrapment spells since the moment I saw her. I’m gonna bind that bitch, wait until her fancy little spell runs out, and digest the shit out of her.” Ashlyn brushes against your side, her brow still visibly slicked with sweat. “I’ll make you second in command if you help me catch her. You can live and die in any belly you want. //A-ny-one.// Just point at a throat, and it’s yours to slide down. If you make my dreams come true, I’ll do the same for you.” “Your dreams sound like nightmares.” She shrugs. “I can never tell the difference.” Ashlyn leads the rest of the way out of the alley, then slaps you on the ass and bids you farewell. She returns to her perch across from the ongoing magic show—her illusion has looped back around to the glitter part of the show and is presently dousing unsuspecting passersby with golden flecks. You take a few wobbly steps back onto the main avenue of Khobb, then lean against a building to catch your breath. It actually does feel like she took something from you, a tiny scrape of your life peeled away, though this is less like black magic and more like… exfoliation? You’re somehow cleaner despite what you just did.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 14>> You chuckle. She’d hate the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest right now, but you have to admit she’s really grown on you since you first met. You look forward to hooking up and experimenting with her further.<</if>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>>A nearby //slosh// catches your attention. You look up just in time to witness a stuffed stomach pass by. … What were you supposed to be doing again? Oh right, ‘saving’ the wedding.<<else>>Your stomach growls. Apparently you’ve worked up an appetite. Perhaps you should go do something about that before getting back to the search?<</if>> <<include "Khobb_Navigator">>

“I- It’s not what it looks like,” you whimper, attempting to inconspicuously nudge the sack of grain behind a nearby crate. What exactly //does// it look like? Pred envy? Is stuffing things down your shirt and pretending you have prey the equivalent of checking yourself out in the mirror naked after a meager two visits to the gym? If you were a native, this would probably be one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. The woman, however, regards you only with a quiet curiosity, eyes flitting between the grain and yourself. Suddenly, she lights up. “Oh! You’re trying to fake a belly to get into the Dragonfly.” You wince. “Please don’t tell the bouncer.” “Oh no, of course not. I- I wouldn’t…” She falls silent, fidgeting from one foot to the other. After a hesitant moment, she tries on an optimistic smile. “I- It’s actually pretty clever. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you… also trying to sneak in?” A furious blush blooms across her cheeks. “N- Not, exactly… I was hoping to get in the normal way, but…” Pink deepens to a brilliant scarlet as the woman seems to shrink in on herself. “I haven’t, uhm. I- I don’t…” She steals a glance back toward the street, then takes another step into the alleyway. Some distant corner of your brain sounds the alarm, though it’s distant and muted beyond the general buzz of awkwardness and lingering embarrassment. A frown wavers across her face as she fails to make eye contact thrice. She wraps both arms across her front and tucks her wrists out of sight. She sighs, then slouches as if in defeat. “I’ve never eaten anyone,” she mewls. Oh… “Well,” you start, a deep blush spreading across your face. “I mean, this party’s probably the best day to practice, right? No consequences if you fail.” “Th- That’s true, I guess. I- I turned eighteen a couple months ago, a- and was hoping to try it today, but I just haven’t worked up the confidence… yet.” She kicks at a coil of rope lying on the ground. “I //live// here, everyone in Khobb knows me, so it would be really embarrassing if I mess up my first time.” “Do you, uhm, have anyone picked out? Somebody who looks, uhm… tasty?” She fidgets, eyes still fixed firmly on the alley floor. “I, uhh… M- Maybe I… I- It’s not like I’ve fantasized about it before, or watched someone and drooled while thinking about it. I //like// my neighbors, I wouldn’t want them to be wary around me.” You clear your throat awkwardly. “I mean, you don’t have to go ‘hunting’ or anything intense like that. Maybe you could… ask a friend if they’d be willing to help you try it out?” “Oh gosh, no no. That’s so embarrassing.” She recoils at the thought, wrapping her arms around her middle a bit tighter. “M- Maybe I’m just not predator material. Especially if I can’t even work up the nerve to… to…” She finally dares a single glance in your direction, hardly more than a furtive flash of hazel. Oh wait. She has someone picked out. … Why do these things happen to you so often? //Don’t avoid this opportunity, you coward. It’s your best bet. In and out. You can do it.// <<linkreplace "“You can eat me if you want.”">>“You can eat me if you want.” She jolts in surprise, then blinks at you with wide, astonished eyes. “R- Really?” “Y- Yeah, I guess. I- I mean, I //do// need to get into the Dragonfly, and I’m uh—” You falter, realizing you probably //shouldn’t// openly admit your unique disability. “I already ate, so finding someone to go with me is out of the question. Wouldn’t wanna be rude. So yeah, I would appreciate a ride-along.” She tilts her head. “What do you need to do in there?” “I’m looking for the groom’s sister. Need to ask her something about the ceremony.” //‘Hey, have you seen a lump the shape of your brother, by any chance?’// “I know Rhys!” A bright smile breaks the shadow of doubt on the stranger’s face. “I can ask for you.” “That’s the hope,” you say, offering a smile back. “So, I let you eat me for a little while, and you help me out by asking after her brother. What do you think?” “Oh, I uh…” The awkward flush returns, vibrant as ever. “I- I mean, I guess if… if you’re okay with it. But then, where… oh gods, I didn’t actually think I’d get this far…” “Right here is fine. This alley is secluded, nobody will see. A- And you can take as long as you need to get me down, I promise I won’t find it embarrassing—” This is a new low. You’ve escaped fearsome predators in your time in Havendor, and now you’re //encouraging// someone to devour you, holding their hand through a practice run for some cool gastric murder. Providing moral support for this shy, petite, demure— //Ugh, yes, she’s disgustingly adorable. Just feed her already!// A blushing smile burns your cheeks as you place both your wrists in her open palms. “I’m sure you’ll be great at it. And I’ll try to help however I can. Y’know, not struggle or anything.” “Th- Thank you. That’s wonderful, thank you so much. You’re so kind.” Her gaze shifts from your face to your arms, then back again as a slight frown curls at her lips. “Oh, I uhm… Where do I start?” You lift your hands, still in her soft grasp. “Right. Of course. Duh.” She laughs, a mix of nervous and relieved. “Silly me.” Your fingers waver near her trembling lips for a long moment before you decide to offer another word of encouragement. “It’s okay, just, uh… Go for it.” She sucks in a breath, then lunges forward, taking both hands at once. Her tongue immediately dances across your palms, then dives between your fingers, eager and awkwardly uncertain in equal measure. Her cheeks bulge as hazel eyes meet your own, an odd expression coloring her features. It’s a curiously intimate moment in a way, shared by two strangers in a secluded corner of this town-wide celebration. You press your palms together in preparation for the plunge. “Oh, uhm, My name’s <<= $name>>, by the way.” Her eyes widen in alarm. All at once, she wrenches your hands from her mouth. “Goodness, how rude of me. I was so distracted.” She licks a dangling strand of saliva from her lips. “I’m pleased to meet you, <<= $name>>. I’m Auri.” “Hello, Auri.” You steel yourself against imminent cringe. “I’m happy to, uh, be your first.” [[So this is happening…|Shooz]]<</linkreplace>>

Auri beams, only for the smile to grow a whole lot wider as she lunges once more. Your hands slip into her mouth and are immediately funneled right down her throat by an eager gulp—apparently she got enough flavor out of them the first time around. As a second swallow takes your wrists, you try to wrack your brain on how exactly you can help—be your best prey, and all that. Not struggling seems like a good start, as does offering a relatively streamlined form. To that effect, you press your arms together as Auri’s lips gradually work their way further up the offered limbs. The woman slows a bit after the initial outburst of enthusiasm, her eyes returning to your own. With her diminutive stature, she’s beginning to strain as she approaches your biceps, practically rising onto her toes. The image is almost ridiculous; you’re all but certain Auri could force you to your knees with a light push. “Here, let me help,” you offer with a warm smile. Gently, you try to lower yourself down while hoping to avoid throwing the novice predator off balance. You arrive at an approximate of a light squat, then duck your head between your arms and pose yourself like a swimmer mid-dive. It’s not //that// inapt of an analogy, only this particular body of water is a bit more insistent about your imminent immersion. Suckling lips encompass the crown of your head, strands of saliva dripping down your hair. A slight hum begets a tongue lapping at your forehead, only for the inquisitive organ to abruptly retreat after accidentally prodding an eye. //“Shorry,”// Auri murmurs. Before you can respond, lithe hands grasp under your shoulders and pull, ushering you a good six inches inward over the span of three rapid gulps, as if she’s rushing to avoid a repeat faux pas. You’d offer reassurance if you could, but you’re not exactly keen on earning a mouthful of spit for your trouble. Instead, you wait and, when pertinent, attempt to gingerly push yourself deeper while Auri’s lips work their way over your shoulders and start the long climb—or perhaps descent—across your torso. As it turns out, your posture works pretty much perfectly. For every inch the woman takes, you simply rise a bit further and crawl right into her waiting maw. The first-timer gradually bends in turn—a sort of bizarre, asymmetrical gymnastics routine that, to an outside observer, must look absolutely ridiculous. Unfortunately, the give and take reaches its limit around the time your head breaches the more expansive chamber of Auri’s stomach as the woman works her way down your abdomen. Even with your legs fully extended, she’d need to double over in order to keep going. In your—admittedly mostly fictional—observations, this is around the time where a more experienced predator would grab their prey and flip them upside down. Auri, however, seems to be hesitating, hands roaming along your thighs as a worried hum resonates through your surroundings. “It’s okay,” you call out, hoping she can hear. “Just grab and lift my hips. I don’t mind.” After a final awkward pause, Auri finds a satisfactory hold, then suddenly wrenches upward, sending your legs skyward and righting herself in a single, relatively graceful motion… right before the excess momentum sends you both careening into the alley wall. Auri drops with a thud and a resonant //oof,// while you’re left to rattle around her effectively padded insides and suffer no worse than a slightly stubbed toe. “You okay?” you call out. The woman groans, then lets out a sort of awkward hum, the intent of which you can’t quite intuit. When the swallows resume—while Auri’s still sitting down, no less—you resolve she’s alright. The freshman predator takes your waist with a few relatively easy swallows, promising that the rest of your ingestion should be smooth sailing. As familiar, sweltering heat works its way down your thighs, you try your best to curl up into a comfortable ball all while marveling at how relatively smoothly this is all going. Sure, there were a few minor hiccups, but you can’t imagine you’d handle this even half as well. The strength and elastic organs help, of course, but you can’t help but wonder if this is just second nature for Havendorians—once they start, the body sort of just… //knows// what to do. Your musings are interrupted as Auri’s lips abruptly stop at your ankles, leaving your feet dangling outside her mouth. You give a light kick, more a gentle reminder than any expression of irritation. //“Orr thooz,”// Auri says. You blink the darkness. “What?” //“Orr thooz,”// she reiterates, then taps your feet. //“Wuh ooo I ooo wih orr thooz?”// It takes a long, baffling moment before you figure it out. “Oh. My //shoes.// Uhh…” You hesitate, realizing you’ve never really had to consider this end of the predator-prey accommodation spectrum. Usually the one doing the eating makes these calls. “You can take them off if you’d prefer,” you eventually answer. “Just don’t lose them, please.” //“Oh-ay,”// she chirps. She pops your shoes off one at a time before an almost languid swallow brings your feet into her mouth. Almost immediately, Auri reclines her head, and one last, resonant gulp sends the last of you down her throat and into her waiting stomach. [[Get cozy|2Shy2Pred]]

You spend a few moments getting comfortable—a task which proves remarkably easy. For all Auri’s nervousness, her stomach is more than accommodating, sort and luxuriantly warm and entirely free of any other unpleasantries like partially digested food. And lest you forgot, there’s absolutely no risk of digestion… not that Plume’s reassurance stops you from dipping an experimental finger in the liquids that surround your ankles, just in case. When the test yields no tingle or burn, you allow yourself to relax entirely, joining your predator in deep, soothing breaths as the stress starts melting away. Figuratively, of course. A minute passes in steady silence, then another. Your only stimuli from the outside world are Auri’s hands as they trace lazy, almost reverent circles over her swollen abdomen, offering the occasional gentle pat or light squeeze, as if she’s still coming to terms with the newfound sensation. Another full sixty seconds pass before you decide it might be in your best interest to reach out. “Uhm, Auri?” you start hesitantly. The woman jolts and lets out a slight squeak. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, <<= $name>>. I guess I was a bit distracted. It’s so wonderful, exactly like I…” She lurches again, accompanied by another muffled squeal. “My hands! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about it. I was just sort of—” “It’s fine,” you hastily assure her. “I didn’t mind. It was nice, like a sort of massage.” You run a hand along the folds of her stomach walls. “It’s very comfy in here, actually.” Fingers tap-tap from beyond taut skin in a sort of giddy dance. “Oh, that’s wonderful to hear! Was it alright going down? Aside from the fall, of course.” “You were great; don’t worry about it.” Another moment passes, quiet save for the faint organic thrum of your surroundings and a muffled, distinctly pleased hum from your hostess. Unfortunately, a dutiful urge nags at the back of your mind, compelling you to action. “Err, Auri?” you prod once more. “Yes?” “When you’re ready, could we start heading for the Dragonfly?” “Right! Sorry!” Auri abruptly rises to her feet, then nearly keels right back over based on the sudden lurch from beyond your near-sightless accommodations. You hear the woman take slow, steady breaths before attempting another step—slow, but steadier than the first. “Everything okay?” “Y- Yes,” Auri manages, sounding a bit strained. “It’s a bit… harder than I was expecting. I just don’t want to fall. //Again,”// she adds in a meek voice. “You’re doing fine,” you assure her. She’s doing a whole hell of a lot better than you would be if the roles were reversed, at least. <<linkreplace "Wait patiently">>After a minute of awkward experimentation, Auri manages an approximation of a normal walk, and a few moments later, you hear the familiar voice of the bouncer drifting from beyond the stomach walls. “Didn’t expect to see you drop by, Auri. Who’s the lucky guest?” Two hands cradle your form in tender embrace. “It’s a secret,” she murmurs bashfully. The bouncer chuckles. “Suit yourself. Enjoy.” Motion resumes as Auri presumably steps inside, though what sights await within the lounge will have to be left to your imagination. For all the many upsides your current accommodations afford, an excellent view is definitely //not// one of them. “So, what’s so special about the Dragonfly, anyway?” you ask instead. “What do they do here?” Your hostess pauses. “You don’t know?” “Sorry, I’m not from around here.” “It’s sappica.” “What?” “Sappica. Maybe you know it by a different name? I’ve heard it’s popular… well, just about everywhere in Havendor.” That’s fair. You’re not much of an expert on local delicacies. //Aside from yourself, of course.// “So, uhm, what is this ‘sappica,’ anyway?” “It’s a—Oh, right!” Auri suddenly lurches. “You only wanted to come in here to talk to Rhys, right? I’m sorry, I was so caught up in everything else I guess I forgot.” She spends a moment shifting from side to side. “I- Is it alright if we try a bit first? I’ve just wanted to do this for a long time; it’s always sounded so relaxing.” You debate mentioning that Auri never explained what sappica is or why exactly she’s so eager to try it, but truth be told, she’s just so perky and considerate that you couldn’t bring yourself to say no even if you wanted to. Instead, you wait patiently as your hostess settles down at some sort of table or booth, then sit in silence for a moment, trying to listen to the external ambience and get a feel for what sort of lounge the Dragonfly is. You can’t hear much in the way of music, and any nearby conversations are hushed enough that they’re almost entirely lost beneath the soft gurgles and groans of your more immediate surroundings. “Y’know,” Auri suddenly chimes. “It just occurred to me that I probably shouldn’t have followed someone who was looking for a meal into an alleyway. That was a bit silly, wasn’t it?” She gently pats the top of your head. “Lucky for me, you turned out to be a total sweetheart.” “Uhm… thanks,” you say, not entirely sure how to respond. The more apt term might be ‘harmless to the point of outright farce,’ but you don’t see the need to correct her. A satisfied hum precedes a few more eager taps across your shoulders before Auri shuffles, then seems to lean forward. “Okay, so… I’ve never actually done this before, obviously.” She pauses to chuckle. “But I think I just take this pipe and—Oh! Hmm…” The woman spends a moment shifting about. A voice drifts from beyond your fleshy confines, closer than the others, but not quite clear enough to discern any particular words. “Like this?” Auri says—you get the sense she’s not talking to you. “Ah, got it. Thanks!” The whole chamber tightens as she draws a deep breath, then slumps as she exhales. You spill across her lap, the organic walls thinning and stretching as you’re allotted more space. Muscles release and relax amid the gentle slosh. You try to match her breathing when you suddenly get a lungful of something mildly earthy. [[Is that smoke?|MC Gets Hotboxed]]<</linkreplace>>

… Are stomachs fireproof? “Auri?” you start somewhat nervously. “Everything alright out there?” “Yeah, I—” She coughs, caught unaware by a sudden draft. A protective hand finds the back of your head and holds you close as her body rocks and jerks in an attempt to expel the surprise vapor. “Whew, sorry. I did that wrong and was //not// expecting that much all at once. Are you feeling it?” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, then blink away a tear. Your eyes are watering from the smoke, but you otherwise seem fine. Perhaps a little more… lethargic that expected, but from your experiences so far, the thick atmosphere inside a stomach tends to be a bit draining—probably something to do with the amount of oxygen filtered through your predator. Oh, this suddenly makes a lot of sense. “Are you //smoking// the sappica?” “Yeah, that’s how you—” She gasps. “I’m sorry! I got so caught up in it that I never fully explained it to you. That’s the whole reason you need to bring a guest with you into the Dragonfly; you’re supposed to share sappica. It’s supposed to be overwhelming alone, but apparently when two people do it, it’s very pleasant.” The temperature rises a degree, and you can just tell that Auri is blushing. “At least, it is for me. Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?” You draw a long breath, then push out a puff. The thick miasma has nowhere to go, unfortunately, so all you can do is breathe it back in again a moment later. Lesson learned from Auri, you suck in a shallow amount this time, absorbing as much of it as you can through your lungs. A prickle dances across your chest scar in a slight twinge, then dissipates. In its wake a cool, bubbling sensation spills forth—the absence of pain. A drifting hand shifts to touch it, and you find your fingertips numb and disconnected. “Woah yeah. Okay, I’m…” The words spill from your mouth in a mealy way, like you’re spitting out a mushy apple. Your tongue feels too large for your mouth, somehow, but you try again anyway. “You’re sure this is safe?” some prudent part of you says. An answer rains down from above, though the syllables have barely any meaning. The noises are a pleasant overture to the symphony of gentle burbles and glorps. You roll your shoulders in a confusing circle before finding your hands once more and pressing against something elastic as another gulp of smoke fills the sack. Another breath. This time you really feel it all the way down to your bones, your tissue, your very fiber. Even as deep as the stomach itself. The lining, the liquid, every ounce of blood coursing around and through you. Heart, lungs, the very pulse of life itself is all interwoven, all connected to itself, to her, to you. You’re but a pleasant speck, a happy little node in the vast network of life teeming and stretching across the entirety of existence. @@text-shadow: 3px 0 6px #B2B2B2;[[In fact, you’re pretty sure you’re god|Apotheosis Denied]]@@

“… <<= $name>>? You alright in there?” Apotheosis denied, you blink back to reality. You don’t see anything in the pitch blackness, but the fact that you even have eyelids is enough of an anchor. “Think I’ve had enough,” you manage through the haze. You push and shove—or at least, you command your body to do so. There’s no way to tell if you actually managed to do anything. “Yeah, I’m feeling pretty… Yeah.” Auri sits in silence for a few centuries. You can feel yourself spreading metaphorical roots by the time she speaks again. “Who am I supposed to ask about again?” Languid, useless, you slouch forward to put your head in your hands. You heard the question. The words are edible, or something, but answers are aloof. “Uhm… I can’t remember. Can you uh, squeeze some air out of here? It’s hazy and I… can’t think straight.” “Sorry about that. I’ll have to practice breathing with my prey next time.” “Heh, I’m prey.” You giggle like an idiot as Auri’s arm wraps around and clutch you tight. The gut decompresses like an airlock, the smoke clearing drastically as she exhales. //“Hurp.// ‘Scuse me.” She’s a natural. Aside from a clearer head, you feel strangely proud to have helped this person with their first predation. Hopefully now she’ll have the confidence to eat anyone she wants. … Is that an insane thought? Are there still too many drugs in your system? Auri suddenly sits upright. “Rhys! That’s it, I remember now. Let me just…” Auri trails off as she slowly rises from her seat and presumably turns to survey the surrounding room. “I… just need to remember what Rhys looks like.” In retrospect, you probably handled this in the wrong order. [[Try to focus|Carry On My Wayward Son]]

“Maybe you could, uhm, ask around?” you suggest. “Check if anyone else has seen her, or knows where she might be?” “Oh, yeah! That’s a good idea, <<= $name>>.” She gently pats the top of your head—a loving gesture that’s starting to become weirdly regular. The next several minutes pass in a blur of partially overheard conversations. You can always hear what Auri’s asking, but the responses—y’know, the //useful// part—prove a bit more hit and miss. To make matters worse, your hostess frequently forgets to relay the information to you, but you suppose that’s ultimately less important than acting upon it herself. Just as you’re settling into your role as a passive observer in this particular investigation, a more optimistic response from Auri catches your attention. “Oh, any idea where she was heading?” While you can’t quite understand the full answer, a faint “… the back…” and “… should still catch her…” cues you into the broad strokes. “Thank you!” Auri cheers, then wheels about and sets off for her next destination. A hand rests on your shoulder. “Good news, <<= $name>>. Meghan said she just saw Rhys head into the back room—I guess that’s where patrons go if they want to let their partner out for a few minutes, or switch places. Isn’t that convenient?” She carries on without waiting for a response, the low hum of the lounge’s ambient chatter fading with every step. Auri pushes past some sort of partition, then immediately grinds to a halt. “Ah, oh,” she mumbles, thumping her thumb against the back of your neck. “Uhm… h- hi, Rhys.” Someone responds, distant and muffled—two someones, actually, though the second is even less audible than the first. Auri sways on her feet. “Uh, y- yes. I wanted to—Err, actually, <<= $name>> here wanted to…” She falters, then lowers her voice to a hushed murmur. “Uhm, <<= $name>>. Why did you want to talk to Rhys again?” Before you can respond, she suddenly adds, “Oh, and we should probably hurry. Her girlfriend’s in the middle of eating her, and she’s looking kinda impatient.” Fair enough; time is of the essence. “We’re looking for Arturo, her brother. And the groom.” Auri hastily relays your explanation, then listens patiently. “Oh, okay!” she eventually chirps. “Thank you, Rhys. I’ll, uhh… get going.” As your hostess turns to leave, you swear you can just barely make out the faintest //gulp// through the stomach walls. The wet chamber bounces and sways as you’re carried across what sounds like a wooden floor and through a set of doors. You wait until you’re reasonably certain Auri is back outside the Dragonfly, then prod gently. “So, what’d she say?” “She hasn’t seen Arturo since earlier this morning, but apparently he was with Viggo—that’s a good friend of his.” <<if $KhobbClues == 3>>Well, damn. That’s not helpful at all. Both Viggo //and// his lead already proved to be duds. You were really counting on Rhys giving you more to work with. And it’s not like you could simply go back there and ask her yourself… for multiple reasons. But you honestly can’t say this was a //complete// waste of time either. You did enjoy yourself, after all.<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 3>>Damn! You’ve already checked in with Viggo at the sandlots—You should have just followed his lead to search the town square in the first place. You huff out the slightest bit of smoke. Well, at least this wasn’t a //complete// waste of time. You did enjoy yourself.<<elseif $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>>You frown. You were really hoping Alberich’s information would give you a bit more to work with, but at least you’ve got another lead. And the bridesmaids mentioned Viggo as well, so it seems like a promising one. You sigh, huffing out the slightest bit of smoke. Well, at least this wasn’t a //complete// waste of time. You did enjoy yourself.<<else>>You nod, then promptly realize the gesture does fuck-all in this conversation. Well, you didn’t expect this task to be that easy. And hey, you did enjoy yourself while you were here.<</if>> “Thanks, Auri,” you say. “Of course,” she chirps, arms wrapping around her stomach in a gentle embrace. “It’s the least I could do since you, uh… were so helpful.” “Of course. I’m glad it worked out.” She hugs you a bit tighter, then perks up. “So, where to next?” “Uhm,” you start, not entirely sure how to broach the subject. “Actually, I need to <<if $KhobbClues == 3>>go back and talk to Rabine, explain I couldn’t find Arturo<<else>>keep looking for Arturo<</if>>. Can you let me out now?” “Oh! Uhm, r- right. I guess I should…” Auri falls silent, her stomach rocking as she wavers from one foot to the other. “… Auri?” “<<= $name>>,” she churrs. After a long silence, she adds, “Do I have to?” You pale, suddenly remembering that you ultimately have very little in the way of direct power at the moment. While you’re not in any immediate danger thanks to Plume’s magic, there’s not really much you could actually do if Auri decides she’d rather keep you around… at least until midday tomorrow. “Uhm, I guess you don’t //have// to do anything—I can’t actually make you do it. But, I’d appreciate it.” A slight sigh reverberates through the stomach walls. “You’re right. I’m sorry, it was rude of me to ask.” “That’s okay, I underst—” Well, you don’t even slightly understand, but also, //you absolutely do.// It’s so fucking comfortable in here. “Th- Thank you,” you manage. [[Let Auri do her thing|Second-timer]]

Auri walks for a moment, then does a remarkably efficient job of getting you back out, complete with a relatively accommodating landing onto a few conveniently placed sacks of grain—Oh hey, it’s the same alley where she first ate you. Nice of this little misadventure to bookend so cleanly. And speaking of cleanliness, you wipe yourself free of the stomach goop as best you can. Sure, you can’t be digested—and weirdly, Plume’s conjured clothing also seems to be curiously hydrophobic—but it’s still a tad bit improper to walk around covered in gunk. Auri takes the soiled cloth and folds it over her arm. She leans forward with a warm smile. “Are you //suuure// I can’t convince you to climb back in?” she teases. You snort. “Tempting. But I really do need to finish up this job.” “I understand.” She offers a bashful grin. “Maybe I can catch you later, then.” Little does she know that there are many more experienced predators lurking around every corner, waiting for their chance. Auri has some stiff competition, but hey, at least she’ll remember you fondly as her first. “Maybe! Anyway, I’m off. Thank you again,” you say with a wave. “You’re welcome. Good luck!” “You too!” Alone once more, you pause to consider where you should head next<<if $KhobbClues == 3>>… and then promptly remember this was your last stop. The only thing left is to return to Rabine with the bad news. You can’t help but nurse a kernel of frustration; you’ve been all over Khobb, and you still haven’t seen so much as a trace of the wayward groom. Oh well. No sense putting it off<<elseif $KhobbClues == 2>>… which isn’t actually much of a choice. You’ve only got <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>>the riverside sandlots<<else>>the town square and the vintner<</if>> left to check out. For as novel of an experience as the Dragonfly may have been, you hope your final stop will provide a more productive lead<<else>>. You can either follow Rhys’ lead to the riverside sandlots and ask Viggo, or you can check out the town square and the vintner. Hopefully one of the two will point you in the direction of Arturo. Before you decide, though, your stomach audibly growls as you catch a mouthwatering scent carried on the wind. Now that you think about it, you’ve been doing a fair amount of walking, and it’s well past lunchtime. Maybe you should consider a third stop and grab a bite to eat before resuming the search<</if>>. <<include "Khobb_Navigator">>

You pick through the wicker basket for three aerodynamic rocks, then carry them over to the wooden plank in the grass. From here, it’s about thirty feet to the target. Seems reasonable, but just to make sure you don’t miss, you limber up for a minute first. The attendant watches with seething disdain, but you merely offer an empty smile and instead focus on the crowd gathered below the structure. Just before you throw, a familiar face catches your eye—Ines. She winks, then dives back beneath the stream’s surface as you take a solid stance and line up your shot. Fingers curled comfortably around the stone. You plant your foot, then step, twist, and hurl it like a baseball. <<if $MCQueenboom == true>>//Thwack!// The boom arm swings out from under the platform as the target flies backward. There’s a squeaky yelp as the trapdoor swings open. Arms bump against the sides of the hole as the attendant falls. A wave crashes over the cheering crowd as a ruddy brown blur leaps. Mouth wide, Ines snatches her prey straight out of the air, gulping nearly half the snooty demi before she even hits the water. The pair disappear with a tremendous splash and a burst of fanfare from the stuffed onlookers. Damn. It’s too bad Vanille wasn’t here to see that throw you just made. She’d have been impressed.<<else>>The rock flies high and to the right, then lands on the far bank to a chorus of jeers. The attendant sticks her tongue out at you, then doubles forward in scornful laughter. You half expect Ines to join in on the mockery, but a brief scan of the onlookers indicates she’s still waiting underwater. At least someone still seems to believe in you. You ignore the peanut gallery and focus on your next shot. It’s not as though you need to adjust for wind or anything—you’re literally throwing stones—but your last shot informs the next. You dig in once more, then hold the ‘ball’ tight, adjusting slightly until your digits rest along the slight irregularities. A deep breath, a glance, a step forward and a twist sees another rocket flies across the water //Thwack!// The boom arm swings out from under the platform as the target flies backward. There’s a squeaky yelp as the trapdoor swings open. Arms bump against the sides of the hole as the attendant falls. A wave crashes over the cheering crowd as a ruddy brown blur leaps from the water. Mouth wide, Ines snatches her prey straight out of the air, gulping nearly half the snooty demi before she even hits the surface. The pair disappear with a tremendous splash and a burst of fanfare from the stuffed onlookers.<</if>> The catfish reappears and flips her hair up from the water. Her mouth temporarily makes an ‘O’ as she belches out a victory, inaudible over the excited din. You blush as she meets your gaze, then wave to an empty spot on the shoreline. She smirks, shares a few words with the other swimmers, and finally darts over, tail little more than a blur. You’re two steps towards meeting her when you double back for the Buck—a win’s a win, after all. By the time you make your way to the riverbank, the mermaid’s already lounging in the shallows, sand clinging to the underside of her squirming belly. Atypical for the monster girls you’ve met so far, her flesh seems to change color across her body, a pale sweep smearing down her front while the skin above her bust is a vivid and lovely shade of bronze. Top that with a head of short umber hair, deep dark eyes, and flickering yellow whiskers. She’s beautiful. And up close, she’s larger than you expected—the mermaid herself, not her stomach—curvy hips and powerful tail bearing an attractive heft and giving her a matronly frame that could kick your ass… if she had legs. “Nice arm you got there.” You reflexively lurch as she tosses something your way. A moment later, you’re holding a wet rock and blinking in confusion. “Oh, uhm. Thanks.” You toss it back toward the basket and miss horribly. Guess you only have so much luck today. A wet hand slaps against something thick, hollow and fleshy. You know the sound anywhere. The mermaid nods as your gaze turns onto her writhing middle. “Know her?” “No, just met.” “That’s probably for the best. She’s a piece of work,” she jeers. “Didn’t even introduce herself when she took over.” You shrug and shake your head. “She was kinda rude to me, too. For no real reason, as far as I could tell.” “Heh, let’s take a little revenge, shall we?” [[Uhm…|Social Piranha]]

A broad hand presses on the top of her stomach as the other beckons you to ‘assist.’ You nervously lay your hands on her wet flesh, then nearly gasp as the wriggling lump recedes. Ines’ hips shift, her whole body shimmying. The resigned grumbles from the writhing bulge rise to a shout of protest in the brief instant before the thicker skin and scales of the mermaid’s lower half mute them back to a more tolerable hum. You watch, rapt, as the attendant settles a foot or so below the monster girl’s hips, still every bit as animated—if now somewhat more removed from your immediate focus. //“Much// better,” the mermaid croons, then lets out a satisfied sigh. “So then, if not for her, what brings you over here?” You wrench your hands away from the now-empty middle, though you can’t as easily tear your stare away from the bump in her tail. After an impolite moment, you shake your head and blink. “Oh right. My name’s <<= $name>>. I wanted to introduce myself.” She offers a wet hand and a demure smile. “Ines. It’s a pleasure.” “Likewise. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions about who’s been through here—I’m looking for the groom.” You pause to gather your ambling thoughts. “Er, well, I’m looking for his buddy, Viggo, who apparently might know where Arturo is.” Ines lights up. “Oh, I know Viggo. He stopped by earlier to make sure everything was set up. He was here with the local carpenter, Sal.” You put on your metaphorical detective hat. “How long ago was that?” The mermaid taps a finger against her chin. “Early morning, if I remember right. Not much in the way of crowds at the time.” “I don’t suppose he was with Arturo,” you ask optimistically. “The groom?” “That’s the one.” “Nah, I haven’t seen him all day. Viggo’s been occasionally stopping by to drop off more rocks for the basket, but I’m sure he’s got his plate full now that the festival’s in full swing.” Ines gestures to the swimmers. “This crowd’s changing every hour or so, people coming to cool off and play.” “Anyone in a green vest with silver accent?” “No silver. I only saw the two lovers working here, and they had green vests.” She frowns, glancing back to the now-abandoned booth. “I’m not actually sure who’s going to run the show until I let this one back out.” “Oh uh, should I go talk to someone about that?” She waves a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it. No one can actually play until Nerti comes by to reset the platform—that’s Sal’s wife. The Plunger is actually her design.” Neat, but not exactly pertinent information. Waiting around for yet another person doesn’t seem like the most prudent plan. However, you’re having a pleasant chat with Ines, and it would certainly be rude to just leave her and that lump in her gut stranded here like a… a, uhm… You can’t think of an analogy. “You know a lot about the people of Khobb. Do you, uh, live here… in this stream.” It takes all your willpower not to slap your palm against your forehead. “I’m sorry I sound like an idiot. Sometimes, I just say things without thinking.” She laughs. “No, I understand. It’s gotta look kinda odd, doesn’t it?” She points to where the stream disappears from view, far beyond the edges of town. “My people call this river, Roseral. It’s sourced many miles north. There’s a little estuary not far from Oxia Lake which I call home, but I like to come down to Khobb during the summer and trade with the locals.” Ah damn. It’s a //river.// The expert told you so. You indulge another glance at her bulge, then raise a curious eyebrow. “Do you also… occasionally eat the locals?” She shrugs. “If they try to cheat me on a trade, yeah. But it’s not like it’s one-way: Rabine, the bride, ate my sister last year.” Ines pauses, and you’re about to offer condolences when she regards you with a coy smirk. “But that bottom-feeder had it coming. She was always //hooking// people into her slimy schemes.” <<linkreplace "Did… Did the mermaid just make a fishing pun?">>“Oh, that’s…” Your brow twists into a knot. “Actually, I have no idea what to say about that.” “It happens.” She lets out a slight sigh, seemingly a bit disappointed you didn’t take the bait. “I certainly don’t hold it against Rabine or her husband. Probably would’ve done it myself one of these days.” Damn, that’s harsh, yet not entirely unexpected. “Your own sister?” Ines tilts her head. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Not much else to eat when you’re a freshly spawned fingerling. Besides, I have a couple dozen sisters swimming around somewhere out there.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “If I’m being honest, I can’t even remember some of their names.” Right, she’s at least partially a fish, which means she might have ‘hatched’—Actually, no, fuck this. All of this that she’s describing and implying is nightmarish. You don’t wanna know more about the gruesomeness. Not today. It’s your day off. “S- So, uhh… You come here to trade, right?” you say hastily, eager to change the subject. At her nod, you press on. “What sorts of things do you typically sell?” She shrugs. “There’s a lot. You humans are ravenous for goods. I’ve traded misk-weed, decorative bits and bobs… Oh, sponges are pretty highly valued and are super easy for me to get a hold of. Uhm, coral harpoons and spears, musical instruments, nets—yes, I see the irony. I’ve lugged silver ore once or twice, but that was too much of a hassle so I don’t do it anymore. Occasionally I’ll sell what you’d probably call salvage. All sorts of stuff winds up in the deeper recesses of the Roseral, and it’s easy for me to pick through and find the valuable bits.” “And how about the other way around? Do human goods sell well among mermaid-kind?” Ines nods. “Better than you can imagine, assuming you know what to buy. Wood and cloth don’t tend to fare too well underwater. But metal tools are sharper and sturdier than just about anything we can make ourselves… even if they tend to rust a bit quickly.” That makes sense. You can’t imagine it’s easy to operate a forge in a tidepool. “Get anything good on this trip?” “Oh yes, very much. My cache is all ready to go when the spell ends tomorrow, but the party alone makes the swim worthwhile. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a celebration quite like this. Everyone seems so happy and lively. And the food…” She trails off, and you swear you notice the faintest dribble of drool trailing from her lips. Or maybe that’s just water. “Uhm, <<= $name>>?” she suddenly resumes. “Before you go… could I ask you a favor?” //It’s not water.// “Uh, s- sure,” you say, cursing your empathic, helpful nature. “What can I do for you?” Ines beckons you closer. You being the mild-mannered idiot that you are, oblige. <<include "Ines Asks">><</linkreplace>>

You opt not to volunteer for a trip into the giant stomach—you fool—and instead hang back among the crowd. Fortunately, Sven and Menardi eventually goad some poor lad into joining the humans’ side of the rope. The newbie is tied into place, and the team arranges themselves in a line across from the cyclops. Of course, that’s when the craziness starts. You’d expected Menardi would pull from her side of the line, but she instead lowers herself onto her knees and sticks her end of the thick rope in her mouth. She swallows, arms folding behind her back, a mischievous smile on her face as throat muscles alone drag the cord deeper and deeper until a red cloth reaches her lips—the midpoint of the rope, you presume. The challengers tense. The crowd’s cheers rise to an intense pitch, more and more people from around the sandlots joining and jostling for a better spot to watch. The throng nearly doubles as jittery excitement congeals into fervor. “Begin!” The intrepid team of humans and demis dig in and pull with all their might. Muscles strain, knuckles turn white. To the crowd’s elation, the flag slips from Menardi’s lips, creeping slowly toward the line in the sand, and you soon find yourself swept up in the excitement of the match. Heavy boots stomp as the team takes a unified step backward. Sven cries out an unintelligible command, and they all heave together. Another step, another foot of ground gained. Well damn; they’re actually making progress. Perhaps you were a bit too pessimistic in your initial appraisal. Then again, you hadn’t exactly accounted for Menerdi’s, erm… handicap. What exactly is she trying to do? Hope she can overwhelm six super-strong Havendorians with peristalsis alone? The flag slips another half foot, trailing cloth dangling perilously close to the line. The townsfolk pull again, and it very nearly crosses. Just when you’re certain it’s a win for the humans and demis, Menardi turns to the crowd and winks. It’s not a blink. You cannot possibly describe //how// you can discern the difference, but it’s undeniable. Perhaps it’s the impish sparkle in her iris, or a particular waggle of her brow, but the one-eyed woman just winked. A mighty ripple rolls through her throat. The frontman lurches forward, footing lost entirely. Menardi slurps the rope like a noodle and yanks the man clean into the air. A quick open and shut of smiling lips sees him disappear. //Gulp!// The remaining five try to regain their ground, but it’s too late. It’s over. With one down and the flag deep, //deep// in her gullet, there’s really only one outcome for this contest. Slick swallows resonate above the din. The challengers fall one after another, each engulfed by giant lips and //glumped// into the abyss until only Sven remains. Despite his mountainous bulk, the anchorman slides across the pit like all the others before him, boots digging deep trenches in the sand. Menardi sits up, rising above the crowd and dragging her last victim with her. He bounces against a breast, then dangles from her chin, inching closer and closer with each pull. The man scrambles, trying to untie himself from the coil, but he’s too late. Lips press at his back, then open. A tongue //splops// free and curls around his middle. With a tip of the giant’s head, he vanishes. You watch her mouth open once more to let out a satisfied ‘ahh’ as the lump sinks luxuriously down her throat. The bulge disappears behind her sternum. Her stomach juts out a few extra inches, and the crowd goes wild, surging forth to celebrate Menardi’s victory. There’s six entire people inside her and not all that much to show for it, her middle hardly more than a slightly overdue pregnancy… which brings up a bunch of questions you //really// don’t wanna explore right now. You do, however, want to get her attention. You wave your arms and hop up and down, catching the giant’s eye with your urgent, awkward flailing. “M- Menardi!” you start, somewhat startled when she leans forward and brings her ear to your level. “H- Hi. I’m <<= $name>>. I’m here on behalf of Rabine. I have a few questions; do you have a couple minutes?” A huge smile curls her lips. “I certainly do! Just give me one moment to finish up.” She rises, a huge finger gently tapping your shoulder. “Wait right there, please.” The giant climbs to her feet and stretches. She slaps one hand on her writhing, bloated stomach, then favors the crowd with a boastful grin. “Ahh. Khobb’s mightiest warriors fit nicely in my gut. It’s //such// a shame I don’t have anything to wash them down…” The over-acting woman feigns disappointment, then turns and reaches behind one of the sheds. A barrel rises into view. “Oh my, how fortuitous. Bottoms up!” The wood splinters and cracks as she rips the lid clean off. Head tilted, throat rippling, she chugs. Her stomach swells to a torpedo, the lumpy edges softening to the sound of a whooping and chanting crowd. //“Bworrrp!”// An embarrassed crimson colors Menardi’s cheeks as she sets the empty barrel down in the sand. The nearest onlookers peer into the keg, their hollers rising to a howl of respect. It takes a moment for the giant to compose herself, one hand resting atop her belly and the other wiping away the foamy flecks from the corners of her mouth. She sways and shakes her gut for the audience, the lump jostling and sloshing overhead. “Perfect,” she purrs, then smiles and waves. “I’m gonna sleep off this meal. I’ll be back in an hour if anyone wants to try again, but before I go…” You yelp as a giant hand scoops you up, strong fingers squeezing your middle as you’re lifted off the ground. “A little dessert for the road!” Menardi bellows, much to the crowd’s amusement. She pulls you against her chest, then takes a careful step over the gathering, a giant sandal finding a clear spot to land. The giant shuffles awkwardly, nudging at the people below. “Watch out, little ones,” she croons. “Big gal, comin’ through.” You rapidly pass through the phases of panic in her soft, cradling arms and are left mostly with boneless languor. You couldn’t squirm your way out if you wanted to, and even if you did, you’d fall fifteen feet. Survivable, but needlessly painful. Besides, there’s something nice about being held like this… The din of the crowd fades after a minute, replaced by a silent, serene breeze and the rustling of grass. Even Menardi’s footsteps are soft and hushed, muted by her footwear and the yielding earth. You crane your neck and see that she’s relocated to a small hill a few hundred yards outside town. Those long legs sure can cover a lot of ground. Gently, tenderly, she eases herself down on the knoll, holding you in one hand as she steadies herself into a lean. When she’s settled, the cyclops places you atop her belly like a doll. You sink slightly, as if it’s a giant beanbag chair. [[Get comfy|Bean Bag Tum]]

“Much better,” she sighs, an idle hand rubbing the side of her stomach. “Would you prefer to be on the ground, or are you comfortable up there?” You shift and shimmy on your perch in a bout of confusion. Yeah, you might slide off and hurt yourself, but her flesh is surprisingly yielding. Butt nestled into her navel ever so slightly, you find your balance after some fidgeting. “Uhm, yeah, I think I’ll be okay. Thanks.” And it’s certainly not as though you //dislike// having the bumpy, bubbling belly beneath your legs<<if $RVAshlyn >= 14>>. Maybe you should ask Ashlyn to do this for you<</if>>… “Am I being too loud?” she asks quietly, huge eye watching you for any hint of discomfort. “No, not at all.” You blush slightly as the stomach shifts pleasantly beneath your legs. “Uh, am I being too soft—Er, quiet? Can you hear me alright from here?” “Oh yes. Your voice may be small, but out here in the grasses I can hear just fine. It’s the group gatherings that are difficult sometimes. All that chatter at my knees… It can be hard to pick out someone from the crowd.” She chuckles. “I assume the lack of depth perception doesn’t help.” You snort, then take a moment to appreciate the moment of peace with this stranger. The view from atop the… hill is quite lovely. You can see for miles beyond the outskirts of town—a tranquil sea of green disturbed by the steady slope of a mountain range in the distant west—all without so much as a shimmer from Plume’s totems. You doubt Ashlyn would ever design a spell this subtle; she’s all about disruption and flare. A rueful sigh spills out of your chest as you nestle into your plush accommodations, only to pause when a squirming form bumps against your arm. “You had questions for me?” Menardi asks softly, her single eyebrow raised in curiosity—it’s fascinating how expressive she is with half the optical equipment. “Not that I’m against sitting quietly and enjoying the sights, but I’d like to help Rabine however I can. I’ve never had the chance to attend a human wedding.” “Oh right. I’m looking for Arturo.” The cyclops sits up suddenly. “Oh my, is he missing?” “Temporarily, I’m told.” You offer a reassuring shrug. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Rabine and her bridesmaids said they saw him just this morning. And there’s the spell, so it’s not like he could, uh, run away.” She blinks and nods as relief washes across her expression. “He wouldn’t do that. Though, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him today…” “How about another name: Viggo. He’s supposed to be working somewhere around here.” Menardi touches a finger to her lips as her gaze turns skyward. After a moment, she shakes her head. “Hmm, I don’t remember who was in charge—Sven and I started the game a little bit late. And I was helping set up one of the tents across town before that.” The giant frowns. “Sorry I don’t know more.” You sigh and smile. “That’s okay.” “You’ve been tasked with finding Arturo?” “So it seems.” “Would you like to ride around town on my shoulder and search together?” <<linkreplace "Turn her down">>You pale, trying very hard not to make this any weirder than it already is. “O- Oh, that’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think that’s necessary.” Your hand rubs at the back of your neck. “Thank you, though.” She nods. “Please let me know if you change your mind. I’m more than happy to help.” Damn, this woman’s too nice. “I will.” You spend a moment scanning the town for any familiar faces—silhouettes, at this distance—then gesture to the grumbling gut. “So, uh, what you said back there. You’re not actually gonna…” Menardi blanches as a protective hand curls around her tummy. “Oh no, not at all. You and the rest aren’t in any danger, I promise.” A rueful smile twists her lips. “The fairy thought it might be fun if I played the part.” You tilt your head, trying to read Menardi’s expression. “How… How do you feel about that? It’s not insulting to portray yourself as a giant man-eater?” “Oh, I’m not like that at all. But…” She shrugs. “It’s not as though I can avoid that initial impression. And the truth is that I //really// like performing in plays: it’s a fun and easy gig when I’m traveling. There’s some great costumes depending on the large monster needed for the story—” Menardi lights up. “I can do a really dramatic Prince Sallow. I know all the lines forward and backward. And it’s not like I //only// ever play the villain; I get to be the hero in some of the ballads.” You crack a smile. “That’s pretty cool, actually. And hey, you did a good job back there—very convincing. You had me worried for a bit.” “Thank you! I’m so glad to hear you say that,” Menardi cheers. “And honestly, a couple minutes of polite conversation tends to clear up any unflattering impressions. Though I suppose I’m at a bit of an advantage, since it’s not like //I’m// at any risk of being devoured…” She trails off for a moment, then shrugs. “I suppose no one’s ever tried. Today might be a good day for it, huh?” Huh. That would be… Well, it would be an interesting day for //someone,// that’s for sure. It’s not like Menardi could even fit in an average stomach. Certainly no human or demi. Sherine //might// be able to take the cyclops—she’s at least long enough… probably. But even that would be a lot. … So much stretching and swelling. An entire giant tucked away beneath copper scales, dragged along in the sweltering, gastric flue. A slosh and a kick from below brings you back to reality. “Maybe that’s why Sven was trying so hard to best you,” you joke. “Ha! That would certainly explain a few things,” she says with a subconscious pat on the tum. “But this feels like a much more natural arrangement, I’d say.” <<linkreplace "“Do you normally eat a lot of people?”">>“Do you, uh, normally eat a lot of people? Being as, uhm, tall as you are.” “Only rarely. Hecklers and the occasional hostile monster just aren’t very filling. I prefer livestock—pigs are my favorite.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “… Alive?” She smirks. “Of course. Otherwise they’d be //dead//-stock, <<= $name>>.” Well, that’s no more cruel than how these people treat //each other,// so you suppose that’s ‘ethical’ by this world’s standards. You clear your throat. “So aside from local theater, what else do you do?” “Oh, odd jobs as I travel across Havendor. Your kingdom is very accommodating. It’s not hard to find people who can use the help of someone my size, especially around smaller towns like Khobb. These are friendly folk.” A huge arm extends and points toward the tallest rooftop in town, a multi-sloped crown of tarry shingles. “I built the second and third floors of the inn, actually. Well, I mostly moved some trees and carried some people around—they didn’t have tools my size, but I had a few advantages the locals didn’t. It was… maybe ten summers ago.” Her single eyebrow rises to a curious curl. “Rabine needs to know all this?” You bolt upright. “Oh! No, I’m just here for Arturo. I’m sorry. I- I got carried away. I’ve never met a cyclops, and I was just really curious and wanted to learn more.” Menardi smiles. “Relax, I’m teasing you. I’m happy to share, but I think it’s your turn: where are you from?” You search for a suitable lie and find one about two days east. “Orrault.” A slight gasp precedes the question, “Were you there when the horde attacked?” “Y- Yeah, actually.” “I heard about it last week. I was traversing down Kosma Steppes—I must have been only a couple days behind the horde’s path, because I didn’t see or hear anything about it until I ran into a couple of stuffed stragglers on the road to Khobb.” “Wait. The horde didn’t hit Khobb?” She shakes her head. “They apparently passed right by.” You frown. “They didn’t hassle you?” “No. Thought I was one of them, that I’d been there. They started bragging about catching small folk fleeing the burning town. I was appalled.” Menardi winces. “And the explosion. My goodness…” “It was… quite something,” you say, scar itching. “You saw it?” “I was—” //about twenty feet away// “—nearby, yeah. Fortunately, it was far enough from the walls that I don’t think many townsfolk got hurt.” Soft and warm, a large hand curls tenderly around your shoulders. “Such a large heart for a little body.” “I…” You blush. “Th- Thank you.” She smiles for a long minute. The mirth slowly ebbs from her expression as her gaze returns to the town. “I don’t think I’ll be leaving Havendor any time soon. I do not wish to be conscripted.” “Seems like you’ve found a place among humans already,” you offer, trying your best to hide a strained expression. “Agreed. Your kind are so warm and welcoming.” She lifts a hand to her mouth to stifle a belch. Her stomach writhes. “Speaking of warmth, an entire barrel might’ve been too much. I’m kinda overheating out here. Ready to head back and cool off in the shade?” “Yeah. I should probably get back to searching for Viggo,” you draw out a long, satisfied sigh. “This was nice, thank you so much for talking to me.” “Likewise!” <<linkreplace "Head back">>A brief trip in Menardi’s hand sees you back at the edge of the sandlots. The cyclops wishes you luck with your search, then heads off to let out her competitors… you assume. To be fair, you don’t actually //know// how long she’s planning to keep up the routine. But in a horrendously cruel twist of fate, you have more pressing concerns than Menardi’s stomach… like where you’re going to find Viggo.<<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 1>> The good news is you’ve still got two promising leads, which just leaves the choice of which one you want to tackle first<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 2>> At least it’s an easy choice, considering you’ve only got one lead left to follow. Here’s hoping it proves more fruitful than the previous two<<else>> Oh wait. That was your last stop. Fuck. All this running around, and you’re no closer to finding the wayward fellow than when you started<</if>>. <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

Welcome back to //Another Inner World!// If you’re here, you’ve successfully loaded a save from the end of Episode 16 and are ready to play Season 2 Episode 3. Hey! Since you've been away, we've implemented pronouns! Choose yours now: Select pronouns you'd prefer to be referred as: <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "he" checked>>He/Him</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "she">>She/Her</label> <label><<radiobutton "$xe" "they">>They/Them</label> //Please note that this choice only changes how a player is addressed in game, and not the player's genitalia. Presently, the player character will have a penis.// Enjoy! [[Resume|Episode 17]]

<> <<if $Khobb_Sandlots < 3>> [[To the sandlots|Sandlots]] <</if>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>><<else>> [[Look for the lounge|Vorgin][$Khobb3 ++, $KhobbClues ++]] <</if>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>><<else>> [[Find the town square|Square][$Khobb3 ++, $KhobbClues ++]] <</if>> <<if $Khobb3 >= 1>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>><<else>> [[Stop for a snack|Prey Goat][$Khobb3 ++]] <</if>> <</if>> <<if $Khobb3 == 6>> [[Return to Rabine|You Just Drank Cement!]] <</if>> <>

<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>>Amelie and Plume were<<else>>Plume was<</if>> right: the riverside sandlots prove incredibly easy to find. In fact, you’re pretty sure you could’ve stumbled your way here blindfolded, given the sheer intensity of the hubbub. As it turns out, ‘games<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>> and prizes<</if>>’ take the form of a small carnival, complete with colorful tents and hastily assembled stalls and a barker standing on a wooden box promoting various activities and directing eager patrons to their next destination. The titular sandlots themselves sit between the temporary constructions, hosting a variety of distractions.<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>> You decide to amend your previous analogy—the town square is more like the brain of the festival, organizing and coordinating. The sandlots are its heart<<else>> It seems you’ve stumbled across the heart of the day’s festivities<</if>>, beating and pumping and thrumming with the lifeblood of revelry. Unfortunately, all that energy isn’t going to make finding this Viggo fellow any easier. You’d sort of hoped you could talk to a handful of helpers and locate him quickly, but amidst the chaos, you’re struggling to tell who’s staff and who’s here for fun—aside from the barker, who you’re reasonably certain isn’t Viggo on account of being a woman. Still, she seems like a reasonable place to start if you’re looking to get your bearings. Before you can set off, something heavy bumps into your foot—a leather-wrapped sphere, roughly the size of a rugby ball. “Sorry!” a voice calls out. You look up to find a man in a dirt-stained tunic and trousers at the edge of one of the sand pits, waving his arms. Putting the pieces together, you heft the ball—goddamn, why is it so heavy—then toss it back with every ounce of strength you can manage. Fortunately, it rolls the rest of the way. The man shouts his thanks, then returns to his game, which looks to be some sort of light contact sport in which two teams attempt to throw the ball into the opposing goal—a simple wooden basket propped on top of a barrel. You’re surprised by how normal the sport seems… right up until one of the players commits some sort of foul and, as punishment, is devoured by the opposition. You probably should’ve seen that one coming. As you resume your trek for the barker, your eyes can’t help but be drawn to some of the other attractions. A stall on your right holds a shooting range complete with labeled targets propped on thin shelves, only contestants look to be using a slingshot rather than an air rifle. The absolutely massive queue dissuades you from giving it a try until you’ve ruled out some other more reasonable options. You pass a less popular game: some sort of high striker strongman setup based on the absolutely massive sledgehammer. The canine demi operating the stall is almost comically petite by comparison—seriously, that weapon is almost as large as she is. A morbidly curious part of your brain wonders if your strike would even register on the scale… assuming you can lift the hammer in the first place. For the sake of your ego, however, it’s probably not worth finding out. Finally arriving at the barker, you wait as she finishes talking to someone else. “Uhh, hi,” you say when you manage to catch her eye. “Well well, who do we have here?” She breaks into a wide grin. “Another visitor to Khobb, I presume. What brings you to the sandlots? Looking for a bit of entertainment? Excitement?” She crouches, one eyebrow arched. //“Adventure?”// You’ve had more than enough of that, thank you very much. “I- I’m actually looking for someone,” you say instead. “A man by the name of Viggo. Plume mentioned he was helping out here?” The barker’s lips curl to a coy smirk. “Afraid we’re not in the matchmaking business here—unless you count taking your chances on the Plunger. You might have better luck outside the Dragonfly, if that’s your game.” “It’s not—” You huff out a slight sigh. “I need to ask him a question. About trying to find Arturo, the groom.” “Bah, you’re no fun.” The woman rises back to full height atop her box, gaudy coat flapping in the wind. She’s just a top hat away from the full stereotypical ensemble, though you suspect Havendor might be a few centuries away from inventing those. “Afraid I haven’t seen Viggo in a good few hours, when he was darting from stall to stall trying to help anyone who was overwhelmed or short-staffed—which is basically all of us. Don’t think anyone expected the wedding to draw //this// much of a crowd.” You frown, casting another glance about the sandlots and looking for any particularly Viggo-ish figures among the throng. It’d be nice if you had at least some angle to direct your search, or at least narrow your potential options. “Sorry I can’t be much help,” the barker suddenly continues, and you look back in time to see she’s wearing a worryingly conspiratorial grin. “I do, however, have an exciting offer to make you today—something you can’t afford to miss.” Is… Is she about to try and rope you into a multilevel marketing scheme? Is Havendor ahead of the curve on those? Or maybe it’s just a snake oil salesman routine—a far more simple, almost charming con. //Lamia oil, perhaps?// The woman reaches beneath her coat and, with a dramatic flourish, produces a number of small gold chips, each a little larger than a fingernail and roughly circular in shape. “This, my friend, is a //Buck.”// She leans down once more. “It’s a bit of antler that’s been painted gold. Get it? Antler? Buck?” “I, uhh… yeah. But what exactly //is// it?” “A reward for deeds courageous and heroic. For overcoming trials and tribulations most perilous.” She puts a hand to the side of her mouth. “Or a bit of incentive to actually try, if you’d rather think of it like that. See, each and every stall or game at the sandlots can give you one of these. The rules change from place to place—feel free to ask whoever’s organizing things—but the general gist is that if you win, you get a Buck in exchange. Bring enough Bucks to the prize counter over yonder—” she gestures, but you can’t quite see the particular booth past the dense crowds “—and you can choose a prize. You’d better hurry though. It’d be a shame to find all the good stuff’s been taken.” “Okay. Uhm, thanks,” you say, pretty damn sure this isn’t going to help you find Viggo in the slightest. On a positive note, you’re now a solid eighty percent certain it’s not some sort of scam. “Any time. Enjoy!” The barker tosses her Buck skyward, then snatches it from the air and stows it back in her coat. [[Well that was a complete waste of time|Fun and Games]]

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "square">>It doesn’t take much work to find your destination; Khobb isn’t an especially large town, and the setup is hard to miss. The town square seems to have been converted into the <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 3>>brain<<else>>heart<</if>> of the day’s festivities. Tables, chairs, and a medley of other improvised seating solutions crowd the open plaza save for a circle at its center—a stage or a dance floor if you had to guess, though it’s currently empty. Shops and stalls ring the edges of the square, offering an eclectic variety of refreshments and sporting massive gatherings of eager customers. It //is// lunchtime, you suppose<<if $Khobb3 >= 2>><<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>><<else>>, and the amount of mouthwatering food on display does little to assuage your rapidly growing appetite, but based on the queues, you’d be waiting for quite a while. It’s probably better to look elsewhere once you’re done here<</if>><</if>>. And speaking of filling stomachs, you can’t help but notice there aren’t that many predators in the town square—well, //active// predators—especially considering the sheer number of people lounging about or chowing down on their choice of grub. You suppose the folks here are in the market for food they can actually digest, and apparently having a proper meal while lugging around a gastrointestinal guest is a bit gauche. As your eyes trail the square, you notice a man playing a lute in a secluded corner. A small gathering sings along with a tune you can’t quite hear over the general din. Elsewhere, a few people cluster around what looks to be a theater troupe. You scan the area for another minute, watching as folks frolic between local performers plying their trade until you finally spot a promising lead: a collection of tables under a shallow overhang staffed by a handful of workers busily managing kegs and pouring a variety of colorful liquids into glasses, mugs, carafes, and basically every other beverage-appropriate container you can imagine. The setup is every bit as busy as the other stalls in the square—maybe more so—but the rapid rate of service and the steadily churning crowd means you’re able to shimmy your way to the front with a little effort. “What can I get ya?” a woman in a once-white smock calls out, still in the process of pouring a curiously sparkling liquid into a tall mug. “I’m looking for the, uhm, vintner?” you say, realizing that<<if $KhobbClues == 2>>, as usual,<</if>> you don’t actually have much to work with in terms of specifics. The woman frowns and cups a hand to one ear. “The who?” “The vintner. For wine?” The clerk nods, clarity blooming across weathered features. “Ah, wine. You’ll be wanting Alberich.” She juts an elbow to her left, and you follow to find a middle-aged man tucked in a back of the makeshift bar hefting a dauntingly large barrel. Before you can offer thanks, the woman has already turned to the next customer, leaving you to squirm your way through the crowds and toward the mercifully secluded corner. You clear your throat once you draw near, and the man looks up as he sets down the barrel with a thud you can feel in your feet. “Are you Alberich?” you ask. He nods. “Guilty as charged. Though if you’re here to ask about the Jannu Port, I’ve only got the patience to tell so many people we’re saving those barrels for the evening. No sense wasting the good stuff before the main event, after all.” “Uhh, no?” You hesitate, then shake your head. “I’m here on Rabine’s behalf.” “Ah, the woman of the hour herself.” Alberich breaks into a broad grin. “How’re she and Arturo faring? No trouble, I hope?” “Erm, no?” Depends on his definition of trouble. “It’s two things actually. First, I’m actually looking for Arturo.” The vintner frowns. “That doesn’t exactly sound like ‘no trouble.’” “It’s fine.” Probably. Maybe. “He’s just a bit, uhm… missing. It’s not especially urgent, and Rabine’s sure he’s fine, but she hasn’t been able to find him. She thought he might’ve stopped by here?” Alberich nods. “He did, yeah. But that was hours ago—late morning, I think. He was with his sister, Rhys, asking after a particular barrel. They headed off when I said we were still finding the stuff we set aside.” Rhys, huh? <<if $KhobbClues == 3>>Well that’s not helpful in the slightest<<elseif $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>>Unfortunately, you already know she’s a dead end, which means you should probably check out the sandlots next. Hopefully this Viggo knows something a bit more actionable<<else>>It sounds like the Dragonfly—whatever that is—might be a promising next stop<</if>>. “Sorry I can’t give you anything more,” the vintner continues. “But on the bright side, I did find that barrel—I’m guessing that’s the other thing you’re after.” “Right, yeah,” you nod. “It’s blackberry, right?” Alberich chuckles. “Arturo asked the same thing. Don’t you worry, I took special care to make sure we had Rabine’s favorite. It’s a good year, too—a bit of extra sweetness thanks to a late frost. I was planning to have an assistant run it over to Rabine’s as soon as this rush dies down. Should be well ahead of the ceremony.” “Thanks,” you say, relieved you won’t have to lug the barrel around yourself. The vintner nods. “Always glad to help. Oh, and when you find Arturo, remind him to take his wedding a little more seriously, will you?” “I, uhh… I will,” you eventually offer, not sure what else to say. With your business concluded—and at least one task completed successfully—you slip away from the bar and begin cutting a path back through the town square, <<if $Khobb3 == 6>>realizing you’ll have to deliver the bad news to Rabine<<elseif $Khobb3 >= 2>>wondering where exactly you’ll find <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>>these sandlots<<else>>this Dragonfly lounge<</if>> you’ve heard so much about<<else>>contemplating where to go next<</if>>. … Or you would, if your musings weren’t abruptly interrupted by a sudden cheer and a familiar, spine-chilling cackle. A sudden //boom// erupts from beyond the nearest building. You already know //who// you’re going to find, but you’re more worried about the //what.// You rush forward, into the expanding purple cloud of… <<linkreplace "Do you smell cotton candy?">>Waving away the puff of smoke, you stumble toward a crowd of calm onlookers—the lack of running and screaming is a good sign. You swiftly sidle and gently nudge your way to the front to find a hooded figure with its arms raised. A bolt of red lightning crashes from the heavens and coalesces between the supplicant palms. The enigmatic person hunches around the glowing ball, then releases it in a scintillating flash. A flurry of ethereal petals whoosh over the crowd, a million motes drifting and fizzling from existence as soon as the cooing crowd lays eyes upon them. Another swish of the long, flowing robes sees the wizard-apparent preparing another spell. You nearly gasp as the hood falls to their shoulders and Ashlyn’s face appears, the flowing fire of her burning red hair like a swarm of falling meteors. Cosmic eyes flash as fingers curl into various arcane gestures. Arms swing about dramatically. She chants, low and gravelly, as if beckoning the earth itself for its magical blessing. Once she finds it, lets out a cackle. The spell coalesces. A rust-hued cloud billows from painted fingertips, wisps rolling and licking at your boots. Streams of vapor coalesce into grasping hands, all reaching, exploring, searching for a host to drag to hell. A series of gasps ricochet around the onlookers, the group fidgeting and jostling as the fog fills the avenue. You experimentally kick at the miasma and find it weightless, entirely intangible. There isn’t even residue on your outfit… which is curious. Ashlyn’s usually all about making messes. In fact, this whole thing seems a bit too trite for her tastes. Even her laugh, while aurally accurate, is lacking a certain element, a certain //evil.// <<if $Khobb1 == "Ashlyn">>It takes about thirty seconds to find the real mage, though in all fairness, she’s still wearing that witch’s getup and it’s just about as absurd as the caricature of a wizard you just saw. She’s leaning against the wall opposite the crowd, occasionally glancing up from scribbling in a notebook to watch her double perform party tricks in her stead.<<else>>It takes about thirty seconds of snooping around to find the mage, though when you spot her, you’re forced to do a double take. A woman of Ashlyn’s build and height leans against the wall opposite the crowd, occasionally glancing up from scribbling in a notebook to watch her robed-wizard-double perform party tricks in her stead. However ostentatious the performer’s outfit might be, this one’s even more inane. A silky black dress hugs every curve from her dainty clavicle to her firm hips, then drapes along her thighs like a gallows. The hem rests above a dangerous band of flesh before the tall, ebony stockings carry your gaze down the rest of her astonishing legs to a pair of simple black flats. Oh, and her hat. It’s not just any hat, no. This is a wide-brimmed cat-and-broomstick specimen, circular, rigid, and flat save the cone rising from its center—all of it a deep dark velvet the color of midnight. Ashlyn’s vibrant cascade of bloody red hair spills down her back like a dying sunset. You stare at her in utter confusion before deciding it’d be best to simply go over and ask. If she’s also some sort of illusion, the real Ashlyn will be nearby, ready to laugh at you for speaking to the fake… or volunteer you to be part of the next trick.<</if>> She nods at your approach. “Hey, dude.” “Hey.” You point over at the other Ashlyn currently shooting reams of golden glitter from her fingertips. “I assume that’s your handiwork.” Ashlyn sighs, then points at a faintly glowing rune scrawled directly into the wooden wall of the building behind her—a soap maker’s workshop, according to the signage. “Was a pain in the ass to set up, but the illusion<<if $Khobb3 >= 3>>’s been looping every ten minutes for the last hour<<else>> should loop every ten minutes for the next hour<</if>>.” “I thought you don’t like illusions. They’re ‘for pussies,’ I believe is how you put it.” The mage sighs again, louder and harder this time, and surprisingly not in a sexual way. “They are. They’re boring as shit, but—” She thrusts the open tome at you. The page is littered with handwriting and diagrams scrawled in at least seven different colored inks, each layer simply written atop the previous in the same way a raving serial killer might take notes. “I still haven’t figured out how that fox bitch managed a true duplication effect. It’s been driving me crazy.” “Who?” “Y’know, the demigod we met at that haunt outside Orrault. When she split herself, those were one-hundred-percent real. They were all her, and she was each and every one of them. I can’t even make a functional homunculus, let alone split my consciousness like that. It’s totally unfair! She managed //true// duplication—I still haven’t cracked it, so for now I’m stuck with stupid boring illusions.” “Okay, but why not go up there and put on the show yourself?” You watch as another ‘wicked incantation’ earns a round of concerned murmurs from the crowd. “Seems like the kind of opportunity you’d jump at.” “Normally, yes, I’d get naked and go all out… but Plume said I couldn’t get ‘too weird,’ whatever the fuck that means.” She lifts two pairs of fingers to make air quotes, then attempts to imitate Plume’s accent. //“‘These are simple, grounded folk. Show them flashy, show them glamour. Don’t permanently disfigure the bride.’”// For the record, Ashlyn’s mimicry is terrible. Perhaps it’s the contempt she has for the subject. “Anyway,” she continues, hocking up a viscous lump of disdain and spitting it on the ground. You choose to ignore the fact that it’s purple. “The illusion is way cheaper than actually casting the spells myself, and I ain’t gonna blow all my mana for that fairy cunt just because she asked. Especially not while I can’t actually recover.” “What do you mean you can’t—Oh.” Right. She can’t digest people while in the fairy’s area of influence. By Ashlyn’s own admission, that’s her most effective source of mana replenishment. You watch as she retrieves a carrot from her cleavage. “To refill myself after this stupid glyph, I gotta eat normal food—//like a fucking lunatic.// It’s like trying to draw cum from a stone. Total bonerkill, amiright?” //Crunch.// “You have such a way with words.” “Ya. I do.” She takes another bite, then smirks at you. “So, what’s up? You need something?” You shrug. “Just sayin’ hi. I’m supposed to be—” Her tome suddenly slaps shut. “Don’t care. Wanna fuck?” “Wh- What?” You gesture at the ongoing magic show—Archwizard Ashlyn is presently juggling fireballs. “Aren’t you busy?” “Nope.” At your befuddled stare, she adds, “We’ll go somewhere private, don’t worry.” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>“No thanks,” you say, trying to infuse as much polite staunchness as you can into your tone. Havendorians seem to be far more sexually open and expressive than people from your world, but it still seems disrespectful not to at least discuss it with your partner. And as nice as it might be to blow off some steam—you’ve seen quite a lot of //interesting// things at the wedding already—your ongoing relationship with Vanille easily eclipses this offer. You’ve kissed her and everything. That //means// something… Probably. It means something to you, at least. You’re invested in your relationship with her and are eager to see where it’s going. Yeah, that sounds better. <<include "NoSex_Ashlyn">><<else>><<linkreplace "Throw caution to the wind and have sex with the insane witch">><<replace "#choices">>“Yeah alright, sure,” you say, the words falling from your lips after an astute calculation. She seems to be in a decent mood; there’s a good chance you’ll survive this. “Let’s do it. I need to blow off some steam, anyway.” //“C’mon!”// she whines. “Don’t ruin my streak: I’ve had sex at every wedding I’ve been to—” You throw up your arms. “I already agreed!” She blinks, and the cosmic sparkle in her eyes fizzles to reveal violent irises. “Oh, right. Cool.” After a moment recovering, the mage grabs your wrist and yanks you onward a few steps, then suddenly turns around, glaring at you with a deathly serious stare. A nascent spell crackles across her knuckles. … Maybe you’re bad at math? “The hat stays on,” she says, tilting the wide-brimmed specimen back a notch. You snort. “Ashlyn, the hat is the main reason I’m interested.” A proper, maniacal cackle pops from her chest. “Never let anyone tell you you have bad taste.” She glances over her shoulder. “Except for me. <<if $Khobb1 == "Ashlyn">>You still look ridiculous. You’re lucky I’m willing to fuck a dork like yourself<<else>>What the fuck are you wearing? You look ridiculous<</if>>.” You roll your eyes. It’s not worth it. Besides, you’re about to be out of these clothes. [[Follow her|the hat stays on][$RVAshlyn ++, $AshlynEvent8 to true]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "No thanks; you want to live">><<replace "#choices">>“N- no thanks,” you say, shifting back a step just in case she decides to retaliate. <<include "NoSex_Ashlyn">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>><</linkreplace>>

Letting out a weary sigh, you set off through the streets of Khobb, looking to return to Rabine… all of three seconds before you realize you have absolutely no idea where she is. Thinking back, she and the rest of the bridal party were gathered inside an ordinary home, and you never really bothered to check for any memorable landmarks when first heading out. Was there an inn nearby? Or maybe some other shop? It wasn’t that long of a walk from tents, but where are those again? Also, you’re operating under the assumption they’re still in the same place. It’s been a solid three hours since you left—confirmed by a quick skyward glance that finds the sun well past its zenith. Who’s to say they haven’t moved elsewhere? You never bothered to ask. … This might be something of a problem. Okay, look. Khobb isn’t //that// big of a town. And you could always start walking around and asking people if they know where to find Rabine. Yeah, that’s a great idea: throw yourself into a second manhunt so you can report your failure of the first. Absolutely brilliant. With another, even wearier sigh, you quell a frustrated urge and instead retrace your steps, first to the sandlots, then the nearby tents, and finally back along the route you’re about eighty percent sure Plume took you to first visit Rabine. You round a corner and find a small home that //might// be familiar—either that or you’ve developed a new coping mechanism, and delusional optimism is setting in. You gingerly knock, only for the apparently unlatched door to slowly creak inwards. Before you have a chance to peer inside, something zips through the crack with a shower of glitter, then suddenly pauses right before your face. “Oh,” Plume says, hands on her hips, prismatic wings aflutter. “You’re back.” “Is… that a problem?” “Not really. Just wasn’t expecting you so soon.” The fairy flits about, and the door opens fully—seemingly of its own accord. “C’mon. Let’s go tell Rabine the bad news.” Right. You suppose the lack of an Arturo in your wake was a dead giveaway. [[Step inside|Shotgun Wedding]]

You sigh and wander away from the barker, resolving that you might as well get a better lay of the land before picking where to search first. Your leads are pitiful-bordering-on-pathetic, but at least you know Viggo’s here somewhere, presumably helping with one of the many games. Even if you can’t locate him directly, asking around should eventually find //someone// who knows where he is. Probably. A quick lap of the sandlots leaves you with a promisingly short list. First, there’s a large structure by the crowded waterside whose attendant looks unoccupied and available to answer some questions. Second, one of the larger sandlots looks to be hosting a game of tag which, if nothing else, seems exciting in the brief flashes you catch between the enthusiastic crowds. Last—and oh boy is it definitely not least—a colossal figure looms over the masses in another nearby sand pit. She seems to have drawn quite the gathering, though for what purpose you can’t possibly imagine… but a part of you definitely wants to find out. Now, the only question is where are you heading first? <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">>

<> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("dunk")>><<else>> [[Check out the water attraction|Red Herring][$Khobb3 ++, $Khobb_Sandlots ++]] <</if>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("buff")>><<else>> [[Look into that game of tag|In the Buff][$Khobb3 ++, $Khobb_Sandlots ++]] <</if>> <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("cyclops")>><<else>> [[Go see the tall lady|Eye See You][$Khobb3 ++, $Khobb_Sandlots ++]] <</if>> <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 3>> [[… Well, damn. You’re out of places to visit!|Prize Booth][$KhobbClues ++]] <</if>> <>

<<set $ArrayKhobb[$Khobb3 - 1] to "buff">><<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 1>>The game of tag seems like a reasonable place to start<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 2>>You decide to head to that game of tag next<<else>>With your other options exhausted, you decide to finally head to that game of tag you saw earlier<</if>>. The crowds seem fairly navigable, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to find an attendant and get your answers.<<if $KhobbClues == 2>> After your previous two stops, you wouldn’t mind if things were simple this time around.<</if>> As you approach, you realize your initial appraisal was half-correct: two people square off in a narrow, enclosed arena—more a lane, honestly—that’s roughly a third wide as it is long. A man in simple traveling attire stands at one end of the sand pit, braced to run, while a small pole holding a dangling strip of yellow cloth waits at the other. His opponent, a willowy ursine demi who looks to be in her thirties, waits between the two, blindfolded. Oh, you’re heard of a game like this before. “Contestants!” a nearby voice suddenly booms, though you can’t quite see the speaker. “Are you ready for the next round of Blind Man’s Buff?” The two people in the arena nod as the crowd cheers. “Very well. Begin!” The man immediately breaks into a sprint, charting a course to the demi’s right. He makes it all of ten feet before she tilts her head and, to your surprise, steps in his direction. The man skids to a stop with an audible hiss and a spray of sand, then veers left. His opponent, however, reacts in kind, lunging to cut off the new trajectory, arms outstretched. Unfortunately for her, only one of the two contestants has sight on their side, and the runner barely manages to avoid her blindly grasping hands before diving back to the right. He sprints past his opponent’s flank, making a beeline right for the flag while she recovers and regains her bearings. Just when you’re certain the man’s victory is assured, the demi suddenly turns and launches right after him. The runner’s certainly moving fast—faster than you probably could while trudging through soft sand—but the demi practically flies, height and lean build allowing her to close the gap in seconds. The man doesn’t even glance back before a hand seizes his tunic and wrenches him into his opponent’s arms. For reasons beyond all rational understanding, you’re still surprised by what happens next. The blindfolded woman opens wide and plunges her lips over the man’s head with an audible //gluck.// Before the first swallow’s even done, she shifts her sightless grip beneath his arms, funneling the runner-turned-meal upward and inward with a relentless cavalcade of wet slurps and gulps. She’s every bit as fast an eater as she is a runner, though she’s at least partially enabled by the lack of struggles from her prey. Maybe it’s the sportsman-like thing to do in this game, or maybe he just realizes there’s no way he’s squirming free. Either way, he simply lets himself be devoured by the eager predator who, in a matter of seconds, has already worked down to his waist. The woman flips her prey skyward, his downward rush accelerating to an outright freefall. A blink, and she’s already swallowing thighs. A few heartbeats, and lips crest shimmying knees. You can’t quite decide if this is pragmatic efficiency or overeager impropriety, but it’s damn impressive either way. One last slurp, a definitive gulp, and the former contestant has been reduced to a faintly shifting bulge jutting from beneath the woman’s dress. Only once her meal’s done does the predator remove her blindfold and turn to survey the cheering crowd. She pats her stomach, lets out the customary triumphant belch, then finally waddles from your line of sight to… do whatever it is that the victor does. Let the loser out eventually, you hope. Or maybe just sit around and gloat. Alright, so the Havendorian variant of the game is a //bit// different from what you’re used to. Good to know. With the spectacle concluded, some of the onlookers depart, while others shuffle around or huddle to chat. Deciding it’s as good an opportunity as any, you set off in search of an attendant. Your search, as it turns out, is short-lived. You stumble through the sparse crowds to find a man with greying hair and plain workwear handing the victorious contestant a yellow-painted Buck. He then gives the woman a congratulatory shake of the hand and sends her on her way, stomach still every bit as full—and from the looks of it, a bit more active. [[Ask after Viggo|Deaf Man's Buff]]

You grab the first three rocks from the top of the basket and scurry over to the designated spot. Not even bothering to aim, you turn and chuck a rock over the river, missing the painted target horribly. Your second throw nearly clocks one of the swimmers as the stone skips across the water’s surface with awkward splashes. Just to be safe, you intentionally lob the third away from any inadvertent bystanders. The stone lands on the far bank with a silent //thp// and whatever the opposite of fanfare is. Pity? Disinterest? Either way, nobody’s impressed. You eagerly step toward the wooden platform to take your stand. The attendant hops off the tower and sneers at you. “Enjoy smelling like fish, asshole.” You ignore her and ascend the ladder, shuffling into the painted circle atop the platform when you suddenly wonder if you should take off some of your clothes. They’re gonna get wet, either from the water or stomach slop, and your threads are pretty <<= $clothes>> right now; you wouldn’t wanna mar that. The first stone skims against the edge of the bullseye. Wood beneath your boots creaks and groans, the whole tower shuddering. You flinch and brace your legs, suddenly aware of how isolated and on-display you are. A primal tingle runs up your spine as your eyes wander toward the edge of the platform. There are people—//creatures//—swimming down there, waiting to be fed, like sharks at an aquarium. As the second stone rockets toward the target, you wonder if this was a good idea after all. //Crack!// The trapdoor swings open. You hang in the air for a split second as all the nerves in your body register that you’re falling, cold sparks crackling from your fingertips to your toes. You gasp, then tuck your arms against your chest, praying that you don’t slam against the sides of the hatch. An open maw bursts from the surface, huge and rising. You don’t have time to react, legs plunging straight down the dark throat, followed by your hips and elbows. You shut your eyes and yelp. There’s a muffled splash and a cacophonous //glurk// before the narrow inner world tilts sideways. Dousing warmth envelops your body. You slide and squish your way down the tunnel. The bottom of your feet push into a rigid wall. Your body curls. Strange pressure builds. Your ears pop. Something //splorps// shut above your head. The dark pit kicks and sways as the predator swims off, the motion wedging you firmly into the slimy accommodations. As you and the powerful creature you’re trapped inside of come to rest, jittery excitement shivers through your veins. That was… Thrilling! You were snapped up and swallowed like a piece of meat. Snatched out of the air, crammed into a taut little sack, and dragged underwater. The mermaid’s got you coiled and squeezed tight, nothing more than a bulge along her slithering body. Just how deep are you? Are you still in the human torso, or did the plunge and subsequent swim send you all the way into her tail? Wet palms explore the slick walls, glide along the gooey folds. You stretch your legs a few inches, then let the spongy walls push you back into place. A thumping heart leads an organic symphony. Despite the attendant’s snide commentary, the only scents are the familiar—dare you say, pleasant—odors of stomach acids, a sort of soft acidic air that speaks directly to your libido. A love language. “You alright in there?” an echoey voice from beyond drips into the undulating sack, a melody above the orchestra. “Is it too tight for you?” //“I could go tighter,”// you murmur to yourself, naked in your enjoyment. Your confines suddenly narrow, coiling and constricting. The entire organ clenches, squeezes and squishes like it’s wringing out a damp towel. You shift and curl into a fetal ball, quivering with ecstatic tingles, entirely at the mermaid’s mercy. When the muscle action finally lets up, you slump back into comfort. “O- Oh, you… can h- hear me,” you manage, quelling the passionate heat in your pants—er, chest. An embarrassed flush burns your cheeks. “Well of course; it’s //my// body,” the disembodied voice replies. “Glad you like it.” You suppose telling a predator that you appreciate their innards is a sort of strange, twisted compliment . What does a tidy tummy say about a person? Plume implied earlier that it’s rude to have someone in your stomach while you’re digesting other food, and now that you think of it, most of the guts you’ve been inside before today were oddly free of partially digested gunk—not that normal food would last long against their fierce metabolisms in the first place. Maybe the adage ‘you are what you eat’ has more merit here than you thought. <<linkreplace "Introduce yourself">>“A- Ah, right,” you say, pulling yourself back to focus. “My name’s <<= $name>>. I wanted to introduce myself.” “I don’t usually get to know the names of those I eat.” She laughs, warm and hearty. “I’m Ines. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “Likewise,” you murmur, trying to figure out where exactly her voice is coming from. When you realize that she can’t see you anyway and that eye contact is moot, you decide to simply rest your head back against a pillowy wall and speak into the void. “While I’m here, would it be alright if I ask you a few questions?” A tender, appreciative touch trails along your spine. “I think we have time for that.” “I’m looking for the groom.” You pause to gather your ambling thoughts. “Er, well, I’m looking for his buddy, Viggo, who apparently might know where Arturo is.” The touches along your form come to a pause. “Oh, I know Viggo. He stopped by earlier to make sure everything was set up. He was here with the local carpenter, Sal.” You put on your metaphorical detective hat. “How long ago was that?” The mermaid taps a finger against your shoulder. “Early morning, if I remember right. Not much in the way of crowds at the time.” “I don’t suppose he was with Arturo,” you ask optimistically. “The groom?” “That’s the one.” “Nah, I haven’t seen him all day. Viggo’s been occasionally stopping by to drop off more rocks for the basket, but I’m sure he’s got his plate full now that the festival’s in full swing.” Ines taps along your shoulder playfully. “Crowd here’s been changing every hour or so, people coming to cool off and play.” “Anyone in a green vest with silver accent?” “No silver. I only saw the two lovers working here, and they had plain vests.” Ines shrugs, and you can feel it with your whole body. “Maro Veech and Keela were here—they live next door to Rabine—but they’re not in the wedding party, so I doubt they’d know where Viggo or Arturo are, either. Sorry.” “That’s okay. Thank you anyway.” You pause, then press into what you assume is her spine—maybe that’ll show how appreciative you are. “Say, you seem to know a lot about the people of Khobb. Do you, uh, live here… in this… stream?” //You can’t ask someone if they live in a stream just because they’re a mermaid, you insensitive jerk.// It takes all your willpower not to slap your palm against your forehead. “I’m sorry I sound like an idiot. Sometimes, I just say things without thinking.” She laughs. “No, I understand your confusion. My people call this river Roseral. It’s sourced many miles north. There’s a little estuary not far from Oxia Lake which I call home, but I like to come down to Khobb during the summer and trade with the locals.” Aha! It’s a //river.// The expert told you so. And speaking of bodies of water… “Okay, I gotta ask: are we… underwater?” “Yes, we are. A couple feet below the surface.” she says like a teacher regarding her favorite student. “Very astute of you, <<= $name>>.” “And you can talk to me no problem?” “It’s easy with you in there.” Two wide hands grab you from either side. You can feel the vibrations of her voice traveling along the new conduits, her voice rebounding differently inside the set chamber. “Common gets a bit garbled when submerged. Gotta touch if you wanna talk.” “Oh… that makes a lot of sense, actually.” Tender touch resumes as you settle into comfortable silence. Outside, you can hear the distant echo of lapping waves, of feet kicking and arms splashing. The voices above the water are all but muted, like someone trying to speak to you in a dream. Here, in your little windowless submarine, you’re totally safe. It’s just you and the mermaid’s mighty heart sitting in the bed of a river, floating in a comfortable timelessness, the heat and warmth lulling you into a pleasant semi-consciousness. [[Rest and relax|Here, Fishy, Fishy, Fishy!]]<</linkreplace>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>A gentle press along your thigh wakes you from the peaceful flow of thoughtlessness. “Seems like they’re almost set up again,” Ines coos, melodious voice breaking up the white noise with its soft presence. “You wanna get out, or would you prefer some company in there? They’re real cute, and I got plenty of room for both of you.” You stretch and roll your shoulder. How long were you out? “N- Nooo, that’s okay. I probably gotta get going.” “Aww, are you shy? I can squeeze you down into my tail, nice and tight. Nobody’ll know you’re safely tucked away.” //Hrnngghhhh—// “No, yeah I gotta go. Need to find Viggo.” Ines hums indecipherably. “Pity, but I understand. Lemme bring you back up.” Your hostess unfurls from her cozy spot and slowly rises. You can feel the moment she crests the surface, floating belly-up and gently kicking her tail until running ashore. Ines rolls onto her side and places one hand under your backside, then pushes and presses, ushering you out of her stomach and back into her throat with remarkable skill. Arms braced above your head, you slump out onto dry ground. Ines disgorges you in a matter of moments, sliding her curious physiology along the shoreline as you’re deposited. When she’s done, you finally get your first good look at her up close She’s larger than you expected, curvy hips and powerful tail bearing an attractive heft. Atypical for the monster girls you’ve met so far, her flesh seems to change color across her body, a pale sweep smearing down her front while the skin above her bust is a vivid and lovely shade of bronze. She smiles with deep, dark eyes. The thin whiskers on her face flicker against a backdrop of curly ochre hair. Why is everyone in this world goddamn gorgeous? You simply lay on the bank for a moment, feeling the sun beat against your damp clothing. A soft breeze tickles your nose, brushes grass against your side. You can practically feel your clothes drying as you shed excess liquid—both from the river and the stomach. “Took a lot outta you, huh, <<= $name>>?” “Yeah…” you murmur, staring up at the midday sky as you slowly return to earth. “That was really nice. Thank you.” “My pleasure. But wouldn’t you want to towel off?” She gestures across your supine body, and you follow to find you’ve been let out in arm’s reach of a wooden rack, half a dozen towels sitting toasty in the sunlight. You sit up and grab one, letting yourself sink into the luxury. When you’ve pat yourself down as much as possible, you decide to let the beautiful weather handle the rest. Rising to your feet, you nod to Ines still lying in the sand. “Good to meet you. Thanks for—It was fun.” “It certainly was.” The mermaid watches you for a moment, then swiftly licks her lips. “Uhm, <<= $name>>? Before you go… could I ask for a favor?” “Uh, s- sure,” you say, somewhat weary of the look she’s giving you. “What can I do for you?” Ines beckons you closer. Being the mild mannered idiot that you are, you oblige. <<include "Ines Asks">><</timed>>

“Could you bring me some actual food?” she says in a low, bashful voice. You blink. “W- What?” “Well, I forgot to eat earlier, and that fairy’s spell prevents me from digesting people…” <<if $Ines1 == "wet">>She flashes a coy grin. “Not that I’d do it to you<<else>>She eyes the bulge in her tail. “Even if they might deserve it<</if>>. Though I //am// kinda hungry. I’ve seen people wandering around with all sorts of delicious-smelling food, but I can’t exactly go get it myself.” Her tail flaps in the shallows for emphasis. “Well, okay, I //can,// but it would be a long, embarrassing hassle to flop my way across town. And uh, honestly, being a literal fish out of water is probably gonna get me eaten by someone ambitious—and then I’d //still// be hungry but in a different fish tank, if you catch my drift.” You touch a worried hand to your mouth. “That doesn’t sound good.” Ines cracks a thin smile and offers an assuaging wave. “I’ll survive until the spell ends tomorrow, don’t worry about that. But it all smells //sooo// good. I’d really appreciate it if you brought me something to tide me over. I’ll trade you for it.” “Oh, the food’s free,” you offer sheepishly, a hand rubbing the back of your neck. “<<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>><<else>>At least, that’s what I’ve been told. A- Anyway, <</if>>I’ll see what I can do. There’s a good chance I’m gonna be, uh, in a ‘fish tank’ myself for most of the day. I seem to have that kinda luck.” A slight smile curls at the mermaid’s lips. “I can imagine.” “Still, I’ll… I’ll see what I can do,” you say with a complimentary nod. “Thank you.” She turns her attention back to <<if $Ines1 == "wet">>the Plunger where, sure enough, a demi woman is climbing up to the platform as another reveler picks out a few rocks. “I should probably get back in position<<else>>her bloated tail and smirks. “You know, I think this one deserves some extra vigorous swimming<</if>>. Anything else I can do for you first, <<= $name>>?” “Uhh, nope. I think that’s everything. See you, Ines.” <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">>

What greater motivation is there than the slim chance you’ll earn a valueless Buck? You fully expect to lose, but on the bright side, you’ll get an in with someone who might know where Viggo is. And //maybe,// just slightly, you wanna be swallowed by the huge woman. There’s no shame in admitting that. You step forward and raise your hand high. “I’ll play!” “Aha! A challenger!” Sven bellows, hopping down from the giant’s palm and yanking you to the front of the throng. “What’s the biggest beast you’ve wrestled, lad?” You furrow your brow, hoping this man doesn’t seriously think you’re going to be an asset for his doomed conquest. “Uhm, an ogress, I guess? No wait, a scylla.” //A motherfucking dragon, depending on who you ask.// There’s a murmur of //oohs// and //aahs// from the crowd, spreading from face to face and building into a humble cheer. Sven belts out a hearty approval, then guides you back toward the rope line. You’re tied into place by rough, leathery hands, then told where to stand—at the middle of the pack, between a demi and a human—as the group arrange themselves across from the cyclops. To your utter confusion, Menardi lowers herself onto her knees and pushes her end of the thick rope in her mouth. She swallows, arms folding behind her back, a mischievous smile on her face as throat muscles alone drag the cord deeper and deeper until a red cloth reaches her lips—the midpoint of the rope, you presume. You and the rest of the challengers tense. The crowd’s cheers rise to an intense pitch, more and more people from around the sandlots joining and jostling for a better spot to watch. The throng nearly doubles as jittery excitement congeals into fervor. “Begin!” Your intrepid team digs in and pulls with all their might. Muscles strain, knuckles turn white. To the crowd’s elation, the flag slips from Menardi’s lips, creeping slowly toward the line in the sand, and you soon find yourself swept up in the excitement of the match, heaving and yanking with everything you’ve got. Heavy boots stomp as the team takes a unified step backward. Sven cries out an unintelligible command, and you all heave together. Another step, another foot of ground gained. Well damn; you’re actually making progress. Perhaps you were a bit too pessimistic in your initial appraisal. Then again, you hadn’t exactly accounted for Menerdi’s, erm… handicap. What exactly is she trying to do? Hope she can overwhelm five super-strong Havendorians with peristalsis alone? The flag slips another half foot, trailing cloth dangling perilously close to the line. The townsfolk pull again, and it very nearly crosses. Just when you’re certain a win is imminent, Menardi locks onto you and winks. It’s not a blink. You cannot possibly describe //how// you can discern the difference, but it’s undeniable. Perhaps it’s the impish sparkle in her iris, or a particular waggle of her brow, but the one-eyed woman just winked. A mighty ripple rolls through her throat. The frontman lurches forward, footing lost entirely. Menardi slurps the rope like a noodle and yanks the man clean into the air. A quick open and shut of smiling lips sees him disappear. //Gulp!// You and the other four remaining contestants try to regain ground, but it’s too late. With one down and the flag deep, //deep// in her gullet, there’s really only one outcome now. Slick swallows resonate above the din. The anterior challengers fall one after another, each engulfed by giant lips and //glumped// into the abyss until it’s finally your turn. You grab onto the rope as you skid across the sand. You tug at the restraints around your waist, but there’s no time. The ground beneath your feet falls away. You’re pressed against giant lips, a sloppy kiss from the one-eyed woman. A bouquet of pleasant breath buffets you as the maw opens. Humid blackness envelops. A tongue rolls around a stray limb and pulls you inside, ushering your body past huge teeth and into the slimy chute. Cacophonous //glurks// and slurps ring in your ears as you’re doused in spittle and swallowed whole, tumbling through a rippling throat. Hands push uselessly against the slick, rigid walls. She clenches and squeezes, forcing your body ever inward, pushing you along the only path available until you finally pop through a nubby mass of tissue. “Hey, there he is!” one of the contenders calls out, their voice muffled by the odd angles and spongy surroundings. “I gotcha, I gotcha.” A friendly chuckle rings out. A pair of huge arms curl as the last of you is fully deposited into the packed gut. You’re pulled against a barrel chest and pushed onto someone’s lap—probably as a means of conserving space, as two more people are coming down the pipe, and there’s only so much room in the giant’s tummy. Lacking a choice, you nestle into the embrace, adding your body to the confusing tangle of limbs and torsos packed inside the sloshy sack. The rope around your waist goes limp as another body pops through the sphincter. “Sven’s on his way,” they grumble. A thigh pushes up against your face, the rest of the bodies shifting amid the churn to make room. For all their strength, the group can’t quite carve out a comfortable seating arrangement. “Why do we keep agreeing to this?” “‘Cause he lacks the courage to ask her on a date.” A chorus of snickers rise around you, then suddenly fall silent as the man himself slides into the gut. As you’re pressed and squeezed alongside the others, the world suddenly turns and tumbles. You slump and slouch and collide with a pair of shorts, then find a knobby elbow jammed into your side. It’s fair though, since you’re pretty sure your boot’s ended up under someone’s chin. Menardi rises to her feet. A hollow boom rings through the stomach as she slaps her flank. “Ahh. Khobb’s mightiest warriors fit nicely in my gut. Perfect,” she purrs, body swaying as you’re jutted and jostled about. The cyclops smacks her lips and lets out a hearty laugh. “I’m gonna sleep off this meal. I’ll be back later if anyone wants to try again.” [[Brace yourself|You're a Doll]]

You’ve only barely settled into the uncomfortable tangle when the sack starts moving again. Muscles clench and squeeze you up against an unwitting neighbor. The six of you slosh to one side, then tumble over as massive hips rock your back and forth. Stomach slop splashes about, harmlessly dampening your clothes. A parade of apologies and bemused chortles fill the scant space as the gooey folds grip and coil. A minute later, you’re inverted once again, this time to a noisy retch. Menardi doubles forward and pushes her guests back up into her throat. Once again in the middle of the pack, you lose yourself amid the press, the odd one out among the group of bulky bodies and mountainous muscles. A wave of goop sees you ejected, and you tumble across the grass. “Sorry,” a large voice squeaks, filled to the brim with pity and apology. It’s the cyclops with an unexpectedly soft and caring lilt. “Everyone okay?” “We’re fine,” someone nearby groans as they rise. A large hand gently parts the crowd. Her fingernail wriggles into the knot at your waist and unlatches you from the restraint. “Little one, it was very brave of you to step forward. Are you hurt?” “Oh uh, I’m okay. I had fun.” You chuckle, running a hand through your hair and pulling back a glob of stomach juice. It clings and dribbles down your wrist. “I actually had a couple questions for you. I’m here on behalf of Rabine.” “Is that why you played?” she balks, then turns a glare toward the burly man in the grass below. “Sven, you horrible man, roping this poor <<if $he == "he">>boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>girl<<else>>little thing<</if>> into your ridiculous game when all <<= $xe>> wanted was to talk.” You clear your throat to reply, then gasp, the wind escaping your lungs as you’re scooped up and lifted into the air. Menardi produces a towel—a dishrag to her—and starts wiping down your clothes. “I’m glad you had fun, and I’m more than happy to answer your questions.” “I—” you start, trying to regain a modicum of autonomy. The huge fingers and diligent scrubbing make the effort moot. You sigh and go limp, letting yourself be handled like a doll. “I’m looking for Arturo. Have you seen him?” The cyclops pauses and blinks, concern splashing her features. “Oh my, is he missing?” “Temporarily, I’m told.” You offer a reassuring shrug, which is surprisingly difficult in her grip. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Rabine and her bridesmaids said they saw him just this morning. And there’s the spell, so it’s not like he could, uh, run away.” She blinks and nods as relief washes across her expression. The towel curls gently under your chin. “He wouldn’t do that. Though, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him today…” “How about another name: Viggo. He’s supposed to be working somewhere around here.” Menardi touches a finger to her lips as her gaze turns skyward. After a moment, she shakes her head. “Hmm, I don’t remember who was in charge—” The giant turns an acidic glare upon her counterpart. “Sven and I started this game a little bit late. And I was helping set up one of the tents across town before that.” “Shucks.” You sigh and smile. “Well, I guess that’s all I had. Sorry to trouble you.” “It was no trouble at all—Sorry for getting you all gross. Look at this. I’m so embarrassed…” Resigned to your fate, you go slack and let the giant tend to you. A towel sweeps along your side, rubs against your clothes. She tilts and turns for better access, curling fingers wiping along the backs of your legs. At one point, you lift your arms to get the dampness in your pits, then nestle into the depth of Menardi’s palm. You gotta admit, this is kinda nice… After another minute of diligence, the cyclops slows. She raises her eyebrow curiously. “You’ve been tasked with finding Arturo?” “So it seems.” “Would you like to ride around town on my shoulder and search together?” You pale, trying very hard not to feel any weirder than you already do. “O- Oh, that’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think that’s necessary.” Your hand rubs at the back of your neck. “Thank you, though.” She nods. “Please let me know if you change your mind. I’m more than happy to help.” “I will.” Menardi sets you down. Back on solid ground, you check yourself over. Your outfit seems to be clean and dry; she did a good job. “I’d better get going.” You turn to the rest of the group, still drying themselves down. “Thanks everyone.” As they’re waving you off, Sven stomps forward and slings an arm across your shoulder. He produces a yellow chit with his other arm. “For your troubles.” “I thought it was only if we won.” He shrugs. “Nah, it’s not official or anything—I won a few earlier and was planning to give ‘em out to kids anyway.” You glare at the absurdly well-built man, then begrudgingly take the Buck. “Thanks,” you say flatly, slinking out from under his wing and scurrying back to the sandlots. Once you’ve returned to the stalls and crowds, you pause to consider where to head next.<<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 1>> The good news is you’ve still got two promising leads, which just leaves the choice of which one you want to tackle first<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 2>> At least it’s an easy choice, considering you’ve only got one lead left to follow. Here’s hoping it proves more fruitful than the previous two<<else>> Oh wait. That was your last stop. Fuck. All this running around, and you’re no closer to finding the wayward fellow than when you started<</if>>. <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">>

You trudge through the sandlots for a frustrated minute, casting a final few glances at the crowds and nearby stalls. If anything, the place only seems to be getting busier with every passing minute, and with absolutely zero actionable leads, Viggo could still be basically anywhere. It’s not like you’d call the sandlots a complete waste of time—you’ve definitely had some fun—but you’re also no closer to finding Arturo. Maybe you could go try<<if $KhobbClues == 1>> one of your other stops, see if you can learn something with a bit less effort at the town square or this ‘Dragonfly’ place? You can always double back if you have to. And with any luck, maybe things will calm down later in the afternoon. You huff out a frustrated sigh, but before you can make your way to the exit<<elseif $KhobbClues == 2>> somewhere else for now. You’ve still got one place left to check out elsewhere in town, and you can always double back if you have to. With any luck, things might calm down here in the afternoon. You huff out a frustrated sigh, but before you can make your way to the exit<<else>>—Oh wait, this is your last fucking stop. That vintner pointed you to Rhys, and //she// thought the groom might be with Viggo. You don’t have anywhere else to go, not unless you find something useful here. You frown and take a moment to collect your thoughts, figure out what to do next. As you survey your surroundings<</if>>, a particular stall near the entrance catches your eye. It’s curiously empty compared to the rest and doesn’t appear to hold any game or contest. Rather the wooden counter, shelves, and basically every other inch of space are all taken up by an eclectic medley of odds and ends ranging from wooden carvings and glass bottles to tomes and clothing accessories. That must be the prize counter, you realize as you absently reach into your pocket and <<if $Bucks == 0>>promptly remember you haven’t managed to obtain a single Buck. Oh well. Might as well go check it out and see what you’re missing. Really dig into that disappointment<<elseif $Bucks == 1>>feel your solitary Buck. You have no idea what you’ll be able to get with a measly single token, but it’s probably worth taking a look<<else>>feel your Bucks. You have no idea how many it takes to actually trade for a prize, but you might as well take a look<</if>>. As you approach, you realize your initial appraisal of ‘curiously empty’ was a bit more accurate than you thought, since no one seems to be managing it either. You frown and stand on your tiptoes to peek behind the counter, but no attendant seems to lurk in the shadows. “Hello?” you call out. “Anyone there?” “Just a moment!” a muffled voice calls out. An audible //thud// sounds from behind the stall, followed by the clinking, banging, and rattling of every material imaginable. Around the time you’re beginning to worry someone’s losing a fight with a tchotchke-golem, a flap at the back of the stall opens and a man stumbles through, arms laden with a veritable mountain of assorted trinkets. He sets the haul down on top of a nearby crate that looks to be serving as an ad hoc sorting desk, wipes an arm across his brow, then finally turns and regards you with a weary grin. “Sorry about that,” he says, resting calloused hands on the counter and displacing a few odds and ends in the process. “What can I do for you? Got some Bucks to trade in?” “Uhh—” You hesitate, realizing you might as well get the usual business out of the way. “I had a question first. This is probably silly, but you don’t happen to know who Viggo is, do you?” The man’s lips quirk to an amused grin. “Well, unless another Viggo’s wandered into town for the festivities, that’d probably be me.” “You’re… Viggo?” You blink, not trusting your ears. “Last I checked.” “I…” You falter, then settle for simply shaking your head. After wandering the sandlots, you were expecting a lead or a hint, not just blindly stumbling into the man himself. And he’s been right near the entrance of this whole time. Hell, you were probably within twenty feet of the Viggo before this search even started. “So,” he prompts. “Any particular reason you’re looking for me?” “R- Right. I’m actually trying to find Arturo. Rabine said he’s been, erm… missing since morning.” Viggo shakes his head. “What’s that idiot gotten himself into now?” He apparently reads some concern from your reaction, because he adds, “Don’t worry, he’s not the type to get cold feet at the last second. Especially not for Rabine. The way he talks about her, I don’t think he’d let anything get between them. “Speaking of, I should really find someone to take over for me here soon. S’posed to attend the ceremony later, and I’d like to at least change into something a bit more presentable, you know?” He gestures to his outfit, a scuffed and scored workman’s tunic and trousers under a thoroughly dirtied apron. Not exactly formal attire by your appraisal. “Are you the best man?” you ask. He flashes a wry grin. “I mean, I’m pretty good. Dunno if I’d go around calling myself the //best// ever, though.” “Err—That’s not what…” Stifling a sigh, you decide to get back on topic. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Arturo since this morning, have you?” Viggo merely shakes his head. “Can’t say I have, sorry. We took a quick lap of the sandlots before things got busy, then I think he mentioned something about checking up on Alberich—that’s a local vintner. Should have a setup in the town square, if you wanna stop by, see if he knows anything more.” “Oh, thanks,” you say<<if $KhobbClues == 3>>, burying your disappointment. Three leads, and the best they can form is an infuriating circle—or triangle, you suppose. Ablerich points to Rhys. Rhys points to Viggo. Viggo points to Alberich. It’s enough to make your head spin, and far more importantly, it doesn’t get the slightest bit closer to finding the wayward groom<<elseif $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>>, burying your disappointment. It seems like you should’ve followed Alberich’s lead to Rhys after all<<elseif $ArrayKhobb.includes("sappica")>>, quelling a mote of mild frustration. You’d hoped Rhys’ lead would provide something a bit more solid, but at least you’ve got another direction<<else>>, relieved to have at least //some// sort of lead after all your time spent at the sandlots<</if>>. “Sorry I can’t be more help,” Viggo offers. “While you’re here though, could I interest you in a prize? Something to buy with all those Bucks you’ve been earning?” <<if $Bucks == 0>>“I, uhh…” A hand finds its way to the back of your neck as you awkwardly shift from one foot to the other. “I don’t actually have any.” The man arches a brow quizzically. “You decided to stop by here first?” “N- No,” you admit. “I’ve been exploring the sandlots for a while. I just haven’t, erm… earned any Bucks.” “Oh, it’s not difficult at all. Just play a few games,” Viggo assures you. “Some stalls are practically giving them out.” “I know,” you mutter. “I tried a few. Just… didn’t work out, I guess.” The man frowns. “Not even one?” “Uhm, no,” you answer, feeling very small. An awkward moment of silence passes before Viggo clears his throat. “Well, thanks for volunteering your luck for the rest of us, I guess.” He tapers off into a bemused chuckle, fingers tapping on the countertop. Not entirely sure how to take the awkward mix of consoling and mildly patronizing, you instead offer a slight shrug and a chuckle of your own. You glance to your sides, hoping to find a conveniently open maw you can jump into. In its absence, you instead settle for actual responsibility as an excuse. “I, uhh… I need to get back,” you manage. “Y’know, finding Arturo, and all that.” “Yeah. Good luck with—Oh, I never got your name.” “<<= $name>>,” you say unenthusiastically. “<<= $name>>, right.” Viggo nods slowly. “Well, if Arturo happens to stop by, I’ll let the fool know you and Rabine were looking for him. But I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.” “Yeah, hopefully. Thanks, Viggo.” <<include "Sandlots_Outro">><<elseif $Bucks >= 1>>“Uhh, sure,” you say, feeling fancy as hell with your <<if $Bucks == 3>>//three// whole Bucks<<elseif $Bucks == 2>>//two// whole Bucks<<else>>//one// entire Buck<</if>>—truly you must be the envy of Khobb with your vast fortune. “How many do I need?” “Well, that’s a good question,” the man starts, casting an appraising gaze over his wares. “We took donations from townsfolk and visitors for the prizes, but as you can see, we wound up with //way// more than anyone was expecting—and let me tell you, some of this stuff is an absolute steal.” Viggo hums as he taps his fingers on the counter. “How about you get your pick of any one item for every… let’s say two Bucks.” <<if $Bucks >= 2>>That… doesn’t sound like a precise or meticulously planned system. But you’re not about to complain, considering you have <<if $Bucks == 2>>just <</if>>enough for the prize of your choice. “Sounds good to me,” you say. You turn to look at the assorted wares and consider your potential options. Lots and //lots// of potential options. Seriously, there’s a staggering variety of goods on display. A decorative shawl catches your eye for a moment before you notice a carved wooden jewelry box, then a small bottle whose contents shimmer a gentle amber in the indirect midday light. Okay, maybe you’re thinking about this the wrong way. Nothing here strikes you as especially pragmatic for the long road ahead, but one of your companions might appreciate a gift. And perhaps shopping for someone else will help narrow your focus, make the decision a bit easier. The only question, then, is //who?// [[Mira|MiraGift][$Khobb4 to "Mira"]] [[Vanille|VanilleGift][$Khobb4 to "Vanille"]] [[Ashlyn|AshlynGift][$Khobb4 to "Ashlyn"]] [[Sherine|SherineGift][[$Khobb4 to "Sherine"]]] [[Aria|AriaGift][[$Khobb4 to "Aria"]]]<<else>>“I, uhh… I only have one,” you admit sheepishly. <<include "Kissing Booth">><</if>><</if>>

“Excuse me,” you start as you finally reach the attendant. He turns to regard you with a broad grin. “Ah, hello there. Interested in joining the next round? Still need one more volunteer.” You suppress a wince at his booming voice; up close, it’s almost deafening. “Uhh, n- no thanks. I’m actually looking for Viggo. He’s supposed to be helping out around here, and I wanted to—” “What’s that?” the man practically shouts, cupping a hand to his ear. //“Viggo,”// you say again. “I’m looking for Viggo.” He nods. “Eager to give it a go, are you?” “Wha—No. I’m looking for someone. I- I don’t want to play—” “Don’t know how to play? Not a problem!” the attendant cheers. “Everyone has their first round of Blind Man’s Buff at some point.” A weathered hand grasps your shoulder, and before you can fully process what’s happening, you’re being pushed through the crowds and toward the arena. “Rules are simple as they come: grab that flag right over there, and don’t get grabbed yourself. Winner gets a Buck.” He belts out a short laugh. “Well, s’pose the chaser gets //you// as well, but that’s only if you let ‘em.” “W- Wait, hold on,” you stammer, confusion finally giving way to concern as the gate to the cordoned arena looms closer with each guided step. “I- I don’t want to play. I just wanted to ask about—” “No need to be nervous. Point is to have fun, relax. What’s the worst that can happen?” A final push sees you stumbling into the sandlot, and the attendant closes the gate with a definitive //ka-chunk.// Okay, cool, great. You draw a slow breath, then attempt to reckon with just how fucked you are. Sure, there’s technically nothing physically preventing you from hopping the cordon and running off, but for all his obnoxious insistence—or near-deaf obliviousness—the attendant has a point. What’s the worst that can happen? //A lovely afternoon stint in a stranger’s belly?// True, but that might make a timely return to Rabine a bit more difficult. Then again, it’s not like you’re in any //real// danger here. //Aside from the part where you make a complete fool of yourself in front of a few dozen people.// Rude. But embarrassment has been more or less a daily occurrence in Havendor. It’s not hard to look like a complete idiot when you’re perpetually surrounded by people more competent and capable than yourself. Is this really all that much worse? You glance across the arena and find your opponent, a young woman that you initially assume is a fellow human until you spot a pair of pointed, fuzzy ears barely protruding from a head of russet-gold hair. She bounces on the balls of her feet, looking every bit as eager and excited as you aren’t. <<linkreplace "Consider your prospects">>As the woman ties on a blindfold, you spend a moment debating how exactly you’re going to get past her—or if it’s even worth trying. For as much as the blindfold //should// push things in your favor, you know damn well this demi’s faster, stronger, and all-around more physically fit than you. The moment it comes down to a race, you’re done for. “Contestants!” a familiar voice booms. “Are you ready for the next round of Blind Man’s Buff?” The assembled onlookers break into whoops and cheers, loud enough that they nearly drown out the attendant’s words. … And potentially loud enough for you to use. You take an experimental step in the sand and are pleasantly surprised to discover that the crowd almost entirely covers the audible crunch. “Young man?” Right, the attendant’s talking to you. Mind racing, you hastily nod. Your best shot is to use the roar of the crowd as cover. Do you chance a sprint while they’re still cheering feverishly? Or do you risk a slow, methodical approach, favoring stealth over speed? “Very well,” he shouts. “Begin!” [[Dash forward|Tag, You're Vore]] [[Try to sneak past|Like a Jackal][$Buff ++]]<</linkreplace>>

The faster you get this done, the less likely something goes wrong. With that adage firmly in mind, you launch yourself forward… and instantly realize your mistake. The sand isn’t just a hazard because of the noise; it also hampers your movement. What was intended as a sprint resolves into an awkward jog. Worse—and despite the roar of the crowd—your opponent flicks her head, searching. As your first adage falls to pieces, a second takes its place: history repeats itself. Maybe it’s those damned adorable ears, or maybe you’re just making that much fucking noise. Either way, she lurches in your direction before you’ve even reached the halfway point. Just as the runner who came before, you’re forced to dive and dodge past your opponent, looking for an opening on her flank where you can slip past. Except you’re slower. And she’s not. A hand looms, fingers blindly reaching for your tunic. You attempt to duck, but your opponent finds a grip nonetheless. You try to sprint free of her flimsy grasp, but only one of you possess Havendorian strength and speed. It’s not you, just to clarify. <<include "Malted">>

Since speed has never been your greatest asset in this world, you instead opt for cleverness and a degree of subterfuge—even if it means this is going to take a whole lot longer. You take a careful step, gingerly pressing your boot against the surface of the sand before gradually applying your full weight. What should have been a traitorously audible crunch is instead reduced to a slow and much quieter hiss. Buoyed, you try again, eyes never venturing from your opponent as she stands at the midfield, waiting. She tilts her head, lips curled to a frown, then takes a cautious step forward, sightless gaze sweeping from one corner of the arena to the other. Step by step, foot by agonizingly slow foot, you crawl your way across the sand pit as your opponent stumbles about, hands grasping at thin air, ears twitching to desperately pick up any scrap of sound. Seconds bleed into minutes, but through discipline and patience, you maintain your steady pace. As you draw close, she lurches in the opposite direction, stumbling toward the far end of the arena and leaving you with a clear path to the flag. Every passing second bolsters your confidence: the demi has no idea where you are. There’s just one minor problem. “This is boring!” a random man in the crowd shouts. “Gutless coward!” “That’s not how the game’s supposed to be played!” You wince with each indictment, but love it or hate it, the protests only further fuel your strategy. Noise is noise, and you’re not going to complain as long as they keep— “Hey everyone, shut up!” a feminine voice calls out. “Can’t you see we’re the problem? If we stop yelling, this won’t work.” Uh oh. A murmur of agreement roils through the crowd, alongside a few shouts of dissent that are rapidly quashed. One onlooker at a time, the masses begin to fall silent. You’re forced to halt, breath hitching in your throat, heart thundering in your chest so loudly you fear it will betray your position. Your opponent, however, takes advantage of the situation to continue stumbling about, gradually covering the arena one lurching step at a time—she’s going to find you eventually. “<<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">>What’s <<= $xe>><<else>>What’re <<= $xe>><</if>> gonna do now?” someone whispers, only to be met by a half dozen hissing shushes. “Panic, that’s what,” another murmurs, malicious glee dripping from every syllable. Okay, look, you’re not panicking. You’re being abruptly forced to revise your plan while on the back foot, aware that your advantage is slipping away with every passing second. That’s, uhm… desperate restrategizing, legally distinct from panicking. You should know; you’re a lawyer. Qualifications aside, you really do need to figure something out. You’re tempted to try for the sprint, but your opponent still stands between you and the flag, and you’re not keen on simply hoping she passes you by. You see two potential paths forward: either you stick to the plan and hope the ambient hum is enough to cover your footsteps, or you try to rile up the crowd without drawing your opponent’s attention. <<linkreplace "Antagonize the crowd">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Buff ++>><<set $Bucks ++>>Might as well double down on the antagonism. Words are out of the question, as is moving your legs. In the absence of cleverer solutions, you resort to a classic, a true vintage of petty insults. With all the pomp and prestige of a magician revealing their grand deception, you slowly turn to the crowd, lift one hand, and flip them the bird. “That little…” one woman growls alongside a chorus of low hisses and boos. Bolstered, you try a few more rude gestures, hoping they cross the cultural divide. And to your amazement, they do. Perhaps a bit too well. “<<= $Xes>> to your left!” a man shouts. “No, //his// left! //Your// right!” another counters. The crowd erupts into a mix of jeers and hollers, alongside a number of industrious attempts to guide your opponent to victory. Between the sheer number and their disorganized nature, however, they look to be doing more harm than good as your opponent stumbles about, more confused than ever. You resume your slow and steady march across the arena one careful footstep at a time. “You idiots! <<= $Xes>> just doing it again! Just one of us give directions. This isn’t helping!” “I’ll shut up if you do!” “What are you gonna do, //make// me—” //Glurck.// A small, conscientious voice at the back of your mind wonders if turning the crowd of easygoing spectators against each other is ethically dubious. Oh well. It takes every ounce of self-control to not rush, to maintain your careful and methodical pace as the spectators devolve into chaos. Your opponent stumbles around with arms outstretched and wanders right past you, toward the opposite end of the arena. With the coast clear and victory all but assured, you continue onward, stealing the occasional glance over your shoulder to make sure the demi isn’t blindly wandering right into you. Unfortunately, your foot stumbles on a particularly treacherous lump of sand, and you tumble forward before you can regain your balance, falling to the ground with a slight yelp. You wince the moment the sound leaves your lips, then immediately push your hands forward and launch yourself back to your feet. No time to look back. No time to confirm what you already know. Panic fuels your desperate sprint toward a goal that’s mere feet away. The strip of yellow cloth draws close. You reach out and practically throw yourself the final few steps. Fingers grasp at cloth an instant before something yanks the back of your tunic. “Wait!” you yell, then finally dare to look over your shoulder. The demi looms, frozen mid-lunge, lips parted and ready for the first gulp. <<linkreplace "“I got the flag!”">>“I- I got the flag!” you pant, heart thundering. “I got it!” She tilts her head, then hooks a thumb under her blindfold. Hazel eyes look between you, the pole, and the flag in your outstretched hand before her lips curl to a frown. “Aw, shucks,” she says. “You looked real tasty, too. Oh well, guess I’ll just see if they’ll let me try another round.” With a final, remarkably casual shrug, she turns and walks back toward the gate, leaving you alone in the middle of the sand pit. You’re actually a bit surprised she wasn’t more disappointed. Hell, she probably could’ve just gulped you down and none of the onlookers would’ve said a damn thing after the stunt you pulled. Opting to take your leave, you hastily follow the demi and slip out of the arena gate. The attendant is waiting. “I, uhh, don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone play Blind Man’s Buff quite like that,” he admits, pursing his lips as he casts a concerned gaze to the diminished crowd of onlookers. Things seem to be calming down, but you’re reasonably certain there’s a few more squirming stomachs among the throng than before. “Fair’s fair, though,” he continues. “The Buck’s yours.” “Thanks,” you say, accepting the offered chip and nearly turning away before suddenly remembering the whole reason you came here in the first place. “Oh, hey. Do you know someone by the name of Viggo? //Vee-go,”// you reiterate, emphasizing each syllable as clearly as you can. The attendant merely waves his hand. “Viggo? Nah, hasn’t been by here since morning. Must be helping out elsewhere.” You suppress a sigh. “Alright, thanks anyways.” With that, you decide to leave before anyone you genuinely annoyed with your antics opts to do something about it. Once you’re a comfortable distance away from the sand pit, you pause <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 1>>to think about where you want to go next<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 2>>and realize you’ve only got one place left to go<<else>>and realize this was your last stop. And still no Viggo. That’s not ideal<</if>>. <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> [[Keep sneaking|You are not stealth]]

A pair of wet lips pass over the crown of your head, providing the barest warning before you’re plunged into a world of humid darkness. A thunderous gulp booms in your ears as you’re wrenched up, back, then down in a disorienting slide. You barely think to struggle or kick or so much as squirm. … Which is probably for the best, given this is all a game. And you’ve lost. A relentless tide of warm flesh crests your shoulders and pours down your arms, an eager tongue prodding between your shoulder blades. Saliva soaks through your tunic and mats your hair as another gulp pulls you deeper. A pair of hands grasp blindly at your hips and hoist you skyward as if you’re nothing more than a cool afternoon beverage to be thrown back and chugged down. You’re not even sure you’re a particularly refreshing one, given how the demi seems determined to pack you away in the shortest possible span. Maybe it’s some unspoken rule: finish your meal quickly so you can clear the arena for the next sap who gets press-ganged into the game. Or perhaps it’s considered poor form to pause and enjoy your person-food while a few dozen pairs of eyes are watching—something better saved for the relative privacy of a secluded side street or shaded corner. Given you’re about to spend an indeterminate stretch of time with the woman, you could always ask. Another gulp claims your waist as your head and shoulders breach the demi’s gut. You splat down into a pool of stomach juice and shimmy yourself into a comfortable position as your legs rapidly funnel through the woman’s throat, finally followed by your feet, shoes and all. Faint cheers sound from beyond the walls of flesh, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s the slightest hint of schadenfreude underpinning their glee. You’ve barely settled in the stomach before your predator lurches into motion. A vaguely familiar voice—the attendant, you presume—offers his congratulations and mentions something about a prize, though you can only guess if he means you or a Buck. After a brief pause, the demi sets off for god-knows-where with you bumping and jostling in tow. You stew in silence for an awkward minute. Adrenaline fades, and the ache of defeat begins to sink in. Though… this really isn’t //that// bad; you’ve definitely been in worse stomachs. At least this one has the added bonus of being magically incapable of killing you. This does, however, leave you with the conundrum of what exactly you’re supposed to //do// in a situation like this. Your socialization hasn’t prepared you for prey etiquette while in the stomach of a nonthreatening stranger. Do you sit and wait? Strike up conversation? Offer an internal massage? Fortunately, the demi clears her throat before you can decide. “Sorry I shoveled you down like that,” she says, voice a bit deeper than you would’ve expected. “I just got caught up in the moment and—Oh, that was fun! And you tasted //sooo// good.” “Uhh, thanks,” you offer, not quite sure what else to say. “Of course!” She pauses for a moment, swaying from side to side. “Oh, right! My name’s Malt.” “<<= $name>>.” “Nice to meet you, <<= $name>>.” A hand pats at the top of her stomach—the mad-world equivalent of a handshake, you suppose. You sit in silence for another moment, then gently prod, “So, uhm… what now?” “Well, I wasn’t planning on holding you long, if that’s your worry. Don’t wanna be rude, after all.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m not keeping you from anyone, am I?” “Not exactly,” you say. “But I’m, uhh, supposed to be looking for someone.” Malt rubs a hand along the side of her stomach. “Aww, someone special?” “N- No. He’s, uhh… Actually, I probably should’ve asked. Do you know someone by the name of Viggo?” “Can’t say I do, sorry. I’m actually not from around these parts, just visiting for the festivities. Cousin invited me to take the trip north for a weekend, promising it’d be fun.” She bounces on her feet again, making your accommodations wobble vigorously. “And she was right! I’m having a blast!” You can’t help but grin at her infectious energy. “Yeah. It’s really something, huh?” “It is.” Your hostess trails off, then suddenly pats her stomach once more. “Oh, right. Gimme a minute. I’ll go find somewhere a bit less crowded to let you back out.” [[Sit and Wait|UnMalted]]

After a moment’s thought, you decide it’s better to stick with the plan and not second-guess yourself. You can move quietly. Hell, you snuck around the better half of a bee girl hive that was absolutely swarming with drones, and you’re still here to tell the tale. You’re a master of stealth. You keep telling yourself this right until you actually take your first step. Maybe it’s those damned adorable ears, or maybe the sand is just unreasonably loud. Either way, the demi immediately stops her blind stumble, tilts her head, then looks right in your direction. Fuck it. You launch forward with every ounce of adrenaline you can muster, ducking and diving for an opening at the demi’s left. A hand looms, fingers blindly reaching for your tunic. You attempt to backpedal, but your opponent finds a grip nonetheless. You try to sprint free of her flimsy grasp, but only one of you possess Havendorian strength and speed. It’s not you, just to clarify. <<include "Malted">>

The muffled din of the sandlots fades to a distant hum beyond the organic gurgles as the demi walks. Sure enough, she quickly finds a satisfactory spot and, with no further fanfare, spits you back out into the world of harsh daylight. “Thanks, <<= $name>>!” Malt cheers. //‘For what?’// you can’t help but wonder as you rise to your feet and find you’re standing in the shade of what looks to be a shuttered barn. Rather than voice your confusion, though, you offer a smile and a nod, then wipe a viscous glob from your forehead before it can dribble into your eyes. Satisfied, the demi turns and bounds back toward crowds, leaving you a mix of disheveled and mildly confused. A few minutes of patting at the remarkably water-resistant conjured clothing leaves you at an adequate approximation of ‘put together,’ so you follow in Malt’s footsteps back to the sandlots to resume your search. <<if $Khobb_Sandlots == 1>>As you walk, you consider where you’re going to head next<<elseif $Khobb_Sandlots == 2>>As you walk, you realize you’ve only got one stop left<<else>>You make it all of three steps, however, before realizing the game of Blind Man’s Buff was your last stop. That’s not ideal. All this time and effort, and still not so much as a hint of Viggo to show for it<</if>>. <<include "Sandlots_Navigator">>

You hastily turn away and set a course for the nearby entryway to the sandlots, shuffling and shimmying through a few particularly dense crowds as you consider your next destination<<if $KhobbClues == 3>>… which, unfortunately, is back to Rabine with the bad news. At this point, it feels like you’ve been all over Khobb, and you still haven’t seen so much as a trace of the wayward groom. Oh well. No sense putting it off.<<elseif $KhobbClues == 2>>… which isn’t actually much of a choice. You’ve only got <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("square")>>this mysterious ‘Dragonfly’<<else>>the town square and the vintner<</if>> left to check out. Hopefully your final stop has a more productive lead. <<else>>. You can either follow Viggo’s lead to the town square and the vintner Arturo apparently visited, or you can check out this mysterious ‘Dragonfly’ and see if the groom’s sister can help track him down. Before you can decide, however, your stomach audibly growls as you catch a mouthwatering scent carried on the wind. Now that you think about it, you’ve been doing a fair amount of walking, and it’s well past lunchtime. Maybe you should consider a third stop and grab a bite to eat before resuming the search.<</if>> <<include "Khobb_Navigator">>

Now’s not the time for a gift—In fact, you’re not sure when that moment will come. But when it does, it might be nice to have a more tangible token of your appreciation for the demi. Something to remind her <<if $MiraDating == true || $RVMira >= 14>>how much<<else>>that<</if>> you care. … Someday. You wince at a sudden ache in your chest, then turn your attention back to the prize booth with your new focus in mind. Your gaze almost immediately settles on a small<<if $MiraEvent1 == true || $Caravan == "Mira">>, leather-bound tome, roughly the size of your average paperback novel. Embossed gold lettering on the front cover reads ‘The Djinn’s Wish.’ “May I?” you ask, reaching out. At Viggo’s nod, you retrieve the book and gently flip it open to find clear lettering and undamaged parchment. On its own, this obviously wouldn’t be much of a gift for Mira, but paired with the promise of reading through it together, maybe it could bring back memories of happier times. You’d certainly like to think so. “I’ll take this,” you say with a nod, retrieving the two Bucks from your pocket and slipping the tome into your bag<<else>> box, intricate facets and sliders and latches affixed to its wooden surface. “May I?” you ask, reaching out. At Viggo’s nod, you retrieve the container and, a few clicks and whirrs later, confirm your suspicions: it’s a puzzle box. If memory serves, Mira took a similar device from the Whispered Archives, only to lose it—along with the rest of her belongings—in your mad dash from the haunted temple on the road to Orrault. “I’ll take this,” you say with a nod, retrieving two Bucks from your pocket and carefully placing the puzzle box inside your bag<</if>>. <<include "PostPrize">>

<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Buying a gift for Vanille is the obvious choice. The two of you are dating, after all<<else>>Vanille’s done so much for you on this long and treacherous road. The last you could do is offer a small token of appreciation in return<</if>>. With your focus in mind, you turn your attention back to the prize counter and begin the search anew, only to immediately hit a stumbling block. Most of Vanille’s gifts for you have been firmly rooted in the practical and functional: weapons, clothes, gear for the road, those sorts of things. And while you certainly appreciate the thought—and the fact that those gifts have saved your life more times than you count—you’d much rather find something a bit more <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>personal. After a moment’s pensive perusal, your eyes settle on a necklace adorned with small wooden charms of varying shapes and forms. You don’t recognize anything in particular being depicted—the artist seems to favor abstract designs over concrete references—but there’s something intimate about the piece, almost… well, //charming.// “I’ll take that necklace<<else>>casual. After a moment’s pensive perusal, your eyes settle on a charming bouquet of soft whites and brilliant golds bound in simple twine. You lack the requisite floral lore to identify any particular blossoms, but a quick whiff finds a gentle, pleasant scent. <<if $Orrault1 == "Vanille">>You faintly recall Vanille mentioning something about tending to plants in her childhood. Besides,<<else>>It’s a bit of a leap, given Vanille’s shown little in the way of horticultural inclination, but<</if>> it just seems so… fitting. “I’ll take that bouquet<</if>>,” you say, producing two Bucks from your pocket and making a quick trade. Hopefully your bag will keep the gift safe. <<include "PostPrize">>

For reasons beyond all sane comprehension, you decide giving Ashlyn a gift is a good idea, and definitely //not// something that’s going to result in the mage concocting some devious and insane and almost certainly dangerous ‘repayment.’ Nonetheless, you begin your search anew with the mage’s tastes in mind and, after a minute of pensive perusal, settle on a small bottle filled with a deep crimson liquid—a split of wine, and a nice one at that if the elaborate packaging complete with parchment labeling and wax seal is anything to go by. Ashlyn’s shown her predilection for all things intoxicating in the past, and while you’re not sure she’ll have the discerning palate to appreciate a valuable vintage, it’s the thought that counts. “I’ll take that bottle of wine,” you say, producing two Bucks from your pocket and making a quick trade. Hopefully your bag will keep the gift safe. <<include "PostPrize">>

A gift for Sherine seems appropriate. Considering the relatively short time you’ve spent on the road together, she’s proven herself to be a steadfast and thoroughly capable companion—almost distressingly so, at times. But this does raise the question of what sort of present Sherine would appreciate. For as many quality goods as the prize counter has available, you doubt the lamia would like the more rustic or charming options. She seems to prefer the finer things in life—glittering metal over lovingly carved wood. //You know exactly what kind of gift she’d like from you.// You quell the stray thought and instead direct your attention toward the non-lethal options on display. A particularly vibrant wine briefly catches your interest before your eyes are inexorably drawn to a small, opaque bottle tucked on a high shelf. The ornate design and curious top leads you to believe it’s not meant for drinking. “Is that perfume?” you ask, pointing for Viggo’s benefit. The man retrieves the bottle, examines it for a moment, then nods. “Good eye. Something with sandalwood, if I’m remembering right.” “I’ll take it,” you say, producing two Bucks from your pocket and making a quick trade. Hopefully your bag will keep the gift safe. <<include "PostPrize">>

While you haven’t known her for long<<if $Orrault2 == true>>—brief centaur-induced first meeting aside—<<else>>, <</if>>you and Aria have been through a remarkably amount together, and she’s proven herself to be a steadfast and compassionate companion. You’re not sure what she’s got planned next, but a small token of your appreciation wouldn’t go amiss. With your focus in mind, you begin the search anew. Almost immediately, your eyes settle on a bouquet of pastel purples and blues—hydrangeas, if you had to guess. A quick scent finds an aroma of honey and vanilla, strong enough to be noticeable, yet not so overbearing that it’s unpleasant. Admittedly, flowers are a bit generic as far as gifts go, but they seem like the sort of thing the theurge might appreciate. “I’ll take that bouquet,” you say, producing two Bucks from your pocket and making a quick trade. Hopefully your bag will keep the delicate flowers safe. <<include "PostPrize">>

<<if $Bucks == 3>>You hesitate, realizing you’ve still got a Buck leftover. “Hey, Viggo,” you ask. “Anything I can do with a spare Buck?” <<include "Kissing Booth">><<else>>“Thanks for your business,” Viggo says. “I’ll make sure to—Oh, I never got your name.” “<<= $name>>,” you offer. “<<= $name>>, right.” Viggo grins. “Well, if Arturo happens to stop by, I’ll let the fool know you and Rabine were looking for him. But I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.” “Thanks, Viggo.” <<include "Sandlots_Outro">><</if>>

“Just one, huh?” Viggo scratches absently at his beard. “Well, ‘fraid I can’t do anything <<if $Bucks > 1>>more <</if>>for you here, but good news. Coura’s got a booth set up right over there. Only charging a single Buck for her services, if you’re interested.” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Maybe you shouldn’t go around kissing strangers. On the mouth. Their very normal mouths that aren’t at all used for weird activities. “I think I’ll pass,” you say, quelling the swirling normal thoughts in your brain. You watch Viggo shrug merrily, then turn away to help a new customer. Guess you’re done here. <<include "Sandlots_Outro">><<else>>Before you can inquire as to exactly //what// those services might be, Viggo abruptly turns away, attention directed to a new customer. With a bemused chuckle, you decide to investigate this mystery booth for yourself. [[Check it out|Kiss Me, Kill Me]]<</if>>

You enter the home to find a smaller assembly than you remember. Rabine is there, alongside a few familiar faces from the bridal party—the rest are probably dealing with their own preparations. You’ve barely taken a few steps before the bride looks up and regards you with a pleasant smile. “Oh hi, <<= $name>>,” she says. “How’d it go?” You take a steadying breath. “I, uhh… I couldn’t find Arturo. Sorry, I looked everywhere you all suggested. Rhys thought he might be with Viggo, and Viggo thought he might be at the vintner’s in the town square. And the vintner last saw him with Rhys. Everyone just pointed to each other. And I really don’t want to worry you, but the last time anyone saw him was early morning. It’s like he’s just…” <<if $Khobb2 == true>>You falter as you watch a remarkably unconcerned Rabine run a gentle hand along the swell of her stomach. You’ve seen a number of full predators in your admittedly short time in Havendor—not to mention your, ah, //extracurricular// interests in a previous life—that you’re starting to piece together a lexicon of postprandial body language. That’s not the look of a woman nursing a particularly satisfying meal; it’s a gesture of affection. After a long moment of awkward silence, the bride finally looks back up at you, blinking in surprise “Like he’s just what, <<= $name>>?” Are you really doing this? Are you really going to commit to the accusation after you were so soundly rebuked a mere few hours prior? Are you going to risk further indignation and scorn for the sake of proving you were right all along? Yes. The answer is yes. Because it’s not just a hunch or a feeling. You fucking //know// he’s in there, with every bone in your body and every fiber of your being. “Like he’s there,” you finally conclude, leveling an accusatory finger right at Rabine’s middle. “He’s in your stomach, where he’s been the whole time.”<<else>>“Like he’s just vanished,” you finally say as an embarrassing realization finally dawns on you. Rude or not, you find yourself transfixed by Rabine as she runs a gentle hand along the swell of her stomach. You’ve seen a number of full predators in your admittedly short time in Havendor—not to mention your, ah, //extracurricular// interests in a previous life—that you’re starting to piece together a lexicon of postprandial body language. That’s not the look of a woman nursing a particularly satisfying meal; it’s a gesture of affection. After a long moment of awkward silence, the bride finally looks back up at you, blinking in surprise “Like he’s just what, <<= $name>>?” “H- He’s,” you start, then swallow a hard lump. “He’s in your stomach… where he’s been the whole time.”<</if>> The room goes silent as all eyes turn to Rabine. Her ears flicker, then sweep back and flatten, pointing outward like the wings of a jet. Arms curl and clutch her middle. Plume snorts. “Okay, you got us.” “Wait, //‘Us?’”// you blurt out. “I was—Y- You’re in on this, too?” “Duh,” the fairy drawls. “I’m a fairy, I gotta play pranks on people. It’s in my glittery blood… Besides, you look like a mark. Easy prey.” You sigh. “That’s truer than you know.” A quick survey of the bridesmaids finds a fair share of knowing smirks and bashful grins—co-conspirators, no doubt—but at least a few seem similarly surprised by the revelation, though they seem more amused and endeared than shocked or betrayed. “He’s so shy,” Rabine suddenly blurts out. “Arturo gets nervous around many people, but this party? He called in a favor from a great-great ancestor—one of Plume’s traveling companions, back from her adventuring days—for the wedding because he knew how much //I// wanted a huge bash.” She clutches her hands tight around her middle, swaying back and forth. “He’s so thoughtful, my little bookish badger.” You’re pretty sure someone described Arturo as a ferret, but that’s besides the point. “B- Besides!” Rabine continues, face now bright red. “It’s //my// wedding! I can eat whoever I want.” “O- Of course,” you say, placating, hoping she doesn’t lunge. “So, he’s fine?” A muffled, //“Yes,”// comes from her stomach. You nod along. “I- I think I understand. That’s very uhm, that’s very compassionate. You two are a good match. Very accommodating—” Wait, is that a euphemism? “I- I hope you have a long and happy marriage.” <<if $Khobb2 == true>>“Thank you,” Rabine says, a bit meek, but recovering from the embarrassing confession. “You’re such a sweetheart.” She opens her arms and bids you over with the flicker of her wrists. “Can I offer you a hug as an apology?” You shake like a bobblehead as she steps forward. Oh god, the round. It’s getting closer. A predator is approaching. Danger! “I- Ah, I’m good,” you say hastily, aware that the bride is a single grab from deciding ‘eating whoever she wants’ includes you. She’s got room, and you don’t want to be //in// the wedding party. “Th- Thank you, though.” You clear your throat and take a step toward the exit. “I’ll see myself out—Congratulations, again!” is all you can manage as you shuffle backward.<<else>>“Thank you,” Rabine says, a bit meek, but recovering from the embarrassing confession. “You’re such a sweetheart.” An awkward moment passes where nobody says anything. You, being the doof that you are, decide to break the silence—maybe this is why you keep getting eaten. Can’t keep your mouth shut. “Ahem. Now, if there’s nothing else…” You deliberately avoid the hungry eyes of one of the bridesmaids—wouldn’t want to find yourself //in// the wedding party, after all. Shaking slightly, you clear your throat and take a step back. “I- I’ll see myself out.”<</if>> [[Make your escape|Small Talk]]

The door closes with a soft thud and gentle click. You let out a relieved breath you don’t quite remember holding, then turn around to— “Gah, fuck!” you blurt out, almost stumbling right back into the door as you find a tiny, immensely smug face floating inches in front of your own. “That’s… really disconcerting,” you manage. Plume smirks. “I know, right?” She gestures down at your hand hanging limp at your side. “Hold out your palm.” You furrow your brow. “A- Are you gonna give me something?” “No, I need somewhere to stand while we talk.” “B- But you… you can fly.” She folds her arms and stares until your arm seems to lift on its own. Plume lands on your hand, footfalls hardly more than a whisper on the breeze. She’s also strangely warm, as if her unnatural glow gives off heat. Maybe it’s some sort of magical vibration? “Thanks for your help earlier. Being a fool and running foolish errands,” she says.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 8>> You’d be hurt by her insult if you weren’t inured to such indignities from your time spent in proximity to Ashlyn.<</if>> “You’re welcome, I guess. I’m still not entirely sure what the point of it was.” The fairy holds up a hand and begins counting. “One, it’s hilarious, and what’s a celebration without some comic relief. Two, I really did need someone to go check on that wine for me. And three, you needed something to do.” You blink. “Okay, I get the first two, but—” “Some random <<if $xe == "he">>guy<<elseif $xe == "she">>girl<<else>>person<</if>> and <<= $xir>> four-temperament female ensemble spontaneously show up to an event I’ve been meticulously crafting for the past week.” Plume fixes you with a glower. “Last thing I could let you do is wander around on your own and get up to some hero shit. We’d be dealing with bandits or a ravenous horde of monsters or some other nonsensical conflict before the cake was cut. “Look, normally I’m a big fan of mischief, but this is Rabine and Arturo’s special day. I’m not letting some contrived storyline get in the way of that.” “‘Storyline?’” you echo with a frown. “Oh, yeah. Bad habit of mine. I’m a bard, I tend to think about everything that way.” She tilts her head. “I mentioned I’m a bard, right? I am, if I didn’t. Always thinking up the next ballad, running through lyrics at the back of my mind. It’s a funny kind of curse: reality has this pesky habit of devolving into unsatisfying shlock when left to its own devices.” You suppose calling yourself a bard is a plausible excuse for speaking like a crazy person—maybe you should try it going forward. All you’re missing is the musical talent, lyricism, and general creativity—you can substitute most of those with dirty limericks. Still, this is the first time you’ve really felt anything like a language barrier in Havendor, however subtly obtuse this may be. Perhaps it’s a fey thing? Or maybe it’s age? Rabine mentioned something about— “Oh right,” you say, suddenly jolting to life. “I wanted to ask: what was that about you once being an adventurer with Arturo’s ancestor?” Plume shrugs. “I think I was? It’s hard to remember—I haven’t ‘adventured’ in a few centuries, but Arty seemed fully convinced that some ancient beaver demi knew me. Did the summon call properly and everything.” <<linkreplace "“You mean ferret demi.”">>“You mean ferret demi.” “It’s cute that you think you can correct me.” You frown. “What do you mean? Arturo’s a ferret, right? So then—” “You think that demis only ever have offspring with their own? You literally //just// saw a horse and a ferret in love.” “I didn’t technically //see// him—” You stop and stare, baffled. “Y- You said the word. The forbidden word.” She blinks and tilts her head. A moment later, her eyes sparkle. “Oh yeah, oops. Forgot you people don’t like that. Do me a favor and pretend I said ‘equine’ or something, yeah?” Boggled, you cross your eyes. “S- Sure. No problem,” you mumble, the words spilling from your lips mindlessly. It takes a moment to shake out the cotton accumulating in your skull, but you eventually find a train of thought and hop aboard. “How are you doing all this? The festival, I mean. I’ve seen a decent amount of magic—” and also some things you’d rather //un//-see… “—but this is, frankly, overwhelming. It’s power far beyond what seems reasonable for a single person to have.” “I know, right?” Plume grins. “I’m chuffed someone noticed.” You stare at the tiny creature perched on your palm. “A- Are you some sort of deity?” “Pfft, no. Though, I tried kickstarting a cult a few centuries back. It’s fun for a decade or two, but people start getting a little too clingy.” “Right, okay. But then… //how?// How are you actually doing all this?” She merely shrugs. “It’s magic. You pick up a little as you go. And when you’ve been going for as long as me, that winds up being a whole lot.” Which would make Plume a treasure trove of arcane knowledge and power—the exact kind that might earn the ravenous attention of a certain red-headed sex mage. You pause, considering Ashlyn’s<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>> post-coital<</if>> admission earlier. While you’re reasonably certain Plume’s not in any real danger, you don’t know what potential tricks your companion might have up her sleeve. Maybe you could try and head things off between the two—dissuade future hostilities by providing a warning now. <<linkreplace "Warn Plume">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Khobb5 to true>>“Uhm, you remember that mage I came with?”<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>> //Wow, cool choice of words. Not even trying to hide your shame anymore, huh?//<</if>> Plume nods. “Yeah, what about her?” “I feel like I should warn you that she’s gonna try and eat you to, uhm… steal your magic.” “Oh, okay.” You blink, then stare for a long moment at the fairy. “Err, sorry. Let me try again. My friend might try to eat you. Like, kill you.” Plume shrugs. “Yeah, I heard the first time.” “And you don’t… care?” “Should I?” She tilts her head. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not really a problem.” “Does this happen to you frequently—people trying to eat you, I guess?” The fairy lets out a derisive snort. “I’m aware of the effect I have on women, and I know what it’s like to be low on the food chain—well, //appear// low; seriously, you wouldn’t believe how often I get attacked by birds—but the cool thing about having the power to level a small town is that people only assume I’m a convenient snack once. Now you, you’re //fuuucked.// Seriously, what do you do when someone tries to eat you? Squirm impotently?” Sometimes you shout for help, too. You’re about to put up further protest, warn the fairy about Ashlyn’s peculiarities, but opt not to. You’ve done your diligence in attempting to spare this reality from the sex-mage’s destructive whims. The most you can hope for now is that Plume’s extreme confidence translates to sheer invincibility… or maybe a place in Ashlyn’s kingdom after she takes over the world. You offer an awkward nod-shrug. “Oh, hey,” Plume suddenly adds, fluttering from your palm to hover at face-height. “While you were wandering the party, did you see an elf around, doing elf stuff?” <<include "Elf Stuff">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Let it be">><<replace "#choices">>… On second thought, you should probably stay as far away from a conflict between the two magic-wielders as humanly possible, lest you get caught in the crossfire. Plume’s fine. Probably. And you hope you’ll be able to say the same for Ashlyn when all’s said and done. “Oh, hey,” Plume suddenly adds, fluttering from your palm to hover at face-height. “While you were wandering the party, did you see an elf around, doing elf stuff?” <<include "Elf Stuff">><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

Oh no. Not another missing person quest. For some reason, they’re really hard to complete in a land where people just eat each other on a whim. … Also, ‘elf stuff?’ “I, uhh… No, I haven’t,” you eventually say. “Should I—” “Nah, don’t stress it,” Plume cuts you off with a wave of her hand. “I was just checking. You’re free to go enjoy the rest of the celebration however you please. Eat, be eaten, drink, make merry<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>>, have sex in a dark alley<</if>>. That sort of thing.” “Uhh, okay,” you manage. “Thanks, I guess. And good luck with the ceremony.” Plume simply shrugs. “Oh yeah. Should have all that sorted out in the next few hours, then I’ll be back to my usual routine. You’ll probably see me around.” You consider worrying what her ‘usual routine’ involves, but Plume’s gone in a trail of prismatic glitter before you make up your mind, leaving you alone on the Khobb streetside. //‘However you please,// huh? It’s only a couple hours past noon, and you’ve got the entire rest of the day to yourself. Thinking back, you haven’t had the sort of freedom since before you left Orrault, before the siege, before— You <<if $MiraDating == true>>quell an anxious surge<<else>>push down the unpleasant memories<</if>>, then exhale the tension as a trailing sigh. Today’s a day for fun and relaxation, and you can’t think of anyone better to spend it with than your friends. [[Go find them|Pred Bait]]

After a moment’s consideration, you decide to start with the town square—it’s a central location, plus you saw Ashlyn there earlier. A short walk brings you back to the familiar plaza. The crowds look to have thinned since your last visit, though the number of workers and organizers has only grown as they busily make preparations for what you can only assume must be a massive dinner celebration. Based on the smells wafting from nearby grills, you definitely don’t want to miss it. Though on the topic of missing things, you fail to spot so much as a trace of your companions after a few diligent sweeps of the crowd. Even Ashlyn and her illusionary double seem to have retired; the small, raised platform she was using has been merged with the others to form a single, much larger stage at the far end of the square. You sigh, considering where to try next. No one ever really suggested a particular place to meet up, but maybe someone decided to head back to the changing rooms. Or perhaps you could try your luck at that inn Plume pointed out to Vanille.<<if $Bucks >= 2>> It wouldn’t be a bad idea to stash your gift for <<= $Khobb4>> while you’re at it.<</if>> Deciding on the latter, you cast one final glance over the town square, then turn away and almost immediately run face-first into a townswoman who’d been walking behind you. “S- Sorry,” you say hastily, staggering back a step. She turns and fixes you with a winning smile. Hair the rich color of harvest-ready wheat frames a charming face and flows past her shoulders, contrasting with the browns and creams of a simple dress. “Not a problem. I’m always happy to run into a new face.” Amber eyes glitter as she bites her lip. “A charming one, at that.” The woman steps forward, and you realize she stands about half a head taller. She rests a hand on your shoulder, fingers running along the seam of your tunic. Her gaze slides down your front. She tugs at the sash around your waist, drawing you an inch closer. “This is cute,” she says, giggling dismissively. “Pulls the outfit together nicely. Very <<= $clothes>> and appealing.” “Th- Thanks,” you say, trying to keep your cheeks cool. “Yours are nice, too.” “I personally think they’d look better if they were stretched out. Maybe… right here?” She pinches a bit of cloth at her waist and pulls, then fixes you with a look as if she’s assessing a cut of meat. Your heart lurches. “I- I, uhh…” “Are you here with anyone?” She struts another step forward, so close you can feel her warmth, so close that she could wrap an arm around your waist with the barest effort… or you hers. “Or am I lucky enough to find you first?” “Err, I’m…” You catch a glimpse of a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye. It’s <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Vanille<<elseif $SherineEvent1 == true>>Sherine<<elseif $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $AshlynEvent8 == true>>Ashlyn<<else>>Aria<</if>>, negotiating with a merchant a few stalls over. She hasn’t noticed you. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>[[“I’m here with someone.”|VanilleEscape][$RVVanille++, $Khobb6 to "Vanille"]]<<elseif $SherineEvent1 == true>>[[“I’m here with someone.”|SherineEscape][$RVSherine ++, $Khobb6 to "Sherine"]]<<elseif $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $AshlynEvent8 == true>>[[“I’m here with someone.”|AshlynEscape][$RVAshlyn ++, $Khobb6 to "Ashlyn"]]<<else>>[[“I’m here with someone.”|AriaEscape][$Khobb6 to "Aria"]]<</if>> [[“I’m by myself.”|NoEscape][$Chaos ++]]

“I’m here with someone,” you say, hastily stepping back from the woman and waving. “Vanille!” The knight appears at your side in an instant. “<<= $name>>? Is everything alright?” An auric gaze settles on the stranger, stern and unflinching. You’re a split second from feeling very safe and smug when you suddenly realize how this looks: you’re being harassed by a predator. And Vanille’s a bit… “There you are, dear!” you cheer, perhaps a bit too loud. You sling an arm around the bristling knight. Before Vanille can brandish a weapon, the other woman speaks up. “Oh,” she scowls. “Is this your girlfriend?” “Yep, that’s right,” you say, giving a gentle tug. “Damn, that’s too bad,” the stranger says, licking her lips. Her tongue retreats when her gaze finally falls upon Vanille’s scathing glower. “I’m afraid he’s mine,” the knight grunts. A strong arm clutches you tight and yoinks the two of you away from the town square and toward a more sparsely populated corner of Khobb. //“Dear?”// Vanille grumbles once you’re out of the stranger’s earshot. “Sorry. She kinda caught me off guard,” you say, picking through the crowds at your partner’s side before suddenly stopping in your tracks with a double-take. A pure-white dress falls from her shoulders to just below knees, bisected at the middle by a wide, scarlet belt. The straps sit perfectly on her shoulders and frame her clavicle in such a way that you’d swear it rested on a silver platter. Short sleeves shuffle as she raises a hand nervously to adjust her hair, tucking a jagged end behind one ear. Vanille’s cheeks flush. “What?” “N- Nothing. I uh…” You lean close and whisper, //“You’re beautiful.”// The knight falters, blushing as she runs a hand through her hair. “Th- Thank you. It was a tough choice; there were so many lovely options in that magical closet…” <<if $Khobb1 == "Vanille">>“Well, it was definitely worth the wait to see.”<<else>>“Looks to me like you made the right choice.”<</if>> “That’s very kind of you,” she says, bowing slightly and gripping the flared hem of her skirt. It seems as if she’s about to curtsy, but instead she simply sidles a few inches closer. “I was actually just on my way back from washing up and getting changed<<if $Khobb1 != "Vanille">>—I couldn’t bring myself to dirty a dress like this with all that work<</if>>.” Vanille places a hand on your shoulder and nods firmly. “I’m glad you spotted me.” “Me too,” you say. “Speaking of, how’d things go with the uh… crates?” Vanille shrugs. “Kinda boring, but the job’s done.” She pauses and frowns. “Honestly, it felt like Plume had me wasting time on purpose.” “I know the feeling.” You let out a weary chuckle. “What’d that fairy have you doing, anyway?” “Oh. I, uhh… I had to find the groom.” Vanille raises an eyebrow. “… Did you?” “Yeah. In record time, actually.” You scratch at the back of your neck. “It’s a long story.” @@color:lime;“We have time,” she hums, hooking her arm through yours, then resuming your leisurely stroll. “Tell me about it.”@@ “Well… I met Rabine, the bride, and she was, uhm…” You hold out your unoccupied hand, pretending to cradle a gut. “Really big when I got there. She and Plume asked me to find the groom—” Vanille scoffs. “Let me guess: he was in her stomach.” <<if $Khobb2 == true>>“That’s what I said!” “They still made you look around?” “Yeah, pretty much. I don’t know, I didn’t want to be rude.” You let out a bemused sigh. “<<else>>“I, err… Yeah, I probably should’ve figured that one out a bit sooner,” you admit. “I don’t know, it just seemed kinda… rude to come out and say it. //Especially// to the bride.<</if>> Anyway, I had to play detective with some people who ‘supposedly’ knew where he was.” “And they were in on it, too?” You hesitate. “Y’know, I’m not actually sure. It didn’t //seem// like they were, but then again, no one was all that worried either.” After a moment, you add, “Plume said afterward she ran me all over town to mess with me—something about pranks and ‘glittery blood.’” “So you’ve seen most of the festival already?” Vanille asks with a note of disappointment. “Oh uh, not exactly. I spent most of my time at the sandlots—there’s some games and sports set up on the edge of town.” Vanille nods. “I saw a bit, yeah. How was it?” [[“Well, I met a cyclops…”|Van_Cylops]] [[“There was this mermaid…”|Van_Mermaid]] [[“I got volunteered to play a game…”|Van_Tag]]

“I’m here with someone,” you say, hastily shimmying around the woman and waving. “Sherine, over here!” You can’t help but feel a bit of schadenfreude as the woman turns to follow your gaze, then abruptly pales. “Oh, I see,” she says, taking a step back. “I guess I’ll just—” “A friend of yours, <<= $name>>?” Sherine asks, slithering up to the two of you before the stranger can extricate herself from the situation. “I actually—” “Yes,” you cut the woman off. “We were just getting to know each other when I saw you.” You falter at an odd sensation, then glance down to find the tip of Sherine’s tail gently winding along your leg—not so tight that you can’t slip free, but enough that you’d have to try. The lamia sidles a few feet closer, placing herself firmly at your side. You clear your throat and gesture to the stranger. “Uhm, this is—you know, I didn’t actually get your name. I’m sorry.” “Lexy,” she answers hesitantly. “That’s wonderful.” The lamia turns her attention fully on the woman, garnet eyes glimmering. “I’m //deeply// fascinated by <<= $name>>’s ‘friends.’ Why, <<if $Orrault9 == "lie">>there was a woman in Orrault who made <<= $xir>> acquaintance in a local teahouse I frequented. A bit ambitious for my usual tastes, but I’m always willing to make an exception for <<= $xem>><<else>>just yesterday there were bandits on the road. Opportunistic sorts, keen to take more than they gave. With a bit of persuasion, I showed them the error of their ways, then helped them be part of something much better<</if>>. Isn’t that right, <<= $name>>?” “R- Right,” you say with a nod, suddenly coming to terms with the particular monster you may have just unleashed upon this poor, unsuspecting stranger. “I, ahh—I see,” she stammers, seemingly arriving at a similar realization. “I didn’t realize <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $xe>> was<<else>>they were<</if>> taken. S- Sorry for the misunderstanding.” “No need to apologize,” Sherine insists. “<<= $name>> and I aren’t insecure enough to fret over someone coming between the two of us. In fact, we sometimes welcome it.” The stranger’s cheek flush even as she takes another slight step back. “I don’t think that’s—” “Oh?” The lamia presses the attack. “I can think of a few places I’d be //more// than happy to fit you in. I can give you a quick taste if you’re not sure. I’m told I can be //very// persuasive.” “You know, that’s, uhm…” The woman falters, then draws in a sharp breath and clenches her hands, as if violently forcing herself back into concise and coherent thought. “I- I think I should get going. You two have a great day.” With that, she turns and makes a hasty retreat into the nearby crowds. <<linkreplace "Watch her go">>“Huh,” you mutter as the woman vanishes amid the throng without so much as a copper tail tip to impede her escape. “I kinda thought…” “That I was going to eat her?” Sherine smirks. “Are you disappointed?” “I don’t know if I’d say ‘disappointed,’ but…” You shuffle awkwardly. “I mean, you’re right on the first point.” The lamia holds a hand to her chest in mock reproach. “Oh, <<= $name>>. I wouldn’t waste my limited capacity for the evening on just anyone. I’m saving it for someone special.” Sherine’s meaningful stare sends a deeply conflicted shiver down your spine. Before you can offer a semblance of a response, she takes your hand in her own and begins guiding you away from the town square. You stumble for an awkward moment before finally matching her pace and daring to ask the all-consuming question. “Do you, uhm… mean it? Are you actually going to eat me?” “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” “Uhh, I- I mean… I guess I figured you wouldn’t be as interested with Plume’s magic in effect. Since I sorta assumed you prefer to, err… play for keeps?” Sherine grins. “You know me so well, <<= $name>>. But you’re forgetting one very important detail.” She suddenly leans close, breath splashing along your ear and curling down your neck. //“I enjoy the squirms.”// “Seeing or feeling?” You manage to keep your tone even while your heart performs an impromptu gymnastics routine in your chest cavity. The lamia merely smiles, eyes glimmering with untold promises and nascent desires. Around the time you’re convinced Sherine’s looking for a quiet spot to tuck you away, she lets out a slight laugh. “Relax, <<= $name>>,” she says. “The day’s still young. If nothing else, I’d like to meet back up with the rest of our companions and enjoy a few more hours of the festivities without having to deflect any pesky questions as to your whereabouts.” “So you’re still planning to…” “Maybe,” she hums. “But I’d rather we stay our current course for the time being.” You let out a slight laugh. “The teasing, or walking around together?” @@color:lime;Sherine’s lips curl to an odd expression, a brief flash of something unfamiliar that almost immediately resolves to a wry grin. “Both, I think.”@@ [[You’ll take it|Sher2]]<</linkreplace>>

“I actually have been, uh, already claimed,” you say, shuffling awkwardly as you face Ashlyn. You wave the mage over with a startled little lurch, then hold out an arm as if to sling it over her shoulder. Once she’s in range, you nod your head back at the looming predator and murmur, //“Get me out of here.”// No sooner do the words leave your mouth than the world suddenly warps and wobbles. The horizon stretches. An odd tingle surges along your limbs like electric ooze. You spin and whirl and flounder until something huge—nd luxuriantly soft—catches you. Massive fingers pinch your shoulders, settling you between plush walls of swelling warmth before disappearing from view. “Better now?” Ashlyn asks, voice spreading overhead like a dark cloud. You nestle against her breasts, then reach out for the front of her dress, peering out over the hem. Your would-be predator is nowhere in sight. “Y- Yeah. Thank you.” You rub the soft black fabric between your fingers, then pinch and bundle it to give yourself a more stable grip. “Of course. I’m here to help.” You look up at the mage’s chin, the cascade of fiery hair upon her shoulders, and of course, the wide-brimmed witch hat. “What have you done with Ashlyn?” She snorts. “Who says I’m not allowed to occasionally dispense benevolence? I do what I want. That’s what unpredictability is all about. For instance, I could have shoved you into my pocket dimension.” You freeze, suddenly extremely aware of your entire body. The smothering squeeze of breast-flesh surrounds and swaddles, radiant warmth extending all the way from your torso to your ankles. You’re firmly wedged in //this// world, not dangling through a slit-shaped portal to a realm of nightmares that would assuredly break even the most prestigious psychologists. Damn. Freud would have a field day with this world; you’re constantly in fear of being //literally// devoured by mothers. Then again, there might not be enough cocaine to keep his interest. And truthfully, aside from some rudimentary assumptions about the extra-planar space where she keeps her sundries, you have no actual idea what bizarre dimension lies between Ashlyn’s tits. Maybe it’s wall-to-wall BDSM gear. Perhaps a repository of knowledge rivaling the Library of Alexandria. Or just a big ol’ pile of bones. “In retrospect,” you start, clearing your throat, “I should have been worried that you’d <<if $AshlynEvent6 == true>>light that woman on fire<<else>>do something horrible to that woman<</if>>.” “I dunno what you’re talking about,” she says, light and airy. “I’m just a harmless party-goer. An entertainer, a silly jester.” “Yeah, right,” you murmur as you gaze out from your vantage. A dozen faces pass as your companion weaves through the crowd. Ashlyn hums an odd, out-of-pitch tune, sauntering from stall to stall. There’s a certain spring in her step which you can’t quite identify. Once, she pauses in front of a full predator, inching closer and closer until nearly bumping into the bulge chest-first. She strikes up a conversation with the woman, and you’re left to simply sit among the lumps and bumps praying nobody notices the weird shrunken person in their midst. Ashlyn finally peels away, then struts toward the sandlots. You partially explain the Bucks to her, but your words mostly fall upon deaf ears as she’s fully enamored by the first stall she encounters: ring toss. You watch the mage throw wooden rings at a crate of bottlenecks, missing nearly every shot. “Wow, you suck at this,” a nearby onlooker comments as Ashlyn’s forced to retrieve the rings for a third time. She scoffs. “You wanna show me how it’s done?” Ashlyn holds the ring out like an olive branch. At the same moment he reaches for the wooden loop, the mage lunges—though from the current vantage, you might be more inclined to call it a stumble. You feel the arcane pulse spread across her skin like wildfire. The spell congeals on her fingertip just as she makes contact with the unsuspecting fool. A flash later and the man’s pinched between two fingers, dangling by his sleeve as Ashlyn shakes his shrunken body about like a little bell. You’re worried you’ll need to give up some space in the cozy breast pocket to a stranger, but the mage has other plans. Stupid, silly plans. “Hey, you!” she calls out to the nearby attendant working the stall. She hoists her hapless victim, then says, “Open wide.” The heckler whirls through the air, a tiny near-imperceptible //‘shiiit’// trailing in his diminutive wake. He tumbles end over end before disappearing into a waiting maw. //Glump.// You don’t even have time to watch the little lump sink before Ashlyn walks on from the stall. “I…” you start, trying to wrap your mind around what you just witnessed. “You don’t usually hold back when reciprocating insults. I’m surprised you didn’t do something more drastic just now.” “Oh? Like what?” You shrug. “I dunno. Shove him up your ass?” Ashlyn snorts. “That’d be hilarious. My butt can hold a lotta stuff.” A snort of laughter rockets out your nostrils. “That’s such a weird thing to say out loud.” “Yah. I was hoping you’d find it funny—Oh hey, that looks intriguing,” she says, pointing to a lonely counter back in the direction of town. “Let’s check it out,” she declares, then sets off. [[Go with Ashlyn—It’s not like you have a choice|Breasted Boobily]]

Thinking fast, you lurch into a sudden and hopefully not overacted limp, staggering a step away from the looming predator. “Oh, I- I’d love to,” you say, trying your best to sound strained. “But I just—well, you see, my leg. Very, uhm… injured and stuff. And hey look, that’s my healer friend right over there, so—H- Hey, Aria!” The theurge turns, expression shifting to one of alarm—and triggering a slight pang of guilt in your chest. “<<= $name>>?” she calls out, rushing forward. Fortunately, your ploy works. The stranger lets Aria grab your arm, watching with a frown as the two of you hobble away at your gentle insistence. “What happened? Can I help?” the theurge asks You cast a final glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, then offer a sheepish smile. “I’m fine, thanks Aria. I needed an excuse to get away from someone who was being a bit, erm, insistent.” She eyes you and, to your surprise, flashes a conspiratorial grin. “That’s clever. So where are we going?” “Anywhere but here.” <<if $Quarry3 == "erinyes">>“Well, how about that tea I mentioned yesterday?” Aria suggests. “I saw a place that looked nice.”<<else>>“Well, I saw this tea place on my way over,” Aria suggests. “Seemed quiet, and fairly out of way if you’re looking to hide.”<</if>> You nod. “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.” The two of you carry on with the injured routine for another half minute before you decide it’s probably safe to walk normally, then shift to a more laid-back stroll along Khobb’s main thoroughfare, taking in the sights and sounds of the festival. “I’m glad I ran into you, Aria” you eventually offer. “Err, not just because of that stranger, I mean. It’s good to see a friendly face.” “I’m glad you saw me,” she says. “I was just finishing up with the last bit of healing—nothing severe, fortunately, but as long as they don’t go immediately injuring themselves again, a few more people should be able to enjoy the party.” “Does that take a lot out of you—the healing, I mean? I assume you’re spending mana.” “Oh, no. Not simple healing magics like that, at least. I actually have quite a large mana capacity, particularly by theurge standards.” A slight blush tinges Aria’s cheeks. “I’m just a bit, uhm… slow to recharge. So if I’m not careful, I can find myself out of commission for a while.” “Like what happened with that barrier while we were fighting the hellhound?” “Right. I’ve always felt I was more suited for the relative quiet of a medical ward over the panic and strain of combat.” She gently rests a hand on your arm. “It’s a good thing I had you there to pull me out of harm’s way.” “I just, uhh, happened to be in the right place,” you say with a self-conscious flush. “It wasn’t that impressive.” “I don’t know about that,” Aria muses. “<<if $Orrault2 == true>>You’ve saved me twice, now. Three times, and a girl might start to get the wrong idea<<else>>Throwing yourself in the path of a hellhound to save someone you’d only just met. Those sorts of heroics might start to give a girl the wrong idea<</if>>—Oh! Here we are.” You follow the theurge’s lead to discover a cozy tea shop tucked into the ground floor of a modest two-story building. An open bay window provides a clear view of the floor, occupied by a sparse scattering of customers. The two of you duck inside and barely have a chance to take a seat at a small, circular table before a man in a floral apron sidles up and asks what you’d like. Once again, you follow Aria’s lead as she orders the house special, then watch the waiter go before turning your attention back to your companion. You blink, suddenly realizing Aria’s changed her clothes, trading her usual brown traveling robes for a poofy pastel-yellow blouse and a clean pair of slacks. “You look nice, by the way. Sorry I didn’t notice earlier, on account of the whole, erm… running away thing.” “Oh, thank you,” she says, cheeks reddening. “You uh, you clean up nice.” You smile. “Thanks. As much kind as it was for Plume to invite us into the celebration, I’m honestly stoked to get a new outfit. It’s not something I think about all that often.” <<if $Khobb4 == "Aria">>You look down at yourself to make sure you’re //actually// cleaned up when you notice the belly scarf still wrapped around your waist. The damn thing will be a mark of shame by the end of the night, you just know it. Other than that, you’re surprisingly intact considering how you spent the last few hours. [[Oh right, the flowers!|AriaGifting]]<<else>>[[Inspect yourself|NoGift]]<</if>>

“I’m by my—” Fierce hands grab you by the shoulders and shove you into her mouth. You twitch and lurch, repressing the dire urge to resist as the first swallow drags you inside. A loud gulp echoes. A new grip finds your forearms and pins them tight to your sides. Feet swing feebly as you’re lifted. Utterly helpless, you squirm and grunt against the stranger. She swallows again, cramming your wrists into the slick tunnel. You’re bent forward as you plunge into her. A splash of bitter, inert acid hits your face. The stranger grabs your ass and shovels it into the undulating maw. Her body shifts and turns as she starts walking away, her meal only half-finished. “Watch it!” someone exclaims as your host collides with another partygoer. She lowers her head and adjusts course. Your legs tremble, torn between reflexively flailing against the inversion and politely not kicking those around you. Sure, it’s not your fault; you’re being manhandled and devoured. But it’s //your// body… probably. Possession is getting blurry, and technically it’ll be someone else’s in a moment. Still, you might as well exercise the small shred of autonomy you presently have. You bend and curl as she plods on, coiling in on yourself as you tumble down the throat. Her strutting on like you’re finger food does nothing for the awkward dive as you are dropped into the tight gut. //Glump.// “Ah, //fuuuck// that’s good,” she moans, hands pushing and prodding in synchronous harmony with the clenching abdominals. Rippling walls constrict. You push out with trembling arms and legs, only for the elastic to snap back even tighter. Thighs take turns bumping and jostling, each step forward seeing your encasement more complete as she simply walks off with you in tow, indifferent to your discomfort. “Uhm, uh, excuse me. It’s…” You grunt, rolling a shoulder against the pushy predator. “It’s a little tight?” //“Bourpp,”// is all the stranger has to offer in response. She hums to herself, wading into a crowd gut-first. Every bump and push from outside only deepens your confinement, the cumulative layers of tissue and skin and clothing burying you out of sight. A heavy blanket of thick, dizzying warmth settles over your body. Touches from beyond come and go like seasons. You hear laughter and conversation, though the words and syllables are distant, like someone’s speaking with a mouthful of cotton. You push out for attention, voice thick with acidic miasma. “Ma’am?” you strain. //“Please,// could you ease up a bit?” Your host doesn’t do anything of the sort. In fact, she continues to ignore you, instead taking a seat as she engages others at the party—friends, by the general tone and demeanor. You’re hefted onto a lap, then shoved under a table. Her legs spread, and for a brief moment, you’re given a reprieve as the sack sags, only for strong thighs to pincer you on both sides. Humid darkness clenches and squeezes. Breathing slows as the fight seeps out of you and into the mild slosh clinging to your legs. You hang in black stasis for a time, conserving your strength and pushing the rumbling twangs of panic from your heart. You’re safe. The liquid in here is inert… if odorous. Even after you’ve stopped struggling, the predator doesn’t let up. Even more frustrating is that fact that she seems entirely aloof to your presence, only regarding your existence with the occasional soft belch. Couldn’t she be at least a little proud of her catch? A desire to show off the strange bump you’ve made, or even the simple invitation to allow others to touch would go a long way toward easing your tense mind, but this woman’s giving you nothing. Her own hands have barely offered any enjoyment or motherly assurance, either. You’re just a stomach stuffer, and nothing more. <<linkreplace "… Oh wait">>… Oh wait, that’s kinda hot. Not making a big deal of who she’s eaten, not going out of her way to brag or complain or even talk to you is demeaning, degrading. You’ve been snatched up. Imprisoned. You couldn’t even fight back. You //still// can’t. Nobody knows where you are. Nobody knows that you’re just a little lump tucked away under a sundress. Nobody knows that it took only a few words and even fewer gulps for you to be made into a meal, that you have no idea when—or even //if//—you’ll be returning to the party tonight. That you’re trapped, entirely hers. It’s indifferently cruel in a way that tickles something dark and yearning. She might just keep you until the very last minute before the spell ends. She might get eaten by someone else. This woman, who doesn’t even care to know your name, might break decorum, get super drunk, and forget there’s someone inside her. Or she might lean over and suddenly ralph. Yes, right now. Ride’s over. [[For your own safety, please keep your arms and legs at your sides at all times|Ride's over]]<</linkreplace>>

You and Vanille walk past a booth that seems to be offering some sort of wine sampling, though the long line dissuades either of you from giving it a try. Instead, you hastily walk past a few more pockets of boisterous revelers until you settle back to a more relaxed stroll on a quiet section of avenue. <<if $Khobb1 == "Vanille">>“Oh,” you start, changing the subject. “I also stopped for a snack and ran into Sherine and a satyr she’d befriended—” You nearly lurch to a stop as you suddenly glance down at the sash tied around your waist, then back to Vanille with an accusatory glare. “You set me up.” You tug on the belly scarf for emphasis. “The goat woman asked if I could eat her //because// I was wearing this.” Vanille purses trembling lips. An arm slings across her front, barely containing laughter. A slight pop of amusement escapes before she manages, “Did you?” You sock her in the arm. “You know I can’t.” “Exactly. It’s harmless,” she chortles. “If anything, I figured it’d make you less of a potential target. Pretend you’re a native.” “Like social camouflage.” Vanille nods. “Something like that, yeah.” You consider it for a moment, then let out an amused chuckle of your own. “Yeah, okay. I can see how that might help. And I guess it’s pretty funny in retrospect. Not like I could’ve actually, y’know, //done// anything. “Although,” you add after a moment’s pause, “that actually caused something of a problem for me. Not the sash I mean, but not being able to, err… //blend in.”// “Oh?” “Yeah, one of the people I needed to talk to was visiting a place called the Dragonfly.<<else>>“You do anything else on your solo adventure?” “Uh, I visited the Dragonfly.”<</if>> “What’s that?” “It’s a, uhm,” you snap your fingers, trying to remember the name of the drug, “a sappica lounge.” Fingers tighten around your arm, gripping the meat of your bicep. The knight’s stride changes as she pulls herself closer, synchronizing her pace to match yours. “H- Hey,” Vanille suddenly says, tugging on your arm. You follow her eager gaze toward a pop-up stall tucked under the shade of a broad tree. A number of rocks and worn logs serve as seating for the impromptu amphitheater, playing host to a sparse crowd. “I think they’re doing theater here. Wanna check it out? You can learn some of our history.” You furrow your brow at the two folks behind the countertop, watching as they fiddle with a very small model of a castle—the cheap kind you might find in a fishbowl. “That’s a bit small to be a stage,” you comment, altering your course toward a makeshift bench. Vanille lets out a short laugh. “No, it’s //puppet//-theater.” Oh, yeah. You knew that. You definitely weren’t looking around for any signs of Ashlyn shrinking down hapless townsfolk so they can perform for her amusement. You settle down on a log and Vanille nestles at your side. Just as you finish making yourselves comfortable, a man peeks up from behind the stage. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, nodding to the assembled crowd—about twenty in total. “You’re just in time, we’re close to starting. In fact…” The troubadour’s counterpart sweeps their cloak out, then bellows, “From the enchanted lands of Drayben, we bring you a tale most splendid: Rosett’s Third Fable, or as it’s better known, Sylvie and Famir.” Vanille suddenly scoots forward eagerly in her seat. You sit up with her, fingers crawling along her leg before weaving into hers. She blushes and smiles, and you nudge closer. [[Watch the show|Puppet Vore Isn't Real, It Can't Hurt You]]

<<if $Menardi == "dry">>“Well, I met a cyclops—a couple people were playing tug of war against her.” “How’d that go?” Vanille asks, hardly restraining a chuckle. “About as well as expected. But while she was on break, I had a chance to chat with her—” You light up. “Remarkably gentle and friendly. She actually lifted me up and let me look out at the horizon for a bit. It was pretty cool.” Vanille lets out a slight sigh. “That does sound really nice.”<<else>>“Well, I met a cyclops. Ended up playing tug of war against her.” “How’d that go?” Vanille asks, trying very hard to restrain a chuckle. “It was, uhm…” //Warm and gooey.// “There were six of us, and we lost handily,” you admit. “Still, I got to chat a bit with her afterward. Super friendly.” “It takes guts to talk to someone four times your size.” She gently squeezes your arm. “Nice job.” You rub the back of your neck. “Oh uh, thanks.”<</if>> <<include "VanEscape2">>

<<if $Ines1 == "dry">>“There was this mermaid in the river by the edge of town. A bunch of people were playing in the water.” You shrug, deliberately pushing the image of Ines leaping out of the river and gulping the snooty attendant whole from your mind. “We talked for a while. She’s a traveling merchant.” “Did you buy anything off her?” //A dinglehopper?// You shake your head. “Nah. Seems like she’s mostly in town for the wedding.”<<else>>“There was this mermaid in the river by the edge of town. A bunch of people were playing in the water.” You shrug, deliberately pushing the wet and warm memories of Ines’ gut from your mind. “We talked for a bit. She was really friendly.” “Ah, that would have been nice,” Vanille says, sighing and slouching against you. “I could have used a swim; I was so sweaty at one point.” You lean in and sniff the top of her head, only to receive a light slap on your forearm. “What?” you say with a wry grin. “I was gonna agree.” To be fair, you probably deserve the second playful slap.<</if>> <<include "VanEscape2">>

“I got volunteered to play a game called Blind Man’s Buff. Ever heard of it?” “I don’t believe so, no.” “We actually have something like it in my world,” you explain. “Rules are pretty similar, too. You have to sneak past someone wearing a blindfold and grab a flag before they catch you. Funny part is I was just trying to ask a question, but the attendant couldn’t hear a thing, and before I knew it he was shoving me into the arena.” “How’d you do?” <<if $Buff ==2>>“I won, if barely,” you say with a hint of pride. Vanille smiles and gently squeezes your arm. “I’ll bet you thought of something clever.” “I did,” you admit. “Though, uhh, I’m not sure if the audience was too happy about it.” “Oh?” “Well, I realized that if they made a bunch of noise, the blindfolded person couldn’t hear me. So I, err… I kinda made them angry.” Vanille laughs. “Like I said: clever.” She pulls you a bit closer to her side, and you can’t help but blush.<<else>>“I, uhh… Well, I tried.” Vanille offers a sympathetic smile. “In your defense, it’s not exactly a fair competition.” “She was //literally// blindfolded, couldn’t see a damn thing. And she still caught me,” you say, exasperated. “It wasn’t even close.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she insists, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “How many people here do you think could outrun and outsmart that hellhound like you did yesterday?” You debate mentioning one person at this wedding did a whole, //whole// lot more than just ‘outrun’ the beast, but ultimately resolve to baffled silence, still not entirely sure how to feel about the miniaturized and declawed demon yourself.<</if>> <<include "VanEscape2">>

<<timed 2s t8n>>@@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''Long ago, the kingdom of Drayben was a lush and prosperous land, free of war and famine. Harvests were bountiful, and none wanted for food. The royal family watched over the lands and its people with a watchful eye, keeping them safe from invaders. In return, they were loved by their people. And none were more beloved than the youngest daughter, Princess Sylvie.''//@@ A doll bounces in from the edge of the stage, a trail of fiery red yarn-hair flopping in her wake like a streaking sunset. At about ten inches tall, Princess Sylvie wears an intricate blue and white dress. You start when a dark tail wags at the back of her dress seemingly of its own accord, though you can’t quite determine the type of demi she’s supposed to be. More puppets appear, a gaggle of common folk of all shapes and colors bobbing across the stage to excitedly greet their knitted nobility. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''Sylvie was kind and generous. When she was not tending to royal duties, she spent her days wandering among the citizens of the kingdom, sharing in their joys and offering aid for their woes. Much of Drayben’s prosperity was owed to her tireless work and unending compassion. However, this abundance also came at a price. A primordial bargain struck between the residents and the land itself, an agreement ancient and unspoken, called, //demanded// a sacrifice. Every twenty years, the fairest, the finest was offered to the forests of Drayben and the being that lurked at their heart. As the youngest daughter of the royal family, this duty fell to Sylvie alone. Her people protested, demanding a different offering be made or volunteering to go in her stead. But for once, Sylvie rebuked her people. This was her burden, and she alone would see it borne.''//@@ You catch a glimpse of one of the performers as the castle painting near the back of the stage slides from view. In its stead, a gloomy sea of blackened trees looms behind the princess, her pristine white dress a glowing beacon. A prop slides onto stage, a carving of a knotted, barren tree. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''Twenty years to the day, Sylvie traveled bravely into the forest to give everything for her people. And the forest accepted, the trees themselves making way for the young princess, tangled arms of crumbling oak and withered leaves guiding her into the wooded dark. She drove deeper and deeper, further and further from her home, crossing over twisted roots and gnarled decay. Bark peeled. Willows wept. The forest was dying. It needed replenishment. It needed //her.// In the blackened heart of the forest, Sylvie met…''//@@ The crowd gasps as a new puppet rises from beneath the stage, slow and terrible—by puppet standards, at least. A cloak of moss cascades from her shoulders. A wreath of leaves rests upon the crown of her head. Twig limbs stretch from her body, grasping. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''Thistle-Heart Laveena! Though her hands trembled and her heart thundered, Sylvie stared the Nature Spirit of Drayben down, resolute in her duty, courageous to the last as the creature devoured the princess whole and alive.''//@@ Laveena looms over the smaller puppet, arms closing with impressive dexterity. Sylvie stands staunch, unflinching. The spirit-puppet’s open—and alarmingly well-articulated—maw yanks the princess puppet off the other performer’s hand and begins swallowing her down. Laveena twists and writhes. Each gulp feels weighty and purposely, as if the puppeteer has dedicated weeks of their life to capturing each subtle motion of ingestion, every gesture and movement to make you believe the puppet is alive and hungry, throat bulging and stomach swelling. Also, in a startling act of masterful ventriloquism, there’s sound effects. Eerily accurate ones. <<linkreplace "What the fuuuck">>You blink and look around, hoping for a moment of cold clarity, for some sign that you’re not in another world, but rather, an insane asylum. Astonishingly, you find Vanille glued to the edge of her seat, utterly enthralled, fingers curled tight around yours. As the final gulp seals the princess away, Laveena turns to the crowd, then vanishes behind the closing curtain. The crowd falls deathly silent, quiet enough that you can hear a bit of shuffling behind the stage before the narration resumes. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''The kingdom mourned its lost princess. Merchants shuttered their stalls, and farmers could not muster the will to tend their fields. The King and Queen kept heart, taking small comfort in the knowledge that their daughter’s sacrifice would replenish the land. But not all were simply content to move on…''//@@ A new puppet appears center stage, a streak of literal straw-blonde hair resting above a face set in stalwart determination. He wears a weathered and plain tunic and a pair of trousers—the clothes of a simple farmer. The fellow citizens of the kingdom reappear, watching him from a distance. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“I cannot bear such fate,” the commoner declared. “If we are so prosperous, how can we turn a blind eye to such loss? How can we ignore our most basic needs, our beloved princess?” The kingdom pleaded, “It is a necessary compromise.” “There’s nothing we can do.” “You disgrace the princess’s sacrifice.” “Consider the good she’s brought upon of us all.” “It is how we have always done it.” “I will not stand for it!” the peasant shouted. He called for a garrison, but none answered. He begged for arms, but none provided. Finally, with nothing but a spade from his humble farm, he set out to rescue the princess, alone.''//@@ The puppet ducks beneath the stage and reemerges, spade held aloft, the unimposing weapon reduced to outright adorable at its miniaturized scale. Lackluster tool be damned, the hero marches forth as the castle backdrop falls away. The dreadful scenery rolls back into view. The carving of the lifeless tree rattles across the stage, blocking the puppet’s advance. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''But the intrepid adventurer’s path to the forest’s heart would not prove so easy. Walls of trees barred his way. Thorny arms lashed and rebuked his approach. The sky blackened as the canopy thickened. But our hero braved each trial, bore a hundred cuts, ventured deeper across twisted roots and gnarled decay.''//@@ As the narration continues, the hero strikes at the trees with his spade, attempting to drive them from his path and earning the thwacks and lashes of their tiny branches in retribution. He presses onward, battered by the repeated attacks, unceasing in his harried advance. Just when you’re worried the small puppet might sustain actual damage from the faux-forest’s assault, the trees fall away, leaving a familiar clearing at the center stage. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''And at long last, he arrived at the depths of the forest—the grove of Thistle-Heart Laveena.''//@@ Once again, the ghastly spirit puppet rises from below the stage, gangly arms clutching her still-bloated middle. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“Laveena!” the hero called out, fearless in the face of the great nature spirit. “I have come on behalf of Drayben to see our princess set free.”''//@@ The Laveena puppet scoffs. You’re not quite sure how you know the raised arm and slight shake of her head is a scoff, but you //know.// @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“Child, what foolishness is this? Your princess came of her own free will.” With Laveena’s every word, the trees shuddered and shook. “Do you not understand our arrangement? Do you not know the fate that would befall your kingdom without our covenant?” “I do not accept it,” the hero cried. “On behalf of your entire kingdom?” Laveena regarded the man with confusion. “Do you hope to fight me? Win your princess back through conquest?” Our hero looked upon the new growth, saw the budding flora, the new life teeming and sprouting all around the nature spirit. He shook his head. “I do not. I wish to build something better. A brighter future for all of us.”''//@@ The hero puppet turns to address the crowd, button eyes gleaming. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“Are you not like us? Do you not also hunger? Have you not an appetite for life and love and companionship?” “I do,” Laveena said. “As do all that I shepard.” The hero drew a deep breath. “Then allow me to suggest a better trade: the fruits of your blessings. Let me share the very things that sustain us with you, give back some instead of taking all. Surely a seasonal tithe will better sustain your forests than a young princess every twenty years.” “And of yourself?” Laveen asked. “For Sylvie, our kingdom’s beloved, I will give everything. Even if it means I have none left for myself.” “He will not!” a new voice cried out from past the grove. Laveena and our hero turned to watch as a fellow farmer stumbled forward. “I shall give, too.”''//@@ A reverent gasp echoes through the crowd as a townsperson puppet appears. Murmurs grow louder as a second follows. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“Me as well!” another declared.''//@@ Additional puppets filter in, enough that you begin to wonder just how many puppeteers are hiding behind the small stage. The clearing grows crowded with the assembled citizenry, relegating Laveen to the far corner of her abode. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“And me!” yet another shouted. And another after, and so on, until dozens of townsfolk had entered the forest’s heart, each having followed the hero’s path, each offering a share of their harvest to the nature spirit. “We shall all share this duty, and in so doing, ensure none must suffer.” The nature spirit pondered their offer. She sat and thought as mountains rumbled, as trees grew, as the sky rolled overhead. The people of Drayben watched and waited, eager and nervous. And then, when the earth itself stopped churning, Laveena bent forward. Verdant slime poured from her wide maw. Where the flecks and globs seeped into the dirt, new life sprang.''//@@ There’s… There’s just no way to tactfully describe this. Laveena throws up the Sylvie puppet, every bit as visceral and lifelike a performance as the ingestion. You swear a bit of fluid splashes to the wooden stage. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''After a cascade of rebirth, out came Sylvie, sodden, but unharmed.''//@@ A joyous cheer erupts from the crowd. Apparently they either fail to notice or simply don’t mind that—for reasons beyond your wildest understanding—the Sylvie puppet has actually undergone minor alterations to look like she’s been eaten, yarn-hair clumped and matted, ears flattened to her cloth head, clothes damp and ragged. If it weren’t so blatantly distressing, you’d probably be impressed by the attention to detail. You manage to wrench your eyes from the baffling enigma in time to catch the spirit puppet gliding across the stage like a breeze, hovering graciously like a guardian angel. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''With the deed done, Laveena approached the princess and her savior. All eyes turned toward the three as she spoke. “Tell me your name, wise hero.”''//@@ The hero puppet turns once more toward the audience. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''“I am Famir.”''//@@ Cheers bubble out of the crowd as he bows. Vanille shifts a bit closer, twining her arm around your own. You lean against her in turn, cheek gently resting on her head, strands of golden blond brushing against your ear. A moment later, Famir and Sylvie embrace with little arms. Their faces press up against one another as the townspuppets swoon. @@font-size:18px;font-family: "Garamond";//''And so, with Princess Sylvie saved and a new accord with Thistle-Heart Laveena struck, the kingdom of Drayben saw a new era of even greater prosperity. Famir would go on to be the land’s greatest hero and, upon his marriage to Sylvie, would become its most stalwart defender. But that is a tale for another time.''//@@ The curtains close on a final image of the princess and the hero, and the audience erupts into boisterous applause. [[Join in|Post-Puppetry]]<</linkreplace>><</timed>>

<<if $Khobb4 == "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille += 2>>Over the next few minutes, the audience rises and shuffles away from the makeshift stage back out onto the main thoroughfare of Khobb. The two actors themselves eventually give a friendly nod before shuttering the stage, leaving you with the warmth of the woman at your side. “That was… nice. Thank you, <<= $name>>,” she murmurs, cheek resting on your shoulder. She shifts, as if trying to draw herself that slightest bit closer, only to abruptly stiffen. “S- Sorry,” she says, suddenly sliding her arm free. She scoots over a few inches and smooths out her dress, blush lingering on her cheeks. “You ready to go?” “Ye—No!” You half-stumble up from your seat, then plant your butt right back down. Under Vanille’s confused gaze, you shuffle in your seat, hands fishing through pockets. “I have something for you, hold on,” you bumble as fingers brush against a length of thick string. You produce the necklace you ‘won’ from the sandlots earlier, then humbly present it, palms sticking out awkwardly. Wooden charms rest at haphazard angles, dangling from the length of hemp cord. She stares at it like a deer in headlights. Vanille shakes her head slightly, then stops herself. A fist clenches, then swings to hide behind her back. You shrink into yourself. “I- It’s uh,” you begin, voice wavering. “I thought…” “I- It’s for me?” A frown tugs at your lips. “Yes, but uh, if you don’t like it, I—” Her hand reaches out before you can retreat into your shell of embarrassment. “N- No. I want it—I w- want to wear it.” She gingerly grasps the necklace as if it’s made of glass, then pauses with the cord dangling just above your palm. “W- Would you help me put it on?” Vanille turns in her seat, then reaches back to lift her hair clear. There’s not much that needs to be moved, the jagged and haphazard cut drawn into the stark focus as you take the ends of the cord in each hand and gingerly draw them together at the nape of her neck. The necklace doesn’t even have a clasp, leaving you to tie a small knot so it’ll stay in place. “There,” you say, drawing the ends tight and leaning back. She turns, and once more you’re forced to reckon just how damn beautiful she is. Vanille’s uncertain finger touches curiously at her neck, as if afraid to make contact with the cord. At your insistence, she rolls her shoulders and straightens her back. Still, there’s something stark about the accessory, though you can’t quite put your finger on it. You fiddle with it for a moment in an attempt to get it //juuust// right, but the charms all slide down and clatter at her sternum regardless. “It’s uhm, kinda… tacky, now that I’m looking at it.” You point to her gorgeous outfit. “Especially with the dress. Damn, I don’t know what I was thinking.” @@color:lime;Vanille chuckles, the strain melting from her face. “No, it’s perfect. I will wear it always. Thank you, <<= $name>>.”@@ She bows her head. “I apologize I have nothing to offer in return.” “Spending time together like this is more than enough of a gift,” you insist. “Well, in that case,” she rises, then curtsies, complete with fingers pinching at her skirt. Vanille’s offering her open palm a moment later. “Shall we share a meal?” “Sounds good to me,” you say, accepting. “They were cooking something that smelled delicious back in the town square. Let’s go find out what.” You’re barely two steps back out onto the main drag when you’re yanked backward. A kiss quashes a yelp. Vanille holds you upright until your knees recover, then turns you around and sends you on your way. [[Well then…|Van_DinnerRejoin]]<<else>>Over the next few minutes, the audience rises and shuffles away from the makeshift stage back out onto the main thoroughfare of Khobb. The two actors themselves eventually give a friendly nod before shuttering the stage, leaving you with the warmth of the woman at your side. “That was… nice. Thank you, <<= $name>>,” she murmurs, cheek resting on your shoulder. She shifts, as if trying to draw herself that slightest bit closer, only to abruptly stiffen. “S- Sorry,” she says, suddenly sliding her arm free. She scoots over a few inches and smooths out her dress, blush lingering on her cheeks. “Are you ready to go?” “Oh, yeah.” You rise to your feet, then offer a hand and help Vanille do the same. “I think I smelled something delicious at the town square,” she says. “Would you like to head back and share a meal?” “I’d love to.” You’re barely two steps out onto the main drag when you’re yanked backward. A kiss quashes a yelp. Vanille holds you upright until your knees recover, then turns you around and sends you on your way. [[Well then…|Van_DinnerRejoin]]<</if>>

The trip back to the town square is a short one. Worryingly, you look to be far from the only ones making the pilgrimage, and by the time you arrive, the general crowds of the celebration have grown to a dense, bustling throng—seemingly in preparation for some sort of event. You stand on your tiptoes, trying to find an empty table amid the masses. It’s not looking good. “Is that Ashlyn?” Vanille suddenly blurts out. She points across the crowd toward the mage in her ridiculous witch hat, carrying a few mugs. “What the hell is that on her head?” You shrug. “She thought it was funny” Your companion pauses mid-stride, then offers you an awkward wave, drink still in hand and beer sloshing over the rim. “Oh hey, there you are!” she calls out over the din. “Come on, we saved you a seat!” Vanille nudges your side, casually disentangling from your handhold. In a low voice, she asks, //“Ashlyn thought of somebody other than herself?”// //“She also didn’t call either of us insulting monikers.”// //“You think politeness is her safe word?”// You snort out a laugh and, after a brief moment of following the mage through the crowds, find Sherine and Aria waiting at a long table, plates and mugs piled atop nearly every inch of available surface. The theurge waves the two of you over mid-bite, then shifts to make room. You slide into a seat between your friends, and dig in. <<include "Six Degrees of Ashlyn">>

Apparently, those mouth-watering smells you caught earlier were coming from an absolutely massive pork roast. Based on the size of a single slice, the pig—boar, more likely—must’ve been the size of a small cow. You don’t want to imagine the effort it must’ve taken to bring the beast down. //Wanna guess its preferred diet before they did?// No, stop it brain. This is a relaxing meal with your friends, not a time to worry about the diets of wild animals. Besides, there’s plenty of definitely-not-carnivorous fare to sample as well. You try a bit of flatbread—delicious, of course—then eye an entirely innocuous salad for a long, deeply suspicious moment. It’s actually the first proper salad you’ve seen in Havendor, and despite—or perhaps //because// of—that unique status, you can’t help but wonder if its origins are a bit more… unusual. You still remember the Alraune tea, after all. Instead, you opt for another helping of pork, then grab a couple turnovers for good measure… and also maybe a generous portion of particularly savory fish stew. You notice Vanille watching as you take one last ladle, eyebrow raised. “Got enough on your plate there, <<= $name>>?” she asks with a wry grin. You pause long enough to look down and realize you might’ve been a bit overzealous. But the food’s too tasty and you’re far too eager to let something like common sense get in your way now. “It all looks really good!” you say, mildly indignant. Before you take another bite, you spot some sort of creamy potato dish on Vanille’s plate. “What’ve you got there?” She prods the dish in question with a fork. “Scalloped potatoes. They’ve got this cheese and herb sauce that’s divine.” Without even asking for permission, you lean over and scoop a hefty portion of the gratin onto your plate. Vanille rolls her eyes and smiles, then nudges into Ashlyn and steals a bite from the mage’s plate. Aria offers her mug of hoppy booze to wash down the mouthful of starch. After a moment of silent eating, you decide to heed the pesky voice of caution and slow down. Besides, this is your first chance to catch up with everyone after the day spent apart. “So, how’d everyone do today? All done with our jobs?” “Those of us who //had// one,” Ashlyn adds, directing a withering gaze at Sherine, who merely offers an innocent smile. A round of affirmative answers from the rest of your companions leaves you smiling and relieved. “So it looks like we can enjoy the rest of the evening. And then, what: set off tomorrow? How’s our supplies? Will we be able to stock up here?” Ashlyn flicks a bit of bread at your face, and you narrowly duck in time. “Forget all that and just relax, dude. It’s a party.” “Ah yeah, you’re right.” A hand rubs sheepishly at the back of your neck. “Sorry. I guess that’s the main thing we do together. Hasn’t really been time to just unwind.” “I rather enjoy the pace,” Sherine muses. “But with everything that’s happened, it //does// feel like we’ve hardly had a moment to relax and get to know each other.” “That’s… actually a fair point,” you say with a nod. The rest of you have had downtime on the road or relaxing evenings in taverns to chat and generally spend some time together where your lives weren’t in immediate danger—a luxury you’ve never really had since the lamia joined up. “Fine, I’ll start,” Ashlyn declares, thunking a mug down on the table. “The only thing I wanna know about you bozos is when you last got laid<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>>.” You nearly choke on your beer, using the mug to dampen the gesture to a sputtering cough. “Oh, and your booze of choice,” Ashyln adds. “<<else>>. Oh, and your booze of choice. <</if>>Mmm, favorite sex position, too.” Vanille scoffs, but Sherine seems to give the questions some genuine thought. Aria, however, is the first to speak up. “Two weeks ago, and uhm…” You raise your hand to head her off. “You don’t have to answer that. In fact, it’s better if you generally ignore the things Ashlyn says.” “Unless they matter. Then listening to me means the difference between life and death,” the mage retorts, leaning forward and pointing her fork at the theurge. “And this one matters. Give it up, heathen.” Aria giggles, a hand over her mouth as a warm flush colors her cheeks. “How long have you been adventuring together?” “Oh, that’s…” You think about it for a moment. “Well, I started in Icilia about a month ago. I was a complete novice, and Vanille’s been showing me the ropes ever since.” “That’s also where we met Mira,” Vanille adds<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true || $MiraDating == true>>, subtly reaching a hand out and placing it upon your own<</if>>. “Together, we traveled to a small town called Amberglen, where we met Ashlyn—” “Best day of your life so far,” Ashlyn snickers. When the table turns expectant glares upon the mage, she cocks her head. “What? I’m sure it was. I’m the best.” [[How is she this bad at human conversation?|STRONG GIRL!! FARM??]]

<<timed 2s t8n>>“So,” Sherine starts as she leads you along a relatively quiet street of the town-wide festival. “Are you <<if $Khobb1 == "Sherine">>finally <</if>>going to tell me what sort of errand that fairy had you running? You certainly seemed busy.” “Oh, right.” You idly scratch the back of your neck. “Plume actually had me looking for the groom. Y’know, for the wedding. Apparently he’d been missing since morning and—” “The bride had him, “Sherine says, matter-of-fact. <<if $Khobb2 == true>>“Yeah, I kinda figured the same thing.” You cast an appraising glance toward the lamia. “But how’d you know?”<<else>>You blink. “How’d you know?”<</if>> “The blushing bride, nervous for her big day, eager to keep her spouse-to-be just a bit closer. Craving a small slice of intimacy in a crowd of hundreds. Or perhaps a measure of security, an assurance against cold feet. It’s hard to be left at the altar when one body is accounting for both parties, after all.” You frown. “I don’t think Arturo would do that.” “Did you get a good impression of the man through the bride’s stomach?” The lamia chuckles, then settles for a slight shrug. “Truthfully, I only guessed his whereabouts because it’s what I’d do.” “Would you let him back out?” “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Sherine says with a smirk. “But my preferences aside, how did it feel spending an afternoon on a doomed search? Hopefully not too frustrating?” “Honestly, not really,” you admit. “I was a bit worried, I guess. Everyone kept telling me the wedding wasn’t hanging in the balance or anything, but… the groom was supposedly missing, y’know? That aside, it was a pretty good excuse to see the sights. I actually ran into a couple of other monster girls besides you and Ame—” You lurch to a stop, then direct Sherine with your best attempt at a scathing glower. It doesn’t land. “You set me up, didn’t you? <<if $Khobb1 == "Sherine">>First with the sash, then<<else>>With<</if>> Amelie.” Sherine shrugs again, palms upturned. “Guilty as charged<<if $Khobb1 == "Sherine">>—on both counts<</if>>. Intrepid as always, <<= $name>>.” “You’re mocking me,” you say, crossing your arms in a pout you don’t quite feel. “I’m impressed your legal acumen has survived the hardships of the last two weeks.” “Definitely mocking me.” The lamia lets out a slight laugh. “I’ll admit I was curious to see what would happen. I had a hunch about Amelie, though I could tell I wasn’t quite her type<<if $Khobb1 == "Sherine">>. And as for the sash, you merely asked a question, and I provided an answer.” “Not a particularly thorough one.” “But ultimately harmless. If anything, <<else>>. But I didn’t push her in your direction by any means. The sash did most of that, I’d guess.” “Right.” You pinch at the garment, still not quite sure how to feel about wearing it.” “<</if>>I’d wager you’ve attracted a little less attention from hungry predators over the afternoon—excepting a certain recent encounter, of course.” “Not as little as you’d think,” you mumble<<if $Khobb4 == "Sherine">><<set $RVSherine += 2>>, then suddenly reach into your pocket, remembering another occurrence from earlier in the day. “Oh, right,” you hastily say as you retrieve the small bottle of perfume. “I got you, uhm, a gift. From the sandlots. They had this prize counter where you could trade these tokens you got from winning games, and I thought it might be nice to pick out something for you.” As the words spill from your lips, you can’t help but look between the glass container and the woman before you. It’s not a flattering comparison. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d like,” you admit. “Most of the stuff they had seemed a bit, erm… rustic for your tastes. I was aiming for finery, but seeing it now, I think I landed a bit closer to ‘okay.’ Maybe just ‘adequate.’ I- It’s perfume. The guy thought it might be something with sandalwood, but I was mostly going off the bottle, and they weren’t exactly giving out samples. So I guess I—” You falter as Sherine places her hand on yours, fingers brushing along your palm before gingerly retrieving the gift. @@color:lime;“It’s lovely, <<= $name>>,” the lamia says with a warm smile as she pockets the bottle.@@ “I’ll wait to try it later. Somewhere private, free of any distractions.” Her eyes glimmer. “Hopefully you’ll join me.” You nod along awkwardly, bafflement at least partially born from relief that you //somehow// picked well. However, you can’t help but feel Sherine might’ve appreciated your performance a bit more than the gift itself. //She does enjoy the squirms, after all.// Before you can think to offer a proper response, you notice the lamia seems to have had her attention pulled elsewhere<<else>>, only to hesitate when you notice Sherine has paused<</if>>, head tilted and eyes distant. “Everything okay?” you ask. She blinks and shakes her head, as if trying to free a few lingering cobwebs. “Oh, yes. I just… Do you hear that?” You join Sherine in the head-tilt, as if that’s somehow going to help with the auditory guessing game in which you’ve found yourself. Even with your entire attention devoted to the task, it still takes a moment before you pick out the faint tune over the general hum of the festival, carried on some flute-like instrument. “The music?” you ask. At a nod from the lamia, you add, “Do you wanna see if we can find whoever’s playing?” Sherine nods. “I’d like that, yes.” [[Get looking|Sher3]]<</timed>>

It doesn’t take the two of you long to follow the distant melody, especially with Sherine at the lead. You’re a bit surprised at how much better of an ear she has for the task than you, though now that you think about it, that sense hasn’t been in high demand since she joined up. What you initially discerned as a whistle on the wind resolves into a modest quartet beneath the shade of a closed smithy. A woman plays a wooden whistle or recorder of some sort, accompanied by a scaled demi on the lute, a man on fiddle, and another woman holding a frame drum. They’ve attracted a small crowd, roughly half a dozen merrymakers tapping or clapping along to a lively jig. It’s hard not to join. The infectious rhythm seems to work its way into your very bones, compelling limbs to move of their own accord, all while whistle and fiddle trade interweaving melodies over a steady harmonic backing of the lute. “They’re good,” you note to Sherine after a few minutes of silently watching, wondering if they’re a local group or travelers from abroad. You suppose wandering minstrels must be a thing, even if you’ve yet to encounter any on the road. “They are,” she muses, lips curled to a curious expression you can’t quite place. “Though you can hear the limitations of an ensemble like this.” You frown. “What do you mean?” “Oh, they’re not bad by any means. They just have… well, shortcomings, as individual performers. Listen closely to the fiddle. He tends to rush a bit, to the point where he risks tripping up the whistle. The percussion has to notice the mistake and pull him back. And she does, credit where it’s due. But then she’s a bit too loud for the lute, and suddenly the finer points of the harmony are lost behind the beat of the drum. Which, admittedly, works out in his favor, since he sometimes misses the fingering for the first strum of a more complex chord.” “It sounds to me like they’re helping each other,” you remark. “Supporting any weaknesses and bringing out their strengths.” Sherine considers it for a moment as the group finishes a tune, joining in for the round of applause. Once they’ve struck up a new melody—something a bit slower—she finally speaks. “You can think of it that way, yes. But they’re also holding each other back. An exposed weakness is something that can be acknowledged and addressed, improved upon. There’s a reason you don’t usually learn an instrument as part of an ensemble.” You glance at the lamia, mildly surprised. “You play?” “I suppose it hasn’t come up, but yes. The lute.” She hesitates. “Well, there’s a different term for it in Monish, //as'kazuul,// and slightly altered tuning, but the fundamentals of the instrument are the same.” “Huh.” You mull it over for a minute, watching as the fiddle leaps into a solo. Sure enough, you can hear as the rest of the group has to pick up the tempo to match, but he manages to pull back by the time he’s winding down for another chorus. “I feel a bit bad I didn’t know that about you,” you remark. “There’s a lot I don’t know, I suppose. Like when we were talking to Amelie, about how you actually came to human lands in the first place. I’d say there’s never been a chance to ask, but I don’t think that’s true. We’ve had a few quiet nights on the road, or the days before leaving Orrault. I just… didn’t think about it.” Sherine regards you for a silent moment, appraising. “I take no offense, if that’s your concern.” “No—I mean, that’s good to hear.” You huff out a frustrated sigh at your fumbled words. “I’m trying to say I //would// like to know you better. And I’m sorry I haven’t tried.” An odd smile graces the lamia’s lips, a shade shy of strictly pleased, but certainly not //displeased// either. “You’ve had plenty on your mind this last week, <<= $name>>. And there’s a long, winding road ahead of us. I’m sure we’ll find the time.” Her gaze returns to the musicians, and you take that as your cue that for now she’d rather watch and listen. [[Join her|Sher4]]

Time passes in comfortable company as the two of you watch the performers run through an eclectic set ranging from lively dances to sentimental reveries. At one point, the lutenist even sings a ballad—something about an ancient romance in a forgotten kingdom, though you can’t quite pick out all the words. Before you know it, the group’s packing up, offering thanks to their audience and indicating they’ll try to pick things up again after dinner. As the rest of the crowd disperses, Sherine turns to you. “Well, should we find some dinner as well?” Your heart lurches. “I, uhh—” “At the town square, of course,” Sherine says with a knowing smirk. “It certainly smelled like they were preparing something delicious when we met there earlier.” “R- Right,” you say, a self-conscious flush burning on your cheeks. The trip back to the town square is a short one. Worryingly, you look to be far from the only revelers making the pilgrimage, and by the time you arrive, the general crowds of the celebration have grown to a dense, bustling throng—seemingly in preparation for some sort of event. You stand on your tiptoes, trying to find an empty table amid the masses. It’s not looking good. “Good to see our dear friend embracing the festive mood with her… interesting taste in clothing,” Sherine remarks from your side. You follow the lamia’s gaze and eventually notice Ashlyn stumbling through the crowd, carrying a trio of mugs. The mage pauses mid-walk, then offers you an awkward wave, drink still in hand and nearly bonking against the rim of her witch hat. “Oh hey, there you are!” she calls out over the din. “Come on, we saved you a seat!” “Oh, yeah,” you mutter. “Forgot about that<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>>… somehow<</if>>.” After a brief moment of following the mage through the crowds, you find Vanille and Aria waiting at a long table, plates and mugs piled atop nearly every inch of available surface. The theurge waves the two of you over mid-bite, then shifts to make room. You slide into a seat between your friends, and dig in. <<include "Six Degrees of Ashlyn">>

The mage moseys along the dirt path, her chest, uhm… bouncing… boobily— You hate to surrender to <<if $xe == "he">>the male gaze<<elseif $xe =="she">>the gay gaze<<else>>ogling<</if>> so easily, but there is a genuine jiggle to her gait that you feel all the way up upon her chest. It might be subtle to an observer—or pronounced to a voyeur—but after a minute spent being a buoy on unsettled seas, you’re a tad dizzy. “Oh man, these are in great condition!” Ashlyn cheers, scurrying towards the humble stall. She picks a strange wooden contraption from the table. “Hardly any damage.” You peer curiously at the item, not entirely sure what the hell you’re looking at. It’s like someone glued a pile of loose Tetris pieces into a gizmo the size of a volleyball. As Ashlyn twists and turns the blocks along the various connection points, you notice that some of the wooden squares are painted. Some sort of broken Rubix Cube, perhaps? The middle-aged man behind the counter rises from his stool, a small joy blooming on his face as he regards the mage’s curiosity. “Thank you, ma’am. I made them just for today.” “What are these?” you ask, gazing at the half dozen contraptions. “Tummys,” the attendant explains, excitedly raising it up to his open mouth then looking around, confused. He pauses for a moment to search for your voice, but when he comes up empty he simply continues on. “Tummy-Toys. You solve it using only your gut muscles.” “Rectus and transversus adominis; internal and exterior obliques; upper gastroidals,” the mage states as if she’s an anatomy textbook. She shrugs. “Pyramidalis if it gets too low, I guess.” While you’re unsure if her encyclopedic knowledge comes from autopsy or vivisection—both possibilities are frightening—it strikes you that Ashlyn might be one of the few people in this world who could identify every muscle and tissue of the human body //and// the myriad of peculiar parts in demi and monster bodies as well. …What a frickin’ nerd. “R- Right,” the poor man behind the counter mumbles, likely wondering if Ashlyn suddenly switched languages on him. He hesitantly adds, “Would you like to try it?” “Fuck yeah,” she whoops, lifting the toy up to her mouth. She pauses and presses a hand against you. “<<= $name>>, lean as far back as you can. Really get in there. Press your ear against my sternum.” You oblige the mage, ignoring the perplexed look from the man behind the counter as he finally notices the tiny person in the witch’s cleavage. Mercifully, Ashlyn turns away to give you an ounce of privacy, then crams the toy into her mouth. She swallows. A rippling //glorg// warbles out of her as the throat expands. Flesh swells above, then sinks lower, swooping down at you like an oncoming wave. Noisy throat undulations permeate her skin. Flapping folds of wet muscle and twanging cords of sinew harmonize. Once the cascade passes, once the subtle ripples subside, you swear you hear a //splop// from somewhere below. “How was that for ya?” she asks, her sudden voice startling the hell out of you. It takes a moment for you to pry yourself away from her chest and free up a little bit of wiggle room for yourself. Eventually, you find it most convenient to simply wedge your legs between her breasts and lean with your shoulders back against the front of her dress. “Are you doing this to try to turn me on?” She shrugs. “Nah, I just //really// like puzzles. How was it?” “Uh, I mean… A little weird, I guess.” “Not arousing?” “Not all that much. Uhm…” You blush. “I don’t dislike watching you eat things, but… I- It’s just not the same with objects. B- but the noises were n- nice.” “Gotcha,” she says, then presses on the moderate swell of her stomach. A belch rumbles out of her a moment later. She clicks her tongue, amused. “How about //that?”// [[Yeah, you liked that…|Blechies][$AshlynEvent9 to true]] [[Not really your thing…|You know who you are][$AshlynEvent9 to "NoGas"]]

“I- I liked that. A burp is…” You repress a shudder. “It’s… like you’re getting the final word.” //“‘I ate you. Prepare to digest, bitch,’”// Ashlyn posits with a strange affect. “Or,” you start, trying to match the playful tone, //“‘Nice try, but it’s over now.’”// //“‘You were delicious.’”// A shiver rattles down your spine. “R- Right. It’s a statement. The timing and… //how// you say it matters.” She chuckles. “That’s a fun way of looking at it. Never considered it.” Her lips curl into a contemplative zigzag. “I love you the way you see normal behavior and find it erotic as hell. And also, just think about intention for a moment: I doubt anyone considers a burp to be a mating call, yet here you are.” <<if $AshlynEvent8 == true>>“You and I already mated once today.” She snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, but that was because of the dress.” “And the hat.” A deviant smile brightens Ashlyn’s face for a brief moment, then dissipates as she sighs wistfully. “Thanks, <<= $name>>. <<else>>“I… There’s a lot of little things that, uh, ‘provoke’ my interest, I guess. And uh, before meeting you, I was kinda ashamed of them.” You shake yourself out of a rueful smirk. “And I mean, I still am, but it’s been… You make it fun.” “Thanks, <<= $name>>.” She sighs wistfully. “<</if>>I love this stuff. I love thinking about it, experimenting, testing the boundaries and discovering new things. Fetishes, positions, the //science// of sex. I’m looking forward to exploring each other.” A cackle burbles up from the bottom of her gut and rattles through her chest. “You have //no idea// what I have planned. I’ve such sights to show you.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I- I’m looking forward to it too.” After a peaceful moment of silence and wiggling, she adds, “In the meantime, you wanna—Ohshit it’s Vanille.” [[Fuckfuckfuck|A Titular Encounter]]

“Not really my thing.” She hums for a moment, then asks, “What if I start droning on and on about how hungry I am, and mention how much my stomach hurts due to said hunger? What if I bring it up, say, every three sentences? Would that be erotic?” “Sounds kinda annoying, actually.” “Mm, agreed. Ah, well, no worries.” Ashlyn clicks her tongue. A cackle burbles up from the bottom of her gut and rattles through her chest. “There’ll be more time to explore your mystery—You have //no idea// what I have planned. I’ve such sights to show you.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I- I’m looking forward to it.” “Same,” she sighs wistfully. After a moment of shared silence, she adds, “In the meantime, you wanna—Ohshit it’s Vanille.” [[Fuckfuckfuck|A Titular Encounter]]

You whip around and spot the gold-haired warrior across the way. Ashlyn’s index finger presses on the top of your head before pulling the black cloth over her chest and plunging you into shadow. //“Sit still and stay quiet,”// she hisses. “Knifey! What’s up, dude? Havin’ fun at the party?” Vanille’s voice beyond the dress is oddly clear—you supposed the fabric is thinner than an abdominal wall. “Yeah. I finished the chores Plume asked me to do. Sherine and Aria already have a table at the town square. You seen <<= $name>>?” Ashlyn gently sways and gyrates. “Nope.” You can hear the faint, wet sound of focused churning beneath your feet, the stomach acting as a shelf as you stay low. It’s not much, and if she keeps jostling, you’re at risk of slipping. Carefully, you wedge yourself into the crevasse and press against her body as much as possible—anything to keep a stray limb from noticeably bulging out of her bust. “Is that <<= $xem>>!?” Vanille suddenly blurts out. Your heart leaps up into your throat. “Did you fucking shrink and eat—” Ashlyn throws her arms up in surrender. “Noh-noh, I didn’t do anything.” She juts her gut forward and points to the nearby table. “This is a Tummy.” A pregnant moment passes between your companions. Vanille dispels the tension. “Oh. R- Right. Sorry. I’m uh, I’m just worried about <<= $xem>>.” “Vanille, <<= $xes>> <<if $xe == "he">>a big boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>a big girl<<else>>an adult<</if>>. <<= $Xe>> can take care of <<= $xem>>self.” “I—” Vanille chokes on her words. “Y- Yeah. You’re right.” The mage resumes wiggling. After a moment of what you’re certain is confused observation from the knight, Ashlyn asks, “You wanna try?” “The toy? No thank you. I…” There’s a small shuffling noise as Vanille takes a step closer. “A- Are you actually good at these?” Ashlyn shrugs. “Yeah. I’m good at puzzles. The fiddling helps me think.” “How’s… that one going?” “Let’s find out,” is all you hear before Ashlyn suddenly jerks forward. A shuddering wave courses across her flesh. Ripples rise at your back, her chest expanding and pressing you against the front of the dress as she regurgitates the doodad with a sonorous //bleurgk.// Both women are silent for a long moment—presumably to inspect the toy for completion. You, meanwhile, spend the time awkwardly crammed between sweaty flesh, clinging to whatever you can in the hopes that you don’t suddenly fall from down the dress. “That’s… That’s a weird talent you have, Ashlyn.” The mage chuckles. Her heart speeds up for the briefest moment. “It’s easy. I can teach you, if you want.” “Not interested.” “Why not?” Ashlyn leans forward. Mockery stains her voice. “Are you embarrassed about your gut control?” “M- My control’s fine,” Vanille shoots back. “Uh-huh.” Ashlyn straightens her spine and folds her arms across her chest, boobs pressing together— Yes, that detail is relevant to your current situation. It’s a noteworthy observation when a person’s breasts are threatening to smother you… And also when they’re really warm and soft and squishing all over your body in a way that’s not-at-all very stimulating. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” “On your back?” Ashlyn cackles. Vanille shuffles in place. There’s a gentle swish above the crunch of her shoes. “Anyway, I’m gonna search for <<= $name>>. See you at dinner?” The mage reaches out. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll track <<= $xem>> down with magic and join you at the buffet. Ten minutes, tops.” “… Really?” She sounds less skeptical than genuinely surprised. “Yeah, relax. It’s gonna be super easy. Just wanna finish up here first. Don’t wait up.” “O- Okay. Thank you.” “Of course,” Ashlyn says, bidding the knight farewell with what sounds like a slap on the ass. You wait for a signal from the mage before wriggling yourself back up Ashlyn’s cleavage—a very normal activity. //“Thank you,”// you say, gasping as you come up for air. “F- For not letting her see me like this. It’s…” //Embarrassing?// Among other things. “Well yeah, you’re //my// little secret right now.” She frowns. “Also, I didn’t want her to break me over her knee—at least not before I’ve done my warmup stretches. She’s a little intense, y’know? A real spear in the mud.” “She’s actually been doing better,” you shoot back. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Ashlyn shrugs. “Anyway, how //tit//-illating was hiding in my clothes during that conversation? Do you feel a little dirty? I do. I’m… actually kinda turned on from you wigglin’ around on me like a virgin. //Nnf,// and lying right to her face? //Fuuuck…”// She moans. “What if you //had// been inside me and she’d bought the lie? How fucking good would that have been?” Knowing Vanille, she’d spend hours searching without any hint that you were barely a few feet away, buried beneath a few rubbery layers of muscle and flesh. The shrink spell would make your presence in the mage’s gut entirely unnoticeable to an outside observer. Ashlyn would have to lie about the illicit affair, maybe even chug booze to pretend like everything’s normal. Which would mean you’d //have// to sit in her stomach and take any abuse she sent down your way. And at the end of the night, the mage would take you back to her room and demand unspeakably vulgar acts of concupiscence in exchange for her continued silence about your particular proclivities… Woah. That was far too much horny rumination. However thrilling an evening stint as Ashlyn’s sex slave might potentially be, you’d very much like to enjoy the party with your friends. Also dinner. [[Wait for her to un-shrink you|Skull Full of Bad Ideas]]

Ashlyn heads off, charting a new, meandering course with you at the helm. Khobb filters by in vague impressions from your tiny and awkward vantage, faces looming like mountains, then whipping past at blinding speed. Twice, you wave to amused townsfolk who’ve taken the time to notice you. A particularly industrious bird demi even seems to take interest, but Ashlyn intercepts her questing hand with a quick swat. When a polite amount of time passes, you look up at Ashlyn and ask, “So uh, when are you gonna poof me back to full size?” “Oh, whenever you want. Just tell me, and I’ll fix ya.”<<if $Orrault1 == "Ashlyn">> You pause, about to express genuine concern for the uncharacteristically blissful and accommodating mage when you realize that you’ve actually seen her like this before: back when you first arrived at Orrault. She’d been similarly absent-minded while transporting wine outside the city walls, admitting that she occasionally ‘spaces out’ when she’s got bigger things on her brain. You cringe as you remember that this was //also// the moment she found out about your secret fetish. Her current absentmindedness can only mean one thing. She’s got something absolutely dreadful brewing in that cauldron-like skull.<<if $AshlynEvent8 == true && $Khobb5 == false>> Oh right, her suicidal plan to eat the fairy. “D- Do you wanna have sex again? Gather some more spunk for your spells?” “Nah,” she offers simply. //Did… Did Ashlyn just turn down sex??//<<elseif $AshlynEvent8 == true && $Khobb5 == true>> Oh right, her suicidal plan to eat the fairy. A pang of guilt rings in your chest. You did kinda alert Plume that Ashlyn might make a move on her at some point during the party. You’d been suspicious before, but this current fey mood from the mage confirms intent.<</if>><</if>> “Seriously, are you okay?” you ask with deep and sudden concern. “Of course.” She tilts her head, then taps her chin curiously. “I’m feeling uh, it’s like the warmth you feel in your chest when drinking—and also a bit bubbly in the nerves… post-climax, but low and slow… steady. A really long, pedestrian orgasm.” “D- Do you mean… //happy?”// “Yeah! That!” You stare up at her, incredulous. “Are you drunk?” “Nope!” You turn your palms up in utter disbelief, then sigh as you wriggle and worm your way out from the torrid clamp of cleavage. You suppose that, in the grand scope of things, Ashlyn being normal isn’t the craziest thing happening right now. At your insistence, the mage ducks into a nearby alley and poofs you back to full size. You’re pleasantly surprised to find your clothes are still relatively clean and, more important for the immediate future, presentable. Ashlyn gives you a once-over, then smirks. “I kinda preferred you the other way. You sure you don’t wanna stay in there for dinner? I can feed you little bits of regurgitated food like a momma bird.” You stare at her in disbelief. “No—What? No. That’s gross. And weird.” “Eh, alright. Ready to see those nerds?” <<if $Khobb4 == "Ashlyn">><<linkreplace "“Yes.”">><<set $RVAshlyn +=2>>“Yes—No, wait!” you blurt out, suddenly remembering the gift you got from the sandlots. You fumble through your various pockets and pouches, searching. “I have something for you.” “Oh, I //love// this game,” she croons. Her eyebrows waggle wildly as she points to your trousers. “Is that an illicit substance in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” You produce the little split of wine and present it as if you’re trying to sell it on television. “Actually both.” @@color:lime;“It’s so small!” she cackles, eagerly taking the bottle and inspecting the label. She holds it up to the light and swirls it around curiously. “You can tell it’s the good stuff because the model on the label’s wearing clothes.”@@ “I thought you…” you say as she pops the cork and tilts it back. You blink as she downs the whole thing in a single go. “… might get a kick out of it,” you conclude. She smacks her lips. “Ya, it had a kick. Pretty good, thanks dude.” She stuffs the empty bottle into her cleavage, then turns and waves you on. “C’mon, let’s get some food to wash it down.” Well… that went about as well as you could have hoped. [[Find your group|Ash_DinnerRejoin]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>[[Find your group|Ash_DinnerRejoin]]<</if>>

The trip back to the town square is a short one. Worryingly, you look to be far from the only revelers making the pilgrimage—hopefully Vanille was right about that held table. By the time you and Ashlyn arrive, the general crowds of the celebration have grown to a dense, bustling throng, seemingly in preparation for some sort of event. You stand on your tiptoes, trying to find your friends amid the masses. It’s not looking good. “<<= $name>>!” a familiar voice shouts over the din. You turn to find Aria waving with one hand, a trio of mugs held in the other, contents sloshing perilously. “Come on,” she calls out, a broad grin plastered across rosy cheeks. “We saved you a seat!” You follow the theurge through the crowds to find Vanille and Sherine waiting at a long table, plates and mugs piled atop nearly every inch of available surface. “Hey everybody, look what I found!” Ashlyn gestures to you. “This idiot!” Vanille offers an appreciative nod mid-bite, then shifts to make room. You slide into a seat between your friends, and dig in. <<include "Six Degrees of Ashlyn">>

You look down at yourself to make sure you’re //actually// cleaned up when you notice the belly scarf still wrapped around your waist. The damn thing will be a mark of shame by the end of the night, you just know it. Other than that, you’re surprisingly intact considering how you spent the last few hours. <<include "Aria Hits on You">>

“Oh, right!” you abruptly blurt out, memory jogged. You reach into your pack and gingerly withdraw the flower bouquet. “I, uhh… I got this for you,” you say, then hastily realize you should probably disarm that statement a bit. “T- They had this prize counter at the riverside sandlots where you could pick from all sorts of stuff. And I know we don’t exactly, erm, know each other all that well, but I wanted to get you something. A ‘thanks,’ I guess.” “Aww, that’s so sweet!” She accepts the bouquet gingerly. “Hydrangeas—they’re so colorful. Thank you, <<= $name>>.” You blush, not sure what else to say. You already used the ‘thank you’ line yourself—doing it again might start a recursive loop. Instead, you offer an awkward, “I’m glad you like them,” then settle into uncomfortable silence. Before you can work yourself into a tizzy, Aria suddenly perks up. “Oh, let me show you something!” She holds the small bouquet out a few inches from her chest, closes her eyes, and mutters a word of power under her breath. The flora bundle suddenly perks to life. Petals glow, then spread. Unopened buds burst. New colors blossom, a vibrant supernova in the palm of her hands. “That’s… amazing,” you breathe out, scarcely believing your eyes. “I had no idea you could do something like that.” “Oh, i- it’s not //that// impressive,” Aria murmurs, cheeks blooming a furious scarlet. She plucks a particularly violet flower and affixes it to her hair, just over the ear. A cute waggle of a smile forms on her face. “I’m just channeling a little mana into them—encouraging a bit of posthumous growth. I’m not actually… oh, I don’t know, breathing new life into the plants or anything. It’s more of a parlor trick.” “Well color me impressed,” you say. “That doesn’t work on, uhm… people?” She pales. “Oh no, absolutely not. A- And even if it could, that seems like it would be a bit… morbid.” //No reformation for you, buddy.// “Right…” You absently drum your fingers on one leg, suddenly feeling very foolish. In the silence that follows, Aria gently stows the bouquet in her pack, then looks back to you with a warm smile. “So,” she starts, idly fiddling with the linen tablecloth. “You and your traveling companions seem to be close friends.” <<include "Aria Hits on You">>

“We are,” you say. “Err, most of us—I think. We haven’t really known each other for all that long, but we’ve been through a lot.” “Life on the road has its challenges,” she offers. “Yeah, definitely that. But the adventuring, too. I mean, you saw how the quarry went, and I honestly don’t think I’d call that our most stressful dungeon.” Aria’s face twists into a mix of wonder and shock. “Oh? I can’t imagine what’s worse than running from that massive hellhound.” “Well, there was the Whispered Archives. Most of the dungeon wasn’t too bad—a slime and a gargoyle, and a few other obstacles. But then we had to venture into this bee girl hive that had sort of taken over a part of the archives. And at one point, I fell through a bit of floor and had to navigate some of the dark tunnels by myself until I could find everyone.” “That sounds… stressful.” You chuckle, surprised at how easily you can find humor in such a recent and harrowing memory. “Especially when I remember I’d only been doing this whole adventuring thing for… what, a few days, at that point? I had to sneak past all the bee girls I encountered. No idea what I would’ve done if I’d actually been forced to fight one. “And then like, a week later we discovered a lost city beneath Orrault. We had to navigate through all these layers of history: the sewers, some catacombs, an ancient waterway system. Oh, and we almost got flattened by this ogress who’d made her home in this massive forge. And beneath all that was just this entire abandoned city, half-flooded and chock-full of water monsters. I got friggin’ eaten by a Scylla—” You pause and cast the theurge an apologetic frown. “Sorry, is this too much? I feel like I’m just talking your ear off.” “Oh. No, certainly not.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I love hearing about adventures—It’s just so… swoon-worthy. And I think anyone would enjoy hearing them from you.” “I, uhm… Thanks. Honestly, I think the only reason we pulled through is because we could trust each other. I guess adventuring really does build close friendships.” “I’ve heard it can…” She twirls a strand of mousy brown hair around a finger. “That you can get really close to each other.” “Well, most of them have either tried or succeeded in eating me, so I guess that’s kinda…” Aria shakes her head with a slight giggle, then shifts forward in her seat. Glimmering cerulean eyes stare into your own. “Are you //really// close with anyone, <<= $name>>?” //Oh.// She means //that// kind of close. [[Uhh…|The-Urge Is Killing Me]]

<<if $MiraDating == true>>That’s actually something of a complicated question right now. You absolutely //would// have considered Mira to be someone you hold dearly. You still do, but exactly //how// remains up in the air. And how does the demi feel? She’s hardly managed more than a sentence to you in the last two days. There’s too much pain and hurt and frustration, and you don’t even know where to begin with— No, no. You don’t want to interrogate this right now. This is supposed to be a day to relax and decompress. You can’t push things with Mira right now, and dwelling on it is only picking at a wound that needs time to heal.<<elseif $Orrault7 == "Mira">>Welp. That’s a complicated fucking question. Many of your relationships in this world have felt breakneck and intense, but none have been as fraught as they have with Mira. You and she had sex the night before the siege, and in the brief afterglow you’d felt like you were flying high on the intimate and playful relationship. And then the whole thing detonated. You’re still feeling the shockwaves, the fluctuating regret, the dense ire, the grievous repudiation. There’s no path forward. Hell, you’re not even sure if there’s even anything to go back to at this point.<<else>>You suppose the answer’s no—not that you haven’t had any chances. Between Ashlyn’s antics, Sherine’s constant temptations, and… well, Mira, the only companion who //hasn’t// made a sexual proposition is Vanille. Between the journey and the danger, you really haven’t given a ton of thought to what actually being in a relationship would mean for you and your quest. After all, the theoretical goal of this entire adventure is to find a way for you to return home. Furthermore, you’re not sure if being invited to bed is really what’s being asked. Even without romantic pursuits, your relationships in this world have felt breakneck and intense. Oh, and lest you forget, praying mantises abound. Accepting one of those offers might just be the last thing you ever do.<</if>> You’re startled from your musings by a sudden clack of lacquered wood on the tabletop. You glance up to find the waiter placing two cups of gently steaming tea on the tabletop before he offers a slight nod and withdraws. It’s warm and soothing and almost lulls you back into swirling thoughts… at least until you notice Aria staring at you, holding the cup in front of her blushing cheeks. She shrinks into her blouse as she takes a sip. “Sorry, that question was too forward,” she says, voice wavering. She shifts in her chair, shoulders hunched. “I- I just find you really interesting, a- and heroic. You saved me <<if $Orrault2 == true>>twice now<<else>>me yesterday<</if>>… And admitting all of this is really embarrassing.” “No no, it’s okay. I don’t mind the question,” you say reassuringly. “Sorry, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. The adventuring life is… actually really difficult. It takes up pretty much all of my time. I haven’t had a chance to just sit and relax.” You take another sip of tea. “But I’m glad I have that chance now. It’s nice talking to you.” Honestly, you’ll take any conversation where the chances of death are reasonably low. “I’m happy to hear that.” Aria drops a small cube of sugar in her tea, then spends a moment stirring, lips pressed to a contemplative curl. “And I can see why you wanted to avoid involving yourself with that stranger earlier—so you’d have time for your friends.” “Oh, it’s a bit simpler than that—I just didn’t wanna get eaten.” She tilts her head. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just say ‘no thank you?’” “Not in my experience,” you admit. “Oh? Are people usually so forward with you?” Her lips bend to a coy smirk. “Or do you have a fear of being eaten?” //Quite the opposite.// “O- Oh, no, sorry,” you blurt out, waving your arm defensively. You take another sip of tea to calm your nerves. “It’s on my mind a lot today cause of—” You gesture around. It doesn’t take long to find a full-bellied patron to be an example. “Y’know, all of this.” Aria smiles. “It’s not what I expected, but it seems like everyone’s having fun with it.” “Yeah, they are.” You watch the tea swirl in your cup for a moment, then ask, “Can you do similar spells as a theurge—digestion resistance and the like?” “Oh, I can cast lesser versions of some of the component spells, but certainly nothing on this scale.” She stares off into the distance for a moment, then shakes her head. “Plume’s magic is masterful. I don’t think I could manage anything like this even if I studied my entire life.” “Is there, like, a theurge school somewhere?” Aria giggles. “No. At least nothing that formal or centralized. My mentor would take on a few students at a time, and that’s how I learned the basics. The rest comes from practice, time spent learning and working.” She pauses to sip at her tea. “That’s actually why I’m traveling—to gather as much knowledge and experience as I can, so I can set up my own little apothecary one day.” “That sounds nice,” you remark. “Do you know where?” “Mmm, somewhere on the coast. Linden, maybe.” Her lips curl to a wistful smile. “It’d be nice to settle down, run a modest business out of home that looks over the sea.” Aria shakes herself free of the reverie, then shifts an inch forward. “How about you, <<= $name>>? What’s next for you after the adventure’s over?” That’s… another good question, actually. Every day spent in Havendor has been so dedicated to the present, to the journey and the hazards you face, that you’ve hardly thought at all about the future. Returning home would be a good start, assuming that’s actually in the cards and not just the ramblings of inane prophecy. Then again, you’re not emotionally prepared to explain your otherworldly origins to Aria, at least not today. “I guess… I guess I’d like to settle down, too,” you eventually say. “I don’t think the adventuring life is really for me—at least long-term. I feel a bit too, erm… fragile. And as exhilarating as it can be, I really wouldn't mind having a bit more time to just relax and take things at my own pace.” “I can definitely understand that,” Aria says, eyes shimmering. “Life on the road comes at you fast, even for someone like me who’s taking the time to stop at every town and see who needs healing. Sometimes it feels like all I do is react to the fires other people have started.” “So you’d rather start a few of your own?” She laughs. “Nothing quite that destructive, but… yes, I think so.” She takes a drink, then suddenly clears her throat. “Oh uh, something I actually wanted to know: how profitable is adventuring? Does all that danger at least come with absurd riches?” You scoff. “Not even slightly! I mean—Okay, we took a pretty good haul from Niverdene. I can’t remember the exact amount, but it was a lot. Problem is, you spend a bunch of that on adventuring supplies, room and board, meals, medical expenses. It adds up fast, and not every dungeon is profitable. You saw that vault in the quarry. Not exactly much in the way of gold or jewels.” “Fair,” Aria nods along. “Anything in particular stand out? An especially memorable treasure?” “Am I a hack if I answer ‘the friends I made along the way?’” Another slight giggle bubbles from the theurge’s throat. “I think that’s adorable.” “I was going for stoic and bold, but I guess I’ll take it.” Aria takes a final sip of tea, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. You reach for your own cup, only to realize you’re down to dregs—damn, these are small. “So,” you start. “You ready to go back and see if we can find everyone else?” “Oh. Uhm, yes.” She nods hastily. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I think there’s going to be some sort of dinner event in the town square, so that might be a good place to start.” [[Sounds like a plan|Aria_DinnerRejoin]]

The trip back to the town square is a short one. Worryingly, you look to be far from the only ones making the pilgrimage, and by the time you arrive, the general crowds of the celebration have grown to a dense, bustling throng—seemingly in preparation for some sort of event. You stand on your tiptoes, trying to find some trace of your other companions—or even an empty table—amid the masses. “Is that… Ashlyn?” Aria says from your side. She points across the crowd toward the mage in her ridiculous witch hat, carrying a few mugs. “Oh, right. Forgot she was wearing that.” The mage pauses mid-step, then offers you an awkward wave, drink still in hand and beer sloshing over the rim. “Oh hey, there you are!” she calls out over the din. “Come on, we saved you a seat!” A brief moment of following the mage through the crowds finds Sherine and Vanille waiting at a long table, plates and mugs piled atop nearly every inch of available surface. The knight waves the two of you over mid-bite, then shifts to make room. You slide into a seat between your friends, and dig in. <<include "Six Degrees of Ashlyn">>

Cool air blasts your face, the wet dribble chilled by the sudden drop in temperature. Your head thumps onto soft grasses as you’re extruded up and out of the throat. Slick, gastric slop coats your clothes in layers, the emulsion clinging and dripping. Flecks of spittle fly from your predator’s mouth as the last of you emerges with a moist //splorb.// Arms strain as you roll over. Your legs uncurl. The sole of your boot hits something firm, and you push yourself until both wrists are free. Finally, you sit up and look around. Where the heck are you? Is this the sandlots? Were you carried all the way out here just to be barfed out for no reason? A familiar dress whooshes about ten feet away. The stranger who’d devoured you already has her jaws clamped around someone else. In fact, her latest snack is about halfway down the throat, the waterfall of lumps and bumps rolling and stretching under the elastic fabric. Bucks and swallows ring out. A huge, poofy tail swings around in the air like a single blade of a crashing helicopter, black and white stripes a blur amid the flurry. Legs are inverted, kicking feebly against the inevitable descent as the wild tail slaps between knees and thighs. Your former predator even crams in the newbie’s shoes without an ounce of hesitation. The predator’s already moving as a low belch bubbles out of her throat. She and her new acquaintance disappear into the crowd a moment later. Oh. Apparently she traded up for better prey. Should you feel insulted? You take a moment to gather yourself, to calm your ticking brain. While that experience was short of ‘harrowing,’ you’re fully convinced that if the safety net of the spell had been absent, you’d have been sloshed. Which is… thrilling in its own way, but also sobering. Hopefully today has drained some of the suicidal horniness out of your system. Then again, you doubt you’ll be able to look down a predator’s maw tomorrow with fewer conflicting urges. Curse you, horny lizard brain. [[Clean yourself up and find your friends|Stranger_DinnerRejoin]]

The trip back to the town square is a short one. Worryingly, you look to be far from the only ones making the pilgrimage, and by the time you arrive, the general crowds of the celebration have grown to a dense, bustling throng—seemingly in preparation for some sort of event. You stand on your tiptoes, trying to find some trace of your other companions—or even an empty table—amid the masses. After a moment, you spot <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Vanille<<elseif $SherineEvent1 == true>>Sherine<<elseif $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $AshlynEvent8 == true>>Ashlyn<<else>>Aria<</if>> carrying a few mugs in her arms. She pauses mid-step, then offers you an awkward wave, drink still in hand and beer sloshing over the rim. “Oh hey, there you are!” she calls out over the din. “Come on, we saved you a seat!” A brief moment of following her through the crowds finds the rest of your crew waiting at a long table, plates and mugs piled atop nearly every inch of available surface. Cheerful calls beckon, bodies shift to make room. You slide into a seat between your friends, and dig in. <<include "Six Degrees of Ashlyn">>

“No seriously,” you start, bumping into the mage’s side. “What did you really think of us when we first met?” “I’m not gonna say sappy shi—No!” she blurts as you pry a bottle of wine from her grasp. She reaches for another mug and misses when you also yank that one away, a splash of something dry and bitter landing on your plate. “Don’t steal my booze! My precious babies…” “You’ll get them back when you behave like an adult.” “Ugh, fine.” She rolls her eyes, then lets out a petulant sigh. “I thought you three were crazy venturing into that hive, and insanity makes me horny… so yeah.” “Everything makes you horny,” Vanille snarks from behind her mug. “True.” As a reward for good behavior, Ashlyn receives her booze. She immediately guzzles an entire mug, pats her stomach, and gently coos. //“There, there. You’re safe now.”// “That means you’d hardly known each other for three weeks by the time we first met,” Sherine remarks. “I’d assumed you were more established than that. I’m impressed.” “More like two,” you correct. The lamia’s lips curl to a wistful smile. “<<= $Xir>> amiability is <<= $xir>> finest quality. It makes sense now why <<= $name>> would boldly leap to my rescue. <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">>Has <<= $xe>><<else>>Have they<</if>> mentioned how we met, Aria?” At a shake of the theurge’s head, Sherine elaborates. “I’d been falsely accused of a crime, and <<= $name>> cleared my name.” “In a court of law?” the theurge asks. “Indeed. A <<if $xe == "he">>man<<elseif $xe == "she">>woman<<else>>person<</if>> of many talents.” “I’m not an actual lawyer,” you add behind a bashful smile. “I just did a bit of investigating, pointed out the obvious problems in the prosecution’s case. Also, I’d really like to never do it again; it was kinda terrifying.” Aria frowns. “Worse than the hellhound?” “About the same.” That earns a laugh from the rest of the table, though you decide not to mention your fear of the hellhound has slightly abated… on account of her newfound status as a puppy in the possession of a bizarrely powerful fairy. Sherine clears her throat and continues her appraisal of the party. “Regarding Mira, you’ll have to forgive our preoccupied friend for not making an appearance. Her passions have claimed her.” She takes a small sip of ale. “I actually quite like that about her. “As for Vanille: she is a natural-born leader, unwaveringly loyal, and steadfastly reliable. I’ve never met someone of such noble character.” Vanille blinks. “O- Oh, I… didn’t know you…” She smiles and bows her head. Hands clasp over her chest. “Thank you, Sherine. I appreciate hearing that.” “Okay, hold on,” Ashlyn pipes up. She straightens her back and levels her cup at the knight. “I need to point this out, since nobody else here seems to have working eyeballs: Vanille’s hot. You wore that dress on purpose, didn’t you? Let’s see those muscles.” The knight turns a curious shade of red. She sets down her fork and goblet, then picks an apple from the edge of your plate. With a roll of her eyes, she carefully places the fruit in the crook of her arm. She flexes, and the apple snaps in half. //Ask if you can lick her bicep.// “S- So what’s next for you,” Aria hastily says, turning the subject back to something a bit saner. It takes a moment to realize she’s asking you directly. It doesn’t help that you’re still thinking about Vanille’s arms. “Oh uhm, we’re actually looking for a lead on the missing artifact,” you manage, turning to the rest of your group for confirmation. Only the knight nods. “We’re probably gonna ask around here, and if that fails, we’ll head back to Orrault and talk to a scholar.” “So… you’ll be exploring more perilous ruins, then?” the theurge asks warily. You sigh. This adventure has been on a steady incline of escalating danger. Odds are good that the next dungeon will be more brutal than the last. “Seems likely, yeah.” “That’s where they keep all the good shit,” Ashlyn astutely provides. “Who is ‘they?’” Sherine asks. “The dead people who had all the good shit, //duh.// Just burying themselves and their boobie-trapped buildings in the moist folds of time like all the cool kids.” //Moist?// “Mm, I understand,” Aria murmurs. “I wish I was more cut out for the adventuring life, but it’s just too much for me.” She pauses to glance around the table. “Especially with you all. N-No offense, you’re just… a lot. Too much for me, I suppose.” “So what do you think you’ll do, then?” Vanille asks. The theurge sighs. “Well, I guess I’ll stay in town and try to help you with gathering information. Regardless, I’ll see you off, then probably head southwest to Dusk. I’d heard they’re recovering from a monster raid and I want to offer my magical talents.” Your heart falls a few inches. While you understand her desire to avoid excessive danger—you kinda wish you didn’t have to risk your life all the damn time just for a //chance// to return to your world—the news that she won’t be traveling with your group on a permanent basis is nothing short of disappointing. She’s friendly. You enjoy being around her. Her healing magic would be a massive boon on your quest. And, most importantly, she’s sane. “Of course, Aria,” Sherine says. “I think I speak for everyone when I say there’s no hard feelings. Are you sure the road will be safe?” “Safe enough, I hope.” Aria offers a slight smile. “I’m not //completely// helpless. Besides, maybe I can find a merchant caravan heading the same direction. It’s a popular trade route during the summer.” You think back to your own caravaning experience—a far, //far// cry from ‘safe travel.’ And the theurge hasn’t exactly had a spotless track record with random predatory encounters, given <<if $Orrault2 == true>>you helped pull her from the grasp<<else>>Mortia apparently pulled her from the gut<</if>> of a hungry centaur. You can only hope she’ll have better fortune going forward. She’s certainly earned it. “But that’s for tomorrow,” Aria cheers before tipping her mug back, downing its contents in a single quaff, and offering you a warm smile. “We’ve got all night together!” “Attagirl!” Ashlyn exclaims and grabs her own cup. You can’t help but smirk and take a sip of very smooth ale. [[Be merry|Emcee]]

A rising cheer from the crowd draws your attention toward the main stage which, on initial appraisal, appears to still be empty… at least until a shower of glitter catches your eye. You blink, focus, and discover a small form perched atop a stool—Plume, brandishing her fairy-sized fiddle. She sweeps the bow in an elaborate flourish—complete with a perfectly natural shower of prismatic dust—says something to one of the front-row tables that you can’t quite hear, then clears her throat. “Hear ye, hear ye, one and all!” What //should// be a tiny voice resounds across the town square, not quite the echoing boom of a loud-speaker, but far too clearly audible to be strictly natural. Plume grins as the ambient hum fades and attention turns to the stage. “I wanna thank everyone for being here to celebrate the wedding of Rabine and Arturo. I’m very pleased to announce that the strands of fate have woven a new knot today. Please raise a mug.” A round of cheers and hoisted drinks echoes through the crowd, and you follow suit. Plume bows and continues. “Today’s gone off without a hitch, and that is by the grace and goodness of everyone here. Thank you all for your hard work. Be sure to say hello if you see the happy couple, and may the rest of your night be merry!” The fairy sets her too-small bow atop her too-small fiddle, then draws in a breath. “Now, with the formalities out of the way, my backup band and I are gonna play a few tunes for ya: start off with a little ‘Churnin’ Seas to All-Den,’ then some regional favorites—‘The Swallowed Tail,’ ‘Lark ‘n Reforming,’ ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water.’ And we’ll see where it goes from there.” You frown and scour the stage, finding no trace of Plume’s so-called backup band. But at the first strike of bow on string, a dozen instruments poof into existence, suspended in mid-air by nothing more than a faintly shimmering haze, played by ghostly hands. An entire animate ensemble appears in the blink of an eye and launches into a spirited tune, following Plume’s lead. In retrospect, an enchanted band shouldn’t be that much of a surprise after what you’ve seen the fairy pull off today. A few bars of the intro meet cheers and hollers of approval—apparently it’s a recognizable tune. When the fiddle drops to make way for words, a good third of the assembled crowd joins in. Others jump from their seats and make their way toward the center of the square—to the cordoned dance floor that, until now, had stood empty. As you fumble with some sort of large, hard-shelled seed, you watch more and more folk rise from their meals and head toward the dance floor. Some, of course, bring their ‘meals’ with them, which makes the partitioned circle all the more crowded. The singing continues, with at least half the crowd now having figured out what to say at the right time—or at least willing to fake it in tune. A brave soul approaches Sherine, hips swaying as he steps in rhythm. He saunters into her welcoming coils for a private word, cheek pressing near hers as he whispers what you assume is an invitation to dance. At the same time, another man who looks to be a spitting image of the first sidles up to Aria to try the same routine. Best of luck to them. You’re not gonna get in the way of that. You’re pushed against Ashlyn as Vanille scoots in on your right. She takes the stubborn pod, demonstrates how to snap it apart, then hands the edible piece back while discarding the husk. “Thanks.” //“Baby bird,”// Ashlyn mutters under her breath. You pop a piece in your mouth while maintaining eye contact. <<linkreplace "“Jealous?”">>“Jealous?” The mage gazes back down to her own unopened seed, mournful. “…Yeah.” Vanille reaches over and helps the mage, the pod passing across your lap in a quick back-and-forth. “Sho, are all weddingsh like this?” you ask, munching on the oddly chewy fruit. It started as kinda bland, but the more you masticate, the better it gets. Savory juices ooze and dribble onto your tongue. Vanile stares off into the crowds for a moment of silent appraisal. “There are some festivals that might drum up a town-wide celebration, but for a union? This is… a lot.” “Maybe if the local nobility were getting hitched or something,” Ashlyn chimes in. “People with money to burn and egos to flaunt.” You suckle for a moment in idle curiosity. Flavor mostly extorted, you swallow and ask, “What other festivals and holidays are popular around these parts?” “Most towns will have a harvest celebration of some sort,” the knight explains. “And another after winter’s frost breaks.” “Religious holidays?” you offer. She shrugs. “Not usually. The crown hasn’t endorsed a religion in centuries.” Fingers tap on the edge of a wooden plate in contemplative rhythm. “Didn’t go so well the last time a higher power was on the throne.” “What happened?” “Well, there were a lot of wars, and then suddenly not a lot of deities.” Ashlyn pauses to lick her lips. “Turns out, gods are tasty.” Oh… You shudder, then unclench. It’s oddly comforting that even a god isn’t safe from these people’s ravenous appetites. Maybe you’re not so feeble after all… “Any other celebrations to look out for?” you ask. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some more of the local color when we have time. Festivals like this will help stave off adventuring burnout and keep morale up.” “There’s Bobunk,” Ashlyn offers. “Well, there //was.”// Vanille raises an eyebrow. “Never heard of it.” “I’m not surprised. Nobody celebrates Bobunk anymore. Not after I ruined it for everyone forever.” You’re in the middle deciding if you should rise to the mage’s bait when your ears perk. “Churnin’ Seas to //All-Den//” seems to have given way to the next song, a lively jig without words. But something about the particular tune needles at the edge of your subconscious. You //know// this music, or at least a piece very much like it<<if $Khobb6 == "Sherine">>—and not from your brief musical excursion with Sherine earlier<<else>>, though the exact source is hard to place<</if>>. It’s that vague, infuriating familiarity, like a half-remembered face at the corner store. The knowledge is there somewhere, but each attempt to dig it free only sees it slip further from your reach. As you mull over the auditory conundrum, Aria wanders into view with another round of drinks, apparently having shrugged off her suitor. You turn to find Sherine similarly unburdened, though you can’t help but check her coils for a new lump. //All clear. Plenty of room for you, boss!// … Maybe not now, brain. You’ve got other priorities, like enjoying this unfairly delicious food. You reach for another sweet vegetable turnover, only for your fingers to come up empty. In fact, a brief survey of the table finds you’re out aside from a few tepid dregs of stew. [[Go for seconds|Feel the Rythym]]<</linkreplace>>

Your companions make a few requests from the buffet, and before you know it, you’re carrying an empty plate straight through the sea of dancers and toward the smorgasbord. Boots stray out of bounds of the cordoned ring in confusing, out-of-time stomps. A wobbling, stuffed body catches your eye for the briefest moment as the tune enters its second refrain. You drift across the serving platters, scooping and pouring as much as you can safely carry. Once the mountain of food is ready, you whirl about and strut your way back to your table. An infectious rhythm possesses your hips and… knees? Are you supposed to dance with your knees? Isn’t it shoulders? At any rate, these people look to be having a blast, and you’re starting to get jealous. An overflowing plate thumps onto the table as you clamber back on the bench. Swift hands claim the various morsels as your leg bounces. “Thanks, <<= $name>>.” “See Vanille? Told you <<= $xe>> could manage on <<= $xir>> own.” “Manage what?” Ashlyn nudges the knight’s side playfully. “This hungry gal was impatiently watching you the entire time you were at the buffet. I told her there was plenty to eat within arm’s reach—to just go and grab somebody.” Once more, Vanille socks Ashlyn in the arm. “Stop saying weird things in front of <<= $name>>.” She pauses to take a bite out of a stuffed roll, chews for a deliberate moment, then finally swallows. “Does anyone have plans for after dinner? I saw some table games that might be fun.” Ashlyn clutches her own shoulder. Based on the way it’s swaying, her arm may have gone numb. “I intend to get completely blasted at some point, but I’m gonna wait until they bring out the big barrels of booze.” Sherine sighs. “I have a few suitors to lose, but I’d be happy to join.” //‘Lose’ them in her gut.// “Games sound fun, but I’d like to dance to a song or two before it gets dark,” Aria says as she rises from the table and walks toward the dance floor. Finally, someone who gets it. You wait for the current tune to wrap up, then smile as Plume immediately launches into the next: a slower, more relaxed ballad—perfect for someone with two left feet and a dearth of practice. You gulp a few more bites, then down half a mug of liquid courage. You’re gonna do it. This is your day off, dammit. You’re gonna dance and look like a total fool and it’s gonna be great. And you’re gonna need a partner. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>[[Obviously, ask Vanille|Romance Vanille Dance][$Khobb7 to "Vanille", $RVVanille += 2]]<<else>>[[Ask Vanille|Aromance Vanille Dance][$Khobb7 to "Vanille", $RVVanille += 2]] [[Ask Ashlyn|Ashlyn Dance][$Khobb7 to "Ashlyn", $RVAshlyn += 2]] [[Ask Sherine|Sherine Dance][$Khobb7 to "Sherine", $RVSherine += 2]] <<if $Khobb6 == "Aria">>[[Catch up to Aria|Aria Dance Lead-In][$Khobb7 to "Aria"]] <<else>>[[… On second thought, maybe not|Sit Out][$Khobb7 to "Aria"]]<</if>><</if>>

“Your loss,” Ashlyn says with a shrug. She returns to her book once more. “I’ll just have to find another donor.” You turn and take the first step, ready to return to your search for the groom. “Welp, I’m gonna get back to—” Hold on. The alarm in your brain is ringing. She said something, something key, something weirder than expected. You press an accusatory finger against the spine of her book. “Wait. What did you mean, ‘donor’? That’s suspicious.” She pouts, which is an utterly absurd expression for someone as chaotic as her. “You don’t trust me?” “No.” “Good. You shouldn’t.” She flashes a wicked smirk. “I was gonna absorb your orgasmic energy.” You stare at the mage for a long and deeply incredulous moment, trying to figure out if she’s being serious. Given the potential consequences, it’s better to assume she is. “Like Calisia did to you yesterday?!” “Damn right!” she cheers. “Cum will empower my magic—or at least, it’s gonna. I’m still working on it. It’s only the rough outline of a spell right now, but once I find a donor, I can execute the next phase of my plan.” “Plan to wh—” You balk, realization hitting you like a sack of bricks. “You can’t be serious. You’re actually trying to eat Plume!?” “I need that little fucker’s magic inside me //so bad.// You have no idea how much I want it.” She sweeps a hand at the nearby wall, but you’re pretty sure she’s gesturing to the festival in a broad sense. “Imagine if I had this kind of power. I could take over a small kingdom—Maybe Kalibalt, they’re due for a regime change.” “Ashlyn, that’s insane. No, strike that. It’s fucking suicidal. She’s way too powerful.” “Nonsense. I’ve been reinforcing my stomach lining with entrapment spells since the moment I saw her. I’m gonna bind that bitch, wait until her fancy little spell runs out, and digest the shit out of her.” Ashlyn brushes against your side. You narrowly dodge a lick on the neck. “I’ll make you second in command if you help me catch her. You can live and die in any belly you want. //A-ny-one.// Just point at a throat, and it’s yours to slide down. If you make my dreams come true, I’ll do the same for you.” “Your dreams sound like nightmares.” She shrugs. “I can’t ever tell the difference. Anyway, get outta here and finish up your stupid little side quest.” “Yeah, I should get back to it,” you say, offering a slight wave as you leave. “See you later?” “Cya,” she murmurs, returning her attention to her notebook. <<if $ArrayKhobb.includes("goated")>>A nearby //slosh// catches your attention. You look up just in time to witness a stuffed stomach pass by. … What were you supposed to be doing again? Oh right, ‘saving’ the wedding.<<else>>Your stomach growls. Apparently you’ve worked up an appetite. Perhaps you should go do something about that before getting back to the search?<</if>> <<include "Khobb_Navigator">>

Sherine slides to catch up with Aria, the two of them disappearing into the dancing masses. Vanille’s the next to follow, and soon you’re left sitting at the table staring at Ashlyn, hoping she’ll look up from her book and notice you. Then you remember she’s a little shit and is likely ignoring you on purpose. You scooch up against her and lean over the tome. “Hey, uh, you wanna dance?” The mage tilts her head and slings one leg over yours. “Like, as a joke?” “No, I’m serious.” She’s crawling onto your lap a moment later—maybe invading her personal space was a bad idea. “I don’t really like this fiddle stuff. I’m more of a flute-player,” she teases, wiggling her ass against your crotch. “Oh, //I see,”// you say, feigning indignation. “You can’t dance and you’re embarrassed about it. I guess I’ll have to dance with Sherine—” She slaps you across the face. Hard. There’s a noise and everything. “Don’t bait me with that weak sauce.” Ashlyn rises, tucking her book between her cleavage and smoothing out her dress. “I was turning you down for //your// safety, but if you’re gonna be a little bitch about it, I guess I can show you my moves.” You stumble after the hasty mage, wading through the partygoers and onto an open corner of the dance floor—far away from innocent bystanders. The fiddle sings its joyous song as you sway in place, warming up your hips and stretching your limbs. Slowly, you find the beat, meld into the rhythm, wrap yourself in the ambience. The world fades, a blanket of dusk slowly swaddling the party in crepuscular comfort. You’ve barely made five measures when Ashlyn steps away with a clumsy twirl. Her dress swishes. Her ridiculous hat nearly falls off her head. Sweaty palms pass over knees as she bends, limbs swinging wildly. Two fingers cross her brow. She pivots and kicks up a puff of dirt. The mage then spins three hundred degrees before hopping up and spreading her limbs in random directions. She nearly loses a shoe as she lands. There’s no reality where you could conceivably call what Ashlyn’s doing ‘dancing.’ Sure, there’s hip wiggling, arm swaggering, and gyrating aplenty, but it’s not a dance. It barely passes as convulsing. She has the opposite of rhythm. You’re not sure you’d go so far as to call it a crime against humanity<<if $AshlynEvent2 == true>>—don’t forget, you’ve seen her commit a few casual murders—<<else>>, <</if>>but it’s up there. Perhaps a step above ‘removing your shoes on an airplane’ and just below ‘vaping at a theme park.’ Just to confirm she’s the crazy one here, you glance around at the rest of the crowd. Aria and many others have found themselves partners, all dancing as couples or merry groups. Even Sherine manages to look normal on the dance floor, and that’s in spite of not having legs. Furthermore, Vanille’s joined the lamia, carefully stepping across her coils, their hands clasped as the two sway and swing, both of them graceful in their own right. Which just leaves you with the psycho— “Aaah—//ullmpp!”// You watch as the mage’s lips close over a shrunken person. She gulps, and the little lump falls down her front and disappears behind her dress. Ashlyn swaggers close and cleaves herself to you. “That can’t possibly be part of the dance.” She’s on you a moment later like melting butter on toast. “It totally is. Now put your arms around me, feel them moving inside.” Ashlyn nudges herself closer. “It’s okay, I’ll hide your boner by jiggling my ass against it.” “I’m not gonna do any of that,” you say, resisting. “Didn’t you just have dinner? Isn’t eating someone after that really rude?” She twirls around and raises an evil eyebrow at you. “You think he’s the only one in there?” She pushes her flat gut against yours. //“Bwuaarrp.”// You sigh. This is what happens when you leave the mage alone <<if $Khobb6 == "Ashlyn">>for too long<<else>>all day<</if>>. To stop her insistent sexual advance, you wrap your arm around her hip and guide the mage into a dance. Well, ‘dance.’ You make it up on the spot, but it’s sane and stable enough to distract Ashlyn from grinding on your further. Your ears perk as the fiddle diminuendos for a few measures, easing off until only the bass is left keeping time in subtle heart-thumps. You slow with it, thundering chest relaxing as you take stock of your surroundings once more. The other dancers also start to look around, as if missing some vital cue. A tiny mote of light glints into existence above your head. Then another ten feet away, the tinkling white spots bright against the tapestry of twilight. A dozen more pop to life and float about like petals in a playful breeze, each drifting lazily and casting a faint glow. The music begins to rise anew. More lights appear, the sky slowly filling with stars. Humble gasps of elation fill the air, followed by even more magical sparkles. The lights gently twirl, almost like they’re frolicking to the music. Where the corporeal dancers step and weave, the specks glimmer and pulse in time with the beat. The calls of surprise radiate beyond the dance floor, arcane illuminations spreading to the rest of the town like wildfire. The band reaches a climax, commanding the dance floor like a puppeteer. You lurch back into motion, ensorcelled by primal urge. You’re free, you’re alive. You and the entire rest of the town have joined in wordless solidarity to stand together against the encroaching night. Living, breathing as one celebrating mass, to share in the victory of civilization, to cry out a single notion as one unified voice. “Damn,” Ashlyn murmurs, the twinkling lights above reflecting in her violet eyes. “This must have taken forever to set up. That fairy’s been magically preparing this moment for days, I guarantee it.” She reaches out and snatches one of the motes out of the air. It tries to squirm from between her fingers. “Credit where credit’s due: she’s a damn good performer.” “That’s remarkably laudatory coming from you.” You pull her an inch closer to get a better look at the light. “You’re not, I dunno… jealous, or anything?” “Why would I be? It’ll be my power by midday tomorrow.” Ashlyn pops the light into her mouth and swallows. The glowing lump descends her throat, then vanishes behind the dark fabric of her dress. You roll your eyes. “You’re still on that?” “We crashed this wedding; how could you //not// want to sow chaos?” You gesture to the sea of twinkling lights. “She’s out of your league.” @@color: lime;Ashlyn nudges her ass against you once more. //“I’m// out of //your// league, yet here we are.”@@ As if to prove it, the mage launches into another ‘dance’ that earns a share of wary—or at times outright fearful—gazes from the surrounding revelers.The fiddles can’t come to rest quick enough. Cheeks flush, you practically drag Ashlyn off the dance floor and back to the table, only to find someone there clearing the empty plates into a basket. You nod awkwardly, then grab your belongings. <<if $Khobb4 == "Ashlyn" && $Khobb6 != "Ashlyn">><<set $RVAshlyn += 2>>A curious slosh perks your ears. It’s coming from your bag— “Right!” you blurt out, suddenly remembering the gift you got from the sandlots. You fumble through your various pockets and pouches, searching. “I have something for you.” “Oh, I //love// this game,” she croons. Her eyebrows waggle wildly as she points to your trousers. “Is that an illicit substance in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” You produce the little split of wine and present it as if you’re trying to sell it on television. “Actually both.” @@color:lime;“It’s so small!” she cackles, eagerly taking the bottle and inspecting the label. She holds it up to the light and swirls it around curiously. “You can tell it’s the good stuff because the model on the label’s wearing clothes.”@@ “I thought you…” you say as she pops the cork and tilts it back. You blink as she downs the whole thing in a single go. “… might get a kick out of it,” you conclude. She smacks her lips and gyrates her hips. “Ya, it had a kick. Pretty good addition to all the stuff swirlin’ around inside me right now. Thanks, dude.” She stuffs the empty bottle into her cleavage, then points to the guy cleaning an adjacent table. “Though, I think I need someone to wash it down.” “Nope.” You grab her by the wrist before any magic can erupt, then start dragging her across the dirt. “Let’s go meet up with the others.” “Uagh!” she squeals with feigned revulsion. After three seconds of struggle, she uses a new tactic. Ashlyn falls entirely limp in your arms as if boneless, and you stumble to catch her flopping body. Still, her childish behavior doesn’t stop you from leaving the buffet together.<<else>>“C’mon,” you grunt. “Let’s go meet up with the others.” Ashlyn shrugs and follows your lead.<</if>> [[Go rejoin with your group|Who Am I?]]

Vanille rises to catch up with Aria. She drags a begrudging Ashlyn onto the dance floor, and the rest of your party disappears into the swaying crowd. You slide closer to Sherine, confidence rising in your chest. Perhaps asking a woman who doesn’t have legs to dance won’t be as absurd as you hope. Sherine’s certainly been capable of everything you’ve seen her attempt so far. “Sherine, would you like to dance together?” A pleased smile tugs at her lips. “I’d be delighted to, <<= $name>>.” You hold her hand delicately upon your own as you lead the lamia out and into the mass of partygoers, watching her slide and slither between stomping feet and skipping soles. It’s astonishing how much awareness she has of her own form, the twenty-foot-long copper tail never so much as brushing up against a leg. Still, you do your best to accommodate her, finding an open edge of the packed earth with plenty of room for both of you The fiddle sings its joyous song as you sway in place, warming up your hips and stretching your limbs. Slowly, you find the beat, meld into the rhythm, wrap yourself in the ambience. The world fades, a blanket of dusk slowly swaddling the party in crepuscular comfort. Sherine sways close, hips rocking from side to side, pendulous. Her skirt flutters and swooshes like petals dancing on air. She guides your hands onto her waist, then curls her fingers around the back of her neck. A moment later she’s lowering herself to see eye-to-eye. You manage one step in time, then another. She waits a beat then nudges you back slightly. A length of her tail slides behind you, encircling and claiming this area for just the two of you. “I- I hope this is alright,” you murmur, trying your best to maintain eye contact while focussing on the dance. It’s difficult not to stare at the gorgeous woman moving in front of you, especially because of all the hypnotizing swaying. Her hips bounce from side to side. Her torso twists and turns, chest rocking back and forth, slow and luxuriant. “Well, you’re not the first to ask me today.” She urges you to step around her, to orbit in slow syncopation. “But, you are the first I’ve looked forward to.” The fiddle diminuendos for a few measures, easing off until only the bass is left keeping time in subtle heart-thumps. You slow with it, thundering chest relaxing as you take stock of your surroundings once more. The other dancers also start to look around, as if missing some vital cue. A tiny mote of light glints into existence above your head. Then another ten feet away, the tinkling white spots bright against the tapestry of twilight. A dozen more pop to life and float about like petals in a playful breeze, each drifting lazily and casting a faint glow. The music begins to rise anew. More lights appear, the sky slowly filling with stars. Humble gasps of elation fill the air, followed by even more magical sparkles. The lights gently twirl, almost like they’re frolicking to the music. Where the corporeal dancers step and weave, the specks glimmer and pulse in time with the beat. The calls of surprise radiate beyond the dance floor, arcane illuminations spreading to the rest of the town like wildfire. The band reaches a climax, commanding the dance floor like a puppeteer. You lurch back into motion, ensorcelled by primal urge. You’re free, you’re alive. You and the entire rest of the town have joined in wordless solidarity to stand together against the encroaching night. Sherine falters as you pull her into a friendly embrace and thump your chin against her shoulder. Her skin is warm to the touch, her umbre hair silky against your ear. Wordless, you ease into the crook of her neck, then emit a long, trailing sigh, letting all the pain and exhaustion of the last few days pour out of your marrow. You can’t bring yourself to let her go, instead holding her tight and swaying in rhythm. She eventually, hesitantly, hugs you back, then gently matches your drifting like passing ships in the night, content to simply float upon the sea of glittering stars. When the fiddle finally rests, you take a step back and bow. Sherine manages a curtsy before turning to join the thunderous applause for the empty orchestra upon the stage. Plume’s magical ensemble seems to react to the recognition, bobbing and swaying merrily before banding together to start another tune. Silent, you guide your partner off the dance floor and back to the table where your group ate. It’s already been cleaned. “That was…” you start, then fall awkwardly silent. “Thanks for being here with me. I think I needed this more than I knew. Just to be… with a friend for a little bit.” Sherine slides closer, then suddenly wraps her arms around you. @@color:lime;“Thank you, <<= $name>>. It was lovely.”@@ <<if $Khobb4 == "Sherine" && $Khobb6 != "Sherine">><<set $RVSherine += 2>>“Shall we go—Oh, right,” you hastily say as you reach into your bag and retrieve the small bottle of perfume. “I got you, uhm, a gift. From the sandlots. They had this prize counter where you could trade these tokens you got from winning games, and I thought it might be nice to pick out something for you.” As the words spill from your lips, you can’t help but look between the glass container and the woman before you. It’s not a flattering comparison. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d like,” you admit. “Most of the stuff they had seemed a bit, erm… rustic for your tastes. I was aiming for finery, but seeing it now…” You shift awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I- It’s perfume.” Sherine places her hand on yours, fingers brushing along your palm before gingerly retrieving the gift. “How interesting,” the lamia says with a warm smile as she inspects the bottle curiously. She pops the cork and brings it up to her mouth, tongue flickering as she takes a whiff. @@color:lime;Something keen glimmers in her eyes before she stoppers the bottle once more and pockets it. “I’ll try it on later. Somewhere private, free of distractions. Hopefully you’ll join me.”@@ You nod along awkwardly, bafflement at least partially born from relief that you //somehow// picked well. However, you can’t help but feel Sherine might’ve appreciated your shy performance a bit more than the gift itself. “A- Anyway,” you start anew. “You ready to go find the others?” you say, offering a hand.<<else>>“Shall we uhm, shall we go find the others,” you say, offering a hand.<</if>> She nods and accepts. You catch her humming the tune as she trails behind. [[Rejoin with your group|Who Am I?]]

Aria catches your awkward gait and pulls all your attention onto her. Fingers clasping and entwine. She moves to place a hand on your shoulder, then hesitates as you do the same to her. A shrug and a sweep later and you’ve been relocated to her hip. “You lead, <<= $name>>.” “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Aria kicks a foot out excitedly, then leans in against your chest. “Neither do I.” Finding reassurance in mutual ineptitude, you follow the rhythm and your heart, leading the theurge in a vague approximation of dance. You make it all of five seconds before your first stumble—you both step forward when it’s your turn to step back, nearly bonking foreheads in the process—but a shared laugh and a quick shuffle sees you back in the rhythm before you know it. The fiddle sings its joyous song as you sway. Slowly, you meld into the rhythm, wrap yourself in the ambience. The world fades, a blanket of dusk slowly swaddling the party in crepuscular comfort. Serenity washes through your veins. The problems of the past and the worries of the future stretch, fading from this moment, vanish behind the smiling faces and the twirling coats, forgotten beneath the stamp of feet and the lilt of the fiddle. The music diminuendos for a few measures, easing off until only the bass is left keeping time in subtle heart-thumps. You slow with it, thundering chest relaxing as you take stock of your surroundings once more. The other dancers also start to look around, as if missing some vital cue. A tiny mote of light glints into existence above your head. Then another ten feet away, the tinkling white spots bright against the tapestry of twilight. A dozen more pop to life and float about like petals in a playful breeze, each drifting lazily and casting a faint glow. The music begins to rise anew. More lights appear, the sky slowly filling with stars. Humble gasps of elation fill the air, followed by even more magical sparkles. The lights gently twirl, almost like they’re frolicking to the music. Where the corporeal dancers step and weave, the specks glimmer and pulse in time with the beat. The calls of surprise radiate beyond the dance floor, arcane illuminations spreading to the rest of the town like wildfire. The band reaches a climax, commanding the dance floor like a puppeteer. You lurch back into motion, ensorcelled by primal urge. You’re free, you’re alive. You and the entire rest of the town have joined in wordless solidarity to stand together against the encroaching night. Living, breathing as one celebrating mass, to share in the victory of civilization, to cry out a single notion as one unified voice. “Breathtaking,” Aria murmurs, taking your hands in hers. You turn and gaze into her sea-blue eyes. “Are you really leaving?” you ask, the burning question simply spilling forth. “I’m afraid so,” she says, offering a pitying frown. “You look distraught. I’m so sorry.” “I- I guess I was hoping you’d be around longer.” Your chest aches, both metaphorically and literally. “We could use someone with your talents, your healing magic.” “I wish I could give you an answer you want to hear, but adventuring’s not for me.” A tender hand touches your cheek. “Truth be told, I only stuck around for you.” “M- Me?” “You went out of your way to save my life.<<if $Orrault2 == true>> Twice.<</if>>” A fierce blush blooms across her cheeks, brilliant scarlet beneath the fairylights. “I… find that attractive.” Your cheeks turn red, nearly the same shade as Aria’s. She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “How about…” she starts, finger twirling her hair. A key appears in her other hand, dangling. “How about we go back to my room and spend the night together? Something to remember each other by.” Her coy expression dissolves into an amused smirk. “After all, I haven’t been laid in two weeks.” <<linkreplace "Weigh your options">>Okay, quick facts: she’s laid out her interest and consent loud and clear. She’s demonstrated herself to be sweet and caring, so you’ll be in loving hands. And speaking of hands, she’s got oh-so-squishable hips. Plus, there’s an anti-digestive spell enshrouding the entire town, so you’ll be safe if she decides to devour you after copulation. //Chill out. She’s not a mantis girl.// [[Go with her|The Virgin MC vs the Chad Bunny][$AriaEvent1 to true]] [[Turn her down|The Virgin MC vs the Chad Bunny]]<</linkreplace>>

On second thought, you have no idea how to dance and you’re not looking to make a fool of yourself. Cowardice wins out, and you find yourself falling back into your seat on the bench as the rest of your group wanders toward the dance floor. Well, except for Ashlyn, but she’s currently engrossed in her book, so it’s no surprise there— A hand tugs on your arm. “Hey, c’mon,” Aria says, pulling again, harder this time. “Don’t just sit here looking all bummed out, dance with me.” “I- I,” you start, nearly falling off your seat as she yanks a third time. “Alright, alright, sheesh.” “That’s the spirit,” she cheers, looping her arm through yours. Together, you wade through the partygoers and onto the dance floor, finding an open edge of the packed earth with plenty of room to trip and fall. <<include "Aria Dance">>

You rise and shuffle over to your companion’s side. “Vanille, would you like to dance with me?” you ask, the words springing forth with remarkable confidence. “I would love to!” The knight rises from her seat, giddy, the hem of her dress pinched as she carefully lifts the garment over the wooden bench. She offers a hand, and you accept. You cling tight to Vanille as you wade through the partygoers and onto the dance floor, finding an open edge of packed earth with plenty of room to trip and fall. The fiddle sings its joyous song as you sway in place, warming up your hips and stretching your limbs. Slowly, you find the beat, meld into the rhythm, wrap yourself in the ambience. The world fades, a blanket of dusk slowly swaddling the party in crepuscular comfort. Vanille approaches with a hop and a skip, dress fluttering buoyantly. “Like this.” She guides your hand up to her shoulder, then curls her fingertips under the sash at your waist. You clasp your free hand with Vanille’s, and let her lead. One step to the left, then another. She waits a beat then nudges you back slightly. A boot invades your space, and you stumble before catching yourself as she takes your place. Two stomps right, then a gentle tug forward and you’ve walked in a square. “Just listen for the bass,” she explains, barely audible over the din. “One-two, one-two. You step on every other beat.” It takes another two laps for you to get the basic footwork down, at which point she adds in some swinging. You finally manage to look somewhere other than your feet and find her nodding along in time to the music, an unfettered smile gracing her lips. “You’re getting it,” she cheers. You nearly lose the beat and have to do a hasty, awkward maneuver to catch up. “Not without you.” Vanille chuckles and pulls you back into step. You follow her around another square. Serenity washes through your veins. The problems of the past and the worries of the future stretch, fading from this moment, vanishing behind the smiling faces and twirling coats. Forgotten beneath the stamp of feet and the lilt of the fiddle. Feeling bold, you try to take the lead for yourself, stepping ahead of your partner and encouraging her to follow. A delighted smile grows across Vanille’s face as she switches her stance and leans into it. The fiddle diminuendos after a few measures, easing off until only the bass is left keeping time in subtle heart-thumps. You slow with it, thundering chest relaxing as you take stock of your surroundings once more. The other dancers also start to look around, as if missing some vital cue. A tiny mote of light glints into existence above your head. Then another ten feet away, the tinkling white spots bright against the tapestry of twilight. A dozen more pop to life and float about like petals in a playful breeze, each drifting lazily and casting a faint glow. The music begins to rise anew. More lights appear, the sky slowly filling with stars. Humble gasps of elation fill the air, followed by even more magical sparkles. The lights gently twirl, almost like they’re frolicking to the music. Where the corporeal dancers step and weave, the specks glimmer and pulse in time with the beat. The calls of surprise radiate beyond the dance floor, arcane illuminations spreading to the rest of the town like wildfire. The band reaches a climax, commanding the dance floor like a puppeteer. You lurch back into motion, ensorcelled by primal urge. You’re free, you’re alive. You and the entire rest of the town have joined in wordless solidarity to stand together against the encroaching night. “Beautiful,” Vanille murmurs, neck tilted skyward. You brush a strand of gilded hair from her cheek, then tenderly caress. The lights above twinkle in her golden eyes. “Certainly is.” She blinks and focuses on you. Wordless, together, you inch closer. Your nose brushes against hers, then presses into the warm crook above her lips. She pushes, closing the gap. A hand tightens on your back. You pull her near, bodies aligned. The first kiss melts into a second, then another. Lips part and close. Tongues slip and tie. The fiddle rises. Vanille exhales, warm and sweet against your cheek, then slowly, reluctantly pulls away. Your heart restarts, the ephemeral moment forever etched between beats. You can’t bring yourself to let her go, instead swaying in rhythm. The knight rests her weary head against your shoulder, content to simply drift among the sea of glittering stars. When the fiddle finally rests, Vanille takes a step back and bows, holding one edge of her dress aside. Legs trembling, you plant both feet together and bow back, then turn to join the thunderous applause for the empty orchestra upon the stage. Plume’s magical ensemble seems to react to the recognition, bobbing merrily before banding together to start another tune. Silent, your partner guides you off the dance floor and back to the table where your group ate. It’s already been cleaned. “That was…” Vanille falls awkwardly silent. She shuffles closer a step, then suddenly wraps her arms around you. @@color:lime;“Thank you, <<= $name>>.” A tear rolls over the warm blush of her cheek. “That was perfect.”@@ You embrace her back. “You alright? A- After we talked yesterday, I mean.” She wipes her face and pulls you into a long, wet kiss. Gossamer strands dangle when she finally pulls apart. “I am. Sorry for being so hard on myself… and taking it out on you.” “I’m here for you, Vanille.” Your grip tightens. “No matter what.” “And I, you.” The knight smiles, then squeezes and sinks back into the embrace. You hold her until she’s had her fill—and you, yours. This world’s been a lot of things so far, but this? This is one of the bright spots. When she’s finally ready, Vanille disentangles from your grasp, idling for a reluctant moment before nudging your bag on the bench. “I guess we should go meet up with the others?” <<if $Khobb4 == "Vanille" && $Khobb6 != "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille += 2>>“Ye—No!” Under Vanille’s confused gaze, you rifle through your various pockets and bags. It’s around here somewhere, dammit. “I have something for you, hold on,” you bumble as fingers brush against a length of thick string. You produce the necklace you ‘won’ from the sandlots earlier, then humbly present it, palms sticking out awkwardly. Wooden charms rest at haphazard angles, dangling from the length of hemp cord. She stares at it like a deer in headlights. Vanille shakes her head slightly, then stops herself. A fist clenches, then swings to hide behind her back. You shrink into yourself. “I- It’s uh,” you begin, voice wavering. “I thought…” “I- It’s for me?” A frown tugs at your lips. “Yes, but uh, if you don’t like it, I—” Her hand reaches out before you can retreat into your shell of embarrassment. “N- No. I want it—I w- want to wear it.” She gingerly grasps the necklace as if it’s made of glass, then pauses with the cord dangling just above your palm. “W- Would you help me put it on?” Vanille turns, then reaches back to lift her hair clear. There’s not much that needs to be moved, the jagged and haphazard cut drawn into the stark focus as you take the ends of the cord in each hand and gingerly draw them together at the nape of her neck. The necklace doesn’t even have a clasp, leaving you to tie a small knot so it’ll stay in place. “There,” you say, drawing the ends tight and leaning back. She shuffles in place, and once more you’re forced to reckon just how damn beautiful she is. Vanille’s uncertain finger touches curiously at her neck, as if afraid to make contact with the cord. At your insistence, she rolls her shoulders and straightens her back. Still, there’s something stark about the accessory, though you can’t quite put your finger on it. You fiddle with it for a moment in an attempt to get it //juuust// right, but the charms all slide down and clatter at her sternum regardless. “It’s uhm, kinda… tacky, now that I’m looking at it.” You point to her gorgeous outfit. “Especially with this beautiful dress. I don’t know what I was thinking.” @@color:lime;Vanille chuckles, the strain melting from her face. “No, no, it’s perfect. I will wear it always. Thank you, <<= $name>>.”@@ She curtsies, complete with fingers pinching at her skirt. “I apologize I have nothing to offer in return.” “Spending time together like this is more than enough of a gift,” you insist. “Well, in that case,” she offers a hand. “Let’s go meet up with the others. I found a game I think you’ll enjoy.”<<else>>“Sounds like a plan. Any idea where they might be?” She nods. “Yeah, I told them to meet up over at the game tables. I think I found something you’ll enjoy.” “Sounds like fun.” You offer an arm. “Shall we?”<</if>> [[Follow her|Who Am I?]]

You rise and shuffle over to your companion’s side. “Vanille, would you like to dance?” you ask, the words spilling forth with remarkable confidence. She blinks in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d ask.” The knight rises from her seat, hems of her dress pinched as she carefully lifts the garment over the wooden bench. Once clear, she offers a hand, and you accept. “It would be my pleasure.” You cling tight to Vanille as you wade through the partygoers and onto the dance floor, finding an open edge of packed earth with plenty of room to trip and fall. Sherine slides to catch up with Aria, the two of them disappearing into the dancing masses. The fiddle sings its joyous song as you sway in place, warming up your hips and stretching your limbs. Slowly, you find the beat, meld into the rhythm, wrap yourself in the ambience. The world fades, a blanket of dusk slowly swaddling the party in crepuscular comfort. Vanille approaches with a hop and a skip, dress fluttering buoyantly. “Like this.” She guides your hand up to her shoulder, then curls her fingertips under the sash at your waist. You clasp your free hand with Vanille’s and let her lead. One step to the left, then another. She waits a beat then nudges you back slightly. A boot invades your space and you stumble, then catch yourself as she takes your place. Two stomps right, then a gentle tug forward and you’ve walked in a square. “Just listen for the bass,” she explains, barely audible over the din. “One-two, one-two. You step on every other beat.” It takes another two laps for you to get the basic footwork down, at which point she adds in some swaying. It’s around this point that you manage to look somewhere other than your feet and find her nodding along in time to the music, an unfettered smile gracing her lips. “You’re getting it,” she cheers. You nearly lose the beat and have to do a hasty, awkward maneuver to catch up. “Not without you.” She chuckles and pulls you back into step. You follow her direction around another square. The fiddle sings, the crowd sways. Serenity washes through your veins. The problems of the past and the worries of the future stretch and thin, fade from this moment, vanish behind the smiling faces and the twirling coats, forgotten beneath the stamp of feet and the lilt of the fiddle. Vanille nods toward someone just over your shoulder. “You ready?” “For what?” “I’m gonna pass you off.” “Wait—” With a flick of the wrist, you’re sent away—there’s nothing you can do, Vanille’s the lead here. Three steps backward across the floor and you turn to be received by Aria. She catches up with your awkward gait, fingers clasping and entwining with yours. She moves to place a hand on your shoulder, then hesitates as you do the same to her. A shrug and a sweep later and you’ve been relocated to her hip. “You lead, <<= $name>>.” “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Aria kicks a foot out excitedly, then leans in against your chest. “Neither do I.” Finding reassurance in mutual ineptitude, you follow the rhythm and your heart, leading the theurge in a vague approximation of the steps you’d only just begun to learn. You make it all of five seconds before your first stumble—you both step forward when it’s your turn to step back, nearly bonking foreheads in the process—but a shared laugh and a quick shuffle sees you back in the rhythm before you know it. You spin Aria around and find yourself facing the way you came. Ten feet away, Vanille’s taken a new partner… Damn. She’s so good at everything. How does she manage to dance gracefully with someone who doesn’t have legs? Vanille steps over and across Sherine’s coils, hand in hand with the lamia, then dips and bows, holding for a beat before approaching her partner once more. With a chuckle and a smile, you shift and get back into step with the music. Together, you and Aria skip and laugh, linking arms and dancing about in a circle. When you break, the rhythm guides you back into the square dance Vanille demonstrated. After a roundabout, the theurge amends your grip to put you in the lead once more, then sways along, awaiting a command. Curious, you test the bounds of your newfound leadership. She backs up when you press, turns when you do, and even twirls when you twist your wrist. You send her away to the left, then dance another square before sending her to the right— Where someone else catches her. Aria’s fingers slip through yours. Her new partner spins her around and carries her off into the crowd. A moment later, you’re watching the theurge’s legs flip up into the air and move through the crowd like a periscope. The lump descends, a gut swells, and she’s out of sight. Oh, okay. You scramble back to a friendly face before anyone offers to teach you how to belly dance. “<<= $name>>,” Sherine says as you wedge yourself between her and Vanille. The lamia rises and drapes her arms over your shoulders, willing you to and fro like a puppet. She lifts your arms to reach out for Vanille, guiding you into a new dance. “You alright?” Vanille asks as she misses a step. “Yup. Just, uh, here to dance.” Before you’re forced to sort out the awkward asymmetry of a three-man dance, a fourth approaches—a young man with sleek black hair and eyes only for Sherine. You and Vanille twirl away from the prospective couple for an instant, and by the time you catch them again, they’re winding off through the crowd, slipping from sight. “Guess it’s just us again,” you remark, turning your attention back to Vanille. “That means I get you to myself,” she says, assuming the lead position. Feeling bold, you pull the same trick Aria used to rearrange yourself at the lead, then take the first step forward. A delighted smile grows across Vanille’s face as she switches her stance and leans into it. “You learn fast.” You attempt a shrug, or as much of one as you can while dancing. You don’t need to tell her that you don’t have a choice in this world—you learn on the fly, or you die—instead offering a passive smile and spinning her around. The fiddle diminuendos after a few measures, easing off until only the bass is left keeping time in subtle heart-thumps. You slow with it, thundering chest relaxing as you take stock of your surroundings once more. The other dancers also start to look around, as if missing some vital cue. A tiny mote of light glints into existence above your head. Then another ten feet away, the tinkling white spots bright against the tapestry of twilight. A dozen more pop to life and float about like petals in a playful breeze, each drifting lazily and casting a faint glow. The music begins to rise anew. More lights appear, the sky slowly filling with stars. Humble gasps of elation fill the air, followed by even more magical sparkles. The lights gently twirl, almost like they’re frolicking to the same music. Where the corporeal dancers step and weave, the specks glimmer and pulse in time with the beat. The calls of surprise radiate beyond the dance floor, arcane illuminations spreading to the rest of the town like wildfire. The band reaches a climax, commanding the dance floor like a puppeteer. You lurch back into motion, ensorcelled by primal urge. You’re free, you’re alive. You and the entire rest of the town have joined in wordless solidarity to stand together against the encroaching night. Living, breathing as one mass, to share in the victory of civilization, to cry out a single notion as one unified voice: [[Celebrate!|Party on, Garth]]

You and your companion find the rest of the group back toward the edges of the town square. Several large tables have been repurposed for a variety of games, tipsy cheers and hollers drifting from nearby groups. You can’t identify any of the games in particular—except one in that back that //might// be Havoc. <<if $Khobb7 == "Aria" || ($VanilleEvent6 == false && $Khobb7 == "Vanille")>>Vanille tilts her head and looks around. You realize what’s missing at the exact same moment she asks, “Where’d Aria go?” You hastily shrug. “I dunno. I think she might still be dancing.” //Don’t think about the wobbling belly. Don’t think about the wobbling belly…// The knight frowns, then taps a small deck of cards in front of her pensively. “Hmm. Alright, we’ll start without her. She can join in a later round if she comes by.”<<else>>You take a moment to realize a particular companion is missing from the ensemble. “Anyone see Aria?” you ask. <<if $Khobb7 == "Ashlyn">>“Not since she left to dance, no,” Sherine offers<<else>>“Nope. Not since she hopped off to go dance,” Ashlyn says, cavalier as ever<</if>>. You frown, not feeling especially reassured. You’re not especially keen on another town-wide search, but you take solace in the fact that Plume’s magic means the worst that could’ve happened in some mild inconvenience.<</if>> “So what exactly is this?” you ask as you pick a seat at the round table between Vanille and Ashlyn. Vanille pipes up first, eager. “We’re playing //Who Am I?// “Gotcha,” you say, the pang in your chest fading. You draw a deep breath then ask, “How’s the game work?” She leans over and passes a sturdy yellow card each to you, Ashlyn, and Sherine. It’s about the size of your hand. “Each of these cards has the name of a famous person written on them. You hold it up to your head like this so that //you// can’t see the name, but everyone else can. Basically, you become this person for the round.” To demonstrate, she lifts the card to her face, then presses it against her forehead. It reads, ‘Rodo the Wise.’ “I’m told these are adhesive, so they should stick to your head if you lick it,” she explains. “We all go around and take turns. On your turn, you can either ask the others a question about yourself, or take a guess as to the name written on your card. You play until only one person is left.” “Seems straightforward enough,” Ashlyn says, tongue lolling out of her mouth and absolutely slobbering the back of her card. She smacks it to her head a moment later, then doesn’t bother to fix the fact that it’s crooked. Apparently, she is now ‘Arch-Theurge Terra Dawnstar.’ You and the rest of your companions affix your names more gracefully, each looking around the table once they’ve been appropriately labeled. Vanille is one ‘Duke Passalan,’ and Sherine is ‘Jal Penrose,’ which makes you… Wait. You don’t know any famous people in this world. Hell, you barely know any contemporary figures. You met… the Marquis of Orrault—the most recent one, at least—and uhm… Damn. Have your companions mentioned any celebrities offhand? Were you paying attention? Worse, can you trust anything Ashlyn’s said in this regard? Has she been intentionally throwing you off track for the upcoming game? As conspiracy and inadequacy swirl through your brain, your hostess speaks up one final time. “Some of the rounds later on will be themed, but for now it’s miscellaneous trivia. Oh, and you shouldn’t see any repeated names, if that helps.” It doesn’t help—you can’t even learn potential answers between rounds. Vanille taps two fingers on the table. “I’ll start. And we’ll go around the table this way,” she cheers, pointing in the opposite of your direction. Thank goodness; she’s buying you a chance to get your bearings. “Am I a real person?” Vanille asks. Ashlyn snickers. “Yes, you are,” Sherine offers with a slight smile before turning her attention to the table at large. “My turn. Same question.” “Fake! Fictional!” the mage suddenly shouts, jumping excitedly from her seat. She points an accusatory finger at the lamia. “You’re not real! Merely a figment of our collective imaginations!” Once she’s calmed down, Ashlyn taps the card glued to her head. “What gender do I present as?” “Female, as I recall,” Sherine offers, though she seems to hesitate, tilting her head and looking to you and Vanille for assistance. Vanille nods in agreement, then turns a patient look your way. The rest of the table follows, and soon you’re being stared down by your companions. Oh right. It’s your turn. Might as well go with the flow. <<linkreplace "“Am I a real person?”">>“Am I a real person?” “Yes, er—allegedly,” Vanille says. Her lips turn to a frown a moment later. “That was probably too much information.” “Ya think?” Ashlyn snarks. Vanille clears her throat. “Am I alive?” “Mm! That’s a good one,” Ashlyn chirps, then adds, “But no. You’re deceased.” The entire table follows suit and asks the same question. Everyone except you is dead… which is mildly macabre. “How did I die?” Vanille coyly asks when her turn rolls back around. “Assassination,” is all Sherine has to offer, though you get the sense she’s holding back on elaborating on purpose. A valid strategy. Ashlyn and Sherine then ask ‘how old they were when they became famous’ which at first blush is a bit obtuse, but actually quite clever. They both learn that they are characters who became famous later in life—mid-forties—and that sort of information informs the type of thing they’d be famous for. It’s clever enough that you ask the same question… and also maybe you’re still somewhat in the lurch for this game and don’t want to appear to be a complete fool. [[Keep following what others are doing|Whom2]]<</linkreplace>>

<<timed 1s t8n>>When the fiddle finally rests, Vanille takes a step back and bows, holding one edge of her dress aside. Legs trembling, you plant both feet together and bow back, then turn to join the thunderous applause for the empty orchestra upon the stage. Plume’s magical ensemble seems to react to the recognition, bobbing and swaying merrily before banding together to start another tune. “Again?” she asks, arm outstretched. “Maybe you could show me a dance from your world?” You flush. “Uh, sure. I’d be happy to.” <<linkreplace "Show her your moves">>The next twenty minutes are full of joy, laughter, and embarrassment. You and Vanille take turns showing off moves from each other’s worlds. There are some similarities—particularly with ballroom type dances; swing, foxtrot, etcetera—but for the most part, one of you demonstrates a jig while the other clumsily mimics. Once, you are interrupted by a belly swinging into your space and knocking you to the ground, but for the most part, it goes pretty well. Plus, you’re sweating; that’s usually a good sign. As the fiddle finally takes a rest, Vanille guides you off the dance floor and back to the table where your group ate. It’s already been cleaned. “That was… certainly something.” Vanille huffs, catching her breath—not from strain, mind you. She was laughing her ass off at the last dance you tried. You rub the back of your neck. “Yeah, sorry. It was popular in my world for a while, but uh… It doesn’t work as well when accompanied by a fiddle.” “Is this one of those ‘metal’ things?” “No, you can’t dance to that, either.” Vanille chuckles, then falls awkwardly silent. She shuffles closer a step, then suddenly wraps her arms around you. @@color:lime;“Thank you, <<= $name>>. That was a lot of fun.”@@ You embrace her back. “You’re alright? A- After we talked yesterday, I mean.” A long, steady breath hisses out through her clenched teeth. “I’m doing a lot better. Sorry for being so hard on myself… and taking it out on you.” “I’m here for you, Vanille,” you insist, drawing her a bit tighter. “No matter what.” “And I, you.” The knight smiles, then squeezes your arm before stepping back. She kicks at the dirt for a moment, then nudges your bag on the bench. “Ready to go meet up with the others?”<<if $Khobb4 == "Vanille" && $Khobb6 != "Vanille">><<set $RVVanille += 2>> “Ye—No, wait! I have something for you,” you bumble, hands fishing through your bag. You gingerly withdraw the flower bouquet. “T- They had this prize counter at the riverside sandlots where you could pick from all sorts of stuff. I saw these, a- and thought of you.” @@color:lime;“Th- That’s so thoughtful,” she says, accepting the bundle and blushing. “Hydrangeas. They’re beautiful. Thank you, <<= $name>>.”@@ You offer an awkward, “I’m glad you like them,” then settle into uncomfortable silence. Vanille grabs your hand. “Let me drop this off at the room, and then we’ll head over. I found a game I think you’ll like.” The words, “Let’s go,” barely leave your mouth before she’s dragging you away from the buffet. Giddy, Vanille clings to your arm as she leads the two of you back to her room, eagerly sharing the details of her day. All in all, the labor Plume had her doing was about as pointless as the task the fairy gave you. Vanille didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she took the opportunity to learn more about the locals. Outside the inn, you wait politely at the front door while she runs up to drop off your belongings. You nod to a stuffed, passing stranger, then shrink against the wall nervously until the knight returns. You nearly start when she bursts from the door and hops off the stoop. “C’mon!”<<else>> She grabs your hand. “I found a game I think you’ll like.”<</if>> [[Follow her|Who Am I?]]<</linkreplace>><</timed>>

You scurry after Aria. “Hey, can we dance together?” The theurge lights up. “I’d love to!” she cheers, looping her arm through yours. Together, you wade through the partygoers and onto the dance floor, finding an open edge of packed earth with plenty of room to trip and fall. You catch Vanille and Sherine out of the corner of your eye, the unlikely duo disappearing into the dancing masses. <<include "Aria Dance">>

Before you can say anything, a pair of hands grab Aria’s sides. Her fingers slip through yours as she’s hoisted into the air with a yelp. Legs kick as lips engulf the theurge’s head. Aria’s new dance partner throws her head back and swallows hard. The rhythm leaves your body as you stand there aghast, helpless to do anything but watch the bulging, writhing lump descend down the newcomer’s torso. Breasts part like ocean waves to allow Aria to pass and fall into the swelling stomach. A hand pushes out, then slips from sight as the rest of her is crammed inside. The fabric of the containing jacket stretches to its ripping point. A button flies off. The predator bucks and gulps, hand pressing along the misshapen lumps cascading her front, demanding her meal find its proper place as a little ball under her tunic. //“Urrruapp!”// Tall rabbit ears scan the crowd as she looks around. The demi licks flecks of spittle from her lips, then pauses when she notices your staring. A bashful blush blooms on her cheeks. “Oh, sorry. I thought this was the buffet.” “I- It’s not,” you manage, gesturing over toward the table of food. Your eyes never leave the squirming lump of your previous dance partner. Aria’s //in there,// kicking and bumping about, utterly confused and unable to free herself. This is probably what you look like most of the time. The stomach suddenly approaches, pushed forward by the predator. “You, uh, still wanna dance with her? I don’t mind. Really.” She starts swaying her hips to the tune. … What the hell is wrong with these people? //Ask if she’ll eat you too.// <<linkreplace "“No thank you.”">>“No thank you,” you say with a crestfallen sigh. It’s not like you have any recourse. What are you gonna do, run and get your friends? Make her release Aria yourself with your //“otherworldly strength?”// Head hung low, you trudge from the dance floor. Weary, you sidestep around the edge of the commotion, taking extra care to avoid the solo dancers. You grab a roll from the buffet to cheer yourself up. It doesn’t really help, but at least it tastes good. Back at the table, you find Ashlyn writing in her notebook. “How’d it go with Lay-On-Hands?” the mage asks in her usual snark. “Did you turn down sex?” You flinch. “Wh- What? How could you possibly know that?” Ashlyn leaps off the bench. “Holy shit! I can’t believe you. You’re terrible at life.” The mage waves her arms in exasperation. “She’s been making lusty eyes at you since this morning, how could you not—” “She did proposition me, but—” The mage is yelling and shaking the life out of you a split second later. “<<= $name>>, you //need// to hook up with her! She’s a //theurge.// She’s perfect for you. You’ll love it—” “Somebody ate her!” you interrupt, freeing yourself from the dizzying grasp. “She offered to go back to her room, and then someone just scooped her up and swallowed her before I could say anything.” Ashlyn freezes in place. A worry bubbles up in your chest after about ten seconds of perfect stillness. Has she malfunctioned? Has the demon possessing her suddenly vacated the premises? You’re relieved at a sudden twitch in the corner of her lips. Her eyes fade from cosmic fury to their natural violet. She blinks. Fingers twitch. The mage bursts into laughter. Cackles echo through the entire town square, her riotous uproar nearly loud enough to match the music. People are staring. Your cheeks are a deep, dark red just by association. “Sh- Shut up,” you say, nudging Ashlyn. This only makes her laugh harder. Now she’s wheezing and slapping her knee. Tears pour from her eyes. It takes three more minutes of vicious mockery before she finally can manage a coherent sentence. “Sorry, dude,” she manages, wiping her tears on your clothes. “That’s just too funny. It’s rough being you, isn’t it?” “You don’t know the half of it.” A few errant cackles hiccup out of her. “Oh man, you’re never gonna live this one down.” At your unamused expression, she chokes another pop of laughter. Her lips bend into a confusing squiggle. “Aww, don’t look so sad. Want me to blow a bitch up?” You sigh. “No. It’s fine—I don’t even know where they went. Let’s just go meet up with the others. Vanille had something in mind, right?” “I think so?” Ashlyn snorts. “I wasn’t paying attention to her words. I was too busy imagining what she looks like naked. Here, look.” She shoves the notebook in your face, and you’re immediately assaulted by a strikingly detailed anatomical drawing of Vanille, complete with cutaway shots. “What?” she says at your disparaging look. “I have one for all of you. Wanna see yours?” “No,” you mutter. In all honesty, it’s a pretty good diagram.<<if $spirit == "Vanille">> However… You point at the page. “You missed something. She has a scar under her breast right here.” Ashlyn’s brow furrows as she turns the book around. “She does?” the mage asks, already scratching in a new line. “How big is it? How—” She jolts suddenly. “How do //you// know!?” “I’m surprised you don’t remember,” you say, turning the feigned indignation on Ashlyn for once. It actually feels kinda nice to not be on the receiving end. “Remember? From //when?”// The mage’s eyes turn a particularly crazed shade of violet. “<<= $name>>, when did I see Vanille naked? I need you to tell me right now.” “Huh. You forgot? Sucks to be you,” you say, snapping her notebook closed and pushing it against Ashlyn’s cleavage. It disappears with an odd wobble. “Let’s find the others.” You take the mage by the wrist and lead her away from the dining area. “<<= $name>>! Don’t leave me hanging!” she squawks as you drag her along.<<else>> You slap the book closed and push it against Ashlyn’s cleavage. It disappears with an odd wobble. “Let’s find the others,” you say, taking the mage by the wrist and leading her away from the dining area.<</if>> [[Rejoin with your group|Who Am I?]]<</linkreplace>>

A nascent yelp sputters and dies in your lungs as you’re wrenched clean off your chair and beneath the table, a curiously soft<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine" || $Quarry2 == "Sherine">>—and dare you say familiar—<<else>> <</if>>surface sparing you a harsher thud against packed dirt. Unfortunately, said surface seizes your moment of dazed confusion to wrap around your legs and wrists and shoulders, pinning your arms firmly to your sides. No sooner have you been thoroughly restrained than you’re off once more, pulled from beneath the shade of the table and back into the fey glow of the party. In a small act of mercy, the very same copper coils that carry you along also cushion you against the bumps and jostles of your supine sojourn as you’re hastily spirited away from fellow players, a cheery //“Bye, <<= $name>>!”// echoing in your wake. You consider attempting to call back, but ultimately resolve that you have more important things to worry about, like where exactly you’re being taken, or what it’s like to experience the festival from the perspective of a house cat. Legs, as it turns out. Just a whole lot of ankles and legs and a menagerie of footwear, interspersed by the occasional clawed talons, flickering scales, or other odd bits of non-human anatomy. You attempt to crane your neck and glance upward, but you find only a dizzying blur of passing visages and vague impressions as you’re dragged through the party at what certainly feels like a rapid clip. You’re given tragically little time to discern any identifiable features, let alone find a friendly face in the crowd who might be willing to offer assistance. Thoroughly bound and defeated, you instead resign yourself to a disorienting trip to places unknown, dragged along in Sherine’s coils until she eventually finds a satisfactory spot to… Well, you’re not entirely sure what she has planned. You can make some reasonable guesses, though. Around the time the novelty and thrill of your position are starting to wear off, you suddenly find yourself dragged up and over some sort of threshold. The night lights of the party vanish, replaced by the softer glow of candles bathing walls of weathered stucco and wooden frames. A door shuts at your back—well, above your head, more accurately—and you’re left with a brief impression of a wide interior that suddenly vanishes into a narrow and winding hallway. You lurch one direction, then suddenly swing back the other before a second door //thunks// closed. Finally, the coils ease their grip, then gently release you to the comparably hard and unforgiving floor. It takes a dazed moment for you to prop yourself upright, hands pressing against worn floorboards. You shake your head as your vision stops swimming, then brave a proper look at your new surroundings. <<linkreplace "Get your bearings">>You’re in a private room, small enough that Sherine and her tightly wound coils take up a greater third of the floorspace. A narrow bed lies pressed against a wall and beneath a small, shuttered window. The only other furnishings are a modest end table shoved into a corner and a plain wooden chest that rests at the foot of the bed. It’s a room at an inn, you surmise. Or, given what’s presumably about to happen, maybe this is the Havendorian equivalent of a cheap roadside motel, staffed by a jaded receptionist all too used to fewer parties checking out than in. Room service is an obvious no-go, moreso for the protection of the poor, unsuspecting staff than out of economic practicality. Oh, right. Being dragged to your doom. Keep your head in the game, <<= $name>>. Blinking to clear the lingering fog, you finally turn your attention to the culprit herself, Sherine. The lamia seems to be perfectly content watching you recover, an amused grin playing at scarlet lips as her tail tip idly flicks to and fro. “That was… kinda rude,” you eventually say, not quite feeling the indignation your words imply. Sherine merely smiles. “I don’t believe the fairy placed any explicit limitations on //what// exactly I’m allowed to do with you.” Before you can protest, she adds, “Besides, I assumed you’d find some thrill in being plucked from the crowd and dragged off to a hungry predator’s lair, never to be seen again.” You suppress a shiver, the dying traces of your dignity refusing to let the lamia know she might have a point. Instead, you not-at-all-nervously clear your throat. “But Plume’s protection spell—” “Is a shame, yes,” Sherine supplies. “But I suppose we can think of this as a sort of rehearsal. Something to whet our appetites for the eventual main course.” “Oh,” you manage, unimaginably suave and collected. “S- So, uhm, this is <<if $Khobb6 == "Sherine">>finally<<else>>actually<</if>> happening.” The lamia lets out a slight laugh. “Do you think I had something else in mind when I dragged you here?” “N- No, I guess not,” you admit. “And… I guess I //did// lose fair and square.” Sherine’s lips quirk to a curious expression. “I’m not sure I’d go //that// far.” You frown, but before you can figure out what your companion is hinting at, she leans forward and gingerly peels the card from your forehead—where you’d completely forgotten about it on account of the whole ‘being keelhauled across town’ affair—then flips it so you can read the simple script printed on its surface. Shapeshifter. “Okay, nevermind. That’s complete bullshit,” you blurt out, your competitor’s confused responses to your questions suddenly making a //whole// lot more sense. “Wait, yeah. That’s fucking absurd. You had //‘lamia.’// And Thalia had ‘cat girl.’ How the hell is that fair?” Sherine flicks the card over her shoulder. “Luck of the draw, <<= $name>>.” She suddenly slithers close, the familiar sensation of snakeskin gradually winding up your legs. “Or serendipity, perhaps.” “W- Wait wait, hold on,” you manage through a series of futile kicks. “Are you sure we can’t talk this over?” “I’m not sure there’s much talking left to do, <<= $name>>.” A hand drapes against your shoulder, fingers gently digging into the fabric of your tunic. “Though I //suppose// I’m willing to draw this out a bit if you’re not quite ready to tuck in for the night.” You pale. So that’s a ‘no’ on not being eaten. Still, that leaves quite a lot of possibility space between now and devourment… “H- How do you mean?”<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>> A finger drops down your chest, a trail of torrid heat left in its wake. Sherine brushes a lurid stroke all the way down to your navel, then leaves the rest to your imagination. “No reason we can’t have a little fun first.” The coils wind their way to your hips, then draw just a bit tighter around everywhere but your crotch. She pouts. “<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>Something a bit more involved than that night in the barracks, perhaps. <</if>>Only if you’re interested, of course.” “I’m not saying that I am, but what if I were to be, hypothetically, //not// interested?” Sherine laughs, equal parts amused and dismissive, as if anyone—let alone //you//—would be uninterested in what she’s offering. “Obviously you’d have to make it up to me.” The coils at your waist loosen ever so slightly. “Uhh… make it up to you //how,// exactly?”<</if>> “You could run.” You’re suddenly released, the length of tail retreating in an instant and leaving you to stagger back, free of its winding grasp. A small part of you immediately aches for its return—the warmth and weight, the luxuriantly slow vice of scales and muscle drawing ever tighter, constraining your movement as you’re gradually funneled down— Wait, did she say ‘run?’ “Excuse me?” you manage, voice wavering. “Is that… a serious suggestion?” “I love a good hunt.” The lamia leans forward, hot breath dousing your neck. “I’ll even give you a head start, <<= $name>>.” Ruby eyes flit along your form, assessing, measuring. A flash of pink alights upon keen lips for the briefest moment. The tip of her copper tail flicks eagerly. Her whole body coils, tensing with anticipation and waning self-restraint. She’s a flinch away from pouncing, a twitch from claiming her prey right here and now. Holy shit. [[Surrender to your inevitable, ingestive fate|Snubmit][$RVSherine ++]]<<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> [[Take Sherine up on her intimate offer… then surrender to your inevitable, ingestive fate|Get Some Snussy][$SherineEvent3 to true, $RVSherine += 2]]<</if>><<if $Khobb4 == "Sherine" && $Khobb6 != "Sherine" && $Khobb7 != "Sherine">> <<linkreplace "Bargain your way out with a gift">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVSherine += 2>><<set $SherineEvent4 to true>>“W- Wait!” you blurt out, frantically searching your pockets. You hastily retrieve the small bottle of perfume and present it. “I got you, uhm, a gift. From the sandlots. Th- They had this prize counter where you could trade these tokens you got from winning games, a- and I thought it might be nice to pick out something for you.” As the words spill from your lips, you can’t help but look between the glass container and the woman before you. It’s not a flattering comparison. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d like,” you admit. “Most of the stuff they had seemed a bit, erm… rustic for your tastes. I was aiming for finery, but seeing it now, I think I landed a bit closer to ‘okay.’ Maybe just ‘adequate.’ I- It’s perfume. The guy thought it might be something with sandalwood, but I was mostly going off the bottle, and they weren’t exactly giving out samples. So I guess I—” You choke as Sherine places her hand on yours, fingers brushing along your palm before gingerly retrieving the gift. @@color:lime;“It’s lovely, <<= $name>>,” the lamia says with a warm smile as she pockets the bottle.@@ “… Lovely enough that you won’t eat me?” you ask, not-at-all smooth. “Not quite.” A flash of pink darts across ruby lips. “In fact, I want you even more now.” You can hear her tail shifting at your back, cutting off your exit. Well, at least you tried. “Now where were we?” she purrs. [[Surrender to your inevitable, ingestive fate|Snubmit][$RVSherine ++]]<<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> [[Take Sherine up on her intimate offer… then surrender to your inevitable, ingestive fate|Get Some Snussy][$SherineEvent3 to true, $RVSherine += 2]] @@color:#6688DD;==Run==@@<</if>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</if>> [[Run|Sherine Follows]]<</linkreplace>>

“Okay, fine. I won’t run,” you say. “I know how this is going to end anyways.” Besides, you can’t escape that some darkly curious part of you is looking forward to it. “Good<<if $xe == "he">> boy<<elseif $xe == "she">> girl<</if>>,” Sherine croons, slithering close. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == false>>A hand finds its way to your cheek, another gently tugging at the collar of your tunic. //“Just// the eating,” you add, taking a half-step back. “Please. Nothing else.” The lamia hums, eyes flashing with something inscrutable. A single finger gently taps at her lips, her eager smile never waning for an instant. <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>“Color me surprised. I assumed that would be half the appeal, given your eager response that night in the barracks. But, I’ll respect your wishes, <<= $name>>.”<<else>>“Well, I won’t pretend I’m not a bit disappointed, but if that’s what you want, I’ll respect it, <<= $name>>.”<</if>> “Th- Thanks,” you manage.” “Of course, and don’t worry, I’ll be extra gentle. Consider it a reward for asking so nicely.”<<else>>“I’ll be extra gentle with you. Consider it a reward.”<</if>> You shift to remove your bag, but Sherine’s there before you have a chance, a copper tail tip hooking under the strap and pulling it free with shocking dexterity, then gently placing the bag on the nearby table. “And the rest?” she asks, eyes trailing down your tunic. “I’ll keep them on,” you insist.<<if $VanilleEvent6 == false>> You’re opting to avoid intercourse; stripping down naked feels like a step too far. Besides, dignity… or something.<</if>> Sherine shrugs. “Don’t blame me if they’re gone by morning.” Coils begin to wind around your legs, slow and sensual. Their gentle grip gradually tightens with each passing loop, a tender caress subtly constricting to a steady—though not painful—hold. Warm hands clamp your arms to your side as the lamia leans forward, a flash of pink trailing along her lips. A familiar expression simmers in garnet eyes, eddying, churning, threatening to boil over and drown fleeting traces of restraint in a violent tide of need. She’s hungry. For you. Ruby lips part. A wet and pink world opens before you, torrid air wafting over your face and leaving tiny droplets in its wake. An eager tongue laps under your chin, both tasting and urging you to gaze toward the ravenous void that awaits deeper within<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>—a familiar sight, made all the more tantalizing by the knowledge that the lamia won’t be stopping here<</if>>. A canvas of flesh slips past your nose, presses against your cheeks. Strands of saliva mat your hair to your head and dribble along your brow. Somehow, the first, languid gulp comes as a surprise—as if you hadn’t quite prepared yourself for the moment that gaping maw goes from teasing to devouring. For the moment when you’re no longer Sherine’s companion or friend, but a meal to be consumed. The lamia’s coils match her intent, working in tandem with her hands to funnel you up and in, matching each swallow with a cascade of slight shifts and shoves. She’s being gentle, even tender, but a part of you understands this is ultimately a padded cage, comfortable and accommodating only as long as you know your place—inside of her. It’s not like you really have a choice. Your fiercest struggles would hardly amount to a minor inconvenience, and all it would take is a single clamp of the lamia’s arms or a squeeze of that tail to tie you so tight you couldn’t even budge an inch<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>… which is kinda hot in a ‘Sword of Damocles’ sort of way.<</if>>. … Also, this actually feels pretty damn nice. Soft lips descend your chest, wet warmth soaking through your tunic and encasing your torso inch by luxuriant inch. Waves of muscle ripple around your head and shoulders, gently urging you deeper, all while a cascade of snakeskin writhes around your legs. Sherine seems to be enjoying herself as well if the appreciative moans resonating through her throat are anything to go by. Gradually, ever so gradually, you slip deeper, each swallow as methodically enjoyed and thoroughly savored as the last. Sherine’s eager tongue leaves little unsampled, even if most of what it can reach is boring cloth. As her lips eclipse your abdomen and approach your waist, your head pokes into a larger chamber—her human stomach. To your surprise, Sherine temporarily pauses your descent, and you briefly worry she’s going to try something indecent after all. Instead, her grip on your legs shifts, and your world abruptly turns in a disorienting tumble, inducing a brief bout of vertigo. Sherine settles quickly, but it takes a moment amid the lightless dark and omnipresent squelching flesh to realize she’s now lying on her back, leaving your legs sticking up and out of her maw. You imagine she looks something like a Roman empress lounging on her throne and supping upon grapes in a display of lethargic hedonism. <<linkreplace "Most people probably don’t self-insert as the grapes">>Despite reaching the halfway mark—and even with gravity on her side—Sherine maintains her languid pace, feeding you inward one slight gulp at a time, leaving mere inches between the steady shift of her assisting coils and the torrid heat of her mouth. Her tongue laps against the inside of a leg, twists up and around a knee, brushes along a shin. All the while, you’re left to slowly curl into the lamia’s human stomach which, based on your halted progress, seems to be where she wants you to remain. For some reason, you expected the chamber to be more spacious than other guts you’ve visited, as if its size would reflect the lamia’s ravenous appetite. Instead, it hugs as close as any other, walls steadily rubbing and churning, kneading their juices into your clothes and skin. When Sherine reaches your ankles, she takes a moment to remove your socks and shoes, then daintily pushes your feet inward with a single finger. She seals her lips tight. Whether it’s to tease you or prolong her own enjoyment, she hesitates, each passing second an interminable wait as the very last of you lies poised over the precipice, ready for the final drop. A soft hum resonates through her body as her tongue idly brushes along bare soles. It’s almost an anticlimax—a slight stretch of Sherine’s neck, the barest push, a single, gentle //glck,// and you’re gone. Vanished from the outside world entirely, left to slowly work your way down her throat, carried by peristalsis alone—a long and lazy descent that leaves you with plenty of time to gradually curl up and find a comfortable position in her stomach. Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult. Maybe the adrenaline rush of being abducted by a ravenous predator is finally fading, or maybe you’ve just had a very long day, but Sherine’s human stomach is unbelievably warm and cozy. Before your feet even slip inside, you feel as if you’re mere moments from nodding off, which is probably for the best, given the lamia implied you’ll be spending the night. With Sherine still on her back, you struggle to tell up from down in your new sightless world. You don’t mind in the slightest. Legs curled, knees pressed against your chest, you allow yourself to sink into the plush stomach walls and bask in the gentle caresses of Sherine’s hands from without. @@color:lime;“Oh, <<= $name>>,” she moans. “I knew you’d be good, but that… //Mmm,// how smoothly you went down, how wonderfully you fit in there<<if $SherineEvent1 == false>>, and that taste<</if>>. It’s like you were made to be the perfect meal.”@@ You blush, ears burning even amid the internal sauna. Lips open and close a dozen times with half-formed attempts at a response, but you don’t even know where to begin. How are you //supposed// to respond to something like that? “It’s such a shame I can only keep you for the night,” Sherine says, one hand rubbing small circles along your back. A conflicted shiver crawls down your spine as you imagine the more permanent end to this encounter. A part of you can’t help but find a certain dark appeal in the scenario—the briefest lapse of judgment, a long and winding ride into the deepest recesses of Sherine’s stomach, and at last you fade away, never to wake again. Your greater half, however, is still firmly relieved this is ultimately safe. “But,” she suddenly continues, “that doesn’t mean you can’t experience a bit… //more.”// Before you can figure out what she means, a valve above your head parts, and you begin to slip inside. No longer satisfied with slow and steady, Sherine’s hands shift from their tender massage to a firm push, forcing you deeper head-first. [[Down you go…|Meet Lloriel]]<</linkreplace>>

“O- Okay,” you breathe out. “Let’s… I- I want—” “Yes?” Sherine croons, sweeping close until she’s mere inches away. Coils wind about your legs, brushing, twining. Her mouth curls to a coy grin as she reads the desire right off your features. “I- I…” You falter at a splash of hot breath along your neck. Sherine leans in. Lips trail along sensitive skin, charting a path to a waiting ear. //“Say it.// A fierce shiver wracks your form. You feel as if you’ll fall apart, as if the slightest touch in the right place will reduce you to a blubbering, quivering mess. Fingers twitch, legs waver, lips tremble. In a herculean effort, you manage two whole words. <<linkreplace "//“Take me.”//">>//“Take me.”// Coils encircle and ensnare like a swirling whirlpool. You’re swept away on a tide of lust, guided by winding currents into Sherine’s open arms. Her tail folds and weaves into a mattress of her own making, the bed provided in the room far, far too weak for what you’re about to experience. Besides, you know where this is going: the lamia will be where you lay your head tonight. It’s inevitable. Sherine slides against your torso, ushering you both upright. Warm, delicate fingers tease into the fold of your collar, dance down your front, alight upon each rib. The long sash around your waist hisses as it’s pulled away. Your bag of belongings is next to go, passed off to her tail for displacement elsewhere in the candlelit room. Fingertips find their first bite of flesh just above your waist. Wet lips capture your shivers as she rolls your pesky clothes up, up, up. The tip of her tail slithers along your front, curling under your sleeves. Firm arms guide your trembling hands to her bosom, urge you to partake, to bask in every soft and supple ounce as a scaly length crosses your chest like a seatbelt. Your shirt’s flung aside. Sherine dives tongue first for your exposed neck, adheres her torrid skin to yours. You jolt at the nibble, then shudder and ask for more. A crescent of teeth clamp down and pinch, adjusting pressure until you’re moaning. Your cheek nuzzles against her ear. Your hand wanders the glorious canvas, wading along all her sweeps and curves. The scales are soft under your touch, pliant to your grasp. There’s nowhere to hold, nowhere you want to stop and cling. There’s so much of her, body endlessly shifting and sliding beneath, betwixt, atop. You’ll never reach it all. You could spend all night tracing zig-zags between her scales and still come up short of fully experiencing her. She releases her jaw and shifts laterally. Instead of finding a tasty new piece of you, her teeth nibble along your expectant, quivering neck. She laps up a bead of sweat, tongue rolling back between wide lips. She hums satisfaction, then comes back for more, sweeping and sliding along vulnerable flesh. The wandering slickness flickers against your ear, then floats along your chin. Sherine works her way to your clavicle in a sleek, wet trail of burning flesh, then sinks to your chest, careful to give your scar a wide berth. She reaches below the rib cage, then presses a few kisses into your abdomen, bouncing and pecking past the navel. Adroit fingers worm their way into your trousers, pulling and yanking the garment down your thighs. Your fingers glide across her body, tips catching on the lip of her skirt before burrowing underneath. The tip of her tail curls around your wrist and pries you away. “Ah, ah,” she murmurs, lips hovering above your exposed member. “Just you for now. A little treat for being so cooperative.” Protest becomes pleasure, a purr emanating from deep within your chest. You shudder and squirm as you’re doused from tip to hilt. Coils tighten and weave between your legs. Hands grasp your hips. Fingernails mar flesh. A powerful tongue winds around and pulls, gentle, controlled, rousing a thunderstorm through your whole body, reverberating with each piston-pounding cycle. You gasp, struggling to catch your breath. Muscles twitch and surge. The evershifting blanket of her body writhes around you, squeezing and pinching and pressing in all the right places. Rising, building, you start thrusting back on reflex. She encourages it, matching her motions to yours. You throb, ache, jitter on the edge of— She pulls away. A shower of hot breath spills onto your groin as she rises. The pressure across your body eases, the storm settling to a light drizzle. Your pants are fully teased away and discarded. Sherine rises above you, her waist awfully close to yours, but never touching. A keen smile crosses her lips. She sways, fingers dancing across her chest. The ties of her top shift apart. The cloth unwinds and bare breasts swing free. The skirt around her waist is next, each gentle turn of the hips revealing another swathe of flesh and scale. The wide, flat lines of her serpentine underbelly part perfectly down the middle to make way for human anatomy, the plush folds presenting themselves more forward than expected. The smaller, copper scales along her hips follow the same swerving line as the rest of her undercarriage, though the neat boundary starts to break at her flanks. Scattered scales climb in patches onto her human flesh, a mottled array.<<if $MiraDating == true>> “Y- You’re gorgeous,” you manage between shuddering breaths. She licks her lips and smiles, eyes flitting up and down your body. “You’re quite attractive yourself, <<= $name>>.”<</if>> The coils ripple into motion as she lowers herself beside you. Her belly presses against your side. She slides up under your arm and settles into the crook of your shoulder. Breasts hug your chest. Her arms slip under your back, then wiggle down to grab your ass. A length of tail secures your legs, the soft scales passing frustratingly close to your erection. Soft breath playing on your cheek, you turn to face Sherine and get caught in a slow, luxuriant kiss. Your tongue ventures forth, reaching out to twist and tie with hers. She tugs and suckles, drawing you in. Another coil drapes across your legs, then another and another until you’re buried and swaddled. You lose track of skin and hide, the boundaries of where you end and Sherine begins. She moves in a dizzying array, ensorcelling you in her concupiscent spell. She squeezes a moan out of you, then engulfs your shaft in the same moment. Flowing, gooey sensation soaks your cock. Dribbling heat envelopes your entire lower half, her twisting body claiming every inch below your waist, capturing every twitch and squirm, every delighted kick and helpless toe curl. A hand wraps around the back of your head and draws you into another kiss. The two of you roll until you’re positioned firmly underneath her soothing mass. She makes the first push, but you’re quick to reciprocate. Sherine sets the rhythm, urging your action. Coils undulate below your hips, helping you keep time, adding a little more power to each driving thrust. You link your hands together around her back, then squeeze tight. Between the muffled moans, you negotiate the release of a single leg. You wrap around and press the back of your calf against where her ass would be. Leverage helps you keep pace for the first three minutes, but Sherine demands more. You throw yourself into the action as much as you can, never begrudging the help you’re getting from behind—Pleasuring a twenty foot snake woman was always going to be a monumental task. A dripping tongue slides down your chin. Her mouth engulfs the lower half of your face and holds for a moment. Heavy breath blows out through her nostrils. A grunt sees her switch to the side of your head. You shiver and tremble as her tongue penetrates your ear. Wet heat engulfs all the way over your brow as she spreads her lips wide. She cradles your head with both hands now, locking you in place, hovering just barely outside her maw. Coils wrap anew, spiraling all the way up her back now. She clenches hard. She won’t let up. She wants all of you. She’s going to take it all, slurp it up and keep it for herself. Every last ounce. You can’t stop her. Pressure rises. Your heart thunders through your chest. You pound away, bucking uncontrollably, the calculating coils keeping you aligned. Tighter and tighter, harder and harder. You erupt into her. Jittering and jolting, twitching and quivering, you gush every last ounce you can. When you’re done, she squeezes out the rest, then plows right on, still bucking, still writhing, still clenching. Sherine accelerates over your limp body, riding, driving, using you like a puppet for her own desires. You can feel it bubbling inside her, a churning, molten core on the verge of supernova. It’s the way she strains, the depth of her breath, the million miles of sweaty, sticky contact between you and her that foretell impending cataclysm. The conflagration grows. Her clamp tightens, your body going pleasantly numb in the post-coital bliss. Sherine bites down on your neck once more to muffle a scream. You hold on for dear life as an earth-shattering orgasm wracks her entire body from tongue to tail. Trilling ripples of pleasure rattle across her skin, crackle along scales like wildfire. Her whole body thrums with delight, with satisfaction. Finally, she slows. Thrashing surges ebb to fervent waves, then more manageable ripples. Coils gradually ease their grip, hesitant, almost reluctant. A slow whimper escapes your lips, numb and distant—a breath you don’t remember holding. [[Recover|Post Snex Snax]]<</linkreplace>>

You bounce on your heels, nervously. “H- How much of a head start are we talking?” “Less, now.” Shit. You wheel about and bolt for the door, only for an expanse of copper to thump against the portal a moment before your hand can reach the handle. You lurch to a stop and glance over your shoulder, braced for a looming maw, certain you’ve squandered your brief window of escape for a foolish question. Instead, Sherine merely watches with an immensely self-satisfied grin. “Here, let me get that for you,” she offers casually, tail tip turning the latch and pulling the door wide before finally slithering out of your way. “Th- Thanks,” you manage, awkwardly crab-walking out of the room, not quite daring to wrench your gaze from the lamia as garnet eyes trail your every step, eager and hungry. “See you soon, <<= $name>>,” she promises a moment before she slips from sight. [[Fucking run|First Evade]]

You slip from the familiar anatomy of Sherine’s human stomach down into something new. The scenery remains the same—the sweltering heat, the kneading walls of wet flesh restricting all but the barest motions—but where your previous accommodations were finite and constrained, the lamia’s tail gut seems to stretch on and on. Perpetual. The strange and ceaseless motion inexorably pulls you deeper. And deeper. And deeper still. Between the dark and the lack of identifiable landmarks, it’s hard to tell how fast you’re going or how far you’ve gone. Perhaps you’re hardly moving at all. But as the novelty subsides, so too does the disconcerting nature of the sensation. If anything, it’s actually quite comforting, like that feeling of sinking further and further into a mattress when you’re on the verge of sleep. Sleep. Now there’s a good idea. It’s been a long, //long// day, and being pulled ever deeper into Sherine’s tail gut leaves you with little hope that you’re getting out any time soon. Better to simply enjoy your cozy confines, close your eyes, and drift off into a warm and welcome— Your head bonks against something firm and unyielding. “Ow! What the fuuu—Oh! Oh fuck.” A feminine voice squeals from the dark, startled and panicked. “I- I didn’t expect—Shitshit, it’s—I’m not!” You’re equally surprised, but able to contain it a little bit better. It’s not even that Sherine would eat somebody else, but that you somehow hadn’t noticed from outside. You’re usually pretty good about that. “Uhm. Hi,” the stranger finally manages, a bit more collected. Before you can offer a response, you’re suddenly pushed forward, your head slipping up and over hers, forehead brushing against hair not your own. You turn awkwardly, trying to avoid any indecent contact, but with the constricting walls, it’s impossible to avoid. “Hi,” you say, meek. You’re in kissing range with the stranger… which also means you’re in eating range. “I, uhh—” You shift again, deeper still. Is the lamia doing this on purpose, or is this a side effect of her ‘reduced capacity.’ Yeah, wait a minute. You’d assumed that when Plume messed with your <<if $RVSherine >= 7>>friend<<else>>companion<</if>>’s insides, she’d limited the lamia to eating a single person—you—then rigged that game of //Who Am I?// to ensure Sherine got her desired meal—still you. It’s the third party in the stomach that throws you for a loop. “Uhm, Sherine?” you call out. “Do you think you could—” Another shift, and you let out a slight yelp as your head slips entirely past the strangers and thumps down into the crook of her neck. Your nose squishes flat. You wince. “Hey, Sherine!” “You //know// her?” the stranger hisses? “Y- Yeah, I<<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>—” Wait. Oh. Oh nooo. You just fucked Sherine, and this woman was in there the //entire// time!? How didn’t you notice? You were //all over// Sherine’s coils—Hell, you were probably lying on this stranger at some point. Does that count as a threesome? She //had// to have noticed; there’s no fucking way she didn’t. The part where you’re butt-naked might be a bit of a giveaway. “She probably can’t actually hear you,” the small voice suddenly says, breaking the silence and you from your embarrassment death spiral. “O- Oh, yeah?” you manage. You’re sweating bullets, but it’s not from the actual heat. “Well, she can probably tell you’re talking—the stomach lining can detect vibrations fairly efficiently—” She suddenly hesitates. “Er, I mean, maybe. I don’t really know lamia anatomy.” You nod, relieved at her willingness to change the subject. “Makes sense, right. We’re pretty far down her tail.”<<else>>… She’s actually a friend—Which is why I’m //annoyed she’s doing this!”// you cry, attempting to shove out for emphasis. The walls refuse to give, instead oozing out another layer of digestive goop onto your face. “She probably can’t actually hear you,” the stranger suddenly says. “This far down, all she’s getting are vibrations running up through her—” She suddenly hesitates. “Er, I mean, maybe. I don’t really know lamia anatomy.” “R- Right, makes sense,” you manage.<</if>> Another stomach contraction quashes further thoughts of anatomy and instead pushes you further over the stranger, your face passing over her chest. [[Yep. Those are her bare breasts, and there’s nothing you can do to escape. You’re packed in like sardines. There’s gonna be incidental touching. Grow up.|Shampoo Elf]]

You collapse into heavy, post-coital languor, less a conscious choice than your body’s sheer inability to do otherwise. Perspiration dribbles down your brow, against an ear, along the nape of your neck. Deep, heaving breaths rattle through your lungs, shared with the chest pressed against your own. Your thundering heart gradually settles, the frenetic war march easing to a more subdued cadence. A steady quiet settles like the calm in the aftermath of a thunderstorm—though rather than petrichor, the room smells of sweat and sex. Sherine moves first—a gentle inhalation, then the steady shift of scale and flesh. Hands slip from behind your back. The coils around your legs languidly writhe, rearranging themselves from a twisting knot to a more purposeful hold. You don’t quite put the pieces together until her visage slips back into view, lingering exertion staining her cheeks a lovely red and spilling between parted lips in warm puffs. Satisfaction and afterglow color garnet eyes, but something more bubbles up from beneath the surface. Something familiar, eddying and churning, threatening to boil over and drown her fleeting traces of restraint in a deluge of need. Hunger. Naked and plain. Sex did little to sate Sherine’s appetite. It merely stoked the flames higher, brighter, hotter. Need, honed to a fine edge, tempered in lust and quenched by climax, now looms bare inches away, sharp and gleaming. There’s no fanfare or words. No teasing farewell or anticipatory lick of the lips. Sherine simply opens her mouth and slowly descends. An eager tongue laps under your chin, tasting, urging your gaze up and into the ravenous void<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>—a familiar sight, made all the more tantalizing by the knowledge that the lamia won’t be stopping here tonight<</if>>. A canvas of flesh slips past your nose, presses against your cheeks. Strands of saliva mat your hair to your head and dribble along your brow. The first, languid gulp comes as a surprise—as if you hadn’t quite prepared yourself for the moment that gaping maw goes from teasing to devouring. For the moment when you’re no longer a lover in Sherine’s embrace, but a meal to be consumed. The lamia’s coils match the change of intent. Where before they were both bed and restraint, now they move with purpose, working in tandem with Sherine’s hands to funnel you up and in, matching each swallow with cascading shifts and shoves. She’s being gentle, tender, but you know it’s ultimately a padded cage, comfortable and accommodating only as long as you know your place—inside her. That’s fine by you. Your fiercest struggles would hardly amount to a minor inconvenience, and all it would take is a single clamp of the lamia’s arms or a squeeze of that tail to bind you so tight you couldn’t even budge an inch<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>… which is honestly hot in a ‘Sword of Damocles’ sort of way.<<else>>. … Is it strange that you find that kinda hot?<</if>> Maybe you’re just caught up in the moment; it’s hard not to under the blissful onslaught. Soft lips descend your chest, wet warmth encasing bare skin inch by luxuriant inch. Waves of muscle ripple around your head and shoulders, gently urging you deeper, all while a veil of snakeskin writhes around your legs. Sherine’s appreciative moans resonate all around, a pleasing buzz along flesh. Gradually, ever so gradually, you slip deeper, each swallow as methodically enjoyed and thoroughly savored as the last. Sherine’s eager tongue leaves nothing unsampled, extracting every ounce of flavor as her lips eclipse your abdomen. You jolt as questing warmth suddenly laps at your dick, something between a gasp and a weary moan slipping from your throat. Your head pokes into a larger chamber—her human stomach. You’re still too spent, too exhausted. The pleasure is there, but your mind and body simply aren’t ready to appreciate it. Failing to get the rise she was looking for, Sherine temporarily halts your descent. You briefly worry she’s going to insist, //force// you to give her more. Instead, her grip on your legs shifts, and your world abruptly flips in a disorienting tumble. Sherine settles quickly, but it takes you a moment amid the lightless dark and omnipresent, squelching flesh to realize she’s rolled onto her back, leaving your legs sticking up and out of her maw. You imagine she looks something like a Roman empress lounging on her throne and supping upon grapes in a display of lethargic hedonism. <<linkreplace "Most people probably don’t self-insert as the grapes">>Despite reaching the halfway mark—and even with gravity on her side—Sherine maintains her languid pace, feeding you inward one slight gulp at a time, the steady shift of her assisting coils immediately yielding to the torrid heat of her mouth. Her tongue laps against the inside of your thigh, twists up and around a knee, brushes along a shin as you slowly curl into the lamia’s human stomach. For some reason, you expected the chamber to be more spacious than other guts you’ve visited, as if its size would reflect the lamia’s ravenous appetite. Instead, it hugs as close as any other, the walls steadily rubbing and churning, kneading their juices into your skin. When Sherine reaches your ankles, she daintily pushes your feet inward with a single finger. She seals her lips tight. Whether it’s to tease you or prolong her own enjoyment, she hesitates, each passing second an interminable wait as the very last of you lies poised over the precipice, ready for the final drop. A soft hum resonates through her body as her tongue idly brushes along bare soles. It ends with as little fanfare as it began—a slight stretch of Sherine’s neck, the barest push, and a single, gentle //glck.// Your legs snake their way down her throat, carried by peristalsis alone—a long and lazy descent that leaves you with plenty of time to curl up and find a comfortable position in her stomach. Unsurprisingly, it’s not difficult. Maybe it’s the post-coital fatigue speaking, or maybe you’ve just had a very long day, but Sherine’s human stomach is unbelievably warm and cozy. Before your feet even slip inside, you feel as if you’re mere moments from nodding off. With Sherine still on her back, you struggle to tell up from down in your new sightless world. You don’t mind in the slightest. Legs curled, knees pressed against your chest, you allow yourself to sink into the plush stomach walls and bask in the gentle caresses of Sherine’s hands from without. @@color:lime;“Oh, <<= $name>>,” she moans. “I knew you’d be good, but that… //Mmm,// how smoothly you went down, how wonderfully you fit inside me<<if $SherineEvent1 == false>>, and that taste<</if>>. It’s like you were made to be the perfect meal.”@@ You blush, ears burning even amid the organic sauna. Lips part and close a dozen times with half-formed attempts at a response, but you don’t even know where to begin. How are you //supposed// to respond to something like that? “It’s such a shame I can only keep you for the night,” Sherine says, one hand rubbing small circles along your back. A conflicted shiver crawls down your spine as you imagine the more permanent end to this encounter. A part of you can’t help but find a certain dark appeal in the scenario—a final night of passion, a long and winding ride into the deepest recesses of Sherine’s stomach, until at last you fade away, never to wake again. “But,” she suddenly continues, “that doesn’t mean you can’t experience a bit… //more.”// A valve above your head parts, and you begin to slip inside. No longer satisfied with slow and steady, Sherine’s hands shift from their tender massage to a firm push, forcing you deeper, head-first. [[Down you go…|Meet Lloriel]]<</linkreplace>>

You dash down the hall, then careen into the chamber beyond—a cross between a sitting room and a lobby that honestly looks a whole lot cozier than the good ol’ murder motel probably deserves. Your frantic flight earns a wary glance from a tired-looking attendant slumped behind a desk, but he offers little more than a slight roll of his eyes before you burst out the front door and back onto the streets of Khobb. … Which leaves you with the conundrum of where exactly you’re supposed to go. Sure, you’ve escaped Sherine’s coils in the short term, but the lamia’s proven disconcertingly adept at tracking you down in the past—and that was in a fucking city. It’s only a matter of time until she finds you in Plume’s little cordoned off slice of the world. A nearby whoop drifts over the rooftops, followed by a chorus of cheers and laughs. Crowds. Noise. That’s a good place to start. Following your ears, you duck into a side street, then wind between a few structures until you find what you’re looking for: a rowdy crowd of patrons gathered around the front of an eatery whose sign you can’t quite read in the fairy-lit twilight. Some stand at narrow, high tables—or barrels that have been employed for a similar purpose—chugging drinks or sharing food and banter with their companions. Others wander the venue, mugs swinging and flecks of beer and foam splashing. You struggle to spot a sober face among the lot, though a few are certainly a whole lot less collected than others. As far as places to lose a hungry predator go, you could certainly do worse. Just to assuage your paranoia, you cast a brief glance up and down the street to make sure that— Oh holy shit, it’s Sherine. How the fuck is that even possible? It’s been like a minute, tops. On instinct, you duck back into the side street, warily watching as the lamia slithers slowly, yet inexorably, closer. She doesn’t seem to have spotted you, but there’s not a trace of doubt in your mind that she’s got your scent… or whatever inhumanly keen perception she’s using to track you down. You need a plan, and you need one fast. [[Find somewhere to wait and hide|Between a Snake and a Gross Place][$Khobb8 to "Waitress"]] [[Cause a ruckus to distract her|Ruckus][$Khobb8 to "Commotion"]] [[Keep moving and lose her in the crowd|Vibin'][$Khobb8 to "Vibe"]]

Sherine’s definitely on your tail, and it’s not just by sight. You doubt she’s taking the time to ask each passing reveler if they’ve seen someone matching your description, which means she was either sincere when she claimed she could follow you by scent, or she’s got some other extrasensory perception in her corner. Since you’re fucked if it’s the latter, you decide to do something about the former and dart forward into the crowd of patrons, not even bothering to check if you caught Sherine’s eye. You bob and wave between crowded tables and rowdy customers, around a boisterous toast, past a waitress with drinks piled high between both arms and earning yourself a hollered //“Watch where you’re going!”// in your wake. With any luck, the combined smells of food and drink and dozens of people should mask your own, or at least throw Sherine off long enough for you to put some proper distance between yourself and the pursuing lamia. You clear the gathering in front of the rest and keep going, veering around a blind corner and onto the following street, aiming for as many groups of people as possible. You run past a small gathering watching a woman play a lute and sing, then take another left and find a man juggling lit torches. A quick turn right takes you past what looks to be an arm wrestling contest—which, curiously, has attracted far and away the largest crowd of all three. Finally, when it feels like you’ve run from one end of Khobb to the other, you decide you’ve gone long enough and duck into a nearby alley. It’s abandoned save for an unconscious woman slumped against the far wall, who looks to have had several drinks too many. Panting hard, you lean back against the wall to catch your breath and check to make sure Sherine isn’t hot on your heels—all clear if your eyes are to be trusted. An audible sigh of relief escapes your lips as you allow yourself to relax. “Hello, is someone out there?” You nearly trip and fall flat on your ass, barely managing to keep yourself upright through dumb luck and a bracing hand on a nearby crate. Heart thundering, you wheel about to face the now shifting figure, and your imminent doom. “Anyone?” the voice calls out again. “I- I thought I heard someone…” You frown, realizing the speaker isn’t actually the woman herself… which is a bit reassuring, given she still looks to be out cold. Instead, the words emanate from her very large—and in retrospect, painfully obvious—stomach that juts out from beneath a plain tunic. As you watch, the tumescent orb shifts and writhes with the faint impressions of the person trapped within. If you’re going to be hiding in here, you might as well speak up. “Uhh… hello.” “Oh, thank goodness,” the voice—a man, if you had to guess—says. “I didn’t think anyone would ever show up. Where did Cal wind up collapsing, anyway?” Cal, huh? “An alley,” you explain. “Pretty out of the way. I didn’t even notice the two of you until you spoke up.” A muffled sigh emanates from the stomach. “Ah, that explains it.” You sit in silence for an awkward moment. “So, can I… do something for you?” The stomach lurches. “Oh, right! Do you think you could help me escape? It’s not incredibly serious or anything, but Cal’s been out of it for a while, and I was hoping to, ah… take care of some other things before the night’s done.” “Uhh, I can try,” you say, not confident in your abilities in the slightest. You approach the sleeping predator—a lupine demi with gold-yellow hair to match tufted ears—and try to figure out how best to approach the conundrum. There’s an obvious solution, but also an equally obvious problem, both of which you put to voice. “I don’t know if I can just stick my arm down her throat and pull you out,” you say. “I think if I try, the rest of me’s gonna go down as well. I- I’m not very strong.” “That… wouldn’t be ideal, no.” You mull it over for a minute. “Do you think you can get an arm up her throat? I could grab your hand and pull you the rest of the way out.” “Let me try.” The stomach lurches into motion, grunts of exertion mixing with the odd sounds of shifting flesh and sloshing liquids. The man goes at it for a good minute, and once or twice you think he might be making some headway, but he eventually slumps back in defeat as the demi’s abdomen stills. “I… I don’t think I can, sorry,” the ingested man pants. “Can’t even… force my way out of her stomach.” A weary chuckle drifts through the wall of flesh. “I guess I’m pretty weak, too.” A moment of sullen silence passes between the two of you before he speaks again, little more than a murmur. “That's how I got into this whole mess in the first place. Makes sense it’d keep from getting out…” You eye the man—or, well, the demi’s stomach in which the man presumably resides—for a moment. “What do you mean?” “Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.” “I, uhh… If you want to talk, I can listen.” You let out a slight chuckle of your own. “It’s the least I can do, since I can’t actually get you out of there.” “You wouldn’t mind?” You shrug and, realizing the futility of the gesture, instead say, “It’s no trouble. I was planning to camp out here for a few minutes anyway.” “That’s… very kind of you.” He draws in a deep breath. “Cal here’s actually been a good friend of mine since… well, since as long as I can remember, honestly. But she’s always been protective—we grew up together, and I was frail as a child. S’pose I still am.” You can’t help but wonder what exactly ‘frail’ means in Havendorian terms, but you suspect the stranger could probably throw you across a room if the occasion called for it. “Today, she got a bit //too// protective,” he continues. “There was this charming fellow visiting from Orrault—distant family on the bride’s side, I think. I figured I might as well try my luck, but Cal didn’t like the look of him, said ‘city folk like him are always trouble.’ I insisted, and… so did she.” You hesitate. “To… keep you safe?” “Wouldn’t be the first time.” “Oh.” You fall silent for a moment, then add, “Well, even if she had good intentions, it was kinda rude of her to get drunk like this.” “Ah, uhm…” The stomach fidgets in a motion you intuit as nervousness. “That might have been my fault. I figured she would be more amenable to letting me out after a few drinks. Instead… Well, you see how that turned out.” The man lets out another heavy sigh. “So now I suppose I’m stuck in here for the night.”<<if $Khobb7 == "Aria">> You definitely know how that feels, given what happened between you and Aria only an hour ago<</if>> “I’m sorry,” you offer. “Maybe you can get out early in the morning, try and find that guy before he leaves.” “Maybe… If Cal even wakes up in time.” He hesitates, huffing out a weary breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not angry at her; I know she cares. I just… I just wish she trusted me a bit more.” The two of you—well, technically three—sit in silence for a long moment before you decide to speak up. “Do you want me to go try and find someone to help?” you ask. “Maybe someone a bit stronger?” “No, no. That’s alright. I’ll be fine; it’s really not that bad in here.” “Okay,” you say. After another moment of quiet, you steal a glance out the alley. “I, uhh… I should probably get going.” “Are you looking for someone too?” “Uhm… kinda the opposite,” you admit. “There’s this lamia that wants to eat me after I lost a game to her. But I haven’t seen her in a while, so I might actually be in the clear.” “Ah. Well in that case, best of luck to you.” “You too. Hope everything works out tomorrow.” After a quick glance both ways—wouldn’t wanna get run over by any speeding lamias, after all—you step out from the alley and begin to wander the town, still keeping to the more secluded side streets and maintaining a steady vigil. You’re so distracted by the task of watching for Sherine, in fact, that you don’t even realize you never got the stranger’s name until you’re a good couple minutes away from the alley. [[Oh well|Second Evade]]

You dart to the edge of the crowd, scanning alleys as they whoosh by. Each looks less promising than the last, the various crates and barrels for the party diminishing as you hurry by. Your attention quickly turns to the various open doors, wondering if you’ll get in trouble for barging into someone’s house unexpectedly. Khobb has basically been open season so far with the ongoing wedding, but that doesn’t mean you’re particularly keen on suddenly running into a back room and finding someone getting dressed. That’s a surefire way to end up in— Wait a minute. You’ve seen hundreds of stuffed guts today, but rarely had any idea //who// was inside of them. For fuck’s sake, you never even laid eyes on Arturo, the groom. He spent the greater part of the day hidden in Rabine’s belly. You’d wished for it at the time, but now it’s actually relevant: that //could// be you. Not in Rabine specifically, but in someone. Anyone. You could hide in an anonymous stomach, become an unidentifiable lump strapped to a stranger until Sherine loses your scent. You just have to find a candidate that would be willing to let you out in a reasonable time. Someone friendly. Someone helpful. You spot a lone woman loading a tray of beers inside a nearby storehouse-turned-bar. The perfect camouflage. “Hi, could you eat me?” you blurt out, the words spilling forth before you finish skidding. She flinches, nearly spilling one of the mugs. “Wh- What?” “Could you eat me?” You glance over your shoulder between every syllable, no doubt looking like an insane person. “I need somewhere to hide—Just for a few minutes.” “Well, my shift lasts for another half hour…” “That’s perfect! I’ll sit still, a- and you could use me as a shelf, so c’mon, open up. I go down easy,” you reassure her. “I’m a snack, I promise.” You’d take a moment to appreciate how insane the words you’re saying truly are, but you honestly don’t have the time. Sherine could be upon you any second now. “I’m sure you are, but that’s not really the problem.” A frown crosses her features. She holds an arm across her middle. “I just ate. Are you sure you wanna go in there?” <<linkreplace "Do what must be done">><<replace "#choices">>“I’m certain,” you say, nodding frantically. A moment later, you’re stepping out of your pants and pulling off your top, eager to set aside your belongings for safekeeping. “Uh… alright,” she says with a shrug, watching as you peel your clothes off and toss them in a small pile beside the bar. “If you’re okay with it, I guess I don’t mind.” No sooner does she give approval than you’ve stuck your hands in her mouth. Fingers clasped, you push your knuckles over the soft palate. Wet folds ripple. Saliva dribbles onto your wrists, then spreads up your forearms as you press on like a diver. You turn your head as you lean forward and duck under a line of teeth. One, final gasp of fresh air later, and you’re ready for the plunge. A bubbling waft from below hits you as your nose passes through her lips. Your fingers push into her gut and squash into a lumpy, soggy mess. Warm slop squishes between your fingers as you plunge deeper. You twitch and twist, trying to figure out what exactly you’re getting yourself into as lips encircle your neck. Light //glucks// pound through your skull as she swallows, drawing you in at a steady pace. Your shoulders enter the humid cave, then your biceps and elbows. Eyes pinched tightly shut, you brace for the fall. //Splorch.// That’s a new noise. You’re hit by the heavy scent of iron and viscera. Blood. It’s blood. The pulp sloshing against your face is partially chewed meat, still juicy and gushing. Heavily smoked pork and… some sort of thick garlicky sauce. The scent is intrusive. Invasive. Utterly, head-spinningly overwhelming. She’s not even at your waist and you’re ready to tap out. Something hard scrapes against your forehead, a strangely solid curve amid the sackful of churning meat. You reach through the sulfuric slop with frantic fingers, pushing and prying to get yourself above the water level. Your palm slips as she tilts her head back and swallows your backside. You inhale a lungful of potent acid as you fall into the pile, then kick and squirm, urgently trying to tell your predator to finish the fuck up already. An elbow mushes against something dense and spongy. You twist and flop, then finally start to curl around yourself as knees pass into the gurgling maw. A splash of something alcoholic crashes against your forehead, seeps into your hair. The most you can do about it is shove your ass as far into her pelvis as possible to allow your legs into the stomach without delay. When the throat above closes, you pull your knees up against your head. It’s hard to accept, but to keep the tide of partially digested food from touching your eyelids, you’ve gotta dunk your feet. They have to touch the slop. The last, pure part of you must be surrendered like a lily in a woodchipper. <<linkreplace "Assume the position">>Reluctant, you push down. Thick pulp seeps between your toes, grotesquely warm and intrusive. It pops and bubbles, spilling and sloshing over the tops of your feet. You bring a hand to your face to stop a gag, then catch a whiff of whatever amalgam is clinging to you. Fuck’s sake, it’s everywhere. You’re doused in it, covered in this disgusting offal. You pinch your nose until breath runs out, until your lungs demand a sup of air. Any air. You cough and sputter, foul hacking echoing around the taut chamber. Mocking. It’s mocking you. The organ that you love so much, the one your fetish has dedicated itself to, is making fun of you, showing off the terrible truth of reality. This is where food goes, where it’s disintegrated and ground up and churned and juiced into a tepid, revolting paste that your odious body uses for fuel. It’s where the fats are separated from the liquids, where everything’s pressed and squeezed and crunched. It’s where you’re supposed to die, horribly, if this were reality. Your fantasy is revolting in the real world. And here, it’s… Your toe nudges up against that rigid object again. Entirely dissociated from your own body, you plunge a slick hand into the semisolid ooze. It’s a little piece of bone, a smooth crescent, brittle under your touch, already deteriorating from the acidbath. The waitress must have swallowed one of the ribs of the pig while she was eating. She’s gonna digest it no problem, too. This isn’t even a cause for alarm. You push out a breath, then let yourself sit empty for a moment. You’re not gonna learn from this. Not even a little. This is who you are, what you want. Sure, it’s the worst stomach you’ve ever been in, but you know what? You’re in it. You’re exactly where you deserve to be. You’re gonna see it all up close and far, //far// too personal. Clinging to the semi-pleasant thought, you draw another vile breath. This one’s worse than the last. A hard surface thumps against the back of your neck, forcing you to curl forward and bring your face dangerously close to the bubbling stewpot of chyme. “Hey!” you shout, rolling your shoulders, trying to get this fucking weight off. “Hey yourself!” she shoots back, slamming her gut against the countertop. A bolt of pain shoots up your spine. “I’m carrying drinks! You can’t be moving!” You //did// agree to that… [[Stay quiet and live with it|Food Service][$Khobb9 to true]]<</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ew. On second thought…">><<replace "#choices">>You hadn’t even considered you might need to share space with partially-digested mushy grossness. Maybe there’s someone else nearby who’d be more accommodating. “Okay, that’s a good point. Sorry, I’ll just go—” Breath dies in your throat as powerful arms wrap around from behind and squeeze the life out of you. You gasp out a breath as you’re lifted from the ground. Fingernails dig into your sides like viper fangs. A tongue slides along your neck, hot breath dousing your clavicle. Your eyeballs feel like they’re gonna pop out of your head. You’re starting to lose feeling in your legs. Blood pounds through your veins. Vision narrows as blackness creeps in along the edges of your sight. //“Sherine!”// you squeak, barely audible. //“Too tight!”// The crushing lets up just enough that you can catch a sliver of breath, but not enough that words can form. She shifts her hold on you from her arms to her coils, the coppery cords swirling and entrapping without missing a beat. They maintain the same pressure, keeping you pushed to the very edge of comfort. “Pardon me,” the lamia says to the waitress, licking her lips as she regains her composure. “My dessert almost got away.” The poor woman stares up at the lamia, wide-eyed. “Uh, I—Uhm, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t know.” She shuffles a few steps back from the lamia, as if some distant corner of the storage room might provide shelter from a twenty-foot reach. “I swear I didn’t do anything. <<= $Xe>> uh, <<= $xe>> just asked to hide in my stomach, but changed his mind at the last minute.” “Oh my,” Sherine churrs, turning you around and bringing you up to face her. “Is that true?” All you can say for yourself is //“Hlrkk.”// “How naughty.” Sherine’s smile curls from ear to ear. “I’ll be sure to punish <<= $xem>> for that.” “S- Sure,” the other woman says, slinking a few feet away from the lamia and turning her attention back to her tray of beers. “I- I have to get back to work.” “Thanks for your help,” Sherine croons to the other woman without even looking. Garnet eyes remain locked on yours, watching your every little twitch with utmost delight. A pink tongue reemerges. Lips salivate. Her pupils dilate. “You got me all worked up for hardly anything,” she says, breathing gradually slowing. “Three minutes and you’re back in my clutches? That’s not a hunt. It’s certainly no way to treat a woman, <<= $name>>.” You attempt an, //‘I’m sorry,’// but the crushing coils squeeze just as the words start to form. The best you can manage is a pathetic flop of a wrist. “And you won’t even offer an apology?” Sherine chides, a knowing look in her eyes. “Oh, <<= $name>>. I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me another way.” Another dart of wet pink along ruby lips says all you need to know about how. Yet rather than devour you on the spot, Sherine merely winds you further in her coils and begins to slither away, clear of the restaurant’s hubbub. Your second trip bound in the lamia’s tail proves significantly less comfortable than the first, partially on account of the fact that the lash around your neck never quite lets up entirely. Instead, you're left on the deliberate verge of strangulation, able to draw breath, but only just. Fortunately, the journey is short. The cheers of drunken patrons barely fade from your ears before Sherine drags you into a secluded side street. She turns to face you, eyes glimmering with distant fairylights and scarcely restrained anticipation. “Let’s try this one more time.” The coil at your neck eases an inch, enough for a sputtering gasp and a much-needed lungful of air. “I- I’m sorry,” you wheeze. “And…?” “I’ll… I’ll do better next time. I promise.” “Good<<if $xe == "he">> boy<<elseif $xe == "she">> girl<</if>>,” she purrs, saccharine tones evoking an involuntary shudder that crackles from your head to toes. “So… Does that mean I get another chance?” Sherine lets out something between a scoff and a laugh. “I give you a bite, and you ask for the whole meal. No, <<= $name>>; I think you’ve had your fun for the night. And now I’ll have mine.”<<if $Khobb6 == "Sherine">> Right. She enjoys the squirms, after all.<</if>> Without further warning, the lamia lunges. A cavas of wet flesh slips past your nose, presses against your cheeks. An eager tongue laps under your chin. Strands of saliva mat your hair to your head and dribble along your brow.<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>> It’s a familiar sight, made all the more exhilarating by the knowledge that the lamia won’t be stopping here.<</if>> She swallows, and the distant sounds of the outside world vanish behind the symphony of //squelches// and organic churns. An appreciative moan echoes up the lamia’s throat as coils and hands work in concert to funnel you deeper, leaving mere inches between where snakeskin ends and the embrace of sweltering flesh begins. Soft lips descend your chest, wet warmth soaking through your tunic and encasing your torso. Waves of muscle ripple around your head and shoulders, pulling you deeper. You can tell Sherine’s taking it slow, each swallow as methodically enjoyed and thoroughly savored as the last. The lamia’s eager tongue leaves little unsampled, even if most of what it can reach is boring cloth. As her mouth eclipses your abdomen and approaches your waist, your head pokes into a larger chamber—her human stomach. For some reason, you expected the chamber to be more spacious than other guts you’ve visited, as if its size would reflect the lamia’s ravenous appetite. Instead, it hugs as close as any other, walls steadily rubbing and churning, kneading their juices into your clothes and skin. With the greater half of her meal ingested, Sherine flips your legs skyward and picks up the pace. Thighs give way to knees, then shins. She pauses for a moment to remove your shoes, then daintily pushes your feet inward with a single finger. Lips seal tight. A final hum, a parting taste, and she reclines her neck. One last, almost gentle //gluck// seals you away, leaving your legs with a winding slide down the lamia’s gullet as you curl up and find a comfortable position in her stomach. Maybe the adrenaline rush of the chase is finally fading, or maybe you’ve just had a very long day, but your confines are remarkably cozy. You feel like you could easily spend the night in here—which is good, since that’s almost certainly what you’ll be doing. “Oh, <<= $name>>,” Sherine moans as the last of you slips into her stomach. “You’re a //much// better meal than a chase.” Is that… a compliment? Should you say thanks? “In fact,” she continues, “I think I’ve changed my mind. A feast like you deserves a reward. Something special; something most lucky morsels only get to experience once.” Before you can figure out what she means, a valve above your head parts, and you begin to slip inside. The lamia’s hands assist, firmly pushing you deeper head-first. [[Down you go|Meet Lloriel]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You rush headlong into the nearest crowd, bumping and jostling your way through. Unfortunately, these people are quite inebriated and hardly notice the mild displacement. Desperate, panicking, you try a bolder tack: tripping a waitress. Booze splashes. Gasps ring out. The tray clatters to the ground as the empty mugs roll every which way. Blouse soaked, the wronged woman whips around for a culprit, then lunges at the most likely offender: a wide-shouldered rabbit demi laughing her ass off at something unrelated. Nearby onlookers turn their attention to the erupting squabble. You’re half tempted to try to push someone else into the mess and turn it into a full-on brawl—a friendly one, of course; this is a wedding—but opt instead to watch as the staff member engulfs the demi’s head. The struggle collides with a table, then swaggers into the crowd. Lips descend, slurping down shoulders, arms and waist. You watch the prey’s legs kick out, and the two stumble to the ground to a chorus of amused cheers. Your vantage sucks, but a series of //glorps// and //shlucks// tells you all you need to know. Hmm, this feels vaguely familiar… Have you seen this somewhere before? Regardless, you’ve created the diversion. Now it’s time to leave. You’re about to slink away when you notice your foot won’t budge. You look down to find a coil of copper locking you firmly in place. “Not bad,” Sherine hums, suddenly appearing at your side. The coils wind up your leg, then wrap around your waist and tug you against the lamia’s deviously warm body. You sigh as arms curl and cradle your form. “Can you blame me for trying?” “Not at all,” she says. “I wish you’d performed a bit better, but I can appreciate a flair for drama and spectacle. In fact, I’m inspired.” “Uhh… What do you mean?” “Well, I //was// planning on bringing you back to my room and taking things nice and slow, but now…” Sherine lunges. A cavas of wet flesh slips past your nose, presses against your cheeks. An eager tongue laps under your chin. Strands of saliva mat your hair to your head and dribble along your brow.<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>> It’s a familiar sight, made all the more exhilarating by the knowledge that the lamia won’t be stopping here.<</if>> She swallows once, then lifts you skyward, hands and tail working in concert to funnel you down and in. An appreciative moan echoes up the lamia’s throat as coils and hands work in concert to rapidly funnel you deeper, leaving mere inches between where snakeskin ends and the embrace of sweltering flesh begins. But the lamia isn’t the only thing you hear. A roar drifts from beyond the walls of muscle and flesh—cheering, you realize. Hoots and hollers of appreciation, shouts of encouragement. Half the crowd must be watching as Sherine practically chugs you down in a display of predatory proficiency. A self-conscious flush burns on your cheeks. Even if you’re not the main focus, you’d rather not be part of the show—especially when your primary role is apparently ‘be filling.’ Fortunately, your humiliation is short-lived, as Sherine hardly takes the time to taste you on your way down. As her lips eclipse your abdomen, your head //pops// into a larger chamber—her human stomach—an instant before your shoulders follow. With half her meal swallowed, the lamia picks up the pace, as if your ingestion is both contest and prize. The constricting grip on your legs vanishes, replaced by sheer downward force. You’re left with barely any time to arrange yourself into a comfortable position as you rapidly spill into her stomach. Thighs vanish in an instant. Knees and shins follow. One last push seals your feet in torrid warmth, and a final gulp tucks you away entirely, leaving your legs to finish the brief trip down Sherine’s throat. At least she removed your shoes. How thoughtful. With the rush of your devourment concluded, you’re left to settle into the confines of Sherine’s human stomach as the roar of the crowd gradually returns to a more typically rowdy clamor. Once you manage to arrange your limbs into a more manageable ball, it’s… not that bad. Cozy, actually. The gentle bob and sway helps, presumably a result of Sherine taking you back to her room to settle down for night. Before you can fully relax, a soft tap from beyond catches your attention. “That was fun,” Sherine muses, hands rubbing small circles against your back. “I’d say it //almost// made up for the disappointingly short chase. Though next time, I’d rather enjoy you properly.” //‘Next time.’// Presumably free of Plume’s magical protections, free of the comforting knowledge that you’ll wake up tomorrow morning healthy and hale. A conflicted shiver crawls down your spine despite the sweltering heat. “Though,” the lamia suddenly adds, “I think you deserve a bit //more,// <<= $name>>. Something to commemorate the occasion. Something most only get to experience once.” Before you can figure out what she means, a valve above your head parts, and you begin to slip inside. Sherine’s hands shift from their tender massage to a firm push, forcing you deeper head-first. [[Down you go|Meet Lloriel]]

<<timed 2s t8n>>One nauseating, vile, horrid, dissociative episode later, you find yourself on the other side of the waitress’s shift. She carried a dozen trays of full mugs across the party and at least twice as many empty ones back to the working shed. Having had a glut of time on your hands, you mellowed out. Maybe it was because the stomach gradually drained during your stay, or maybe it was because you found something to occupy your mind. By your estimation, your generous hostess had a rack of ribs slathered in a butter-garlic sauce, a side of broccoli—or cauliflower, you couldn’t tell the difference in the rank darkness—and a pint of very dark ale for dinner. Somewhere along the way, you also had a mouthful of the same. Unrelated: you’ve decided to have the chicken at the next wedding you attend. The best thing you can say about the experience is that you’re pretty sure you’re going to repress the memory. Also, the view from the basin you were regurgitated into was quite lovely. The waitress snaps in your face twice. “Hey. Come back to reality.” “Wha?” you manage, a hand finding the edge of the tub as you stabilize yourself. The world smears back into focus. Dancing fairylights swirl against the night’s sky like drunken constellations. The waitress’ face congeals. “I’m sorry my gut was such a mess. Whatever you were hiding from must have been pretty bad for you to subject yourself to //that.”// She puts a set of clothes on a wooden bench nearby, then tosses you a small object bearing the most beautiful scent you’ve ever smelled. “I hope your life turns around. Nobody should live like this.” You watch her leave, your mind still parsing reality. On habit, you get to scrubbing yourself down, from your teeth to your toes. Also, your hair. You step out of the basin in nothing but your underwear, then flop into another. And then you wash every inch of your flesh again. And a third time. The soap’s all dissolved on the fourth round, but you’re pretty sure you can still smell garlic under your fingernails, so you keep scrubbing anyway. It’s only when the cool night air starts to nip at your skin that you seek a towel and dry yourself off. Slightly damp, you slip back into your trousers and tunic. It’s nice to be covered in something other than gastric slop. A breath of cool and clean night air washes through your lungs, beautiful and pure as water from a winter spring. You close your eyes, find your center, allow yourself a long and weary and well-deserved sigh. [[…Now what?|Second Evade]]<</timed>>

Okay, okay. No more running.<<if $Khobb9 == true>> No more putting yourself through… //that.//<</if>> It’s tiring and it’s not gonna help, in part because Sherine is faster than you, and also because it’s drawing undue attention to yourself. From now on, you’re gonna move like any other partygoer—which by the looks of things, might mean you need to start faking a ‘drunken stumble.’ Seriously, these people party //hard.// You meander your way back toward the center of town. The crowd has thinned since the dance, Plume’s enchanted ensemble idly strumming the medieval equivalent of house music. You hang in the periphery of the buffet, then slide toward a curious confection when you suddenly remember an earlier encounter: Ines, the mermaid, asked you hours ago for something to eat. Something delicious. And what’s more delicious than cake? You’re halfway to the table when a hand grabs your shoulder and yanks you around. You stifle a scream. “Gotcha!” a familiar voice chirps. You’re halfway out of your own skin when you confirm it’s not Sherine’s honeyed tone, but something younger and sweeter. “A- Auri?” you whimper as you turn to face her. “Hi, <<= $name>>!” Slender arms curl around your chest and pull you into a warm hug. “Told ya I’d catch ya later.” A relieved chuckle rattles out your throat. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” “I was just catching up with a few friends when I saw ya over here, staring at the cake.” She releases you from the hug and gestures to the table. “Did you have a piece?” “I was thinking about it,” you say. “Is it good?” She shrugs. “Dunno. Been saving my appetite.” Auri licks her lips in a not-so-subtle way. “Did you finish that thing you had to do earlier?” “Yeah, I found Arturo.” Well, //‘found’// in a ‘European explorer during the Age of Discovery’ sort of way. “Rabine had him the whole time. It was silly, but, mission accomplished.” “Hey, good job!” she cheers, watching you with keen eyes. A hand lingers on your forearm from the hug, fingers tapping curiously. “Do you have any plans for the evening?” You shake your head. Your main goal at this objective is avoiding Sherine, but that’s really more of an //absence// of a plan. Auri’s smile brightens. //“Sooo,// I was thinking…” Ah, there it is. You’re not a //complete// moron. You knew the moment you saw her where this was going. “It’s getting kinda late…” she continues, adorably coy. It’s a new muscle for her, but damn she’s a natural. “And a little cold. I could… y’know.” She holds her hand out as far as she can from her middle. It’s a generous estimation of how much space you’ll take up—which feels like a genuine compliment from the young lady. And if that wasn’t enough to boost your ego, then the beet-red blush on her cheeks ought to give you a bump. //Technically, it’d be giving her a bump.// “Are you offering me shelter?” you ask through smirking lips. She giggles. “That’s one way to put it.” “I appreciate the thought, but I’m actually trying to //not// spend the night in a stomach. I wanna make the most of the party.” Auri smiles and sighs. “Aww, that’s a bummer to hear. But, I understand.” She approaches for another hug, nuzzling her cheek against yours //and nothing more.// Auri pulls away without hesitation. You wait for the other shoe to drop, but it never comes. She’s just smiling at you with vibrant eyes. She’s keeping her hands to herself. She’s… … Respecting your wishes? “R- Really?” you say, flabbergasted. “You’re not gonna, just, eat me anyway?” She tilts her head. “Do you want me to?” “Not at the moment, no.” Auri shrugs. “Then I won’t.” //What did you do to her!? You broke this poor woman! Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to grab you and stuff her into her gut no matter what you say?// “It’s fine, really,” she says after you’re silent for another fifteen seconds. “I was gonna try to find somebody on my own anyway. I figured I’d stop and say hi to my first, see if you wanted to go again.” “And you’re not upset that I said no?” “Not really.” She bites her lip. “I’m down for anyone at this point. You’ve given me so much confidence—I think I can get my second tonight!” You blink in utter astonishment. “Oh uh. That’s good to hear. I- I’m really proud of you, Auri.” “Thanks!” As if waiting for the perfect moment, her stomach lets out an audible grumble. She puts a hand to her belly and chuckles. “That’s my cue! Cya, <<= $name>>!” “G- Good luck?” you manage as she peels away and heads out. You spend a moment watching her leave. Are you feeling… wistful? <<if $xe == "he">>Fatherly<<elseif $xe == "she">>Maternal<<else>>Parental<</if>>? //Hey, listen: just because you won’t be <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "they">>a meal<<else>>girl dinner<</if>> for the night, doesn’t mean you can’t help her find someone else to fill those shoes—or in this case, stomach. Plus, if you accompany her, you can make sure she doesn’t get grabbed herself. … Also you might see her belly get all big from the outside this time. Get a sense of how she wore you earlier. That’d be cool, right?// While your brain is making some surprisingly salient points, Auri’s isn’t the only stomach on your mind. Ines hasn’t had anything to eat all day. She said she’d be fine, but it would still be awfully nice of you to do her a favor And, if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t evade Sherine forever. You’ll eventually need to sleep, and you know where you’re gonna wake up once you do. You might as well do a good deed tonight before you’re imprisoned by the ravenous snake. [[Offer to help Auri|Lesbiab][$Khobb10 to "Auri"]] [[Bring a slice of cake to Ines|I have to go see a fish about a cake][$Khobb10 to "Ines"]]

Auri will be fine. You taught her everything you know about how to eat someone, which was surprisingly a lot. As long as she finds someone willing to slide down her throat, she’ll be full in no time… Probably. Anyway: there’s cake! Mouth already watering, you sidle up to the table and take a closer look at this glorious specimen. In person, it’s a huge, multi-tiered affair, exactly as you’d expect at a wedding. You peer at each layer, inspecting the cross section, attempting to guess each flavor. It looks like berries on the bottom, chocolate in the middle, and just below the tiny figurines of the bride and groom cake toppers— A real live tiny person sits besides the carving of Rabine, staring at you nervously. As you make eye contact, they suddenly lurch, shifting and shuffling through the mire of icing to find cover behind the painted wood dress of the bride. You look around for any sign of the shrink mage. With the redheaded menace nowhere in sight, you lean forward and raise a curious eyebrow. “Are you okay up there?” “No,” the tiny, feminine voice squeaks. A pair of mouse ears flit anxiously. “Some crazy lady cast a spell and left me here.” You pretend for a moment that Ashlyn is a sane and rational person who does sane and rational things for sane and rational reasons. A chuckle escapes your lips. “Any idea why?” She turns a bashful gaze toward the ground. “… I tried to take a fistful of cake before it was supposed to be served.” You furrow your brow. “That’s not very nice. It sounds like you got your jus—that this is an appropriate punishment.” “Yeah, I know,” she sighs, utterly resigned to her fate. The awkward moment hangs in the air as you mull over your options. The party is a delicate ecosystem, a fine balance struck between chaos and order, light against dark. Who are you to interrupt? It’s not like you know magic—and you kinda doubt Ashlyn would even help in this situation. You could take her to Plume, but the fairy ought to be busy with other tasks today. You shouldn’t bother her with the little stuff. You shrug and take an empty plate from the stack. “Any idea what flavor the top layer is?” you ask the demi, not sure what else to say. “Vanilla. A- And the frosting is buttermilk. It’s really good.” “I bet,” you say, helping yourself to a slice of your choosing, then grabbing an extra plate for Ines. You hem and haw over which tier to take from when the little mouse demi once again catches your eye. Now that you’re looking at her, she’s just the right height to fit into— No. You shouldn’t. You //really// shouldn’t. It’d be rude… <<linkreplace "Do it; it’ll be hilarious">><<replace "#choices">>“Hey, uh, do you need a hand?” you ask the demi, attempting to hide the mischief in your voice. You gesture for her to stand out in the open. She creeps from her hiding spot nervously. “Uhm, yes please. It’s kinda scary up here. It’s so high up.” “Yeah, I’ve had the same thing happen to me. Just uh, just stand right there. Put your arms at your sides.” She stiffens like a statue. A shy smile lights up her features. “Like this?” “Perfect.” You put two fingers on her shoulders and push her entire body down into the cake. She sinks in to her chin with a startled squeal of surprise, twitching and lurching in the muck of icing. Confident she’s utterly trapped, you cut out the wedge she’s stuck in and shift it onto an empty plate, then slip a pair of forks between your fingers. “You bitch!” she cries out. “You lying shit! Don’t you dare eat me like this!” “I’m not gonna eat you.” You glance down at the demi to make sure she hasn’t broken free—her struggles seem to be embedding her deeper in the confection. Moreover, the frosting’s doing a pretty good job keeping her glued in place. “Calm down. I know what it’s like getting shrunk. Hell, I know the woman who did this to you.” The demi slows her stream of swears. “Y- You’re gonna make her turn me back?” “Uhh, no. I just know her.” The swearing resumes, but she’s pretty small and you’re able to tune it out. Food securely in hand, you head back toward the sandlots, doing your best to blend in with the locals. The last thing you want is to draw attention to yourself. You can be casual. It’s fine. Bringing a slice of cake with a tiny person in it to a mermaid is perfectly ordinary. … Okay, none of this is normal, but you can at least pretend. [[Find Ines|Ines 2][$Khobb11 to true]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Just take a slice to Ines">><<replace "#choices">>You raise the serving knife and cut a slice from the middle tier. At the demi’s curious stare you frown. “It’s uh, for a friend.” You don’t bother to see if she approves of your reasoning, taking a pair of forks between your fingers and holding both plates level before turning and leaving. Food securely in hand, you head back toward the sandlots, careful not to make your presence too obvious. You’re just a normal partygoer, going to do normal party things with… a mermaid. Okay, none of this is normal, but you can at least pretend. [[Find Ines|Ines 2]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“Auri! Wait up,” you call out, jogging after the young woman. “Did you change your mind?” she asks, enthusiastic as ever. “Sorta. I’m gonna help you find someone to eat.” You chuckle at the absurdity. “Vet potential prey. Watch your back. That kinda stuff.” She pulls you into another hug. “You’re the best, <<= $name>>.” You have a few personal reasons for wanting to see this out, but sure, you can accept the praise. “So whatcha thinkin’?” Auri asks eagerly. “Man? Woman? Someone drunk?” Ideally, you’d find someone who’s willing to take the plunge into a newbie—or willing in general to spend the night inside a tummy… Though now that you’re thinking about it, you’re not sure there’s many folks like that. You’re great at detecting people who desperately want to eat //you,// but the extrasensory perception doesn’t really work in reverse. How does one bottom root out another bottom? A little lightbulb clicks on somewhere in your brain. You grab Auri’s hand and pull her onward. “C’mon. I have an idea.” <<linkreplace "Onward!">>Auri in tow, you return to the town square where you played ‘Who Am I?’ The crowd’s only gotten rowdier as the night’s stretched on. Booze flows freely, as do the stumbles and the cheers. You weave your way back to the card game tables only to find them converted into drinking game tables… whatever that means. You don’t really get a good explanation, but the helpfully drunk passersby point you to the edge of town for gambling games. You leave the din behind and venture onto a quieter side street. The dancing lights here are thinner, but it’s still more than enough for you to navigate. Regardless, you do your best to keep to the shadows, lest Sherine easily spot you in the middle of the road. At the end of the lane, you make a left, then shuffle past a row of short, small structures. A few stops later, and you finally find the appropriate building, though up close you’re starting to realize that this isn’t quite the establishment you were expecting. The front door stands ajar, spilling audible clatters and cheers out onto the side street. The sign nailed above the doorway reads, //Dice Games.// A dozen or so candles flicker, illuminating the interior. Within, you find eight people standing around a tall table full of little chits and disks, gambling in what may otherwise be an ordinary house. It’s clearly somebody’s kitchen that’s been converted into a makeshift casino, though the decor and atmosphere match everywhere else at the party. Five of the patrons are cradling full, squirming stomachs under the counter, each laughing as they start another round of whatever game is being played atop the surface. You’re checking each face for familiarity when a ream of whoops and hollers erupt. A maw opens. Hands grab a pair of shoulders. You watch in awe as they’re summarily flipped up and crammed into a waiting throat. You’re somewhat relieved when you see a pair of hands push back against the predator—these people have the same reflexes you do—but they do little to stop the subsequent devourment. It takes a force of will to pull your gaze away from your favorite spectator sport. You’re here to help Auri. You can ogle later. At the very back of the room, on a chair all by herself, sits a horned woman holding a pair of dice. She watches longingly as the other player is swallowed whole, studying the resultant bulge with the same scrutiny one would have when looking at a photo of a significant other. Perfect. “We’re gonna gamble for it?” Auri asks, gaze similarly fixated on the newly minted belly. She licks her lips. “Not quite. Can you wait here for a moment? I’ll be right back.” You duck inside the gambling hall and slide along the walls mostly unnoticed. The players—six now, all full—are busy celebrating their various accomplishments. Quietly, you sidle and shift until you reach the far side of the room. The forlorn woman jolts at your approach. “Oh hi, <<= $name>>.” You smile, trying to determine how a conversation wherein you’re asking to eat someone by proxy is supposed to begin. You settle on, “Hey, Amelie. How’s it going?” A thin smile finds its way onto her face, entirely forced. “Oh, I’m alright. Just, uh, playing games.” “Are you winning?” She lets out a long, suffering sigh. Her eyes sweep across the room full of bloated guts. “Yes.” Damn, this woman’s got it bad. You smirk. “Would you prefer to be losing?” Amelie blushes. “Very much so,” she squeaks, just barely audible. You catch her glancing at your middle. “I don’t suppose you’ve <<if $Vegan == true>>abandoned your diet<<else>>changed your mind<</if>> since earlier?” “Unfortunately, I haven’t. //But,// I might have a compromise.” You tap your stomach with two fingers. “I just gotta ask you a weird question first: is it //me,// specifically?” Her blush deepens. “Uh, I- I mean, I- I think you’re cute, but you also seem… gentle and caring. Like you’d appreciate… having me—” She tugs her arms around herself. The monster girl’s whole body shakes. “Gah, that’s so embarrassing to say out loud.” “Not at all,” you say reassuringly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I know someone who would absolutely appreciate you.” You offer an open palm, an invitation. “R- Right now?” “Yup.” The flushed embarrassment diminishes as she smiles for real this time. The goat’s leathery hand finds yours, and you lead her from the house-turned-dice-hall. Auri’s still waiting outside right where you left her. She bounces on the balls of her feet, one hand pressed against her stomach as she shuffles excitedly in place. She beams at your return, then peers curiously at the person hiding behind your back. “Amelie?” “O- Oh, Auri. Hi,” Amelie says, shrinking on herself. She steps out from behind you, pinching your palm in her nervous hands. Auri also shuffles slightly closer, all her prior zeal turned into embarrassment. “You two know each other?” you ask, attempting to divide your attention evenly. It mostly works, as each set of nervous eyes is eager to lock with yours as you turn to and fro. “Y- Yeah,” Amelie admits. She gestures around the buildings. “Khobb is usually a small town, today’s a bit of an exception. Everyone at least //knows of// each other, even if we don’t cross paths everyday. Auri is the glassmaker’s daughter. Her coming-of-age was just last winter.” You raise an eyebrow. Auri picks up the explanation on the goat’s behalf. “It’s more of a monster tradition than a human one, but uh, I didn’t have a celebration or anything.” She watches Amelie curiously. “I asked your father when it was, a- and he said it was okay for me to give a gift.” Amelie turns red. “I got nervous, s- so I just left it on your windowsill the morning of. I carved a little bone pan flute—” “That was from you!” Auri turns wide-eyed glee on the goat. She shuffles out from under your wing and takes Amelie’s hands in her own. “I cherish it. I’ve been practicing every morning.” The monster girl nods, sinking further into herself, trying to become a tiny speck under the weight of embarrassment. “I- I know. Y- You’ve been getting better.” You clear your throat to make your presence known once more. “There’s, uh, one more thing you two should discuss,” you say, trying to nudge the two of them closer together. You give them each a serious look in turn, then pray for a spark. “R- Right,” Auri chirps, trying to hide her eagerness. “<<= $name>> said <<= $xe>>’d help me, erm, find somebody to…” Amelie’s head bobs up and down rapidly. “<<= $Xe>>, uh, <<= $xe>> said something similar to me…” “So, do you wanna… maybe…” “I- I mean, I’d be happy to—if it’s okay with you…” “Oh. I’d really love to, uhm, do that…” They exchange incomplete fragments of the same confession for another minute, then turn to you in unison. “I forgot the next step,” they both admit. Holy shit. Did you make //too// good of a match with these two? You’re feeling the radiant heat, the whiplike tension between them. It’s passionate, it’s intimate. As things currently stand, you’re not sure if they’re gonna eat each other, or //eat// each other. Is it really appropriate for you to guide these two’s budding relationship? [[Stay and provide insight|and they were ROOMMATES][$Khobb12 to true]] [[Politely take your leave|Less Bein]]<</linkreplace>>

You head, logically, toward the river at the edge of town. It’d be strange to find a mermaid elsewhere. The sandlots have since cleared out from when you visited earlier in the day. For the most part, the only people around now are a group of rowdy drunks attempting to play some sort of sport, and various couples lingering along the edges of the town, kissing or vibing in the cover of night. And yes, by ‘couples,’ you’re also including single predators and their prey. That counts. It’s two people. Ten minutes of following the river from where you last saw the mermaid, and you’ve meandered into a quieter residential part of Khobb, a part untouched by the ongoing celebration. It’s when you pass a barn that you get lucky. “Ines,” you call out, resisting the urge to wave your cake-filled arms around. The mermaid jolts and turns, rolling onto her side to face you. Delight brightens her face—doubly so when she sees you’ve brought food. “<<= $name>>, you remembered!” she churrs, accepting her plate. “You’re a wonderful and kind person, you know that?” “You’re just saying that because I’m feeding you,” you counter, settling your butt down on a rock beside her. “I mean it genuinely. Look,” she says, holding up an arm to show off a simple wooden bangle. “Rabine gave me this //for free.// Just because I showed up. ‘Something to remember today. A gift,’ she told me. She wasn’t even the only one; I’ve gained many new trinkets today. And now you’ve brought me this wonderful… this…” Ines’ brow crinkles. “<<= $name>>, forgive me, but what is this?” <<if $Khobb11 == true>>“Cake,” you say simply. You’re about to stick your fork in your own slice when you see it squirming— Whoops. Mixed up the plates. You hastily snatch Ines’ serving and replace it with your own. “Sorry. I gave you the wrong one.” You gesture to the center where the mouse demi seems to be trying to eat her way out of her confectionary prison. “I thought you might like the ‘special’ piece.” Ines pulls the mouse girl by the tail and eyes her cake-covered body curiously. The demi’s dangled between lips, then suckled and pulled free a moment later, completely clean. //“Mmf!// Yes,” the mermaid coos, smacking her lips. “I like this very much.” Ines pushes the shrunken person back into the cake, coating the flopping little body in icing before sticking the demi back in her mouth. To your shared amusement, this continues for another few minutes. When she’s had her fun, Ines scoops everything left on her plate into her fingers and stuffs the mass into her mouth, then gulps happily. It’s a privilege to see the wobbling bulge disappearing down her neck and behind her breasts. “Delicious,” Ines purrs. One by one, she sticks her fingers in her mouth to slurp up the last bits of sugar. Her clean hand trails idle circles around her midriff. “And fun, too.” “There’s—” you start, then tilt your head. A hand reaches hesitantly. “You’ve got some icing on your face. Here, let me…” The mermaid’s whisker flits as you scoop the glob off her cheek. You nearly yelp as she lurches and gobbles your entire finger. A strange, pulsing pull beckons you inward as you try to pry yourself free. Lips crawl to your knuckles. She spits you out as suddenly as she struck. A reddish blush darkens her cheeks. “Sorry, got caught up in the moment. You shouldn’t pull like that, it’s… too tempting.” She shudders. “Especially for someone so tasty.” “Tastier than cake?” you ask, inspecting your wet finger. “Hmm…” She eyes what’s left on your plate. “I’m not sure yet…” You chuckle and give her the rest of your slice. A long, exhausted sigh escapes your chest as you sit back on both arms, silently staring out into the night. You’d gotten accustomed to the pitch darkness of a world without electricity, without light pollution. On any clear night, you’ve seen the entire sky lit up with stars, majestic and swirling and utterly awe-inspiring.<<else>>“Cake,” you say simply. You offer her a fork, then demonstrate its use on your own slice, stuffing a piece into your mouth. It’s pure ambrosia. “Try it.” She mimics your actions, the square of cake entering cautiously between her whiskers. Her eyes go wide as she closes her mouth and pulls the fork away. “Oh my goodness. It’s so sweet!” You chuckle. “I guess you don’t get a lot of sugar in your diet. Dissolves in water.” The mermaid takes another bite. “Yeah, some foods just don’t work out for mermaids. One of my sisters tried to open a bakery once, but it didn’t go well.” She gives you a coy look before adding, “The whole thing went under.” You roll your eyes. “Do all monster girls love puns?” She giggles. “Nope, just me.” You chuckle and take a few more bites of your cake, then pass the rest off to the wide-eyed mermaid. She’s overjoyed to help you finish. A long, exhausted sigh escapes your chest as you sit back on both arms, silently staring out into the night. You’d gotten accustomed to the pitch darkness of a world without electricity, without light pollution. On any clear night, you’ve seen the entire sky lit up with stars, majestic and swirling and utterly awe-inspiring.<</if>> <<linkreplace "Enjoy the view">>You sit and gaze out across the fields beyond the town, trying to discern Plume’s magical lights from fireflies. You recount for Ines the moment during the dance when the whole town lit up, doing your best to explain the breathtaking moment to the mermaid. She in turn tells you more than you want to know about fireflies. “I like to eat the little insects when I can catch ‘em over the water, but the big ones are honestly way better.” “Big ones, like…” you trail off, mostly unhappy with the images your mind has conjured. “Like, bug girls?” “Oh yeah. There’s all kinds, but you don’t see ‘em very often,” Ines explains with a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Plus, a lot of them can fly, which makes them hard to catch. I only ever caught one firefly. My belly was glowing all night. It was pretty cool.” You stare at her middle for a long moment, trying to imagine it. “Y- Yeah. I’m sure it was.” It takes an effort, but you shake yourself loose from the ogling fixation. “Actually, I have a question about that: is there some sort of ‘monster girl food chain?’” Ines snorts. “I guess a little bit, but it’s not very strict. Take mermaids. I’m a catfish, which means I’ve got a couple natural advantages: I’m larger than most, I swallow very quickly, and I’ve got a stretchy upper gut. I can even hunt bigger fish. That puts me pretty far ahead of most other aquatic monsters. //“Buuut,// I’m not just a catfish; I’m also a person. And so are all other monster girls. That part—the sapience—can override pretty much any advantage.” She shrugs. “I mean, if the firefly had set a trap, or brought some friends, I could have been the one glowing in her, y’know?” //“Mmm.// I see.” You tap a finger to your chin, mulling over this new information. “That makes a lot of sense.” “That’s what makes humans so interesting,” Ines continues. “You’ve got limited advantages, but… That you’re even asking the question means that you have, in many ways, moved beyond thinking about this all the time. You’ve got huge, long-lasting communities, mountainous cities… You can spend time having weddings for ordinary people… You can give things away. “I am constantly surprised by humanity’s generosity. It’s astonishing. I’ve never found anything quite like it anywhere else in the world.” “Mermaids don’t have weddings like this?” “Well, they’re usually underwater.” Ines cracks a wry grin, then chuckles quietly to herself. “Sorry. Fishermen let their guards down when I make jokes. Merfolk weddings are nowhere near as lavish. Not unless you’re a clan matriarch, but those celebrations tend to be more about a show of wealth, power, and unity. This is… warm and kind. Vibrant.” You watch her ease back on her elbows, half her body sinking into the sand. A wave of peace crosses her features. You recognize the look. She’s relieved, relaxed. It’s how you’ve been feeling all day, like you’re able to truly let your guard down for the first time in a long, long time. Ines slowly slinks toward the water, staying low and simply letting herself slip lazily down the bank. “This has been lovely, but I think I’m going to go for a swim under the moonlight… and maybe try to catch some of these not-fireflies.” She gestures to the drifting arcane motes. “Would you care to join me?” You rise to your feet and dust the sand off your trousers. “I think I’ll pass. Thank you, though.” She pauses her descent and reaches up, taking the fork in hesitant fingers. “I’d, uhm, I’d like to hold onto this. Another memory from tonight.” She looks up at you for approval. “Do you think it’s okay if I keep it? Will anyone miss this—Damn, I know I’ve heard the word before. This, uhm…” “Dinglehopper,” you say, the reference completely unappreciated by the mermaid. You shake your head. “I think it’s fine for you to take as a souvenir.” “I really enjoyed our time together, <<= $name>>. //Kaima te wauahi, keele coll.”// She gives you a wave and a translation as she floats out from the shore. “I hope we will meet again on the river of life.” “Same.” [[Return to the party|Crypto]]<</linkreplace>>

With your good deed done and Sherine nowhere to be seen, you decide to head back toward the party proper and see how things are progressing, make the most of the night while you still can. As it turns out, things are spiraling downhill. Fast. The drunkenness has extended well beyond the purview of restaurants and the town square banquet. Everywhere you look, you find more people stumbling than not, more slurred shouting and drunken merriment. But it’s not an ugly intoxication. The general atmosphere is still one of celebration and cheer—just a very inebriated one. Naturally, said inebriation has done little to dissuade casual acts of predation. Quite the opposite, in fact. Bloated abdomens and writhing guts abound, bumping and jostling and sloshing. It’s the inevitable outcome of impaired judgment and lower inhibitions. <<if $Khobb8 == "Vibe">>You suspect that stranger in the alley won’t be the only person reluctantly spending the night in the stomach of someone blackout drunk, but a<<else>>A<</if>>t least the overall vibe is positive and uplifting. … It’s actually kinda refreshing. Thinking back you’ve seen a side of Havendor today that has been remarkably heart-warming. Bizarre as fuck, yes, but pleasant and cheerful. As you approach the town center, you notice most of the organized acts and entertainment are gone. In their place, you find less formal affairs, ranging from drinking games to ad hoc contests of strength. One or two bards still drunkenly attempt to ply their trade… to mixed results. A particularly sloshed woman plays and sings a song, but she seems to have forgotten a good two thirds of the words. She’ll be damned if that’s gonna stop her from trying, though. A particularly raucous cheer catches your notice, and you idle in the direction of a bustling crowd huddled around a table. You’re forced to shimmy and squeeze, duck and dive to push your way through, but you eventually manage. Naturally, at the center of the commotion, you find Ashlyn leaning back in a wooden chair, her feet up on a nearby seat. “<<= $name>>! Long time no see,” she says, waving an empty mug over her head before slamming it down. She lets out a small burp. You roll your eyes. “It’s been //maybe// an hour.” Ashlyn shrugs. “You here to challenge me?” You gaze upon the metric assload of emptied mugs scattered atop the junky old wooden table littered with scratches. “What… are you doing?” “Drinking game. These backwater fucks think they can drink me under the table, but I’ve been winning every time.” “Seriously?” you ask, noting that she’s alarmingly sober—Well, more sober than expected. You’d think that with a gut //noticeably// full of booze, she’d be completely unhinged by now, but it doesn’t seem to be the case. She’s gotten pretty plastered around you, and this is nowhere close. Hell, all her clothes are still on. Plus, there’s no attempting to compare dick sizes, nor magic ink scrawled anywhere on your body. “Yup. Watch this.” The mage waves over the next contestant, a burly woman coming off a victory at a different table. She stumbles close, then smirks at the slim wizard and thumps a full mug of booze onto the table. //“Whasss// the wager?” she says, slurring. Another joyous crowd follows her and surrounds your table. “This dumbass,” Ashlyn says, nudging your arm. “Deal!” the other woman declares. The audience cheers. Whispers of conspiracy bounce around. You swear you see money exchange hands—they’re betting on the outcome. “Three,” the crowd starts chanting. The challenger grips her cup with white knuckles. You shift nervously in place, wishing you had a mug of your own to ease your nerves. Ashlyn’s too damn unpredictable. The odds of her leaving you hanging are about as good as her winning, though you’re not quite able to estimate how well she’ll fare against someone nearly twice her size. “Two…” Should you run? Apparently, Ashlyn’s been at this for a bit, and you wouldn’t wanna spoil her reputation with massive cowardice. “One…” Dammit. You //really// don’t want to end up in this messily drunken woman’s stomach. It’s bad enough that Sherine already ‘won’ you earlier, but now this? She looks like she’ll pass out after a few more rounds, and then you’ll have to spend the night curled up<<if $Khobb8 == "Vibe">>—just like that stranger you vibed with earlier<</if>>. Worse, you’ll probably get second-hand drunk in there and wake up with a terrible hangover tomorrow. “Go!” The other woman brings the mug up to her lips and starts chugging. You watch and hear the gulps as the cup tilts back, neck slowly craning as the challenger chugs. Across from her, Ashlyn casually takes her drink in one hand, then points with her other. The other woman shrinks to about three inches tall. She hangs in the air for a strange moment like a cartoon, her still-full-size booze splashing and spilling. As soon as gravity takes it hold, Ashlyn’s mug is there to catch the small lady. It’s on her lips a second later. //Glug glug glug…// She chugs the whole thing, tiny person included. You watch the unusual lump fall down Ashlyn’s throat and disappear into her sloshing paunch. She pours the last drops down her gullet, then wipes her lips to the uproarious cheers of the crowd. Her cup hits the table the same moment she belts out a tremendous belch. “See? Works every time,” she explains, turning toward you. Utterly stupefied, it takes a minute for you to find the words. In that time, the onlookers have shuffled over to another table where a presumably normal drinking contest is about to occur. You also find yourself taking the seat beside the mage, scooting the chair up to the table and blinking into a swirling cup of booze for a disturbingly long time. You finally manage to find the words. “How many people have you eaten like this?” Ashlyn shrugs. “Dunno.” She juts her swollen belly at you. “Wanna feel me up and guess?” “They’ve seen you do this multiple times now, right?” you ask, pointing out at the crowd with slight disappointment. “Why the hell are people still challenging you?” “Pfff, I have no fucking idea, but it’s hilarious.” You shrug. It’s about as much of a reasonable answer as you usually get from the mage.<<if $Khobb10 == "Ines">> “Oh,” you mumble, suddenly remembering a misdeed. “Speaking of mischief, I found the tiny person you left atop the wedding cake. That was pretty funny.” She hiccups and giggles at the same time. “Yeah, I thought so too.” <<if $Khobb11 == true>><<set $RVAshlyn ++>>“You’ll be proud of me: I shoved her into a slice and fed her to a mermaid.” @@color:lime;Ashlyn suddenly bolts upright in her chair. She raises a hand to the sky like she’s testifying. “Dude, that’s fucking awesome. High five.”@@ You oblige, then take a swig of booze. It’s thick and heavy, like drinking a cup of bread.<<else>>You take a swig of booze. It’s thick and heavy, like drinking a cup of bread.<</if>><<else>> You take a swig of booze. It’s thick and heavy, like drinking a cup of bread.<</if>> [[Might as well stay and chat for a bit|Micro Brew]]

Of course you should stay; you helped arrange this nascent union. It’d be malpractice to leave before making something happen. Before you begin, however, you decide to move the little group off the road and into the alley between houses. “Okay, Amelie: how would you like to go?” you ask, feeling oddly like a wedding officiant. //Do you, Auri, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded dinner?// “Hands first, please,” Amelie says with a slight hum. “I- I’d like to see her swallow a little bit before I, uhm, can’t see anything.” Auri nods and takes her partner’s wrists in her hands. Fingers twitch against lips. Amelie pushes first, gliding forward a preliminary inch to test the waters. Her partner seems surprised, cheeks puffing out as she adjusts. A series of hums and moans bubble out Auri’s chest as she explores and suckles. Her tongue emerges, then drags along the fur of the monster girl’s arms, studying, tasting. You can see the moment instinct takes over. Auri’s eyes light up as she accepts the offering, taking a quick swallow before adjusting her grip. She pulls as much as Amelie dives, the goat girl letting out a cheerful laugh as she starts to slide down her partner’s throat. She cranes her neck as her cheeks near the encroaching lips, then turns away. “You alright?” you ask gently. The pair come to a pause. Worry colors Auri’s face, but you offer a reassuring hand. She squeezes. “Y- Yes. Sorry, just reflex,” Amelie says, straining. You guide Auri’s hand up over the goat’s horns and onto the back of her neck. “Like that, guide her in.” A sense of pride swells up in your chest as Auri pushes the goat between her lips. She swallows. Her grip adjusts again, uncertain. The tongue retreats, almost courteous. “Thanks, <<= $name>>,” Amelie squeaks happily as her chin’s engulfed. Amelie’s shoulders disappear after another thirty seconds. Auri slurps and suckles her way down, then jolts when her lips crest the monster girl’s breasts. She tries to adjust her grip before trying again. Fingertips dig into a furry backside— //“Shorry!”// Auri mumbles as she starts frantically flailing. The goat responds by hopping up into the air. Her top half plunges down into the throat as she wedges herself firmly inside her predator. Auri yelps as she’s forced to grab the fuzzy butt for stability, the duo wobbling for an unsteady moment. You lurch forward to help, but your apprentice surprises you by throwing her head back and seizing Amelie’s legs. Ardent hands hold her prey in place. She heaves and swallows, wolfing her way down Amelie’s torso in barely a few gulps. She moans out a guttural, satisfied purr. Primal urge flashes in her eyes before they press shut. You step back and watch, each shove producing a new, beautiful lump on Auri’s front. The bulges squirm and writhe, sliding down like coils of a spring. A bump on the chest. A flash of a hand against flesh. A jingling copper bangle. An arm curls and wraps. Slurps and slops echo around you. You steady your trembling legs, then nearly gasp upon catching the rough outline of Amelie’s smiling face on the swelling stomach. That was you, earlier today. Wait, hold on… <<linkreplace "Did you miss an important detail?">><<replace "#text">>@@color:#1E1E1E;You step back and watch, each shove producing a new, beautiful lump on@@ A@@color:#1E1E1E;uri’s front. The bulges squirm and writhe, @@sliding@@color:#1E1E1E; down like @@coil@@color:#1E1E1E;s of a spring. A bump on the chest. A flash @@of@@color:#1E1E1E; a hand against flesh. A jingling @@copper@@color:#1E1E1E; bangle. An arm curls and @@wraps@@color:#1E1E1E;. Slurps and slops echo @@around@@color:#1E1E1E; you. You steady @@your trembling legs@@color:#1E1E1E;, then nearly gasp upon catching the rough outline of Amelie’s smiling face on the swelling stomach. That was you, earlier today.@@ [[Son of a bitch!|Sherine Nom]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

A strong pair of arms wrap around your middle. You’re yanked off your feet and hoisted into the air. “Sherine!” you cry. Wet heat expands over your backside. Lips creep up your peripheral as you kick and flail, your limbs flopping uselessly through the air. A jaw clenches and forces your knees up against your chest. She swallows. You sink into the ripping throat ass-first. A tongue pushes up between your legs and curls around a thigh. Teeth glide along your spine, pushing your tunic up and exposing your skin. A hand reaches into the mouth and tugs at your bag. She pulls away your belongings, your shoes then clamps down before you can yell again. A bucking heave knocks the wind out of you. Lips expand over your forehead, then slide up your arms. The outside world narrows to a wet aperture of flesh. The last thing you see are a pair of fuzzy goat legs being crammed into Auri’s mouth, the woman blissfully unaware of your impending— //Glump!// You fall into darkness. A lapping tongue licks at your frantic fingers in the pitch darkness. Undulating walls usher you downward, inward. The tunnel expands at your back. You slump into a humid chamber, the soft, squishy folds eager to finally meet you, to touch and smother you, to curl you into a delectable little ball. Sherine lets out a satisfied moan, a little exultation. “Oh. Hello,” you hear Auri’s weary voice from beyond the stomach. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” your hostess replies. Her fingers drum along your side as her body sways. You sink into place with each pass. “No, I’m—//uurrpp//— alright. I was just expecting someone else. Did you see <<= $name>> leave?” Abdominals squeeze. “<<= $Xes>> nearby.” “Oh!” Auri giggles. “<<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $Xe>> was<<else>>They were<</if>> helping me out a moment ago.” Your hostess lets out a satisfied sigh. You can hear her heartbeat—both of them, actually—accelerate for just a moment. “Of course <<= $xe>> was. <<= $Xes>> so thoughtful and caring, <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">>isn’t <<= $xe>><<else>>aren’t they<</if>>?” A quieter voice filters down from above, a message just for you. //“Deliciously filling, too.”// //“Please don’t talk about me like I’m food,”// you murmur back. The lamia lowers herself to her counterpart’s level and offers an arm. “Hello, I’m Sherine. You’ve met <<= $name>>, already.” “I’m Auri, and this is Amelie!” Sherine chuckles. “I thought those legs looked familiar.” “Auri?” you call out, pushing with your hands in an attempt to get her attention. “How’d it go?” “Oh, I heard that one pretty clearly,” Auri says. You hear her shuffle closer. “May I?” “Go right ahead,” Sherine says. A smaller hand pokes at your fleshy prison, and you suddenly understand how zoo animals feel when someone taps on the glass. “<<= $name>>, I did it! Thanks for your help!” She steps away, the indent of her hand disappearing from the wall. “Amelie says hi. To both of you.” “I trust she’s in good hands,” Sherine asks, tone curiously trailing. “I- I’m gonna do my best. I’m new at this—second time.” A chuckle spills from the lamia. “Well that’s adorable. I hope you two have a pleasant evening.” An absent hand runs along your back through the stomach walls. “Speaking of, I believe we both have business to take care of.” “Oh yeah, I’m looking forward to it.” Auri giggles. A hand presses along your shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Sherine. Cya, <<= $name>>.” You’d wave goodbye, but… y’know. Sherine hums an idle tune as she slithers away. Her movements are different from other stomachs you’ve been in: she spends a lot more time swaying side to side, and there’s nothing bumping into you from below. It’s a far smoother ride, almost luxurious. Furthermore, she’s found the perfect tension to keep you precisely where she wants you, protruding from her front with hardly any sag. The walls hug you in close, but not too tight. The organ ‘breathes’ with you. All her touches from outside are purely for her own benefit, never once needing to lift or support you with muscle other than her abdominals. She’s a master of her craft. “So, what exactly are we going to do now?” you ask curiously. This is normally the part where you’d expect to be digested, but that’s not an option right now. “Oh, I suppose that depends on your perspective, really.” “I… I don’t understand.” “Well, I’m heading back to my room for a well earned rest with a warm meal.” Sherine chuckles. //“You,// on the other hand…” A hand presses against your back, another at your side. Fingers clench, spread. She’s bracing. “Are just about ready to go //down.”// With a faint //squelch,// a valve parts above your head, and you begin to slip inside, further aided by steady pushes and shoves from beyond. [[Down you go|Meet Lloriel]]

“I’m sure you two will figure it out,” you say awkwardly. “Auri, it’s just like we did earlier: ask how Amelie wants to be eaten. Amelie, Auri’s new at this, so help her along. Tell her when you’re uncomfortable. Communicate, ladies.” They both nod. “R- Right.” “I gotta go—I’m trying to avoid being devoured by Sherine,” you explain, taking the first step away from the duo. “I doubt I’m gonna last the night, but it’s the effort that counts.” “Tell her I say, ‘hello!’” Amelie cheers as you shuffle around the corner and onto the main drag. <<include "Crypto">>

In the time it takes Ashlyn to down another three challengers, you only manage to work your way through a single cup of beer. Thankfully, the stuff’s hearty; more than enough fuel for you to keep running. You strike up some light conversation with a couple sitting at a nearby table, and even help someone pull their top over an exposed stomach at one point. Twice, Ashlyn offers you a cup of what she calls ‘a micro-brew,’ and both times you roll your eyes and turn her down… and then try very hard not to stare as she gulps yet another tiny person. “So, uh, you ever shrink yourself?” you ask as you take the last sip of your beverage. Before Ashlyn can give an answer, a cloud of pink glitter erupts over your shared table. Plume flutters forth. “There you fucking are!” she shouts, chiding Ashlyn. She’s pointing a tiny finger in the mage’s face. “I’m giving you one chance: spit Rabine and Arturo out! Right. Now.” “Ungh!” Ashlyn lurches forward and groans. She flops her arms onto the table and thumps her head down. “Took you fuckin’ long enough.” //“Excuse me?”// Plume fires back. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” In the little pocket of shadow beneath the mage’s hat, you catch a smirk. Ashlyn sweeps her arms out over the table. On reflex, you lift your drink up and away as a dozen empty mugs scatter, rattle and fall over the edge. A tingle prickles at the back of your neck. The mage sits up and slams glowing palms against the surface. The network of shallow divots and carved grooves bursts to life, illuminated by flowing lines of arcane power. A complicated shape takes form, a glyph… … Right below Plume. A bubble about ten inches wide coalesces around the startled fairy, then an icosahedron, followed by a cavalcade of overlapping, impossible geometries. The kaleidoscopic array of spells layer onto the magical prison one after another, like layers of a hard candy. One by one the intersecting lines of the sigil expire, each cut offering another binding to the dense trap. The spells stop, fizzling, crackling residue occasionally sparking from the table. Ashlyn huffs, then peels her palms from the wood to reveal a thick layer of charring. She claps the soot away and inspects the opaque sphere curiously. Without a word, the mage pries the mug from your flabbergasted hands and pours its contents over the arcane ball. A second later, she’s swallowing it. Still silent, you’re helpless to watch as the lump stretches and contorts her throat. Flesh rises and falls. Breasts swing and part. Her gut balloons. She smacks her lips, then taps on her gut with three fingers. Her skin begins to glow, electric lines of neon blues and violent purples spreading like circuitry—the next layer of the trap. An errant noise rises amid the silence. It’s small at first, but grows louder by the second. Ashlyn’s body bounces as the diabolical cackle becomes fully audible. //“Yes! Yes!!”// she cries, rising from her chair. She clutches her gut and starts shaking furiously. “Suck it! Your power is mine!” Ashlyn beats her chest, leaping and bouncing, dancing like a rabid animal in an enclosure, entirely unhinged. She raises her arms to the sky. A bolt of lightning flashes. A boom of thunder rings out, the heavens drumming impending doom. One by one, the stars overhead wind out of existence. The wails of the damned rise from below, harbingers of the apocalypse. You start to get a little nervous. “Wow, look at her go,” someone says directly into your ear. You fall out of your chair at the sudden voice. Plume grabs your earlobe for stability as you hit the ground, but otherwise remains perched upon your shoulder. “I kinda feel bad for her,” the fairy continues, nonplussed. “She seems so happy right now.” Ashlyn screeches as she runs over to a crowd of drunks. “I’m going to conquer the world! Bow before me, puny mortals, or become part of my sex toy collection!” They only sorta care about the threats, but are otherwise amused by the glowing, raving lunatic. “I, uh,” you start, rising to your feet and holding out your palm as a perch for Plume. There’s no way to account for Ashlyn’s behavior. No series of words will help here. You’re just gonna have to beg for mercy. “I’m so, //so// sorry about that.” Plume flits down and waves away your apology. Literally. She waves her hand and you suddenly don’t feel guilty. It’s actually somewhat alarming, but she waves your sense of alarm away next, which leaves you oddly neutral. “It’s not your fault.<<if $Khobb5 == true>> In fact, you tried to warn me. I should have listened.<</if>>” She emits out a sigh that turns into a chuckle. “I didn’t see the trap beforehand. She’s clever. I’ll give her that.” “You don’t have to give her anything. She’s a menace.” The fairy chuckles. “You’re right. And I can’t just let that kind of behavior go unpunished.” Before you can express concern, Plume once again waves you off. “I’m not gonna harm her, just gonna put her in quarantine for the rest of the night.” You hesitate, then shrug. It’s probably for the best. The rounded mage darts back over to your table with mad lust in her eyes, her entire body aglow with arcane runes and tattoos. At the same moment Ashlyn notices Plume flit from your palm, she’s enveloped in a cloud of bubblegum-colored smoke. An uncomfortable tingle slithers along the back of your neck, and you can’t help but shiver. The smoke dissipates. In Ashlyn’s stead, you see Rabine clad her beautiful dress, the garment in pristine condition. She’s cradling a slight man with a pair of tiny round ears in her arms, bridal style. He blinks at her in surprise, looking around like he hasn’t been outside all day. The equine demi fishes a pair of huge, dorky glasses from her pocket and puts them on his face before giving him a huge smooch. Oh, that’s Arturo. Rabine suddenly notices you and Plume. “Hi, Plume! <<= $name>>!” she cheers. You offer a confused wave. “Hey Plume,” you start slowly, watching as the bride and groom saunter off together. “Uhm, what about…” A slosh to your left catches your attention. You flinch as a huge, dangling orb of tan flesh floats into view. It bobs about three feet off the ground. Strapped to the top of the mass is Plume, wings fluttering furiously to keep herself aloft. “What’s up?” she asks, head tilted as if trying to play it off like nothing’s changed. It doesn’t work in the slightest. “Is that Ashlyn?” The fairy smirks, then slaps her gut. Her skin becomes temporarily transparent, and you can clearly make out the mage suspended in space and curled upon herself…. And still glowing. She hangs upside down and is nestled in tight, an unusual shape among the rest of the fairy’s internal organs. You try your best to understand exactly what you’re seeing, but aside from the obvious Ashlyn-shaped-stomach, you have no idea if Plume’s anatomically accurate, let alone viable. Some part of you wishes you were the one in there exploring the fairy’s insides. “What about everyone else in Ashlyn’s stomach?” you ask suddenly. “What about them?” Plume claps once and her stomach opacity returns like she’s clicked off a light. … Well okay then. Plume flies around, testing her new shape. It’s certainly less aerodynamic than before, the sagging gut wobbling as she starts and stops. She stays primarily atop it, with her body horizontal and her ass pointing skyward. Her belly’s too big, she can’t even straddle it. “Why aren’t you, uh, shrinking her?” You tilt your head and watch Plume wobble. “Or making yourself larger? Or… I dunno.” She shrugs. “This is funnier.” A wary gaze suddenly turns your direction. “Y’know, on the subject of stuffing silly people into tight spaces, you’re looking awfully uneaten for someone who lost a bet.” “Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way,” you snark at Plume as you whirl about in a panic. Ashlyn’s fucking outburst will surely draw the snake’s attention to this area— And there she fucking is, copper tail dragging along the ground at the far side of the square. Sherine ducks into a building, a particular zeal to her movements. “Fuck!” You turn back to the fairy and start moving to find cover. “I totally wanted to be hunted by a lamia tonight.” Plume hovers along beside you as you duck into a side street leading back toward the staging area for the party. You scurry between a series of familiar tents—you’re near where you got changed earlier, though the magical booths have been replaced by mundane ones, many of which lie open and house some sort of display, a pride of the town. The fairy clicks her tongue. <<if $Khobb5 == true>>“Well, I feel a little bad because you tried to warn me about your mage, //sooo…”// she trails off, then sighs. “I can help you hide for a bit.”<<else>>“Well, I wasn’t supposed to get involved, but…” She trails off and sighs. “I guess I could help you hide. Just for a little bit.”<</if>> You spare a moment to glare at the fairy. She giggles. “Not in my stomach. I’m already pretty full here.” “I wasn’t—” You huff. It’s not worth it. “What do you have in mind?” “My tent,” she says simply, then points to a simple pink abode. “You can stay there for a little while //if// you promise to help me with something.” [[What the heck, trust her|Ballad of the Bulge][$Khobb13 to "Plume"]] [[Nope, she’s being too vague and suspicious|Unfortunate Son][$Khobb13 to "Fortune"]]

“Sure, I’ll stay for a minute. Thanks for the offer.” Plume shrugs. “I know; I’m amazing.” You follow the absurdly rotund fairy to the indicated tent, then step forward as she flutters aside and allows you to go first. “Are you, uhh, sure she’s not going to be able to find us in there?” you ask, fingers hesitating inches from the flap. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, hurry up.” At your skeptical stare, Plume lets out a sigh. “Okay, fine. You have my word that as long as you’re inside this tent, the danger noodle can’t get you. Happy?” You feel a bit like a child being talked down to by a weary adult, but yeah, close enough. You push inside to discover a tent interior similar to <<if $Khobb1 == false>>your changing room<<else>>the changing rooms<</if>> from earlier in the day, with the minor, near-imperceptible difference that it looks like a localized hurricane has torn its way through in the past hour. Sundreis of every shape and size and purpose are piled from wall to wall or strewn haphazardly across the floor, ranging from garments to cushions to small curios and knick-knacks and even what looks to be a couple pieces of framed artwork. Strangely, not much looks to be fairy-sized. “Oh, right,” Plume says as she drifts in behind you. “Forgot I hadn’t tidied this place up in a minute. Here, let me just…” She snaps her fingers. The mess—rug included—begins to push outward toward the walls of the tent and creates a sizeable allotment of free space in the middle of the floor at the cost of a number of precarious-looking piles around the edges. You can only hope the fairy’s magic will also hold them upright, since one or two of the towers look like they could do some serious damage if they fell on you. “There, much better,” Plume says as the carnage settles. “Have a seat, make yourself at home.” You decide to not mention there’s not a whole lot in the way of proper seating and, after a fitful moment, plop down cross-legged on a clear patch. No sooner has your butt hit the dirt than a nearby pile begins to shudder. You’re moments away from darting clear when, instead of toppling, the mountain of miscellanea ejects a small, midnight-black form that thuds to the ground and immediately scrambles in your direction. The hell-pup, as you immediately recognize it, lets out a muffled //yip// as she skids to a stop at your feet, then drops something warm and disconcertingly wet in your lap—a doll covered in tiny tooth marks and a generous helping of slobber. “Oh, what the hell,” Plume mutters. “How did you even get in here, Luna? Also, find another chew toy. That’s probably… valuable, or something.” You tilt your head. “Luna?” “What, she doesn’t look like a ‘Luna’ to you?” You’re not entirely sure //what// she looks like. You watch the miniature hellhound alternate between bounding around in excited fits and stopping to pant and grin with that dopey smile only a dog can manage. She’s an ineffable paradox of something unimaginably vast and powerful condensed into a deceptively disarming form, small enough that your brain insists you could reach out and hold her in the palm of your hand, yet only kept from crushing you by circumstances and forces entirely beyond your control. … Okay, ‘Luna’ kinda works. Eventually, you turn your attention from the hell-pup back to Plume to discover the fairy cycling through conjured musical instruments. Some disappear immediately with a wave of the fairy’s hand. Others last long enough for a plucked, bowed, or blown note before being dismissed. A rare few receive the beginnings of what sounds like a catchy tune before vanishing with a dissatisfied huff and a cascade of sparks. After this process repeats a solid fifteen times, you decide to pipe up. “How many instruments do you play anyway?” “All of them.” Plume briefly summons what you’re about ninety-percent certain is a fairy-sized set of bagpipes, eyes the mouthpiece with a frown, then dismisses the instrument in another shower of glitter. “Why? Got a request?” “No, I…” You sigh, then shake your head. “You said you wanted my help with something?” Plume blinks. “Oh, yeah. That’s why you’re here.” She snaps her fingers, and a fairy-sized notebook poofs into existence. Plume snatches it from the air and begins to rapidly leaf through the miniscule pages, pausing every few moments to tilt her head at a particular line of text or let out a slight snicker. “Ah, here we are!” she abruptly declares. “One final gift for the happy bride and groom: ‘A Ballad to Commemorate the Joyous Matrimony of Rabine and Arturo.’ It’s a working title, don’t get too attached.” The fairy flips the notebook around and points to a page… which you can’t see because the handwriting is fucking miniscule. You do, however, notice there’s a whole lot of empty space. [[“You want me to… write a song?”|Ballad 2]]

“I, uhh… I think I’ll pass,” you say. There’s no telling what horrors Plume’s private abode could contain—or what fiendish task she might have planned for your ‘help.’ Plume eyes you for a long moment, then merely shrugs. “Your choice. Good luck, buddy.” The fairy drifts off toward her tent, but pauses a few feet out to turn back and add, “Oh, by the way: don’t try to follow me inside if you change your mind.” “Do I wanna ask what happens if I do?” “Depends. What’s your opinion on endless nightmares?” “… Right.” The fairy offers a final, self-satisfied smirk before departing, leaving you with the choice of where to take shelter from the impending danger noodle. Honestly, Plume had the right idea with tents; it’s just //her// tent that you don’t trust. Instead, you cast a gaze around the staging area and, after a brief search, find a worn, modest option that seems to be unused. Not looking to risk another moment in the open, you dart inside, then press the tent flaps shut and catch your breath. “I have foreseen your arrival, A-<<= $name>>.” A shiver crackles up your spine. You whirl about and find a strange woman sitting crossed-legged behind a squat table. She’s clad in an open, silky robe, and adorned by a variety of colorful scarves and sashes covering her privates. A fistful of jewelry jingles on each hand. A single, complex earring like a windchime hangs from a vulpine ear and bobs idly against her cheek. “It’s <<= $name>>,” you say, then attempt to bow out an apology. When that doesn’t work, you use your words. “I’m sorry for barging in here. I- I just needed a place to hide.” “Mm, yes, yes. Of course.” An unkempt eyebrow raises to a perplexed squiggle. “I know.” “You… do?” She gestures to the little blue pillow on the floor. “I know many things. Sit. I will reveal your future.” You stare at her, then at the cushion. Your eyes sweep the room and find all sorts of magical-looking detritus, from wooden talismans, to a bleached animal skull, to a mirror of polished obsidian. Oh, she’s a fortune teller. Not exactly what you expected, but the occult accoutrements say a lot. She gestures again to the pillow, then reaches out with both hands, supplicating. “When you are ready.” <<linkreplace "Sure, why not?">>You shrug and amble over to the seat, planting your butt firmly on the pillow. After a moment, you place your hands in hers, palms up. You’re curious to learn what sorts of abstraction these people use as a catalyst for prognostication, though with the existence of //actual magic// in this world, their methods could be utterly fascinating. How do they achieve arcane clairvoyance? Can one even know such information with perfect accuracy? The universe is mostly math; maybe the magic just helps with the calculations. They wouldn’t need to use obtuse, absurd methods like rolling bones, or reading palms, or measure the shape of one’s— God-fucking-damnit! “Wait, wait, I’ve changed my mind!” you yelp as the fortune teller pulls your arms into her open maw. They disappear with a sonorous //glump.// A dozen rings clatter against the back of your head as she reaches forward and draws you in. You put up nominal resistance for another minute, but even you don’t need magic to know what your future holds. When her lips crest your ribcage, you give up the struggle and simply go limp. You’re not sure why you bothered, the reflex to resist thoroughly dulled from today’s misadventures. Furthermore, the stomach you’ve been shoveled into is surprisingly comfortable, the plush walls billowing gently against the flesh of your face. The rest of you is drawn over the squat table without much of a hassle. You do your best to keep your legs still so that you don’t accidentally kick over a candle and set the entire tent aflame, then curl up like a good little snack when she gulps the last of you. “Mmm. Indeed, indeed,” she hums. You can clearly hear her smack her lips and emit a small, definitely sexual, moan. Her hands glide across her swollen abdomen. “Good, good. Very good.” “Can you just tell me my fortune, already!” you squawk, kicking and flailing against the pillowy walls. “Calm yourself!” she barks. “You must stay in there until you are settled, until you have returned to your most relaxed, most natural form. Only then can I discern your future.” Oh cool. So not only are you socially recognized as ‘natural prey’ by literally everyone you’ve met, but your future is most magically legible when you’re curled up in a ball, stewing away inside someone. This is bullshit. Add it to the long list of grievances you have with this world. You simmer, trying your damnedest to banish the panic and tension from your nerves. It doesn’t help that the witchy woman continues to be utterly unprofessional as she stifles moans of pleasure, but after ten minutes of diminishing movements, the languor sets in. It’s always like this. A stomach is warm and humid and wet, and the constant, subtle shifts and churrs of the groaning organ are deeply comforting. It’s your happy place. You just wanna sync your breathing with your hostess and fall asleep in here. //Urp.// Also that. The next few minutes see excess air vacating the belly, the walls slowly wrapping your ‘natural form’ tighter and tighter. You let your body do the adjusting, acting without thinking, reverting to your most base existence. “Yes. Yes,” she coos. She places both hands over her navel, then slowly expands her touch outward. Fingers sweep along ridges, glide between valleys. A palm pauses over your knee to assess, to measure the intangible. “I see a warm, muggy place.” “Yeah, I’m seeing that too,” you snark. “Silence!” her hands return to her navel “I will start again… <div style="text-align: center;">//“I see a warm, muggy place… A huge, gaping chasm… Exhaustion, a journey through darkness… A cage, though you are not alone… Hunger, uncontrollable…”//</div> After a moment of hanging silence, she clears her throat. “That is all I see for now. That’ll be two gold. How would you like to pay? I accept coin, barter, credit—” “What the fuck!” you roar, kicking and flailing like a wild animal, clawing back space inside the taut sack. “That was all just different ways to say I’m gonna get eaten!” “Interpretations cost extra! Until then, the burden of //meaning// falls upon you!” She slaps her gut in an attempt to quell your motions. “But also, yes, I did see you in a lot of stomachs.” “What kind of charlatan are you!?” You throw a punch into a spongy wall. “Also, everything’s supposed to be free at the party! What kind of asshole sets up a tent, eats people, and //then// demands payment for a load of crock!?” “Please stop kicking so much. It’s very uncomfortable,” she moans, clutching her belly. “I’m quite sensitive.” “Fuck you! Let me out!” you counter. “I know an //actual// wizard! She- She’ll turn you into a dildo for a thousand years. And you’ll be aware for all of it, being shoved up people’s asses like you fucking deserve!” “Oh dear, oh dear. I think I—” The stomach clenches and heaves. You roll about for a dizzying moment before being sucked up and away. You’re vomited onto the floor of the tent a moment later. //“Blech. Uoahhh,// my gut,” she groans, clutching her abdomen. “I need to work on that spell. I //always// get sick.” You’re on your feet before she is. A wet boot stomps on her stupid little table. “You got an incantation to clean me up?” “No.” A pathetic frown paints her face as she retreats slightly. “Sorry, I’m kinda bad at magic. P-Please don’t sic your wizard friend on me.” “Practice some more before you do this to people!” you bark, then storm out of the tent with soggy stomps. [[Leave|Between Two Tents]]<</linkreplace>>

You’ve barely taken two steps outside before a copper lash winds tight around your ankles. You yelp, stumbling forward, but a second, broader length of scales is there to catch you and wind tight, pinning your arms to your sides. “Having fun, <<= $name>>?” Sherine croons, slithering from the shadows. “A bit less now,” you say—a half-truth. “Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve had plenty of time to run around, playing the part of the fleeing prey.” She looms close, and you can see the anticipation churning and writhing in her garnet eyes, threatening to become something darker, demanding. “A bit //too// long, though. Now I’m hungry //and// impatient<<if $Khobb13 == "Fortune">>” Her eyes narrow. “And you’re wet<</if>>.” “I’m… sorry?” “No need for an apology,” The coils binding you tighten, squeezing a strained breath from your lungs. “Or a spoken one, at least. I have a far better idea for how you can make it up to me.” A dart of wet pink along ruby lips says all you need to know about how. Sherine lunges, terrifying speed earning a stifled yelp as her wide maw engulfs your head in an instant. Wet flesh presses against your cheeks, your nose. Saliva plasters your hair to your brow and splashes into your eyes. A massive, rolling gulp drags you a solid foot down on her throat, wrenching your feet clean off the ground. She doesn't slow. If anything, she only gets faster, the next gulp claiming the better half of your arms and pulling you down to your abdomen. Another, and your waist is slipping past her lips. Hands and coils work in perfect concert to assist your breakneck march upward and inward, the end result being less a descent down Sherine’s throat than an outright freefall. Your head breaches her stomach—the human one—an instant before it thumps against the bottom with a splash of juices. You sputter and involuntarily bow your head, then hastily try to arrange yourself into a more comfortable position before you’re forcibly arranged into a pretzel of tangled limbs. Your thighs vanish from the outside world in seconds, only for your knees and shins to immediately follow. The lamia pauses for a single heartbeat to wrench your shoes off, then a second to seal your feet in her mouth. That’s all the respite you get before one last swallow claims you entirely, the final leg of your stomach-bound sprint every bit as ferocious and demanding as the beginning. You spill into her gut like beer from a spigot, undignified and woozy. You never would’ve guessed being devoured could make your head spin, and you’re not especially pleased to be proven wrong. “Wha…. What the hell,” you manage, folding yourself into some measure of collected comfort as you recover. It’s hard to tell up from down, especially since your hostess already seems to be on the move. An experimental hand prods at the stomach walls, hoping to get the lamia’s attention. “Was that really necessary?” An arm folds along your back. “Merely making up for lost time, <<= $name>>,” she murmurs, sounding very pleased with herself. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll take things slower from here. We have all night together, after all.” That’s… not really what you were protesting, but it’s probably not worth the correction. Instead, you sit in silence, gradually relaxing to the steady bob and sway of Sherine’s stomach as she carries you to places unknown. Even amid the soothing sensations, you huff out a slight sigh. “What’s wrong, <<= $name>>?” the lamia suddenly croons. “You don’t seem pleased.” <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>“I miss gentle, seductive Sherine,” you whine. “More honey, less vinegar.” “I’m afraid she turned in an hour ago, around the time some particularly stubborn prey played hard to get. Now you’re just left with me.”<<else>>“I…” Oh, this is gonna sound ridiculous. “I guess I prefer your usual routine. More honey, less vinegar.” Sherine chuckles. “Oh, <<= $name>>. What’s a carrot without a stick? You chose to play hard to get. I’m merely reminding you your actions have consequences.”<</if>> After a brief pause, she continues. “Here, let me make it up to you. Offer you something special. Something most lucky morsels only get to experience once.” Before you can figure out what she means, a valve above your head parts, and you begin to slip inside. The lamia’s hands assist, firmly pushing you deeper head-first. [[Down you go|Meet Lloriel]]

“Sorry, this is kinda awkward,” you say into a left nipple. The woman squirms an inch upward to free you from the embarrassing spot. “Yeah, we’re gettin’ uh,” she hesitates as your face finally slips past her breasts and begins the long and awkward slide down her abdomen. “Compacted. I- I’m gonna do something about that. Don’t move.” You frown, not sure what she could possibly have in mind. It’s not like you’re going anywhere. You’re in a snake gut, a long and winding tube that clamps your arms at your sides and holds your legs like a vice. You’re utterly helpless; it takes a concerted effort to even move your fingers. Wet flesh //squelches// as limbs dig into constricting walls, bumping and shifting against your own in sightless manipulation. She grunts, heaves, lets out a short huff of frustration, then draws in a deep breath and pushes again, sounds of exertion echoing up the stomach and into oblivion. With nothing to do but wait, you take a moment to appreciate your surroundings. The fleshy tube isn’t all bad—it’s like being rolled up in a carpet, or zipped tight in a sleeping bag. Only the sleeping bag moves. And hungers. A skull cracks against your jaw. “Oww. Sorry,” the stranger groans, then crawls and pulls herself to your level. A tuft of wet hair slops against your face. “Hopefully less awkward now.” You’re not entirely sure you’d agree with that assessment. You’re still crammed up next to a naked woman—a //smaller// woman, you note now that you’re fully aligned. Her hips are narrow. Her toes poke your shins. The good news is that you can hide your boner a bit better now—a fact for which you are extremely grateful, given you’re pressed up against each other, <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>both naked<<else>>one of you already naked<</if>>, surrounded by shifting flesh and intoxicating heat. A small, suicidally bold part of you is tempted to just ask if she— Ahem. Best not to let your mind wander in //that// particular direction. “Uhm, anyway,” you start, swallowing a thick glob forming at the back of your throat. Holy shit the miasma’s thick down here. “S- Since we’re gonna be stuck together… my name’s <<= $name>>.” An awkward silence follows, long enough that you begin to wonder if she’s ever going to give you hers. Admittedly, that wasn’t your most graceful introduction, but you’re pretty sure your circulation’s being cut off. You’re doing your best. “Lloriel.” <<linkreplace "//… Like the shampoo?//">>“… Like the shampoo?” “What?” she asks. Oh. You said that out loud. Oops. “N-Nothing, sorry. Nice to meet you, Lloriel.” Her agreement’s absence is palpable. //“Soooo,”// you start again. “How long have you been down here?” She’s silent for another long stint. You’re uncertain if she’s falling asleep between questions, or deliberately avoiding talking to you. You hope it’s not the latter—why else would she have flipped around to face you if she didn’t want to speak? “I… I actually don’t know,” she eventually answers. “The lamia g- got me around midday, and, ah… it’s hard to tell how long it’s been.” Oh no. You have to deliver bad news. Your greatest weakness. “It’s well past sunset.” “Oh damn.” Wait a second. Midday? Sherine must have grabbed her almost immediately after you first parted ways this morning. Was Lloriel in there when you ran into the lamia at that eatery? “H- How’d it happen?” you ask, forcibly quashing any hint of keen interest in her answer. This is purely small talk. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she admits.<<if $SherineEvent3 == false>> Just when you’re certain she’s ready to slip back into another long and withering silence, she suddenly asks, “How about you?” You chuckle ruefully. “I lost a game… kinda. Actually, it might’ve been rigged.” “By, uhh… what’s her name? Sherine?” “Not her.” You sigh. “Well, probably. We were playing this game, //Who Am I?// And the last round was for monster girls. Sherine got ‘lamia,’ if you can believe it. And I was stuck with ‘shapeshifter.’ Couldn’t even begin to make a proper guess, since every time I asked a question the whole table had no idea how to answer. So she won, and I lost. You can, uhh, probably guess what the stakes were<<if $Khobb8 != false>>—I tried running away, but she got me anyway<</if>>…” You falter, catching yourself at the end of a long and winding ramble. Lloriel, of course, says nothing, leaving you to slowly fold in yourself from mounting embarrassment. You’re going to die. You’re going to crunch yourself up into a pill so miniscule that Plume’s spell won’t even recognize you as a person anymore. On a positive note, Sherine will get her meal after all. Okay, you need to keep asking questions, even if it’s just to keep yourself sane.<<else>> Another infinite silence fills the scant space of the stomach. Lloriel makes a faint popping noise with her lips. You can’t help but notice she’s not asking you what happened… because she already knows. You fucked on top of her. She knows //everything.// She knows how you begged, how you moaned. She knows when you lost steam and Sherine turned you into a meat puppet. She could probably hear exactly how much semen dribbled into the snake-body—the vibrations run the entire length of the tail, after all. Maybe Plume’s magic will just suddenly vanish and you’ll digest. You’d take gastric death over mortal cringe.<</if>> You draw in a breath, then try for a third time. “Are you a local?” “No,” she answers immediately—not exactly terse, but hardly insightful either. “Oh. What brings you to Khobb, then?” “The wedding.” Just when you’re certain that’s her entire answer, she adds, “Wanderlust usually keeps me on the road, but I’ve been here for the past week. How about you?” “I guess I’m also a traveler of sorts—Though I dabble in adventuring from time to time.” In the awkward quiet that follows, you get the sense that Lloriel would be more comfortable sitting in silence. As much as you’re not particularly keen on the idea, you don’t want to be rude. Besides, you //are// actually getting tired. Maybe you can manage some sleep. “… You any good at it?” Lloriel suddenly asks. “Hm?” “Adventuring.” You snort. “Honestly? No.” “Yeah. It’s hard,” she says, and for the first time you hear a note of sympathy. “I was… pretty terrible at it myself.” As scant conversation fades, a stifled yawn drifts past your ears, and you can’t help but do the same—contagious little bastards.<<if $SherineEvent3 == false>> You shift, hoping to find a marginally more comfortable position, only to feel a portion of your tunic slough off in the process. A slow shudder crawls down your spine. God damn. You’ve been down here for, what, ten minutes? Just how deep does Sherine have you? How long would your body last without Plume’s protective magics? Going by feel, you doubt your clothes are making it through the hour.<</if>> You gasp as a new weight suddenly drapes across your back, not crushing, but substantial. Vague impressions pass through walls of flesh and muscle: the idle sweep of a hand, the gentle embrace of an arm. Sherine must be settling upon her coils, relaxing, preparing to sleep. “I, uhh… I think we might be spending the night in here.” “Oh.” Lloriel says simply. Another yawn ambushes you, stronger this time. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a //looong// fucking day.” You’re not entirely lamenting the idea of a night spent swaddled in plush and cozy warmth, but… “I don’t want to just fall asleep and leave you hanging though.” “Do you snore?” “Uh, not to my knowledge?” “Then you’re fine.” She shifts down and away, settling under you like you’re just another blanket. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” you ask, unable to repress your helpful nature. “I can’t really get off of you.” “Eh, I’m—I can sleep anywhere.” Sure enough, she’s out like a light an instant later—or at least she’s quiet and still enough that you can’t tell the difference. The steady thrum of an immense, distant heart resonates through your surroundings, mingling with the omnipresent shift of wet flesh and faint organic groans. You draw in a slow breath that morphs into yet another yawn, then settle down and do the same. [[Drift to sleep|Hungerover]]<</linkreplace>>

You blink. “You want me to… //write// a song?” “Oh, gods no. Havendor’s not ready for that calamity.” The fairy chortles to herself. //“Help,// though, should be a little more your speed.” “Right, okay,” you nod along. “Uhm… How, exactly?” “Well you, uhh… Hmm.” Plume taps a finger against her notebook for a minute. “Okay, let’s start with an easy one. I need some more words that rhyme with ‘Khobb.’ Any ideas?” “What’ve you got so far?” “Not much, honestly.” The fairy shrugs. “Pretty shit name as far as rhymes with positive connotations go. Mob, lob, snob, bob, and daub. Maybe hob. Probably not rob. Slob’s a no-go, or at least I can’t find a way to make it work.” You think it over for a minute as Luna settles down and slumps against your leg, tail thumping the dirt in a steady rhythm. “How about…” <<linkreplace "Swab">><<replace "#choices">> swab,” you eventually suggest. “Ah, yeah. That’s what everyone wants to think about when remembering a big festival—all the cleanup work you had to do afterward.” “What about a person you don’t like,” you counter. “Y’know, ‘Avast, ye swabs’ and all that.” “Seen a lot of pirates at this wedding, <<= $name>>?” Plume says with a roll of her tiny eyes. “Whatever, I’ll put it on the list.” <<set $Ballad1 to "swab">> <<include "Ballad 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Job">><<replace "#choices">>job,” you eventually suggest. “That’s… Huh.” Plume huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, okay. I think I can make something work with that. Not bad, <<= $name>>.” <<set $Ballad1 to "job">> <<include "Ballad 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Sob">><<replace "#choices">> sob,” you eventually suggest. “That’s a bit dour, don’t you think?” “What about the tears of joy on behalf of the happy couple?” “Uncontrollable, wracking, tearful fits of joy?” You raise an eyebrow. “… Yes?” Plume eyes you for a long, discerning moment, then merely shrugs. “Eh, alright. Guess I’ve never really been the sentimental type myself.” <<set $Ballad1 to "sob">> <<include "Ballad 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Glob">><<replace "#choices">> glob,” you eventually suggest. Plume blinks. “‘Glob?’” “Uhh… yeah?” “Care to use it in a sentence.” “Globs of, uhm… goo?” Her tiny eyes narrow. “And where, exactly, would you be experiencing these ‘globs of goo,’ <<= $name>>?” “I, err…” You shift under the fairy’s scrutinous gaze, provoking a soft //arf// from Luna. “In… stomachs?” Plume sighs. “We’re memorializing the union of a newly wedded couple, and you’re thinking about stomachs?” “If I say no, can I go back and change my answer?” “Too late. Glob’s going on the list.” <<set $Ballad1 to "glob">> <<include "Ballad 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Throb">><<replace "#choices">> throb?” you hesitantly suggest. Plume stares at you for a long moment. “Just what kind of ballad do you think I’m writing here, <<= $name>>?” “Uhh… What about the throb of the excited crowd.” “You’re thinking ‘thrum.’” “A throbbing heart?” “Better, but it’s more of a ‘new love’ thing.” “Okay, well no one said the ballad couldn’t be a bit bawdy.” She eyes you for a moment longer, then breaks into an impish grin. “You know what, I like the way you think. Throb’s on the list.” <<set $Ballad1 to "throb">> <<include "Ballad 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

The fairy spends a minute scribbling in her notebook, alternating between pensive hums and scratches of her quill. Finally, she nods. “Okay, let’s try another rhyme, something a bit more specific this time. I need a word that rhymes with ‘Rabine.’” “Uhh, ‘Rabine?’” “Y’know, like the bride.” You fold your arms. “I know who Rabine is. I’m more wondering about the context. Maybe give me the rest of the stanza, and I’ll have some ideas.” “Ugh, fine. It’s the second line. You’ll hear it.” Plume clears her throat. <div style="text-align: center;">//“In fair ol’ Khobb on tides of spring, one-two three-four five-six. What cheer the merry union brings, o’Arturo and Rabine.”//</div> “Wait.” You frown. “You don’t even have the line at all?” “Hey, I’ve got some ideas,” Plume quips. “But I don’t wanna get too attached to something that has to go just because the rhyme won’t work.” “Right, okay. So you’re looking for a six-syllable line that ends in a word rhyming with ‘Rabine.’” “Easy there, <<if $xe == "he">>big guy<<else>>fucko<</if>>. Just focus on the rhyme,” she insists. “Leave the fancy stuff to me.” <<linkreplace "Stream">><<replace "#choices2">>“What about ‘stream?’” you suggest after a moment’s consideration. “There’s a stream—well, river—that runs just past the town. Maybe mention that?” The fairy nods. “Not a bad idea. Could also try something about an unending //stream// of food and drink.” “Yeah, but I kinda figured your first two lines were establishing the setting. The party itself feels more like a second-stanza thing.” “Well aren’t you a little lyricist-in-the-making,” she says returning to the notebook, quill in hand. Before you can mention she’s a far better candidate for ‘little’—massive stomach notwithstanding—Plume lets out an exasperated huff and scratches out a few lines. “You know what, strike that,” she says. “Different question: how are you feeling about the stanza overall?” <<set $Ballad2 to "stream">> <<include "Ballad 4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Team">><<replace "#choices2">>“What about ‘team?’” you suggest after a moment’s consideration. “Probably not so much a //team// of people, but more like, ‘the festival //teems// with excitement.’” “It’d need to pair with a plural subject, for just ‘teem.’” “You could fudge it, say ‘teems’ is close enough.” The fairy scowls. “What sort of cut-rate lyricists do you take me for? I’ll burn down this tent with both of us inside before I rhyme ‘Rabine’ with ‘teems.’” “… Really?” She considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “Probably not. But I definitely wouldn’t put my name on the song.” “I guess that—Wait, hold on. You’ve already got ‘spring’ and ‘brings.’” “That’s different.” //“How?”// “I’m the poet, not you.” Plume returns to her notebook, scratching away. “Either way, I’ll figure something out and… You know what, strike that. Different question: how are you feeling about the stanza overall?” <<set $Ballad2 to "team">> <<include "Ballad 4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Supreme">><<replace "#choices2">>“What about ‘supreme?’” you suggest after a moment’s consideration. “Something like, ‘where revelry reigns supreme.’” “Syllable count’s a bit off,” the fairy chimes. “But that’s nothing the judicious use of an apostrophe can’t handle.” “What do you mean?” “Cut the ‘revelry’ to ‘rev’lry.’ It’s a bit of a mouthful to try and say it casually, but it’ll breeze right by in song. Now I just need to…” Plume trails off as she scratches away at her notebook, only to falter with a frustrated huff and cross out a few lines. “You know what, strike that. Different question: how are you feeling about the stanza overall?” <<set $Ballad2 to "supreme">> <<include "Ballad 4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Dream">><<replace "#choices2">>“What about ‘dream?’” you suggest after a moment’s consideration. “‘Like a dream,’ or something to that effect.” The fairy frowns. “A bit cheesy, but I think I can make something work. Let me see…” Plume trails off as she scratches away at her notebook, only to falter with a frustrated huff and cross out a few lines. “You know what, strike that. Different question: how are you feeling about the stanza overall?” <<set $Ballad2 to "dream">> <<include "Ballad 4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Beam">><<replace "#choices2">>“What about ‘beam?’” you suggest after a moment’s consideration. “Like a smile?” “Uhh, maybe.” You rub the back of your neck. “Could also go with something about the sun ‘beaming down upon the wedding.’” “Beam’s gotta be at the end, remember?” “Well yeah, you’d have to shuffle things around. I thought you said you were gonna handle the fancy stuff.” “Fine, fine. Let me see…” Plume trails off as she scratches away at her notebook, only to falter with a frustrated huff and cross out a few lines. “You know what, strike that. Different question: how are you feeling about the stanza overall?” <<set $Ballad2 to "beam">> <<include "Ballad 4">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“What, like, the whole thing?” “Yeah. Is it rushed? A bit sparse? How’s the flow feel to you?” “I, err…” You pause, not entirely sure what to say. This isn’t exactly your area of expertise. “I mean, it sounds fine to me—aside from the missing second line, obviously.” “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got something for that already. I’m just trying to gauge it as a whole.” You frown. “Do //you// not like it?” A tiny quill taps against the page in a rapid staccato before Plume finally answers. “I don’t //not// like it. But something’s just sitting a bit off. It’s the first words of the song, after all. Gotta make a good initial impression.” “Okay, well… I guess the last line seemed a bit rushed. With that kinda half-‘of’ before Arturo.” Plume sighs. “Not much to be done about that, I’m afraid. Unless you wanna go back in time and persuade Arturo’s parents to give their son a two-syllable name.”<<if $Ballad2 == "team">> “Wait, weren’t you the one threatening to burn the tent down rather than make lyrical compromises?” The fairy’s quill //plinks// against your forehead, then falls into your lap where it vanishes in a puff of glitter. “That was a minute ago; this is now. Get with the program.” <<else>>“You could shorten it to something like ‘Arty.’” The fairy’s quill //plinks// against your forehead, then falls into your lap where it vanishes in a puff of glitter. “You exchanged five whole words with the guy, and now you wanna give him a nickname?”<</if>> “R- Right,” you stammer. “Well, maybe you could change up the rhyme scheme? Right now, you’ve got this alternating rhyme, right?” “Yeah, it’s ‘ABAB.’” Plume nods. “Don’t forget the asymmetrical syllable count. The B lines are shorter than the A’s.” “Okay. What if you went with something like an ‘ABBA,’ so your first line gets the Rabine rhyme. I guess you keep the same syllable counts and it’d still sound fine.” “That’s an idea…” The fairy pauses, head tilted. “So something like ‘<<= $Ballad2>>, spring, brings, Rabine.’ But I’d need to rewrite another couple stanzas to match, and I’m not sure it really makes the song any more //interesting.”// You furrow your brow, then catch a hand idly petting the hell-pup still lying at your side. She gives you a heart-rendingly piteous look when you stop, untold sorrow welling in brimstone eyes. Telling yourself it’s probably not going to make her any //more// likely to devour you should she return to her original form, you presume. Besides, it helps you think. “Maybe you could try an even more asymmetrical form?” you eventually suggest. “Something with some more complexity, like an ‘AABBA’ with a couple shorter lines thrown in to match the timing?” “A //limerick?”// Plume makes a retching sound. //“Eugh,// I wasn’t aware this was toddler poetry hour.” [[Well that’s rude…|Ballad 5]]

Thoroughly cowed, you settle back into glum silence as Plume continues to work, casting the occasional inquisitive glance around the tent to see if you can spot anything of interest in the piles. And boy do you ever. A cursory look finds no less than three weapons—two swords in their scabbards, and an ornamented halberd—a globe, a jewel-encrusted scepter, and a sizeable marble bust with a sort of pretentious air that suggests you’d probably know who was being depicted if you were a bit better educated in Havendorian history. You’re not entirely sure what to make of the eclectic—and likely incredibly valuable—collection. If Plume were a bit bigger… and had scales and wings and could breathe fire, you’d probably call it a hoard. Can fairies have hoards? “Okay, I need a vibe check.” You blink. “A what?” “You went to the riverside sandlots, right?” Plume continues, completely ignoring your question. “I think I made sure to point you in that direction.” “Uhm, yeah. Why?” “How’d you describe the feel there? The general atmosphere. The vibe.” “I’m… not entirely sure what you’re getting at.” She sighs. “Was it exciting, energizing? Was it the eager hum of a celebration, or the revelatory abandon of a carnival?” “How do I tell the difference?” “Count the number of drunk people.” “Oh, uhh…” You consider it for a moment. “Actually, I got the impression of this heartwarming community endeavor. Like everyone was coming together, pitching in what they could to help and having fun while doing it. Well, for the most part.” “Bleh, boring.” The fairy waves a dismissive hand. “I need excitement. Passion.” “For a ballad about a wedding?” //“Especially// for a ballad about a wedding. Who wants to listen to a song about just, I dunno, being happy or some bullshit. ‘Good’ isn’t good enough. It’s gotta be great. Excellent. The best wedding of all time.” “Do you ever think you might be contributing to an epidemic of unreasonable expectations and societal unhappiness?” “Not even once. I’m allergic to introspection.” “Points for honesty.” Plume offers a smug grin. “Yeah, and I still need //your// honest impression of the sandlots.” “I dunno,” you say with a shrug. “There was a lot going on. It was fun, even if I wound up spending half my time looking for someone who was //right// by the entrance.” //“Fun.”// Plume spits the word like it’s poison. “Somehow even worse than ‘happy.’ Can’t you just—Okay, let’s try a different tack here. You spent some time at the sandlots, saw—and hopefully experienced—a variety of attractions. Any common trends or themes that stood out? Anything that tied the whole experience together?” <<include "BalladAsk">>

<<switch $Ballad>> <<case 1>> “I guess there were a lot of, uhm… exciting games?” you offer hesitantly. Plume scowls. “Yeah, I know. I //just// said that.” You shrug. “Well, what do you want from me?” “Tell me something //about// those games. //Why// were they exciting? What made them interesting, weird, thrilling?” <<case 2>> “They had these, uhh, ‘Bucks’ you could earn from the various games—little gold-painted antler chips. And then you could turn them in at the prize counter when you were done. Apparently the town pitched in with all sorts of odds and ends. That’s actually where I ran into, err… what’s his name again?” “Absolutely riveting,” Plume drawls, stifling a yawn. “Tell me about the snacks next. Or were all the attendants wearing uniforms? Actually, just give me every single exciting logistical detail all at once. Don’t worry, I can take it.” “I mean, I thought the—” “Oh, oh, I know! I’ll sing about how all the fences were very sturdy and up to code. I’m sure that’ll keep crowds absolutely riveted.” You blink. “Are you done?” “Depends. You got any better ideas?” <<case 3>> “I had several surprisingly pleasant conversations.” “Nononono.” Plume waves her hands. “Wrong direction. We’re supposed to be moving away from the happy boring feel-good stuff, remember?” “I’m serious. Most everyone seemed happy just to chat about all sorts of things. There was mermaid visiting from out of town, and a—” “And now you’re doubling down. C’mon, <<= $name>>. Wrack that brain of yours. There’s gotta be something interesting you can really dig into.” <</switch>>

“I, uhh… I mean, there were a lot of people, erm… eating each other.” <<if $Ballad1 == "glob">>Plume smirks. “First ‘glob,’ now this? You really got stomach’s on the brain there, huh?” “I- I’m serious,” you insist, perhaps a bit too desperate<<else>>“Huh.” Plume tilts her head, eyeing you curiously. “That’s the main thing that stood out to you? The eating?” “W- Well, yeah,” you say<</if>>. “I mean, it was basically everywhere, a part of every game. A dunk tank, but if you get dunked, there’s people waiting in the water to eat you. Tug of war, but the winner eats the loser. Tag, but—well, you get the idea.” The fairy nods. “Alright, alright. You might be onto something here. But I need more. Something tangible. Something to really dig into, capture the true spirit of the festivities. Let me think.” She summons a new quill and taps it to her lip. “How’d all this eating make you feel, <<= $name>>?” You lurch instinctually, causing Luna to bolt upright with an excited //yip.// “I, err—I d- don’t really know, uhh, how that made me feel. I guess it wasn’t really all that important.” “Really? ‘Cause you pointed it out.” Plume flutters a bit closer, gargantuan stomach swaying like a pendulum. “It sure //seems// like something that caught your attention.” “I wouldn’t say that. It’s just a bit of, uhm… pattern recognition. Can’t help but notice when you see the same thing over and over again, right?” “Are you //suuure// about that?” Plume flits another foot closer, bringing that gut perilously close to your face. “You suddenly seem awfully nervous about all this.” “I, uhh—I dunno. I guess it kinda adds to the excitement of it all. The potential danger—err, well, not dangerous today, exactly. But normally it would be. It’s like an added incentive, I guess.” The fairy stares at you for a moment longer, then retreats with a nod. “Ah, I understand.” “You… You do?” “Oh, yeah. Of course. It’s not just about people being eaten. It’s about the fact that //you// might get eaten.” “It—Wait, no. No it isn’t. Definitely not that.” “See, the problem here is that we’re just not able to capture that energy, that ‘excitement.’” You plant your hands at your side, preparing to rise to your feet. “No, no. I think you’ve got the wrong idea.” “What we need,” Plume continues, indifferent to your protests, “is a reenactment. And I’ve got the perfect thing.” Before you can interject, the fairy snaps her fingers. A shower of glitter erupts at the opposite side of the tent, blinding in its prismatic radiance. In its place stands… a woman. Luna immediately bolts upright and darts to the new arrival, yapping every step of the way. She completes a good six laps around the stranger’s feet and, evidently satisfied, settles down on her doggy-haunches to look up, tongue lolling from her mouth. You blink at the new figure, befuddled. By all accounts, you are, in fact, looking at a perfectly ordinary person, roughly average height and dressed in plain garb that would fit right in with the rest of the revelers at today’s celebration. But upon closer inspection, a few strange details catch your eye. Her clothes are entirely straight and unfrayed. Brown eyes stare ahead, unblinking. Lips are locked in a smile that’s just slightly too immaculate. “Plume, is that… an illusion?” you ask. “Uhh… kinda.” “What do you mean, ‘kinda?’” “Well, think of it more like illusion-plus. Illusion magic usually focuses on a single sense. Maybe two, if you’re feeling fancy. This is a bit more thorough—a fun tapestry of perception-altering spells to thoroughly convince everyone nearby that she’s actually real. I call her Viola.” “Hello,” Viola says, nearly causing you to jump out of your skin. “Oh, yeah, and she can talk,” Plume adds. “Not much of a conversationalist, but it’s still neat.” The illusion nods. “Hello.” “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Viola,” Plume says with a wave of her hand. “We won’t be needing that today.” You frown, wondering why the fairy can’t just ‘magic’ the illusion into silence. Maybe it’s some quirk of the spell—the ‘illusion-plus’ is so thorough that even Plume’s subject to it. “So wait,” you start. “The illusion—Viola, I mean—she’s not actually there, but I just think she is?” “Yep.” “So what happens if I, I dunno, try to poke her. Will I feel something?” Plume beams. “Good question. Viola, kick <<= $name>>.” Before you can react, the ‘illusion’ steps forward and kicks you right in the shin, sending a lance of sharp pain arcing up your leg. “Wha—Oww!” you yelp. “That fucking hurt! How the hell is that possible? I thought you said she wasn’t real.” “The amazing power of the human mind,” Plume says, waggling her fingers. “You’re so convinced Viola is real that when she hit you, your body just kinda filled in the pain for her.” “So I… hurt myself?” “Pretty much, yeah.” A dainty burp escapes her throat. “Anyway, back to the subject at hand: Viola, eat <<= $name>>.” [[Wait, what!?|Viola]]

<> <<if $Ballad3a == false>> <<link "Exciting games">> <<set $Ballad3a to true>> <<set $Ballad to 1>> <<append "#Ballad">><<include "BalladSwitcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "BalladAsk">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Ballad3b == false>> <<link "‘Bucks’ and prizes">> <<set $Ballad3b to true>> <<set $Ballad to 2>> <<append "#Ballad">><<include "BalladSwitcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "BalladAsk">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Ballad3c == false>> <<link "Pleasant conversation">> <<set $Ballad3c to true>> <<set $Ballad to 3>> <<append "#Ballad">><<include "BalladSwitcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "BalladAsk">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> [[People eating each other|Ballad 6]] <>

You scramble back on instinct, but Plume’s creation is faster. Viola bends down and grabs your ankles, holding you in place. You kick and squirm, but the so-called ‘illusion’ restrains you with hardly any effort at all, even as she kneels to the ground. “Y- You’re not actually going to do this, are you?” you squeak, equal parks bewildered and concerned. The fairy shrugs. “I mean, technically this isn’t happening at all, so there’s nothing for me to do.” “But aren’t you the one controlling the, err… illusion?” Plume waves a hand. “Semantics. Focus on the important stuff, <<= $name>>. Like this.” On cue, Viola shoves your feet into her mouth, shoes and all. A distressingly wet and visceral sensation wraps its way up your ankles and toward your shins, saliva soaking into your socks. A forceful swallow yanks you downward, dragging your ass across the dirt floor and eliciting a muted yelp from your throat. How the fuck is any of this possible? How is an illusion dragging you across the ground? The punch is one thing—the simulated pain makes a kind of sense—but Viola’s //moving// you. What the hell does this look like to someone not under the spell’s effect? Are you just sliding around on your own? Are your legs just floating there in mid-air? And why does it feel so //real?// “Woah, hey Viola. Let’s slow it down a bit,” Plume says. You glance down to realize the illusion’s already past your knees and working her way toward your thighs. She pauses and lets out a slight nod—bobbing your lower half up and down in the process—before taking her next, gentler gulp. “After all,” the fairy continues, “we gotta make sure <<= $name>> here has plenty of time to really bask in the experience, get those creative juices flowing. <<= $Xir>> feedback is critical.” “I r- really don’t see how this is actually helping anything,” you manage. Plume folds her arms and frowns. “Well it //will// if you start giving me some useful answers.” She gestures to Viola who—oh fuck, she’s nearly at your waist. “Chop chop, she’s only gonna go so slow.” You genuinely try to form some useful, coherent thought—or even recall what exactly Plume’s hoping to get from you—but every second you’re just more and more distracted by how alarmingly real this all feels. You’ve been eaten… well, a lot. Too many times, by any reasonable standard. You might even consider yourself something of an authority on the subject at this point. “C’mon, <<= $name>>,” Plume drawls. “You’re //there,// in the moment. Literally. Sinking deeper and deeper by the second. How’s this make you feel? What’s going on in that strange little brain of yours? Give me something.” Oh, right. That’s what she’s after. Unfortunately for productive and cogent thought, you’re too busy fretting all the subtle details, even as you repeatedly attempt to reassure your conscious mind none of this is actually happening. Plume’s bizarre amalgamation of sensory deception is a flawless recreation of the experience, from the lapping tongue brushing against your trousers to the rippling muscles pulling your legs deeper and deeper. Even the subtle grip and release at the entrance to Viola’s stomach, alongside the steady tingle of the digestive juices within— Wait, tingle? “Uhh, hey Plume?” you start, suddenly feeling a bit more nervous as another swallow takes you to your abdomen. “Can Viola, erm… digest me? I mean, with the spell in effect and all, she shouldn’t be able to. I’m perfectly safe, right?” “She—” The fairy falters, then taps a finger to her chin. “Y’know, that’s an interesting question. See, the spell isn’t gonna stop something that isn’t happening, since Viola can’t actually digest anything at all. But also, your mind is gonna be really convinced that she //can.”// “R- Right, but what’s that actually mean for me.” Plume shrugs. “I have absolutely no idea. Wanna find out if the human body is capable of digesting itself?” You urgently shake your head. “No. Not really.” “Oh, well, better hurry up there.” Viola swallows again, lips rising to your chest. Fuck. Okay. Alright. You can form a coherent thought while being eaten alive. You just need to tell Plume how it feels, which is… complicated. Deeply complicated. You feel a lot of things right now. Some good, some bad. And you’re not sure which of those you’re entirely comfortable admitting to the tiny bastard who put you in this situation. Oh, and it’s also worth considering whether or not Plume thinks your answer is satisfactory, since if she doesn’t, she’ll probably just let Viola finish the job. And you really don’t wanna find out what happens then. Mostly. “Uhh, o- okay, okay. I got it,” you stammer as another gulp pulls you down to your armpits. A wandering tongue crawls between your shoulder blades. “It’s, uhm… I- It’s…” <<linkreplace "Terrifying">><<replace "#choices">>“It’s terrifying!” you cry out. The tight warmth encompassing your body vanishes in an instant, leaving you to thump to the dirt floor of the tent. You blink, staring around for any hint of Viola or a trace of lingering magic. Instead, an absurdly bloated fairy drifts into vision, profound judgment in her tiny eyes. “Terrifying, huh?” “Uhh… yeah. It’s a bit terrifying,” you eventually repeat. “I mean, the idea of being devoured like that, just casually swallowed like any other meal—a big one, admittedly. Crammed down someone’s throat only to be stuck inside a stomach. The looming threat of digestion. Why wouldn’t it be terrifying?” “And this made you want to spend //more// time at the sandlots?” You frown. “I mean, kinda. People like watching—err, hearing scary stories, right? Sometimes it’s fun to be afraid. Especially when it’s not actually all that dangerous.” Plume stares at you for a long and contemplative moment before offering a slow nod. “You know what, that almost makes sense, <<= $name>>.” “Really—I- I mean, of course it does.” “Yeah, yeah. I’ve penned a spooky song or two in my days. Hell, people still sing ‘Halls of Theradine,’ and I wrote that, like, a hundred and fifty years ago. Not really sure it’s the right vibe for a wedding, but I might be able to make something work.” “Oh, uhh…. Good, I guess.” “Definitely. For a second there I thought I was gonna have to bring Viola back and start this whole thing over again.” <<set $Ballad3 to "terrifying">> <<include "Ballad 7">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Exhilarating">><<replace "#choices">>“It’s exhilarating!” you cry out. The tight warmth encompassing your body vanishes in an instant, leaving you to thump to the dirt floor of the tent. You blink, staring around for any hint of Viola or a trace of lingering magic. Instead, an absurdly bloated fairy drifts into vision, tiny eyes fixated on you discerningly. “Exhilarating?” “Y- Yeah,” you manage. “Kinda like I was saying earlier. The danger, the thrill. It takes a simple game and makes it into this facsimile of a life-or-death struggle.” “Huh.” Plume frowns, then slowly nods. “You know what, you’ve got a good point, <<= $name>>. I think we should find //more// ways to incorporate people eating each other into every-day activities, really spice things up.” “I don’t know if I’d go that—” “And while we’re at it, someone really needs to get around to inventing a sport where it’s part of the official ruleset. We’ve had plunges for—oh man, I think those might actually predate me—so it’s about time we make a slightly less murder-y game of it. Well, the slice-and-stab kinda murder.” You begin to worry you may have accidentally contributed to something terrible. With any luck, you won’t be around to see this particular seed bear its horrendous fruit. <<set $Ballad3 to "exhilarating">> <<include "Ballad 7">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Arousing">><<replace "#choices">>“It’s arousing!” you cry out. The tight warmth encompassing your body vanishes in an instant, leaving you to thump to the dirt floor of the tent. You blink, staring around for any hint of Viola or a trace of lingering magic. Instead, an absurdly bloated fairy drifts into vision, profound judgment in her tiny eyes. “Explain.” “It’s… I find it arousing,” you answer sheepishly. “Being eaten, I mean. The warmth, the tightness. Being swallowed down by a hungry predator. It can be exciting, sometimes. Especially when digestion is off the table, I can kinda just… enjoy it.” Plume flashes a smug grin. “Should I bring back Viola and give the two of you some alone time?” “Please don’t.” The fairy hesitates, then shrugs. “Well, props for just coming out and admitting it, <<= $name>>. Not sure how many folks would have the gall to do that.” You frown, not feeling reassured or complimented in the slightest. “Can you leave that bit out of the song?” “Oh, absolutely not. I’m one-hundred-percent finding a way to work that in. Don’t know how, but I will.” Cool. Awesome. <<set $Ballad3 to "arousing">> <<include "Ballad 7">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

With the immediate threat of being devoured by eldritch fey magic subsided, you sit upright once more and notice your clothes are still clinging to your skin. “Why am I still wet?” you half-ask, half-wonder to yourself. “You just //think// you’re wet, remember?” You eye the fairy warily. “Can you make me //stop// thinking that? Since the illusion’s gone and all?” “Probably, but it’s funnier if I don’t.” You frown as you pinch a thoroughly soaked pant leg between two fingers, then cast a quick glance around the tent to see if there’s anything in Plume’s hoard you can use to dry yourself off. Preferably something that looks valuable—you’re feeling petty. Regrettably, priceless tapestries prove in short supply, and you eventually settle on a luxuriantly fluffy robe, patting yourself back to some approximation of dry over the next couple minutes. “I don’t suppose you actually learned anything useful from that?” you ask as you finish up. Plume nods, head still buried in her notebook. “Oh yeah, plenty.” “For the song, I mean.” “Of course.” The fairy pauses her writing to eye you warily. “What else did you think I was talking about?” “N- Nothing. Nevermind.” Though on the subject, you have to wonder what sort of song Plume is making. How exactly is your experience at the sandlots—and your opinions on the casual predation therein—relevant to the wedding as a whole? “Hey, so, Plume?” When the fairy glances your way, you continue. “Is this actually gonna be a good gift for Rabine and Arturo? You know, something they’re going to enjoy and not, say, be weirded out by.” The fairy scoffs, letting out a light chuckle that gradually builds into a full belly-laugh—and by full belly-laugh, you mean her massive stomach is swaying back and forth in absolutely ludicrous fashion. “What, you //actually// thought this was for the bride and groom? Seriously?” She pauses to catch her breath. “Man, you’re way too gullible for your own good. I was just fuckin’ with ya.” At your evident and continued confusion, the fairy lets out a sigh. “I finished up a lovely sonnet for the couple, like, two weeks back.” “… Then, what the hell //have// we been working on?” “Oh, just something to commemorate the chaos of the party itself. Less for the bride and groom, and more for rowdy crowds drunkenly singing at busy taverns. I thought it up this morning, but between all the very important things I’ve had to do, there really hasn’t been a chance to sit down and work it out.” “Did I, err… help, at least?” you ask. The fairy nods. “Yeah, absolutely. It’s always great to have something dense and clueless to bounce ideas off of. I’d rate you, like, a seven out of ten. Pretty good, actually, but don’t let it go to your head. There was this cave in the southern heartlands that had the //best// acoustics. Every word just bounced right back into my ears. Solid nine, maybe nine-point-five.” Plume stops comparing you to caves and returns to her notebook. You watch for an awkward and prolonged moment before piping up for a third time. “So, uhh…” Plume blinks. “Oh, right! You’re still here. Yeah, you’re done. Feel free to go.” She hesitates. “Actually, I insist. Leave.” Rude. Though perhaps you should count your blessings that she’s still asking. “I don’t suppose I can hear the song first? Or whatever you’ve got so far.” “Absolutely not,” the fairy says. “But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll hear it one of these days. I have a hunch this’ll be one to make the rounds.” “Uhh, okay. Guess I’ll… go.” With those awkward, final words, you turn to make your leave. Luna, still lying nearby, offers a weary farewell //murf,// clearly exhausted from all the excitement. [[Leave|Between Two Tents]]

A skip and a trot finds you meandering towards a demi woman standing between two tents. There’s a hastily-made sign stuck in the ground like a waypost which reads, ‘Kisses.’ Simple enough, though you wouldn’t exactly call this a booth… Curiosity wins out and you opt to approach to get a better look. An open robe drapes down from wide shoulders, billowing out as it spreads over wide hips. Her ample chest—you //need// an accurate description of this woman before you interact with her; it’s important… probably—is bound tight by a tight pink top. A pair of spiky ears flit as you crunch across the grainy ground, though their color strikes you immediately. The entire top of her head, including the scruff of her ears is blue, bold and hyper-saturated. It’s bluer than the sky, a heavy navy, as if she were dipped in a vat of denim. You’re an inch from giving up on identifying the type of animal she is when a giant, bushy tail whooshes behind her. It, like the demi’s hair and ears, is also dyed a heavy azure, just a shade too blue to be natural, but not neon enough to make you wanna spontaneously attend a rave. “Hiya! I’m Coura,” she cheers. The squirrel demi—aside from the unexpected coloring, you can’t possibly imagine any other creature having such majestic floof—bounces forward. “Are you here for a kiss?” “M- Maybe? I have a question about how it works.” You produce your precious Buck and hold it up in the light. Man, that’s cheap paint. “I give this to you, and then… we make out?” She nods excitedly, chin zipping up and down like a jackhammer. “Yup.” “How… is that a prize?” you ask, trying to avoid thinking about how much you’d charge for such a thing. “I’m a //really// good kisser.” “But couldn’t we just… do that?” She tilts her head. “Would you, unprompted?” Your brow furrows as you think about it. “… That’s a good point,” you admit. “N- Not that I don’t find you attractive, but I don’t think I’d just walk up to someone and ask if they wanna share a kiss.” “Exactly. Hence the Buck.” Her tail flickers. “So, whaddya say?” <<linkreplace "This is such an obvious trap. Don’t do this to yourself…">><<replace "#choices">>“I, uh, I think I’ll pass on the kiss,” you say, sheepishly. “Sorry.” “Aww, that’s okay. Maybe next time.” You’re about to leave when you realize you’re still holding the Buck. It’s not like you’re gonna use it for anything. “Hey, uh, you want this anyway?” “Really?” “Yeah,” you say, shrugging and smiling. “Get yourself something from the prize table.” “Thanks!” she cheers, suddenly scurrying forward and leaning in. Warm lips peck a kiss onto your cheek. It takes everything you have not to flinch. “Later, <<= $Mx>>!” she cheers as you leave the premises and head back toward the entrance of the sandlots. <<include "Sandlots_Outro">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> [[Try it out|Senior Brightside][$Khobb14 to true]]

“Yeah, alright,” you say, stepping a pinch closer. Coura squeals with excitement as she swipes the Buck and stuffs it into her pocket. A moment later, her hands move onto your shoulders, gentle and sensual. You slowly close your eyes and push your lips out, already coming up with a myriad of excuses to blurt out in case one of your friends finds you making a fool of yourself. You’ve barely puckered up when a wet //squelch// envelops your entire face. Wow, she //is// a good kisser! A hand leaves your shoulder and presses on the back of your head. You don’t bother to resist as creeping heat rolls along your forehead and splops past your ears. A strong tongue slathers your chin on a wave of throaty miasma—oddly pleasant. What’s her hygiene routine? Did she prepare specifically for the kissing booth, or is this just how she usually smells? You haven’t seen errant toothpaste tubes lying around, so you have to assume it’s just a feature of Havendorians’ aberrant biology. Speaking of anatomy, you’re plunging down her esophagus, past her trachea and behind a surprisingly displaceable sternum. Your forehead thumps against a sphincter. Coura lifts you by the loops of your trousers, bundling the sash around your waist a few times before swallowing hard. You flop into the soaking sack face first. As soon as your arms pop through the knobby organ, you’re maneuvering to sit upright, wrists and elbows contorting against the pillowy walls to allow a smooth landing for your ass. It almost works— Look, it’s hard to operate with any amount of precision in a tiny, humid, dark space partially filled with acid. It’s not your fault you haven’t found a graceful way to be devoured just yet. At least this time you didn’t end up sideways. That’s happened before. It’s no fun when half your face is submerged in a tide of slop. //Bbworpp!// Your feet join the rest of you inside the stomach, and you pull yourself into a fetal ball. The demi has, by your bizarre estimate, an oddly spacious gut. It’s not that you could rent the place out, but the expected strain against your neck and joints is absent. Furthermore, for all its rigidity, the sack has a good amount of give to it, especially as she takes the first few steps with springy confidence. “That’s another for me!” your hostess cheers, though the words aren’t meant for you. A round of chuckles and groans filter in from beyond the veil of flesh. A hand pushes against your shoulder, then releases. You think you hear the sound of chalk scraping, but the stomach is already turned about and leaving the tent before you can hear anything else. “Coura,” you call out calmly, pressing upward with two fingers to get her attention as she walks off toward who-knows-where. “Why’d you do that?” She giggles, adjusting her top to stretch over her new bulge. “‘Cuz it’s funny.” You’re still unsure how this is a prize. In fact, you’re pretty sure you just wasted a Buck. “Is there actually a kissing booth?” you ask with a resigned sigh. You already know the answer. “Nope,” she chirps, slapping her gut happily. “Viggo’s my uncle. He said it was alright if me and my friends set it up. He also said that ‘he doubted anyone would be stupid enough to fall for it.’” Yeah, that tracks. “If it makes you feel better, I’m winning out of all my friends; I’ve gobbled four people so far today.” “Why do you think that is?” “I told you already: I’m a really good kisser.” She giggles again, highly amused by her own joke. After a few feet of meandering, she adds, “Actually, I think it’s because I’m soft and friendly-looking.” “It might have also been the hair dye,” you offer. “You like it!?” Coura cheers, loud enough for you to hear the delight in her tone. “I worked so hard on it. Took a week to make the ink and then I had to let it sit for fifty hours just to get it this dark.” “It’s certainly interesting and unexpected. I think it suits you.” “Aww, you’re so sweet.” A hand rubs the top of your head, then stops suddenly. “Actually, you were kinda salty.” … Is that a compliment or an insult? After an awkward pause, you clear your throat. “Uh, thanks, I think. Is it premature to ask when you’re going to let me out?” You press your palm against the squishy organ, testing it’s give. “I assume you’ll want to make room, see if you can’t catch a few more people today.” “Oh, of course, of course. I’m just going for a quick walk—I get so energized when I eat, gotta work off the excitement.” Coura. “Maybe twenty minutes?” That’s understandable. And hey, you’re thankful she isn’t finding another way to ‘work you off.’ You might as well rest and relax for a bit. You don’t have anything better to do. Besides, you just spent the last hour running around in the sun, playing games and <<if $Ines1 == "wet" || $Menardi == "wet" || $Buff < 2>>getting eaten<<else>>avoiding getting eaten<</if>>. It was exhausting. There’s something enervating about being outside all day, you’re still not quite used to it. You suspect it’s the constant heat, but you’re currently swimming in a sauna and this is oddly refreshing in comparison to the sun’s rays. You’re overthinking things. Just sit back and relax. [[Take a rest|Yes, she's a real type of squirrel]]

You mostly tune out the world beyond, curling comfortably in on yourself like a sleeping cat. Time passes in bounces and jounces, an arrhythmic wobble on a sea of calm. You’re safe in here. There’s no need to worry about Echoes or adventure. Heck, there’s barely even a reason to worry about saving the wedding. Arturo’s probably fine. Besides, if Plume’s so powerful, she could probably just summon up a new husband for Rabine. The last ride of your sandlots adventure comes to an end when a familiar voice floats into your little chamber. “<<= $Mx>>? Are you awake in there?” “Mmm, I’m here,” you manage, a bit bleary in the eyes. You wipe away a glob of stomach goo and blink in the darkness. The thinnest glow of reddish hue radiates through the chamber. A hand nudges gently at your flank. “Sorry, just kinda zoned out completely there. How long has it been?” “About half an hour,” Coura explains. “Can I spit you up now?” A part of you doesn’t want to leave the peaceful ambience of her gut. There’s something deeply reassuring about being curled up, belonging to another body. Simply put, there are no problems inside a stomach. Well, except digestion, but that’s literally a problem for another day. “Yeah, I’m ready,” you say, bracing yourself. While you dissociated in the dark, Coura had the courtesy to find an appropriate place to release you. A series of heaves and //hlournks//—the noises one makes while regurgitating an entire person are downright unnatural, like playing your favorite album backward—sees you ejected from the warmth of her depths. You land in a shallow trough, splashing about as you collect your bearings. The squirrel demi watches you with a wide smile, offering small assistance as you sit upright and climb from the long basin and back onto wobbly legs. There’s a towel rack standing in the sun nearby, where two others are also apparently drying themselves after a plunge. Coura finishes patting down your damp trousers, then rises back up to your level. Her pleased smile suddenly flashes concern. She fishes the yellow chit from her pocket. “Oh uh, I’m sorry for tricking you. Do you want your Buck back?” “No, that’s okay,” you say, shaking your head and smiling. “You keep it, get something nice for yourself from the prize table.” “Thanks!” she cheers, scurrying forward and leaning in. Warm lips peck a kiss onto your cheek. It takes everything you have not to flinch. “Later, <<= $Mx>>!” You watch her go, tugging the towel across your neck for another minute. Once you convince yourself that the sun will take care of the rest, you put the towel back and saunter toward the entrance of the sandlots. <<include "Sandlots_Outro">>

<<switch $WhoRound>> <<case 1>> You decide to get a little creative on your turn. “How old was I when I became famous?” “Oh, nice one,” Vanille says with an approving nod. “I’d guess around twenty? Pretty young.” You nod sagely, pretending to process the information. <<case 2>> You shrug and fire a shot in the dark. “Do I have any magical inclination?” Vanille frowns. “That’s… somewhat complicated. Probably not?” “She means no,” Ashlyn drawls, peeved. “Vanille, stop giving so much away.” “But it’s—” The knight falters with a huff, then shifts in her seat. “Ashlyn’s right. The simplest answer is no.” You mull it over, trying to figure out if you’ve actually learned anything useful. <<case 3>> “Where am I from?” Ashlyn furrows her brow. “No idea.” Sherine nudges her side. “You can do better than that. Give <<= $name>> a real answer.” The mage rolls her eyes. “They’re probably from the Heartlands. I can’t think where else you’d breed that kind of rebellious ideology.” The lamia //snrks.// “Now who’s giving <<= $name>> too much information?” “Shut it,” Ashlyn mutters. <</switch>>

<<switch $MonRound>> <<case 1>> “Am I a mammal?” you ask. A long and awkward silence passes around the table as each of your opponents mulls over what you think would be a very simple question. Do monster girls not fall under these sorts of taxonomies? It certainly //seems// like they should. “That’s, uhh… complicated,” Thalia eventually offers, chewing her lip. “S- Sherine?” The lamia shakes her head. “I don’t actually know. I’m sorry, <<= $name>>.” Well, it seems like that’s the best you’re gonna get here. <<case 2>> You clear your throat and try not to look directly at Thalia. “Can I fly?” “Anyone can fly if they try really hard,” the harpy says in her cheerful tone. “Does… that count as an answer?” you ask the rest of the table. The newcomer nods. “I’m not gonna refute it.” “O- Okay, ” you murmur, not entirely sure what to do with this information. <<case 3>> “Do I have fur?” Sherine raises an eyebrow at you, her curious glance appraising. “Usually,” she smirks, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Hmm. Maybe you’re some sort of shedding creature? That could work… <<case 4>> Okay, you need to get a little more specific. “Do I have horns?” “Yes,” the racoon demi immediately offers, then hesitates. “Err, sometimes. Probably.” You cast a bewildered glance to the other players, but Sherine and Thalia merely offer shrugs of agreement, leaving you high and dry once again. <<case 5>> “Do I have a tail?” “I’d say… On average, you’d have a shorter tail,” Thalia explains, a keen glint in her eye. ‘On average?’ That’s a strange way to give an answer. Maybe she’s just answering tactically, trying not to give away a critical piece of information… which would tell you that you should focus on it more… unless they’re bluffing in an attempt to trick you further… unless they just want you to think they’re bluffing to hide the fact that you //should// be inquiring further… <<case 6>> “Am I typically predator or prey,” you ask, going with a more generic variant of Thalia's first question. “Definitely predator,” the former attendant answers. A definitive response! You weren’t sure you were going to get one of those for whatever bizarre enigma you’ve been stuck with. <<case 7>> You sigh. “Am I smaller or larger than the average human? By mass,” you clarify. “If you meet one, it’s usually the same,” the attendant’s girlfriend answers, then clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, sorry! Am I not supposed to answer?” You wave a reassuring hand. “It’s fine.” <<case 8>> “What’s my preferred environment,” you ask next, hoping you can at least narrow things down. “Everywhere,” Thalia immediately answers, dashing your hopes in an instant. “Anywhere, really,” the attendant adds. … What the hell does that even mean? Are you some sort of amoeba girl? Omnipresent in the air you breathe? No, that’s fucking nonsense. It has to be. //Please,// let it be nonsense. <<case 9>> “Are there any of me nearby?” you ask, trying to keep a straight face. It’s an absurd question. … And it’s greeted by an absurd answer. “There’s no way to tell,” Sherine says, desperately hiding a smirk. You throw your hands up. “What, am I invisible?” “Hey!” the attendant barks. “That’s two questions!” Your chin falls into your hands. This is getting nowhere… <</switch>>

<> <<if $Whom1 == false>> <<link "“How old was I when I became famous?”">> <<set $Whom1 to true>> <<set $WhoRound to 1>> <<set $WhoDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom1">><<include "Who_Switcher1">> <<include "Who_Switcher1a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Whom2 == false>> <<link "“Do I have any magical inclination?”">> <<set $Whom2 to true>> <<set $WhoRound to 2>> <<set $WhoDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom1">><<include "Who_Switcher1">> <<include "Who_Switcher1a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Whom3 == false>> <<link "“Where am I from?”">> <<set $Whom3 to true>> <<set $WhoRound to 3>> <<set $WhoDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom1">><<include "Who_Switcher1">> <<include "Who_Switcher1a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Whom1 == true && $Whom2 == true && $Whom3 == true>> [[Lucious Hawthorne|Whom4][$WhoGuess to 1]] [[Damien Kadrick|Whom4][$WhoGuess to 2]] [[The Queen of Havendor|Whom4][$WhoGuess to 3]] [[Kevin Bacon|Whom4][$WhoGuess to 4]] <</if>> <>

<> <<if $Mon1 == false && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Am I a mammal?">> <<set $Mon1 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 1>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon2 == false && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Can I fly?">> <<set $Mon2 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 2>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon3 == false && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Do I have fur?">> <<set $Mon3 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 3>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon4 == false && $MonDiag >= 1 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Do I have horns?">> <<set $Mon4 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 4>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon5 == false && $MonDiag >= 1 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Do I have a tail?">> <<set $Mon5 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 5>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon6 == false && $MonDiag >= 2 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Am I typically predator or prey?">> <<set $Mon6 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 6>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon7 == false && $MonDiag >= 2 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Larger or smaller than the average human?">> <<set $Mon7 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 7>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon8 == false && $MonDiag >= 3 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "What’s my preferred environment?">> <<set $Mon8 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 8>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Mon9 == false && $MonDiag >= 3 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Are there any of me nearby?">> <<set $Mon9 to true>> <<set $MonRound to 9>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Who_Switcher2">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $MonDiag >= 2 && $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Make a guess…">> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Guess">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <>

You’ve reached the end of the current publicly-available content for //Another Inner World.// Be sure to tune in for the next release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. As always, you can export your current save using the sidebar menu to the left, then load it into the next version and pick up right where you left off (here, this page, but with a link to proceed) when the next episode is available. __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading, testing, and feedback by Blex (episode 1+2), Kable12 (episode 1), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W æµé€ Aickavon Alex Nimmer Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Autocrux Avicyn BStreamcat Bas bishbopist @@color:red;Blex@@ @@color:red;Boosted Snail@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Butt McFarts calm belt Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron dragonborn657 Drakeon1015 Dude43235 Eat Me EL O EL Elmo Eric EvilBastard ExposedSenpai I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". Frank Lance FrogFries Gea gongon Grapes Grizzlow Guardian Gnosis gzc Phorcys19 Hayden Black hi529 Hona Vega Hunter Aldridge Iepie122 Igloo3047 Ithirien James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper jayPhrog Joe Fry Joel Boening Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Exodiaaddict Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Littleguy145 Robin! @@color:red;Lyl@@ M Tanner M423x Manny M. Martin van der Sommen Matheredor MelonFelon01 Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish Myrtaz NapBonaparte Zuzu Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nightfang Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 @@color:red;Petr@@ Phase Caster Pierce Placeholder Qu0rbl3 @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 @@color:red;Ratley@@ Rory Ross Davis Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shad0w Shadow Nightclaw SlimesAreNice somhtam @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ Spydorz StarlitKing @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan TheNova129 Thumic Tobi tofublock Tsavo Tyler Fitzgerald Tyler Joshua Bennett UnknownLurker V-Ate VeryVoraciousVixens Vesper Viikinkikiivi VK1113 Wandering Veggie WaylaidVisitor William Wulfenite Xaeroch Xionti Yum Yums Zob Zerp Zuiji

<<timed 2s t8n>>You find yourself adrift in a sightless void—soothing, yet eerily familiar. Something lurks nearby, //around you,// unfathomably vast, pulsing in a steady and thrum. Its tendrils tangle around your form, wet and slick like kelp, yet plush and far too warm, wrapping you tighter and tighter, pulling you ever closer in their all-consuming embrace. It pokes you in the cheek. “Rise and shine sleepyheads.” You pry open weary eyes. It’s pitch black. You try again to the same result. You shift, but can only manage a wiggle, granting you the slightest amount of space. A slow inhale finds damp, thin air. A sudden flash pierces the murk. You pinch your eyes shut against its blinding radiance, count to ten, then finally dare the slightest glimpse at the new sun that’s invading your personal space. Where you expected to find a celestial body, a too-small visage sits mere inches away, grinning smugly. You groan as memories of the previous night emerge like coffee dripping through a filter. You’re not in the clutches of some kelp monster suspended in an endless void; you’re deep in the stomach of a monster girl, being poked in the face by a fey. That’s much more reasonable. “Aww, look how snuggly-close you two are,” Plume jeers. The lithe body pressed against your side shifts. Lloriel groans and rolls her shoulders, then spits out a tuft of her own hair. “Shoo warm… Am I dissolved yet?” she asks, still half asleep. She presses against your chest and nuzzles in close. Your scar itches under the pressure. Plume boops her nose. “Not quite.” The other woman groans, bleary eyes parting with a brief glimmer of crystalline blue. “Plume, go away,” she groans, then tries to swat the fairy, but her arms are still squished at her sides. “And let you squander this perfectly convenient escape from a stomach without the usual fuss?” The fairy flits back toward your face, somehow navigating the narrow margins between the stomach’s fleshy walls and your encased form. As she moves, you finally realize the source of light—her. Literally, her body is just radiating like an impossibly bright glow stick, complete with an odd pink-purple-ish hue. “I dunno, Lolo,” Plume continues. “Maybe we should ask <<= $name>> here what <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $xe>> thinks<<else>>they think<</if>> first?” You blink, as much in confusion as from the harsh glow. “Plume, why do you—” Lloriel falters with something between a sigh and an irritated mumble, then huffs out an exasperated breath. “Fine, just do it.” Before you can ask exactly //what,// reality shifts, distorts. It’s an abrupt, disorienting sensation not entirely unlike Ashlyn’s shrinking spell<<if $Khobb6 == "Ashlyn">>—a feeling with which you’ve become recently reacquainted<</if>>. The slick, shifting accommodations of reddish hues stretch into oblivion, then wink out of existence entirely. You thump against something cold, hard, and unyielding—cruel, after your night spent in the soft embrace of flesh and muscle. Vision swimming, you prop yourself upright and you cast your gaze around a room of wood and stucco and all those other very normal, not-alive building materials, heart warring between relief and disappointment. It’s an inn, and a familiar one at that—the very same place Sherine dragged you last night, now even more plain and sparse in the flat light of late morning. The small crowd makes things a bit more claustrophobic. Sherine takes up the lion’s—or should you say lamia’s—share of the floorspace as she exchanges soft words with Plume. But the two of them register for only an instant before your eyes are drawn to the final figure standing a few feet off: Lloriel. A viscous sheen glimmers on light-ochre skin, from the tips of her toes, up narrow legs and past a modest waist where… she’s not wearing a goddamn thing aside from crossed legs and strategically placed arms for basic modesty. Her brilliant blue eyes shimmer like precious gems beneath a thoroughly soaked tangle of ashen hair clinging to her scalp. You stare for a lengthy—and probably impolite—moment, trying to puzzle out exactly what sort of demi has long, pointed, //furless// ears before the solution slaps you in the face. Elf. An honest-to-god elf. “I believe that takes care of everything.” Sherine’s voice shocks you from your daze, and you turn to find the lamia sharing a few final words with Plume. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave,” your companion continues. “I have some personal business to attend to.” Garnet eyes find you still lying on the floor, a coy smile curling at her lips. She offers a slight nod. “<<= $name>>.” And then she’s off, slithering out the door and leaving you alone with a fairy and an elf. Oh, and you’re naked. A quick glance down confirms that <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>you have not somehow materialized a new set of clothing overnight, with only <<else>>your clothes have been utterly demolished by the night spent in Sherine’s stomach—all that remains is <</if>>Destiny’s Embrace dangling from your neck. To make matters worse, you don’t spot <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>your discarded garments<<else>>a spare outfit<</if>> lying nearby. In the absence of better options, you rise, wet feet slapping against floorboards, then turn a sheepish gaze on Lloriel and Plume. You attempt to clear your throat, but it turns into a hacking, phlegmy cough. “Before you say it,” the fairy heads you off as you recover, “I could’ve teleported you out onto the street. Honestly, the two of you wouldn’t even be the worst-looking folks out there right now. Buncha people still lookin’ pretty lumpy. Lots of hungover stumbling, missing clothes. Hell, there’s a whole lost-and-found for shoes at the town square.” Huh. Maybe you should stop by. “Is there, uhh, somewhere I can wash up?” you ask. “Oh yeah, definitely.” Plume waves a hand toward the door. “We’ve got a few private baths down the hall. One or two should be open if you’re lucky—they were in high demand a little earlier, but things are finally settling down.” “Right, thanks.” You make for the door, sparing a final, embarrassed look back at Lloriel, unsure if you should say something before you leave. The elf seems to be alternating mortified glances at you and far more irate ones at Plume. [[Leave before things get more awkward|Wash]]<</timed>>

The washrooms prove easy enough to find. One polite knock and an ajar door later, you step inside to discover a clean—if slightly tepid—tub of water waiting for you. A brief scrub sees the worst of the assorted gunk and grime sloughed into a large bucket before you dare soil the pristine water. What starts as a simple physical cleansing ritual rapidly becomes a more spiritual one—a decompression from the clamor of the previous day, the whirlwind of fresh faces and new experiences. Despite the awkwardness of sharing a stomach with a total stranger, you got a remarkably good night’s sleep. But between the nervousness and exhaustion, you didn’t really have time to stop and think, to truly relax and unwind. You spend much longer than intended in the tub, sinking as far in as its dimensions allow, letting the water lap at your ears as you take slow, steady breaths through your nose. By the time you convince yourself to leave, your fingertips have pruned, and the first leg swung from the tub feels unsteady and precarious. A few stretches and a thorough pat-down with a towel has you most of the way back to normal, after which you set your mind to the next problem of the morning: clothes. <<if $Khobb4 == "Sherine" && $Khobb6 != "Sherine" && $Khobb7 != "Sherine" && $SherineEvent4 == false>><<set $RVSherine += 2>>A sudden knock at the door sends you stumbling back. “O- Occupied,” you say. “I know, <<= $name>>,” a familiar voice answers, all easy confidence and gentle amusement. You sigh, wrap the towel tight, pad across the bare floor, and gently pry the door open to peek through the crack. “Hi, Sherine.” The lamia <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>smirks. “After last night?” “I’m allowed some modesty when I want it.” “It’s adorable you think that.” Sherine chuckles. “I imagine these will help your little delusion.” She offers a bundle held in both arms—your bag, boots, and a fresh change of clothes. <<else>>smiles, then offers a bundle held in both arms—your bag, boots, and a fresh change of clothes. “I imagined you might want these.”<</if>> “Uhm, thanks.” You accept<<if $Khobb8 != false>>, mildly surprised—and more than a little relieved—to see your satchel intact. You don’t remember Sherine lifting it, probably on account of being grabbed and devoured alive. And those clothes mean<<else>>, more than a little relieved<</if>> you won’t have to wander around in nothing but a towel until you can find your friends. Before you can withdraw, Sherine adds, “Oh, and I found this as well.” The lamia produces a small glass container, brilliant red even in the dim light—the bottle of perfume you won yesterday. “It must’ve fallen out during the night’s excitement,” she continues. “Saving it for someone special, <<= $name>>?” “Oh, uhh… You, actually,” you manage. “I- I mean, I didn’t really think of it as a ‘special’ thing—not that you’re //not// special, o- of course. They just had these gifts at the sandlots, and I thought it might be nice to pick something out for you.” As the words spill from your lips, you can’t help but look between the glass container and the woman before you. It’s not a flattering comparison. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d like,” you admit. “Most of the stuff they had seemed a bit, erm… rustic for your tastes. I was aiming for finery, but seeing it now, I think I landed a bit closer to ‘okay.’ Maybe just ‘adequate.’” You cough, trying to get all these awkward words out of your throat. “I- It’s perfume. The guy thought it might be something with sandalwood, but I was mostly going off the bottle, and they weren’t exactly giving out samples. So I guess I—” “It’s lovely, <<= $name>>,” Sherine interjects with a warm smile. “Thank you. I look forward to trying it when I have the chance.” You let out an optimistic chuckle. “Don’t suppose it would’ve earned me some leniency last night, would it? The lamia leans past the parted door, mouth trailing dangerously close to your ear. @@color:lime;“After a performance like that, I would’ve wanted to eat you even more.”@@ She retreats and slithers out of sight, leaving you alone and trembling in a way that has nothing to do with scant garments or lingering moisture on your skin. It takes you a good twenty seconds after she leaves to close the door, then another ten to realize you probably should’ve asked if she’d run into any of your other friends or knew where everyone was planning to meet up. Oh well. You can figure that out on your own.<<else>>A small bundle lying just next to the door catches your eye. You blink. That wasn’t there when you first walked in, was it? A closer inspection finds a familiar and deeply relieving sight—your bag, boots, and a fresh change of clothes. The discovery, of course, prompts a fresh set of questions. Who dropped them off? Sherine, if you had to guess<<if $Khobb8 == false>>; she was the last one you saw in possession of your bag, after all<<else>>, though you don’t remember her taking your bag in all the excitement of being caught and devoured last night. You’re relieved to see it’s still safe, though<</if>>. And when did she stop by? Were you really that distracted by your morning bath that you didn't notice an entire lamia sneak in? //Be honest; that’s not the worst thing limiting your survival prospects.// You shudder, but ultimately resolve to not look a gift horse—err, mule—in mouth. At least now you’re not going to have to wander around town in nothing but a wrapped towel until you find your friends.<</if>> [[Get dressed|Pants +1]]

Dressed, dried, and more or less ready to face the world, you step out of the private washroom and peer down the hall, wondering where exactly you should start in the search for your companions. Before you can decide, you catch the hiss of a hushed voice thick with agitation trailing from your left, back toward Sherine’s room. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you retrace your steps to discover two figures standing by the door. The first you identify immediately—no one else in this town is six inches tall and darting around on prismatic wings. It takes a moment staring at the other, lithe form to finally make the connection. It’s Lloriel, now clean and wearing a fresh white tunic with blue highlights. A tight belt holds sturdy breeches to her waist, the dark leather stretching down her legs and tucking into a pair of well-kept boots. A frustrated wiggle of her ear draws your attention upward. Aside from the braids dangling around her ears, she’s tied up her steely blue hair and clamped it to her head with a decorative clip—a fanciful silvery barrette the color of moonlight. A few other modest accessories mark her pristine outfit: a pair of studded earrings, three rings all stacked onto her pinky, and an intricate armband of copper wire on her forearm. Fortunately, neither elf nor fairy notice you, too engrossed in their conversation. Surprisingly, Plume seems to be more irritable of the pair, while Lloriel has adopted a more bashfully indignant air. “Eight hours,” the fairy hisses. //“Eight. Hours.// The whole night and… not even once!?” Not looking to deliberately eavesdrop, you hastily make your way back down the corridor and out of earshot. Whatever they’re arguing over is their concern and not yours. Probably. Either way, you’re not looking to get involved. Instead, you set your mind back to the task of finding your friends<<if $Khobb4 == "Vanille" && $Khobb6 != "Vanille" && $Khobb7 != "Vanille">>, only to do a double take when one happens to walk right into sight, descending down a staircase and making her way toward the far end of the hall with a pack slung over her shoulder. “Vanille!” The knight glances over her shoulder, then lights up and turns to face you fully. “<<= $name>>, there you are. I was a bit worried when I didn’t find you upstairs, but Sherine mentioned you’d stepped out for a bit.” “Oh, yeah.” You fidget in place for an awkward moment, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for what exactly you got up to last night. You’re not especially keen on lying to your friend, but you definitely //don’t// want to share the part where you <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>had sex with—then subsequently spent the night //inside//—<<else>>spent the night inside <</if>>Sherine. At the very least, you need coffee first. … Does Havendor have coffee? In a small act of mercy, Vanille speaks first. “Sorry I didn’t make it back to the room last night. I hope you slept okay.” You suppress a sigh of relief. “No worries. I was, uhh… kinda out of it.” A memory prickles at the back of your mind, and you suddenly reach into your pack. “Oh, right! I have something for you.” After a moment of fumbling, you gingerly withdraw the flower bouquet. It’s… not looking its best after a night spent in your bag, stems wilting and more than a few blossoms entirely crushed. “I meant to give these to you last night,” you explain self-consciously. “T- They had this prize counter at the riverside sandlots where you could pick from all sorts of stuff. I saw these, a- and thought of you. Sorry they’re a bit… y’know.” @@color:lime;“N- Not at all. That’s very thoughtful,” Vanille says, accepting the bundle and blushing. “Hydrangeas. They’re still beautiful. Thank you, <<= $name>>.”@@ You offer an awkward, “I’m glad you like them,” then settle into uncomfortable silence as Vanille takes a moment to wrap the flowers in a bit of parchment, then stow them in her own pack. “Oh, uhh, speaking of last night,” you start again, hesitant. “How’d things go with, uhm…” “We’ll talk about it. I promise.” Vanille offers a strained smile as she fastens the flap, then slings the bag back over her shoulder. “Have you had breakfast yet?” “Not yet, no.” Vanille nods. “I was just grabbing my things and meeting back up with everyone. The food here smells delicious; and don’t worry, we ordered some extra, just in case.” <<linkreplace "Sounds good">>A quick trip down the winding hall brings the two of you to a <<if $Khobb8 != false>>vaguely familiar <</if>>common room bustling with morning activity. Assorted townsfolk mill about, chatting in muted tones or picking at food. Quite a few look hungover, but most don’t seem outright miserable. You even spot Viggo in the crowd, nursing a mug in both hands and exchanging words with a woman you don’t recognize. Your attention, however, is drawn to a far more important sight—Mira, Aria, and Sherine sitting around a table in the middle of the common room floor, digging into breakfast with varying levels of enthusiasm. The demi lights up as soon as she notices Vanille, who walks ahead to take a seat at her side. Emerald eyes finally stray to you, then quickly look elsewhere as Mira shrinks in on herself. <<include "AshGift">><</linkreplace>><<else>>, only to immediately be distracted for a second time in as many minutes, now by a particularly mouthwatering smell trailing from the opposite end of the hall. Your stomach lets out a particularly agitated growl. Despite the massive dinner <<if $Khobb10 == "Ines">>and that slice of cake <</if>>during the party, apparently spending the night in a lamia’s stomach works up an appetite. Lessons for the future, you suppose. You spend a moment weighing your options. Any other day, you’d reunite with your companions as soon as possible. But Plume’s protective magics should be up for a while longer, you’re really hungry, and whatever the hell this inn is serving for breakfast smells //unbelievably// good. For the next couple hours, you’re about as safe as you’re going to get in this world. Might as well take advantage of that last little bit of risk-free independence while you have the chance. A quick trip down the winding hall brings you to a <<if $Khobb8 != false>>vaguely familiar <</if>>common room bustling with morning activity. Assorted townsfolk mill about, chatting in muted tones or picking at food. Quite a few look hungover, but most don’t seem outright miserable. You even spot Viggo in the crowd, nursing a mug in both hands and exchanging words with a woman you don’t recognize. Your attention, however, is drawn to a far more important sight—Vanille, Mira, Aria, and Sherine all sitting around a table in the middle of the common room floor, digging into breakfast with varying levels of enthusiasm. Vanille and Sherine seem to be the hungriest of the group—the latter makes sense, given she was saving room all day yesterday for a pair of meals she couldn’t actually digest. Aria’s a bit slower, while Mira idly picks at a bowl of porridge and huddles at Vanille’s side. The demi’s the first to notice you, though she immediately averts her gaze and presses closer to the knight. <<include "AshGift">><</if>>

You suppress a sigh, then cast your gaze around the room a second time and eventually find Ashlyn sitting nearby, a few tables away from the rest of your friends. Well, ‘sitting’ might be a generous term. She looks like a corpse, slumped over a table with one hand clutched firmly around a mug and the other slowly scraping along the wood with her fingernails.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>> You’re mildly disappointed to find she’s changed back to her usual traveling attire.<</if>><<if $Khobb4 == "Ashlyn" && $Khobb6 != "Ashlyn" && $Khobb7 != "Ashlyn">> A sudden memory needles at the back of your mind, and you decide to change course and take care of one final order of business before meeting back up with everyone. You putter across the tavern floor, shimmying between ambling patrons or ducking past busy crowds, fishing around in your bag all the while. As you arrive at the debilitated sex mage’s table, you finally produce the split of wine, then set it on the tabletop. “Hey, Ashlyn,” you start gingerly. She groans, then turns her head. A bleary violet eye peers through a tangle of red, first at the small bottle of wine, then at you. “Is this a joke?” she manages, hoarse and threadbare. “Uhh…” @@color:lime;“‘Cause it’s a good one. Seriously.” She thumps her forehead back down on the table, her next words emerging in a muffled slur. “I’d be laughing so fucking hard if I could.”@@ “It’s a gift,” you say. “I meant to give it to you last night, but… well, y’know.” “Cool, thanks,” she groans, limply waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll enjoy it later. A lot later. Maybe tomorrow. Next week.” You linger for a moment longer. “Are you, uhh… okay? After what happened with Plume, and all that?” “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” The hand waves again, a bit more insistently. “At least, I will be.” A frown creases your lips, but you decide to respect Ashlyn’s wishes and leave her be, quickly finding your friends’ table among the fray.<</if>> <<if $Khobb4 == "Vanille" && $Khobb6 != "Vanille" && $Khobb7 != "Vanille">>You ignore the sex mage for the time being and instead follow Vanille, taking a seat next to Aria and across from Sherine. The knight immediately pushes a mug, a few rolls, and a small spread of jams across the table. Before you can take your first bite, a waitress serves a fresh plate of crispy bacon and a bowl of porridge. In the grand tradition of Havendorian cuisine, it’s all absolutely delicious. “Good morning, <<= $name>>,” the lamia offers, perfectly innocent. “Sleep well?” You nearly choke on your first bite, managing to cover it up with a fake cough. “Oh, yeah. F- Fine. How about you all?” Aria, Vanille, and Sherine offer variations on //‘fine,’// while Mira suddenly slinks from the table, mug clasped tight in both hands. You briefly worry she’s fleeing the tavern entirely, but it looks like she’s just heading back to the bar for a refill.<<else>>“There you are.” Vanille waves you over as you approach, a tinge of concern crossing her features. “I was a bit worried when I didn’t find you upstairs, but Sherine mentioned you’d stepped out for a bit.” “Oh, yeah.” You take a seat next to Aria and across from Sherine, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for what exactly you got up to last night. You’re not especially keen on lying to Vanille, but you definitely //don’t// want to share the part where you <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>had sex with—then subsequently spent the night //inside//—<<else>>spent the night inside <</if>>the lamia. “Sorry I never made it back to the room last night,” Vanille suddenly continues. “I hope you slept okay.” Phew, dodged that bullet. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” “And nobody gave you any trouble last night?” “I personally made sure of it,” Sherine interjects, offering a perfectly innocent smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Isn’t that right, <<= $name>>?” “R- Right,” you stammer, trying very hard to not look as nervous as you feel. In a small mercy, Vanille changes the subject. “Have you had breakfast?” You suppress a sigh of relief and shake your head. The knight pushes a mug, a few rolls, and a small spread of jams across the table. Before you can even take your first bite, a passing waitress serves a plate of bacon and a fresh bowl of porridge. In the grand tradition of all Havendorian cuisine, it’s phenomenal—somehow even //more// delicious than it smells. Then again, you were pretty damn hungry. As you eat, you notice Mira slip away from the table, mug clasped firmly in both hands. You briefly worry she’s fleeing the tavern entirely, but it looks like she’s just heading back to the bar for a refill. You finish your current bite, then catch Vanille’s eye and lower your voice. “How’d things go with… y’know.” The knight follows your gaze to the demi, then offers you a strained smile. “We’ll talk about it. I promise.” You nod and turn your attention back to the food. It’s not quite the answer you were hoping for, but you trust Vanille.<</if>> [[Focus on more immediate concerns|Plume Fixes Everything]]

“So,” you start again, “Plume’s magic is still up, right? Since we can’t leave until it ends, what do we wanna do with the rest of the morning? Ask around about the Echoes, or maybe stock up supplies for the road?” “About that…” Vanille says, poking at her porridge with a spoon and averting her gaze. “I, ah… I know I said we shouldn’t, but I wound up asking around yesterday—after finishing up my work.” “Learn anything interesting?” Sherine asks between mouthfuls. The knight huffs out a frustrated breath. “Not especially, no. Lots of folks remember the excitement around the quarry, even if some of them were just children at the time. But all their interest was on the people who set out—especially the adventurers and soldiers. Nobody remembers anyone making it back.” “Well clearly //someone// did,” you say. “Either that or the Echo was never there at all.” //“Wrong,”// Ashlyn declares, thumping down on the bench, stealing a bite of bacon, and slumping against your side while chewing audibly. She looks a bit more alive, if not especially pleased with that condition. “How am I the one who went on a bender last night, and I can still remember this shit?” “Ashlyn’s right,” Aria says, lips pursed. “Well, probably. Either the Echo was there, or you’re on the trail of some unknown artifact just as powerful. //Something// had to release all that mana, after all, and the Echo is the simplest solution.” Right. It’s like the prophetic quest variant of Occam’s Razor. What sort of nightmarishly convoluted narrative would suddenly introduce a whole new series of all-powerful artifacts when you’d barely started collecting the first? Keeping track of all that would be a mess. “So, what then?” you ask. “Should we keep looking around, see if we can find any locals with better memories?” Vanille frowns. “We could, but… I’m not especially optimistic. Even when Plume’s spell drops, I imagine a lot of travelers are going to linger for the next day or so. And I don’t know how many townsfolk are going to be amenable to prying questions while hungover.” “We could always visit this ‘Gerda’ I’ve heard so much about,” Sherine suggests. You eye her for a wary moment, trying to figure out if the lamia seems a bit //too// eager, but she merely offers another perfectly innocent smile. “I’m leaning in that direction,” Vanille says with a nod. “For as frustrating as the quarry may have been, we didn’t leave //entirely// empty-handed. Maven Marioun’s theory was correct—an Echo //was// there. With any luck, she can use that information to better direct her research. And that’s assuming she hasn’t found another useful lead in our absence.” “That’s… a good point,” you admit, not feeling especially satisfied. “And it’s a short trip back to Orrault. I just wish… I dunno. It’s like we’re on a treadmill—err, running in circles. I know it’s only been a few days since we actually set out, but it sure feels like we’ve been through a whole lot more. And we’ve still only got Destiny’s Embrace and one additional Echo to show for it.” “Did you get the one in the swamp?” The small, cheery voice mere inches from your ear nearly sends you jumping off the bench. You narrowly suppress the urge and instead glance right to find an expected sight: Plume, perched casually atop your shoulder, hands on her hips and a customary smug grin plastered across her diminutive features. Ashlyn retreats from your side, watching the fairy with cautious eyes. “W- What?” you manage. “The swamp one,” she explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “There’s always one in the swamp.” You turn a pleading gaze around the table, desperate for insight. You find none. Plume sighs. “C’mon, you’re looking for relics. Ancient, all-powerful artifacts. Prophecy-and-hero shit, am I right?” “I, uhh… Yes,” Vanille offers from across the table. “But how did you—” “There’s gotta be one in the swamp,” Plume barrels on. “It’s how these things work. I don’t make the rules.” The knight returns your utterly baffled gaze, and for reasons beyond rational understanding, you feel compelled to offer some sort of explanation. “She’s a, uhm… bard.” “R- Right.” “Okay,” Plume starts, flitting to the middle of the table. “I can tell by your slack-jawed expressions this is very new and exciting information for you all. So let me give you a basic rundown.” The fairy waves her hands, conjuring a shower of prismatic glitter that resolves into cartoon images: a crown, a sword, and a shield. “Long-lost artifacts have themes,” she explains as small circles materialize around the images. “Think of it like apex predators competing for hunting grounds. They need their own space, their own territory to exist and do their artifact-y business. As long as nobody treads on anyone else’s shoes, they’re all happy.” “You’re mixing metaphors,” you interject. “<<if $Khobb13 == "Plume">>Hey, don’t think just because you helped write one song means you get to critique me. I’m still the senior bard here<<else>>Shush<</if>>,” Plume says with a glare. “Anyway, rather than work with physical territory, relics occupy easily identifiable themes.” Words and small phrases appear in the circles. It’s clearly text intended for a fairy audience, but if you squint, you can barely make out a few that seem to read ‘the one with all the water’ and ‘time fuckery.’ “So, for example,” she continues, enlarging the diagram of the crown. “This fancy artifact—let’s call it ‘The Diadem of Overwhelming Consternation’—is in the possession of a thieves syndicate. //Ooh, spooky.// So you’re gonna have to do some bartering and negotiations, or maybe a bit of sneak-thiefing of your own to actually get your hands on the prize. That’s all well and good, but most adventurers just stop there. What they fail to realize is that you’ve now learned a bunch about where the other artifacts //aren’t.”// “Because they’d be encroaching on each others’… uhh, ‘themes?’” you supply. “Right, exactly.” “Okay, fine,” Vanille says from across the table, looking about as skeptical as you feel. “I still don’t see how this proves there’s an Echo in the swamp.” Plume huffs out an exasperated breath. “Because it’s a //swamp.// There can’t //not// be one in a swamp—unless you already found one in a swamp. You didn’t find one in a swamp, right?” “Sunken underground ruins,” Ashlyn chimes in. “Nah, totally different.” “Buried archives overrun by bee girls?” you posit. “That—No!” Plume’s brow knots into an annoyed furrow. “How the hell is that even close? I thought you were following along.” //Resin pools in the cramped chamber and seeps into your clothes, sticking to your skin like itchy glue…// “It was very damp and humid.” “Still no.” The fairy sighs. “Look, maybe you just have to read, sing, and-or experience a hundred of these tales, but take it from someone who has: you find patterns. And—Wait, how many artifacts are you looking for again?” You raise an absent hand to the amulet beneath your tunic. “Six more, eight total.” “Yeah, that’s plenty. There’s //absolutely// one in the swamp.” “Hold on,” Vanille interjects. “We found both Echoes in underground locations. Doesn’t that contradict your ‘theme’ theory.” “What? No.” Plume shakes her head. “That’s just where they wind up. It’d be like saying, ‘Oh, this artifact was guarded by a big scary monster, so now we won’t have to worry about any more big scary monsters in the future.’” Vanille frowns. “I fail to see the distinction.” “Ugh, you people!” The fairy throws her arms into the air, then collapses to the table and buries her face in her hands as the light show vanishes. “Would it be easier if I just chanted some magical bullshit and //told// you where to go? Fine, here.” She rises to her knees and waves her arms, speaking like a ghost at a third-rate haunted house. //Ooooh, aaaah. There’s definitely lots of a magical something-or-other coming from a nearby swamp. You should toootally check it out.// [[…Is that supposed to be convincing?|Elf +1]]

A long and awkward moment of silence passes before someone nearby clears their throat. “I know Plume is… //difficult,// but she’s usually correct.” You blink, then find a figure lurking at the periphery of the table: Lloriel, hands clasped firmly at her front, shifting from one foot to the other under the newfound attention. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Lolo,” Plume says, rising back into the air and giving a deep bow. “Glad to know at least //one// person in this room thinks I’m trustworthy.” Lloriel averts her gaze, lips curling to a scowl. “I… wouldn’t go that far.” You look between the elf and the fairy, trying to gauge what sort of rapport exists between the two before ultimately resolving that it’s none of your business. Instead, you say, “Alright, so let’s say there’s actually an Echo in a swamp.” “There is,” Plume adds. “Right.” You suppress a sigh. //“Which// swamp, exactly?” “The only one with super-cool ruins to fuck around in. Look for the ancient burial grounds, or giant fuck-off temple. I dunno, they’re not subtle. It’s nearby,” the fairy says. “It’s, like, a week’s walk west of here. Only two days if you take the shortcut through the mountains.” You meet Vanille’s gaze, her lips pursed and fingers idly drumming on the tabletop. Skepticism lingers, now undercut by a contemplative frown. “It seems awfully convenient,” you say. She nods. “But it does match Maven Marioun’s theory about a second religious site in Northwestern Havendor. It’s probably worth a look.” The knight turns to Plume. “Can you tell us anything about this shortcut?” “Oh yeah, that’s easy. Just take the road northwest, rather than south. When you hit the Brimond Mountains, just go right through. There’s this winding path that, uhh… huh.” “What?” “Well, we kinda came to Khobb from the other direction. I wasn’t exactly looking for landmarks on our way out. Lolo, do you remember anything that—” The fairy pauses, terrifying revelation glimmering in her tiny eyes. “You can go with them!” “I—What!?” Lloriel balks. “Yeah, yeah,” Plume continues. “You and I //just// went through there. It’ll be <<if $Khobb10 == "Ines">>a piece of cake<<else>>easy<</if>>.” “You—I—T- That’s not the…” The elf grinds to a flustered halt, staring down the fairy with a mix of anger and disbelief. “Are you really just—” “It’s perfect,” the fairy insists, gesturing to Lloriel. “She needs some new traveling companions, and you all need someone to show you how to cross the Brimond Mountains without dying. Match made in heaven. Easy as that.” Lloriel opens and closes her mouth a dozen times, but ultimately falls into sullen silence. Sapphire eyes meet yours, then hastily flit elsewhere. You share her sentiment. It’s not that you have any particular reason to dislike the woman, but after last night’s embarrassment, you were sort of hoping you’d never meet her again, let alone //travel// with her. “Are you okay with this, uhm… Lolo?” Vanille hesitantly asks. “Call me Lloriel, //please,”// the elf says, glaring at the fairy. A moment later, the young woman huffs out a sigh. “It’s… It’s fine. I’ll go get my things.” “Great!” Plume cheers with a too-loud clap of her small hands as Lloriel turns to leave. “So everything’s settled, and my work here is done.” She hesitates for a deliberate moment, expectant. “Couldn’t you just show us the way yourself?” you ask her. The fairy folds her arms. “Funny way of saying ‘thank you.’” “I meant what I said.” Plume folds her arms. “Absolutely not. Look, no offense, you all seem like perfectly lovely people. But for reasons that will become very obvious in a season or two, I want to be as far away from you as humanly possible. Now then, I’ve done my good deed for the day. Lolo can cover the rest. Unless she’s not back in, like, five minutes. Then you should probably go check on her. Anyway, toodles.” An audible pop and one last shower of glitter, and the fairy’s gone, leaving the four of you sitting around your table—five if you count Mira, who you just now notice lingering behind Vanille and peering over the knight’s shoulder. <<linkreplace "“So… what now?”">>“So… what now?” you ask as the last prismatic sparks fade. “Maybe restock our supplies?” Vanille coughs. It’s an attention-getting cough more than a throat-clearer or an awkwardness-disrupter. “Actually… I did that this morning. Not everything was open yet, but basically every shop was unlocked—Don’t look at me like that, I paid market rates for everything!” “Aww,” Ashlyn moans. “I thought you were gonna do something interesting for once.” You eye the knight suspiciously. “Did you //actually// take any time to relax?” “Yes, I did.” She lets out a slight chuckle. “Don’t worry, <<= $name>>. I was up early, and there wasn’t much else to do.” She thumps her bag onto the countertop and starts distributing the haul. “I couldn’t find any glowrods, so we only have the one left.” “You should take it,” you insist, pushing it back across the table at her. “You’re at the forefront most of the time, it’ll be more useful if you can get it in a pinch. The rest of us can use torches—also Ashlyn and Mira can kinda see in the dark already.” She stares at you for a moment, then nods. Your group picks through the adventuring gear—admittedly, Khobb’s offerings aren’t exactly top-shelf, but it’s more than enough to fill your bag and bolster your confidence. Plus, there’s a bunch of food left from the buffet that you’ll get to enjoy on the road. As the haul’s distributed, you notice Aria slip away from the table and amble off toward the counter. A frown creases your lips; she’s been awfully quiet this morning. [[Talk to Aria|A Farewell to Arms-ia]]<</linkreplace>>

“I’ll be right back,” you say, rising from the bench and moving to follow. You find the theurge at the bar, taking an absent sip from her mug while directing her gaze at a particularly interesting section of wall.<<if $Khobb4 == "Aria" && $Khobb6 != "Aria">> “Hey,” you start, catching her attention. You reach into your pack and gingerly withdraw the flower bouquet you’d won for her yesterday. It’s… not looking its best after a night spent in your bag, stems wilting and more than a few blossoms entirely crushed. “I, uhh… I got this for you,” you say, then hastily add, “T- They had this prize counter at the riverside sandlots where you could pick from all sorts of stuff. And I know we don’t exactly, erm, know each other all that well, but I wanted to get you something. A ‘thanks,’ I guess.” “Aww, that’s so sweet!” She accepts the bouquet gingerly. “Hydrangeas—they’re so colorful. Thank you, <<= $name>>.” You blush, not sure what else to say. You already used the ‘thank you’ line yourself—doing it again might start a recursive loop. Instead, you offer an awkward, “I’m glad you like them,” then settle into uncomfortable silence. Before you can work yourself into a tizzy, Aria suddenly perks up. “Oh, let me show you something!” She holds the dying bouquet out a few inches from her chest, closes her eyes, and mutters a word of power under her breath. The flora bundle suddenly perks to life. Petals glow, then spread. Unopened buds burst. New colors blossom, a vibrant supernova in the palm of her hands. “That’s… amazing,” you breathe out, scarcely believing your eyes. “I had no idea you could do something like that.” “Oh, i- it’s not //that// impressive,” Aria murmurs, cheeks blooming a furious scarlet. She plucks a particularly violet flower and affixes it to her hair, just over the ear. A cute waggle of a smile forms on her face. “I’m just channeling a little mana into them—encouraging a bit of posthumous growth. It’s just a parlor trick. I- I’m not actually… I…” She falters, a wan smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I suppose I didn’t get quite enough sleep last night.”<<else>> “Everything alright?” you ask, sidling up. Aria jolts. “Oh, <<= $name>>. I…” She falters, a wan smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I suppose I didn’t get quite enough sleep last night.”<</if>> <<if $Khobb7 == "Aria" || ($VanilleEvent6 == false && $Khobb7 == "Vanille")>>“Oh!” you blurt out like a doofus. “I’m sorry about that. I should have—” “No, no. It’s not your fault at all. I barely even knew what was happening, it was so sudden.” She waves her hands reassuringly. “It’s no big deal. Honestly, I’m more annoyed that I didn’t get to spend more time with you.” “Did you have to spend all night… like that?” Aria bites a knuckle. “Erm, not exactly. They passed out eventually and I wiggled free, but I couldn’t find you.” //So, funny story…//<<if $Khobb7 == "Aria">> “It was really late though…” Aria continues, “I didn’t wanna just crawl into bed and ask you again. That’s not very romantic.” <<if $AriaEvent1 == true>>“I wouldn’t have exactly minded…” you admit sheepishly. The theurge’s eyes light up, then dim as reality sets in. “Ah. I- I see.” A pleased frown teases her lips. “Perhaps our paths will cross again in the future.” “I’d really like that.”<<else>>“Well, I’m not sure about, erm, sleeping together, but I certainly would have enjoyed spending more time with you.” A thin smile forms on her lips. “Me too.”<</if>><</if>> After an awkward silence, you start to ask the burning question. A breath catches in your lungs. “So you’re really leaving?”<<else>>“Sorry to hear that,” you offer. “Where’d you head off to anyway? You left to dance, but when we rejoined for games, no one had seen you.” “Oh, I uh…” A warm blush stains Aria’s cheeks. “Someone actually, erm… //grabbed// me during the dance.” “Grabbed? Like—Oh.” She averts her gaze. “Yeah…” You frown. “That’s… unfortunate. I’m sorry.” “It wasn’t that bad,” she says with an optimistic grin. “They eventually passed out, and I was able to wiggle free. But it was awfully late. I think you’d already turned in.” //That’s one word to describe it, sure.// “Sorry,” you mutter again, not really sure what else to say. Aria waves her free hand. “Don’t apologize; it wasn’t your fault. And I’m only disappointed I didn’t have a chance to spend more time with you before we—well, before //I//…” A breath catches in your lungs. “So you’re really leaving?”<</if>> “I’m afraid so,” she says, offering a pitying frown. “I- I guess I was hoping you’d be around longer.” You try to conceal your disappointment—and almost certainly fail. Your chest aches, both metaphorically and literally. “You’re more than welcome to join us. We could use someone with your talents, your healing magic.” “You look distraught. I’m so sorry.” She clutches her drink a bit tighter, offering a small shake of her head. “I wish I could give an answer you want to hear, but adventuring’s not for me.”<<if $Khobb7 != "Aria">> A tender hand touches your cheek. “Truth be told, I only stuck around for you.” “M- Me?” “You went out of your way to save my life.<<if $Orrault2 == true>> Twice.<</if>>” A fierce blush blooms across her cheeks, a brilliant scarlet in the morning light. “I… find that attractive.” Your cheeks turn red, nearly the same shade as Aria’s. “O- Oh, I…” “It’s alright, <<= $name>>. You have your road, and I have mine. With any luck, our paths will cross again. Maybe in a quiet, romantic place where we can…” She falters, eyes flickering to her mug. “S- Sorry, I’m being presumptuous.” You sit in stunned silence, feeling equal parts surprised and dense-as-a-fucking-brick. Aria sighs. “For luck on your journey.” The theurge leans in and plants a quick peck on your cheek. “Be well, <<= $name>>.” Flushed, you bow slightly as she drifts away. “Y- You too.”<<else>> “I totally respect that.” You chuckle, rueful. “It’s not for me either, but I don’t really have a choice.” “Oh, don’t say things like that,” she starts, choking back a tear. “You’re gonna make me change my mind.” You put a hand atop hers. “I’ll be alright. I promise.” You point a thumb over your shoulder at your party. “I’ve got good people looking out for me.” She nods approvingly. “I know. You’re in good hands.” Aria leans in and plants a quick peck on your cheek. “Be well, <<= $name>>.” You bow slightly as she drifts away. “Y- You too.”<</if>> [[Take a moment to collect yourself|Emetophilia]]

You spend a silent moment at the bar gathering your thoughts, then finally turn and make the long trek back to your companions. Lloriel’s already returned, standing an awkward distance from the table and casting her uncertain gaze around the tavern floor. “Aria said farewell?” Vanille asks as you approach<<if $Khobb7 == "Aria">>, a<<if $MiraDating == true>>n inscrutable glint<<else>> knowing flicker<</if>> in her eyes<</if>>. “Y- Yeah,” you say. You blink, then shake your head. “When’s the barrier going down anyway? I’m not actually sure what time it is.” “Almost midday,” Sherine supplies. “Should we get going?” You check each of your companions in turn, hesitating for a moment when you get to the most recent addition. Lloriel’s ready to go, but you’re not entirely sure what her skillset is, how she fits among your party. Her previous adornments are now accompanied by a pair of leather vambraces and a sleeveless doublet. There’s also a bow slung across the elf’s back… which feels a bit stereotypical, but you’re not going to complain if she can spare a few lessons. You shrug. There’ll be more time to get to know her on the road. You’ve got at least two day’s travel together. <<linkreplace "Head out">>You blink as you step outside. The sun’s far too bright, as if aware there’s an entire town attempting to collectively recover from a hangover. Admittedly, Khobb’s not //quite// as much of a mess as Plume described. Most everyone seems to be well on the road to recovery, ambling about their late-morning business or engaging in hushed conversation with neighbors and friends. Then again, maybe the worst cases are sheltering indoors for the day. “So how do we tell when this barrier drops, anyway?” you ask, eyeing the horizon to see if you can discern a flicker of magical energy. “You’ll know,” Lloriel says with a sigh. “It’s Plume’s bullshit. You’ll know.” You eye the elf uncertainly, then decide it’s better to not pry. An awkward shuffle sees the six of you standing at an arbitrary point on the road loading out of town. Waiting. Just waiting. Behind, you hear a thump and brace yourself. It’s just Menardi moving above the rooftops. You try waving, but she doesn’t notice. You’re partway through anxiously checking your gear for the third time when a tingle prickles along your neck and sinks into your chest. Slowly, your stomach untwists in a way you hadn’t noticed before. It passes without so much as a— Ashlyn yowls and bends double. She pukes. A torrent of people spew from her mouth, popping back to full size as they hit the air. Three emerge from under her skirt as she keels over and coughs out the last couple bodies. “Fuck me,” the mage groans. A harpy pops out of Ashlyn’s cleavage. She screeches at the mage before flying away. [[End of Episode 3|Episode 18]]<</linkreplace>>

The next three rounds go by without a hitch. The four of you all find out you’re demi humans, which is a fun coincidence. After that, Vanille asks a pair of questions that tell her she’s a political figure from the region of Cobalt. She’s more than pleased with this, as you can watch her eyes flitting left and right as she peruses her mental catalog of historical geopolitics. Sherine finds out she’s a male character from a fable series called //Stonestall,// and Ashlyn is her usual self, asking a pair of utterly inane questions that teach her about her usual wardrobe—robes—and how many children she had. You stick to simple inquiries, paying more attention to others’ turns so that you might learn the types of strategic questions to ask in the next game. Still, for your humble efforts, you learn that you’re a gender-nonconforming thief of relative fame. “How many siblings do I have?” Vanille asks, a coy smirk on her lips. Ashlyn squints at the Duke card attached to Vanille’s head and shrugs. “How the fuck are we supposed to know that?” “Two. Both older,” Sherine states. You wonder briefly why she’d give the extra detail about their relative ages. Perhaps it’s some sort of ploy to throw Vanille off the scent? “You’re a nerd.” The lamia’s tail coils around the leg of your chair, wiggling happily. “I resent the allegation. Did I die heroically or tragically?” Vanille jumps to answer. “Tragic.” The group turns to Ashlyn for her next turn, but the mage is busy strumming her fingers on the table. She tilts back another swig of booze, then thunks the flagon down. “I mean… I //guess// it was a tragedy, of sorts. I dunno, I thought it was kinda stupid.” “Then you missed the point of the fable,” Vanille snaps back, a bit of heat in her tone. Ashlyn immediately reacts to the unspoken threat in the only way she knows. “So come over here and educate me, //hot stuff.”// “Ashlyn, stop sexualizing Vanille,” you bark. “It’s your turn.” “Ugh, right. How did I die?” “You starved to death.” “What a fucking loser I was,” Ashlyn sighs. “Better make sure that doesn’t happen again.” She reaches across the table and grabs Vanille’s hand, then shoves it into her mouth. Vanille smacks the mage to the ground. “S- Sorry!” the knight blurts out. “It was a reflex, I swear I didn’t mean to—” //“Harder,”// Ashlyn groans as she rises back up to the table. You snort out a laugh. As does everyone else, your whole table erupting with cheer. Ashlyn goads an apologetic peck on the cheek from her attacker—which Vanille begrudgingly obliges, but only after Sherine binds the mage’s arms to her sides. The laughter only grows when, instead of kissing the boo-boo, Vanille licks half of Ashlyn’s face. It takes a few minutes for the game to resume, but you can’t complain. Just being here, sharing a good time with your friends means far more. You’ve got no chance of winning, but this is honestly the best prize you could have asked for. [[Keep playing|Whom3]]

Vanille’s turn rolls back around, and clears her throat. “Is my mother a duchess or a laird?” “Duchess.” The knight nods casually, though you know her well enough to see that she’s hiding her emotions. Either that’s not what she wanted to hear, or she’s got her answer. Sherine’s tail thumps against the underside of the table. “Am I Jal, of clan Penrose, anointed Watcher of the Skies.” Vanille huffs out a sigh and claps her hands together. You give a round of light applause and nods, confirming the name of the card atop Sherine’s head. It’s //Warden// of the Skies,” Ashlyn teases. She sticks her tongue out, then adds. “Anyone can //watch// the heavens.” “Apologies; the words are the same in Monish.” A hint of disappointment flashes across Vanille’s features. “I didn’t expect you’d be so familiar with //Stonestall.”// She flashes a genuine grin. “I like to read whatever I can get my hands on. It was quite a popular series among Orrault’s socialites.” You watch the smile on Vanille’s face hiccup. It happens around the same moment you picture the lamia coiled comfortably //in someone else’s library,// reading to a symphony of quiet gurgles. Ashlyn’s scoff breaks up the awkward silence. “Wasn’t my cup of tea, honestly. But I can see why you two would like it: you’re basically Leo and Garett.” Though you don’t understand the references, both women turn an alarming shade of pink at the accusation. The mage chuckles quietly to herself, immensely satisfied by the collateral damage, then asks, “So, how tall am I?” Vanille blinks in confusion. “I guess average height? I’m… not sure how that’s actually a helpful question.” “Oh, we’ll see,” Ashlyn says in her usual conspiratorial tone. She nudges your elbow. “Your turn.” <<include "Who_Ask1">>

Thalia starts the round off simple with a question about species. The rest of the table falls in line and you all get your answers: you and Sherine are human, the harpy is a demi, and Ashlyn is, appropriately, a monster. A monster named Carl. “Am I a fictional character? Like from a book?” the harpy asks politely as her next turn rolls around. She leans forward and stares at each of you in turn with her huge eyes. “You are indeed,” Sherine answers, an amused smirk on her face. Ashlyn nods a begrudging agreement, then turns to you. “Why don’t you know anything? Is your head full of rocks?” You shrug. “I don’t really pay attention to celebrities.” “It’s not all gossip.” She points at the card on her head. “Some of these are folklore.” “I guess I grew up with different stories.” You shrink slightly into your chair. “It’s your turn.” “Ugh, fine,” Ashlyn groans. “Am I a hero?” Thalia shakes her head. “You’re a wretched villain.” “Everyone is the hero of their own story,” the mage shoots back. She leans back in her chair and throws her arms behind her head, totally nonplussed by the look on the harpy’s face. A ruffle of feathers at your side sees Thalia suddenly standing. “What are you talking about? She personally devoured every member of her clan!” “See, you’re just proving my point.” You snort. “Then why did you even ask the question?” “To goad more information out of the rest of you.” Ashlyn flashes a wicked smirk. “I think I know who I am.” “It’s way too early,” you bark, already losing hope of standing a chance this round. The mage tips the brim of her hat. “I’ll have it in one more question.” “We’ll see,” Sherine says. “Am I alive?” “Yes,” you declare confidently. “No,” Thalia counters. You’re pretty frickin’ sure she is. You saw the marquis about two weeks ago when she… … Condemned you to death outside the gates during the horde. Right. You’d almost forgotten. When the question rolls around, are you gonna say she’s a villain? You probably should. She’s certainly an antagonist in //your// story, though that’s not a difficult hurdle to clear in this world. “You didn’t hear?” the harpy says. The downy feathers under her blouse puff out slightly. She visibly stops herself from blurting out more clues, then carefully says, //“They// went missing two days ago—I heard about it today.” You tilt your head. “A rumor that someone’s missing immediately implies they’re dead?” Ashlyn chortles. “You haven’t heard this? When people ‘go missing,’” she emphasizes with air quotes, “that’s the polite way of saying that someone probably ate them.” “But there’s no way of knowing that for sure, right?” you ask, your thoughts swirling. Two days ago would have been… The night before your party left Orrault. Could one of them offed her? Sherine’s the most obvious candidate: she’d be completing the set and making good on her promise during the trial. But would the lamia really risk going through all that trouble a second time just for a woman who despised her? Speaking of despising things, Ashlyn seems to hate authority. She’d be totally down for it… but the mage is a lazy ass. Mira doesn’t make any sense either, as she was dealing with her own troubles that night. Which just leaves Vanille. There’s no way she did it, but you get the sense that if she did, the marquis would have been strung up in pieces around her estate. … Maybe that’s where Mira and Vanille went that evening? Commit some cool tyrannicide together? Topple a regime? Y’know, things distressed gal pals do together. Gah, this is paranoid. An uncomfortable silence falls over the table as you think. Sherine’s the first to clear the air. “I know I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to brag about famous people I’ve personally made ‘missing.’” Ashlyn, as expected, rises to the challenge. “I would!” Before she can elaborate further, you thump an elbow onto the table and ask your next question. <<linkreplace "“Am I alive?”">>“Am I alive?” “Nope. Famously dead,” the harpy chirps. “My turn! Who wrote the story I’m from?” “Lucious Hawthorne—if that was even his real name,” Ashlyn says, smirking. Thalia perks up. “Wait, he’s dead?” The mage makes direct eye contact with you. “Yeah. I ate him.” She then winks, as if to say //‘Watch this,’// or perhaps, //‘Hold my beer.’// “Am //I// alive?” A hesitant uncertainty floats across the silent table. Sherine and Thalia share pensive looks, then turn to you for your wordless input. You, naturally, have nothing to offer, but after a quick glance at Ashlyn’s card, you have a sneaking suspicion as to why her liveliness is in question. The mage cackles. “Those looks say it all!” [[Well, there goes your shot of winning this round|Whom6]]<</linkreplace>>

You scan the rest of the group, focusing particularly on Sherine and Thalia. A brief notion about cultural insensitivity floats through your mind, but when both of the monster girls at your table proceed without hesitation, your concerns are immediately quelled. The newcomer takes a seat for herself, and her clinger grabs an empty chair from a nearby table and scoots up beside… Oh. Up close, you recognize the new player. A demi racoon you met in the sandlots<<if $Ines1 == "wet">>, the dunk tank attendant. She fiddles with the name card while the woman at her side—her girlfriend, you realize—leans playfully and nods to confirm it’s put on right. The attendant turns a faint pinkish and shoos her partner aside slightly, puffing up her chest to look tough for the rest of your table. … Now that you’re staring, you realize you didn’t catch her name back then. <<else>>— It’s the attendant you knocked into the water at the dunk tank… Which makes the woman at her side the previously absent girlfriend. She leans playfully and nods to confirm her significant other’s put the card on right. The attendant—you didn’t catch her name before turning her into fish food—turns a faint pink and shoos her partner aside slightly, puffing up her chest to look tough for the rest of your table. <</if>>The card atop her head says she’s a mermaid. Thalia is a cat girl, and Sherine is… Is… “From the looks I’m getting,” she starts, gesturing with the utmost poise to each awkward and bemused face in turn. “I believe my card states that I am, accurately, ‘a lamia.’” But… You haven’t even gotten a single clue yet. How could she… You sigh. “That’s correct.” “Why don’t you ask a question, <<= $name>>?” Sherine offers. You imagine it’s quite easy for her to say such a thing from her position. <<include "Who_Ask2">>

With that, it becomes Sherine’s turn. “What’s my profession?” “You are a military general of moderate renown,” Thalia helpfully offers. She seems to enjoy sharing her knowledge more than actually playing strategically. Perhaps, as a harpy, she takes great pride in traveling the world, gathering rumors and gossip. Expectant eyes fall upon you to take your turn again. Damn, these rounds sneak up on you. You look to Sherine’s garnet gaze and nod as casually as possible. “I like that question,” you murmur. “What was my uh, position in society?” “Princess of Havendor,” the lamia counters. Another awkward silence bounces around the table like a pinball. “Really!?” you blurt out. “That’s why it’s so fuckin’ easy, dude,” Ashlyn mocks. A vague recollection tugs on the corners of your mind, like a pet pulling on the tablecloth in the hopes something tasty will drop to the floor. Has anyone in your party mentioned a princess? Havendor is a ‘kingdom,’ which implies kings and queens and princesses. You met a marquis, which would have been a part of that hierarchy. Did she have any children? You don’t remember anything like that coming up during the trial… … Did Sherine eat somebody’s kids? No, no. Stop it. She might be a lethal hookup, but even she has a decent moral compass by this world’s standards. Thalia’s charming timbre brings you back to the table. “What kind of demi am I?” she asks. Sherine raises an eyebrow at the harpy. “Clever question. Feline.” The harpy tries to hide a smile. She’s downright adorable when she tucks her face into her wing— Oh, they’re flirting. Should you warn Thalia about the food chain? “Bow before me, peons! I am the Dark Lord Carl, in the flesh!” Ashlyn bellows as she jumps onto her chair. Emerald sparks arc along her knuckles. “Well, half-dead flesh.” Ashlyn dismisses a quick round of congratulatory praise with a sweep of her hand and crackle of magic. She steps down from her chair. “Anyway, I’m out. Later, nerds.” “Wh—” you choke. “You’re just leaving after that?” “Yeah. Ending on a high note—Well, actually, I’m about to go get high. And drunk. Maybe fuck somebody up.” Your palms turn up. “You’re not gonna at least see how the rest of the game goes?” “Nope!” She’s gone with a flutter of black fabric and a trailing cackle. <<linkreplace "Well that was…">>You look around at your two remaining opponents, who seem equally baffled by Ashlyn’s unsportsmanlike behavior. She didn’t even push in her chair, the impolite bitch. Before you can ask what to do next, a sudden pink puff of smoke bursts in your periphery. Plume zips into view, tiny wings fluttering as two confused people trail behind. “There you are!” Plume cheers, darting toward your table. She skids to a halt—cartoon noises included—then curtsies in front of you. She points up at the tag attached to your head. “Rough lot. You almost done with this round? Is three even enough for this game?” “Well,” you start, blinking to adjust your eyes. She’s just… so small. Fun sized. “We started barely a minute ago, and then our fourth left just left all of a sudden.” “Very rudely,” Thalia adds. “Totally throws off the rhythm we were building.” Plume tilts her head from side to side. “Huh. You should start over.” She gestures to the pair of figures: an ornery young woman and her hanger-on. They stumble as one unit, like lost Three-Legged-Racers. “Got room for another?” A new set of cards materialize from thin air, hot pink save for a splash of prismatic glitter. You shrug. “Yeah, alright,” you say, waving the newcomers over. You peel the old card from your forehead. It reads //Anastasia Duvall.// Welp… Maybe if you babbled random syllables for the next thousand years you’d have gotten that purely by accident. You toss the dead princess aside with a shrug, then reach out for the new card Plume manifested in front of you. It’s affixed to your forehead a moment later—you know the drill. Plume claps her hands excitedly. “Okay everyone, these cards—” She suddenly points at your brow. “Wow, I can’t believe you just lick things people put in front of you. Oral fixation, much?” “Wha—” “I’m just joshin’.” She giggles, then looks around the table to instruct the others. “Stick your card onto your head exactly like that. This is a themed round. Each of these cards have a species written on them. The rules are otherwise the same; ask questions, figure out what you are.” Monster girls? As in, //a topic you actually know something about?// So far, the knowledge that the creatures of this world almost perfectly match the ones dreamed up by internet perverts in your world has been nothing but an existential stumbling block. But now, it’ll work to your advantage. All those hours wasted on the internet looking at monster girls weren’t for naught after all! “Oh, one more rule change, just to make things interesting.” Plume rubs her hands together. Mischief paints her expression. “Winner gets the loser.” [[… And you were so excited for this round|Whom7]]<</linkreplace>>

<<switch $WhoGuess>> <<case 1>> “Am I Lucius Hawthorne?” Ashlyn bursts into laughter. “No, but that’s a really funny answer after the clues you got.” Vanille doesn’t share the mage’s enthusiasm. You’re mildly self amused, but also surprised Ashlyn was paying attention to your answers. Was she… actually trying to win this game? <<case 2>> “Am I Damien Kadrick?” Sherine frowns. “No, you most definitely are not. He’s very much a //he,// and rather infamously not alive.” “Well, I had to try,” you mumble as you fidget in your seat, ears burning. <<case 3>> “Am I… the Queen of Havendor?” “Titles alone can’t work as an answer, <<= $name>>,” Vanille says with an apologetic frown. “But also, no. Even accounting for all past queens.” You sigh. “Well, I had to try something.” <<case 4>> “Am I Kevin Bacon? And if I’m not, then I’ll take comfort in the fact that I am at most six degrees of separation from him.” A long and awkward quiet settles over the table. Ashlyn furrows her brow. “I don’t know who that is, but they sound delicious. Is that even a real person?” “Uhh…” you trail off, wishing that your humor had landed a little better. “Well, it was worth a shot.” <</switch>> “Not really. Anyway!” Ashlyn bellows. “I am, unfortunately, Terra Dawnstar, the Most Boring Prude Who Ever Lived.” Vanille lets out a long, suffering sigh. “That’s not her title, but yes, you are.” The mage is already out of her seat and doing a little victory dance. You peel the card from your head. “Who’s Norri the Quick?” you ask to anyone willing to answer. “They’re an infamous thief,” Sherine explains. “Don’t feel bad. It was a difficult answer, <<= $name>>. Like I started to insinuate, their veracity is a bit in question, but the rumors and stories are somewhat based on actual events.” Vanille picks up the explanation. “We don’t have a lot of specific details about them because they’re a thief. The less anyone knows, the easier their life is.” “The fact that they’re infamous enough to be in this game says a lot though…” You shrug. “How’d they get famous?” you ask, kicking yourself for not asking the question sooner. “Motive and outcome. They steal from the rich and redistribute that wealth in another town on the other side of the country. It’s happened about a dozen times now. And also in really, //really// distant places? It’s kinda strange, actually…” “Oh, sorta like Robin Hood,” you blurt out as you nod. “Okay, that’s neat.” “Who the fuck is //‘Robbin’// Hood?” Ashlyn asks as she thumps back down into her seat. She takes a swig of her beer, then levels the cup at you. “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard for a thief. It’s not even subtle! //‘Look at me, I’m Stealy McSteelpants! I’m an armorsmith!’”// Vanille shrugs as you turn to her for support. “It’s not a very clever name, <<= $name>>.” She then leans against your shoulder and whispers in your ear, //“I’m starting to realize that this game is a bit unfair for you.”// //“No kidding,”// you chuckle. //“You alright?”// //“Yeah, of course.”// You offer a reassuring smile. //“I’m having fun just being here. Been taking this as an opportunity to learn about Havendor.”// Ashlyn snaps, drawing you back to the matter at hand. “Hey, no conspiring! If there’s gonna be any conspiracy, I wanna be involved. In fact—” She rises from her seat, shuffles over to Sherine and places both hands akimbo. “Switch with me. I wanna be in the blast radius when <<= $name>> says something profoundly stupid.” Red eyes flit over to you for a brief moment. “I’ll get up if you say something nice about <<= $xem>>.” Ashlyn scoffs, then glances over at Vanille. She leans forward and whispers into Sherine’s ear. The lamia lights up, then flashes a coy smirk in your direction. “Oh my, you’re right. <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">><<= $Xe>> certainly does<<else>>They certainly do<</if>>,” she coos as Ashlyn pulls away. Next thing you know, Sherine’s sliding out of her seat—it’s uncanny how she can do that without actually needing to elevate her torso. Makes you wonder if these chairs are even comfortable for her. “Oo, it’s warm,” Ashlyn murmurs as she sits her butt down in Sherine’s chair while Vanille produces a fresh hand of cards and passes them around the table. “Can I go first this round?” “Sure,” the knight says cheerfully. [[Start another round|Mira, Interrupted]]

<<switch $WhoDiag>> <<case 1>> “Hmm,” Vanille hums, the trailing whine hardly audible above the din of the party. She twiddles her thumbs for a moment, then forms a fist and raps her knuckles. “I //should// ask another question to narrow it down, but it’s fifty-fifty at this point. So if I guess wrong, I’ll still know who I am next round.” She sighs. “Am I… Duke Passalan?” “Yes, you are,” you offer with a smile. “Good job.” Vanille nods and peels the card from her head, inspecting it curiously. “Fable nerd and a political nerd,” Ashlyn groans, her attention turning to you. She stares you directly in the eye. “And an idiot. Seems like I still have a chance. How often do I eat people?” “Uhm, frequently,” Vanille offers with a weary frown. A moment later, she nods to herself. “Definitely didn’t digest anyone, though.” “What?! What kind of gutless coward am I supposed to be?” the mage blurts out. “That’s two questions,” you smarm. Bolstered, you lean in and ask, “How often do //I// eat people?” Ashlyn rolls her eyes. “Every now and then. When they get defiant or rowdy.” She takes a swing of booze, points at your forehead, then asks, “Am I stronger than this doof?” You pause to wait for someone to answer in your stead. It’s not //just// that you don’t know; you can’t actually give a comparison for the unknown name on your forehead. Sherine nods to you politely. “Probably not.” “What do you mean //‘probably?’”// Sherine smirks, coy. “The variation is on <<= $name>>’s end. They’re not exactly a well-defined figure. Most of what we know of them is through second-hand accounts. There’s even some debate as to if they’re actually a single person, or a consortium, or if the mantle’s been passed a few times—” “Stop giving <<= $xem>> extra information!” Ashlyn barks. Well, it’s nice that Sherine’s trying to help you out here, but she doesn’t know the depths of your troubles here. Nothing short of whispering the answer in your ear is gonna make you suddenly know the names of people from another world’s history. <<case 2>> “Who’s sexier? Me or them?” Ashlyn counters. Vanille’s brow furrows. “I mean… I doubt anyone’s ever written anything horny about your person, Ashlyn. And <<= $name>>’s—Er, I mean… Yeah, they probably get around.” You chortle. “I guess that’s a compliment of sorts,” you say, then watch as Vanille turns a light shade of red and tries to hide it behind a sip from her cup. “Seeing you two flirt is lame,” Ashlyn groans.<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true && $RVVanille >= 14>> “We’re not flirting!” you and Vanille say in unison. It doesn’t help your case. The marge smirks. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Just take your turn already.”<</if>> You sigh. <<case 3>> Ashlyn finishes her drink, then swipes the still-full one in front of Sherine. “Lemme think, lemme think: demi, not-hot, didn’t kill anyone, died like a chump…” She counts her facts off on her fingers, then pauses. A spark of anger suddenly streaks across her brow. “Godsdammit. Am I some goody-two-shoes character?” “One of the most famous ever,” Sherine says, deeply amused by the way the mage’s face scrunches up. “Fuck me!” Ashlyn jumps up from her seat. “I’m—” “Nuh-uh!” Vanille interrupts. “You just asked a question. It’s <<= $name>>’s turn.” The mage fumes, but she ultimately remains silent, yielding the floor to you. Oh sure, like one more turn’s gonna matter. You’re completely out of your element here, there’s no possible way you’ll burble out the correct series of syllables. Still, there’s no point to asking more questions, so you might as well take a wild guess… or make someone laugh. <</switch>>

“V- Vanille?” a tiny voice asks. You turn to find a pair of fuzzy black ears peeking out from behind the knight’s chair. A small hand tugs on her dress. “Mira,” Vanille gasps, turning in her chair to face the demi. “Are you alright?” “N- No…” she sniffles and wipes red, puffy eyes. The knight leans in, bringing her ear close to Mira’s mewling whimpers. They share an urgent whisper before Vanille pushes her card across the table. “I’m out.” She’s scooping the demi up into her arms a moment later, the slender black tail dangling pathetically from the crook of her elbow. You rise, nearly knocking over your chair. “Vanille—” She shakes her head and frowns, then marches off with your smallest companion held tight in her arms. You stand on wavering legs, fists clenching and unclenching as you watch the two of them go. “What was that all about?” Ashlyn turns to you. “What did you say to the cat that’s got her so upset, anyway? ‘Dog demis are better in bed?’” Anger flares in your chest, but you remain silent. “Have you tried apologizing?” Ashlyn asks, and you get the sense that she’s asking genuinely. As if a pair of magical words could summarize and forgive all the emotional strain between two people. The mage turns to Sherine. “He should just beg for forgiveness, right?” “Neither of us are in a position to be giving advice,” Sherine says. “Not about what they have.” Ashlyn snorts. “Ha, that’s right: you digest everyone you sleep with.” Sherine raises an eyebrow. “You… don’t?” “Nah, I don’t have to cover for my inadequacies.” “That’s not what Gwen said…” Blood freezes in your veins. You glare at Sherine, a whole new litany of emotions bubbling up to the surface. The lamia flinches. “I promise she’s alive and well—In fact, her arm’s healed nicely.” You’re an inch from scolding her when your attention is drawn by a sudden clack. You find a pair of talons on the back of Vanille’s chairs. “Ohmigosh, hi <<= $name>>!” You jolt at hearing your name spoken aloud, mind quickly providing an identity to match the tawny plumes of two massive wings where a pair of arms would normally reside: harpy in a dress. How exactly the monster girl has managed to fit into her gown is a mystery of legendary proportions, but you’ll be damned if she doesn’t look cute, especially with the way her pale downy feathers stick out of the sleeves. But there’s something undeniably familiar about that cheery grin. You swear you’ve seen this particular harpy somewhere before in the long day of new faces. Maybe it’s something in the dress, like she’s part of a matched set that— Oh wait. She’s one of the bridesmaids. You saw her when you visited Rabine. “Are you looking for another player?” she asks. “May I join?” “Oh, sure, of course.” You awkwardly gesture to the empty seat. “How was the ceremony?” “It was beautiful,” she says as she plops down in the chair, carefully tucking her wings at her sides. “Arturo and Rabine are a lovely couple; so close to each other. They really have something special.” You eye the harpy for a long moment, trying to discern if the bride ever actually let the groom out based on that description. Ultimately, you decide it’s not your place to pry further. “I, uhm, sorry, I never got your name,” you ask instead. “Thalia,” she says, then fiddles with Vanille’s card still lying face down on the table. The bird leans forward to lick the card, then presses her face against the table. She sits upright and grins, pointing a talon at her forehead. “Or whatever this says.” The name plastered to the harpy’s head is ‘Cha-Cha.’ That’s it. Just Cha-Cha. You chuckle and take your seat once more. The rest of the table prepares their cards. Sherine is now Marquis Edith Preston—Wait, fuck. You actually know this person. You can be useful for once. Hurrah! You’re barely done considering the terminology when you glance over at Ashlyn… or should you say, The Dark Lord Carl. This spawns even more questions. Is… their first name Dark? Is their title ‘The Dark Lord?’ And what sort of villainous name is //Carl?// “What the fuck!” Ashlyn blurts out, pointing directly at your face. “That’s //so// easy! <<= $Xes>> cheating, right?” You roll your eyes. “I assure you, this game is basically impossible for me.” A feathery wing flaps against your side. “Aww, don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re just here to have fun anyway,” Thalia, the harpy, chirps. She ruffles her feathers cheerfully. “Can I go first?” [[Sure|Whom5]]

<<switch $MonDiag>> <<case 1>> “I’ll go next!” the harpy cheers. She shuffles in place, eying each of you eagerly. “In relation to my actual self, am I usually predator or prey?” Damn, that’s a good question—lots of information to glean from her opponents as they weigh their answers. Maybe you should start thinking outside the box and ask more tactical questions. “Uh, predator,” you say, glancing quickly at the words ‘Cat Girl’ written on Thalia's head. The rest of the table nods agreement as the bridesmaid processes the information with a self-aware shiver. The dunk tank attendant clears her throat. “Am I larger than a human?” You nod. It takes everything you have not to look at Sherine—mermaids and lamias are awfully similar in form. You’d hate to give up more information than was asked. Also the fact that your companion’s now looking at you with an amused smile is gonna be distracting. “What?” you ask. “Oh, nothing.” She tucks a strand of sable hair behind an ear. “You’re suddenly very knowledgeable now that the category’s changed.” You blush. “U- Uh, thanks.” You sit in embarrassed silence for a moment before remembering it’s your turn again. <<case 2>> Your turn ends without seeing much success. Thalia and the dunk tank attendant both ask if they can fly. Both are told no—though the idea of a flying mermaid does make you wonder briefly about flying fish and just how absurd anatomies of this world can become. Maybe you’ll meet a flying squirrel girl one day? Alas, it is once again your turn. <<case 3>> “Oh- Oh!” Thalia chirps as her turn rolls back around. “Do I have a tail?” The woman beside her nods. “Yes. Do I have horns?” “Nope, sorry,” the harpy replies. She’s practically preening in her chair, an electric energy dancing along her twitching feathers. Oh, you’re up again. That was fast. <<case 4>> Thalia suddenly springs out of her seat. She extends her wings broad and proud. “Am I a cat girl?!” She nods a moment later as the table congratulates her. You’d share her excitement if it didn’t mean you were now only one step from losing this game and being ‘claimed.’ Your brow furrows as you turn and face the dunk tank attendant. It’s a small mercy that she’s similarly hiding her frustration. “Don’t worry, honey, you can do it!” her significant other cheers. Seeing Sunshine embracing her Grumpypants makes you realize she’s half a head taller than the demi. A hand ruffles the black hair between arrow-headed racoon ears for a moment. “Stop it!” your opponent barks as she swipes away the affection. She turns her ire on you and asks, “Where do I typically live?” You frown, trying your damnedest not to give too much away with your inevitable answer. “In water,” you say before anyone else can give a more liberal answer. If the smile on her face isn’t enough to tell you, then you ought to know: you’re fucked. The fact that you can’t even think of that many water-based woman-animal hybrids isn’t a good sign, and she’s already got a few clues under her belt to narrow the field even further.<<if $Ines1 == "dry">> Plus, she got fucking eaten by one—//by your hand//—earlier today.<</if>> Better get ready for the plunge… <<case 5>> A bright-eyed grin spreads across your opponent’s face. “Am I a shark girl?” “Nope,” you say, deeply relieved. You can’t be sure if it’s your expression or the answer, but your opponent scowls. That was close. She’s closing in, and all you’re getting are confusing, unusable answers. <<case 6>> “How many legs do I have?” “N- None,” you say, glum. She smiles as wicked as before, this time with teeth showing. You really hope Thalia’s not gonna use her teeth when she eats you. Moreover, you hope her stomach’s already empty—getting splashed with her partially digested dinner sounds unpleasant. It’s your turn again. There’s really no point in asking more questions. It’s over. Might as well take a final guess with the info you’ve gathered. Maybe you’ll get lucky and correctly guess this enigmatic creature. <<case 7>> The grumpy attendant smirks. “Am I a mermaid?” The table whirls to life with a series of congratulatory cheers and applause. You begrudgingly give props to the other woman for her victory—she got it fair and square. “Fucking finally.” The attendant begins letting out an exasperated sigh, only to be abruptly interrupted as her significant other crashes against her side, arms wrapping tight around her shoulders. “Oh, T-Bear!” she squeals. “See? I said you’d be good at this!” “I nearly lost,” she grumbles, a furious blush blooming across her cheeks as she limply attempts to push her doting girlfriend away—a half-hearted gesture that fails to dissuade the effusive woman in the slightest. It’s almost endearing enough to distract you from the fact that //you// lost instead. With a sigh, you turn and face Thalia, bracing yourself for whatever comes next. //Be honest; you know damn well what ‘get’ means in this world.// “So, uhh…” you start hesitantly, catching the harpy’s eye. “I guess that means you win. Uhm, win //me,// I mean.” Thalia blinks. “Oh, <<= $name>>. I didn’t win, remember?” Before the requisite neurons can fire off their ever-critical warning of a certain key detail that had managed to slip your mind in all the excitement, an unseen force wraps firmly around your ankles. <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> [[Uh oh|The Toughest Choice In the Entire Episode]] <</switch>>

<> <<if $Guess1 == false>> <<link "Centaur">> <<set $Guess1 to true>> <<set $Guess to 1>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess2 == false>> <<link "Horse… just a horse">> <<set $Guess2 to true>> <<set $Guess to 2>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess3 == false>> <<link "Fox girl">> <<set $Guess3 to true>> <<set $Guess to 3>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess4 == false>> <<link "Minotaur">> <<set $Guess4 to true>> <<set $Guess to 4>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess5 == false>> <<link "Water elemental">> <<set $Guess5 to true>> <<set $Guess to 5>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess6 == false>> <<link "Myconid">> <<set $Guess6 to true>> <<set $Guess to 6>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess7 == false>> <<link "Frog girl">> <<set $Guess7 to true>> <<set $Guess to 7>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess8 == false>> <<link "Alraune">> <<set $Guess8 to true>> <<set $Guess to 8>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Guess9 == false>> <<link "Kevin Bacon">> <<set $Guess9 to true>> <<set $Guess to 9>> <<set $MonDiag ++>> <<append "#Whom2">><<include "Guess_Switcher">> <<include "Who_Switcher2a">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $MonDiag < 7>> <<link "Ask a question…">> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Who_Ask2">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <>

<<switch $Guess>> <<case 1>> “Am I a centaur?” Thalia shakes her head. “Nope. Try again. Well, next turn.” You let out a sigh and settle back in your seat. <<case 2>> <<set $RVSherine -->>“Am I a horse!?” you ask, perhaps a bit too loud. The entire table freezes. Everyone within a twenty foot radius stops what they’re doing to gasp and point at you. @@color:red;Sherine shakes her head with disdain.@@ “S- Sorry,” you squeak, but the damage is already done. <<case 3>> “Am I… a fox girl?” you try, not feeling especially confident. “No, <<= $name>>,” Sherine says. “I’m afraid you’ll need to think of something a bit more clever than that.” “Hey!” the racoon demi cries. “Stop trying to help <<= $xem>>.” Sherine shrugs, settling back in her seat and leaving you to mull over your failed guess. <<case 4>> “Am I a minotaur?” you ask. “Definitely no,” Thalia responds. Well, damn. <<case 5>> “Am I a water elemental?” “Not a horrible guess, actually,” Sherine says. “But still no!” the racoon demi cheers, far too eager for your liking. Fuck. <<case 6>> “Am I a myconid?” “What? No. Why the hell would you think that?” the racoon demi replies, somehow seeming more confused than happy at your incorrect guess. Oh well. <<case 7>> You swallow a strange lump in your throat and ask, “Am I a frog girl?” “Nope!” Thalia sings. She’s really enjoying herself. <<case 8>> “Am I an alraune?” “No way!!” the racoon demi jeers. You don’t detect any overt hints of malice, but you’re still not happy with the answer. <<case 9>> “Am I Kevin Bacon?” <<if $WhoGuess == 4>><<set $RVSherine -->>@@color:red;“<<= $name>>, why do you do this to yourself?” Sherine sighs, seeming more disappointed than annoyed. “It wasn’t funny the first time.”@@ <<else>>“What type of monster girl is that?” Thalia asks, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “Er,” you start, not expecting to have been taken seriously. “It’s like a, uhm…” <</if>>You sigh. “Nevermind. I pass.” <</switch>>

<> <<set $LlorielAge1 to random(201, 499)>> <<set $RVLloriel to 0>> <<set $Cave1 to false>> <<set $Cave2 to 0>> <<set $CaveNav1 to false>> <<set $CaveNav2 to false>> <<set $CaveNav3 to false>> <<set $FuckedAshlyn to false>> <<set $FuckedSherine to false>> <<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn" || $AshlynEvent8 == true>> <<set $FuckedAshlyn to true>> <</if>> <<if $SherineEvent1 == true || $SherineEvent3 == true>> <<set $FuckedSherine to true>> <</if>> <<set $PostCave to false>> <<set $deathAxolotls to 0>> <<set $deathDriders to 0>> /*remove the following in post-season*/ <<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> <<set $VanilleEvent6 to false>> <</if>> /*end remove*/ <><<timed 1s t8n>>[IMG[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/976213-38160-1do9880-preview.jpg]] <<linkreplace "Recap">>__Recap:__ Trapped in another world after a chance run-in with //Isekai Shipping and Logistics,// you must now work with your newfound friends to find the remaining Echoes of Exile: a set of ancient and powerful gemstones that supposedly contain the power to banish a nebulous, lurking evil and—far more importantly—send you home. Finally on the road after your grave injury during the siege of Orrault, you sought another Echo in the unearthed ruins beneath the abandoned Palamola Quarry. While the ancient halls themselves were host to a small legion of temperamental demons, the divisions within your party proved every bit as dangerous. Though Mira had rejoined your group, her physical presence was just about the extent of her cooperation—and even //that// was sometimes too much, as demonstrated when she inadvertently placed you and the rest of your companions in the path of a massive, rampaging hellhound. Vanille was only fairing marginally better. The signs were plain: her frozen terror when you were endangered hunting a Yuki-onna, her subsequent brutal slaughter of the monster girl, and her apathy as Sherine and Ashlyn devoured an entire troupe of overconfident bandits. Ultimately, your excursion to the quarry proved unsuccessful, with an empty pedestal the only sign of the Echo’s former presence. But a pair of small, bright spots lit up an otherwise miserable and dreary two days. The first was <<if $Orrault2 == true>>a surprise reunion with a familiar face: Aria, the healer you saved from a rampaging centaur outside of Orrault<<else>>an unexpected friendly face in the form of Aria: a wandering healer<</if>>. While most strangers in this world have only shown interest in you as a quick meal, Aria was more than content to offer her pleasant company, restorative magic, and even the occasional bit of flirting. The second, and far more important, was when you finally worked up the courage to confront Vanille about her attitude since the siege. You learned the knight had been wracked with guilt over your near-death at the hands of the dragon Freya, to the point where she’d convinced herself she’d played an active role. You gently talked her down, then resolved to be more open with each other in the future. With the failure at Palamola’s Quarry behind you, your group headed for the nearby town of Khobb for some much-needed rest and, with any luck, a potential lead on the missing Echo. But instead of finding peace and quiet, you and your companions stumbled right into the middle of a massive wedding. The host, an enigmatic and terrifyingly powerful fairy named Plume, had cast an anti-digestion spell over the town… though this seemed only to encourage rampant, casual devourment. Plume agreed to let you and your party attend in exchange for a bit of menial labor—in your case, a fool’s errand to find the ‘missing’ groom. Afterward, you spent an enjoyable day with your friends, the celebration marred only by a single dour note when Aria revealed she intended to amicably part ways the following morning. Bittersweet farewells aside, the evening turned <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>licentious<<else>>voracious<</if>> when, after losing a horrendously unfair Havendorian party game, you found yourself in the clutches of the victor, Sherine. Naturally, the lamia <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>fucked your brains out before devouring you alive<<else>>devoured you alive<</if>>, leaving you to spend the rest of the night in her coils. To your shock, you encountered a surprise guest in the depths of your companion’s stomach: an elf named Lloriel, who had apparently been devoured much earlier in the day. After a horrendously awkward introduction, you took meager solace in the fact that, once free, you’d never have to see Lloriel again. … Or so you thought. The next morning, Plume gave your group a potential lead on another Echo, then assigned Lloriel—apparently the fairy’s former traveling companion—as your guide. And so off you went, rested and restocked, hopeful that your search for the next Echo would prove more fruitful than the last. <</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Relationships">>__Relationships:__ __Mira:__ <<if $MiraDating == true || $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $RVMira >= 14 >>As agonizing as it might be, y<<else>>Y<</if>>ou’re keeping Mira at arm’s length—for your own sake as much as hers. She’s refused your every attempt to reach out, and at this point, it feels like you’re just making things worse by continuing to try. Maybe Vanille will be able to help where you can’t. The only thing you can do for now is wait and see. __Vanille:__ Vanille seems to be doing a bit better, especially after a day of rest and relaxation. Between dinner, dancing, <<if $Khobb6 == "Vanille">>games, and even a bit of Havendorian puppet theater<<else>>and games<</if>>, the wedding provided the usually stoic knight with an opportunity to unspool a bit, which was a welcome sight. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>You’re nervous and excited to see where your budding relationship might lead, even if the quest for the Echoes often takes precedence. You’re also cautiously optimistic to see Mira turning to the knight for comfort and support, though only time will tell if Vanille can succeed where you’ve failed<<else>>It’s good to see her on the road to recovery, and even more so to see Mira turning to the knight for comfort and support, though only time will tell if Vanille can succeed where you’ve failed<</if>>. __Ashlyn:__ You and Ashlyn <<if $RVAshlyn >= 11>>get along pretty damn well<<elseif $RVAshlyn >= 4>>get along well<<else>>get along decently enough<</if>>. She’s been the same volatile concoction of cryptic motivation and fickle unpredictability since you first met her, and that doesn’t seem likely to change any time soon. It’s fun at times<<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>, since the mage seems eager to involve you in her wild sex-capades, <<else>>—if for no other reason than you get to get so sit back and watch the fireworks—<</if>>but her reckless disregard for her own wellbeing is a bit concerning. Counting Plume and the succubus, she’s two-for-two on pitting her will against a more powerful being, losing, and only escaping consequences through luck or circumstance. Then again, it’s not like you’d be able to reign her in even if you tried. __Sherine:__ It was inevitable. You could only run from the lamia for so long, and the wedding’s anti-digestion spell provided the perfect excuse for Sherine to send you deep down into her tail<<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>—after the two of you had sex, of course<</if>>. Casual ingestion aside, Sherine has maintained her status as a surprisingly steadfast companion, from aiding your recovery and helping search for Mira, to fighting off bandits and resisting the will of a succubus<<if $Quarry3 == "Succubus">>—and even overwhelming a fearsome erinyes<</if>>.<<if $SherineRV >= 5>> A part of you can’t help but wonder if the lamia is a bit more genuinely amicable than she initially let on, or if perhaps it’s just that your interests have happened to align thus far? And if it’s the latter, what can you expect when they don’t…<<else>> You’re definitely glad to have her at your side.<</if>> <</linkreplace>> [[Start|Hangover]]<</timed>>

“That fucking fairy…” Ashlyn groans, face still looking a shade too green as she slumps against your side like a sack of grumpy potatoes. You attempt a shrug. “Can’t say she didn’t warn you.” //“Warn?// That was an invitation!” The mage raises her voice to a slurred falsetto, presumably trying—and miserably failing—to impersonate Plume. //“‘Oh please, strange travelers: won’t someone break this sacred rule to uncover the vague and tantalizing punishment that lies in wait?’”// “I’m pretty sure what she actually said was, ‘Don’t do this, or else.’” “Yeah, exactly.” “That’s—” You huff out a sigh, then cast your eyes to the rest of your companions. It seems you and Ashlyn have been given a wide berth as you plod near the front of the marching order on the winding road northwest of Khobb. Mira and Vanille walk a ways behind, the demi huddled close to the taller woman’s side—closer still when you glance in her direction. Sherine takes up the rear, twenty feet of copper coils weaving along the packed dirt. Which leaves Lloriel—the latest and most tentative addition to your party—at the front, watching for some sign of the impending shortcut that’s supposed to carry you through the Brimond Mountains to the west. It’s not quite late enough in the day to be walking in the mountain range’s //literal// shadow—you’ve only been on the road for a few hours now—but the gradual approach has made it clear why most people choose to go around rather than over this geographic obstacle. The initial flashes of brown and grey poking above the treetops have grown to a massive wall that eclipses the horizon and looms over the road like a great wave of earth and stone. The mountains don’t quite form the sort of monumental expanse that would take days or even weeks to traverse, but the sheer height alone has you hoping Lloriel’s shortcut is more //through// than //over.// “Y’know, Ashlyn,” you say, turning your gaze back to the road ahead. “Have you ever considered that people warn you because they //don’t// want you to do something?” The mage waves an arm dismissively. “Nah. Woulda’ specified the punishment… And it’d need to be a boring one.” “Because otherwise you’d do it anyway, just for the experience?” “Now you’re getting it.” You roll your eyes. “And what if Plume’s punishment had been<<if $Khobb13 != false>> eating you… again? Without the protective spell this time<<else>>, I dunno, eating you? Without the protective spell<</if>>.” Another wave. “Burn that bridge when I come to it. Besides, it wasn’t—and now I’m satisfied.” “You’re not looking particularly satisfied.” You shift the mage’s weight against your shoulder, searching for a more comfortable hold. “You’re barely upright.” Ashlyn frowns. “Enriched, then.” “More like //‘enriching’// if Plume had the mind for it.” The mage’s chuckle tapers off into a perilous hiccup and a fresh scowl. She wobbles and chokes back a retching noise behind frowning lips. The wave of nausea passes without incident before she finally offers a response. “Nice one, but she’s not the type. Plays the bastard, but deep down, she’s a big—well, little—ol’ softy.<<if $Khobb13 != false>>” “I dunno about that,” you say, remembering <<if $Khobb13 == "Plume">>your close encounter with the dangerous ‘illusion.’<<else>>the casual indifference with which Plume had consigned the handful of revelers in Ashlyn’s stomach—everyone //but// the bride and groom to whom she was contracted—to the same internment as the mage herself.<</if>> “I think she might just //actually// be a bastard.” “No way. Total ‘heart of gold’ idiot—I love the type. So gullible. So delicious.” “Uh huh, and that’s why you definitely tricked and ate her, right?” Ashlyn fixes you with a frown. “Shaddup.”<<else>> I love the type. So gullible. So delicious.” You give Ashlyn a skeptical side eye. “And yet I can’t help but notice she looked awfully uneaten today. Did you not wind up trying, or…” Ashlyn’s silence speaks volumes. “Shuddup,” she mutters.<</if>> You grin, but before you can bask in your banter victory for long, Ashlyn suddenly pushes off your shoulder and attempts walking on her own. She immediately stumbles. “Would you like some help up there?” Sherine calls from the rearguard. “If walking is too difficult, I could always give you a ride.” Ashlyn eyes the lamia warily. “On your tail?” “Close enough.” “… I’ll pass.” Your companions settle back into silence as Ashlyn attempts a mostly normal stride. Once you’re satisfied she’s not about to topple over, you turn your gaze back to the Brimond Mountains, trying to spot some visible trail or other sign of habitation. Faint bits of green dot the expanse, little more than scraps of brush clinging to steep slopes or sheer cliff faces. You can’t see any specks of white dotting the peaks, which means that they’re not tall enough for snow in early summer, but you’re not keen at the prospect of a climb, //especially// given you don’t have the specific gear, and free climbing a mountain might be a bit above and beyond your current physical abilities. Maybe give it a few more weeks on the road without any mortal injuries and you’ll reevaluate. [[Maybe Sherine can carry you instead…|Elfland]]

The road stretches on, interminable and quiet. Remarkably quiet, now that you’re paying attention. You’d kind of expected to see a little more foot traffic once Plume’s barrier dropped and the guests were free to leave, but between the slowed pace on account of Ashlyn, and the apparently unusual choice to head north rather than south, you’ve practically had the road all to yourselves. Which just leaves you with your companions and your own thoughts. And since the former seem to be satisfied with silence, you have to settle for the latter to keep yourself entertained. The unfortunate quirk of your growing fortitude is that foot travel no longer occupies your mind with delirious exhaustion. And staring at the surrounding forest or distant mountain peaks can only keep you occupied for so long. To put it simply, you’re bored. You briefly entertain the idea of chatting with Vanille, but you’re hesitant to get between her and Mira—for your sake as much as the demi’s. Ashlyn is… well, Ashlyn, and she’s still a little surly. You could always head to the back and talk to Sherine, but given the lamia’s penchant for teasing, you’re one poorly worded remark about last night from fielding a lot of uncomfortable and undesired questions from the rest of your companions. Lloriel stands out, both as the safest option and the one you’re most curious about. It seems like you’re going to be traveling together for a few days, so you should probably get to know her a little better. Just gotta make sure to avoid that… certain topic. You pick up the pace and, before long, are at the elf’s side. Lloriel notices your approach, but offers little more than a brief glance before her eyes return to the road ahead, lips pressed to an inscrutable line. <<linkreplace "“So, uh, you’re an elf.”">>“So, uh, you’re an elf.” She turns her head and fixes you with a long, judgmental stare, crystalline blue eyes piercing right into your soul and bringing a self-conscious flush to your cheeks. “S- Sorry, I must sound really fucking dumb,” you stammer. “I just, uhh, haven’t actually met an elf before.” Lloriel stares at you a moment longer, then finally looks away with a slight shrug. “Makes sense, I guess. We’re something of a rare breed outside of Fyn Edel.” “‘Fyn Edel?’” Back the gaze comes, a hair less judgmental and now substantially more confused, as if she’s not entirely sure whether or not you’re fucking with her. “Sorry,” you say again. “I haven’t heard that name before. I assume it’s a… place?” She blinks. “It’s… where all elves are from.” “R- Right, makes sense.” You scratch the back of your neck nervously. “I, uhh… I guess I don’t know a whole lot of geography. Never been my strongest subject.” It’s a lame lie, but it beats trying to explain why you only have a single month of lived experience as a Havendorian. Hell, it’s probably more plausible too. Lloriel looks away and eventually offers a simple, “Oh.” You wait, hoping she’s going to say more. When she doesn’t, you steel yourself, clear your throat, and try again. “So uh, hey. Could we… talk for a moment?” “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” You wince, then press on. “Uhh, r-right. Look, I know we just met, but could you do me a favor?” You shuffle a step closer and lower your voice, just in case. //“Can you not tell the others how we met?”// Lloriel glances over her shoulder, then gives you a flat look. “I hate to tell ya this, but the snake already knows.” “Besides her.” The elf frowns. “Two people can’t keep a secret, let alone three. You’re not gonna—” She falters with an exasperated huff, then looks away. Before you have a chance to think of another angle of approach, she offers a slight shrug. “Fine. Sure. Whatever.” “Thanks. It’s kinda… an embarrassing subject.” “Don’t mention it.” “That’s the plan,” you say with a wry grin, hoping a bit of humor might diffuse the awkward tension. It doesn’t. “So…” you begin //again,// praying third time’s the charm. “This morning you said—” “Oh, we’re just gonna openly talk about it now?” It’s your turn to glance back at the group, after which you lower your voice to a more conspiratorial tone. “I wasn’t gonna talk about… //that.// But I got the impression you kinda knew Plume. Did she say you’d traveled together?” Lloriel frowns. “A bit, yeah.” “How long?” “A little while. Maybe… twenty years or so. Why?” You stare at her for a long and thoroughly baffled moment before your mind supplies the obvious answer: elf. “How old //are// you?” The words come spilling out before you can think about them. You immediately cringe. “S- Sorry, that’s probably a rude thing to just ask.” Lloriel merely shrugs. “Not really. I’m <<= $LlorielAge1>>.” “Oh,” you manage, eloquent as always. “That’s, uhm… Right.” <<linkreplace "Tell her she looks good for her age">><<replace "#choices">><<set $RVLloriel -->>You crack a corny grin. “I- Is it cliche for me to say that you look good for <<= $LlorielAge1>>?” @@color:red;Lloriel rolls her eyes. //“Wow,// haven’t heard that one before. Jackass.”@@ She averts her gaze and shrinks on herself a bit. “Sorry. It’s… something I get a lot.” The two of you fall into an awkward silence as you trudge along the road, trying to find interest in passing trees or bits of brush. Surprisingly, Lloriel is the first to speak again. “Guess that was something nice about Plume; I was actually traveling with someone who’s older than me.” You frown. “I thought you were only together for a month or two. I’m sorry she just abandoned you like that.” <<include "Plumage">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Empathize with her">><<replace "#choices">>You frown. “I thought you were only together for a month or two. I’m sorry she just abandoned you like that.” <<include "Plumage">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <</linkreplace>>

“Eh, it’s fine,” the elf says with an indifferent wave. “It doesn’t seem like it,” you insist. “Honestly, she acted pretty shitty and dismissive in general. Sounds like she wasn’t a great friend—err, traveling companion.” Lloriel eyes you for a moment, eyebrows raised in surprise and lips curled to an odd frown. You worry you’ve said something else insensitive, but she suddenly offers a slight shrug and a nod. “I, uhh… Yeah.” The elf twiddles with her hair for a moment. “I guess she did kinda suck. I dunno why I spent so long on the road with her.” “Really?” “I- I mean, it was only a couple decades,” she says, swaying a bit. “I never really stopped and gave it much thought.” “That magic probably came in handy, I’ll bet.” She lets out a slight laugh. “Honestly, it caused trouble about as often as it helped. But yeah, it had its upsides. And I suppose it was a nice change of pace from traveling on my own.” “Do you usually do this by yourself?” You gesture to the road ahead. “Traveling, adventuring… I guess I’m not really sure //what// you did. Are you looking for a new group, since, uh…” “Plume dropped me on you?” Lloriel flashes a sardonic grin. “That’s not how I would have put it.” Another shrug. “I’m used to going alone.” That’s… something of a shock. You can’t imagine you’d last in the wild for more than a few hours without escort, and while you seem to be particularly cursed in terms of attracting would-be predators, the roads of Havendor haven’t exactly seemed safe for strangers either. Small exterior and lean build be damned, Lloriel’s gotta have some serious adventuring skills if she’s managed to survive even a small portion of her hundred-plus years traveling alone. Then again, Plume is perfectly good evidence that power and size aren’t always directly related. Amid your stupefied silence, Lloriel casts a furtive glance back at the group, then adds, “But uh, you seem like you’re heading into some interesting places. I’m interested to stick around—might see something new.” //Just give her five minutes alone with Ashlyn if that’s what she’s after…// [[Ask some more questions|Archery Lesson]]

“Uhm, since we’re gonna be traveling together, is there anything I should know about you?” you ask casually. Lloriel frowns. “I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.” “Err, well, for the party. I’m sorta… the tactician. I guess.” You falter and, realizing you’re probably just setting yourself up for future disappointment in the elf’s eyes, hastily change tack. “S- So anyway, you’ve got that bow—are you a good shot?” She lets out a slight //harumph.// “Yeah. I guess.” “Could you teach me?” She eyes you warily. “Most people ask me to prove it.” Her crystalline gaze trails to your own bow. “Uh, is that string drawn tight enough? Seems a little loose.” You chuckle. “Nah, I’m weak as hell.” “That’s a weird thing to brag about.” She sighs, then retrieves the bow from her back and gestures for you to do the same. “Alright, show me what you can do and I’ll give ya some advice. See that tree up the road? The one that kinda looks like a grumpy scarecrow.” After a moment straining your eyes, you note the gangly character a solid hundred feet off, looming on the roadside like… Well, yeah; her summary’s pretty spot-on. “Want me to try hitting it?” you ask. “The hollow.” “… The what?” “The hollow,” she says again, pointing. “Just below the first branch; the scarecrow’s breast pocket.” “I, err…” You squint. There //might// be a small splotch of darker bark at roughly head height, but that could just be wishful thinking. Oh well. Nothing for it but to try. “Sure. Give me a second.” You scurry a few extra steps ahead, plant your feet, and nock an arrow. You still shaky breath, then take a moment to aim at what you’re eighty percent certain is your target, and finally take the shot. The arrow sails off into some distant undergrowth, but at least you hit the correct side of the road. You’re jolted from looming humiliation by the thud of hurried boots at your back. You turn to find Vanille, hand on sheathed sword. A thin slice of blade peeks from between scabbard and hilt as the knight surveys the road ahead with keen eyes. “Everything alright?” she asks as Mira peers from around her back, trailing a few extra feet behind like a hesitant shadow. “Oh, yeah.” You huff out a nervous laugh. “Just some impromptu archery lessons. Didn’t mean to worry you, sorry.” Vanille blinks in surprise, then nods to Lloriel. “That’s very kind. Thank you for teaching <<= $xem>>.” “S- Sure,” the elf says. “It’s no problem.” Satisfied, Vanille drops back to the middle of the marching order, Mira in tow. Lloriel watches her go, then finally glances back at you, lips pressed to a pensive frown. “She’s… polite.” At your mild confusion, the elf elaborates, “I find that warrior-types pride themselves on being tough and surly. Not really ones for pleasant companionship.” “Nah, we’re all friendly here.” You hesitate. “Err, well, except for Ashlyn, our mage. She’s a bitch.” Lloriel snorts. “I got the sense, yeah. Not the brightest spark either if she tried going toe-to-toe with Plume.” “Yeah, Ashlyn’s pretty stubborn.” “Suicidally so. Oh and, uhh, the feline demi—what’s her name? She seems…” “It’s complicated,” you say, a bit more curt than intended. You hiss out a slow breath, then try again. “She, uhh… Some stuff happened a couple weeks back, and…” Lloriel heads you off with a slight wave. “It’s alright. Didn’t mean to pry.” She hoists her bow. “So here’s where you went wrong…” At her gesture, you raise your own bow once more, and she gives you a few basic tips on stance and posture. It’s all fairly standard stuff, but the knowledgeable third-person appraisal is a welcome addition to your scattered and haphazard experience. “It’s easier to use your full strength if you draw the bow as tight across your body as possible,” she explains, nudging your arm back until the string’s practically touching your cheek. //“Mighty trust unto sacred strand, unburdened limb guide deft hand.”// ” “‘Unburdened limb?’” “Yeah sorry, old dumb adage. Part of the ‘lesson’ of elven archery is spiritual. You’re supposed to mull it over for a decade before it makes any sense.” She sighs and clicks her tongue. “Which is bullshit. Anywhere, here’s the secret.” Small hands nudge and prod at your bent arms, poke at your stance and straighten your spine. A twinge of a previously unused muscle pulls across your chest to your shoulder. “That’s in. Just hold until you feel it right here,” she says, jabbing an impolite finger at your pit. “As long as the bow string doesn’t snap against my arm,” you mutter, steadily alternating between a mock draw and release. “At that draw strength?” Lloriel shakes her head. “The tunic will take the worst of it. If you find yourself wielding something a little heftier one day, I’d recommend a vambrace like mine.” She taps the leather on her forearm. “Anyway, let me demonstrate so you can see it from a different angle.” She retrieves and nocks the arrow, then draws the bow in a single fluid motion—one you have no doubt she’s practiced thousands upon thousands of times. “Elbow up,” she says. “Higher than the shoulder, or your sighting will be off. Keep the arm straight, and make sure you’re not leaning.” “Right.” You mimic each step, eyes flickering between the elf and the road ahead. After a few failed attempts, you give up on walking and simply plant your feet. You’d need years of practice to pull off moving and aiming at the same time. “Make sure you’re not holding your breath,” Lloriel continues. “It’s an easy habit. Exhale as you’re drawing, if you need to. Then just find your target, judge the distance, and—Oh, that’s it.” You ease off the tension on your bow and scurry forward to catch up. “What?” “The shortcut.” The elf points. “Or at least the place where we reached the road. I remember that large rock nestled between two oaks.” Even with Lloriel’s help, it takes several moments to identify the moss-covered boulder ahead and to the left. The pair of trees in question bow over the open road like supplicants in prayer, though whether they’d grown around the boulder or actually been pushed out of place by its fall will forever remain a mystery. “Damn, that’s a good memory,” you remark. “And a good eye.” “Thanks.” She flashes an affable grin that quickly fades. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’m gonna have to focus on navigating while we’re on the way through the mountains. Save the archery lessons for later?” You nod. “Appreciate it. Thanks, Lloriel.” [[Let her focus|Snack Time!]]

You ease your pace and let Lloriel take the lead, relaying her guidance to the rest of your companions as you veer up into the foothills. Progress slows, the packed dirt beneath your feet exchanged for a gradual slope filled with tangled undergrowth, gnarled roots, and the odd jutting rock. Your view of the impending range vanishes behind a thick canopy of green. After a half hour, you fish around in your pack and pull out a biscuit leftover from yesterday’s festivities, plus some dried pork. It’s a bit of a surprise that you’re already hungry after the late-morning, hearty breakfast, but you suppose there are worse excuses for working up an appetite than spending a few hours on the road. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>“<<= $name>>?” You pause mid-bite to find Vanille approaching, her expression a delicate balance of sympathy and resolve. She draws in a quick breath. “You need to talk to Mira.” “I tried,” you say a little too quickly. In the awkward silence that follows, you glance over your shoulder to find the demi lingering toward the back of the group, gaze fixed firmly to her feet as she plods through the undergrowth. “Several times, actually,” you eventually continue. “She wasn’t interested.” “I know,” Vanille says softly. “She told me.” “Is that what you talked about last night?”<<if $Khobb8 != false>> Nice to know she was having a peaceful conversation while you were hunted for sport.<</if>> Your companion presses her lips to a thin line. “I think it’s better if you hear that from her.” “I… Vanille, I can’t //make// her talk to me.” You huff out a sigh. “I tried. Really. Last time, she shoved me into a wall. You’ve seen how she acts whenever I’m nearby, what she’s been like since—” “Since her best friend nearly died before her eyes?” You wince as if struck. “That’s…” A consoling hand finds your shoulder. “It…” Her eyes flicker for a moment, a slight blemish upon her luster. She straightens her shoulders and nods. “Please, go talk to her, like you did for me.” “I don’t know how,” you mutter, struggling to meet Vanille’s steady gaze. “It doesn’t matter what I say; she just pushes me away, and I don’t know how to get through.” Vanille slips her arm around your back and gently pulls you against her side. “I’d do this with you if I could, I promise. But I think I’ve done what I can for her. The rest needs to be you.” She draws in a slight breath. “You’re the most caring person I’ve ever met—you might be the most empathic person in all of Havendor. Trust that she’s ready, that she’s brave enough to speak and just… Just //listen.// That’s the important part. Just listen to her.” You nod. “Okay. I…” You nod again. <<linkreplace "“I can do that.”">><<include "Cat Talk">><</linkreplace>><<elseif $RVMira >= 16 && $MiraDating == true && $Orrault7 == "Mira">>“You need to talk to Mira.” You nearly choke mid-bite, then turn to find the voice in the back of your mind has manifested with radiant, gold-blond hair and an intensely auric gaze. Her lips curl to a determined frown, brow furrowed. “I’ve tried,” you manage after swallowing. “Several times.” “Then you need to try again,” Vanille demands, unflinching. You peer behind her back to find Mira lingering toward the rear of the group, gaze fixed firmly to her feet as she plods through the undergrowth. An ephemeral glint of emerald flashes in your direction, then vanishes just as quickly. Something sparks in your chest, hot and roiling. //“How,// exactly? I don’t think you get how much she //doesn’t// want to talk to me, Vanille. You know she pushed me away last time, right? Into a wall.” “I know.” “How about the part where she said she hates me—that I’m not her friend.” The hard lines of Vanille’s brow crease further. “She told me about that.” “Oh, so //that’s// what you were gossipping about last—” You falter, then forcibly exhale the toxic vapors of indignation. A slow breath seeks cooler words. You find a few. “Sorry. I… Did she say anything else?” Your companion remains silent for a long moment as she walks at your side. Finally, she sighs. “It’s better if you hear it from her.” You resist the urge to kick at a stray rock and instead settle for stomping your boots a bit more firmly in the dirt. “I want to,” you mutter. “I really do. So badly. But you’ve seen how she’s been, how she can hardly stand the sight of me since—” “Since the person she cares for most in the world nearly died?” You flinch and avert your gaze. Are those Vanille’s words, or Mira’s? Does the demi really still feel that way? <<if $SherineEvent3 == true || $AshlynEvent8 == true>>Were you too hasty in finding comfort—or perhaps distraction—in the embrace of another?<</if>> A cloak of shame presses, an oppressive blanket of guilt and regret. Eventually, you find the will to look back, and discover a softened expression upon Vanille’s features. “I can’t pretend to understand what the two of you had—//have.”// she says. “But, I know she cares a great deal. I know she was terrified after… what happened. We both were—and you remember how //I// handled it.” A wan grin passes beneath her determined frown. “But Mira… Please talk to her, like you talked to me.” “I don’t know how,” you admit. “Every time I try, she just runs or pushes me away. I don’t know how to get through. How to have her tolerate being around me for more than a few seconds, let alone long enough that we can actually speak.” A steady hand finds your shoulder. “Look, you’re the most caring person I’ve ever met—you might be the most empathic person in all of Havendor. Trust that she’s ready, that she’s brave enough to speak and just… Just //listen.// That’s the important part. Just listen to her.” You nod. “Okay. I…” A tremulous breath escapes your lips as you nod again. <<linkreplace "“I can do that.”">><<include "Cat Talk">><</linkreplace>><<else>>You pause mid-bite to find Vanille approaching, eyes glimmering with auric intensity, lips curled to a determined frown. She draws in a quick breath. “You need to talk to Mira.” “I tried,” you say a little too quickly. In the awkward silence that follows, you glance over your shoulder to find the demi lingering toward the back of the group, gaze fixed firmly to her feet as she plods through the undergrowth. “Several times, actually,” you eventually continue. “She wasn’t interested.” “Then you need to try again,” the knight demands, unflinching. Something sparks in your chest, but you push it down with a weary sigh. “She doesn’t even want to be near me, Vanille. We can’t share the same room, let alone an actual conversation. She just runs off or pushes me away.” “I know. She told me.” You eye your companion for a silent moment. “Is that what you talked about last night?” Vanille’s lips press to a thin line. “I think it’s better if you hear it from her.” “I… I can’t //make// her talk to me.” You hiss out an exasperated breath. “I tried. Really. Last time, she shoved me into a wall. You’ve seen how she acts whenever I’m nearby, what she’s been like since—” “Since her best friend nearly died before her eyes?” You wince as if struck. “That’s…” A steady hand finds your shoulder, and you turn to watch the hard lines of Vanille’s features soften with sympathy. “It was hard for us,” she says. “And we handled it—we’re //still// handling it in our own ways. Please, go talk to her, like you did for me.” “I don’t know how,” you mutter, struggling to meet Vanille’s steady gaze. “It doesn’t matter what I say; she just pushes me away, and I don’t know how to get through.” The knight draws in a slow breath. “Look, you’re the most caring person I’ve ever met—you might be the most empathic person in all of Havendor. Trust that Mira’s ready, that she’s brave enough to speak and just… Just //listen.// That’s the important part. Just listen to her.” You nod. “Okay. I…” You nod again. <<linkreplace "“I can do that.”">><<include "Cat Talk">><</linkreplace>><</if>>

“I can do that.” Having said her piece, Vanille drifts away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the looming prospect of bridging the vast divide between you and Mira. Your heart lurches fitfully in your chest, a phantom ache crawling through scar tissue and seeping out into your limbs like insidious venom. Despite the knight’s advice and reassuring words, it’s hard to feel optimistic. Hope alone is a dangerous thing; believing Mira will actually talk, only to see her retreat once more, is a pain you’re not ready to bear. But Vanille’s right. You can’t wait and do nothing. If she feels your efforts might help, you at least have to try. [[Steel yourself|O Mira, My Mira]]

The trees thin. Dense foliage gives way to jagged sheets of rock and sparse, scraggly brush that cling to the foothills of the Brimond Mountains like thorny brambles. A steady wind builds with each ascending step, cool against the heat of early-summer afternoon. The forests of northwest Havendor stretch for miles. Maybe Khobb’s out there somewhere in the sea of green. Maybe you could find it. Maybe you’re just procrastinating. A part of you feels terribly vulnerable, exposed. You’d much rather try to have this conversation somewhere quiet and solitary, or at least a place where the rest of your companions won’t be watching if this collapses into another blowout. Mira sees you coming. Emerald eyes glance for a second. Limbs stiffen, ears flatten, tail bristles. But she doesn’t run. Even if it looks like every muscle in her body wants to. Instead, she maintains her slow pace up the hillside as you approach, feet crunching through grasses and gravel in heavy, deliberate steps. You settle an awkward distance away—a bit too far for casual conversation, but you’re afraid the demi will finally bolt if you dare any closer. “Hi, Mira,” you start, hesitant. A long silence passes. Your companion’s tail twitches, her hands clench. Eyes keep flitting between you and anywhere else, as if desperate for somewhere to hide. Twice her legs shift, as if she’s going to sprint away. Again, she doesn’t. Finally, Mira peers toward your feet—a compromise to eye contact. “<<= $name>>, I…” Another pregnant silence follows, longer than the last, agonizing in its nascent possibility. You actively suppress the urge to prompt the demi or try to follow up, to intervene and encourage her forward. “Are you… okay?” Mira asks. Her head rises, eyes drifting toward your chest, only to suddenly dart away. “W- With all the walking. Since you get, uhm… tired sometimes.” “O- Oh, yeah,” you manage, picking each word like it’s a razor-edge shard of glass. “I’m… fine. Better than I used to be.” Mira gives a slight nod, still diligently looking elsewhere. Another stretch of quiet follows, shorter than the last, before she finds her voice once more. “W- When I left, I…” The demi hesitates. “I didn’t…. I wanted to…” She wavers, staggering a step away before managing a quick lurch back. A furtive glance and an audible, shuddering breath heralds another attempt. “Vanille said you tried to find me,” she murmurs. You draw a slow breath of your own. “We all did, Mira. We were worried about you. We wanted to make sure you were… alright. That you were safe.” Mira visibly tenses at the final word, recoiling. Her tail swishes in agitated rhythm, fists clenching so hard you almost expect her fingernails to draw blood. But yet again, she holds steady. A brief glint of emerald appears from beneath dark, tousled hair as she braves a peek. “It’s… Vanille, uhm, she talked with me for a long time—last night, I mean. Listened, and…” “She’s a very kind person,” you offer with a slight smile, casting your gaze back to the group where the knight maintains respectable distance. “Did it help? Having someone to talk to?” “I… Maybe,” Mira mutters. “N- No, it did. But I—” She lets out a frustrated huff, then another. She tries to speak. You can see the parted lips, the half-formed syllables, the fledgling thoughts that fail to coalesce into words. Yet each time she flounders, she seems to grow more agitated. Her ears press flat to her scalp, her tail knifing back and forth in sharp, jagged arcs. “It’s okay,” you say as gently as you can. “Take your time.” She steals another glance, a bit longer this time. You can see the fear in her eyes—the same terror you’ve seen time and time again in the moment before she runs. Yet she buries it beneath a mask of determination, keeping a stiff upper lip. She shuffles a half-step closer. “<<= $name>>,” Mira eventually starts, barely more than a whisper. “B- Back in Icilia, I… I couldn’t… I didn’t know how—” The demi suddenly hunches. Her tail poofs to twice its usual girth. Furry black ears flicker to attention like rabid satellite dishes. You’re on the verge of blaming yourself for saying the wrong thing when you hear it: A low, gravelly roar shakes the trees, the earth; the gallop of a thousand steeds echoes between the boulders and trees; a massive animal snarls and growls, kicking up rocks and grinding stumps beneath massive hooves. Your spear unslings from your back as heavy thumps pound in your chest. Eyes scan the treeline. Knuckles turn white as you brace yourself. Vanille’s at your side a moment later, shield raised to protect both you and Mira. Lloriel’s bow creaks as she nocks an arrow. [[Above!|Bird Brained]]

A winged creature swoops down from above. It hovers nearby, swinging an oblate object on a cord in tight, rapid circles. The airfoil roars with each pass, grunting and groaning out the horrible cacophony of a stampede. Harpy. A big one, at that. Most of the bird women you’ve seen thus far have been lithe, narrow people, a bit shorter than you—a build suitable for aerodynamics. But as she lands, it becomes clear the perched woman is fully your size, if not larger. Her silvery white wings are thick and wide, dense pinion feathers gleaming like short swords. Two ridges sweep from her temple up to her scalp, then end in sharp plumes the muddy-brown color of dried blood. Leather straps cover her torso, but you wouldn’t exactly consider her to be ‘clothed.’ “Halt-halt!” she barks. “This is White Beak territory!” You ease up a little bit, as does the rest of your group. Words are good. You’ll take words over fighting. “Uh, we’re just passing through?” you offer, hopeful that if you sound a bit helplessly confused, the monster girl will take pity on you. She stamps her feet excitedly. “Good! You-pay the toll!” Someone on your path is asking for your money. This feels oddly familiar… Granted, there were a lot more bandits last time—and //a lot// more gurgling—but there’s something different about this obstacle’s tone. The harpy seems strangely proud. ‘Official,’ perhaps. Like a greeter at a particularly militant supermarket. She also mentioned ‘territory,’ which probably means the White Beaks are some sort of tribe or clan, though you don’t see any other monster girls. The //lack// of armed reinforcements is strangely comforting this time around. Also damn, that’s twice now you’ve been stopped in three days. The week-long trip from Icilia to Orrault was, aside from the murderous worm girl, quiet. You almost miss it. You lean over and nudge Vanille as she sheathes her blade. “We can afford a couple coins for safe passage, right?” She shrugs. “It’s certainly better than needlessly fighting our way through the locals.” “Makes sense.” You nod, then turn your attention back to the harpy up the side of the cliff. Shouting, you tell her, “We’re interested in paying the toll. What sort of protection do we get from the, uh, White Beaks?” “You-get safe travels!” she chirps. A sudden, lizard-brain thought strikes: ‘travel’ in this case might mean that the harpy eats you and ‘carries’ you over the mountain, then sextuples the price on arrival to regurgitate you. And as much fun as it might be to get around that way, there’s no chance you’re gonna fall for that. “We’ll be walking through on our own. That’s alright?” “Yes-yes! Takes one day!” She cheers, apparently quite pleased to parlay. Even better, she’s not licking her lips. “We do not have a place for you-stay, but we grant passage through the mountain. We do not collect again on the other side—Very generous!” “That //is// generous,” you respond, chuffed when the harpy preens at the compliment. “Are the tunnels safe?” “Very safe!” she squawks. “So that’s it? We pay, you let the other White Beaks know we’re cool, and we can be on our way?” She’s practically jumping up and down with impatient excitement now. “Yes-yes!” “Seems reasonable,” you shout merrily as you reach for the coin pouch in your bag. “How much to pass?” //“Numbers-numbers-numbers…”// she mutters to herself. The harpy holds out her wing and counts the rigid feathers where her fingers would be, head nodding along. Her gaze flits up to your group, and then she rechecks her count. Before nodding. She lifts both wings and bends forward to check one of the pouches tied to the leather straps across her chest. Finally, she smiles and points at you. “One.” “… One coin?” you ask, scarcely believing your luck. “No-no! One person!” She points again, more vehement this time. “You are tastiest. I eat you, and the rest have protections.” “What!?” You and Vanille shout in unison. You both follow up with a resounding, “No!” The harpy stomps, talon scraping her rocky perch. “Is a fair trade! One for five!” “No!” Her wings flitter, annoyed. “C’mon. I’m hungry! Watch duty is so //boooring.”// You roll your eyes and pull a pair of polished silver coins from your bag. They gleam in the midday sun. “How about we trade for coins—we got lots of shiny stuff.” You drop the currency and rummage through your bag once more, pulling out something wrapped in parchment. You unfold it and the delicious scent of roasted meat oozes forth. “We’ve also got leftovers from the wedding. They’re really fucking delicious. //Way// tastier than me.”<<if $SherineEvent3 == true>> You swear you hear a faint chuckle from somewhere nearby.<</if>> “Hmm-hmm,” the harpy hums, leaning forward and peering down at the morsel you’ve produced. She eyes it curiously. A dark, purple tongue emerges to whet her lips. She scratches the stone eagerly. Hope that she’s come to her senses flickers and dies as she screeches. “No-no! White Beak tradition is very important!” You huff. “C’mon! I’m sure we can work something out. We’re just looking for, uh…” You raise an eyebrow at the elf. “Lloriel, where are we going?” She points ahead where the path grows steeper—and a whole lot narrower. “It’s just uphill, maybe another twenty minutes before we’re at the pass. I remember from last time.” //“I// don’t recognize you!” the harpy squawks. She glares at Lloriel, indignant. The elf scoffs and folds her arms. “Are you out here all the time, seedsucker?” A talon scrapes the boulder once more, tearing a chunk free. She hurls it out of sight with the flick of an… ankle? Whatever attaches the harpy’s four-toed foot to her chicken-leg. “New offer: gimme the rude little one to slurp down, and the rest you-go. Better deal now!” You’re an inch from telling Lloriel to just shoot the harpy when something gently tugs on your leg. Sherine slides along behind your back as she repositions herself. Hot breath splashes upon your neck. //“Take the offer,”// she whispers in one ear.<<if $Khobb8 == false>> //“Just like last night,”// she teases into the other.<</if>> Before you can question her absurd strategy, Sherine winks at you, then slithers to a free spot at the edge of your party’s loose formation. [[Trust her|Early Worm Gets the Bird]]

You step forward and call up to the harpy. “My apologies. You were right, your first offer was more than fair.” You leave your spear stuck in the ground and approach another ten paces. You splay your arms and bow slightly. “Five for one. As per White Beak tradition, you can have me. Please grant my group safe passage.” Lloriel scoffs. “Wh- What?” The elf’s about to draw an arrow from her quiver when Vanille stops her. The knight similarly assuages Mira, then nods to you and Sherine in turn. And not that it matters at the moment, but Ashlyn continues to be a useless lump, staring off into space with the awareness of a crash test dummy. “Yes-yes!” the harpy cheers, immensely pleased with her intellectual triumph. She scampers down from her perch and lands with a //crunch// as fierce talons dig into the gravel underfoot. She hops forward, buoyant joy in her dark pupils. Her tongue lolls from her mouth as focus narrows. Wings rise overhead in what’s quickly becoming a victory dance for the bird. A slight snap of a twig is your cue to lurch backward. The harpy lunges. A copper coil catches her by the neck, then yoinks her sideways. She manages one last, muted squawk before a wet //glumph// seals her head behind Sherine’s lips. It’s over before the first swallow. In the air, the harpy’s flight could’ve kept her free of the lamia’s reach. On the ground—and a bit warier—her avian agility might’ve allowed her to leap away in time. But trapped in Sherine’s coils… Well, at least she’ll make some interesting bulges as she squirms. And squirm she does, talons kicking and feathers flying. The lamia doesn’t care. A practiced loop of the tail sees the harpy’s wings bound to her sides. A stiff push shoves the writhing monster girl a full foot down Sherine’s gullet. The lamia’s throat swells with the harpy’s head, wriggling, floundering, inexorably sinking deeper. A thick //shluck// drags the doomed monster girl down to her chest. Another, and her silvery plumage is mostly vanished between Sherine’s lips. Copper coils shift, bind, shove in unceasing and mechanical motion, working in tandem with the lamia’s hands to ensure the harpy is tucked away as fast as possible. There’s no sensuality to the spectacle—no pause for tasting or appreciative moans or teasing hums. Just a predator and her sheer, overwhelming dominance over her prey. You’re not the only one watching the show, either. In the brief moments you tear your gaze away to check for any other winged fiends, you catch both Mira and Lloriel eyeing the disappearing harpy with keen interest. Maybe they were hoping to score the meal for themselves? Unfortunately for them, Sherine’s claim is pretty damn absolute—more so by the second—as the harpy’s downy thighs and scraggly bird-legs are the only remaining steps on her journey from autonomous creature to squirming lump. And the lamia’s all too eager to see the last of her tucked away, tail tip pushing at the harpy’s feet, indifferent to the wild raking of gleaming talons. You’re close enough—or the harpy’s loud enough—that you can hear the monster girl’s shouts. She sounds unhappy. Given that she was trying to devour you about thirty seconds ago, you don’t really care. One final slurp sees the harpy’s talons vanish behind bulging cheeks. A definitive //glurk,// and those same talons slip down the lamia’s neck, twitching all the while. A relieved sigh spills forth from plush, parted lips, and that’s that. A hand on your shoulder nearly sends you rolling back down the mountain. “Good job you two,” Vanille says at your side, nodding to you and Sherine in turn. “O- Oh, thanks,” you manage, struggling to look away as the harpy is rapidly funneled from the lamia’s human stomach and down into her tail. //Deep// down into her tail. Looks like Sherine isn’t planning on keeping her meal around for long. The knight scans the skies, then lets out a satisfied huff. “Let’s get going. I’d rather not stick around to see if any more harpies actually roost up here.” [[Up the mountain you go|Minotoarer]]

What had previously been a sloping hillside abruptly narrows to a trail carved into the mountain, winding back and forth as it twists up and eventually slips out of sight. Your group closes ranks, partially out of wariness for any additional surprise monster girls, and partially from pragmatic necessity. While you could probably walk up the trail three abreast, the person on the outside would be perilously close to a steep drop. It’s not quite bottomless pit territory or anything, but even a semi-controlled tumble down the mountainside would probably end with a broken bone or two. And since that would suck, you silently settle into a tight single file, with Sherine taking up the rear so her tail—and the actively writhing harpy within—doesn’t get in anyone’s way. You briefly debate trying to pick up where you left off with Mira, but the close quarters means even a semblance of privacy would be impossible. You bury the frustration beneath a sigh. “Hey Lloriel,” you call out after a couple minutes of silent climbing, surprised to find you’re already a bit short of breath. “How’d you deal with the ‘White Beaks’ last time you came through here?” “I didn’t.” The elf pauses to effortlessly leap over a jutting rock in the trail. “The whole pass was quiet as could be. Maybe the bird was just bluffing.” She shrugs. “Either way, I agree with Vanille. The faster we’re through, the better.” At Lloriel’s urging, you all pick up the pace, though this proves to be more of a challenge for some than others. Surprisingly, you don’t fare the worst—or even second-worst. Ashlyn still stumbles along in her addled state. Fortunately, Vanille keeps a close eye on the mage so you can spend most of your effort worrying about yourself. But Sherine proves to be the slowest, her serpentine body ill-suited for this sort of sustained, steep incline. Sheer girth allows her to handle pebbles and gravel, but she’s forced to ponderously slither around or over any larger obstructions, resulting in a more prominent zigzagging pattern to her movements, like water dribbling between crumbling stone pavers. It’s not that she’s struggling to move, so much as she’s having to do a whole lot //more// moving to cover the same distance as the rest of you. And unfortunately, the environment only grows harsher and more arid with every passing minute. The last of the greenery dies away, leaving only bits of dried and brittle brown to jut from between clusters of sun-bleached rock and swaths of gravel. The ground beneath your feet becomes less stable, and more than once Lloriel warns the party of a dangerously loose rock or kicks a bit of debris down the mountainside to clear a path. The one bit of good news—for you and your companions at least; the harpy in Sherine’s stomach probably has a differing opinion—is that the skies remain clear. Perhaps Lloriel was right, and the ‘White Beaks’ were nothing but a bluff. Or perhaps the harpy didn’t have time to call for help with that strange… “Hey, what was that thing she was swinging around anyway?” you blurt out. “Some kind of weapon?” “A minotaur roarer, I believe,” Sherine offers. “It’s a type of musical instrument—an old one. Perhaps she was using it for intimidation.” “Communication,” Ashlyn says simply. After a long moment, she sighs and explains. “It’s a low, rumbling noise, travels farther than a horn or screaming your head off.” At your wary gaze, the mage scowls. “What?” You shuffle close and lower your voice. “Really? No jokes about ‘horns’ or ‘screaming?’ You sure you’re alright?” She scoffs. “Absolutely not. I’m barely upright; it’s //baaad.”// Before you can ask if she’d like help—which you’re all but certain she’d refuse—something hard and warm thumps against your ankle. Without thinking, you reach down and retrieve a piece of oblong wood, smooth save for a small hole through which a length of cord has been tied. It’s also wet. You glance over your shoulder to find Sherine wiping her lips. The lamia flashes an affable grin, and you finally put the pieces together: it’s the minotaur-roarer. On one hand, it’s terrifyingly impressive that the lamia could regurgitate the instrument—//and only the instrument//—from the depths of her stomach. On the other… gross. “Th- Thanks,” you say, wiping the curious device against your tunic before giving it a closer look. There’s not a whole lot to the device, which means it must make that ominous rumble through air displacement alone. It’s an ingeniously simple piece of acoustic engineering. Did the harpy make it herself, or was it something taken from a previous ‘toll?’ “So, are monster girls usually like that?” you ask as you give the instrument an experimental swing, then decide it best not to make a fuckload of noise unprompted. “Always, uh, thinking with their stomachs?” Sherine chuckles. “Perhaps more so than humans, but I assure you most of us are much more reasonable. Harpies tend to be…” She falters for a moment as she heaves the bulk of her serpentine tail up and over a particularly large rock in the path, then lets out a slight sigh. “Let’s say that sometimes they hatch a bit early.” “She means they’re dumb as bricks,” Lloriel remarks from ahead. “Huh,” you huff out as you trudge along. There hasn’t been much opportunity to actually talk with harpies you’ve encountered—largely on account of them immediately trying to devour you alive. Are they really that much more… ugh, //bird-brained// than their non-avian kin? [[Press on|Distant Pink Floyd Noises]]

A mystery for another time, you resolve, instead dedicating your focus to the increasingly treacherous mountain trail. The steady incline is getting to you, breath short, calves burning. You muscle through the discomfort, keeping your eyes ahead and your feet planted on firm ground. The few times you dare to steal a glance away from the path are a mixed experience: the awe of a gorgeous view roiling fitfully with the sudden reminder of just how far one wrong step could send you tumbling down the mountainside. In a merciful gesture, the trail suddenly turns inward, leveling out a few degrees and cutting into the mountain range rather than just climbing up and up. The unending sea of Havendorian forest vanishes behind a cliff, though a five-foot crevasse between the trail and the second wall keeps you from relaxing entirely. Perhaps unwisely, you decide to peer over the edge. It’s difficult to gauge the distance in the long shadows, but a few persistent rays of sunlight manage to penetrate the gloom and reveal slices of larger chambers lurking beneath the narrow fissure. Caves, perhaps? Add it to the book of mysteries that can wait for later. The trail winds between the two cliff faces for another few minutes, and you begin to hope you’re past the worst of the climb—that soon enough you’ll be over the apex and left with nothing but a nice and easy downhill jaunt the rest of the way… Right up until you hit //the wall.// It’s an opening in the rock about twenty feet up, like a V-shaped window carved directly into the mountain. It, like the path you’ve been navigating, is striated, smooth, and littered with debris. Water must have once flowed down here, cut the narrow gorge above and… then perhaps spilled down into the chasm below? Or maybe this was a continuous stream aeons ago, and the entire mountain since //cracked,// experienced a violent slip of tectonics which created the sheer wall before you. A quick glance left and right reveals this spot is your best bet; it’s the shortest distance to the ledge above. Lloriel sure knew what she was talking about—she found this place with near pinpoint accuracy. It’s only twenty feet up. With enough time and preparation, you could manage it yourself, though you’re not sure if Vanille packed you any climbing gear. “Magic?” you murmur, looking around and trying to find Ashlyn. She’s taken the moment to sprawl her enfeebled body on a particularly jagged rock. She’s sweating more than you. Even stranger, she’s practically //glistening// in the sunlight. “I don’t believe in levitation spells.” You fold your arms. “You mean you don’t know any.” “Same difference.” She rolls her entire head in a dizzy circle. “Besides, I’m still sick as a dog girl. Watch.” The redhead waves her hand and grunts. A tiny spurt of scintillating goo dribbles down her finger and splashes onto the ground. Before anyone can stop her, she sticks the digit in her mouth and sucks herself clean. You sigh and turn back to the cliff. “We can climb it,” you say a moment later, mostly to convince yourself. Your nod turns into a frantic, ducking gesture as a low rumble echoes from above. Familiar roars rattle the earth and sky. Your chest pounds, reverberating like a drum. A roll of cacophonous squawks and shrieks fill the air. Silhouettes criss-cross the sun, cast terribly long shadows along the cliff face. Ah shit, there was supposed to be a return call from that stupid scout harpy. You should have swung the goop off the roarer while you had the chance. “God-fucking-dammit. I swear it’s just up this way,” Lloriel calls out. She scrambles for the rocky shelf and propels herself upward. The lithe elf regains her footing at the top and shouts, “I can see it! The cave’s just up this gorge. We’ll be safe once we reach it. We’re almost—” A winged woman swoops. You don’t have time to shout a warning. Lloriel drops to the ground as talons swipe empty air. The elf’s sitting up a split second later with her bow drawn, shifting and shuffling her legs to pivot on her ass, her whole body tracking the swift bird with dire precision. She fires three arrows in rapid succession, the first two lancing separate wings of the strafing harpy and the third going high over the target. Just when the shot’s about to careen over a cliff, another monster suddenly appears to take the arrow squarely in the gut. Both birds screech and crash. “Mira!” Vanille calls, then points after the elf. “Get up there and cover her. <<= $name>>,” the knight cups both hands and levels them at her waist. She nods upward twice, then gestures with her shoulders for you to hurry over. Havoc rises as more and more harpies appear: the full force of the White Beaks. Loose weaponry falls from the sky as a squad of harpies tries a new tactic. Lloriel shoots one of the bombing group down, then whirls as an armored bird comes to harry her in close quarters. Mira’s there a second later, sweeping the fragile legs just as the monster girl lands. The harpy goes down, and the demi’s on her immediately, kicking and shoving until the bird tumbles over the ledge and thuds down heavily behind you. You plant one foot on Vanille’s palms. She hurls you skyward, up the entire ledge in one go. Limbs flail as you reach the apex, forearms banging against the rocks before desperate fingers catch a hold in a shallow crack. You tug and pull, kick and push. With a mighty heave, you drag yourself atop the ledge, then roll onto your stomach and drape your arms back down in time to catch Vanille mid-jump. White-knuckled grip around her wrist, you brace and pull like your life depends on it. Arms tremble, muscles strain. You slide forward half a foot, dirt and stone scraping against your chest. Something //pops// in your elbow. Ribbons of pain pull across your shoulders, stretching, thinning, searing. [[Hold on tight|Hoist the Knight]]

Vanille’s boot slams into the rock face repeatedly. You’re at your limit when she finally catches her footing. The knight hops and grabs the ledge with one hand, then swings herself up, taking most of the load off your screaming arms. You gasp and simply lay there for a moment, basking in the glory of pain. You never realized how much all the armor and gear actually weighed—and that’s //in addition to// the sturdy Havendorian body. Tingling waves of relief ripple down your arms. Your chest unwinds, then tightens back up as a huge, brutish harpy lands at the base of the cliff, easily twice the size of her compatriots. She stomps towards Sherine and Ashlyn, licking her lips as your companion curls defensively around the mage. The lamia tries to extend herself up to the ledge. Delicate fingers brush past yours, but retreat before you can get a grip. Sherine snaps back down like a spring, rolling under a greedy tackle from the immense bird. Your companion slides under a heavy lateral wing attack, then slips aside an open-mouthed lunge. Ashlyn groans as she’s spun and whipped about. The mage pukes a little, then a lot as Sherine whips her forward and squeezes. Prismatic spray coats the confused harpy. She backs off as her feathers sizzle slightly, the two huge predators never breaking eye contact, circling warily around one another. The hulking monster girl shouts something unintelligible, then charges. A bow’s twang heralds a whistling arrow. The metal tip punctures the harpy’s brow. She howls and loses momentum. The move buys the lamia enough time to gently set Ashlyn’s floppy body down, then lunge at her monstrous opponent. Sherine coils around the burly harpy’s neck and commits to a death roll, the two titans crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. Wings flap. Debris splashes. Shards of chipped stone clatter off in all directions. Sherine strains and grunts, tail tightening. She glides across the other woman’s chest, then rises upon the bird’s back, fierce determination glimmering in garnet eyes. The harpy strains another ten seconds in the chokehold, then slows, ebbs. The fight drains out of her. She slumps forward and //thonks// her head against the cliff face. Sherine dismounts, copper tail sliding as she unlaces the strangling corset. She circles her defeated prey, swaying, observing the slight twitches of the unconscious monster. The lamia bites her lip, a finger tapping idly at her clavicle— //She can’t possibly want to…// —An instant before she throws the harpy back down the way you came. She’s retrieving Ashlyn in curling coils a moment later, then slithering back toward the cliff. A sudden thump at your side catches your attention. “What’s the holdup!” Vanille nudges you again with her foot, her sword already out and swinging at a swooping harpy. A second later, she roundhouse kicks a different dive-bombing bird and sends her squawking. “<<= $name>>, do they need help?” [[Yeah, but probably not from you|Literal Cliff Hanger]] [[What? No, you’ve got this|Yeet the Elf]]

“Yes—Switch with me!” you holler, scrambling to your feet and unslinging your spear. “You’re stronger.” The knight nods as you bump up against her and swap places. A pair of talons reach out for Lloriel. You thrust your weapon skyward and catch the attacker in the wing, a minor blow. She hovers awkwardly for a moment as she tries to regain mobility, but decides to back off and let a pair of her sisters take her place. Mira springs out from behind the elf and catches one of the newcomers off guard with a knife to the shoulder. An arrow hits the other bird square in the chest, and both fall to the ground. The demi scurries forward and pries the ammo from the still twitching bodies, kicks both harpies in the skull, then retreats to Lloriel’s side. “H- Here,” Mira says, thrusting the arrows into the intrigued elf’s hands before turning and waiting for the next attacker, bloodied knife swinging freely. Her tail smacks between you and the elf, sensing, making sure that her team’s behind her. More birds appear. They’re swarming now, taking turns swooping and swiping at your group. Your spear buys decent berth, and Mira and Lloriel cover the rest. Thrice, the harpies go after Vanille, but you defend the grunting and straining knight as she hoists Sherine up the ledge one agonized snarl at a time. The lamia’s copper tail dangles down and pulls Ashlyn up a moment later. Level, and with extra hands joining the fray, you finally have a moment to get your bearings. Sanctuary is just up the gorge, maybe fifty paces across treacherously rocky terrain between steep walls. The debris is dense here, like the leftover scraps at the bottom of a compactor. Ahead, a pitch-dark cave gapes, inviting, begging your entry, its jutting ceiling promising safety from the flock. “We gotta move!” you call out above the squawking. “Uphill, uphill!” You wait for Vanille to finish bashing a harpy with her boot, then shuffle over and put your hand on her arm. “Take my spear—better reach than the sword.” She doesn’t hesitate to make the swap, sheathing her own weapon and twirling the haft. The knight stands at the front and sweeps a path for your group, then falls back when the flock tries to focus their attacks on a single member. You pluck your bow off your back and start taking shots wherever you can. Your form is terrible, your arrows fly wide, but in close quarters the twang of the bow is more than enough to distract and divert the flying opponents. The monster girls shout commands to one another, coordinate their strikes. Your group counters, fending the shrieking clamor off and taking another firm step up the gorge. Calm, controlled, your party advances together. You and Vanille take turns covering for Ashlyn. When Mira’s not by Vanille’s side, she’s scurrying along Sherine’s tail and swiping at any birds stupid enough to go for the wriggling copper worm. A clarion call echoes through the ravine. The harpy swarm peels away, hopping and scrambling out of reach. The grounded fighters take flight, a wake of feathers raining down from above. //Crash!// A boulder slams into the rock face barely ten feet ahead, then blows open a hole as it punches straight through. Stone shards whip about the chasm, sharp and blinding. The ground trembles and groans, violently quaking. You stumble to your knees. Vanille’s dragging you by the arm a second later, shouting incoherently above the deafening rattle. A second rock hits within arm’s reach, buffeting you with a hail of displaced air and shrapnel. Before you can recover, a third collides with the cliff just to your right. The fusillade builds as the harpies shove more and more boulders. An avalanche screams down the hill. You’re pulled onto your feet in a dizzying blur as Vanille scoops Ashlyn off the ground and onto her shoulders. The knight storms toward safety. Sherine frantically checks over her shoulder as more stones fall, trying to account for her whole body as she springs after Lloriel already at the mouth of the cavern. You skid and pivot, then suck in your breath and press your back to the wall as a rock twice your size grinds past. The demi’s back a few paces, desperate to make any progress forward, but the barrage is too much. She scrambles under a falling rock, only to step back to sidestep another. Two more come crashing by as she skitters around a newly formed hollow. Your heart skips a beat as she nearly falls backward into the pit. An ominous rumble builds over the cracking report of stone on stone. You dare a glance up. A single, massive boulder crests the precipice above, then careens down the ravine wall on a direct collision course with Mira. [[Dive for her|You Fell]]

“I’m on it!” you cry out, eager to prove yourself. Shuffling forward on your belly, you bend, wrapping your abdominals around the precipice. Sherine rises, face painted with determination. A hand slides into yours, and you brace. You’re yanked forward as she tries to pull herself up, the full weight of the lamia nearly ripping your arms clean off. Breath hitches in your throat. You bend your legs, calves catching on something— Lloriel’s uprooted like a sapling in a hurricane. Your stupid, desperate clamp yoinks the elf as you slide off the cliff entirely. A mid-air tumble sees the poor girl flung elsewhere. You fall helplessly. Limbs flail. Hands clench and grasp. The world spins, slowly, as if mocking. The ground careens dangerously close. You’re falling, untethered, absolutely fucked by this split-second stupidity. Hoisting a huge snake woman yourself? What the hell were you thinking? A hair’s breadth before your skull cracks on a rock, everything goes sideways. Vision inverts, pressure swells in your head. Eyes pinch shut, or maybe the g-forces darken your sight. Either way, you’re swung and whirled, then tossed back into the air for a perilously weightless moment. Razor talons curl under your arms, slide across the soft flesh of your pits and clamp tight. You’re heaved and hoisted skyward. The ground which once threatened deadly impact falls away as you ascend. Sight returns in time to watch Lloriel’s kicking legs vanish into a nearby gullet. Wings flap in sync with each swallow, and soon the elf is no more than a modest lump under the harpy’s downy coat. Your hostess catches an updraft, up and away from the attacking swarm. Your embattled companions disappear over a ridge. Tawny wings level out as she glides down the mountain for a moment, the distant sounds of combat vanishing behind the roar of the wind. You can’t get a good look at her from below—aside from her privates, which, y’know, isn’t gonna tell you much—and instead let your eyes flit from ridge to ridge, trying to guess where you’re gonna land. If she’s not gotta eat you in mid-air, maybe you can make a break for it if you’re prepared. The harpy circles a narrow plateau, a minimal shelf atop a cliff overlooking a young patch of forest. She veers and turns. Gravity gently pulls you toward the earth once more— She releases her grip without any warning. You tumble to the ground, adrenaline fueling a frantic scramble upright. Arms clutch for a spear that’s not there—fuck, you somehow lost it in the fall. Panicked, you reach for the knife at your waist, but it’s too late. A shadow looms, wings stretched wide and talons beared. It’s all you can manage to shield your face and pray for a quick and merciful— “<<= $name>>?” You freeze, then very slowly lower your arms to discover a peculiar figure: a harpy wearing a dress. A strangely familiar dress. In fact, there’s something strangely familiar about the harpy herself too. “Wait, Thalia?” you blurt out, finally recognizing the monster girl bridesmaid. The harpy gasps. “It //is// you! I wasn’t quite sure with all those clothes—I’m jealous that you humans get to change your pretty plumage so often.” She hops about, bird feet scraping against bare stone. “Oh, this is so exciting! Who would’ve thought I’d run into someone from the wedding so soon—and //here// of all places!” You blink up at the energetic monster girl, mind slowly recovering from the rush of action. “Uhh, ‘here?’ Is this your home? Your, erm… clan?” “No, not at all!” She tilts her head. “Well, sometimes I guess. I carry mail, and the White Beaks let me roost with them from time to time.” The harpy hoists a leather satchel that bulges with what you can only assume are letters, which then raises a whole bunch of questions about the logistics and efficacy of the Havendorian postal system. “R- Right,” you manage, shaking your head to clear your thoughts. “So does that mean you’re here to, uh, rescue me?” She frowns. “Well, I’ve got a long trip southeast, and I could //reeeally// use a big meal…” “Wait, hold on. Maybe I could give you the leftovers from—” Damnit, your pack’s gone too. “Uhh, I mean, I’m sure you could just let me go and find someone else?” “Probably not,” Thalia says with all the casual cheer of someone //not// talking about murder-eating you. “It’s not my territory. If I don’t eat you, the White Beaks would expect me to hand you over. Probably to the hatchlings—Should be big enough to take whole meals by now.” //“‘Should?’”// “Oh, yeah. First live feeding’s always a treat to watch. Doesn’t mean it’ll be fun for you—they’re vicious little fuckers. I promise I’ll be much gentler.” She leans forward, lips parting. “Wait-wait!” you shout, buying yourself a few extra seconds as Thalia shuts her mouth and eyes you inquisitively. “Isn’t there some way we can, I dunno, talk this out? We got along so well at the wedding!” “We did!” the harpy cheers, then tilts her head again. “Why?” “I, uhh… Maybe we could build on that? Come to some sort of arrangement?” “Oh. I figured that’s why you weren’t fighting back all that much.” She flashes an affable grin. “‘Cuz we’re friends!” //Soon to be close friends.// “R- Right,” you panic. “But you didn’t eat me—or anyone else—when we played //Who Am I?// Or even afterward, or the next morning, or—” “Yeah, it would have been rude to steal you from your wriggly lamia friend…” Thalia licks her lips. “Besides, that was Khobb. You’re out in the wild now. I caught ya; I’m gonna do what I want with ya.” “Any chance that what you want //doesn’t// include eating me?” you try, optimism rapidly waning in the face of monster-girl-logic-induced insanity. She tilts her head. “Do you wanna have sex first?” “… Really?” She nods. “Ya. You’re kinda cute, and it gets a bit lonely flying from one end of Havendor to the other.” “Maybe it’d be less lonely if you didn’t eat your partners,” you groan sarcastically. “But then I’d be hungry,” Thalia pouts, only to suddenly light up. “Oh, I know! Maybe we could do something long-term?” [[What the fuck does that mean?|I Wish I Was a Monster Girl]] [[No, just eat me already|Witty Worm Reference Goes Here]]

‘Long-term?’ Fuck that. It’s not hard to imagine the fates worse than death this world is capable of. Being magically transformed into a fully aware sex toy? Becoming sentient fat on someone’s thighs for the rest of their life? Even in Thalia’s case, she could trap you for weeks and slowly digest you to keep herself sustained mid-flight—No, no. Absolutely not. You don’t need to find out how creative a bird wearing a sundress can be. “Nevermind, just eat me,” you say, thoroughly defeated. The harpy beams. “Okay!” The words hardly leave her mouth before she lunges. You lurch in alarm, but the monster girl is faster. A pair of eager lips pass over the crown of your head, past your face, and slip all the way down to your neck in a single deafening //glump.// At least she’s making it quick. You’re shoved as much as dragged into the monster girl’s throat as she lunges again, a wet gulp resounding in your ears as tight flesh kneads and grips at your head. Thalia drives onward, sinking past your shoulders and down your chest. You can feel yourself bending forward in the harpy’s gullet to accommodate her hunched posture, and you begin to wonder what she’s got planned once she’s bent double at your waist. Suddenly, you’re yanked upward—not by arms or talons or whatever the fuck harpies have at the end of their wings instead of hands, but by the monster girl’s mouth and throat. You lurch up enough to lift your legs from the ground and leave your feet scrambling for purchase, only to suddenly be thrust back downward as another massive gulp engulfs your chest. This process repeats again and again, up and down, up and down. You’d worry you look absolutely ridiculous, as if you’re being pecked down the throat of an overgrown hen, but other pesky concerns seem more pressing—your imminent digestive demise, for instance. Thalia pauses as her lips finally reach your waist. You begin to hope you’ve earned a respite, only for the harpy to abruptly flip your legs skyward. With gravity on her side, she begins guzzling you down in rapid, jerking gulps, thrusting her entire upper body with each resounding //glurk// to devour you that much faster. You miss the pecks. Now each swallow rattles your bones and sends your skull lolling like a stubborn gumball stuck in a machine. The fleshy confines of the harpy’s stomach don’t help, nor do the gastric fumes. But since your two options are ‘squirm impotently’ or ‘shut up and deal with it like a good little morsel,’ you opt for the latter. Pride’s a thing for people who aren’t going to be spending the rest of their short lives melting away in a monster girl’s gut. Besides, buying time for a rescue seems pretty damn futile, given your companions are a mountain and a few very tall cliffs away. You just hope the rest made it out of the ambush safely—the ones you //didn’t// see get eaten, at least. Thalia’s frantic pace never slows, even as she works her way past your knees and down your shins, leaving you to curl in on yourself amid the gripping walls of flesh and muscle. Maybe the harpy’s worried she’ll lose her meal to a passing predator. Maybe she’s just that damn hungry. You’d say it’s not your problem, but… Well, y’know. In a final act of inexplicable predator etiquette, the harpy dexterously hooks a talon in each of your shoes and flicks them free one at a time before finally swallowing you down, one last rolling gulp pulling you into her stomach entirely. Lips smack. Feathers ruffle. //“Ooh,// yeah. That was good,” Thalia coos to herself. She stands up straight and spreads her wings. The harpy sways the thin sack back and forth, proud. “Thanks, <<= $name>>.” “Uh-huh,” you grunt, shifting amid the humid gunk. You bob gently like a ship on calm seas, each wave splashing against your clothes, acidic chyme soaking and seeping. “I aim to please.” Your hostess steps in a small circle, preening. She wiggles and shuffles. Wings tenderly smooth her dress one pass at a time—a difficult task for limbs without digits. Once satisfied her appearance is prim and perfect, Thalia resumes hunching. She stretches her arms out and yawns. “Do you mind if I sleep you off before I hit the road?” … Does she think //you’re// somehow in charge here? Is this a leftover courtesy from your prior ‘friendship?’ You’re pretty sure that friends… aren’t supposed to… eat each other… Okay. Sure. One of your companions has eaten you—Actually, two have—No wait, you’re forgetting— <<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || ($Orrault7 == "Ashlyn" && $MiraDating == false)>>Holy shit. You’ve been inside all of them.<<else>>How is it that of all people, //Ashlyn// is the one who hasn’t swallowed you whole? She’s certainly threatened it enough after finding out your dirty little secret.<</if>> You simply hang in the gut for a silent moment. Once the malaise clears, you say, “Uh, sure? Do whatever you want, I don’t—” you sigh, letting the indignation ooze out into the pool of goop. “Go ahead, Thalia. Thanks for asking.” The harpy’s body gradually slumps around you, tension unwinding and muscles relaxing. A slight, muffled flutter begets another stifled yawn. A leg curls up and around her gut, then a wing spreads over her body from head to navel. “Sleep tight,” Thalia sings quietly as she settles atop your curled form. You’d wish her the same purely out of reflex, but the bird’s instantly asleep. Without much else to do, you try your best to get comfortable in the wet sack. It’s less constricting than other stomachs you’ve been in—especially compared to the taut accommodations you had last night—and you’re able to curl into a nice little bundle. Perhaps it’s something about stomachs, or maybe the early stages of digestion are already getting to you, but a sense of weariness creeps over you within minutes, late-afternoon be damned. You don’t fight it. You close your eyes and gradually slump into the sweltering embrace of Thalia’s stomach, allowing yourself to slip into warm and welcoming sleep. <<set $deathtotal ++>><<set $deathHarpies ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 2.4.2]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Okay, look. I know conventional wisdom dictates you should try to land somewhere soft when falling from great heights, but I think being immediately digested by said soft place sorta defeats the purpose. Maybe aim for //on// the harpy next time, rather than inside of her. <<case 2>> You know, it’s a good thing that harpy caught you. Otherwise, you might’ve fallen to your death, which obviously would’ve been way less sexy than dying in her stomach. <<default>> Hey, so… I don’t mean to burst your bubble or anything, but maybe lifting the half-ton snake on your own isn’t the brightest idea. Perhaps you need a spotter. Maybe a yoga class? <</switch>> [[Return|Hoist the Knight]]

You nod, meek. “I- I guess I’ll take the longer option.” Anything to stay alive a few extra minutes, days, hours. She ruffles her feathers and beams at you. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna love it.” “Love what—” You choke on the rest as Thalia lurches forward, undercarriage-first. A flash of flesh engulfs your vision—a rippling moist opening, wet and inviting. Fluffy feathers and soft folds part. Flesh slaps onto your face and tugs, slurping and sucking. Maybe it was a mistake to give the ravenous monster girl carte blanche. An urgent weight forces you to the ground, overwhelming and oppressive. The orifice undulates and engulfs your entire head in a single gruesome //shlork.// Wings beat against your arms, pinning and quashing any reflexive resistance you might offer. Thalia pushes down hard. Sharp talons grip around your body, deadly and delicate. You’re inserted up to your biceps before you can catch a breath. And when you do find a lungful, you’re filled with thick, syrupy miasma. It’s her, it’s the harpy’s body odor, her flavor, her musk a million times amplified and percolated from scent to tangible sensation. It clings and coats in waves. Slick mucous douses your skin, basting and claiming every ounce. Once you’re firmly lodged in the fleshy gutter, Thalia eases up, fierce instincts peeling back just enough for a prurient moan to squeal out. A luxuriant thrust pushes her back down onto your body. The heavy blanket glides across your soaking tunic and latches around your waist. She rises, dragging you up with her and repositioning your legs to a prayer-like kneel at her altar. Heavens descend then rise again like the tide. Gates above open to welcome your head into Elysium. A million folds caress and hold, clutch you tight and beckon your entry. Another drive engulfs your thighs. You wriggle your arms free and feel about the new chamber, press your palms into the plush boundaries. The organ tightens like a bulb, coaxing another few inches of your body inside. The air thins, then thickens anew. Rabid heat crawls along your skin. Rich, warm darkness enshrouds like a cloak of magma. Your neck curls, your back hunches. Your shins leave the ground below as your body contorts into a little fetal ball. Knees rise to kiss your lips. A ring snaps shut over your feet. The chamber wobbles and sways. Tender ministrations from within and without guide you into a comfortable, weightless coil. You shift, a test of the prison, and find the taut sack open to input. In harmony with Thalia, you settle amicably into the bodily arrangement. “All set?” she asks. “I guess so,” you murmur. When she doesn’t immediately respond, you repeat yourself more firmly. “I’m fine!” “Okay!” Thalia cheers as her arms raise and lower. She hops up and sustains a quick hover for her own assurances, then darts forward and leaps from the edge of the cliff. A tingling rush glides up your spine as you and your host take to the air. Powerful wings flap at your sides as she rises, her whole body undulating like a machine, every pull and release of muscle breathlessly tightening and tensing in perfect chorus. It’s nothing short of a marvel to experience from the windowless cockpit. You stretch your legs an inch, cautious. Thalia compensates. You try a more rigorous shift within the hanging sack to the same effect. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that you can’t accidentally bring down the flight and ruin your day any further. “Everything okay in there?” she asks, the words oddly muted and… damp, as if she’s swallowing them. It wouldn’t really make sense for her to be shouting at her gut in midair, so she must have some sort of trick for communication. Monstrous anatomy, and all that. “Yeah, I’m…” You pause your feeble rebellion. “Hey, you’re not gonna do anything weird to me, right?” you ask, aware that the question should have come sooner. “Like what?” “I dunno… turn me into an egg, wait for me to hatch, and see what pops out?” Thalia’s silent for a long, long time. You hear her take a deep, wobbly breath, as if waiting for you to deliver a punchline. When it doesn’t come, she chuckles anyway. “You have a strange imagination.” You lurch. “That’s not an answer!” She laughs. “‘Egging’ doesn’t really work like you humans always think. You wouldn’t be ‘reborn,’ though I suppose the next chick I lay would be //made// of you—Only in a nutritional sense!” Thalia levels her wings, settling into a glide atop a gentle draft. “Don’t worry so much! We’re travel buddies now! We’ll fly, we’ll fuck. See a few things, visit a few places, and then I’ll eventually absorb you.” <<linkreplace "“Will it hurt?”">>“W- Will it hurt?” “Not at all. You’ll just fall asleep one day and won’t wake up.” Thalia ignores your uncomfortable silence and clicks her tongue. The noise doesn’t exactly translate through her body. Skinny thighs rise up to squeeze you playfully. //“C’mooon,// admit you’re cozy. I can tell these things.” “It’s…” You massage a hand against the plush interior, breathe a lungful of musky air. “Yeah, it’s kinda nice. This isn’t weird for you?” “Nope! It’s not the first time I’ve had a passenger.” ‘Passenger’ feels like a euphemism, but who knows. Thalia seems like the scrappy entrepreneurial type. Perhaps she’s had financial success as an air-taxi in the past. It wouldn’t be the craziest profession you could think of for this world. “So… you’ll let me out sometimes?” you ask, the last rebel impulses giving way to a sort of bemused acceptance. “You said you have to deliver letters? I- I can help with that, if you want.” “Maybe! As long as you won’t try to run away,” she offers, coy and playful. “Wouldn’t want you to get gobbled up by somebody else.” Thalia is once again correct. As horny as it may make you, a digestive fate is far more painful than… this extraordinarily pleasant one. Here is cozy and sleepy, and considering that you fucked up the moment you tried to hoist a lamia up a cliff, you probably deserved worse. You should have broken your neck from the fall. This? This is a little slice of heaven before your actual death. Borrowed time. An apology from Havendor. You can live with this—for as long as Thalia lets you, of course. And hey, she’s nice enough. You’ll be put to good use in the end. [[Speaking of good use…|Oomancy]]<</linkreplace>>

Welcome back to //Another Inner World!// If you’re here, you’ve successfully loaded a save from the end of Episode 17 and are ready to play Season 2 Episode 4. Enjoy! [[Resume|Episode 18]]

You hit her at full-tilt, no time to grab or pull. Your shoulder collides with her sternum, arms blindly grasping for a hold. Your momentum lifts the demi clean off her feet as the two of you fly forward. The boulder explodes with a crack of gunfire and the violent shockwave of a bomb. The air ripples and contorts, booms in your ears. Dust and shards batter your body. You make it clear—by how many inches you don’t dare wonder. Breath hitched, heart lodged in your throat, you arc through the air with Mira in your arms. Right over the edge of the chasm. Panic pulls the demi close, clutches her tight. Instinct rolls you about, places your shoulder between her and the cliff wall. Resolve holds your grip even as agony rips through your chest and lances down your arm and hisses between clenched teeth in a pained gasp. You bounce off the sheet of jagged rock and tumble into the waiting dark below. Feet scramble for purchase as you thud against the opposite wall, but you only send yourself into the first cliff again. The repeated impacts arrest some momentum, trading a plummet and a sudden violent stop for a series of smaller, jostling collisions like you’re a ball in an angry pachinko machine. Your shoulder scrapes against the rock one last time before you slip into the void, the reassurance of craggy stone lost to an inky black. You hit the ground back-first, wind torn from your lungs, red-hot sparks of pain rippling through your limbs. A hoarse wheeze escapes your mouth as your vision swims, the thin line of blue sky above writhing like a serpent. “Get off, get off, //get off of me!”// Mira curdles. She pushes, shimmies and squirms, pries herself free from your protective hold like a wriggling, many-legged insect. The demi skitters into a slice of daylight, ears pressed flat to her scalp. //“Don’t touch me!”// “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” You retreat from the scalding words. “You were in danger—I was trying to help. You were—There was a rock, it…” “Stop it! I was fine!” Violent shivers rattle her tiny body. She shudders, curling in on herself, trembling and shaking. “I don’t want your help! I don’t—” Mira goes as still as a grave, eyes locked on your hairline. A hot and wet bead rolls down the side of your face. You flinch, dabbing your finger against your brow. Your fingers come back smeared and red. She’s already running, bristled tail disappearing into the murky pitch. [[Go after her|MC in Cave]]

“Mira, wait!” you cry, scrambling to your feet. You dash forward into the oily blackness, only the faintest shreds of light giving you any sense of your surroundings. Your ankle twists and wobbles with each pounding footfall, the uneven cavern floor threatening to topple you outright. A sense of self preservation takes over. You slow, holding back the dire urge to pant and huff frustration, ears perked for any sign of her. Tiny scrapes and scuffles bounce, whirling, spinning, reflected by the jagged walls of the mountainous underbelly. By the time you get your bearings, the echoes have waned, then start anew in another direction. You lurch. An outstretched palm bangs against a rigid surface. You pause and pivot, then step again. She’s gone. Her wake’s dried up. You have nothing to go on, nothing but utter darkness and—Right, you have a torch. Urgent hands dig blindly through your bag, fumbling about for the wooden rod. You accidentally grab it by the head, a bundle of oily, ready-to-light kindling. You wipe the gunk on your trousers, then dive back in for the sparking apparatus, finding the little metal plates jangling beside your coin purse. You flick your fingers together, snapping at the damn thing. How was this supposed to work again? It’s just a little disc of flint striking steel. Blinding sparks sizzle and hiss, bounce along your palm, each //tchk-tchk// flashing the barest clues in the dark. Your fingers dig into the torch halfway up the shaft. You don’t realize your mistake until the oozing bundle ignites. A//fwoosh// heralds an eruption of light, a supernova of blinding sight. A sharp pain sears along your thumb. You pat your fingers together, then pass the torch to your other hand and stick the scorched digit in your mouth to suckle away the pain. It tastes brackish and sharp, like sour toothpaste. You only burned yourself slightly; it’ll pass. The torch crackles, shedding heat like a small sun. You hold it apart from yourself, your arm extended as far out and back as possible. Fiery tendrils nip at your sleeves. Squinting, you peer around the cavern. You are standing in a crag-laden space full of rough, jagged edges. The traversable area is elliptical, though the perimeter is marred by imperfections—crumbling boulders, razor-like stalactites, and random rocky outcroppings. The first sight of the ceiling has you instinctively ducking and hunching as flames from your torch lick the stone sky. Eyes scan the walls and find two potential exits: a narrow tunnel forward, and a broader corridor that you’re reasonably certain brought you here in the first place. More importantly, though: no fucking sign of Mira. Goddammit. Where did she go, and why the hell did she just bolt again? You thought <<if $MiraDating == true>>things were improving, dared to hope the two of you<<else>>she was improving, dared to hope you<</if>> might actually be making the slightest shred of progress after weeks spent in the bitter winter of silence and frustration. But no, here you are back at square one. Worse than square one, actually. Because now you’re stranded in a cave, separated from the rest of your companions. Assuming they made it to safety in the first place. You suck in an agitated breath, then try to calm yourself with a gradual exhalation. Your heartbeat slows, the pounding in your ears ebbing to a steady thrum. Just stop. Think. You might be on your own, but you’re not trapped. Mira, with her uncanny dark vision, has scrambled far enough away that you’ve lost track of her, so these caves must be reasonably expansive. And the rest of your companions were headed for a tunnel of their own. It’s not impossible to imagine they might link up. …Which just leaves the puzzle of how you’re actually going to find them. You let out another slow breath, then listen. The crackle of your torch bounces off the cave walls, fizzes and pops fading into the distance only to return as distorted whispers. The slight scuff of a boot against a bit of gravel resounds like the report of a rifle. Even the rustle of your own clothing echoes through the tunnels like steam hissing from a vent. A faint murmur drifts from places beyond, low and mournful—wind, perhaps. But not so much as a peep from Mira or any of your friends. Without any better leads, it seems like you’re going to be relying on blind luck or intuition. [[Forward|Cave0a]] [[Back|Cave0b][$Cave1 to true]]

<> <<if $CaveNav1 == false && $Cave1 == true>> [[Try the squat tunnel|Cave1a][$Cave2 ++, $CaveNav1 to true]] <</if>> <<if $CaveNav1 == false && $Cave1 == false>> [[Try the easily accessible tunnel|Cave1b][$Cave2 ++, $CaveNav1 to true]] <</if>> <<if $CaveNav2 == false>> [[Go for the opening on the ledge|Cave2][$Cave2 ++, $CaveNav2 to true]] <</if>> <<if $CaveNav3 == false>> [[Check the narrow passage|Cave3][$Cave2 ++, $CaveNav3 to true]] <</if>> <<if $Cave2 >= 3>> [[Fuck it; try the fissure|It's The Slippery Slope Everyone's Always Talking about]] <</if>> <>

Forward definitely seems like the safest bet. For all you know, you’re already on Mira’s trail, and doubling back isn’t going to help. Besides, it’s not like retracing your steps is an inherently safer option when you’re already lost. Better to forge ahead with the progress you have… or something like that. Semi-comforted, you head for the smaller opening and are immediately forced into a crouch to keep from bonking against the low ceiling, holding your torch as far ahead as you can comfortably manage. It’s an awkward balancing act, and even with your hunched posture and slow pace, your head and shoulders occasionally scrape against smooth stone or bump into a jagged bit of rock. You debate crawling on your hands and knees, but that would require carrying a lit torch in your mouth like a pyromaniacal dog. Mira could have scrambled through here no problem, her lithe and agile body a huge boon amid the labyrinthine dark. Your thoughts turn bitter, kindling the spark of frustration in your chest. You push it down, smother the nascent flame. You can be angry with Mira when you’re out of this cave, hopefully with the demi in tow. The low tunnel bends, twists, and turns. Long shadows dance at every corner, each minor ridge or miniscule pebble stretched to disconcerting proportions by the flickering firelight. It makes the walls come alive, like there’s a host of tiny, skittering things in the dark, just fast enough to stay ahead of the torch’s radiance, leaving only their stygian wakes. You shudder. Was this really the best idea? You’ve heard stories about reckless spelunkers and the harrowing ends they’ve met in the depths. Definitely not the way you’d prefer to go, //especially// in Havendor with all its more lurid options on the table. … Then again, you could probably make the case that getting stuck in a cave is kinda like being eaten by the ground. Trapped in a dark and enclosed space, helpless and overwhelmed. Hell, just keep running with ‘bowels of the earth’ and see where that gets you. You don’t even have to break new metaphorical ground. Though admittedly, death by dehydration, starvation, or exposure sounds a whole lot more unpleasant than melting away… for some reason. //Is being trapped in a cave more or less like being eaten than quicksand?// You know what? Thanks for the distraction, brain. Genuinely, for once. Around the time your quads are ready to throw a fit and you’re wondering whether or not the sunk cost fallacy applies to subterranean exploration, a sudden glow at the end of the corridor catches your eye—a warmer, more even hue than the light cast by your torch. Eager, you lurch forward and suddenly stumble into a new chamber, even larger than the one before. The floor dips in the middle, giving the overall room the shape of a shallow bowl. Light emanates from a large fissure in the ceiling, though you can’t quite see daylight proper, but rather its ambience reflected on the stone. Now that you consider it, this might actually be where you fell down in the first place; you couldn’t exactly see much at the time, plus you had more pressing concerns. Then again, you saw other potential openings leading down into the caves on your long hike up, so maybe this isn’t the same place after all. <<include "Cave1">>

You need to take a methodical approach, safe and cautious. You’re lost, but if you can find your way back to the chamber where you first fell, that could serve as a good staging area. You might even be able to pick up some hint of Mira’s trail on the way. Admittedly, that’s making some very generous assumptions about both the traces a lithe feline demi would leave in a stone cave //and// your competency at noticing said traces, but it’s a plan. And that’s gotta count for something. Decision made, you wheel around and head back the way you came, taking slow and careful steps through the stone corridor, eyes trailing across each inch of riven grey, wary for even the slightest sign of Mira’s passing. Or yours, for that matter. Who knows how labyrinthine these caves might be? The ground is every bit as unsteady as you remember, sloping and jutting, rarely flat and stable. A brittle shelf crumbles underfoot, but you catch yourself on the wall. Once, you nearly stumble into a particularly deep divot, its depth obscured in the harsh shadows cast by your torch. On a positive note, the tunnel never branches. So assuming you picked the right direction, you should arrive back at the first chamber fairly soon. If you didn’t… Well, you’ll just hope it doesn’t come to that. You didn’t chase after Mira for //that// long. Your thoughts turn bitter, kindling the spark of frustration in your chest. You push it down, smother the nascent flame. You can be angry with Mira when you’re out of this cave, hopefully with the demi in tow. Just when you’re beginning to worry you really //did// pick the wrong path, a soft glow appears in the tunnel ahead—a warmer, more even hue than the light cast by your torch. Eager, you lurch forward and suddenly stumble into a new chamber, even larger than the one before. The floor dips in the middle, giving the overall room the shape of a shallow bowl. Light emanates from a large fissure in the ceiling, though you can’t quite see daylight proper, but rather its ambience reflected on the stone. Hopefully that’s where you fell, though you never really took the time to inspect your surroundings after the drop. You saw other potential openings leading down into the caves on your long hike up, so it’s hard to be //too// confident. <<include "Cave1">>

Regardless, you notice several potential exits to the chamber: various tunnels of natural make and disparate size, like a multitudinous host of worms burrowing through a petrified apple. You walk into the middle of the chamber and spend a silent moment staring at the ceiling. It’s definitely out of reach. Maybe with some help—from a certain wayward demi, for instance—you could barely reach the crevice and try climbing through, but would that really be the best idea? The outside world wasn’t all that friendly a place last you checked, and you’d be down a few companions. Missing your spear, no less. Actually, you should probably count your blessings that none of the harpies decided to follow you down. With climbing out of the question, you turn your gaze back toward the other options. You came from the <<if $Cave1 == true>>opening straight ahead, which leaves three potential paths forward: a squat tunnel to your left<<else>>squat tunnel on your left, which leaves three potential paths forward: an easily accessible tunnel straight ahead<</if>>, a larger opening that will require scaling a rocky ledge to your right, and a narrow passage at your back. None really look any more promising than the others, and you still have absolutely no fucking idea where Mira could be. <<include "Cave_Nav">>

You head for the smaller opening and are immediately forced into a crouch to keep from bonking against the low ceiling, holding your torch as far ahead as you can comfortably manage. It’s an awkward balancing act, and even with your hunched posture and slow pace, your head and shoulders occasionally scrape against smooth stone or bump into a jagged bit of rock. You debate crawling on your hands and knees, but that would require carrying a lit torch in your mouth like a pyromaniacal dog. The low tunnel bends, twists, and turns. Long shadows dance at every corner, each minor ridge or miniscule pebble stretched to disconcerting proportions by the flickering firelight. It makes the walls come alive, like there’s a host of tiny, skittering things in the dark, just fast enough to stay ahead of the torch’s radiance, leaving only their stygian wakes. You shudder. Was this really the best idea? You’ve heard stories about reckless spelunkers and the long, harrowing ends they met in the depths. Definitely not the way you’d prefer to go, //especially// in Havendor with all its more lurid options on the table. … Then again, you could probably make the case that getting stuck in a cave is kinda like being eaten by the ground. Trapped in a dark and enclosed space, helpless and overwhelmed. Hell, just keep running with ‘bowels of the earth’ and see where that gets you. You don’t even have to break new metaphorical ground. Though admittedly, death by dehydration, starvation, or exposure sounds a whole lot more unpleasant than melting away. For some reason. //Is being trapped in a cave more or less like being eaten than quicksand?// You know what? Thanks for the distraction, brain. Genuinely, for once. Around the time your quads are ready to throw a fit and you’re wondering whether or not the sunk cost fallacy applies to subterranean exploration, the claustrophobic tunnel suddenly expands into a more open chamber. You take a moment to stretch, relief flooding through aching limbs. And the good news just keeps on coming. There’s only one other opening to move forward, which means you don’t have to worry about any more branching nightmares or… Wait a second. You turn like a top as you take in the elliptical shape, the array of jagged stalactites, the two exits: one tall, one small. It all looks strangely familiar, as if—Goddammit, this is the same place where you lit your torch! <<if $Cave2 < 3>>Does that mean two of the corridors just form one giant loop? You suppose that’s not the worst thing in the world. It pares down your options at least, even if this particular path wound up being a dud. Annoyed, but not defeated, you head back to the main chamber—through the taller and far less uncomfortable tunnel, of course. It’s a quick walk, and before you know it, you’re staring up at the same patch of indirect sunlight, praying <<if $Cave2 == 2>>your last path proves more fruitful than the rest<<else>>one of the remaining paths proves more fruitful<</if>>.<<else>>How the fuck is this possible? How can every single path in this cave system just loop back in on itself? What sort of hell-tunnel is this? You hiss out an agitated sigh, then trudge back to the main chamber, the thin slice of indirect daylight providing little comfort. Mira seems to have found a way out of here—unless the two of you are somehow repeatedly bypassing each other in this gordian knot of a cave system. You must be missing something. You //have// to be. You spend a fitful minute studiously kicking each and every bit of gravel and debris that’s fallen into this pit with you—not exactly the most productive use of your finite torchlight, but you tell yourself venting some frustration on inanimate objects might clear your head a bit. A stiff kick sends a particularly large rock bouncing off into a deep shadow. It clatters in the dark, then again, further away. Then again, distant //clack clack// echoing from places unseen. You blink and shuffle closer, light and proximity revealing a fissure between two shelves of rock that, from the room’s center, looked like a uniform wall.<</if>> <<include "Cave_Nav">>

You head into the easily accessible tunnel, taking slow and careful steps through the stone corridor, eyes trailing across each inch of riven grey, keen for some sign of another path or any trace of Mira. While the corridor itself is relatively spacious, the floor proves treacherous, abruptly sloping and jutting with every turn, rarely flat and stable. A brittle shelf crumbles underfoot, but you catch yourself on the wall. Once, you nearly stumble into a particularly deep divot, its depth obscured in the harsh shadows cast by your torch. This would all be a whole lot easier with a guide, like when Mira led you through the hives in the Whispered Archives. Admittedly, that particular trek had a few close calls of its own, but you’d place the blame more on your own clumsiness and slow reaction times than the demi’s navigation. Back when she could stand being around you. Back when the slightest mote of conflict or concern didn’t send her scrambling away. A lifetime ago. A sharp corner brings you into a new open chamber. Another exit sits at the opposite end, low enough you’d have to crouch in order to fit through and… Wait a second. You turn like a top as you take in the elliptical shape, the array of jagged stalactites, the two exits: one tall, one small. It all looks strangely familiar, as if—Goddammit, this is the same place where you lit your torch! <<if $Cave2 < 3>>Does that mean two of the corridors just form one giant loop? You suppose that’s not the worst thing in the world. It pares down your options at least, even if this particular path wound up being a dud. Annoyed, but not defeated, you head back to the main chamber—the way you just came, of course. It’s a quick walk, and before you know it, you’re staring up at the same patch of indirect sunlight, praying <<if $Cave2 == 2>>your last path proves more fruitful than the rest<<else>>one of the remaining paths prove more fruitful<</if>>.<<else>>How the fuck is this possible? How can every single path in this cave system just loop back in on itself? What sort of hell-tunnel is this? You hiss out an agitated sigh, then trudge back to the main chamber, the thin slice of indirect daylight providing little comfort. Mira seems to have found a way out of here—unless the two of you are somehow repeatedly bypassing each other in this gordian knot of a cave system. You must be missing something. You //have// to be. You spend a fitful minute studiously kicking each and every bit of gravel and debris that’s fallen into this pit with you—not exactly the most productive use of your finite torchlight, but you tell yourself venting some frustration on inanimate objects might clear your head a bit. A stiff kick sends a particularly large rock bouncing off into a deep shadow. It clatters in the dark, then again, further away. Then again, distant //clack clack// echoing from places unseen. You blink and shuffle closer, light and proximity revealing a fissure between two shelves of rock that, from the room’s center, looked like a uniform wall.<</if>> <<include "Cave_Nav">>

It takes an exhausting half-minute for you to scale even the modest ledge, owing to the lack of easy handholds and the fact that you have to sacrifice one arm for a torch. Initially, you debate throwing the light ahead, but the possibility of losing it in the process is too severe. You crest the top and are immediately sent right back down a steep and treacherous decline, boots scratching against sloped shale and skittering over bits of loose gravel. You arrive at the bottom—perhaps ten or so feet down—then start another climb all over again. It’s less a full cliff than a sharp hill, forcing you to scramble on your free hand and knees to make it to the top. And then it’s right back down again. Then up. Then down. Like you’re being forced to crawl across the teeth of some massive and long-petrified saw. It’s exhausting. You’re panting hard after the third climb, ready for a quick breather after the fifth. You prop yourself against a convenient stone shelf and take a moment to peer around, noticing that some of the shadows on the surrounding walls are a whole lot deeper than others. Fissures, gaps, crevices, and a dozen other small openings spiral off into the dark like capillaries from a vein—all far too small for reasonable traversal. But their cumulative effect is unnerving, as if you’re trespassing in a place meant for smaller, more furtive life. If Ashlyn were here, she could shrink you down to the right size, but that seems like an awful idea for a host of obvious reasons. A paranoid part of you can’t help but imagine slipping and falling partway into one of the holes, finding yourself stuck and trapped, waiting for a rescue that would never come. The thought banishes your lingering weariness and urges you on, back down yet another steep decline. You know what comes next. The up-and-down grows disorienting in its monotony, especially given the tunnel’s tendency to twist and turn on a whim. One particular slope has you easing down a short drop, then crawling under a low-hanging shelf to progress. Another sees you wedging yourself between two narrow walls to awkwardly push and pull yourself up onto a ledge. Just when you’re beginning to wonder if this gauntlet is ever going to end, you spot a bit of light—a larger chamber at the end of one last, particularly arduous incline. Scrambling, panting, desperate for a change of venue, you clamber over the top and<<if $Cave2 == 1>> find a larger chamber at the bottom of a small cliff. Indirect sunlight flows from a narrow gap in the ceiling, thin and long and… strangely familiar. Wait, hold on. Is this… the same room? You descend a cliff that looks and feels a whole lot like the one you climbed earlier. And a brief survey of the room discovers three other worryingly similar exits. The floor even dips in the middle, right beneath the light. Damnit, it’s the same chamber where you first fell. //Again.// How? You never deliberately turned around, and you don’t remember any familiar landmarks—not that there were many to begin with. But this is definitely the same place. Oh well. Nothing for it but to try another way.<<elseif $Cave2 == 2>> find… Wait, no. It can’t possibly be. The gap in the ceiling. The gentle slope of the floor. The three other, horribly familiar tunnel openings. You’re back here //again?// What the hell! You never deliberately turned around, and you don’t remember any familiar landmarks—not that there were many to begin with. But this is definitely the same place. You’d know. You’ve spent //way// too much time in it. You vent your frustration with a growl, then desperately pray the last tunnel holds an actual path forward.<<else>>— Motherfucker! It’s the same goddamn room. How the hell is this even possible? What sort of reality-warping hell-cave have you fallen into? You climb down the ledge—the same fucking ledge you scaled earlier. You never deliberately turned around, and you don’t remember any familiar landmarks—not that there were many of those to begin with. But you’re here all the same, just like with every other path. Trapped in this fucking room. Forever, apparently. You hiss out an agitated sigh. Mira seems to have found a way out of here—unless the two of you are somehow repeatedly bypassing each other in this gordian knot of a cave system. You must be missing something. You //have// to be. You spend a fitful minute studiously kicking each and every bit of gravel and debris that’s fallen into this pit with you—not exactly the most productive use of your finite torchlight, but you tell yourself venting some frustration on inanimate objects might clear your head a bit. A stiff kick sends a particularly large rock bouncing off into a deep shadow. It clatters in the dark, then again, further away. Then again, distant //clack clack// echoing from places unseen. You blink and shuffle closer, light and proximity revealing a fissure between two shelves of rock that, from the room’s center, looked like a uniform wall.<</if>> <<include "Cave_Nav">>

You turn to investigate the narrow opening, a slight gap hacked into the wall like the work of an axe-murderer-turned-excavator—barely three feet across at its middle, and thinning at the top and bottom. Yawning, waiting. Maybe the tiniest bit yonic. It’s tall enough that you don’t have to stoop, but narrow enough that you’re forced to shimmy, torch thrust ahead to illuminate the marginally less claustrophobic passage beyond. You stumble through, free hand shifting from one hold to another to support the awkward footing. You scramble and lurch, boots scuffing and scraping. Between the tight walls and jagged floors, it’s impossible to maintain any proper sense of progress or direction, but you press on regardless, determined to see where this path might lead. Occasionally, you glance up and notice the ceiling is much, //much// higher than you’d originally assumed, winding off into the dark, far too narrow for you to bother attempting a climb. Even Mira couldn’t squeeze through a space that tight. Perhaps water once flowed through here, carved its path in the stone, boring deeper across the centuries until its source finally dried up or found a more convenient avenue for its aquatic ardor. Isn’t that how most caves are formed? You’re no spelaeologist, but vague memories of science classes and late-night documentaries suggest you’re on the right path. You’re briefly startled when a bead of sweat rolls down your forehead. You wipe it clean alongside a thick layer of dust and grime, then pause for a moment to catch your breath. Who would’ve thought spelunking could be so physically demanding? It’s certainly stretching you in all sorts of new and fun ways, working a whole lot of muscles you //haven’t// been building during the long days on the road. Maybe you should ask Vanille about a core strengthening routine when you make it out of here. If you make it out of here. No, damnit. You //are// going to make it out of here. You //are// going to find Mira. You //are// going to find the rest of your friends, and crawl your way out of these stupid caves, and it’s gonna suck and you’ll be miserably sore all day tomorrow, but you’re going to do it. You didn’t survive a fucking dragon just to get lost in some annoying tunnels. Fueled by bitterness as much as genuine optimism, you press on through the passage one lurch and twist and stumble at a time. The floor dips. The walls gradually broaden. Something appears ahead—A faint light? You rush the final span, torch brandished, heart soaring, eager to be free of this<<if $Cave2 == 1>> claustrophobic nightmare. You spill into a larger chamber. Indirect sunlight flows from a narrow gap in the ceiling, thin and long and… strangely familiar. Wait, hold on. Is this… the same room? A quick glance over your shoulder finds a suspiciously identical narrow entryway, and a brief survey of the room discovers three other worryingly similar exits. The floor even dips in the middle, right beneath the light. Damnit, it’s the same chamber where you first fell. //Again.// How? You don’t remember turning around or finding a branch that could’ve looped back on itself. But this is definitely the same place. Oh well. Nothing for it but to try another way.<<elseif $Cave2 == 2>> claustrophobic nightmare. You spill into a… Wait, no. It can’t possibly be. The gap in the ceiling. The gentle slope of the floor. The three other, horribly familiar paths forward. You’re back here //again?// What the hell! You don’t remember turning around or finding a branch that could’ve looped back on itself. But this is definitely the same place. You’d know. You’ve spent //way// too much time in it. You vent your frustration with a growl, then desperately pray the last tunnel holds an actual path forward.<<else>>— Motherfucker! It’s the same goddamn room. How the hell is this even possible? What sort of reality-warping hell-cave have you fallen into? A quick glance over your shoulder finds that, sure enough, it’s the same damn opening you crawled through in the first place. You don’t remember turning around or finding a branch that could’ve looped back on itself. But you’re here all the same, just like with every other path. Trapped in this fucking room. Forever, apparently. You hiss out an agitated sigh. Mira seems to have found a way out of here—unless the two of you are somehow repeatedly bypassing each other in this gordian knot of a cave system. You must be missing something. You //have// to be. You spend a fitful minute studiously kicking each and every bit of gravel and debris that’s fallen into this pit with you—not exactly the most productive use of your finite torchlight, but you tell yourself venting some frustration on inanimate objects might clear your head a bit. A stiff kick sends a particularly large rock bouncing off into a deep shadow. It clatters in the dark, then again, further away. Then again, distant //clack clack// echoing from places unseen. You blink and shuffle closer, light and proximity revealing a fissure between two shelves of rock that, from the room’s center, looked like a uniform wall.<</if>> <<include "Cave_Nav">>

In the absence of better options, you poke your head inside and are relieved to find a passage beyond. It’s a tight fit, even more so than the narrow tunnel you navigated earlier. But with a bit of uncomfortable shimmying—torch held ahead in one hand and your pack behind in the other—you manage to squeeze through one strained grunt at a time. You finally stumble clear with an awkward hop, sling your bag back onto your shoulder, and take your first step proper into the new corridor, cautiously optimistic. Where you expect solid rock, you find only empty air. Like forgetting the last stair, you stumble forward, stomach lurching. Your boot finally connects, but it’s too late. Your balance is shot, the slope too steep. [[Panic|Axolittle]]

You slip, slide, tumble down the embankment, feet scrambling for purchase, free hand grasping for a hold as the other clings to your blazing lifeline. You stumble on a ledge, trip forward, and nearly face-plant into a rocky outcrop before falling back flat on your ass. Flickering shadows rush past in a blur, imparting vague impressions of a narrow, sundered passage and a ceiling that’s far too close for comfort. //Splash!// The frantic descent terminates every bit as abruptly as it began. Only colder. And wetter. Frigid water seeps through your boots and trousers, nips at your submerged arm—the one //not// holding the torch, thank your instincts for keeping the other raised. You rise in the knee-height pool to get your bearings, a short-lived sigh of relief faltering as the chill bites at your skin. You’ve fallen into a larger chamber, all but the closest wall lost to the inky black. The shimmering mirror of a subterranean lake stretches as far as you can see—or perhaps it’s a river, given the gentle current tugging at your shins and the steady burble of water humming like the whispers of a pelagic chorus. Razor stalactites line a high ceiling, innumerable and imposing like the vast jaws of a hungry predator. Despite the distance and dulled tips, you feel the urge to crouch. Finally, you turn to find the chute through which you fell: a small gap about five feet up the striated wall. With some serious effort—or maybe a boost—you //might// be able to make it back through. But why? So you can scramble up the narrow tunnel and back into that Escherian labyrinth? Are you really eager to wander around the same handful of corridors until your torch eventually burns out? Harrowing drop and minor discomfort aside, you’re somewhere new. That’s //progress.// A sudden splash quenches your optimistic spark. You wheel about, then freeze. A face peers from the gloom, waxen skin glistening. Beady eyes stare, opaque and unblinking like buttons on a doll. Pale lips part in an odd, almost dopey half-smile. Narrow appendages protrude from the sides of its blanched head and poke between clumps of wet, pinkish-red hair—three to a side. Thin filaments dangle from each, gently swaying as the creature bobs to and fro. The figure waddles forth on gaunt limbs, arms and legs //plit-plitting// through the water, face turning with each slight drip or plink. Several times that gaze passes right over you, yet it carries on in a slow and hesitant walk, as if searching for something else. An axolotl, you realize as you watch the strange monster girl crawl about. A pretty small one at that—for human-sized monsters, obviously. Even accounting for her hunched posture, it looks like she’d struggle to reach your shoulders. Pretty unimposing. Maybe you could just— The axolotl leaps straight at you, a pallid blur in the gloom. A yelp dies in your throat as you lurch backward, only for the monster girl to come up short, splashing into the water just before your feet and wriggling about the depths. She emerges with a piscine tail between her lips, indifferent to the frantic struggles of her half-ingested meal as its oily black scales glimmer in the torchlight. The axolotl peers about the room, as if wary some other predator is going to come and steal her catch. Finally, she slurps up the rest of the fish, then swallows. You watch, transfixed, as the lump ripples down her throat and merges with an already bulging stomach writhing with the squirms of prior prey. So much for unimposing. The axolotl turns and begins to plod away, thick tail gently swishing through the water, broad diaphanous fin flopping like a canvas tarp. You watch her with a mix of curiosity, dread, and a healthy dose of confusion. Did she //really// not see you? Or maybe she did and she’s just not interested? Sure, she downed that fish like a champ, but maybe she prefers smaller prey. The monster girl certainly //looks// like she’s still on the prowl based on the wary glances, frequent head tilts, and the occasional splashing lurch toward a potential meal. [[Throw your torch to distract her|Axo1]] [[Shout to intimidate her|Axo2]] [[Use the bullroarer to disorient her|Roar!]] [[… Maybe she’s friendly?|Axo3]]

Your submerged legs kick impotently. The axolotl takes another gulp. Icy water floods in around your shoulders, spilling down your collar and soaking through every inch of your tunic. In the smallest of small mercies, your head, pressed into the vacuum seal of the monster girl’s throat, is spared. Another gulp has those lips sliding past your chest, if only just. A second doesn’t get much farther. Nor does the third, pulling you down an inch or two before you slip right back. A faint spark of hope kindles. She’s struggling. Out of all the monster girls you could stumble across in the dark, you actually found one so small that she’s having genuine trouble getting your shoulders down her throat. It’s a miracle. … Or at least, it //would// be if your head weren’t lodged in her throat and your arms weren’t pinned to your sides, leaving only your legs to flail uselessly in the overambitious creek. As is, there’s not actually a whole lot you can do except just sorta… pray she chokes on you. Though now that you actually //think// about it, you’re still dealing with a creature who, despite her innocuous appearance, is much, //much// stronger than you. If push comes to shove, she could dislocate your shoulders to finish the job. She might even do it accidentally. Or if she were feeling particularly creative, the axolotl might decide she’ll have better luck eating you feet-first. She’d be able to get more of you down before hitting a stopping point, enough that a good half your body would be left to soak in her stomach until… On second thought, maybe don’t follow that to its logical conclusion. The axolotl, however, forges her own path and just keeps swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, again and again, each pull a little more urgent than the last, each gulp the slightest bit more strained. It’s the path of the stubborn, like trying to leave a building by bashing your head through a steel-framed wall three feet from a perfectly good door. And, because this world hates you, the actual laws of reality bend to ensure her success. She stretches that extra, impossible bit, compresses you just slightly more than should be feasible, heaves and gulps and chomps and slobbers until //finally// your shoulders pop into her throat with a wet and relieved //glurck.// Tumbling, disoriented, you fall down the slippery slide. Your face splatters against something lumpy and… squirming? A tail slaps you across the cheek. Fucking—She’s full of fish. You’re being packed in with literal sardines. The smell is atrocious. Webbed hands shovel your legs down one tremendous //shlork// at a time. The axolotl bucks. Your body flops back and forth, sinking deeper and deeper with each lurch. Your back swoops along the bottom of her gut, splashing into the fishbowl and pushing your new friends out of the way like a snowplow. Your belongings spill and scatter among the slop. Your knees fall through her throat. Lips seal over your boots and send the rest of your body down with a single, mighty swallow. You pull the rest of yourself into the sack, then shift and shuffle about as you curl up into a comfortable little ball. It’s much harder than it should be, given all the other stuff she’s gulped down. Your heels push against the thin membrane awkwardly, alongside your bow and quiver. A fish flops in your lap, pushing around sundries that are of no use to you now. You really wish there was a universal ipecac for situations like this. But alas, you are doomed to be chum. A sudden bark catches your attention. The axolotl grabs her gut with both hands and shakes. You can’t tell if she’s pleased or upset. She won; what’s she got to complain about? Your host waddles unsteadily, swollen belly dipping into the cool stream as she moves. She wades back and forth like a penguin, arms curled around you in a tight embrace. About halfway to fuck-knows-where, she dips forward and gulps down another gallon of water—gotta keep you fresh, or whatever. Maybe she expects you to swim like the rest of your tank-mates? You don’t give her the pleasure, instead sitting still in the rank silence as the monster struggles back to her home. She flops down on what you assume is bedding, letting her stomach slosh and roll as she gets comfy. A leg lifts and drapes over your back. A hand pokes the nub of your protruding shoulder curiously. When you shift, she churrs happily, then starts booping another jutting piece of you. The improvised game of whack-a-mole continues for another fifteen minutes as the axolotl insists on reshaping your once comfortable curl into something she can lay atop. The pushes and prods get so aggressive that you tuck down to the bottom of her stretchy, rubbery gut as far as you can. She slumps forward and lets out a burbling giggle as her stomach flops out and back between her legs. Thighs squeeze. Her huge tail //thwumps// from above, slapping and curling around your body excitedly. She humps and grinds for an eager moment before giving up and… falling asleep. Damn, you weren’t even worth following through, though she might not have even known you were anything other than a very large and oddly shaped fish. The thought that you were her biggest catch of the day is meager compensation as your body melts from existence. <<set $deathtotal ++>><<set $deathAxolotls ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 2.4.3]]

Thankfully, you’ve got the perfect plan. Absolutely foolproof. A work of genius. You are, if nothing else, a paragon of critical thought and intelligent decision-making. And so, self-assured in your cleverness, you wind back your arm, and throw with every ounce of might you can muster. The moment the torch leaves your hand, you realize your horrible mistake. You can only watch in despondent disbelief as it arcs through the air, slow and lazy, then //plunks// into the water with an audible hiss. The chamber plunges into impenetrable black. <<linkreplace "Oh…">>You spend a silent moment in the dark contemplating the stygian depths of your stupidity, the truly vast and incomprehensible extent to which you are the dumbest human being alive. Not only did you just willingly throw away your only source of light, but it //didn’t even fucking work.// You haven’t heard so much as a splash, which means the axolotl didn’t take the bait. A thin sigh hisses through your lips, little more than the faintest wisp of a sound, lest you accidentally alert your aquatic adversary. You manage to quell the rising tide of panic and instead craft some semblance of a plan—a better plan, you can only pray. Carefully, you reach for the wall at your back, damp stone a tangible comfort to questing fingers. Hesitant footfalls carry you through the pitch, the darkness as much a palpable presence as the water at your knees. Each step toward hopeful escape is like braving a dense thicket, every muscle tensed for a lashing bramble or stabbing thorn—or, more realistically, an unseen rock. In the absence of sight, you fixate on sound, jumping and jolting at every slight drip or splash. Each could foretell the axolotl’s imminent strike, the millisecond warning you’ll have before… fatal melee. While your left hand trails along the cave wall, you debate grabbing a knife with your right, but the possibility of fumbling your draw and making too much noise—or worse yet, dropping the blade entirely—dispels the thought. Instead you settle for reaching forward blindly, trying to feel out any potential obstacles. You touch something cold, wet, and a bit slimy. And a little too soft to be rock. And moving. A strange //yip// and a sudden cacophonous splash herald a torrential force colliding with your chest. You tumble backward into the stream, eyes clenched shut, braced for the chilling plunge. Your head never touches the water. The axolotl is too fast for that. Her lips glide over your face mid-fall, tongue barely brushing against your chin as she //glomps// over your head, neck, and shoulders in the fraction of a second it takes you to transition from standing to flailing-supine. Wet, webbed hands latch onto your arms. Slender legs wrap around your waist. Even her tail twines along your knees, as if instinctually trying to help with the pin. <<include "Swim with the Fishes">><</linkreplace>>

For perhaps the first time since you’ve set foot in this land, you actually have an advantage: size. Sure, you’re weak as hell, but the axolotl doesn’t know that. She’s tiny, and pretty damn thin—bloated stomach aside. You don’t need to beat up the monster girl or wrestle her into submission. You just need to convince her you //could.// You hunch your shoulders and raise your arms to look as big and dangerous as possible. You step forward and clear your throat. “Hey! What are you doing here!” you shout, booming voice echoing back at you from places unseen in a disorienting cascade. The axolotl jolts, then whips about to face you. She freezes, beady eyes wide and gills faintly quivering, nonplussed. You were aiming for ‘frighten the bear away’ but wound up hitting closer to ‘auditioning for a B-movie monster role.’ //Try, ‘<<if $BakaIndex >= 69>>Rawr UwU<<else>>Boo<</if>>,’ next. See if that works.// “I’m coming through!” you continue. “You better, uhh, get out of my way.” The only movement the axolotl offers is a slight tilt of her head, more confused than terrified. Damn. Maybe you should’ve gone with the bestial growling, or just atonal screeching. Does the axolotl even speak English—err, Havendorian Common? Even if she can’t, surely she can infer from tone. You’re trying to be menacing, and definitely not just making an absolute fool of yourself. You take a step forward, then another. “I said go!” you shout. The axolotl tilts her head the other way. Fuck. Okay. This isn’t working. All you’ve done is a really, //really// good job of getting the monster girl’s attention. But maybe you can still make this work. She might not be especially intimidated, but she’s also not trying to eat you either. Hesitant, you maintain your ‘threatening’ posture and take your first step away from the monster girl, sparing a quick glance over your shoulder. You just need to keep this up, look around, and hope you find an exit before the axolotl grows bored with your fumbling spectacle and decides to attack. <<linkreplace "Don’t break eye contact…">>The axolotl immediately grows bored with your fumbling spectacle and decides to attack. She leaps, arms grasping and jaws wide. The small body slams into your chest with the force of a charging bull, knocking the wind from your lungs and sending you sprawling back into the river. Her lips glide over your face mid-fall, tongue barely brushing against your chin as she //glomps// over your head, neck, and shoulders in the fraction of a second it takes you to transition from standing to flailing-supine. Wet, webbed hands latch onto your arms. Slender legs wrap around your waist. Even her tail twines along your knees, as if instinctually trying to help with the pin. It’s not like she needs it. You’d lose a wrestling match to the average Havendorian goldfish, after all. <<include "Swim with the Fishes">><</linkreplace>>

The axolotl seems particularly sensitive to sound. If it weren’t for the running water, she’d probably discern the crackling of your torch. There’s no way you’re moving through the knee-high river without raising the alarm, but maybe you can use that keen sense of hearing against her. A surreptitious hand rifles through your bag, silent as a thief. Wary eyes track the axolotl’s progress, watching for any sudden attention. Fingers alight upon smooth hardwood, then grasp and pull the minotaur-roarer free. You test the weight, ease out the rope to a comfortable length, then begin to swing with every ounce of might. A paranoid voice in the back of your mind had wondered if the aerophone might require Havendorian strength to produce its cacophonous racket, if all you’d accomplish with your own, measly, normal-human muscles—especially with only one free arm—is ring a particularly obnoxious dinner bell. Fortunately, that voice is wrong. The minotaur-roarer revs like a motor, whirring and grinding and growling, reverberating from distant walls and blaring across the water. In the mountains, you’d mistaken it for an impending horde. In the caves, it sounds like someone’s feeding slabs of granite into a woodchipper. The axolotl claps her hands to the sides of her head and throws herself into the river, flapping and writhing. You might feel a bit guilty if you weren’t tempted to do the same—//fuck// it’s loud. The noise bores into your ears, scrapes at your skull with jagged fingernails, urges you just throw the roarer away and make it stop. You clench your teeth and begin to walk, working your way around the perimeter of the room with slow, cautious steps, whirling roarer in one hand and torch in the other. Each footfall is hesitant and fraught. The glimmering water reveals nothing of what lurks beneath, and all it would take is one slight stumble to send you sprawling. The edge of the chamber curves, one foot after the other of moisture-slickened rock willed into reality by torchlight. A shelf juts from the subterranean river. A few steps closer, and a passageway emerges beyond, stretching into the untamed void. You nearly dash the rest of the way before a cautious urge compels you to look back. The axolotl’s on the move, hands still pressed to her head, lips set in an odd grimace. You debate outrunning her—sprinting the final few steps and trusting your terrestrial body will have the advantage on dry land. It sounds like a bad bet. Since when has anything in Havendor ever worked in your favor? Instead, you turn fully and, after a few practice swings for timing, launch the roarer like a sling right over the axolotl’s head. She ducks, then leaps after the instrument as it splashes, vanishing into the dark. The moment she’s gone, you hastily scurry up the shelf and into the corridor, sparing one final glance to— The axolotl stares at you from the water’s edge, hands planted on the rocky shelf, tail swishing in agitated arcs. It takes every scrap of self-control to not cry out in surprise or stumble backward. She could reach you in the blink of an eye, a bundle of wet flesh and tensing muscle ready to pounce. She //has// to know you’re there and is only waiting for confirmation: one last treacherous utterance to pinpoint the final strike. And then, as if it had been waiting all this time for the perfect moment to turn traitor, the torch //pops// with a spray of embers. You wince, braced for the lunge. The axolotl merely tilts her head. A cautious arm reaches forward, slick flingers splayed on glistening stone. She shifts once, twice, then suddenly wheels about and dives back into the river, leaving only the spray of water in her wake. [[Book it while you have the chance]]

What if you’re going about this all wrong? What if, rather than assume every single creature in this world is a voracious beast with a one-track mind, you extended the hand of friendship? Attempted diplomacy rather than violence. The axolotl is as much //girl// as she is //monster.// The two of you should be able to communicate, come to an amicable arrangement. Hell, she’s a local; she might even know a way out of these caves. You boldly step forward. The axolotl pauses, then turns in your direction and inquisitively tilts her head. You clear your throat. “Uhh, hi. I’m <<= $name.first()>>—” She leaps, fast as a cannonball. In the heartbeat between the axolotl’s launch and her impending impact, you realize you haven’t //technically// proven she’s //un-//friendly. Plenty of people in Havendor have been perfectly ‘friendly,’ all kind words and cheery smiles as they attempt to devour you alive. Making a meal of one’s neighbor is a leisurely pursuit, hardly worth noting on the calendar, let alone deserving of public admonition. Amicability and a ravenous appetite can overlap, after all. This conclusion is a source of immense comfort as the axolotl slams into your chest with the force of a charging bull. She knocks the wind from your lungs and sends you sprawling back into the river. Lips glide over your face mid-fall, tongue barely brushing against your chin as she //glomps// over your head, neck, and shoulders in the fraction of a second it takes you to transition from standing to flailing-supine. Wet, webbed hands latch onto your arms. Slender legs wrap around your waist. Even her tail twines along your knees, as if instinctually trying to help with the pin. It’s not like she needs it. You’d lose a wrestling match to the average Havendorian goldfish, after all. <<include "Swim with the Fishes">>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Smells pretty bad, doesn’t it? Acid and fish isn’t exactly the best perfume, but you seem to wear it pretty well. <<case 2>> What’s up, fishy? You have fun gettin’ crammed into her bowl? Enjoy those slick and rubbery walls all around you? Don’t lie. I know what you’re after. <<default>> Alright, enough’s enough.Cut it out now. You shouldn’t be polluting. That poor blind girl ate all your trash-tier loot; she’s probably gonna get sick… Just kidding. These people are walking garbage disposals. She’ll be fine. <</switch>> [[Return|Axolittle]]

You dart down the tunnel, eager to put as much distance between yourself and the river as possible. Maybe the axolotl really isn’t interested in devouring you. Or maybe she just really hates leaving the water. Or //maybe// you just got lucky and should stop overthinking it before your distracted ass runs face-first into another hazard. The sprint eventually eases to a jog, the audible //squarch// of soggy boots giving away every footfall. You slow, crawl, hold the breath in your lungs as you listen with keen ears for any sign of incoming danger, any sort of beast that’s locked onto your wet footsteps and has decided that it prefers its meals to be pre-sauced. Broth-ed? Does water count as either? Five minutes of paranoid progress turns into ten. At the fifteen minute mark, the vice around your chest finally lets up. A shuddering breath slips free. The axolotl isn’t following you. Nothing is, except a creeping sense of quiet and calm. You’re wet and alone in this endless tunnel. [[Rest and reorient|Distant Donna Summers Noises]]

You lean against a wall, arm propped on a small shelf. You’re alive. Down an item, but alive. Might as well take stock of the tools left at your disposal, start coming up with a plan to escape the caves. Plus, these damn wet shoes aren’t doing you any favors. Carefully, you set your torch upon a small rock so that the burning end rests clear of the ground. It spits and crackles its thanks, then pays for the kindness with radiating waves of gentle warmth. You peel your boots off and drain the excess water into a nearby divot/*we did it!*/, then set to wringing out your pants. When you’ve done all you can manage by yourself, you stretch and spread your legs out around the fire, then slump against the cavern wall. Warmth seeps through the damp trousers, restores life to your aching muscles. You bend slightly to let your socks get some of that sweet, sweet heat, then brace yourself as you turn dreaded attention to your soaked bag. You’re chuffed to find that its contents stayed dry during the brief plunge. Only the exterior really needs any attention, and a few minutes by the small fire ought to do the trick. Relieved, you retrieve your belongings and lay them out one at a time. First and foremost, your weapons. Vanille’s got custody of your spear right now, but you’ve still got your bow, seven whole arrows, and your knife. <<if $knives >= 3>>Three<<else>>Two<</if>> knives, actually. Lloriel’s impromptu lesson may have bolstered your archery confidence, but your performance during the harpy flock was nothing to write home about. And that was in the daylight. Here in the claustrophobic darkness, there’s hardly any use for the ranged weapon when you can’t pinpoint your damn target. No, you’ll keep a knife holstered on your belt, and an extra at the top of your bag just in case. Aside from your lethal options, you also lay out a number of survival items: the firestarter, a mostly full waterskin, a bundle of bandages, some healing herbs, a length of rope, an empty potion phial—you should probably ask Ashlyn to refill it with something useful. You’ve also got about three days worth of food. More if you’re willing to starve yourself a bit. Plus, that axolotl seems to be getting by on fish, so you can probably find //something// edible down here if you look hard enough. … And don’t forget the one torch that’s already burning down. So, what’s this all add up to? Bow’s gonna remain slung across your back. Knives stay at the ready and the torch, your precious torch, will be held high and in front. An exit. You need an exit. Sooner rather than later. Wandering around in the dark is going to make leaving a whole lot harder, and as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve got better odds weathering a night alone in the Havendorian wilderness than you do in the pitch black beneath the mountains. //“Please…”// The tiny, mewling voice slithers through your eardrum and penetrates your brain. An alarm screams in your skull. //“… help me…”// [[Mira|Journey Through the Dark]]

You’re frantically stuffing sundries back into your bag before the next cry steals all sense. You hastily tie your boots back on—now mercifully dry—and scramble to your feet. Deft hands scoop the torch from the charred ground, and an instant later you take off like a rocket, rushing and careening down the tunnel after the faint voice. The passage zigs and zags like a broken spring, twisting and turning at random intervals. You’re granted just enough sight to dash over uneven shelves of sediment, under jutting sheets of shale, across outcroppings of basalt. //“… I’m scared.”// The mewling voice urges you onward, its rebounding cry guiding you left as the way forward splits in twain. You scramble over a shelf of another mineral, something mottled and grey, then rush past a vein of glittering onyx whose oily tendrils crawl along the wall. The stalwart torch in your fist hisses and crackles. Flickers of light slither into darkened recesses. Shadows creep, blur and smudge in your periphery, playing tricks at the edge of your sight. Your boot tarries on something stubborn and sticky. You push on. There’s a whimper behind and to your right, an unseen passage revealing itself as you whirl around. A dozen frantic paces and you’re turning again, rerouted by the wide channel into a larger chamber. “Mira!” you cry out, frantic. You’re braced for a painful aural rebound, but it comes too late, too quiet. You slow and let your eyes adjust. The tunnel walls have fallen away. In their stead, darkness. You wave your torch, a gentle //fwishing// filling the air, the sounds drifting off into the soft blackness, absorbed and muted. This space must be huge in comparison to the labyrinth that led you here, unmooringly so. The only things you can be sure exist in this virulent darkness are yourself and the radius of illuminated ground beneath your feet. Mira sniffles, small and pathetic. She’s close. //So close.// She’s in this room, you know it. You backpedal and find the mouth that spat you into this expansive cavity. You stop just before reentering, then turn and follow along the wall—an anchor, some semblance of structure amid the endless gloom. The rough-hewn surface reaches up and away toward an invisible ceiling, the starless night stranding you on a silent ocean of pitch. Only the sheer, gossamer strands marring the walls guide you onward. They glisten in neat, tessellated lines—a kaleidoscopic pattern unintelligible to your eyes. //“I’m… I’m sorry…”// Perked ears pinpoint the source. She’s here. She’s right in front of you. All you need to do is wade out into the murk. <<linkreplace "Go to her">>The guiding wall fades as you push off. You step across uneven floor, the rough edges of the cavern cruel and unwelcoming. Your torch surges as you hold it boldly ahead. Belches of flame cast a defiant light against the endless night. A penumbral outline coalesces. It has too much shape to be another rock, too many defined features: a body, a tail, a pair of angular ears. “Mira, it’s me.” you gasp. “It’s <<= $name>>.” A stumbling step forward defines the shivering and shambling smudge just at the boundary of your perception: a figure cloaked in perfect darkness, a cat-shaped silhouette amid the impenetrable dusk. Ears twitch and blur. Her tail swishes like a little windshield wiper, smearing the gloom. //“I need you…”// she murmurs. You creep forward another step, then pause. Lips quiver. Knees tremble. Your torch flickers fitfully as you grasp at words, at feelings. This is it. This is your last chance to reconcile with her. This is as far as you can chase her, as far as your mind and heart will allow you to pursue. If you can’t find a peaceful way to talk through your differences here, in this deep dark pit under the earth, in this muggy waiting room just outside hell, then there was never any hope of recovering what was lost. What haven’t you already tried to say to her? How many ways can you frame an apology? Vanille told you to listen to Mira, but every attempt has been //you// approaching //her.// And how is this any different? <<linkreplace "Give it everything you’ve got">>A single half-formed syllable drips from your lips, freezes as a wicked chill fills the air, then falls to the ground and shatters in silence. Mira’s form swells and contorts. Shadows unfold. Penumbral skin splits. A fiend gushes from the silhouette’s husk, tall and grotesque. Razor-thin legs like heroin needles rise, stomping and stabbing the rigid ground below with a staccato //click-clack-clicking.// A gleaming carapace crests the stygian horizon. The last of the facade crumbles as a sleek body emerges, a black sun rising. The torch in your hand weeps, sheds scraps of light across the abomination. Six eyes glimmer atop a twisted, beautiful face. A deep purple tongue flits across a pair of fangs dripping with anticipation. Arms spread wide, inviting you to feast upon her nakedness, from her bare human torso down to the arachnid thorax and bobbing abdomen. //“Play with me, <<= $name>>,”// the monstrosity whispers with Mira’s voice—a flawless, terrifying mimicry. An insidious smile spreads across her features as she rises on eight legs. [[Nope|Legs for Days]] <</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

You turn and sprint back into the tunnel from whence you came. Your torch leads the way. Embers spill and splash against your tunic. You don’t care. This light is your sole beacon; if it goes dark in a //fucking drider’s lair// you’re as good as dead. The rapid, luxuriant //tick-tick// of her steps echoes from behind, pinpricks against your nerves. The damned caverns distort your senses; there’s no way to tell if she’s a hundred feet away or right in your ear. Boots pound against rigid stone. The tunnels twist and turn, winding around and around and robbing you of all direction. Blind decisions send you sprinting down one passage, then skidding and scrambling along another. Paths split and rejoin. The ceiling swoops to decapitate you. Craggy teeth chomp as you dart between stalagmites. A sudden rope of silk catches on your waist, disrupts your momentum. Another strand nearly clotheslines you as you duck and stumble forward. Your ankle rolls. A massive swatch of web catches your fall, cradling you in silky, sticky comfort. You reach for the nearest stone spike, desperate for leverage, to rise once more and continue fleeing. Your arm inches forward agonizingly slow, like pushing through molasses, then comes to a halt and //sproings// backward. You try again with the same result, burying your limb deeper in the webbing. Straining grunts become high pitched whines of panic as eight legs appear at the far end of the tunnel. The drider flits and skitters in the flickering torchlight, each jump imperceptible to your eyes, but inevitably closer with every passing heartbeat. //“How delicious,”// she croons, dragging out each syllable like she’s slurping broth. Smooth arms fold across her chest, hugging and squeezing tight as she churrs and moans. Too many eyelids flutter and blink with keen anticipation. Flecks of drool flit from her fangs. Her advance ceases. She steps daintily with her stilettos in a small circle. A strand tugs at your elbow, forces you to wiggle and shake. She pulls more strings across the cavern, an intricately woven system of ropes and pulleys urging you to dance upon the web. //“Look at you go! So lively! So spirited!”// she jeers, puppeteering your body around gleefully. You shuffle and ‘dance’ a nightmare jig—a far cry from last night’s festivities. Each forced step sees the trap close tighter. More strands cling to your arms, to your legs, pulling, restraining, locking you in place. Each beat passes with horrifying cadence as the drider hums to herself, testing out all the levers at her disposal, making you shimmy and shiver at her slightest whim. [[Cut yourself free with your knife|Knife_Hook]] [[Burn the webbing with your torch|Moist]]

Twisting and turning, you attempt to turn your torch-bearing wrist in a useful direction. You can’t quite bring the fiery head to make contact with the oily webs. Your wrist is too stuck, too tightly bound by silk bondage. The drider skitters close. Lips foam with delight. A chittering ululation bubbles up from her throat. Tiny, methodical steps spin her in place until the tip of her abdomen circles into view. It glistens, slick strands dangling like too much toothpaste squeezed from the tube. Before she can spread any more disgusting web-splatter, you drop the torch. You pinch your eyes as the world bursts into flame. The whole wall behind you catches in a single flash, an explosion of light in the hellish darkness. The drider recoils, blinded six-fold. Rolling fire envelops your whole body. The webbing snaps and burns, flecks and embers rising off you like a flight of ephemeral butterflies. Shoulders crack as you hit the floor as hard as you can. You roll across the hard earth, the strands of her silky trap disintegrating overhead. Charring pain nips and gnaws as you flop about frantically. Another tumble sees you peeling away from the drider to safety. You level out and beat your arms against the smoking patches of your tunic and trousers, frantic, crazed. In a final, insane move, you reach back under the flaming barrier and grab your torch—you’re gonna need it. Still smoldering, you sprint into the night. The fire at your back ebbs, scattered light dissipating until it’s just you and your trusty torch navigating the hellish bowels of the cave system once more. “Come back, my succulent morsel!” The tunnels spit you out into a vast chamber after another twenty seconds of sprinting. You’ve barely gained a lead, the insidious //tick-tick-tick// of sharp legs crawling closer with each heaving breath. //On your left. There’s a way out to your left.// You skid to a halt and turn from the interminable darkness ahead, waving your torch to where intuition gleaned a ‘miraculous’ escape. Instead, you feast your eyes on a tight gap in the rock at ground level. It’s narrow and abysmally long; you can’t even see the end. The damn thing is only barely as wide as your hips, the smooth, rippling walls mere leftovers after a million years of dripping, moist erosion. … Moist? //Yes, it’s a dark, scary, hole. You love those. Get in.// Brain, you don’t have time for this crude shit. [[Run out into the darkness|Web Fluid]] [[Go in the hole|Cocoon was a stupid movie]]

You watch her with leery eyes. Slowly, inconspicuously, you reach for your belt. Fingers brush past the butt of a knife. You’re yanked away, back into the groove. On the next pass you pinch and grip the blade with thumb and index finger. It slips from the leather sheath. You brush the blade in a small arc. Wrist free, you secure your grip and swipe again. Strands sever and snap like loose tendons. You slash again, slicing and peeling and chopping yourself loose. Each pass you claim an inch, another ounce of flexibility. Clawing, rabid, you keep swinging until your arm hurts in its socket. “Having trouble?” A willowy whisper creeps into your ear. A firm, smooth hand presses your wrist to the nearby wall. The drider steals your knife, presses her whole weight against yours. Lurid warmth courses up from your core. A wet tongue glides along your neck. Slow, languid. A heavy breath out, then an all-consuming swallow as she feasts upon your scent. Shuddering, she pulls you tight to her chest. You squirm and mewl, smothered. Warm liquid bubbles up around your legs, ascending, coiling rope freshly squeezed from her abdomen. Gentle hands guide you lower, carefully rotate you around and around as fresh layers of silk weave tight across your legs, your shins. Knees press together, yanked taut by the sticky spool. You’re turned over and over, the drider’s fleshy undercarriage twisting in and out of view. “Oh sweetie, don’t waste all your energy yet.” Bindings pull tight around your hips. She flips you over again and ties a little bow upon your back with deft stilettos. A new strand splats against your wrists. She forces your hands behind your back and turns the rotisserie on once more. The ground sweeps by in dizzying blurs. Her gleaming carapace fills the other half of your dazed vision. Sticky warmth rises to your chest, then curls up and around your neck. She pulls the cords //juuust// tight enough that you can’t catch a full breath. A thick glob of webbing wraps around your pounding forehead like a bandage. Your mouth and cheeks go next. Your eyes and nose are left alone, twin air holes and the curse of sight your last remaining liberties. “There!” she jibes as the weaving machinery slows to a halt. Another little bow’s planted on your chest as the drider churrs. “A beautiful little present, all for me.” Saliva drips onto your forehead. A gentle hand wipes your brow, then cradles the back of your neck. She lifts you up into her arms. All you can do is extend and retract your legs like a helpless little worm. “Ooo, that’s delicious. I can’t wait to feel you do that inside me.” She assesses you with hungry, lustful eyes—six of them. Her extra sight must see something invisible in your features, because just as you’re about to whimper and beg for mercy, a spider leg touches your encased lips. “Shush,” she coos. Arms tighten around you in a malevolent swaddle. “None of that. You’re mine now.” You wriggle and squeal as you’re lifted up to her chin. It doesn’t seem to dissuade her. Instead, an eager tongue rolls out, teasing and tasting along the small patches of exposed flesh. You pinch your eyes shut as the wet muscle rolls across your brow. A breathy, delighted //aah// fills the morbid silence. She bites her lips and raises you higher. The drider’s jaw unhinges to reveal a gaping, salivating maw. “See you soon.” [[…What?|The Long Dark]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Ooo, look at you dying in a weird way. Congratulations! This is certainly one of the stranger ways to go. But hey, at least you’ll be put to practical use as opposed to the usual, ‘curves.’ <<case 2>> Welcome back to being spider silk. How’s that working out for you? I mean, I assume it’s going pretty well, since you’re here again. Or maybe you actually thought you could make it across that wide-open room if you ran //just// a bit faster. Or perhaps you’re just really afraid of holes? Nah, that couldn’t be it. <<case 3>> //‘What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to be churned into spider silk and splattered onto a wall.’// That’s how the quote goes, yeah? Something like that. <<default>> What, you want puns or something? Fuck off. I don’t perform for you. And stop trying to outrun the monster lady, you twit! <</switch>> [[Return|Legs for Days]]

You’re crammed inside the humid mouth. Strong arms push your wiggling legs up against your chest, squish you into a compact ball. Lips glide across the silken bindings, enveloping your entire form in a single, stretched pouch. The scant light of the torch narrows to a single aperture as the maw closes. The last pinhole of light winks out. You’re plunged into rank darkness, wet, suckling palpitations drawing out your flavor. A deft tongue glides across your body, circling like a shark. A hand teases at the back of your head, pushing gently. You teeter on the edge of a pulsing throat… //Glummmp!// You sink into her gullet like a giant pill, wrapped in your silken capsule. Rippling, cloying walls guide your descent. Overwhelming muscles curl you up tight, a slow implosion as your body’s bent and squished. Your bones creak. Your flesh compresses, pinches. Rising pain is soothed only by your tight bindings, the silken shroud the last bastion between you and the tremendous, crashing storm. The tube opens into a taut little sack. You plop down into a damp pit and lurch into action, wriggling and squirming as you uncoil from onerous force. Her gut’s no less cramped, but the spongy walls at least contort to your form more readily. Every kick sees elastic resistance, every shove’s met by pillowy cushions. Your host raises her arms above her head and arches her back. Abs clench, the sack pulls up and around you. Billowing walls wrap tighter. “Perfect,” she purrs. “My new trophy’s front and center, a little squirming bump. So, //hhunnf,// so ripe and juicy. So curled up and helpless, I—” A belch burbles up out of her. A hand kneads her gut, pushes and shoves you around. The other hand slips down toward her pelvis. “Yes! Keep fighting like that. I love your little kicks, your little stirrings under my skin, the way you melt inside me—//aahmmf- f- fuck.”// That’s it. No more. You’re exhausted spiritually, mentally, scared out of your wits. There’s no goddamn way you’re gonna help her pleasure herself. You let yourself go limp and simply ride along the rising tide of her concupiscence. She builds. Muscles clamp and release. Heartbeat accelerates. Her hand curls around the back of your head. Fingers squeeze, crush. A pounding pain rings in your skull. “I didn’t say you could stop.” The pressure rises. “Keep. Going.” An ominous gurgle bubbles up from below. The chamber floods with broiling acid in the matter of a few breaths. You’re screaming and kicking as the caustic slop floods above your eyes. You scramble and push out a pocket of air overhead. Your lips crest the surface and suck in a gulp before the drider twists and bucks. The sack tilts. You spill sideways, unfurling, struggling like a lunatic for the next horrid breath. An ecstatic cry rings out, pierces your submerged ears. Your host quakes and quivers. The next wave catches you by surprise, and you inhale a fistful of bitter liquid. Your throat burns as the sludge irradiates your innards. You’re being boiled alive, churned for the drider’s sadistic pleasure. Fuck her. Fuck this world, and most of all, fuck Mira for abandoning you. You gather the last of your willpower and brace yourself for the worst. You pinch your eyes shut. Muscles tense and clench. Your body stills, curls, the reams of hot agony turning to cold numbness as you fold in on yourself. Seething. Dissolving. [[Fight for Breath|That's a Wrap!]]

You ignore the dark scary hole and burst into a sprint, fleeing into the blackness like a wild animal. Legs thunder, feet slam against hard stone. A wall booms into view and you pivot, dart across open ground like a pinball. Taunting laughter drips from ahead, above. “Not that way. There’s another web.” You fall prey to her mind games and veer right, then duck as a //whoosh// whistles. Darkness ripples. The drider swings into view, body inverted and arms wide. She swipes at you, then disappears back into the pitch with a gleeful hum. She’s savoring the hunt, relishing each second as she chases you down like a scurrying insect. Legs pounding, you accelerate until the ground is a mere blur, until you’re chasing the torchlight’s horizon. Anything to get away from this fucking monster. A //thwip// rings out. A wet glob splats to your left. You’re skidding in a new direction when a nasty splatter of tethered silk hits you square in the chest. The void yanks you down in a tumbling, painful mess. Shoulders and thighs bang on the hard stone. A palm barely protects your skull. Legs kick as you’re dragged across the cold ground. Your knife screams from its holster. You swing wildly at the tugging lash. The blade sinks its teeth into the cord, snapping it with an ominous twang. “Keep running, little fly. Get that delicious blood flowing.” An electric buzz crawls down your spine as you scramble to your feet and sprint. Panic pounds through your chest. A web-shot seizes your legs. You go down again, knife clattering into the darkness. The torch tumbles from your fist. You strain and stretch after the beacon. Fingers brush against the shaft, crawl for purchase— The world slides from reach. The island of light slips away as you’re wrenched from reality and hauled up into the pitch. A dark sea roils and rumbles, the uneven ground knocking you about like a ship in a storm. The tide rises, legs first. You’re hoisted up and away, a fish in a net. Inverted, you spin in the void, pulled upward by your one tethered limb. The will to fight wavers with each skyward heave. Your fallen torch is a speck in the distance. How far are you from the ground? If you fall now, will you crack your neck after an interminable plummet? Another tug drags you higher. And higher. Blood fills your skull, swelling, pounding, desperately losing the fight against gravity. The rope suddenly goes slack. You freefall for a heart-lurching second. Your bag slips and falls away, a thud in the darkness after a shudderingly long time. //“I’m gonna drink you dry.”// Mira whispers in your ear. You flinch as a finger caresses the underside of your chin. You’re flailing and flopping a moment later. Warmth slides up along your leg. A frantic kick thunks harmlessly off something hard. The drider’s forehead? Heaving breaths betray her unbridled pleasure. “Churn you up, make you //mine,// and splatter what’s left all over my walls.” You start throwing wild punches. Your leg catches in the slick tube to a chittering giggle. A ring of flesh //shlurps// along your hips, drags you into the pulsing mass of flesh, her throat rippling, engulfing, swallowing— She’s still laughing, panting… Elsewhere. It’s crystal clear. The mouth-sounds aren’t coming from between your legs. You’re not in her throat. <<linkreplace "No no no, not like this…">>“Get //in,”// she moans as you sink into her arachnid abdomen. The drider’s grunts and churrs fill the void, a prurient accompaniment to the cacophonous choir of squelches as you’re yanked inward. Every inch slipped hears her growling, thrusting, building louder and louder, a buzzing whine cut apart by the jagged ceiling. She heaves and humps. A soft hand squeezes your cheeks. //“Ah-ahh-ufff//—Fill me.” The monster writhes, greedy and urgent, engulfing you like a fat worm slurping its prey. You’re sucked up, drawn and yanked inside despite your frantic clawing. Slick warmth dribbles up under your tunic, coats your chest and drips along your arms. The heavy //fwumps// grow closer. Deep inside the pouch, your legs kick through a heavy mass of slime, sticking and slowing with each passing second like a lethargic mire. A ripple glides up to your armpits. Fingers slide between yours and clench. The drider shudders and yowls in pleasure, then guides you inward all the way to your chin. //“Fuuuck,”// she chants, somewhere between hymn and curse. She bucks and rattles your body like a doll. “Fight me. Writhe for me.” You grunt and shove against the rising tide or flesh. Your fingers slip along a rocky jag. You lurch and scramble forward and catch yourself on something rigid, something //not// on the spider’s carapace. A heave sees you slip back out an inch. You hold on for dear life and pull again, clambering for another shred of freedom. Dire shudders rattle around you, suck you inside with the final, crushing wave of orgasmic delight. The vile sphincter pops shut with a wet //splorp,// condemning you to the gooey cauldron. The chamber itself vibrates in cruel harmony with the drider as you’re squinched and squeezed tight. Wet walls clamp and grind, coat you in wave after wave of acrid chemicals. The cavity’s filled with the stuff, coating you from head to toe. It’s a nauseating concoction of odious slop, and it’s eating away at your flesh far too quickly. You shift among the thick goop. Heavy, revolting slime invades your mouth, your nostrils. It’s in your ears, seeping through every pore. The primordial web-fluid sticks and melts like some awful, mucousy substrate swirling around in a beaker. Sheets and waves pass over you, through you. There’s no air, no sight, just the oppressive blanket, an oozy, warm glue that’s claiming you down to the bone. You’re stirred and dissolved, stripped away layer by layer and woven in with the rest of the liquid slurry. <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathDriders ++>><<set $deathTail ++>>[[Melt away…|Death 2.4.4]]<</linkreplace>>

You toss your torch into the nasty, horrible //hole// and dive in after. Only the briefest flashes illuminate your path forward: a narrow slit, a tight bowel coursing toward god knows where. Black rapiers clatter at your back as you shimmy and crawl, the haunting laughter of the drider echoing, bubbling up and around, filling the tight confines with her deceptions. Walls narrow. Heat rises. You kick and push onward, both arms scrambling, punching the torch inches at a time. The light drops away. The tunnel yields, spills into a new chamber. You pry and pull your ass through, then catch yourself and crawl down the sloped wall. A final tumble into old, dried webbing sees you flailing fitfully, sputtering and coughing to get the damned shit out of your face. When you finally gather your nerves, you lay on the ground in perfect silence, waiting, listening, steadying your breath and tuning out the crackling sounds of your dropped torch. She’s gone. The horrid footsteps, the insidious taunting. Wherever you are, you’ve put enough distance between you and the drider to earn a moment’s breath. And you’re gonna take it. Chest heaving, you cast your sight to the distant ceiling, flitting to and fro, following the intertangled lines of webbing stretched across the sky like a nightmarish tapestry. You turn your head—the dusty cobwebs you landed on are mercifully inert, nothing more than faint whispers. In the mediocre illumination, you spot a single break in the cavern wall, a gap between the stones that might lead to freedom. To the left of that… some sort of abandoned shell? An oblong object, a faded grey blur, like a bundle of discarded carpeting. A giant… //mummified…// You scramble upright and wave the torch wildly. The far wall is covered in cocoons, massive and knotted, tied bundles like a macabre gallery. They dangle in artful clusters, stuck in place by sticky silk splatters, some humanoid in shape, others… less so. Impressions of limbs, of bodies, of bloat and bone float through your periphery. Some of them are //moving.// One of them has cat ears. You jam your knife between the layers, digging and slicing like a crazed butcher. You rip away sheet after sheet of silken cords. If the drider could mimic Mira’s voice, that means she heard your companion—which means she’s here. She’s in the cocoon, buried, trapped, strangled and sucked dry. A stream of trinkets pours forth as you reach the center of the webbing. The pointed ears were merely a pair of criss-crossed swords, the squirming guts nothing more than jewelry and a trick of the light. Terror seizes your heart. Your blade plunges into the neighboring cocoon and finds dry, hollow bones. The next yields only dust. You stumble back from the menagerie of horrors, hands shaking and lips trembling. A faint voice at the back of your mind urges calm, distant and pitiful past the adrenaline and terror roaring through your veins. A harsh breath rattles from your throat. Your frantic gaze sweeps the room, darting between dozens of cocooned forms. It would take ages to cut them all free. Time your torch might not have. <<linkreplace "Keep cutting">>You dart for the nearest pod. Your blade slips between layers of silk, then swipes hard and fast. You plunge again and cut away another sheet. It’s too thick, there’s too much much of the gooey crap. You set your torch on the ground and grip the knife with both hands, heaving and sundering, peeling away strata of sticky web. A splatter of ooze dribbles onto your boot. Another chop ruptures the sack.A tepid slurry spews onto your trousers. Stricken, you kick through the slop for any sign of Mira. She’s not in this one. Not a tuft of hair or a stray knife or bag of gold. Whatever was once in here couldn’t have been her. You set the next cocoon in your sights, only to freeze in your tracks as a voice echoes from across the room. “<<= $name>>?” an achingly familiar voice cries out, muffled by layers of silk and fear. A cocoon writhes, a diminutive figure struggling against her imprisonment. “<<= $name>>, is that you? Are you out there?” [[She’s here! Save her!|Coco Room Gameover Hook]] [[What if it’s another trick…|What!? It had a sequel!?]]<</linkreplace>>

You can’t second-guess yourself now. If Mira’s somewhere in this hellish lair with you, it’s not here. You say it in your head like a mantra. It’s the only thing that lets you turn away from the display of cocooned victims and toward the exit. You take the first, hesitant step. //“Mine.”// A blur of shadow sinks from the ceiling. Eight legs unfold, whirling, the drider spinning on her silken strand like an acrobat. She lands upon you before you can so much as twitch, arachnid limbs crawling, caging. Warm arms pull you into a tight, loving embrace. Teeth flash. Torrid breath splashes upon your neck. Her mouth cups, clamps. Twin lances, hot as lava, pierce your flesh. You wince and squeal, then gasp as numbness eclipses the pain. You can feel it. You can fucking feel the venom flooding your veins, hot and sticky like bubbling tar. It’s coursing, //penetrating,// coating your insides. She pushes and pumps toxic slime until you’re full, sated, until every pore leaks with her vile effluvia. Sensation drips from your fingertips. The world fades to a cold, distant memory. The ground sways and churns. Your head’s spinning. She’s letting you go, pulling her teeth back out. You need that connection; it’s your only tether to reality, and she’s taking it. The bitch. You swing at her, uncertain if you want the too-many-legged creature to bundle you up or leave you be. Darkness closes in to prop up your limp body. Fingers crawl along your shoulders. Cold, cruel words slither into your skull. //“This is my favorite part…”// You’re not supposed to be here. You should be in biology class. Or… looking both ways at a crosswalk. Who decided that crosswalks were a good idea, anyway? Why would a person ever need to cross paths with a truck, anyway? They can’t occupy the same spaces, live together peacefully. They’re like… predators and prey. It just doesn’t work. [[You need to leave|A Walk Down Mira Lane]]

Your feet are moving before your mind even registers the thought. The knife flashes in your hand, cutting frantic, desperate arcs through the sticky bindings. Steel carves a small opening, webs snapping and splitting apart to reveal the shadowed interior, to reveal— A handful of trinkets pour from the cocoon, long-forgotten and caked in dust. You instinctively recoil, then dive back in to unearth more, only to find an empty, abandoned husk. You reel, blinking back disbelief. Wasn’t it just… Didn’t you see it… A fresh flicker of motion catches your eye. Another cocoon. You blink to confirm. It’s definitely moving; it //has// to be. You sever the next bundle loose, peel it like heavy, old flesh and toss it aside. In the faint torchlight, you can see a form within. It’s wriggling. Another stab punctures the pod. You shove and part gossamer strands to find a scaly arm and face. Serpentine eyes blink at you, glossy and unfocused like fading embers. Not Mira. You wave your hands across the monster’s face, swipe the torch back and forth. She doesn’t register, only quivers and quakes, trying to pull the silken sheets back over her face. Do you try to free this errant monster girl? Would she help you or immediately try to eat you? The torch sputters and coughs. No, you don’t have the time or the means to do anything to help. You step back from the wall, eyes sweeping the blackened canvas for more cocoons. There’s a dozen others yet unopened. Some are wriggling, flickering in the fading torchlight. She could be in any of them. <<linkreplace "Keep searching">>Sidling, inching closer, you creep to the next pod, hand trailing along the wall for stability. Coarse stone passes under your fingers, then sleek and waxen. You barely register the carapace before it springs off the wall and tramples you. You’re knocked flat on your ass and bashed into submission as the eight-legged abomination skitters overhead, laughing, mocking, reveling. Human arms grab and pin your wrists to the floor. Six eyes descend. A dripping maw finds your flesh. A wet tongue glides along your neck. Slow, languid. A heavy breath out, then an all-consuming swallow as she feasts upon your scent. Shuddering, she pushes her chest down onto yours. You squirm and mewl, smothered. Warm liquid bubbles up around your legs, ascending, coiling rope freshly squeezed from her abdomen. Gentle hands guide you lower, carefully spin you around and around as fresh layers of silk weave tight across your legs, your shins. Knees press together, yanked taut by the sticky spool. You’re turned over and over, the drider’s fleshy undercarriage twisting in and out of view. “Oh sweetie, don’t waste all your energy yet.” Bindings pull tight around your hips. She flips you over again and ties a little bow upon your back with deft stilettos. A new strand splats against your wrists. She forces your hands behind your back and turns the rotisserie on once more. The ground sweeps by in dizzying blurs. Her gleaming carapace fills the other half of your dazed vision. Sticky warmth rises to your chest, then curls up and around your neck. She pulls the cords //juuust// tight enough that you can’t catch a full breath. A thick glob of webbing wraps around your pounding forehead like a bandage. Your mouth and cheeks go next. Your eyes and nose are left alone, twin air holes and the curse of sight your last remaining liberties. “There!” she says as the weaving machinery slows to a halt. Another little bow’s planted on your chest as the drider churrs. “A beautiful little present, all for me.” Saliva drips onto your forehead. A gentle hand wipes your brow, then cradles the back of your neck. She lifts you up into her arms. All you can do is extend and retract your legs like a helpless little worm. “Ooo, that’s delicious. I can’t wait to feel you do that inside me.” She assesses you with hungry, lustful eyes—six of them. Her extra sight must see something invisible in your features, because just as you’re about to whimper and beg for mercy, a spider leg touches your encased lips. “Shush,” she coos. Arms tighten around you in a malevolent swaddle. “None of that. You’re mine now.” You wriggle and squeal as you’re lifted up to her chin. It doesn’t dissuade her. Instead, an eager tongue rolls out, teasing and tasting along the small patches of exposed flesh. You pinch your eyes shut as the wet muscle rolls across your brow. A breathy, delighted //aah// fills the morbid silence. She bites her lips and raises you higher. The drider’s jaw unhinges to reveal a gaping, salivating maw. “See you soon.” [[…What?|The Long Dark]]<</linkreplace>>

You lurch forward, stumbling, unable to locate your legs. They’re somewhere down there, doing their thing. Probably. Who cares? You got shit to do. You gotta get out of this fucking //caaave.// And find Mira. Where the hell is she? Think, <<= $name>>. Think. Just follow her footsteps. Mira is… <<linkreplace "She’s…">>She’s… She’s in her home back in Icilia. It’s a crummy little hovel, clearly an abandoned house she’s squatting in. No one would choose to live in a place without a proper door, that you had to crawl into— Right, the crawling. That must be the way out of the drider’s lair. Why didn’t you think of that before? You lower yourself down onto your hands and knees, then onto your belly. You ease your way into Mira’s home, less a simple crawl and more an uncomfortable, slow, and thoroughly humiliating shimmy. Teeth gnaw and gnash from behind, chomping, threatening to reach into the narrow tunnel and drag you back out to a digestive demise. You surge forward, frantic to escape the nightmares of reality. You finally scramble to your feet to find Mira sitting at a crate-turned table with two bottles of booze featuring shockingly explicit labels. She uncorks one and draws a long, //long// swig, head reclined, tail twitching with each resonant gulp. She nearly finishes the entire thing in one go before tilting the bottle away and letting out a satisfied sigh—music to your ears. She offers the untouched jug, half-barrel chair creaking as she turns. Faint color forms on her cheeks. “Drink with me, <<= $name>>,” she says, all hollow cheer and vacant eyes. “It was a good day; one of the few.” You peer at the jug and take a sniff. The pungent scents drag your unmoored mind back through time. You’ve been here before. You’ve done this already. How did it go back then? What did you do? What were you //supposed// to do? <<if $MCDrunk == true>><<linkreplace "Drink with her">>You unpop the cork and tip back the booze. Sweet honey flows down your throat, spills from your lips, douses your clothes. Intoxicating miasma fills your head. You ignore Mira’s ramblings, far too preoccupied with drowning your troubles to pay any attention to her. What’s a street cat like her have to offer? A pitiful story about how she’s lived? It’s not like you’ve got anything you can give her. Take take take. That’s all you’ve ever done with her. Just take. Take her gifts, take her booze, her food, her companionship. [[Take another swig|Memory 2]]<</linkreplace>><<else>><<linkreplace "Don’t drink with her">>You mime a swig, shunning your gracious hostess. You want to make sure you start your relationship off on the right foot, after all—turn her advances down from day one. You couldn’t stand her from the very first second you met her. Who could? She’s a burden. An obstacle. Something to be managed and policed and corralled away from trouble at every turn. The only reason you allow her to tag along is because you’re ‘being nice,’ and boy will you come to regret that. [[Mime another swig|Memory 2]]<</linkreplace>><</if>><</linkreplace>>

Your jug thunks down on the table—a proper table in a cozy tavern. A gentle hum fills the air: hushed conversation, the clatter and clink of dinnerware, the hiss and crackle of a distant fire. The last vestiges of daylight burn brilliant orange through fogged glass, fading behind the silhouette of a half-remembered cityscape. Finally, some culture. Mira waddles over to the table with a gut full of still-squirming harpy. She nabs a chunk of bread from your plate—one you’d just been eyeing. “Hey, <<= $name>>, you wanna—” “Mira, the adults are talking right now,” Vanille chides, frustrated and dismissive. “Can’t you go somewhere else?” “But I wanna play with <<= $name>>!” “<<= $Xes>> busy,” the knight growls. “It’s very important <<if $xe == "he" || $xe == "she">> learns<<else>>they learn<</if>> about <<= $xir>> impossible quest—all the sexy ways <<= $xes>> going to nearly die while accomplishing next to nothing. All the ways <<= $xe>>’ll endanger and feed <<= $xir>> companions. It’s very important.” “Oh, like this harpy?” Mira juts herself forward, stomach gurgling as the sudden motion provokes a panicked struggle from its avian occupant. “Talking about a quest sounds boring. Why not have fun with me instead, <<= $name>>?” All eyes turn on you, expectant. //Judging.// <<if $MiraStays == true>><<linkreplace "Take Mira back up to your room">>“Sorry, Vanille,” you say, not feeling guilty in the slightest. You just can’t help yourself; a charming smile and a squirming stomach is all you need. Who cares about what they’re attached to? //Of course// you’re going to spend the evening with Mira when she’s like this. You even let her sleep on your bed—keep the harpy-stuffed demi that little bit closer all night long. It’s what she’s good for, after all: eating things, then offering tantalizing eye candy as she churns them away. What you need is a warm body at your side to cope with this awful world. But this isn’t really about you, is it? [[Then who is it about?|Memory 3]]<</linkreplace>><<else>><<linkreplace "Send Mira away">>“Mira, go away!” you growl. Vanille nudges your side with her elbow. “We could leave town tonight, abandon this stray. We’d be gone before she’d even notice.” Mira nods. “Ya, that’s true. I’m kinda dumb. You could probably trick me like that.” No… wait… This is wrong. You didn’t mean to harm her. You just wanted to be nice, but you also needed your space from the demi. She’d nearly eaten and killed you yesterday, and a night off from all the sloshing, gurgling, grumbling was something you needed for your own sanity. But this isn’t really about you, is it? [[Then who is it about?|Memory 3]]<</linkreplace>><</if>>

<<if $MiraEvent2 == true>>“Mira, did you just… lick me?” you ask, wiping a glob of saliva and honey from your sleeve. “No!” the demi blurts far too quickly, then shrinks under your stare. “I had to! You smell good. Maybe… I could eat you?” She clasps her hands, staring up at you with wide, emerald eyes. “J- Just for a little bit, I promise.” <<if $MiraReject0 == true>><<linkreplace "Turn her down">>That’s right, you turned her down. Refused to leave your comfort zone for her sake, gave the gullible cat some pathetic excuse. And she ate it right up. It didn’t matter what she wanted back then. [[It still doesn’t|Memory 4]]<</linkreplace>><<else>><<linkreplace "Let her eat you">>She opens her mouth and you crawl in<<if $xe == "he">> like a good boy<<elseif $xe == "she">> like a good girl<</if>>. You sink head-first down the warm, pulsing throat, falling away into your own personal heaven. Intense desire floods your veins as you splash among the stomach slop. //This// is what it’s about. This is why you brought Mira along on the adventure: you needed a portable, erotic bathtub. A convenient stomach to relax in that just happens to be strapped to an overly-attached girl. And it’s not like you’re in the wrong here. She’s got nothing to complain about; she’s getting something out of this too. You gave her a fair trade. [[She should be grateful|Memory 4]]<</linkreplace>><</if>><<else>>The floor beneath your <<if $MiraStays == true>>bed<<else>>seat<</if>> gives way. You fall into pitch blackness, a series of uncontrolled slides interspersed with the occasional bone-rattling thud. Flailing limbs grasp desperately for some hold, but every surface you find is either too slick or flimsy, and the most you receive for your efforts are scrapes and cuts. With a final, sickeningly wet crash, you come to a stop, impact just barely cushioned by a pile of rough textiles and disturbingly warm, sticky goo. Oh, it’s honey. Right. You’re in hell. “You fell,” Mira says, matter of fact, as she watches you from the gloom. “I know,” you groan. “I tried to jump down after you.” That part… you didn’t know. “Why?” She doesn’t answer. “What are you gonna do now?” <<linkreplace "Climb your way back out">>You do the only thing you can: you crawl your way out of the hive one harrowing step at a time. You squeeze through waxen tunnels, hide in chittering cubbies, slip past half a dozen drones, and survive more brushes with death than you care to count. You’re so relieved when you finally catch up with your companion that you don’t think to mention how you might be bringing an angry queen bee down right on top of her. You never ask how Mira’s doing. You never even checked in with her after your fall. Why would you? She’s an indelible ray of sunshine, a beacon of eternal optimism. You can lean on her for emotional support, then forget all about her the moment she’s not needed. [[She doesn’t have wants and needs of her own|Memory 4]]<</linkreplace>><</if>>

Mira starts at a murmur, faint and ephemeral. “I- I was scared when…” She points a delicate finger to her own forehead, then waits for you to understand. You mimic her, then touch the partially scabbed wound from earlier, from when you first fell down the ravine. “I saw the blood, and…” Her tail flickers. She casts her gaze elsewhere, ashamed. “I just ran. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.” You glance at the bandage on your shoulder, at the smear of herb-paste seeping through your tunic. Quiet and reverent, you ask, “Why did you come back for me?” “I don’t- I don’t know…” Mira shifts, ears flat against her hair. “B- Because… Because… Because I’ve always been on my own, and I didn’t want to go back to being alone. I’ve //always// had to take care of myself, and I’ve always hated it. I hated it so much.” She pauses for a moment to catch a wavering breath. Her next words are served cold and sober. “I’ve… I’ve never had anybody, never had a friend. I tried so hard to have one. All the time. I’ve tried being nice and silly and fun. I’ve tried sharing food, scrounging and hunting together, and everyone… they just… “I’ve always been good at stealing stuff, and people liked getting coins and trinkets I’d stolen, so… I did that. A lot. Other thieves tried to get me to join their gangs—and I did, for a little while. It was a place where I wouldn’t have to sleep alone, but nobody was there to be friends. I’d do jobs for them, but they cared more about the gold… And sometimes things didn’t go so well, and I’d get arrested. “The other thieves weren’t happy about me being in jail for that long. So they gave me all the risky jobs, which meant I’d get caught more often… which meant more jail. And then when the gang was done with me, I’d go back to wherever I was squatting, and there’d be someone else living there—They’d take all my stuff and kick me out.” She huffs, nostrils flaring angrily. “Everyone was always so mean to me. They always wanted something from me, and then when I gave it to them, they’d ask for more. It was like I was a hole in everyone’s pocket.” A pregnant silence passes before you dare to say anything. Once you’re sure she’s paused, you clench your hands together into a little ball and murmur, “That sounds… terrible and lonely. I… I’m sorry I never realized how difficult things were for you, that you didn’t have anyone in Icilia who cared.” Mira flinches. She violently shakes her head as she pushes a sputtering whimper back down. “B- But then you show up out of nowhere, and you’re nice to me. //So nice.// It’s impossible and perfect, and it’s everything. It’s everyday. It’s laughing and playing and listening and—” She wipes a bubble of snot from her nose. “I thought you were done with me when I got you in trouble at the bridge in Icilia, or when Vanille caught me stealing, <<if $Amberglen != "Mira">>or when you didn’t want to explore Amberglen with me, <</if>><<if $MCSlimed == true>>or when we got stuck in that slime<<elseif $MiraSlimed == true>>I got stuck in that slime, <</if>>or, or—Every time I closed my eyes, I was afraid you’d be gone in the morning. But y- you kept forgiving me, kept being nice to me… “You kept coming back.” Mira draws in a wavering breath. “After I got swallowed by the scylla… I never could have dreamed that someone would come back for me. And before that, when she charged at you—It happened so fast. I just pushed you out of the way, not because I thought you’d save me, or thank me, or anything like that, but because making sure you were safe was the most important thing to me at that moment.” A wan smile tugs at her lips. “It’s the best choice I’ve ever made. “And… I //wish// I could feel like that again. I wish I could just let you go because it’s what’s best //for you…// Because I care about you. Because I want you to be happy no matter what.” Small hands paw at watery eyes. “But… I just… I’m just selfish. I want you to be happy //with// me. I want to do everything with you, always, forever. I don’t want to go back to being alone. I can’t. I’ll do- do anything to make sure that never happens ever again. I- I want it so bad. I… I almost—” A choked sob catches in her throat, acute and wretched. She forces it back down and gathers herself. Her tail bristles. “When the dragon c- cut you open, I- I was… “Vanille brought you back inside the gates. Sh- She told me to watch the door, to guard you. A- And I did. I did my best. I stood watch every day and night. But I was still… Even after you woke up, I was still so scared. I was afraid… of how I felt…” <<linkreplace "Try to reassure her">>You purse your lips and sidle closer. “It’s okay to be scared, Mira.” You offer an outstretched hand. “I was also—” “No! It’s not!” she recoils. “That’s not what I… After, when you were, when your…” She buries her face in her knees. A mess of black hair obscures her forehead. Ears and tail go limp, as if Mira’s powering down, shutting herself off from the world. Whistling regret billows against her thighs. Each breath spills with the weight of an avalanche. “I… I was gonna s- steal you.” “Steal me?” What was she hoping to do with you on death’s door, bound to your bed and— “Oh, you mean…” “I wanted to eat you and run away. K- Keep you forever, never let you out.” Tears stream down her cheeks. “I wanted to take my cut and leave.” You suppress a bewildered chuckle. “I don’t think that would have worked, Mira. You’d have to let me out eventually.” She doesn’t crack a smile. “I know it was just a fantasy, but I //felt// it. The urge was //so// strong. I stood at the door, staring, drooling, crying. I had no idea where I’d go, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I’d have you—Not that you’d be safe, or happy, or alive, or any of that, but that //I’d have you.// “And it made me feel so, //so// horrible. Nothing’s made any sense since then. How could I push you out of danger so bravely one day, then size you up like a mark the next? I hated the way that made me feel. It made me feel like, l- like… “Like I’d deserved to be abandoned. That the reason I’ve always been alone is because I’m selfish and stupid and unlovable. That everyone who’d ever left me was right all along, that they were better off without me. That I can’t think of anyone but myself, that there’s something wrong inside of me… and I don’t know how to fix it. That I’m going to end up alone… forever.” The silence resonates, grows and swells until its oppressive shape expands beyond your shared corner of the world. You sit in it, smothered. Its judgemental weight presses on your shoulders as you reflect. Her shame, her agony… It’s yours too. Slow and terrible, the pieces fall into place. <<linkreplace "And then you told her…">>Your lips part. You force yourself to speak the words. “And then I said—” “That you’re leaving me!” she wails. Words and tears gush forth. She weeps uncontrollably for a solid minute before blubbering out another pained confession. “You saw right through all the desperate things I’d tried to make you stay with me just one more day. I couldn’t hide how horrible I am.” “You’re not horrible. Not for wanting friendship. Everyone deserves that.” “I //don’t!”// she bawls. “I’m not worth anything to anyone.” It takes everything you have not to scoop her into a tight embrace. “You don’t get to decide that, Mira. Vanille and everyone else, we //all// choose to be your friends again and again. Every day. Even when we were apart, when we were looking all over the city for you…” The fretful days. The restless nights. Every waking moment spent in desperate search of some sign of your lost companion, the slightest trace to prove she wasn’t gone forever. “Even then, I was still your friend. And friends…” you start, trailing off to reflect, to hone, to figure out what exactly it is you’re trying to say. The fact of the matter is that you //are// leaving. Trying to, at least. The search for the Echoes is your only shot at getting home, at escaping this world that only sees you as fuel. It’s your only way out of the daily fight for survival. The only way you’ll have an estimated lifespan not measured in hours. The only way you can stop desperately clawing for each sunrise. “Friends do better for each other,” you finally manage. [[Tell her everything|Tell her everything]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

<<if $MiraEvent3 == false && $Orrault6 != "Mira" && $Orrault7 == "Mira">>“Please, <<= $name>>,” Mira begs, urging you forward. She stands at the base of a dilapidated staircase, cast in evening’s auric glow. You’re prisoners, waiting for tomorrow’s promised siege. Mira tugs. It hurts your wrist. She’s far too strong for that tiny body. Her cheery smile can’t fully hide her desperation, her fear—not for the looming battle, but something else. “I found a quiet spot up in the lofts where we can have sex. Please, please, //please.// I- I need this. I…” <<linkreplace "Go with her">>Of course. You needed it too. You were terrified and she was comfort. Pleasure, even. You spent the night in her, and it was the injection of bravery you needed for the battle. You couldn’t have done it without her. “<<= $name>>!” she cries. It’s wrong. Her voice drips with panic and terror. The hallucination shimmers and distorts. A hand yanks your wrist, the surge of pain grounding you briefly in reality. Mira swings her knife over your head. The drider screeches fury. <<include "Drider Escape">><</linkreplace>><<elseif $MiraEvent3 == false && $Orrault6 == "Mira">>“You smell bad,” Mira says, nostrils flaring and wiggling as she sniffs at an acid-burned sleeve. It’s not just your sleeve. The whole tunic is a mess, as are you after your brief stint in the scylla’s stomach. You’re dripping all over the tavern floor. It’s dire. “Let’s take a bath!” Mira cheers, emerald eyes lighting up. “I know a place.” Bathing together? That sounds… intimate. The demi grabs your hand and tugs. You stumble forward. She’s far too strong for that tiny body of hers. “It’ll be my treat!” she insists. <<linkreplace "Go with her">>You’ve been through a lot, and a bath sounds lovely right about now. Something to cleanse the soul, give you a fresh start. Your head bobs in agreement, and before you know it you’re being yanked onward, out the doors of the tavern and onto the cold, cold floor of the drider’s lair. You stumble, nearly trip. “<<= $name>>!” Mira cries. It’s wrong. Her voice drips with desperation, panic, terror. The hallucination shimmers and distorts. The demi pulls harder, the surge of pain grounding you briefly in reality. She swings her knife over your head. The drider screeches fury. <<include "Drider Escape">><</linkreplace>><<elseif $MiraEvent3 == false>>“Quick, <<= $name>>. In here!” Mira shouts. The two of you dive into the alleyway an instant before metal sabatons thunder past. You instinctually hunch low as the demi huddles at your side. The two of you wait and wait. Tension ebbs into relief, then shared humor as your successful escape from Orrault’s authorities becomes clear. You move to rise, but Mira hesitates. Something lingers in her eyes—fitful uncertainty and growing desire. It’s obvious. //Painfully// obvious to anyone who’s actually paying attention. But when her lips press against your own, you’re still surprised. <<linkreplace "Don’t kiss her back">>You push her away. At every turn… It was the way she asked, the way she went about it. It was the fact that she hadn’t even considered your feelings before planting one on you. It was that you’ve been scared and alone in this world, overwhelmed by impossible physical stimulation—and then she added one more thing to the pile. That her impulsiveness jeopardized your friendship in a succinctly personal, entirely ignorant way. That all the times her lips made contact with your flesh as she was eating you weren’t enough, that no boundary felt sacred. That you’ve been giving everything you possibly can just to get by, //and she still asked for more.// … And then what? She stayed. She kept following you, kept being around. When you finally had the bandwidth to have this conversation with her, you never actually did. You never sat her down and talked about it. You were busy. Your life was in danger. There were other things, other people, other insanities to be dealt with, to be pursued. There are, and always will be, more excuses. Mira reaches out again, and you retreat on instinct. “<<= $name>>!” And here she is once more. “<<= $name>>!” she shouts a second time. It’s wrong. Her voice drips with desperation, panic, terror. The hallucination shimmers and distorts. A hand yanks your wrist, the surge of pain grounding you briefly in reality. Mira swings her knife over your head. The drider screeches fury. <<include "Drider Escape">><</linkreplace>><<else>>“You okay handling Mira?” Vanille asks. “Oh, yeah. Sure,” you answer on reflex, then blink. The knight’s already gone. You’re standing in a tavern—a different tavern, something avian and alliterative. A week’s worth of strains and stresses fade away, banished by a good meal and the lingering warmth of your recently retired companions. A shape by the fire catches your notice—Mira, slight and furtive. She unfurls, smiles when she sees your face. A thrumming purr resonates against your chest as her arms curl around your shoulders. Fitful uncertainty and growing desire eddy in her eyes. It’s obvious. //Painfully// obvious to anyone who’s actually paying attention. But when Mira’s lips press against your own, you’re still surprised. <<linkreplace "Kiss her back">>Of course you kiss her back. Of course you return her embrace, pull her close. You’ve always known that this is what you wanted. You don’t hesitate to reciprocate. Mira’s been by your side since the beginning. From the very first day in this crazy fucked up world she’s been your anchor, your sunlight, your rock. “<<= $name>>?” she squeals, a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s wrong, incongruent with your memories, dripping with desperation, panic, terror. The hallucination shimmers and distorts. A hand yanks your wrist, the surge of pain grounding you briefly in reality. Mira swings her knife over your head. The drider screeches fury. <<include "Drider Escape">><</linkreplace>><</if>>

The world wavers and wobbles. Nothing’s right. You can’t find yourself, your friends, the spidery abomination trying to string you up and devour you. Mira waves a torch at the arachnid foe, fending her off with the fierce determination of a wolf. The demi seizes your arm once more and pulls you upright. You’re rushing after her, dragged along as you flee into the tunnels, into something’s rancid bowels, into the hollering throat of the world. Shadows stretch and distort, creep from the edges of your vision to eclipse what scant light remains. Mira blurs, a memory, a vague impression of a thing soon to be forgotten. You set your jaw, bite your tongue. The pain brings one last dose of precious clarity. You’re dragged and pulled from venomous hindsight, thrust into half-sober nows. And the running. So much running. Why are you always fucking running? The world narrows. Something pushes against your ass. You fall through a crack in the stone, tumble between cramped walls. A cat crawls over your back. She’s got a light on her collar. She knows the way to safety. You follow, praying that this isn’t another of the drider’s tricks, that your companion is really here and knows the way out of the fetid hellhole. “… <<= $name>>,” she urges. It’s not the first word she’s said; you missed the rest. The demi helps you settle down. She’s peering at your neck, rifling through your bag and smearing herbs on your skin. Water’s ushered down your throat one painful gulp at a time, cool and quenching. The last vestiges of adrenaline wane. Torchlight flickers in your periphery, dancing flames captivating your bleary gaze. Your eyelids grow heavy—an impossible weight even a titan could never bear. Shoulders slump, arms fall limp. Your head lolls back. You don’t even feel it touch the wall. [[Fade away…|Mira Thaw]]

<<timed 2s t8n>>The soft pops of a crackling torch bubble up through your subconscious. A hiss and a spit heralds the first shred of alertness. You had the strangest dream: you were climbing a mountain when the ground suddenly opened up and swallowed you whole—not in the usual, lascivious way. Inside the earth, you were crawling around. There was a river, and then… You stir, battered and bruised. An ache rumbles through your limbs as you sit upright, part bleary eyes, and look around the tiny, torch-lit hollow. There isn’t enough room to stand in this earthen tomb, but a quick assessment finds two narrow tunnels out. Also, Mira’s watching you. “M- Mira?” you manage, hoarse and faint. Ears twitch. Emerald eyes shift away, avoiding your own. When she finally speaks, it’s hardly a whisper. “<<= $name>>… A- Are you… okay?” You groan as you curl and uncurl your fingers. Toes are next. Your neck pops, but in a good way. “Yeah. I’m alright. You?” “I…” She falters, shudders. Lips press to a determined grimace. Emerald eyes meet your own. “I’m sorry I ran away. I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to…” Shoulders hunch as a tail wraps around her thigh. “I’m sorry.” You watch her sit motionless. She’s found the spot furthest from you inside this claustrophobic vacuole, tucked her legs tight against her chest and curled her arms over her knees. If she folds any tighter, she’ll disappear entirely. The staring contest continues. An eternity passes. You’re not even sure what game you’re playing at this point. Mira flinches at your various grunts and groans as the last traces of that damned toxin fade from your system. Sense returns to your fingertips, a cold fire dancing along your knuckles. You shift closer to the torch to let your locked muscles thaw. The gentle warmth of the flame burns the fog in your mind away like daybreak. Focus returns. Mira opens her mouth as if to say something, then flinches. You watch for a moment before realizing she’s not sulking in silence. She’s trying to find the right words. Mulling them over. Tasting. You can see them, building up like floodwaters behind a dam. It’s too much to manage, too much to bear. She’s cracking, straining, breaking. No, that’s wrong. You’re jumping to conclusions again. You let out a long sigh, clenching and unclenching your hands, finding reassurance in the bite of fingernails against your palm. Mira’s struggling, but she’s strong. Far stronger than you. She needs time, patience. [[Wait for her; trust that she’s ready to speak|A Hole in Everyone's Pocket]]<</timed>>

You bow your head. “Mira, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it clear why we were on this adventure, that I never explained that I’m—” Might as well start at the beginning. “I’m from—It’s kinda like I came out of a storybook, but real? Does that make any sense?” “Y- Yeah. Vanille explained it to me.” Mira shuffles, unfurls—if only a bit. “She told me that Havendor is really dangerous for you. That you need our help to get all the Echoes so that //maybe// you can go… s- somewhere safer. Your home.” She lifts her head, words clear, fresh tears staining her cheeks. “I- I want that for you. I want you to be safe and happy. I don’t want you to stay here a- and die. Th- That’s more important to me than… than having you.” You hold back a sob. “I’m so thankful for all the things you’ve done to help me, for coming with me this far, for rejoining the group. But, I… I should have tried harder to meet you where you’re at. I had no idea that my adventure would hurt you this much, Mira. I never wanted that.” “I… I know. I’m not… I’m not that smart,” she mewls. “I could’ve paid more attention, figured out what you and Vanille meant sooner.” Mira stares into the torch, utterly silent. You wait patiently. The demi hugs her legs once more. “The day we started traveling together was the best day of my life. I thought I was free, that I’d finally made a friend. A //real// friend. We spent every day and night together. And our gang kept growing! But… I realized at some point that I’d become everyone who was ever mean to me. That I… I only saw you as a prize, as something to ‘have.’ I- I didn’t… I didn’t know what a real friend was, b- because I’d never had one.” Her head burrows between her knees. “I’m sorry I was so bad at being your friend. I wish I’d done it right,” she murmurs, crestfallen. You place a careful hand on her shoulder. “I- I wish I’d done better, too.” Mira emerges from her shell once more. Emerald eyes flicker in the torchlight, filled to the brim with relief and hope and grief and shame. They’re magnificent, kaleidoscopic, all-encompassing, bursting and blooming—too many emotions packed into a single person. She bites her lip and nods. “I love you, <<= $name>>. I’ve loved you since… maybe since the moment we met. I’ve never felt this way, felt so stupid and happy at the same time. I just—Being around you makes me feel like I have butterflies in my tummy. And I’m trying to tell them, ‘digest, you stupid butterflies’ because I don’t want to be a problem for you.” You blush. “Mira, y- you’re not a problem.” “I am! I’m reckless, and impulsive, and I get distracted and bored and I just want to be with…” She falters for a moment, as if her tongue is exhausted from the tremendous effort. Still, she pushes on; she has more to say. “I… need to apologize for being so pushy about having sex.” <<if $Orrault7 == "Mira">>You swallow an awkward lump. “Y- You do?” “Yeah, I… did it to make you hold me. I- I was scared before the siege. I didn’t want to lose you, and sex is the only thing that’s ever worked in the past, the only thing that’s let me steal a few extra hours of closeness with someone.” Her eyes waver from one corner of the cave to the other, unable to meet your own. “That was better than nothing.” “Oh…” you murmur, utterly slain. “You, uhh, you didn’t have fun?” She perks up. “I did, actually. A lot!” That’s a relief. “I did too, Mira.” Her cheeks flush. “You’re very gentle and considerate. A- And I got to sleep in your arms.”<<if $MiraEvent6 == false>> You chuckle. “Actually, it was the other way around—you ate me afterward, remember?” The blush deepens. “Y- Yeah. Sorry.”<</if>> <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true || $FuckedSherine == true>>“Uhh, so, uhh, while we’re talking about this…” you start, a deadly heat rising on your cheeks. “I- I sh- should probably tell you, that, uhm… that I’ve had sex with <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>><<if $FuckedSherine == true>>Ashlyn… and Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell them on you.”<<else>>Ashlyn.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell her on you.”<</if>><<else>>Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I can smell her on you.”<</if>> You brace, beg for sweet death. “That… doesn’t bother you?” “It—” She falters. “No. A- And yes. It doesn’t bother me that you did it. It bothers me when I…” The demi shrinks in on herself. “When I tell myself I’d be happy to share you. I thought I’d be okay with that, that I’d be fine with just a little bit of affection from you. But I’m not, and the thing that really bothered me was… was what lying to myself said about //me.// That I’m so desperate. So starved. I’m //eager// to throw my own feelings away. And…” She nods confidently. “I wanna treat myself better. I want to treat you better. It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><<else>>Mira shuffles in place uncomfortably, then nods quietly to herself. “But still, the way I asked… I’m sorry. From now on, I wanna treat you better. I want to treat myself better. It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><</if>><<else>>You nod, sober. “I forgive you, Mira.” A slow shudder ripples through the demi. “I wanted you to hold me. I- I was scared before the siege, so afraid of losing you, and… sex is the only thing that’s ever worked in the past, the only thing that’s let me steal a few extra hours of closeness with someone.” Her eyes waver from one corner of the cave to the other, unable to meet your own. “That was better than nothing.” <<if $MiraDating == true>>“I’m really sorry, Mira. It… It just wasn’t the right time. I was terrified, out of my mind, and—” You pause for a breath and take a moment to find the right words. “I wish I’d known that you needed company. I did too. I wish we’d talked about it. I’m sure we could have found something else to do together that night.” She nods, somber. “Yeah, I know. I understand that now. A- And I’m sorry for asking the way I did. It wasn’t fair.” <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true || $FuckedSherine == true>>“Uhh, so, uhh, while we’re talking about this…” you start, a deadly heat rising on your cheeks. “I- I sh- should probably tell you, that, uhm… that I have had sex with <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>><<if $FuckedSherine == true>>Ashlyn… and Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell them on you.”<<else>>Ashlyn.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell her on you.”<</if>><<else>>Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I can smell her on you.”<</if>> You brace, beg for sweet death. “That… doesn’t bother you?” “It—” She falters. “No. A- And yes. It doesn’t bother me that you did it. It bothers me when I…” The demi shrinks in on herself. “When I tell myself I’d be happy to share you. I thought I’d be okay with that, that I’d be fine with just a little bit of affection from you. But I’m not, and the thing that really bothered me was… was what lying to myself said about //me.// That I’m so desperate. So starved. I’m //eager// to throw my own feelings away. And…” She nods confidently. “I wanna treat myself better. I want to treat you better. I don’t know what that means yet, but… It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><<else>>“That’s okay. A- And saying no to sex doesn’t mean that I don’t like you, Mira. We’re still friends, we’re still… We kissed, and I…” “I know.” She nods confidently. “And from now on, I wanna treat myself better. I want to treat you better. It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><</if>><<else>>“It wasn’t the right time. I was terrified, out of my mind, and—” You falter, pause for a breath and a moment to find the right words. “I wish I’d known that you needed someone. I did too. A- And just because I don’t want to have sex doesn’t mean that I don’t like you, Mira. I would have—We all would have been happy to stay up and talk.” She nods, somber. “Yeah, I get that now. I’m sorry I was so forceful. I- It wasn’t fair. You said no, and I kept pushing and…” <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true || $FuckedSherine == true>>“Uh, while we’re talking about this…” you start, a dire heat rising on your cheeks. “I- I feel like it’s only fair that I tell you, that, uhm… that I’ve had sex with <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>><<if $FuckedSherine == true>>Ashlyn… and Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell them on you.”<<else>>Ashlyn.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell her on you.”<</if>><<else>>Sherine.” “I- I know,” Mira murmurs. “I- I could smell her on you.”<</if>> You wince. “That… doesn’t bother you?” “It—” She falters. “No. A- And yes. It doesn’t bother me that you did it. It bothers me when I…” The demi shrinks in on herself. “When I tell myself I’d be happy to share you. I thought I’d be okay with that, that I’d be fine with just a little bit of affection from you. But I’m not, and the thing that really bothered me was… was what lying to myself said about //me.// That I’m so desperate. So starved. I’m //eager// to throw my own feelings away. And…” She nods confidently. “I wanna treat myself better. I want to treat you better. It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><<else>>She nods confidently. “I wanna treat you better. It doesn’t matter how many times I save you, or you save me, or how much stuff I steal, or all the meals we eat together. I- I desperately want you to love me, but I can’t force you to feel that way about me… <<include "What You Give">><</if>><</if>><</if>>

“All I can do is try to be the best friend possible to you. B- Because friendship isn’t something you get from others, it’s something you give.” Mira draws in a quick breath. “Vanille said to me—At the wedding yesterday, she said that we’re friends, we’re all friends. That we can be happy for one another, and struggle together, and cry together, and that it’s okay that I feel this way. I can choose to do all those things—with everyone, anyone. I don’t owe my friends for what they give, because… I’m also their friend. <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>And anything more than friendship is…” <<linkreplace "Tell her how you feel">>“Mira, I—” “No.” Her head shakes fiercely. “No. <<include "What You Deserve">><</linkreplace>><<else>>And anything more than friendship…” She pauses, shudders. “<<include "What You Deserve">><</if>>

As much as I want to know how you feel about me, this isn’t the right place or time. We’re still stuck here, and you need my help to escape. Your answer right now wouldn’t be truthful or, uh, genuine. It’s co- coursed.” “Coerced?” “Yeah, that. I don’t want to hear it because you //have// to say it; I want you to say it because you //want// to say it. When you can comfortably say n- no… if you want.” You watch Mira for a moment, silently admiring her resolve. You owe her the same. “Would you really be okay with that?” She considers it for a long and quiet minute, ears flickering as cogs whirr inside her skull. Finally, she nods, sober and resolute. “I’ll do my absolute best to be. Because it’s not fair to you. You’ve been so good to me, and I want to be that for you…” Mira frowns, ashamed once more. “Vanille helped me realize that I got obsessed, and that I pushed things way too far and too fast, because I was so desperate for a friend. For //you.// That my feelings might change in the future, or that I might feel this way for the rest of my life, but really… I just—I just want to be your friend again. And to do that, I needed to tell you all my feelings as ‘truthfully and bravely’ as possible. A- And no matter what your answer is, it doesn’t say anything about me.” You wipe a tear from your cheek. “Y- You’re absolutely right. It doesn’t define you. And you deserve… you deserve to be cared about.” A slow silence settles over your private grotto deep beneath the earth, punctuated only by the occasional pop and hiss of the dwindling torch. Shadows dance across stone, cast harsh lines across the demi’s face as her eyes find yours. “Is it alright, if… if we… try again?” Mira asks, slow and small, like the first tumbling pebbles before an avalanche. “C- Can we be friends again, <<= $name>>?” <<linkreplace "“We never stopped being friends, Mira.”">>“We never stopped being friends, Mira.” She nods, head bobbing in the firelight. You scoot an inch closer and pull your own legs up like hers. You wait and watch the crackling light dance about the tiny chamber, the comfort of simply being there together more than enough. Old wounds start to close. The fissures in your heart slowly seal as you mull over everything that’s been said. Yesterday’s burdens suddenly seem insignificant. You did it, you got her back. Everything else can wait. … Well, except for one small detail. Minor, really. “Mira, did you say we’re stuck in here?” A number of other pertinent details rush into your mind. “W- Wait. What happened to the drider? Did you kill her?” “The spider lady? She’s too big,” Mira admits. “A- And we’re still in her house, but we can leave whenever.” “Do you have a plan for getting out of here?” Mira’s gaze flickers between you and one of the potential exits to the small chamber. “I don’t think we should fight her. She’s fast, and strong. But we can sneak out.” “She’s gonna see us from a mile away thanks to the torch, and without that we can’t see a damn—” You lurch to a stop, realizing your mistake. “Oh.” “I’ll be your eyes,” Mira says, resolute. “I can see pretty good in the dark, but we’ll still need to be quiet, and careful.” She offers an open palm. “Ready?” [[Give her your hand|The Weaver in the Web She Made]]<</linkreplace>>

<<timed 1s t8n>>You spend the first night fucking in a tree. <<timed 3s t8n>>It’s a terrifying balancing act with your back thumping against a sturdy-yet-not-wide-enough branch, but Thalia manages to keep you from falling to your death with your cock out, which is honestly astonishing for a woman without hands. After you cum into her cloaca—twice—you’re begging to go back inside. “Sleep well, <<= $name>>,” Thalia murmurs, giving her gut a slight squeeze. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” The next day goes much the same as the first. She’s up early—as best you can tell, at least—bobbing and flapping to her next destination while you sit in your cozy little copilot chair. She strikes up a conversation, and you attempt to entertain your hostess. It’s the least you can do; she’s taking care of all the hard work. Thalia touches down twice, the first around midday to make a delivery and grab a quick lunch. You’re given a hunk of bread to eat before the two of you are on your way to meet with someone who operates what you assume is a post office. Thalia exchanges a few letters, swaps a few stories, and gets paid for her efforts before waddling back outside and finding the nearest runway. It’s a bumpy takeoff, but eventually you’re back in the air together, cruising along as you take turns humming partially remembered tunes to pass the time. A second, longer touchdown occupies most of the evening as Thalia bops around some nameless town in Northern Havendor tracking down a particularly elusive recipient. You commiserate with her difficulties, offer words of encouragement, and eventually find yourself let out for some celebratory sex once she finally tracks the family down to a small cabin in the middle of who-knows-where. To clarify, the sex is just between you and her, not with the family or in the cabin. She picks a sunset-kissed cliffside overlooking a picturesque expanse; the harpy has a knack for finding utterly breathtaking vistas for copulation. As time passes, you find you’re released more and more regularly. Thalia’s more than happy to rebirth you for meal breaks, or to make use of your cool opposable thumbs, or… for more sex. Seriously, it takes most of your stamina to keep up with the ravenously horny bird, and by the time each outing is over, you’re more than happy to be back inside her just to rest and recuperate. Thalia is also particularly keen on making sure you wash yourself regularly, sometimes dropping you right into a stream without any warning. On the plus side, she scares off the mermaids for you. Though even under her wing, your life is… subdued. It’s the little things. The unspoken things. She’s not outright dominant or verbally threatening; it’s just that she never permits better options. You live by her schedule. The places she gives you ‘free time’ are remote and never out of her sight. More than once along her delivery route, she picks the tallest building in town to roost upon, a rooftop //just// high enough off the ground you wouldn’t dare jump down. You’re on an invisible leash. You’re completely naked, nowhere to go in civil society, your clothes and belongings long since abandoned. The only moments of privacy are when you’re curled up and tucked away and she’s sleeping, and even then it doesn’t take much to wake her up. But she’s always happy to have you around. Always eager for more conversation. For another day together. For another night spent in each other’s arms… or other places. Her positive outlook is almost infectious. The threat of your promised absorption wanes with time. She mentions it occasionally: a passing thought, always framed in ‘maybe’s and ‘one day’s. Yet it never comes. Sunrise after sunrise—the few she lets you witness, at least—you find yourself hale and whole. A full two weeks pass, and still you remain. Eventually, she stops bringing it up entirely. Your shackles gradually fade. Whether they’re intangible or gone entirely, you never even think to check. Instead, you try to become the best companion you can be, taking notes, keeping inventory, and even providing a bit of navigational assistance for the fledgling harpy. <<set $deathtotal ++>><<set $deathHarpies ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>><<set $deathUB ++>>[[Onto the next delivery|Death 2.4.1]]<</timed>><</timed>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Yeah, yeah, I know. Look: I had to cut off your weird little stuffed-turkey mail-carrier fantasy because you have an //actual// adventure to get back to. One where you have agency, and make your own decisions, and don’t live inside a fucking bird pussy! … Cloaca? I didn’t get a good look. Take a peek for me next time, will ya? <<case 2>> Back here again, huh? This isn’t fun for me, I don’t //enjoy// watching you befriending literally anything you can put your dick in. You’re bad at it. You care too much. You actually listen and form bonds. It’s gross. <<default>> Fine, you want more? All the juicy, goopy details on your new life with that bird-brained postal worker? She absorbs you about two months after you strike up the disgustingly sugary bargain with her. It’s a complete accident. Wanna know what’s worse? She spends a //whole fifty-five seconds// in mourning—nearly a minute, I know. Impressive. Then the rush of absorbing your nutrients drowns out any pity she might harbor. Her little navigator becomes nothing but a couple millimeters of padding //and she’s happy about it.// Because that’s what happens here. These people don’t give a flying fuck about you. <</switch>> [[Return|Hoist the Knight]]

<<if $MiraEvent3 == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>Fingers brush, a brief moment of uncertainty giving way to a firm weave and a steady, reassuring hold<<else>>Fingers brush, hesitant at first, then weaving into a steady and reassuring hold<</if>>. Mira clasps tight, the warmth against your palm warding off the cold that waits beyond in the looming dark. She meets your gaze, emeralds glimmering with steadfast resolve. The two of you glance to the torch lying on the ground, then share a wordless nod. <<linkreplace "Stamp out the torch">><<addclass "html" "pitch">><<include "Pitch Black">><</linkreplace>>

You squirm in agony as the stomach slowly drains, leeching a significant chunk of your life force. You can //feel// it. She’s stolen a piece of you, something soulful, essential. There’s an element missing in your matter, and you’re left entirely unable to define the empty husk-like residue in your bones. You hurt inside and out, flesh raw and lungs ablaze. You wheeze and cough, thin. Enervated, clinging to life by a thread. The silk rope’s long dissolved, as have your belongings and everything else you brought into this hell with you, but the extra freedom’s served only your captor. You tremble and twitch in the humid, desolate darkness, desperate to perform lest she flood you again. “You understand how this works now,” she chides. “Don’t make the same mistake again.” With her final words, you slump into languid obscurity, hugging yourself as tight as possible and hoping she’ll soon forget about you. The drider saunters about her lair, across the uneven ground and up onto the walls. Organic churn and splatter ripples from somewhere nearby as she births a new web, a new trap for little flies like yourself. You endure… whatever that means in the emptied acidbath. Your skin’s aflame. Softened bones ache. Muscle and sinew lay inert, mere soaked lumps. Time stretches and thins, as if suspended in air without a breeze to nudge it along. She sleeps. She walks. She speaks, but the words don’t matter. She squeals and pumps and thumps ecstasy as you’re relocated from one hostile chamber to the next, sinking deeply into swelling flesh. There’s a new spring in her step, a new sway on the sightless sea as you’re packed into the abdomen, then excreted out entirely. The wet mucous is a shelter against the harsh cold of the cave. It’s a blessing to be bundled in silk. Insulated. Comfortable. It’s the only thing you can cling to as you’re left to hang in the dark, in some awful, featureless mausoleum. <<linkreplace "Recuperate">><<include "Cocoon1">><</linkreplace>>

<<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathDriders ++>><<timed 500ms t8n>>Three sleeps pass as you dangle from the ceiling. None of them help. You might have a neighbor, though it’s hard to tell if the cocoon next door is truly alive or another one of the drider’s tricks. The movements are faint, orchestrated. A dry shuffling here, a wet //shlorp// there, timed so that you’re always on edge, constantly trembling in fear. The rapacious gulps and slurps that ring periodically through the prison are equally daunting. Every few hours, she plucks a ripened victim from the menagerie and swallows the helpless bundle down amid a chorus of groans and coos and scoldings. It’s all you can hear beyond the silky pod. Her comings and goings are silent; there’s only sudden terror and violence. And then it’s your turn. You’re yanked from thin, bleary sleep and crammed down her throat. Faint chuckles underscore the caustic typhoon. She keeps you in half-digested limbo for hours, pushing you toward an ever-closer fatal abyss, then reeling you back just before you drown. In and out. In and out. Days, weeks. It takes an entire day to save up a few spoken words. You beg, plead for release, promise fealty, promise inane, depraved things for the slightest ounce of mercy. Sight, conversation. A cell mate. She gives no quarter, lets your pleas go unanswered. She’s narrowed your world, stripped everything. You’re not even worth talking to, mere chattel. A bundle of nutrients and an incidental sex toy. <<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> <<linkreplace "Conserve your strength">><<timed 500ms t8n>>You come to with a wretched lurch. You really don’t want to be awake again, but you don’t have a choice in the matter. Your leg itches. Badly. You shift and squirm in the gooey sack, just barely able to lift your foot high enough to rub at the numb appendage. There we go, that’s better. Fucking failing body and its phantom pains. This isn’t the first, nor will it be the last. A sputtering minute passes as you get your bearings. You don’t bother with your eyes, there’s never anything to see anyway. Ears perk, strain to listen beyond the velvet walls. She isn’t here right now. At least, she doesn’t want you to know she’s nearby if she is. And that’s about all you’re gonna get from— Leg’s itching again. Both of them this time. Psychosomatic bullshit. As you contort to scratch, you take a moment to confirm you’re not inside the drider being digested alive. Your nose confirms the acrid scents are faint, diluted. Your best guess is that your last visit was yesterday. You’ve been wearing thinner and thinner. Your stays inside her guts are shorter, less severe. There’s not much left to take. The agony of hunger faded long ago, leaving you with only a faint, clawing hollow. And also this tiny pinprick of pain in your leg. You bend again— The itch moves up your thigh. It crawls up your flesh, higher and higher, skittering. A piercing pain in your wrist. Another on your elbow, your knees, your feet, your ankles, calves, shins, abdomen. Hundreds of tiny motes light up. Bites. //Fangs.// Gnawing, chewing. You will your arms to fight the burning pain, but limbs refuse to move. Or maybe they’re already consumed. Gone. Devoured. You’re being eaten one miniscule, flesh-ripping chunk at a time. An offering for her offspring. They’re going for the soft spots, chewing your ears, gnashing your eyelids. They’re in your nostrils, boring through your cheeks, ripping out your tongue. [[Scream|Death 2.4.5]]<</timed>><</linkreplace>> <<default>> [[Conserve your strength|Death 2.4.5]] <</switch>><</timed>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Woah! Holy fuck! You weren’t supposed to see any of that. //Eugh.// Let’s just, uhh… Let’s pretend none of this ever happened. You’re good at denial, right? Yeah, right. That’s good. Yep yep. Never happened. Back we go. <<case 2>> Phew, there we go. Much better. Definitely don’t need another repeat of… //that.// Glad I remembered this time and— Hey, wait a second. What are you doing back here? Did… Did you actually //want// to see that again. Were you hoping it’d go… further? Nah, that doesn’t sound right. You probably just stumbled into her trap yet again because you’re such a clutz, being the goofy little hero that you are. That’s gotta be it. Definitely. <<case 3>> … You’re back. Again. Seriously. Is this actually what you’re looking for here? A detailed play-by-play of being devoured alive by tiny—No, you know what? I’m not even saying it. I don’t want to encourage this. Go on. Get out of here. Make better life choices. <<case 4>> Alright, this definitely isn’t a coincidence. There’s something going on here, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. Did being trapped in a cocoon for the better part of a month break that tiny little brain of yours? Or worse yet, did it //awaken// something? A fervent desire to feel the agonizing bite of a thousand miniscule arachnid fangs? To experience the gradual stripping of flesh and muscle, the snapping of sinew, the crushing of bone? Is that what you’re after here? Is this my fault? Am I enabling you? Like an addict who started with the easy stuff: ‘Oh, just a bit of light, melty digestion here. Maybe some rough squeezing there.’ And then before I know it, you’re begging to be flayed alive. I’m… not quite sure how to feel about that. <<case 5>> Right, figured it out. Definite nope. Not interested in the slightest. You wanna get your rocks off on the harder stuff? Find someone else to bring you back from the dead. I’m not having any part of this. No way. Not even up for discussion.\ <<default>> Look, you already have your answer. It’s not changing no matter how many times you come crawling back. I have my limits. I have standards. Didn’t think you’d be the one to find them, but here we are. <</switch>> [[Return|Legs for Days]]

And then you wait. <<timed 2s t8n>><<linkreplace "And wait">><<include "Wait2">><</linkreplace>><</timed>>

And wait. <<timed 2s t8n>>Seconds stretch to minutes, minutes to hours. You spend an agonizing eternity huddled and cowering, waiting and praying, jaw clenched and ears strained, terrified of the inevitable, yet desperate for something—//anything//—to break the dreadful wait. @@color:#EEEEEE;//Tik… Tik… Tik…//@@ A sound like a stiletto against bone, slow and terrible and sharp enough that you half-expect to see sparks flickering in the dark. The drider, arachnid legs tapping a languid staccato on your granite cell, no longer the frantic skitter of the chase, but a slow and methodical prowl. Stalking. Creeping. @@color: #EEEEEE;//Tik. Tik. Tik.//@@ Closer. Other sounds join: the shift of carapace, the slow hiss of quiet breaths, the gentle scrape of fingers sliding along stone. Each footfall hits like an ice pick against your chest, like an impossibly fine dagger trying to bore deeper and deeper into your skull with each luxuriant strike. @@color: #EEEEEE;//Tik. Tik. Tik.//@@ She’s close. Terribly close. You can only pray whatever bit of cover Mira’s chosen for shelter is enough, pray you don’t accidentally give yourself away. A tremor works its way up one leg, threatening to burst into an outright shudder. You bring a hand to your mouth, dreading an involuntary gasp, or even so much as a too-loud breath. Your heart thunders in your chest, a frantic rhythm so cacophonous you’re certain the drider will hear if she draws even an inch closer. @@color: #EEEEEE;“<<= $name>>,”@@ Mira whimpers, soft and wretched. You nearly jump, kept rooted only by a reassuring pressure, a steady grip and bolstering warmth against your palm. Your friend is here, at your side—not out there with the skittering terrors. @@color: #EEEEEE;“<<= $name>>, I’m sorry. I…”@@ A choked breath. A stifled sob. Every sound is crisp and clear. The drider’s mere feet away. Another squeeze. @@color: #EEEEEE;“I love you, <<= $name>>!”@@ the cruel simulacrum wails. @@font: #EEEEEE;“I love you, I love you, I love you!”@@ Fingers clench, tight enough to hurt. You squeeze right back, matching Mira’s firm grasp with your own pitiful strength, offering what meager reassurance you can. @@color: #EEEEEE;“I love you!” //Tik. Tik.// “I… I love you, <<= $name>>.” //Tik. Tik. Tik…//@@ The cry begins to dim, each repetition more waning echo than grating howl. The rhythmic stab of legs ebbs, drifting off down some unseen passageway into the depths of hell itself to join the rest of the unspeakable evils that lurk in these caves. Mira suddenly pulls. You’re surprised; the drider’s still close enough that you can hear her footfalls. But you put your faith in your guide, rise and follow. The two of you start at a surreptitious crawl, then build to a walk. And still Mira pulls, urging you to a light jog. //“I love you!”// echoes off walls, distorted to grotesque and malformed shapes by a thousand reverberations. It pursues you, nips at your heels, worms its way into your ears, taunting and hollow. You’re breathing hard, praying each step lands on steady ground. The mocking cries begin to fade, words warping into inhuman baying. They ebb, recede like the last tendrils of some vast and terrible thing gradually losing its purchase, moments from slipping into deeper dark where unspeakable horrors lurk and wait for foolish mortals to stumble into their clutches. The last contorted syllable dissipates, an echo of an echo. The only sounds that remain are your hurried footfalls and ragged breaths. You and Mira slow, winding down like automatons, hesitant and unsteady. Finally, you lurch to a stop and gasp, as much to purge the lingering terror as to draw proper breath. //“She’s really creepy,”// the demi mutters. You sputter, narrowly restraining a bark of incredulous laughter; calling the drider’s siren routine ‘creepy’ is the understatement of the fucking century. Instead, you let out a relieved sigh, gather yourself and— No. Letting things go unaddressed has been your fatal mistake with Mira since the beginning. You squeeze once. //“You okay?”// you ask in the softest syllables ever spoken. //“Ya. She’s stealing my words. It’s… weird.”// “But //what// she was saying…” “I know.” Two squeezes. “It’s okay. C’mon, let’s go.” [[Follow her|Crawl and Climb]]<</timed>>

You’re shuffling into the darkness with a gossamer thin mantle of reassurance. Mira was already on top of it. You’re almost… proud? Not quite, but… It’d be a positive feeling if you knew it weren’t borne from the culmination of recent personal struggle. The dark trek resumes another fifteen paces before she pinches your hand once more. You halt, then flinch as something from the darkness taps on your forehead. A gentle hand guides you downward, to duck and hunch under a sudden slab of stone. You’re eased onto your hands and knees by the shadowy puppeteer, then given a thin cord to hold: Mira’s tail. The tip weaves between your fingers and tugs gently. It’s not quite prehensile, but damn if she doesn’t have fine control over her extra appendage. You get to crawling and shimmying through the narrow tube, one arm in front of the other. An elbow thumps against stone. You redirect, slow your pace a pinch, squeeze yourself in tighter. A strained breath escapes your chest, louder than you’d expected. You’re scrambling now. A cold drop drips onto your back, sends a shiver up your spine. Fingers pinch around Mira’s tail as you advance, struggle forward another few desperate inches. You //bomp// your head against Mira’s butt a moment later. Right: one squeeze means stop. Grip eases, and Mira starts again. The tail pulls taut as she takes the lead once more, maxes out the leash. You follow confidently just a moment behind. Twice you have to flatten yourself, crawl along on your belly in order to proceed through the passage. Both times, Mira’s waiting at the other end, tail swishing gently across the ground, scanning, sensing—and thrilled to be back in your careful caress. You return the favor by handling the guiding leash as gently as possible and keeping a solid pace. When the cave finally opens back up, you rise on hands and knees, then slowly straighten your spine. A curious hand reaches for the ceiling, but finds nothing. Still, you hunch—better that than bashing your head unexpectedly. You reach out into the darkness for your tether in this pitch black nightmare. “We’re out.” You choke back a surprised yelp. Your heart stops. Your tongue wavers cautiously on the edge of speech. Is this another of the drider’s tricks? //“A- Are you sure?”// you manage between trembling breaths. Soft hands take your own. Mira squeezes each twice. “Yup. She can’t get us out here. No more webs.” Oh thank fuck. Mira guides you as before, hand in hand through the pitch. Her little voice sings directions, a heavenly melody of simple instructions: //“duck,” “two steps up,” “this way, <<= $name>>!”// Each syllable is an incantation, a mote of hope. You quickly find a new lightness in your step. You’re still blind as a bat girl, but Mira’s your eyes, your foreshadow, a warm reassurance in the deathly cold cavern. Ten minutes of easy travel, of starting and stopping as Mira navigates the invisible twisting tunnels, pass without a major hitch. No more creeping imitations, no more sudden webs in your face. Your footsteps accelerate, become looser and faster. You can make noise again, can take a step without the paralyzing terror that it will be your last. You sneak an occasional peek, opening your eyes to utter nothingness over and over. Each time, a playful pull on your hands dispels the twang of despair. Mira turns you left, then right, then all the way around and back the way you came. She lets out a small churr and squeezes once. You obey and slow to a halt, then stand still as she walks a circle around you. A finger glides along your waist as you wait for her to make her assessment. “… Mira?” you start after a curiously silent minute. Your heart flutters. “Everything alright?” “We hit a wall.” “I dunno. I can’t see in the dark, but I think we’re doing alright so far—” Mira snorts. “No, an //actual// wall.” You hear her make a gesture. “We gotta climb.” Oh… That might be a bit of a problem without sight. Maybe the two of you could devise a system similar to the one you used while crawling? She marks handholds with her tail for you to grab, slowly pointing the safest route in her wake? It wouldn’t help much with your footholds, though. Maybe—Oh wait. She’s super strong. Maybe she can just throw you? You scratch your chin absently. “Is it a tall wall?” “Ya.” Onto plan B, then. “Can I ride on your back?” you ask. She hums quietly for a moment, carefully picking her words. “Erm… I’m worried about your injuries… a- and grip strength. I- I can tell from the way you’re holding my hand… Plus, we gotta squeeze a bit further up.” She swallows an awkward lump, the strange noise echoing through the cave. “I- I have an idea.” Excellent! Plan C. “… I could carry you… i- in my stomach.” It takes everything you have not to facepalm. You can’t stop the mental images from forming, however: Mira reaching around her huge gut to grip the wall, then falling and bouncing on her stomach, only to //sproing// up to the top of the cliff. You choke back a laugh. “How is climbing gonna be easier for you like that?” “I’ll suck it in,” she explains without a hint of mirth. “It would be lighter than carrying someone on my back.” That… makes no fucking sense. That’s not how physics works. An anxious note bubbles out of her, a pitch torn between a chuckle and a wretch. “I- I’m screwing it up again, aren’t I?” You flinch from your thoughts. “What do you mean, Mira?” “Th- This is how it happened last time: we ran into each other, I offered to help you, a- and then I ate you,” she whimpers, her nervous laughter souring with each passing moment. “I- I’m sober this time, I swear! I’ll be quick and casual, uh, I—No! I’m being stupid and selfish. There’s gotta be another way up, I’ll—” You squeeze her hand. “Mira, it’s okay. I know you’re looking out for me—literally, right now. And I’m thankful.” You make an awkward attempt at a bow, then settle for resting both hands atop hers. “If you think eating me is the best way forward, I won’t object.” //Wow, how noble and self-sacrificing of you—// You can fuck right off with that, brain. Mira’s being brave enough for both of you. Wanting to start over and do better, only to see the pieces begin to fall into the exact same places as before, is utterly terrifying. After everything she’s told you about how she grew up, this world continues to be unfair to her, and the least you can do is try to make her place in it more comfortable. “Y- You’re sure?” Mira asks quietly. She steps closer. You raise your hands toward where you think her face is. [[“I’m ready when you are.”|You earned this]]

Creeping warmth slides up your elbows, silent and swift. Your arms slip down her throat, soft and plush walls accepting you with ease. A quiet //shlurp// bubbles, an accident, an incidental noise. The tempting warmth is light as a fairy’s kiss on your skin, graceful and deadly as an assassin. Were you asleep, she could swallow you whole without you so much as stirring. The number of opportunities she’s had to simply carry you off unnoticed… Lips crest your chin as you bend forward. A pair of small hands find your waist and hold like an anchor. It’s your queue to dive in. Hair slickens. Heat rises, rosies your cheeks and chin, dribbles down your neck and douses your clavicle. The silent world outside deafens, replaced by the murmured chorus of steady, welcoming //glumps.// Fingers touch down at the bottom of a stretching sack. You bend your elbows and wedge your head in against the palpating throat. Mira tugs your tunic down as you descend, maintains your dignity. She waits for you to bend at the waist before assisting, making sure that you’re in the lead every step of the way. You’re guiding her, you’re setting the pace into the dark, slick tunnels now. She follows the silent, subtle cues, a gentle squeeze here, and careful nudge there. You’re slumping forward, letting your spine glide along the bottom of the gut until you’re upright once more. Thighs spill into the chamber, then knees. You’re pulling and tugging yourself into position, doing your damn best to help the bodily contortion, to take up as little space as possible for your gracious host. There’s no signal at the end, no declaration of completion. No belch or sigh or devious giggle to turn you from passenger to meal. Only a careful hand pressing lightly on the back of your neck, urging you to curl up. Another touch against your side, a push, a press. More and more delicate alignments as the sack pulls taut around you. The world ascends one step at a time. You feel a kicking boot find purchase in the wall, feel her stretch her upper body and reach skyward. She sucks in a breath, pulls you in close. The cave walls narrow, press in from outside as she squeezes between opposite walls. You curl in tight and hold your breath, not daring to move. She knows what she’s doing; she doesn’t need you wiggling about and throwing off her balance. “Thank you,” she murmurs, gently patting your shoulder. “About half way.” She unclenches. You wobble free, hang comfortably from her midriff for the next leg. Your internal chronomitor’s lost count. Sight’s been gone for a good while, and a stomach doesn’t provide much in the way of discernable smell or sound from the outside world—just faint acid scents and the continuous hydraulics of the body organic. <<linkreplace "Wait patiently">>You wait in the fleshy elevator, coiled and cozy. Breathing eases, matches rhythm with Mira’s. Her heart thumps, determined. The sack itself remains as dry as you can possibly imagine a stomach could ever be. There’s no sloshing, no splashing. It’s just you and the plush folds suspended over an abyss. You rise higher and higher, swaying and bouncing with each passing moment. Mira never asks anything of you, yet remains always mindful of your presence. She turns and shifts herself, never allowing you to bump into an obstacle. You continue your tranquil ascent in quiet comfort, between sheets of stone, through pitch darkness, pulled up and heaved through a rippling throat— Mira’s hand catches the back of your head, tousles your damp hair. A blast of cool air washes across your face. Emeralds glimmer as Mira gently regurgitates, eases your body out of her pulsing throat and onto rigid ground. She smacks her lips to catch a fleck of stray saliva, then frowns as she checks you over. “S- Sorry,” Mira mumbles with a slight huff as lithe hands smear the strands of digestive goop from your clothes. You try to respond with something suave, but your throat’s slick with lingering humidity. A quick, ungraceful hack is all you need to say, “It’s not a problem. I- I should probably get used to it, honestly. You’re, uh, it’s probably a good way to protect me in a pinch.” Her tail flits back and forth. “A- Are you sure?” You nod, trying to keep the heat from your cheeks. “Y- Yeah. You’re faster and stronger than me. If e- eating me will help get me away from danger, I…” Your hand instinctively hovers over your chest. “I trust you.” Mira’s face does something you’ve never seen it do before. Her brow scrunches and she frowns, not in sadness or disappointment, but concern. Glinting eyes zip around, calculating, fighting a sheen of excitement back with cold, hard burden. Her ears seem to grow taller, as if the extra few inches will make her braver. Finally, she nods. “I- I’ll do my best.” You smile as she brushes a stray hair from her brow. A shy calmness drizzles down her body. She holds out a hand to help you upright and you take it. She yanks you to your feet. About halfway up, it hits you: the little change before and after the bizarre climbing session. You blink in disbelief. <<linkreplace "//You can see!//">><<removeclass "html" "pitch">><<addclass "html" "base">>//You can see!// You turn about excitedly. “Mira, there’s light here. It’s not much, but I…” You grab her hand and point to where the light slips between sheets of rock. “That way! C’mon!” You’re pulling her along, thundering onward toward the light, toward sweet, sweet salvation. The path clears. Inky miasma dissolves in shimmering glory. Your head’s spinning, your ears are popping. You can see your goddamn feet again, each step, each inch, the leather, the laces. You don’t have to stumble over rocks and around invisible stalagmites. Walls recede. The ceiling rises up and away. Color returns. The damn tunnel’s never been more beautiful. A warm ray hits you in the face, utterly blinding. You don’t care. You stumble forward and brace yourself against the lip of the cave, spit into fresh air with your arms outstretched. Resplendent radiance dances a ballet upon your skin, welcomes you home like you’re a soldier returning from war. Each second basking is a cathartic revelation, the kind that makes you understand why every infant culture worships a sun deity. [[Give praise|Solaire]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

Miles and miles of Western Havendor lie before you, warm in the sun’s gilded glow—a vast tapestry of landscape unfurled from the peaks of the Brimond Mountains and stretching all the way to a thin, nigh-invisible strip of blue just beneath the horizon. The ocean, days away. Maybe a week. It’s difficult to comprehend the scale. The mountains and foothills directly below all seem understandable, brown and grey stone gradually yielding to an expanse of verdant grasslands dotted with the occasional bit of brush. But the greater the distance, the more you feel as if you’re looking at an elaborate diorama in a museum, with fields of felt, grains of sand for boulders, and small nubs of polyester for trees. And even further below lies a deeper green, dark and gloomy, misty tendrils caught on trees like strands of cotton. That must be the swamp, occupying the vast expanse between the grasslands and the coast. Only one landmark mars the sweep of sodden green and glossy black—a single drop of grey poking through the trees. Stonework of some sort, absolutely massive to be viewable from this distance. You’re definitely not making it there tonight, even if you wanted to. Based on the sun’s drooping perch in the western skies, you’ve got a couple hours before sunset at most. An urge at your hip draws you back to earth as Mira tugs on your tunic. “Do you need to rest?” she asks. “There’s a safe spot over here.” You follow her lead back toward the mountainside where another opening lies nestled between a jagged shelf and a large boulder. A scraggle of dry brush dangling from the top lip renders the rift nearly invisible—thank Mira once again for her keen eyesight. This will be a perfect place to camp and recuperate. It’s near the mouth of the mountain pass without being immediately obvious to anyone—or //anything//—coming and going. Now you just need to find the rest of your party to help occupy it… You about-face and find the entrance to the tunnel is a proper mess, a tangle of splitting paths and trodden ground. Your eyes immediately catch a trio of symbols like runes carved into one wall. Were you traveling //into// the mountain pass, you’d spot it immediately… and have no idea what it means. They’re oddly circular and swooping shapes, not at all what you’d expect from a chiseling tool. Magical inlays? Spontaneous runic erosion? “Any idea what these are?” you ask idly, tilting your head to get a better look at the nearest swirl. Mira shrugs. “Nope. But there’s another one further inside, just past the shadows. I think I could follow the path without getting lost.” She peers into the dark a moment longer, then turns back with a look equal parts determined and confident. The demi ushers you back toward the impending camp site. “I’ll go and look for the others, you should stay here and rest.” “But I—” You falter, torn. You can’t imagine parting ways with Mira now of all times, but it’s not like you’d be much help tagging along, either. A dry gulp steadies your nerves. You set your jaw and nod. “Okay, I’ll set up here. Just holler if—” Slim fingers pinch your lips shut. You’re about to protest when Mira pushes you backward three disorienting steps, yanks you to the ground behind a slab of rocky wall, then pivots and draws two knives. Your heart thunders as you stare back into the gnarled cave mouth. Fuzzy ears flicker and twitch, honing. You still your breathing and listen, trying to tune into the same frequency as Mira. A flurry of footsteps. <<linkreplace "Draw your bow">>A voice comes first, echoing and distorted. You can barely make out the words. “… I’ve counted four ways we can backtrack.” A pause. Another voice adds, “Five now.” “Right. Good,” the first replies. It sighs, curt and heavy. “We’ll pitch camp up ahead, set up a staging area, then work backwards one tunnel at a…” A form emerges from the gloom, a face strewn with grime and gunk and slime-plastered hair. Mira darts out from your hiding spot in the blink of an eye. “Vanille!” she squeals. The knight sheathes her sword just in time to catch the springing cat-missile in her arms. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Mira.” Vanille hoists the demi up and inspects her, checking her over for injuries. Mira scrambles free and lands on the ground. She scrunches her nose and says, “You smell,” before nuzzling against Vanille’s torso. “We ran into a bit of trouble. Where’s—” Golden gaze flits in your direction as pebbles crunch under your boot. A breath hitches in Vanille’s chest. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>She closes the distance in an instant, dragging Mira right along with her. A strong arm wraps around the small of your back and yanks you into an embrace that squeezes the air from your lungs and draws aches from a dozen weary joints. You don’t care. There’s nowhere you’d rather be. Your head thumps against hers, finds comfort in the press of her cheek. //“I was so worried,”// she murmurs into your ear, threadbare and tremulous. //“I know. I’m sorry—”// //“No, don’t. It’s…”// She falters, draws in a short breath, and finally breaks into a weary grin. “I knew you’d be okay.”<<else>>You’re scrambling across dust and stone an instant later. You practically fall into an embrace, strong arms curling and squeezing the air from your lungs. Mira lets out a squeaky //hlurk// as your weary joints groan. Neither of you care. There’s nowhere you’d rather be.<</if>> “I kept telling her to not panic,” Ashlyn drawls even as she poorly hides a relieved sigh. “You’re like the party’s needy pet—<<= $name>>, of course. Not Mira. I knew you’d be yapping at my heels by sundown.” Vanille whips her head out of the group hug. “I didn’t //panic.”// “Don’t pretend you weren’t worried, too,” Sherine shoots at Ashlyn with a trace of venom. She catches herself and adjusts her tone before continuing. “I saw you gesturing your little magic spells every few minutes. Something extrasensory? Trying to steady your nerves?” The mage balks. “I was //trying// to get that fairy’s crud outta me, clean my magic up faster by discharging frequently.” “Uh-huh. It certainly wasn’t to check up on anyone.” There’s a brief pause as all eyes fall upon Lloriel. The elf scoffs. “Nuh uh, I’m not doing this again. You two can work it out on your own.” She turns a curious gaze at you, Mira, and Vanille still in each other’s arms. “And, uhh, speaking of working things out, I didn’t realize you guys were so… friendly.” You’d be embarrassed, but you’re too exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. “Sorry,” you sigh, burying yourself into the embrace a bit deeper. “We’ve had a rough few days. We need this.” “Ya,” Mira murmurs from Vanille’s bosom. “Just another moment, please.” The knight snorts and pulls you both tighter. [[Bask in the moment|Party Rejoin]]<</linkreplace>>

When you finally dig yourself free of the three-way embrace, you’re mildly surprised to discover Ashlyn, Sherine, and Lloriel have already begun setting up camp—or more specifically, have dropped off their belongings and immediately moved to the mouth of the cave to begin cleaning the layers of gunk and grime accumulated during their jaunt through the Brimond Underdark. And viscous goop isn’t the only souvenir your companions brought. Both Ashlyn and Sherine are sporting stomachs—well, //lumps.// The mage’s bloated torso faintly writhes and pulses, and the lamia flaunts a much larger, though more poorly defined, bulge deep in her tail. The pungent odor finally hits your brain, sweet and spoiled like fruit left under a hot day’s sun, yet with an appalling acrid undertone. You grimace. It’s coming from Vanille. “Mira’s right: you //do// smell,” you say, eyeing the spatters of mixed fluids on Vanille’s armor. “What happened to you guys?” The knight gives a self-conscious frown. “We had some… difficulties navigating the caves.” “She means it was a complete shitshow,” Ashlyn calls from over your shoulder, and you turn to watch as she upends a boot and disgorges a stream of thick, noxiously pink slime. “Seriously, if it wasn’t for Lloriel, we’d all be winding through a very //different// set of tunnels right now.” “I- I just have good instincts, is all,” the elf insists bashfully, though now that you pay closer attention, you realize she’s in appreciably better condition than the rest of your companions. Still definitely gunked up; just a whole lot less. You, Mira, and Vanille saunter out of the cave-mouth, past the rest of your friends and to a small shelf overlooking the foothills which the knight decides is as good a place as any to begin cleaning her thoroughly sullied armor. “I guess that’s our swamp out there,” you say, glancing into the far distance and searching for a familiar speck of grey. “And I think I might’ve spotted something. There. A building, maybe? Whatever Plume was talking about?” “A few buildings,” Mira provides without missing a beat. “They’re in a small cluster. But the one in the middle’s big. It’s really tall and kinda pointed.” Right. Another reminder that the demi’s keen eyesight isn’t just limited to the dark. You point to a tiny blue speck on the horizon. “A small lake,” Mira says cheerily. “Good eye, good eye…” you start, finger hovering for a moment as you choose a new target. The digit floats above the vista, then slides across the nearby stones and finds the demi’s nose. “Boop.” Mira giggles, then tucks her hands behind her back and flashes a sheepish grin, tail swishing happily. You catch Vanille from the corner of your eye, paused in the middle of wringing out some leather padding. She’s watching the two of you with a strange half-smile. “Everything okay?” you ask. “I…” Vanille lets out something between a chuckle and sigh. “What happened down there?” “Well, we fell when that boulder crashed,” you start. “There was a cave below the ravine. Safe from the harpies, but it didn’t seem like we could climb back up.” You hold back a wince of pain as you glance over at Mira. “And then uh, we navigated in the dark together, and…” “No. That’s not what happened,” Mira interrupts, a mix of shame and zeal staining her features. “I- I got scared and ran away. I left <<= $name>> by <<= $xem>>self.” She bows her head toward both you and Vanille in turn. “I messed up really badly. I’m so sorry.” “That’s not—” You falter, suppressing the fledgling protective instinct. “Okay, that //did// happen, but it wasn’t her fault. I- I had a cut that looked way worse than it was. There was a lot of blood, but I was fine. We were apart for a little while—” You huff and collect yourself with a firm shake of the head. “It doesn’t matter. Mira saved me from a drider, full stop.” Vanille blinks. “You encountered a drider?” You shrink slightly. “I, uhh… I kinda wandered into her lair—” “You were in a //lair!?”// “N- Not on purpose! It kinda…” “She stole my voice!” Mira chimes, oddly excited about the haunting ordeal. “I gotta learn how to do that.” You roll your eyes. “It was some kind of ventriloquism. I, uhh… I didn’t know there were monster girls that could do that. Kinda creepy, honestly.” “No, that’s…” Vanille shakes her head, lips curling against her will. She stiffens and nods, face turning stoic and cool like an admiral. You’re half expecting a promotion when she says, “I’m glad you’re both okay.” “I’d say we’re better than okay, now.” You turn to Mira and offer a strained smile. She smiles back, thin-lipped but with fiery determination in her crystalline eyes. “Mira and I had some time to talk. We worked out a few things, a- and…” You let out a long sigh, gathering your nerves. “I know that we’re all pretty beat up from today, but can… could I call a team meeting tonight? We gotta talk about a few things.” Vanille nods. “Sure. I’d like to set up camp and get some food cooking first. Oh, and I’ve still gotta finish up…” Another violent squeeze relieves a leather shoulderguard of a frankly unreasonable amount of slime. The knight scowls at the puddle it forms. “… //This.”// You glance over at the rest of the group still wringing themselves dry. The flow of goop from Ashlyn’s boot has not slowed. “Seriously, what happened?” Vanille shakes her head. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Would you mind getting things started? I’ll join in a few minutes.” [[“Sure thing.”|SOUP]]

You and Mira head back inside and get a quick fire going—an especially welcome addition to the campsite as the first chill breaths of evening introduce themselves. You decide it’s time for another batch of <<= $name>>’s famous ‘Whatever the Hell You Have on Hand’ stew, pitching the pot over the fire and searching through your belongings for suitable additions. Mira’s tasked with scrounging and scouting the immediate path for extra ingredients, only for Ashlyn to pull her aside just before the demi steps outside. The mage glances back and forth surreptitiously before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a tiny, //wriggling,// humanoid-shape. She hands off the shrunken creature to Mira before ruffling her hair, then turns away and pretends like nothing happened. You don’t even have a chance to identify who or what it might have been before the snack, and Mira, vanish. You can probably ask later if you really want to know. For the present, you focus on the stew, hoping to get some food in your own stomach before the last of the adrenaline fades and the inevitable ravenous hunger sets in. Everyone in the group offers a portion of their waterskin. Some potatoes, onions, and carrots make a good base. Leftovers from yesterday’s feast prove more than suitable for giving it some substance. Lloriel sits across the fire for a time, drying her clothes and offering a few scavenged herbs from her belongings to spice up the stew. You stir and stir, working up the courage to prod at what exactly your companions encountered during the underground excursion. The notion barely makes it to the tip of your tongue when the elf drifts away with a few murmured words about //‘target practice before sundown.’// You frown as she leaves. Seriously, what the hell happened? Ashlyn and Sherine’s lumps need to be explained, or else you might die of curiosity. The stew can take care of itself for a few minutes. <<linkreplace "See if you can pry an answer out of Ashlyn">><<replace "#choices">><<set $PostCave to "Ashlyn">>You step away from the fire over toward where Ashlyn’s presently leaning over a small glass jar, cascading firefall of hair in hand. She wrings another glop free, then picks up the container and corks it, apparently satisfied. It’s disappearing into her cleavage a moment later—her oddly misshapen breasts giving you a certain pause. She’s a bizarrely bumpy, lumpy, bodily contortion. And while that statement is normally true of the sex mage, her present condition seems to involve thousands of burrowing scarabs under her flesh rather than in her guts—Y’know, the place that live creatures are supposed to be. The //thing//inside her struggles and squirms against a prison of flesh, shifting and rippling the tight dress in the light as if it’s the campfire playing tricks. The most disturbing part is that Ashlyn doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other. You’d expect she’d either be perturbed or orgasmic, or both; but the fact that she’s treating this as //ordinary// is unsettling. “I knew you’d be curious,” she says before you have a chance to say ‘hello.’ Slender fingers curl around a round bulge, tease it to the surface. Facial features form beneath stretched, elastic flesh as digits gradually tighten, like she’s popping a tremendous zit. “I- I am,” you mewl. “I was gonna pretend to be normal for a moment before asking, see how you’re doing, inquire about the tunnel—that sorta thing.” “Sounds lame. Anyway, check this shit out.” Her nails trace a faint line along her bustier, gliding up onto her chest, sensing, searching. She finds the spot and teases a finger //into// her flesh. A wet //splorch// sends a shiver down your spine as she peels herself open. Flesh, fat, bone all part in unison like a dense curtain. The compressed layers open on a horror show. There’s a person inside her. Not in her stomach; fully embedded in the tissue and viscera of her body. A cage of pulising vessels and slick sinews envelop the startled, blinded face of a mouse girl. “What the—” You catch yourself mid-exclamation, then lower your voice to a thoroughly alarmed hiss. //“How the fuck, Ashlyn? That doesn’t look…”// Normal? Safe? Sane? None of those words have //ever// been used to aptly describe the borderline-unhinged sex mage. You’re not about to try now. “It’s fucking awesome, right?” the mage provides. “I was gonna go with ‘disgusting.’” “That too,” she adds with //far// too much cheer. She shimmies forward, and you reflexively recoil. “C’mon, look. Say hi. Shake her hand.” “I’m not doing that,” you state flatly before your curiosity ultimately gets the better of you. “Did you… //eat// her?” “Better,” the mage coos. “I glomped a bitch. //By accident!// The fairy’s bullshit from this morning made my spells go all wonky, and then this happened. Isn’t that fucking cool?” The mouse girl twitches as the heart pressed against her forehead thunders. Her face contorts into a frown. A shoulder slides against what might be a lung. A bulge rises above Ashlyn’s waist, an outstretched hand. She grunts and twists, then squeals as the mage zips herself back up. Despite the opaque barrier, you can perfectly discern the way she’s scrunched up in there, the exact folds and bends and bulges and wiggles all plainly obvious—a burnt afterimage forever scarring your brain. It takes a moment of hoarse, half-formed churrs to find your voice. “What’s gonna—what’s even supposed to happen now?” “I’ll probably absorb her overnight. Feels about the same as if I’d swallowed. I think.” “Can she… get out?” Ashlyn scoffs. “Fuck no. Once you’re in, you’re in. That’s how magic works. That’s how everything works.” Your head bobbles in an approximation of a nod. “Uhh, o- okay. Sure. Good luck with that, I guess. I’m gonna…” “Make sure to check back in the morning!” “No thanks,” you say, making a quick turn for the campfire and trying your damnedest to put whatever the hell Ashlyn’s got going on out of your mind. This is supposed to be a relaxing, calming evening. No nightmare fuel allowed. … You’re still going to check tomorrow, though. [[Get back to the soup|The Isekai Talk]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Try your luck with Sherine—Wait, no, not like that">><<replace "#choices">><<set $PostCave to "Sherine">>You step away from the fire and saunter over to Sherine, who’s still engaged in the daunting task of cleaning twenty-odd feet of snakeskin. During your recovery in Orrault, the lamia was all too eager to regale you with tales of recent conquests. It shouldn’t be //that// hard to cajole her into revealing whatever’s sloshing about in that tail of hers. After a moment mulling over potential approaches, you decide blunt and to-the-point is your best bet. “Hey Sherine, what the hell is that?” “Disgusting,” she groans, eyeing the bulge with visible disdain. Your eyebrow raises curiously. “Then… why’d you eat it?” She sighs. “Because, as much as I am loath to admit, the best solution to a problem is not always the most pleasant one.” “May I?” At her indifferent shrug, you give her tail an experimental poke. It’s definitely not solid, but it’s not exactly the sort of soupy mush you’d expect from a digested meal either. If anything, it sorta feels… springy? “So what exactly is—was?—the thing you didn’t want to eat?” She scowls. “Something I’d much rather forget.” “Can I get a hint?” “I’ll do you one better.” A smirk flashes across her features as, for the first time since your approach, her attention fully settles on you. “You can dive in and find out for yourself.” You shiver and take an involuntary step back. “No thanks. I’ve seen enough dark and confined spaces for a lifetime—Fine, a day,” you correct at Sherine’s skeptical stare. She sighs in mock-disappointment. “And here I was hoping for a palate cleanser, though I suppose that stew will be a decent substitute.” The lamia offers another coy smirk. “You //do// make the best food, after all.” After a moment’s consideration on whether or not to call her out for the blatant double entendre, you decide to cut your losses and head back to the campfire. [[Get back to the soup|The Isekai Talk]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Mira eventually returns and hands over a fistful of herbs, berries, and some sort of fragrant branch. With respect to a careful balance of ingredients and flavors, you take a test sniff, then get to whittling and crushing the perfect amount into the bubbling pot. The rest of your group comes around to curiously inspect the impending meal. One by one they seat themselves on the ground nearby, inching closer like magnets as the delicious scents fill the air. Mira and Vanille nestle themselves among Sherine’s coils, the lamia warmly complacent to being used as a makeshift couch. Lloriel peers curiously over at one of Ashlyn’s notebooks. She points out a particular line and claims it’s ‘an error.’ They switch to another language—Elvish, you presume—to discuss the difference of opinion before the mage cheerfully rips the offending page from her book and tosses the scrap into the fire. From there, the two take turns scribbling back and forth until a consensus is reached. You’re scooping liquid joy into everyone’s travel bowls soon enough. Warm murmurs of thanks pass quietly among the group as conversation ebbs. You slurp a few mouthfuls for good measure, then pass off your bowl to Mira. “Hey,” you start, cautiously injecting your voice into the peaceful din. “Can I borrow everyone’s attention for a bit? I uh… There’s some important stuff I gotta say.” A round of nods and murmured go-aheads rumble around the campfire. Five sets of eyes turn toward you, expectant, waiting. You swallow and find your throat suddenly dry. A nervous pang flutters in your chest. Sure, some of your companions already know, but what will the rest think? That you’ve lost your mind? And while you’re on the subject of overthinking, where the hell do you even start? There’s a lot of ground to cover and… No. Just go with your gut. Start at the basics. The simpler the better. <<linkreplace "“So, uh… I’m from another world.”">>“So, uh… I’m from another world—” “I knew it!” Ashlyn jumps up, spilling on herself. She levels a finger at your heart, then scrambles for one of her tomes. Totally overencumbered, she hands her bowl off to Mira—a rookie mistake—then flips through the dense book. A page with a disturbingly accurate drawing of you, naked, flips open. “I’ve been studying you in secret this whole time. I’d figured you out, tasted your aura. It was only a matter of time before I exposed your alien nature!” “Wha—Yeah. Of course you know, Ashlyn. I fucking //told// you.” She blinks. “What? When?” “Literally the first time we met! You asked why I had weird mana. I tried to explain, but you just brushed it off and carried on with your theories.” Ashlyn scowls. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” “Yes it does,” says the entire rest of the group. You pinch the bridge of your nose for a brief moment. “You shrunk and kidnapped me in the middle of a tavern. I distinctly remember saying it so you wouldn’t fuckin’ eat me.” Lloriel snorts. “That happened?” The mage goes quiet for a moment, gears whirring furiously behind her cosmic eyes. She smacks her lips. “Okay, that sounds //vaguely// like something I’d do.” She curtsies and folds herself back into a cross-legged and polite seat on the ground. “Please continue.” “Right, uh… So I’m not from Havendor, or anywhere else you might know. I’m from a whole other existence, a different reality—well, maybe not //that// different, but…” You attempt a shrug and wince as a new bruise from the day’s excitement makes itself known. “Different enough. My body doesn’t work like yours.” Sherine raises an eyebrow. “How so?” “Er, well,” you start, a brush of heat catching on your ears. “I’m not as durable. I’m not as strong as any of you, my body can’t withstand the same amount of abuse. I… also might be less dense—I still need to confirm that.” You gesture at Vanille, Lloriel, and Sherine in turn. “Anyway, I can’t jump fifteen feet vertically, I can’t shoot harpies out of the air, or strangle them. I can’t eat the way you all can.” Silent eyes drift toward the bubbling pot. “Er, I mean, unhinge my jaw and swallow stuff whole. I can’t do that. No one from my world can. At least, no one I’ve heard of.” Mira’s hand shoots up. “Are you a super secret special type of monster girl?” You snort. “Not that I know of.” “Wait wait,” Lloriel blurts out. “Hold on. This is- this is, like, you’re doing a bad comedy bit or something, right? You actually expect us to believe that you’re from another world?” “It’s true,” Vanille says, sober. Mira nods as well. The elf puts her hands up. She offers an incredulous chuckle. “Okay, I get it. Haze the newbie, sure. It’s an impressive coordinated effort, especially since we were split up for most of the day.” Surprisingly, Ashlyn’s the next to come to your defense. She holds the heavily notated page at Lloriel. “<<= $Xes>> telling the truth. <<= $Xir>> mana’s all proto-baryonic. It’s how I figured it out //entirely by myself, without any help from anyone.”// “That’s not pos—Fine, sure.” Lloriel shakes her head, looking more resigned than convinced. “Let’s say you came from another world. How’d you get here?” “Actually, yeah,” Vanille starts, a scowl of concern on her face. “I never asked. How //did// you get to this world?” “Uhh…” A self-conscious flush warms your cheeks. You’ve never had to explain this. To anyone. “I actually got hit by a truck—It’s this large vehicle, like… Uhm, okay. Shit. Imagine a wagon, but very big. And there’s no hor—mules pulling it. And it hit me at a very high speed. I, err… I might’ve died. O- Or was about to.” The knight stares at you for a moment, stark. “That’s horrifying!” she finally blurts out. “Huh. Yeah, I guess it //is// kinda traumatic.” You shrug. At this point, it seems more like a prank than something that actually happened. “I don’t fully remember it. But, like, I didn’t walk through a magical portal or anything—Right, yeah. There’s also no magic in my world either.” It takes a tremendous effort to quash the very loud voices screeching in your head. They’re demanding you determine if this is the afterlife. Again. Is your body in a coma back in your world? Are you going to wake up at the end of this like it was all a very warm, juicy dream? Mira offers a half-eaten bowl of soup. You smile and take a quaff before finding the demi wearing a stoic face and raising her hand once more. “So you said that no one in your world can swallow stuff whole—big stuff, I mean. Does that mean everyone’s like you?” You frown, trying to parse the question. “Sorry, I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Do you mean how I look, or… Oh wait, you mean human?” “Yeah, that,” the demi nods eagerly. “Yeah, I—Wait, no. Not exactly. All the //people// are human, if that makes any sense. We don’t have any demis or monsters.” You point to Mira and Sherine in turn. “No one with… I wanna say ‘animal’ traits, but I guess that doesn’t really fit here. We do have other animals, though. Not just humans.” “The same //kinds// of animals?” Ashlyn asks as she scribbles furiously in her notebook. “Surprisingly, yes.” “That’s terrible worldbuilding,” Lloriel mutters. “At least //try// to make this convincing.” “For real!” Ashlyn cheers, nudging the elf playfully. She turns a devious glare on you. “C’mon, you can tell us literally anything right now and we’d have no choice but to take your word for it. Why not say you’re from someplace sexier?” You throw your hands up. “Okay fine. I came here from outer space. My unbelievably advanced ship crashed and I’m trying to rebuild it so I can return to my people. Please, Havendorians, help me. You’re my only hope.” The mage raises her hands in something between a cringing wince and a conciliatory shrug. “Stick with the original.” “Look, I…” You sigh, then try again. “There’s a lot of weirdly similar specifics, yeah. But it’s also been a huge fucking ordeal. Just ask Mira or Vanille about some of the obvious mistakes I made my first week here, or the inane questions I kept asking.” “I wouldn’t call them ‘inane,’” Vanille offers with a sympathetic smile. “And as for the mistakes, I… I wish I’d been more patient. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you. The culture shock alone…” “It’s definitely taken some getting used to, yeah,” you admit. A nascent attempt at assuaging Vanille’s concerns falters as you spot Mira, hand raised yet again. “What was it like?” the demi asks in a small voice. “Y- Your life, before you came here?” You draw in a slow breath. That’s… a very big and complicated question. How do you distill your entire existence down to an abridged autobiography? What are the important bits? How much do you leave out? How can you paint a window into a world none of these people have ever known? [[Pick up your brush and try your best|Gelatinous UwU Cube]]<</linkreplace>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>Over the next half hour, you tell your companions about life before the great truck—about school and friends, family and home, studies and aspirations. It’s a slow and sober affair, made all the more awkward by the constant need to frame otherworldly subjects in ways that won’t trigger an endless spiral of questions. You avoid big concepts and focus your efforts on the small, the personal. You can’t capture the entire world, at least not in an evening huddled around a cozy campfire. But you can make a valiant effort to capture //you.// Fortunately, your companions are patient—even Ashlyn. They listen quietly as you trip and stumble your way through a winding and disorganized tale, with Vanille in particularly rapt focus. You answer what questions you can, and admit your limitations where you can’t. Before long, you find yourself talking about your final days on Earth, and subsequently your first days in Havendor. You talk about the forest, about Allie and Icilia and your attempted part-time job. You talk about the night spent under Mira’s roof and, yes, in her stomach—you’re not leaving out the sillier details. This is about putting everything on the table, and besides, the good ship //<<= $name>>’s Ego// has long since set sail and vanished over the distant horizon. Things only get more awkward as you arrive at your second meeting with Vanille, your uncanny resemblance to the statues dotting many a Havendorian city, and the beginnings of your quest for the Echoes of Exile in accordance with a centuries-old prophecy, even fishing Destiny’s Embrace out of your tunic as a convenient visual aid. You recount your expedition into the Whispered Archives, the long and muddy trek northward, your conversations with Maven Gerda Marioun, the delve into Neverdine, Sherine’s trial, and finally the siege of Orrault. By the end, you’re mostly talking to Lloriel, explaining the details of recent events and getting her up to speed. After all, everyone else saw them firsthand. “So, lemme get this straight,” the elf starts, then pauses to finish one last bite of dinner. “You’re claiming to be the hero meant to fulfill Kadrick’s prophecy, and that’s why you’re searching for the Echoes of Exile—supposedly lost to time—because they //might// be a latent source of mana which can //possibly// send you to another reality where nearly everything is marginally more boring, but you can only do this //after// you stop some sort of vague cataclysm predicted by a raving sculptor.” You pause to tally up all the absurd details, turning briefly to Vanille for confirmation. After a moment ensuring all your ducks are in a row, she nods. “Yeah, basically,” you offer. “Admittedly, the ‘cataclysm’ has been more of a secondary concern,” the knight adds. “We’ve mostly been focussing our efforts on finding as many of the Echoes as possible, with the hopes we’ll be prepared if disaster ever //does// strike. And if it doesn’t, we might find out how to send <<= $name>> back home along the way.” “Ah, well this has all been very informative.” You’re surprised to discover the sass coming from Sherine. “What? You already… knew…” You hesitate and find Vanille sharing a similarly guilty look. “We never actually explained any of this, did we?” Oops. A coy smirk wriggles its way onto Sherine’s lips. “I had my assumptions, but I didn’t know the finer points. You all seemed very determined to find a gem at the quarry, and while I’ve occasionally seen your amulet, I didn’t know its significance. It //is// a bit gauche, though…” She clears her throat. “Questionable fashion choices aside, I think I understand the gist of it now. I was expecting a long, interesting adventure when I joined, but now that I know it’s for a good cause, I’m… //intrigued.”// Lloriel stares at the lamia for a long moment. “Oh, you’re serious,” she suddenly blurts out. “You’re all being serious. Oh damn. This isn’t an elaborate joke. <<= $Xes>> genuinely from another place, another reality. <<= $Xes>>…” “A lost soul,” Sherine muses, tone balanced perfectly between pity and fascination. You let out a long sigh. “This is exactly why I wanted to have this team meeting. I hadn’t been entirely forward with you all while expecting a hell of a lot from each of you.” You glance at Mira. “You all do a lot for me just by being my friends, and I really, //really// appreciate it. But I… I don’t like the idea of keeping the important details from you anymore. And I’m deeply sorry for the trouble I’ve caused by doing so.” Sherine nods curiously. “Why keep your homeland a secret?” You scowl. “It’s not exactly the best introduction: ‘Hi, I’m <<= $name>>. I’m from another world and have no idea how I got here.’ Doesn’t really come up in day-to-day conversation either, and it raises a lot of questions that… Well, I think tonight’s proved just how difficult they can be to answer.” You hesitate, then shrink in on yourself slightly. “But also, I, uhh… I was worried that I’d be painting a target on myself if I went around telling people that I was, uhm… ‘exotic cuisine?’” Ashlyn snorts. “That’s a hilarious instinct. Not that I’d do differently if I were the only person in the world who couldn’t—” Her words fail. Lips quiver. She suddenly lights up. You know that look. You fear that look. Evil bubbles in her violet eyes, roiling and churning as she connects the dots. She //knows.// It’s not just that you’re a pervert; you’re a pervert whose proclivities were once improbable, impossible. You’re an eldritch-obsessed mortal who crossed from their own limited coil into a plane of unimaginable pleasure. You’ve just confirmed a core belief for her: she’s living in a fetish world. An infinite slurry of questions and curiosities just birthed in her mind, all of them grotesque and revealing. You glare the fiercest glare you can possibly muster at her. //‘Don’t fuck me,’// you silently scream. //‘<<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>We’ll be doing plenty of that later<<else>>No promises<</if>>,’// she responds. Probably. You don’t need telepathy to know she’ll go for low-hanging fruit whenever available. Fortunately, you earn a stay of execution, as the mage almost immediately loses interest in your silent standoff and goes back to taking notes in her journal. Your personal, embarrassing secret that isn’t anyone’s business is safe. And hey, Ashlyn has a good reason to keep you alive. <<linkreplace "For now…">>The conversation transitions from dinner to rest, leftovers are stored for tomorrow, and the cookware is pulled from the campfire and licked clean—Thanks, Mira—then stored among your belongings. Bedrolls spread across the ground. Vanille, as expected, insists she’ll take the first watch, though the extremely convenient arrangement of this particular cavernous nook means she’ll be within spitting distance. As the night wears on, Sherine slowly encircles the entire perimeter of the cave, though her torso lays semi-comfortably atop the gelatinous lump not far from where Mira’s nestled. Ashlyn doesn’t even notice when Lloriel semi-awkwardly scoots away, then settles in a spot with the least amount of Sherine in it. Stifled yawns begin to punctuate conversation with increasing regularity, but your companions’ insatiable curiosity persists. It’s not like you can blame them; you’ve had three weeks to learn about this world, and they’re making up for lost time. After an hour of fielding more questions—some banal, some too complicated to answer in a single sitting—you decide to turn one back on your group. “Alright, last time: is //anyone// gonna tell me what happened to you four today?” A wordless series of anxious nods circulate the delinquent members of the party. Lips quiver. Glares are cast. Furrowed brows and twitching cheeks reach a consensus. “No.” [[End of Episode 4|Episode 19]]<</linkreplace>><</timed>>

You’ve reached the end of the current early-access content for //Another Inner World.// Thank you for being a subscriber! Be sure to return for the next WIP release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. As always, you can export your current save using the sidebar menu to the left, then load it into the next version and pick up right where you left off (here, this page, but with a link to proceed) when the next release is available. __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading, testing, and feedback by Blex (episode 1+2), Kable12 (episode 1), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W æµé€ Aickavon Alex Nimmer Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Autocrux Avicyn BStreamcat Bas bishbopist @@color:red;Blex@@ @@color:red;Boosted Snail@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Butt McFarts calm belt Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron dragonborn657 Drakeon1015 Dude43235 Eat Me EL O EL Elmo Eric EvilBastard ExposedSenpai I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". Frank Lance FrogFries Gea gongon Grapes Grizzlow Guardian Gnosis gzc Phorcys19 Hayden Black hi529 Hona Vega Hunter Aldridge Iepie122 Igloo3047 Ithirien James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper jayPhrog Joe Fry Joel Boening Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Exodiaaddict Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Littleguy145 Robin! @@color:red;Lyl@@ M Tanner M423x Manny M. Martin van der Sommen Matheredor MelonFelon01 Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish Myrtaz NapBonaparte Zuzu Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nightfang Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 @@color:red;Petr@@ Phase Caster Pierce Placeholder Qu0rbl3 @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 @@color:red;Ratley@@ Rory Ross Davis Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shad0w Shadow Nightclaw SlimesAreNice somhtam @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ Spydorz StarlitKing @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan TheNova129 Thumic Tobi tofublock Tsavo Tyler Fitzgerald Tyler Joshua Bennett UnknownLurker V-Ate VeryVoraciousVixens Vesper Viikinkikiivi VK1113 Wandering Veggie WaylaidVisitor William Wulfenite Xaeroch Xionti Yum Yums Zob Zerp Zuiji

Flames vanish. Scattered embers glimmer like the last stars of a dying constellation. Stygian night closes in. It’s an oppressive, intimidating thing, thick and heavy and clinging tight like a funeral shroud. It eddies and churns, swirls and writhes. The scent of charr floods your nostrils. Ears strain for every slight scrape and scuttle. Ethereal fingers dance across your skin, pinpricks lingering in their wake as your remaining senses fire desperately to fill the void. A gentle squeeze brings clarity to the inscrutable dark. “If I squeeze once, it means don’t move at all,” Mira says, hardly more than a whisper. “Two squeezes, and we can go again. I’ll steer you around, okay?” You can hear the determination in her voice—the fierce, indelible certainty. She’s going to free you from these caves, from the horrors within, from the endless, winding gloom. She’s not going to leave you on your own again. <<linkreplace "“I trust you.”">>“I trust you.” At Mira’s gentle insistence, you take your first, hesitant steps, head bent to avoid the unforgiving rock that looms somewhere above. A foot taps against your own, urging you left. You comply. A hand lightly presses on your shoulder, and you duck, stoop, eventually yield to crawling on your hands and knees as the passage presumably narrows. Your companion takes the lead, scuffing and scuttling ahead in the darkness, always maintaining her steady guidance—a poke here, a nudge there, a slight tug or push to lead you through the sightless maze without more than the odd bump against the cave walls. Something taps your knee. A boot. It takes a moment to intuit the message, but you eventually rise back to your feet, silently thankful for Mira’s offered support. A whisper of wind brushes your cheek, a cold you’d nearly forgotten in the spartan comfort of your torch-warmed hollow. You’re back in the larger tunnels. Back where the drider can reach you. Where the slightest sound or scrap of light could give you away in an instant. An icy chill crawls down your spine and spills from between clenched lips as a shuddering breath. Liquid terror seeps into your veins, powerful and primal. You’re being pursued, stalked, hunted by a predator far more accustomed to these lightless, earthen halls. Every instinct screams to bolt, flee, pray that a panicked flight finds some mercy in this labyrinth of stone and web. Warm fingers squeeze twice against your hand. Mira pulls and you follow, out into the expanse of restless shadows, moored only by her warmth and the furtive plod of her boots on cool stone. She stops every few seconds to nudge or pull, a constant endeavor to keep you from tripping and falling flat on your face. In the absence of sight, you’re left to experience the world in sensory fragments: a jagged bit of rock underfoot; a slight downward slope; a gust of disconcertingly warm air; a sharp, metallic scent. Pieces of a whole, disjointed and surreal, forming an incoherent picture that conveys your subterranean journey—if only you had the mind to interpret it. Your guide slows in a stretch of void like any other, her directions becoming more fretful and diligent. She pulls, hesitates, pushes you back. At one point, she simply hoists you by the waist, hefts you over a few feet, then sets you back down. //“It’s the webs,”// Mira explains in hushed tones. //“If we step on them, the drider can feel it.”// Shit, that makes too much sense. And to think you actually tried escaping the monster on your own, scrambling about like a wild animal already caught in the hunter’s snare. Mira shuffles in place, then adds, //“I think we’re past the—”// The demi freezes. Muscles tense. Fingers squeeze tight. You dutifully follow suit, petrified by the frigid cocktail of fear and adrenaline settling in your stomach like a block of ice. When Mira pulls, you allow yourself to be guided like a marionette. Your back hits a wall. Legs bend. You crouch, lower and lower, until you’re hardly more than a compact ball wedged in some dark and hopefully hidden corner of the drider’s lair. Mira worms up and under an arm, presses a shoulder against your side. <<linkreplace "And then you wait">><<include "Wait1">><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

<> /*remove the following in post-season*/ <<if $VanilleEvent6 != true>> <<set $VanilleEvent6 to false>> <</if>> <<if $FuckedAshlyn != true>> <<set $FuckedAshlyn to false>> <</if>> <<if $FuckedSherine != true>> <<set $FuckedSherine to false>> <</if>> /*end remove*/ <<set $Lurram to 0>> <<set $MiraTum to 1>> <<set $deathLizards to 0>> <<set $deathTess to 0>> <<set $deathCrocs to 0>> <<set $killedLloriel to 0>> <<set $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter to false>> <<set $Lurram_Lizards to false>> <<set $Lurram_Frogs to false>> <<set $Lurram_Sidequest to false>> <<set $Lurram_Dryads to false>> <<set $Lurram_Going to false>> <<set $LizGuards to 0>> <<set $LizGuards1 to false>> <<set $LizGuards2 to false>> <<set $LizGuards3 to false>> <<set $LizGuards4 to false>> <<set $LizGuards5 to false>> <<set $LizDialog to 0>> <<set $Crest_BullyPlan to false>> <<set $Crest_SmugglePlan to false>> <<set $Collateral to false>> <<set $Crest1 to false>> <<set $Crest2 to false>> <<set $Crest3 to false>> <<set $Crest4 to 0>> <<set $Collat to false>> <<set $Collat1 to false>> <<set $Collat2 to false>> <<set $Sazelle to 0>> <<set $Sazelle1 to false>> <<set $Sazelle2 to false>> <<set $Sazelle3 to false>> <<set $Sachem to 0>> <<set $Sachem1 to false>> <<set $Sachem2 to false>> <<set $Sachem3 to false>> <<set $Sachem4 to false>> <<set $Sachem5 to false>> <<set $Swamp1 to false>> <<set $Swamp2 to false>> <<set $Swamp3 to 0>> <<set $Swamp4 to false>> <<set $Swamp5 to false>> <<set $Swamp6 to false>> <<set $FootWorld to false>> <<set $SherineEvent4 to 0>> <<set $AshlynEvent10 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent11 to false>> <<set $AshlynEvent12 to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent7 to false>> <<set $VanilleEvent8 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent8 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent9 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent10 to false>> <<set $MiraEvent11 to false>> <><<timed 1s t8n>>[IMG[https://aryion.com/g4/derivative/1023727-38160-zmi4cd-preview.jpg]] <<linkreplace "Recap">>__Recap:__ Stranded in another world after a textbook demonstration of distracting technology interacting in the //worst// possible way with heavy machinery, you must now work with your newfound friends to find the remaining Echoes of Exile: a set of ancient and powerful gemstones that supposedly contain the power to banish a nebulous, lurking evil and—far more importantly—send you home. After recovering from your grave injury sustained during the siege of Orrault, you and your companions delved into the abandoned Palamola Quarry in search of the next Echo. You braved a horde of demons and even survived a ravenous hellhound, but ultimately left empty handed. The Echo was long gone, presumably taken by the researchers who’d unearthed it decades ago. In desperate need of rest—and a new lead—you traveled to the nearby town of Khobb, only to find a village-wide celebration for the wedding of a local couple. The host, an enigmatic and terrifyingly powerful fairy named Plume, had cast an anti-digestion spell over the town… though this seemed only to encourage rampant, casual devourment. Plume agreed to let you and your companions attend in exchange for a bit of menial labor. You spent an enjoyable day with your friends, then a <<if $SherineEvent3 == true>>licentious—and subsequently voracious—<<else>>voracious <</if>>evening with Sherine after she ‘won’ you in a horrendously unfair Havendorian party game. You encountered a surprise guest in the depths of your companion’s stomach: an elf named Lloriel, who had apparently been devoured earlier in the day. Your horrendously awkward introduction was only made worse when, the following morning, Plume gave your group a potential lead on another Echo, then assigned Lloriel—apparently the fairy’s former traveling companion—as your guide. Fortunately, Lloriel knew a shortcut. Unfortunately, said shortcut led you on a harrowing hike through a mountain range standing between you and Havendor’s west coast. Even worse, you inadvertently trespassed into the territory of a hostile clan of harpies. In the ensuing chaos, you narrowly saved Mira from a falling boulder, only to find yourselves trapped in a tangling web of tunnels beneath the mountain range. Mira, who could still hardly stand to be in your presence after the siege of Orrault, abandoned you in the dark, forcing you to wander the tunnels alone in search of both the demi and a way out. Instead, you found a drider who bit you and nearly trapped you in her lair, only for Mira to return, save you from certain doom, then watch over you as the monster girl’s venom ran its course. In the aftermath, in a small cubby deep beneath Havendor’s surface, Mira finally opened up about her fears since the siege of Orrault, about her difficult and lonely life in Icilia, about her desire to form fulfilling and lasting friendships, and about her romantic feelings for you. She took great pains to explain that, even if you didn’t feel the same way, she still wanted to be your friend. But she knew it was the wrong time and the wrong place for your answer. Together, you escaped the drider’s lair, found your way to the surface, and met up with your relieved companions where you finally decided to explain your otherworldly origins to your //entire// party—a task you’d neglected since Icilia. Finally, you all settled in for a well-earned evening of rest, ready to search for the next Echo the following morning. <</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Relationships">>__Relationships:__ __Mira:__ It’s an unimaginable relief to be able to talk to Mira again. It’s been a long, lonely night without your first friend in Havendor at your side, and it’s good to have her back. It’ll take time to rebuild your relationship, to come to terms with each of your failings and find a way forward.<<if $MiraDating == false>> But the demi has also professed her romantic feelings for you in no uncertain terms. And <<else>> But <</if>>now you’re left with a question: <<if $MiraDating == true>>do you want to try again? See if you can rekindle your relationship with the demi, and hopefully build toward something better together?<<elseif $VanilleEvent6 == true>>how do you respond to the demi’s feelings, especially considering your own fledgling relationship with Vanille?<<else>>how do you feel about her? Do you care about the demi the same way she cares about you?<</if>> __Vanille:__ Vanille seems to be doing much better since the siege. Her relief upon meeting up outside the caves was a much-welcome change of pace from the frantic terror she’d shown after Orrault. Between your conversation in Palamola quarry, and the relaxing day spent in Khobb, she seems to be on the road to recovery, and it’s good to see her supporting Mira through her own struggles too.<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>> You’re nervous and excited to see where your budding relationship might lead, though it’s a shame you haven’t had a chance to spend much time alone recently.<</if>> __Ashlyn:__ You and Ashlyn <<if $RVAshlyn >= 11>>get along pretty damn well<<elseif $RVAshlyn >= 4>>get along well<<else>>get along decently enough<</if>>. She’s been the same volatile concoction of cryptic motivation and fickle unpredictability since you first met her, and that doesn’t seem likely to change any time soon. It’s fun at times<<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>, since the mage seems eager to involve you in her wild sex-capades, <<else>>—if for no other reason than you get to get so sit back and watch the fireworks—<</if>>but her reckless disregard for her own wellbeing is a bit concerning. Counting Plume and the succubus, she’s two-for-two on pitting her will against a more powerful being, losing, and only escaping consequences through luck or circumstance. Then again, it’s not like you’d be able to reign her in even if you tried. __Sherine:__ You haven’t had much of a chance to reconcile being eaten by Sherine yet. The lamia hasn’t made a big deal of it. Then again, she hasn’t had the opportunity to get you alone. She’s proven herself to be a remarkably steadfast and competent traveling companion, but your relationship remains somewhat uncertain. <<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>You certainly enjoy her company<<elseif $SherineEvent3 == true || $Quarry2 == "Sherine">>You wouldn’t say you //don’t// enjoy her company<<else>>You’re glad to have her along<</if>>, but a part of you can’t help but wonder if it’s just luck that your interested have aligned with Sherine’s thus far? And if so, what can you expect when they don’t… __Lloriel:__ It’s hard to know where you stand with Lloriel. Putting aside your unorthodox first meeting, you haven’t had much of a chance to actually talk with the elf, and she was understandably skeptical when you explained your arrival-by-truck to Havendor. But what little you’ve seen paints a promising picture. She’s an experienced adventurer, competent and worldly. Hopefully her more reserved nature will relax with time and you’ll be able to get to know her better. <</linkreplace>> [[Start|Bzzz]]<</timed>>

Welcome back to //Another Inner World!// If you’re here, you’ve successfully loaded a save from the end of Episode 18 and are ready to play Season 2 Episode 5. We hope you enjoy the new content, and as always, thank you for being a supporter!@@ [[Onward to Episode 5!|Episode 19]]

//Bzzzz.// Something small and fast flits in your periphery, all blurred wings and indecipherable form. An absent swipe of your hand dissuades the insectoid menace, only for another two to take its place. You grimace and aim a more concentrated sweep. It hits, but the damn things come right back. Gnats? Mosquitos? Or perhaps something uniquely… anthropomorphic? It’d certainly go a ways in explaining why the little fuckers seem so eager to get a taste. You sigh. The day’s travel has been a steady decline… in all senses of the word. After charting a course for the massive stone structure in the middle of the swamp—the most obvious place to start looking for an Echo if there ever were one—you settled into a mildly perilous hike down the Brimond mountains, then followed that up with a relaxing stroll through grassy highlands, and finally a trek under the shade of thick forest canopies. But as your altitude dropped and the last of morning’s fog vanished, your march became markedly less pleasant: a stifling, stagnant broil usurped the alpine breeze as the terrain got a whole, //whole// lot wetter. Trees glisten, trunks bloated and swelling like the waterlogged hulls of wrecked ships. Mud //squarches// beneath every footfall, water immediately pooling into each fresh bootprint. Even the air itself is thick and syrupy, to the point where you feel like you’re swimming as much as walking. Each breath goes down heavy and choking. A slimy cocktail of sweat and humidity coats your forehead, pools on the nape of your neck, trickles down your back in prickling rivulets. An audible squelch wrenches you back into the present, then firmly roots you in place as sodden ground refuses to disgorge your boot. With a determined frown, you yank the offending leg free, only to receive a splattering of mud up to your knees. You probably should’ve seen this coming. ‘Clean’ and ‘easy-to-traverse’ aren’t exactly leading lines on the Swamp Tours brochure. But you definitely hadn’t expected it to be //this// bad either. Weeping, fingery branches hang low, form a claustrophobic ceiling. Vines dangle from above, cool and disconcertingly slick, grasping like the appendages of something vast and determinedly peevish. A thick, omnipresent scent lingers, a few shades shy of outright rot or decay, but rather an excess of life: the intersection of brackish low tide, stagnant puddle, and forgotten mildewy cupboard. //Bzzzz.// “So hey,” you start, hoping conversation will distract you from the ambient hum of low-level misery. “I don’t suppose this place has a name, does it?” “Place?” Lloriel asks from the front of the group. She and Vanille have been leading the way together ever since a rising treeline took the distant stonework from your sight. “Uhh, yeah. The swamp?” you clarify. The elf hesitates. “… I don’t think it does.” She looks to Vanille, who offers a quick shake of the head, then turns back to you. “Did you think it would?” “I guess, kinda,” you say with an uncertain shrug. “Y’know, like the ‘Brimond Mountains,’ that sorta thing.” “That’s a whole-ass mountain range. People care about those, dude,” Ashlyn chimes from behind—and with perhaps a bit too much glee at the prospect of taxonomic pedantry. “Do the simpletons from your world just go around naming every single geographic feature or discrete biome? ‘Oh hey, we’ve got some temperate woodland over here no one’s given a proper title yet. We haven’t run out of names from the other fifteen-thousand forests, right?’” <<linkreplace "Actually…">>“Uh, actually… we’re obsessed with naming things, sometimes to the point of absurdity. Like, we name everything we can: animals, stars, tools, professional titles, every inch of human anatomy. We mistranslate stuff and leave it for ages, ‘cause everyone’s just gotten used to it. Then someone else makes a new name //based on// the mistranslation, and we just decide it’s a new word.” You pause to duck below an especially insistent creeper, then crouch down to a full crab-walk when the tip of your spear catches on the damn thing anyway. With a weary groan, you adjust the strap on your shoulder in hopes the haft will point a bit less vertical, then add, “Did you run into any hazards on your way through the swamp last time, Lloriel? Anything we should know about, keep a lookout for?” “I went //around,// not through,” the elf sasses. She pauses to brush aside a dense clump of greenery, then dodges a glob of piss-yellow slime that spills from an upturned bud. “The //best// way to navigate a swamp, I feel.” “I second that,” Sherine mutters as she sloughs through the mud one heaving lurch of her tail at a time. You carry on in silence, taking special care to follow Lloriel’s lead in not being gooped—and dutifully failing anyway. You scrape the heap of whatever-the-fuck from your forearm, then scrape a bit more in hopes of clearing the smeared mud that takes its place. You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it. “Hey, <<= $name>>.” You glance right to find Mira polishing off the final helping of tepid leftover stew, unperturbed by the world of muck and grime beneath her feet. She licks the spoon clean, then her lips for good measure, and finally turns back to you. “Were you an amazing cook back in your home—err, home… world?” The demi tilts her head and frowns, then dismisses it with a shrug before melting back into a cheery grin. Damn, it’s good to see that again. You return a smile of your own. “I can prepare the basics, but I’m not a trained chef, or anything. The stew was just random stuff we had on hand, it’s…” Your brow furrows as you consider your past experiences with Havendorian cuisine—the non-living kind. “Honestly, you guys have some really damn good food. Everything here tastes amazing. I feel like I’m cheating by getting to cook with it. And there’s always so much, and it’s really affordable.” “Wait, really?” Vanille chimes. “I- I figured there were more abundant farms where you’re from, especially with a population in the billions—” “Billions!?” Ashlyn blurts out, somewhere between a hiss and cough. “Are you fucking serious?” You absently rub at the back of your neck—oh cool, now you’ve got mud there too. “Uhh, yeah. Pretty much the whole planet’s populated, and a whole lot of work goes into trying to feed everyone…” You should probably get used to these sorts of conversations now that the entire party is up-to-date on your otherworldly origins, though you wish you had an encyclopedia to help with the trickier concepts like industrialization and artificial fertilizers. Where’s the internet when you need it? “I don’t understand,” Vanille says after you’ve tried your best. “Between the machines you’ve mentioned and your people’s ability to grow more crops on the same land, wouldn’t you be able to focus more on other concerns? How can food in Havendor be more flavorful, abundant, and affordable?” “The flavor thing I can only guess, but…” You trail off, quell a pang of latent guilt, then let out a slow breath as you prepare to explain how people still starve to death in a post-agrarian world. [[Oh boy…|Reptile Rumble]]<</linkreplace>>

“Hold up.” “Wait.” <<timed 1s t8n>>The two utterances emerge in the same heartbeat, the first from Lloriel, the second from Vanille. Both figures glance toward each other, exchange a nod of acknowledgement, then crouch low and turn their gazes ahead. “What is it?” you murmur as the rest of your companions lurch, rattle, and squelch to a stop. A long moment of silence precedes a hissed response from the knight. “Not sure. There’s something up ahead.” “Shouting,” Mira supplies, then tilts her head. A fuzzy ear flicks. “Two—no, three voices. Maybe more.” You frown. “People? In the swamp?” “Maybe,” Sherine whispers. All it takes is once glance at her copper tail to fill your mind with questions about //who// you might find ahead. But the hesitant stances of your more traveled companions reminds you that not all faces you encounter in the wild will be friendly. “Vanille and I will approach first,” Lloriel says before you have too long to ruminate. “Stay quiet, and be alert. Better to know what we’re dealing with than potentially leave a threat at our backs.” A couldn’t-have-said-it-better-myself smile graces Vanille’s lips as she offers a stoic nod. Her blade slips from its sheath with hardly a whisper. Weapons drawn, backs hunched, the six of you creep forward. At Lloriel and Vanille’s behest, the rest of you maintain a healthy distance. Sherine struggles the most to keep the silent pace in the ankle-deep muck, barely managing ‘marginally quieter than a truckload of spilled gelatin.’ Mira, meanwhile, looks more like she belongs in the vanguard, the demi’s dexterity allowing her to practically dance atop the mud. The filthy crawl carries on for a full minute before you finally hear the first traces of what alerted your keener companions—distant hollers, echoing and muffled—then another minute before you can actually make out distinct words. “… Clearly knew what you were doing!” one voice shouts, transparently irate. //Bzzz!// The obnoxiously determined mosquito obscures the response, though you intuit it’s spoken in less harsh tones. “‘Misunderstanding?’ That’s what you’re going with?” the first shouts again, tinged with incredulity. “… Leave if you…” is all you can make out from the other party. A third voice pipes up, so soft you nearly miss it even as you inch closer. Only a few unintelligible words emerge before a bellowing, “Shut it, Stub!” from the first speaker cows the newcomer. “Take it easy, Zalla,” the second voice chides. “We’ll drop the scraps we scavenged and leave, stay out of your tails.” //“‘Out of our tails?’”// the first voice scoffs. “We catch you slimy bastards hopping around our lands every other week, Rum’a. You’re practically begging to be //on// my tail—even if your scrawny hide would barely make a dent.” “Right, I’m not worth the trouble,” the second responds, nonplussed. Ahead, Vanille and Lloriel press themselves tight against a pair of trees, then gesture for the rest of the group to carefully approach. A gap between a rotted log and a dangling cluster of vines provides a thin slice of vision into a small basin where some of the omnipresent groundwater has finally gotten its act together and formed a proper pond—a shallow one, if the two figures standing at ankle-depth are any indication. “Maybe I’ll drag you back to our champion instead, see if she wants a snack,” the one to your left says—the first speaker, obviously. Her slit pupils glimmer within narrowed, yellow eyes. A grimace exposes sharp fangs. Small fin-like protrusions poke through a head of unkempt black hair rough-cut to neck-length with what you can only assume was a very crude weapon wielded very irresponsibly. She brandishes the culprit—a wooden spear—in clawed hands. Scales of splotched green and grey span from fingertips to wrist where the tesselation blends into skin the color of wet sand. Similar patches adorn her clawed feet, shoulders, neck, and the massive tail that protrudes from her lower back and gradually, ever so gradually, tapers to a dark-green point flicking in visible agitation. The lizard girl wears what might generously be described as armor… or less generously described as armor’s two-piece swimsuit. A leather jerkin barely clears her breasts, leaving a vast expanse of midriff and a daunting display of abs entirely exposed. Below, her breeches struggle to qualify as anything more than overambitious briefs, which leaves a whole, //whole// lot of lethally toned thigh on display. “Do we really need to go through this, Zalla?” Another familiar voice shatters your definitely-not-ogle. “You caught us, we said we’ll leave.” It’s the second speaker, and it only takes one glance to identify //exactly// what she is. You’ve had a close encounter with—or rather //in//—her kind, after all. The wiry frog girl shifts her webbed grip on a short, blunt weapon. She bears the same sallow skin as the one you narrowly escaped in Orrault’s sewers, perhaps a shade or two more green. This reptilian, however, strikes a comparably meek figure, perhaps due her baggy—though not especially concealing—clothes, or perhaps due to her hunched posture, legs bent and shoulders tucked tight. Large, wary eyes peer from beneath neck-length ashen hair, sizing up her saurian opponent. She glances back, stands an inch straighter, then gestures with her free hand around the pond and says, “No one actually wants a fight here, right?” The lizard grins, wild and toothy. “And what if we do?” A round of jeers and growled anticipation rumbles through the basin. Seven more lizard girls bristle at water’s edge, weapons drawn and gazes hungry. Half again as many frogs crouch on the opposite side, similarly braced, though less overtly eager to meet the escalating aggression. “Maybe we’re bored,” the lizard continues. “Maybe we’re tired of playing catch and release. Maybe if we keep a few of you for good, you’ll finally learn your lesson.” The frog’s grimace deepens, but before she can speak up, one of her companions interjects. “C’mon, Rum’a. Let her try. See if she can actually put her claws where her mouth is.” “Sachem Rabbeth’oa says we’re—” “Rabbeth’oa //always// says stay safe, just stick to patrolling,” the dissident amphibian whines. “What if //we// wanna fight, too?” “I like that one, Rum’a,” the lizard remarks before her expression abruptly brightens. “After I eat you, can she be in charge?” Rum’a lets out a frustrated grunt that sounds suspiciously like a ribbit. [[Shame you didn’t bring popcorn|Ribbit]]<</timed>>

You’re so engrossed in the drama and bickering that you fail to realize you’re leaning just a //bit// too hard on your flimsy cover until suddenly a chunk of wood gives way. You wince, then start to breathe out a sigh of relief when the resulting wet //crack// is hardly louder than the ambient hum, then go right back to wincing again as the dislodged piece tumbles down the gentle decline… And bumps into the ankle of one of the watching lizard girls. Yellow-green eyes dart toward you, then go wide with alarm. You both freeze. “Z- Zalla,” the anxious monster girl squeaks, small and meek. The lead lizard whirls about, lips twisted into a snarl, tail lashing. “I told you to shut up, Stu—” She stops dead in her tracks, the rage in her eyes sputtering. A flicker of disbelief crosses her scaled features for barely an instant. And then the anger returns, burning all the brighter. She turns back to the lead frog and levels an accusatory finger. “You brought //humans// into this? Cowardly tadpoles!” “Wha— No! We—” the frog sputters, gaze flicking wildly between your companions and her own. She takes a nervous step back, then finally gathers herself. “How do we know //you// didn’t hire them?” //“Hire?!// We don’t need help from pathetic soft-skins. But you do! You need the numbers!” the lizard belts, all bravado and brimstone. An awkward silence follows as every other living soul in the vicinity does a headcount. “Th- They already have the numbers, Zalla,” the small, anxious lizard says. Her gaze flits back to your group. “I- I really don’t think they’re involved—” “One more word and you’re dessert, Stub!” Zalla spits. “O- Obviously I know they have the numbers. They need //more// just to match our strength. It’s pitiful. It’s weakness. That’s why their kind //loves// cozying up to all those outsiders from the south.” “We don’t need more numbers!” the frog lead cries, indignant. “If anything, //you’re// the ones who need help. Your //‘champion’// always has you flying your war flags behind those shabby village walls, but you hatchlings never actually—” Rum’a falters. You can see it in her eyes; she knows she’s made a mistake, pushed just a //bit// too far. Hands raise in attempted amelioration. Lips part. Lizard hits frog. The two topple into the water with a cacophonous splash where they vanish in a whirl of tangled limbs and spraying muck. You don’t have time to gauge who’s winning. You’ve got other concerns. [[Brace for combat|Ribbit 2]]

You’re still scrambling upright when three of the lizards rush the incline, clawed feet providing swiftness and dexterity in the mud your squelching boots can’t hope to match. Gleaming steel deflects sullied wood. Vanille stomps the crude weapon into oblivion. A driving swing cuts past the first lizard’s defenses and sends her stumbling back down the hill. Another lizard leaps for Lloriel, thwacking her bow aside with a gnarled club. The elf lets the weapon careen away, then reaches behind her back as her attacker closes in. You can’t see what comes next because the last of the monster girls lunges for you, fangs bare and shortspear keen. A crouched form springs from your side and slams into the lizard. Mira headbutts your attack away, then offers a shoulder so you can prop yourself upright. “Why are we fighting?” the demi asks, brow furrowed in concern as eyes dart across the unfolding skirmish. “Who cares?” Ashlyn calls out from behind, a manic grin slashed across scarlet lips. A prismatic swirl of nascent magic eddies in her palms, growing with each passing second. “I’ve been wanting to try this out since that fairy fu—” Something wet and pink hits the mage right on the mouth with an audible //smack.// The split-second of gratuitous monologuing is all it takes for Ashlyn to be yoinked off her feet and reeled toward the pond, coat flapping like a windsock. Mira’s on it in a flash. The demi tackles Ashlyn mid-air, a swipe of her dagger prying the tongue free. The pink blur darts between the trees where it abruptly vanishes behind the wincing lips of frog girl. No sooner is her tongue retracted than Ashlyn returns fire. An oily tentacle streaks out from under the mage’s skirt, flies after the startled frog girl… only for a lizard, utterly blinded by ferocity, to take the full force of the appendage as she leaps at the amphibian. The greasy limb wraps around the surprised saurian’s waist, then drags her through the mud in a blur of splattering muck and flailing limbs. The tentacle recedes, spooling back into its owner. The monster girl’s winched inside, and in a blink, is simply gone, banished without a trace into whatever hell the mage keeps in her pants. Boggled, you sprint toward Ashlyn’s side to offer a helping hand, but motion from the water catches your eye—Zalla and Rum’a still locked in their scuffle. The frog manages to slip the lizard’s grip, leaping free of a set of grasping claws, then narrowly ducking beneath a sweep of green tail. A set of bolas slip from Rum’a’s waist, then fly across the pond and wrap themselves tight around the lizard’s ankles, sending her back into the murky water with an infuriated roar and an embarrassing splash. Rather than press the advantage, the frog backpedals, waves an arm behind her back, and shouts something that’s lost in Zalla’s furious uproar. The few frogs actively engaging the lizards follow her lead, detaching from their opponents and making a hasty retreat into the trees and undergrowth. Fueled by battle-lust, a dark grey lizard scrambles after the retreating foe. She ducks a spear, then tosses a net. In her haste, it tangles and flops to the ground uselessly. She’s stomping on it as a tongue //splasts// the lizard square in the chest and yanks her over. Both hands grab the sticky muscle, but fail to break free before she’s reeled right up into the frog girl’s mouth. Half a gulp, and the reptile’s running to catch up with her comrades, a pair of legs still flailing between her lips. None of the remaining lizards care. The instant the frogs are gone, each and every one of them—even Zalla, who finally managed to gnaw the bolas free—turns every ounce of reptilian ire toward you and your group of soft-skinned interlopers. [[Fucking seriously?|Swamp Scuffle]]

You narrowly bring your spear to bear as the first club comes arcing down in a blinding blur. Instinct deflects a blow that leaves your hands numb, but the lizard overcommits and stumbles, exposing her flank. You counterattack with a quick sweep, only for a leather buckler to catch your speartip and send it wide. The second lizard surges forward as the first recovers. She doesn’t even bother with the shield when you thrust again, sidestepping the frantic blow and battering away your flimsy followup with the haft of her shortspear. A single, fluid motion carries her sideways and in, closing the distance instantly. You lurch back, spear raised to deflect a strike that never comes. A glint of prismatic light coalesces on the lizard’s shoulder. She falters mid-swing, then tries to wipe the scintillating spectacle free with the tip of her spear. It doesn’t budge. If anything, it seems to be growing. A maniacal cackle gives away the culprit. The monster girl fixes her furious gaze on Ashlyn mid-channel, palms glowing and eyes alight. Your opponent roars, and you seize the opportunity to lunge forward, attack her vulnerable flank. There’s two of you now, and she’s only got the one spear. The lizard whips around and slams her tail into your side with the force of a goddamn freight train. You soar through the air in a disorienting, weightless blur, the swamp reduced to a canvas of abstract shapes, muted greys and greens and browns. The <<= $name>> Space Program abruptly terminates with a skid and a splash into soggy ground. Mud splatters your tunic, your face, your everything. A moment of dazed confusion passes before a figure looms overhead—a new arrival, eager to snatch up vulnerable prey. You pull together enough strength to roll onto your back, only to find yourself staring up at a sea of copper scales and ochre skin. Sherine’s blurred visage peers at you, a green tail tip waving frantically between her lips. The lamia winks, and it vanishes with a slurp to join the rolling cascade of lumps passing through her torso and down into her tail. You can hear muffled shouting as the squirming lizard girl passes by. Windpipe cleared, Sherine lets out a satisfied sigh, then finally says, “Doing alright there, <<= $name>>?” “<<if $FuckedSherine == true>>Bit better now,” you offer, sounding more pained than wry<<else>>Been better,” you groan<</if>>. She smiles, hoists you to your feet, then offers a supporting length of tail when your legs don’t seem up to the task. You begin to ease against pliant scales when a loud clang abruptly wrenches you back into the present— The battle! You jolt forward, eyes frantically scanning the sodden ground for a trace of the spear you dropped. A loop of copper gently drags you back to Sherine’s side. “Easy there,” she chides. “Give yourself a minute. You’re enough of a mess without a second tumble.” “B- But our friends,” you start, trying—and failing—to wriggle free of the lamia’s grasp. Sherine merely chuckles as she glances over your shoulder. “They’ll be fine. Have some faith, <<= $name>>.” [[Catch your breath|Vore Avengers]]

You offer a quick thanks, then fall back to the rest of your companions and settle in for the march. Tess sets a brisk clip, but to your pleasant surprise, the travel actually seems a bit smoother. The lizard girl has a keen eye for avoiding minor impediments, following small swaths of semi-solid ground where she can find them, or sticking to places dry and uncrowded when she can’t. It’s still a swamp, of course—you’ve traded ‘hell’ for ‘hell with a complimentary hand fan’—but you’ll take the improvement where you can get it. Despite the increased pace, the journey stretches on for what feels like hours. You peek through the trees where you can to try and gauge the passage of time, but you haven’t seen the sun since late morning. From the general quality of the light—and the thorough weariness settling into your legs—you assume it’s currently late afternoon. Rather than dwell on the uncertain and mundane, you distract yourself with idle conversation with friends, or a quick snack from your pack<<if $VanilleEvent6 == false>>, or trying very hard to not steal glances at Sherine’s stomach to see how her meal is faring. When those all run dry—or fall still—<<else>>. When both of those run dry, <</if>>you listen to Mira as she continues chatting with Tess, trying to guess the lizard’s words from your companion’s responses. And when eavesdropping starts feeling rude, you absently fiddle with Destiny’s Embrace through your tunic, tracing the contours and grooves softened by the thin layer of fabric. You //know// that it’s only been three weeks since you found your last Echo of Exile in the ruins of Niverdene deep beneath Orrault. You //understand,// conceptually, intellectually. But emotionally? It //feels// like a lifetime ago. Like a different age. A different world. All the hardship, the strife, the anguish. And to go through all of that and still have only one of the seven slots on the amulet’s surface filled? It’s hard not to feel demoralized. With any luck, you’ll be leaving the swamp with a second. And //someone// found the Echo in Palamola Quarry, so at least it exists. Somehow, uncovering the who, what, and where of that mystery seems an even greater challenge than plumbing the depths of the earth, braving hazards environmental and organic. But a person can be reasoned with, whereas a deadly trap generally can’t. //Unless it’s a mimic…// The trees begin to thin ahead, faint traces of light blooming in the gaps between branches and vines: a clearing. The first proper clearing you’ve seen in the better part of a day spent trekking through endless, gloomy overgrowth. Fields of greenish-brown grasses spread before you like an old, pockmarked blanket, unkempt and wild and patchy in spots where reeds or other plantlife manage to poke through. Free from their arboreal neighbors and their light-hogging canopies, the grasses rise to your waist, with some particularly ambitious rushes reaching as high as your shoulders. A blue-ish sky smears above, hazy and choked behind the usual canvas of grey. But all the flora in the world pales against the singular feature that dominates your view. You made peace with the idea that the temple must be huge for you to spot it from nearly a day’s travel away, but scale and perspective are funny things. Seeing the august edifice so abruptly revealed triggers something primal and alarmed in the recesses of your brain, like you’ve rounded a blind corner in a cave and found a towering bear ready to strike. The temple, of course, is significantly less mobile. //Unless it’s a giant mimic…// [[Shut up, brain|Swamp Temple]]

Three towers thrust into the sky like great, ridged fingers bedecked with innumerable ornaments. Carved overhangs segment tapering layers of stone, each of which terminate in a finial-topped spear. The middle stands tallest, its tip blurred and greying behind curls of fog. Beneath the spires rests the main body of the temple: a complex consisting of a massive central hall and two adjoining wings like outstretched arms. The entire compound sits atop a pyramidal base that elevates it above the surrounding fields, so colossal in scale it seems more a natural plateau than a work of masonry. A staircase stretches from the ground to the large double-doored entrance of the main hall, repeatedly splitting and rejoining like woven thread. Winding greenery fills the middle of the splits—presumably once cultivated, now left to grow wild. The entire structure is hewn from immaculately carved brown-grey stone save for a dash of decorative metalwork, all sprinkled with a patina of moss and bits of vines draped like verdant tinsel. “Huh,” Ashlyn says, eloquently capturing the beauty of the sight like few others can. You side-eye the mage. “Thought it would be bigger?” She snorts. “No, I //thought// it’d be falling apart.” “What do you mean?” Ashlyn sighs, as if answering would be beneath her, yet she sounds the slightest bit eager when she explains anyway. “Think about it: Ancient Lurnasian architecture, fully exposed to the elements. And not just any elements either. Hot, humid—” She pauses to sniff, “—a bit salty, too; guess we’re not too far from the sea. All that stuff’s hell on stonework, nevermind the metal.” The mage pauses as the grass suddenly yields to the ruins of a stone causeway, cracked and splintered like some massive force slammed the thing against the ground, then left the pieces to lie in the general shape of a road for a millennia. “You’ve seen some old ruins before, yeah?” Ashlyn suddenly continues. “Like the stuff outside, erm, wherever-the-fuck backwater town where we met.” “Amberglen!” Mira cheers over her shoulder. “Sure. Look.” The mage gestures off to your right. //“That’s// a proper Lurnasian ruin.” Even with help, it takes you a few seconds to notice the broken column so thickly covered with vegetation that you’d initially assumed it was some sort of oblong bush or dead tree. Other remnants dotted throughout the surrounding marshlands arise: crumbled pillars, shattered foundations, even the skeletal frames of structures whose more impermanent walls have long been lost to the ravages of time. It’s hard not to wonder if this swamp was once home to a city that huddled in the temple’s shadow, like supplicants knelt before an impossibly large altar. “So… what’s your point?” you eventually ask. “Are you saying it’s not actually Lurnasian?” Ashlyn shrugs. “That’s one theory, but I’ve got another.” A long and expectant moment passes before Sherine graciously slithers onto the landmine in your stead. “You’re going to make us ask, aren’t you?” “Or you could use those big beautiful eyes of yours,” the mage teases. She nods to the temple, then says, “C’mon, take a closer look.” By now, you’ve walked, skipped, and stumbled a good fifty feet down the broken promenade, bringing the temple into clearer view and revealing bits of scaffolding, wooden supports, and other temporary structures tucked between the intricate masonry. You even spot what might be a small pile of unlaid stone bricks at the base of the leftmost tower. “Somebody’s been maintaining the place, making repairs,” Lloriel remarks, then points. “Maybe them?” A flicker of movement catches your eye—a crooked figure at the top of the stairs. A long robe conceals their form in flowing cloth and deep shadows. Before you can get a better look, they turn and hobble through a parted door, leaving you with the disconcerting impression of someone walking on stilts. “They’re, uhm…” Tess hesitates. “I guess you could call them custodians. O- Or keepers.” “And they’re friendly?” Vanille asks, a wary edge to her voice. “Y- Yes, very!” the lizard girl blurts, casting an alarmed glance back toward the knight—or more specifically, the sword at her waist. “They’re just a bit, err, shy. I- It’s okay; I’ll make introductions.” Vanille relaxes a hair, though her hand never strays far from the hilt of her blade. As you reach the base and begin ascending the stairs, it occurs to you that the temple must have absolutely massive foundations to not have sunk into the swamp over the centuries of neglect—either that or it //has,// and the pyramidal base used to be a whole lot larger… You catch more furtive movement as you climb: an odd flutter of cloth here, a huddled and darting form there, a murky silhouette peering from a shaded inlet or glassless window. Always distant and fleeting. After enough sightings to form a pattern, you surreptitiously inch closer to Vanille’s side, only to find the knight already at yours. “Stay close,” she murmurs. “Just in case.” [[“Of course.”|Tallbird]]

Around the point where looking back down the flight of stairs triggers a nauseating tug of vertigo, the incline levels out to a landing of chipped pavers arranged in an elaborate tessellation. Faded hues suggest rich colors that have since dulled from centuries of sunlight. A pair of shy doorways tuck into the walls to your left and right. They’re heavy and shut and, if the infestations of vines are any indication, severely disused. The entrance ahead, however, demands your attention: a colossal doorway, every inch of its stone face dedicated to a sprawling relief depicting a mass of figures gathered at the base of a mountain. The portal rests narrowly ajar, yet open enough to create a gap allowing comfortable ingress three abreast. A faint warmth drifts from beyond, alongside the distinct scent of something earthy and herbal. It’s almost… inviting in a way, which urges a query: Is the temple planning to eat you? Indifferent to your wariness of carnivorous architecture, Tess steps into the opening as Mira bops along in her wake. You tarry a breath longer, then reluctantly follow suit, finding solace in the knowledge that if the door promptly slams shut behind you before letting out a rumbling //‘Yum,’// you can be very smug to your friends as you’re all digested alive. Once your eyes adjust to the gloom, you find yourself in an expansive hall, only marginally wider than the door at your back, but //much// taller. Scattered rays of indirect daylight filter through alcoves in the arched ceiling high above. The faint glow is further bolstered by candles lining the numerous carved recesses at ground level—islands of warm and welcoming light interspersed by short swaths of murk. You follow Tess past a pair of flanking, shadowed corridors. Footsteps echo into the highest reaches of the chamber like sharp cracks of a whip. Even with Vanille close at your side, you catch yourself casting paranoid glances left and right, examining each nook and cranny for something terrible waiting to strike. A tingle prickles at the back of your neck. Hairs stand on edge as soft scraping sounds reach your ears, not quite rhythmic, but too frequent and deliberate to strike you as idle shifting. A lone figure looms at the far end of the hall, hunched low over an austere stone altar. They wear the same robes as the other elusive keepers, bear the same stooped posture. The creature’s robes sway like spectral dancers, though discrete actions of their enshrouded choreographer remain in the realm of speculation. Tess slows, then comes to a halt a respectful distance from the figure. She clears her throat once, twice, then finally manages a hesitant, dry-throated whisper. “P- Priestess?” The scraping stops. Something clacks against stone, and the figure begins to unravel. A grey blur of wings shuffle, pull back the hood of the hunched stranger. She turns, feathered features revealing themselves. Rail-thin legs unfold, extend. The harpy priestess rises… and rises. By the time she’s fully erect, the woman’s nearly twice your height. Faded red-yellow robes flutter and sway, the thick cloth bands draping down her body like the dress of an ascetic monk. Every inch has been carefully tended to, kept in perfect order. Not a stitch missing. Each flap billows across her lanky frame as she slowly extends her wings outward, almost like a yawn. A broad waterfall of dull, steely feathers rains from her outstretched arms. You look up, awestruck. All of the wretched fury you’d come to expect from harpies is absent from her features, an unearthly grace and beauty rippling with her every subtle, gentle movement. A fluffy collar ruffles. Delicate down feathers puffs across her body, the blended features of human and avian in perfect harmony. A sweep of bright blue plumage stands bold against her flowing, ash-dark hair. Huge, friendly eyes upon a soft face smile back down at you. “Greetings, Tess, strangers.” She nods to each of you in turn, then dips slightly toward Sherine. //“Lahuai te ra len.”// Sherine hesitates, then responds with a slight bow and a few polite syllables. The heron straightens her feathers. “I am High Priestess Ialise. What brings you to the swamps of Lurram?” “We’re uh,” you start, not even realizing you’re speaking. Too late now. “We’re adventurers, looking to explore this temple. I- I apologize. We didn’t expect it to be inhabited.” An amused smile creases her thin lips. “Be not ashamed of curiosity. Instead, be pleased to have found your way to Walst-on-High. We welcome visitors of all kinds.” She bends to your eye-level, the tassels of her robes waltzing upon the floor. “Do you seek something specific?” Hmm, how do you politely ask someone if they have a dungeon with obscure artifacts lying around? “We’re looking for an Echo of Exile.” She tilts her head. Even the inquisitive motion is gradual and flowing. “I am unfamiliar with such a name. But my knowledge only extends to the tips of my wings. You may yet find what you seek in these halls.” You knew it wasn’t gonna be that easy. “We believe it might be inside the temple itself.” You gesture toward the superstructure of the massive building and hope that the bounds and leaps in logic aren’t gonna mean weeks spent exploring a dead end. “But uh, we’re not here to plunder, or anything untoward like that. I- I promise we come in peace.” “I am delighted to be in the presence of amenable persons,” she explains with a small sigh of relief. Ialise spreads her wings to gesture about the hall, and once again you find yourself basking in her alien grandeur. “You see, this is neutral ground among Lurram’s three clans. None may quarrel upon these hallowed stones—at least not physically. Though, the clans can be a headache in other ways…” “And you’re an arbitrator for the three?” Vanille asks. “Very astute. We are not many, but myself and the other attendants here serve as custodians and arbiters for Lurram.” The heron nods, slow and kindly like a sage matriarch. “As to your request, I’m afraid to admit we have little in the way of plunder-able treasure. You have my blessing to search the temple for what you seek. However…” She turns slowly, a steel-grey wing sweeping toward the wall at her back—or not a wall. You realize what you’d initially assumed was merely the hall’s end is in fact a modest doorway, so tightly sealed it almost seems more like a mural carved into the stone. Two rectangular slabs frame an array of concentric circles, and at their middle lies a set of three triangular indentations. “We only enter the inner sanctum during Clansmeet. Each clan holds a third of the key, and all three must be in attendance to open the way.” <<linkreplace "“When might that happen?”">>“When might that happen?” you ask, expecting the worst. “I do not know. We are due for one, though. There was meant to be a gathering ten days ago, and a make-up date has been arranged, though none have sent confirmation they’ll be attending the ceremony yet.” “When’s the make-up scheduled?” “Day after tomorrow.” You eye her skeptically. “And what are the odds they actually show up this time?” “Almost certainly none.” “Oh…” Ialise ruffles her feathers. “I apologize; I do not wish to sound hopeless. But rest assured, you are free to make yourselves comfortable at Walst until the Clansmeet occurs—which you may observe as a guest of honor.” She casts a glance toward the ceiling. “In fact, I hope you plan to stay regardless. The hour grows late, and Lurrem can be quite dangerous after dark.” “We appreciate the offer,” you say, desperately hoping ‘making yourself comfortable’ isn’t innuendo for spending the night tucked into a harpy’s stomach. “Is there something we could do to… I don’t know, help? Try to get the clans to come together in time?” The priestess blinks slowly, crest twitching. “I suppose you could put that excited energy toward rallying the clans, though I am uncertain how well they will respond to outsiders…” You’re not especially optimistic either, but engaging in a bit of monster girl diplomacy sounds a whole lot better than waiting around in a giant definitely-not-haunted-or-hungry temple until the geopolitical equivalents of three bickering roommates decide to put aside their differences and come to the table. “It’s worth a shot,” you offer instead. A slow smile graces Ialise’s lips. “Yes, I suppose it is. I would certainly appreciate any help offered. Waiting for those three has become… tedious.” She turns her head. “Tess, would you mind accompanying these travelers tomorrow? Show them the way to each village?” “Wha—I- I…” Tess slumps, crestfallen. “Yes, High Priestess.” “Splendid.” Ialise straightens, ruffling her feathers in a way that causes the tassels of her cloak to drift like the tendrils of a jellyfish. “We have available accommodations in the south wing.” The priestess gestures to the rightmost hallway by the main entrance, then hesitates with a fretful frown. “For your own protection, I must ask that you keep //only// to the south wing, especially for the night. While we work tirelessly in dedication to our distant ancestors, my sisters and I are few, and I’m afraid only some of Walst has been restored to its former splendor… and safety.” “What do you mean by ‘safety?’” Vanille interjects with a guarded edge. Ialise immediately offers an assuaging wave of her wings. “Rest assured, no dangers are permitted to stalk these halls. Before my kind reclaimed Walst-on-High, these stones were left to fall into a tragic state of disrepair. Much of the temple is yet unstable, and I would hate for you to suffer injury while under my wing. “But onto more pleasant matters,” she continues, “an adequate supper will be provided in each of your rooms. I only ask in return that you respect the other attendants and guests while you are here.” [[Guests? Might be interesting to meet a few…|Beneath the Mire]]<</linkreplace>>

You and your group offer respectful bows to the leggy priestess, then shuffle from the hall, though you have to double back and yank Ashlyn from her preoccupied stupor. The mage grumbles, a harsh glare directed at the stone floor. She looks offended by it, as if it said something nice to her. As you drag her along, she taps her forehead, then drills her finger into her temple. Eyes flicker, one cosmic shade to another. “Sensing something?” you ask. “Gnarly shit down there,” she replies, still busy. She cocks her head and clicks her tongue. Fingers curl to cast another spell. “I think we found our Echo—” You catch her against your side as she lurches. “You okay?” “Bit woozy. Whatever’s down there is… being bitchy.” “Well, take it easy,” you say assuringly, supporting part of her weight as you guide her into the next corridor. “We’re not in a hurry or anything.” “Yeah yeah, I’m fine. Quit fussing over me.” She waves a dismissive hand blindly. “Don’t you have some cool diplomacy to do? A gullet to dialog your way into?” “Diplomacy’s already over, Ashlyn,” you sigh. “We’re allowed to stay here tonight. Tomorrow we’re going to try to convince… three clans… You don’t care, do you?” She shrugs. “If it’s not about sex, it’s not my purview.” “What about the part where we’re in an Ancient Lurnasian temple? You’re not even slightly curious?” “Feather-tits said we weren’t supposed to explore.” “So you //were// paying attention,” you say. “Also, are you really pretending that’s gonna stop you?” “Kinda?” She lets out a wistful sigh. “I dunno. I feel gross. I’m fuckin’ covered in filth—not the fun kind. Also, the shit under my feet isn’t being cooperative, and it’s pissing me off.” You’re inclined to disagree: there’s something simultaneously comforting about the massive monolithic temple stones, and alluringly enigmatic about them, too. An ancient reverence, a history and its custodians. The two of you fall silent as you step through a small doorway and into the shade of a covered gallery that rings an open-air courtyard. An early evening sun paints the enclosure in harsh lines, each carving and column and inset window accented by long shadows. The south wing lies on the opposite side, a more modest three stories tall—not accounting for the spire—when compared to the towering main hall, but still impressive in its own right. The courtyard itself has been converted into a communal farm, ancient stone tiles weaving between small plots of berries and peppers and what might be the shoots of some sort of tuber, alongside a half dozen other crops you can’t even begin to identify. Given the avian attendants, part of you wonders if the priestess and her sisters prefer to eat seeds rather than produce. You keep the thought to yourself as another long-legged harpy nods kindly in your direction, then plods past with a woven basket tucked under one wing. Ahead, Tess scurries away from your group at the first opportunity, but not before Mira bids her farewell. The lizard offers an awkward, hunched bow, then disappears into the doorless entryway at the foot of the south wing. Sherine and Lloriel depart as well, and Vanille follows, doubtless eager to check every inch of the lodgings for danger. She casts an extra glance over her shoulder to make sure you’re not being left alone, then nearly collides with Mira as she scampers from around a corner. The demi’s bounding over to you a second later. “Hi!” she cheers as she skids to a halt, her gaze alternating between you and Ashlyn, lips curled in a buoyant grin. <<linkreplace "“Hey, Mira. Make a new friend?”">>“Hey, Mira. Make a new friend?” “Ya!” “That’s my cue…” Ashlyn grunts. You grab her sleeve as she slips from your side. “Don’t be a dick. Give Mira the validation she deserves.” “Gonna hurl now…” “Bye, Ashlyn!” Mira cheers. The mage takes a step away, whirls, then leans forward to pat Mira on the head. //“… You’re lucky you’re cute,”// she mumbles, favoring you with one last stink eye just before slipping into the south wing. You shake your head, mildly bewildered, then turn back to the demi. “So what do you think of Tess? You spent a lot of time with her today.” Mira’s ears twitch excitedly. “She’s nervous, but cute! I asked her a lot of questions about living in the swamp, and her village, and all the monster girls she’s seen, and what sorts of food she likes, and what she does for fun. She’s kinda shy, but if you give her the chance, she actually knows a bunch.” The demi suddenly bounces on the balls of her feet. “Oh! She thought you were gonna eat her once we reached the temple.” “She… Wait, she did? Me specifically?” Mira nods. “Because you’re in charge, but she said it could have been Vanille, too.” You furrow your brow. “You told her we’re not gonna eat her, right?” “Ya! You and Vanille are super nice!” “… What about Ashlyn and Sherine?” You raise an eyebrow, then stop yourself from mentioning Lloriel. Though it begs the question: what sort of appetite does the little elf have… Mira shifts from one foot to the other and admits, “I said Tess should probably be careful around them. N- Not that they’re not nice too! They can just be a bit… hungry.” “Do //you// feel safe around them?” Mira thinks about it for a moment, then nods sagely. “Yes for Ashlyn; I think I could sneak up on her most of the time. Less for Sherine, but…” A pensive line cuts across her lips. “I think we’re okay. I dunno. They’re both really horny, but they don’t usually aim it at me, so I feel safe.” Damn. Not that she’s wrong, but… there’s a lot to unpack there. “Speaking of safety,” Mira begins, a slight frown darkening her face. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?” You look around and remember that everyone’s already gone. “Yeah, actually. Would you mind?” The demi beams and hooks an arm through your own, and then you’re off, walking a circuitous route to the south wing. A gust of wind draws your attention to the open windows on your left. You discover a scenic vista of Lurram, evening fog set ablaze by the sinking sun and casting the murky marshlands in a radiant glow. Mira guides you into the south wing, through a hall with a vaulted ceiling, and then into a more cozy corridor lined with wooden doors whose simple appearance clashes with Walst’s aged grandeur—additions from the temple’s custodians, given the original portals would’ve rotted to mulch long ago. Finally, you come to a stop before an opposite pair of doors at the far end of the hall. Mira releases her guiding hold, steps toward the one on the left, then pauses to look back at you. “You gonna be alright tonight?” you ask. “Ya. I’m really tired, and we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, so I’m gonna go to sleep early.” She stifles a yawn, then tilts her head. “Uh, unless you need something?” <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>You hesitate, a faint impulse urging you to stay, to find the words or an excuse to steal just a few more moments with her. Instead, you shake your head and say, “I’m good.” When she lingers at the doorway a moment longer, you smile. “Good job today, Mira.” She offers a shy smile back. “You too. See you in the morning.”<<else>>“I’m good,” you say, offering a warm smile. “Good job today, Mira.” “You too! See you in the morning!”<</if>> You watch her tail slip through the door before it //ka-thunks// closed. You hear a scraping of a latch before a muffled and pleasantly surprised, //‘Woooah!’// [[Check out your accommodations|What's the matter MCfly? Chicken?]]<</linkreplace>>

Your door opens with a moderate push, the sturdy wood swinging into a vast chamber. A wide, shallow bed of straw and blankets rests in one corner. It’s huge, spacious enough for three or four people comfortably. On the opposite wall is an impressive stone basin with fresh water settled under a window with a hollowed half-cylinder reed peeking through—a way to provide water. An opaque privacy screen of woven thrush stands in the center of the room, less a partition and more a decoration. Behind lies a small trunk-like crate, also of woven plants and just as sturdy. Three unlit candles adorn a jutting stone slab at about chest height: a desk. Oh, and a chair. Damn, this is far more exquisite accommodation than you expected in a swamp. You step inside and lock the door behind you, then drop your belongings on the ground. Dirty boots and a sweaty tunic come off in an effort to contain the mud to the entryway. You shuffle across the tightly locked stones and plop down onto the bed— //“Buh-gok!”// You nearly leap out the window at the sudden sound. Stone scrapes and quietly screeches as something shuffles—It’s coming from the corner of the room. The crate. Weapon in hand, you creep toward the dense wooden cage. You plant your heels, then briefly consider calling for help. If you’re loud enough, Vanille will probably be here in seconds. Then again… A tentative poke against the exterior of the container provokes a wave of scratching. You inch closer, trying your damnedest to peer over the edge of the cage and see inside without getting too close. White knuckle grip on your spear, you pry the head under the lid of the box, and brace yourself. <<linkreplace "Open it">>A chicken stares up at you from inside the box. It blinks. Not a chicken //girl,// nor a demi whose features are fowl. An actual bird. Wings with reddish-brown feathers, a telescoping neck, little talons at the bottom of stubby legs, and absolutely nothing behind beady black eyes. //“Bok?”// it says, as if to ask, //‘Why the fuck am I here?’// “Why the fuck is there a chicken here?” you ask. To the bird. It doesn’t respond. You stare at your roommate for a time, then watch as the chicken awkwardly climb-flutters its way out of the open cage. It pecks about the room, curious, nonplussed, and entirely docile. Well… it’s unexpected, but you suppose it’s fine. You peel off the rest of your mud-encrusted clothes and make your way toward the bath. Cool water nips as you ease yourself into the oversized tub. It’s a refreshing change of pace after a day spent drenched in muggy heat and a liberal coating of your own sweat. You ease back and gaze around the room in quiet languor. Your foot brushes against something odd: a cork block wedged near the bottom of the basin. A plug in a drain. The heron harpies are masters of hospitality, it seems. The conveniences spur you to wash your clothes as soon as you’re done soaking yourself, the task repeatedly interrupted by having to dissuade the chicken from tumbling into the water. <<if $MiraDating == false && $VanilleEvent6 == false && ($SherineEvent1 == true || $SherineEvent3 == true || ($FuckedAshlyn == false && ($Quarry2 == "Sherine" || ($RVSherine+6 >= $RVAshlyn))))>>[[Finish up and redress|Sherine Interrupts][$Swamp1 to "Sherine"]]<<else>>[[Finish up and redress|Walstpurgisnacht]]<</if>><</linkreplace>>

Satisfied with a job well done, you let out a sigh, pat down your fresh change of clothes, then turn to face the window and realize the sun still hasn’t set. And you’re not tired. Huh. You munch on some leftover bread and jerky, then offer your new friend a few crumbs from the bottom of your bag. The chicken is more than happy to chase the specks across the floor, and also dumb enough to peck empty stone for a few minutes once the actual food is gone. Having perfected your animal shepherding skills, you once again peer out the window. Sun’s still setting. The harpies are still on their routine in the glistening evening. Restlessly, you pick through your bag and count your supplies. Twice. Then sharpen your spear. And again. And still, the sun hasn’t moved. With a weary sigh, you retrieve the firestarter and a small, blank journal from your bag—a parting gift from Orrault. You light a few candles and crack the pages open. A sheet of wax paper around a cylinder of charcoal is all you need for the thoughts to start pouring out: the places you’ve been in Havendor; the adventures and trials you’ve endured; a few scribbled notes about Destiny’s Embrace and the Echoes alongside the many ‘facts’ provided by Ashlyn… with asterisks for good measure; and lastly a page for each of your companions and the other interesting characters you’ve met along the way. <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>You pause as a flash of ink appears in your periphery, little more than a small dot on the bottom corner of the page. Lines and curves suddenly bloom from the page, as if penned by a phantom quill. You can only stare, rapt, as they begin to form words. @@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; //Sup, bitch// @@ You furiously rub your eyes, then blink. It’s still there. Just sitting on the page, as if you’d written it yourself. But you definitely didn’t. You’re not sleep-deprived; that’s the whole problem. @@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; //Can’t sleep. You up?// @@ And, if there were any possible confusion as to who is haunting your journal, a giant, lovingly rendered image of a cock suddenly appears. It’s both veiny and excessively detailed. <<linkreplace "Respond">><<replace "#choices">><<set $AshlynEvent10 to true>><<set $Swamp1 to "Ashlyn">>You scrape the charcoal against parchment. @@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; //I’m awake.// //B right ther// @@ is all she has the patience for before Ashlyn’s inky splotch becomes nothing more than a Rorschach test. <<include "A Cup of Fuck">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ignore it">><<replace "#choices">>You might have extra energy to spare, but you’re not up for a marathon session with Ashlyn: questionnaires, copious sex, unethical ‘science experiments,’ et cetera. You set the journal aside and let out a sigh— Oh, what the fuck! How is the sun still out? It’s been… at least an hour, right? Did you miss the memo where Walst-on-High is locked in perpetual twilight? You’ve had to deal with an awful lot since being plunged into the voracious world of Havendor, but it feels like it’s been ages since you’ve just been… bored. Bored on the road? Sure. But you’ve got traveling companions, friends, a constant parade of rolling scenery to occupy a listless mind. Now you’re just stuck in a room, alone. You tap your fingers against the stone desk, pace back and forth a few dozen times, stare out the window long enough to confirm that yes, the sun //is// in fact gradually dipping below the western horizon behind an entire ancient Lurnassian temple… just waiting to be explored. [[Stay and try to be productive|Stay_Code]] [[Go out and explore the temple grounds|Explore_Code]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>Oh, what the fuck! How is the sun still out? It’s been… at least an hour, right? Did you miss the memo where Walst-on-High is locked in perpetual twilight? You’ve had to deal with an awful lot since being plunged into the voracious world of Havendor, but it feels like it’s been ages since you’ve just been… bored. Bored on the road? Sure. But you’ve got traveling companions, friends, a constant parade of rolling scenery to occupy a listless mind. Now you’re just stuck in a room, alone. You tap your fingers against the stone desk, pace back and forth a few dozen times, stare out the window long enough to confirm that yes, the sun //is// in fact gradually dipping below the western horizon behind an entire ancient Lurnassian temple… just waiting to be explored. [[Stay and try to be productive|Stay_Code]] [[Go out and explore the temple grounds|Explore_Code]]<</if>>

<<if $SherineEvent4 == 2>>Sherine’s gone by the time you wake. You have no idea how the lamia managed to extricate herself and slither out of the room without you noticing, but a part of you can’t help but be disappointed waking up alone. Not cold, though. <</if>>The harsh glare of sunlight burns through the morning fog as you step out into the courtyard-turned-farm. Even at this early hour, the air’s muggy and stifling, promising a miserably hot day. You stretch, let out one last yawn, and turn to behold the small assembly of your companions doing mostly the same. Vanille’s sharing a few words with Lloriel over a small breakfast of dried fruits. Sherine lies coiled nearby, absently fanning herself as she directs a wary gaze toward the murky sky. Ashlyn, of course, looks like hell, leaving you with the always-fascinating question of what sort of narcotic substance she used to put herself down last night. You’re somewhat surprised to see Tess making an appearance this morning, especially after all the nervous looks she gave your group… and still is. The lithe lizard skulks between the temple columns, pacing anxiously among the long morning shadows. A reassuring wave from Mira sees your swamp guide finally stepping out into the sun. <<if $Swamp1 != "Vanille" && $Swamp1 != "default">>The moment she spots you, Vanille breaks off her conversation with Lloriel and approaches, a few slices of dried apple in one hand and a carefully managed frown on her lips. “<<= $name>>,” she says in a profoundly //‘we need to talk’// tone. “What’s up?” “It’s, uhh…” She lets out a sigh. “The night of the wedding, Mira and I talked for a //very// long time.” Vanille tarries for a fortifying breath. “She told me everything, about how strongly she felt about you. She went on and on. And it’s… intense. She //really// loves you. I listened, and listened, and then…” the knight fidgets, a faint warmth coloring her cheeks. “I told her she needed to tell you how she felt, that she needed to get the feelings out of her because they were causing her so much agony.” “I appreciate you reaching out to her. She needed someone. That last night in Orrault, I don’t know if there was anything I could have said or done to make her stay. But, you…” A relieved tickle crawls onto your lips. “Thank you. So much. I… You and Mira used to fight a lot. I’m glad you’ve come to care about her.” Vanille lets out a strained chuckle. “I have. Quite a lot. She’s like a—She’s a kind girl who’s been abandoned too many times. It’s caused her a lot of pain, and she has every right to tell you how she feels, regardless of circumstance. And seeing how things have been between you two lately… I assume she has?” “She did, yesterday. It was… difficult, but we’re in a much better place now.” “Good, good” Vanille sighs, then nudges your shoulder. “And, not to be too pushy, but you //do// have to give her an answer eventually.” “I know. I promised I would. For now though, I just want to stand by her, support her, give her time to start making fulfilling friendships on her own—” You spot the demi out in the distance, already chatting with Tess. “I think she’s way ahead of us.” “The poor monster girl has no idea what she’s in.” “A thousand questions from the curious cat.” “It’ll be only a thousand //if she’s lucky.”// “Hi, Vanille! Hi, <<= $name>>!” A pair of fuzzy black ears bop over to greet you. Mira’s attached to them too. “Good morning Mira,” Vanille offers, giving the demi a pat on the head. “Sleep alright?”<<else>>“Hi,” Mira says from your side. She scrapes a few droplets of dew from her sleeves. “Hi, <<= $name>>.” “Good morning, Mira. Sleep okay?<</if>> “Yup. How was, uh, how did…” Her brow furrows as cheeks blush. A little pink tongue peeks out from between curled, coy lips. “What did you have for dinner last night, <<= $name>>?” Cheeky little… “I ate the chicken,” you explain, tone flat. “Whole.” She gasps, then giggles. “I was curious, because y’know…” Mira pokes your middle. “Yeah, I just had some leftovers from the wedding. I’ve got a little bit left, still.” “Uh huh. So then, uh…” Now that the joke’s been played, her thoughts seem to stumble off in a predetermined direction, though the words don’t quite form for her. You wait a moment before asking, “… Yes?” “Can I… do you still have… the bird?”<<if $Swamp1 != "Vanille" && $Swamp1 != "default">> “Mira,” Vanille mildly chides. “Don’t be weird to <<= $name>>.” “What? <<= $Xes>> not gonna have it.”<</if>> <<if $SherineEvent4 <= 3>>Uh-oh. “Erm, no, I kinda lost it.” you lie, embarrassed. “Escaped through the window accidentally.” “Aww, okay.” Mira sways a bit, then beams and offers a cheery, “I’ll look for it tonight!”<<else>>You sigh. “Do you want to eat it?” //“Maaaaybe.”// She beams. “Mine was tasty. And since you’re not gonna have yours…” You laugh. “If it’s still there tonight, you can have it.”<</if>> Cordial business concluded, <<if $Swamp1 != "Vanille" && $Swamp1 != "default">>Vanille and Mira wait<<else>>the demi waits diligently<</if>> at your side as you call for a group huddle. Once everyone’s assembled, you clear your throat. “So, uhh, we need to convince three clans of monster girls to attend the Clansmeet, and we’ve got a day to do it. Tess, any thoughts?” Six sets of eyes turn on the lizard, expectant. She shrivels. “Wh- What do you mean?” “You know lots about all the monster girls here, right Tess?” Mira cheers before you can respond, shuffling to the lizard girl’s side with an infectious grin. “Just tell what you were telling me yesterday. It’ll be super helpful!” “Oh, r- right. Well, my people live in Crest, a fortress to the east,” she says with a mote of confidence. Her pride continues to swell when she adds, “I doubt you’ll even get through the gate to negotiate.” “That’s… not helpful,” Lloriel mutters. The lizard slumps. “I’ll still take you there, but I’m just warning you now. I know what my sisters are like. Champion Sazelle is fierce!” You cast a nervous glance toward Vanille. Hopefully she gleaned a few of the lizard’s martial tactics yesterday… “What can you tell us about the others?” the knight asks. Tess shifts for a moment, tail swishing in irregular jerks. “There’s Tolun’Moa to the west. Uh, frog girls live there, primarily. My clan is usually trying to pick a fight with them—and for good reason. They’ve been pushing on our territory, both physically and through political disputes. But uh, honestly… They’re probably your best bet. Sachem Rabbeth’oa and her ilk welcome soft-skins from outside Lurram, so your visit won’t be met with much hostility.” Tess shrugs, then spits. “She sucks. You could probably bribe her to show up to Clansmeet.” “And what about the last clan—the, uhh…” You hesitate. “Wait, hold on. We’ve got frogs and lizards. Who’s the last?” “Dryads,” Tess groans. “They have a village somewhere to the north. They keep to themselves, and they’ve never really shown much interest in expanding their borders. But, erm, they don’t exactly respond well to visitors. Especially my kind.” She offers an optimistic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe you’ll have better luck, though? You all seem… reasonable.” “Thoughts on where we should start?” Tess idly taps her foot, waiting. It takes her a moment to realize you’re still looking at her. “O- Oh! You’re asking my opinion?” She shrinks under your patient gaze. “Uhh… I don’t really know if… I mean, I don’t think there’s much… I- It’s probably better if you decide. I’m just here to guide you around.” Your guide’s piece said, all eyes turn back to you, waiting for the final call. <<include "Swamp_Navigator">>

The journey into frog territory provides an entirely new definition for just how wet Lurram can be. Things start getting bad around the time Tess’s navigation is dedicated to finding the narrow strips of sodden earth //not// submerged beneath the murk. Eventually, you’re forced to trudge through swathes of ankle-deep water and weave between the roots of mangrove trees while the lizard girl steers you clear of sudden plunges into greater depths. Wispy tendrils of mist cling to the water’s surface like bits of gossamer thread, drifting in lazy swirls and forming hazy curtains that paint the world in a canvas of grey. A thick, brackish scent chokes the air. You taste salt every time you absently swallow. The steady hum and buzz of marshland is replaced by a quiet, almost somber burble and lap of listless currents. You see the lake first. It’s far larger than any other passing body of water, its edges lost beyond the curtains of fog. The deep-black surface suggests great depth and obscures whatever might lie beneath. Long poles protrude from the water, blurred and distorted by mist. They rise from the glassy lake, propping up walkways of wood and draped canopies of cloth. Huts, shanties, and lopsided shacks stand above the water’s surface, crammed side by side, stacked atop of each other, forming a haphazard sprawl that stretches beyond your sight. It’s a strange mix between ramshackle and wondrous—an undeniably impressive feat of engineering, yet precarious enough that you worry a strong gust of wind could send the entire webwork tumbling like dominoes. The village sits at least thirty feet from the shore at the closest point, too far for a comfortable swim in those murky depths. Long rope bridges span the gap at intermittent points, perilously flimsy, yet also your only reasonable path across. Tess anxiously sets off for the nearest, only a short walk away, and you dutifully follow. A pair of repurposed tree trunks serve as bridge anchors, strands of thick rope digging into bark-stripped wood. A half-dozen frog girls squat around the entrance, five watching with keen interest as the sixth tosses a handful of small wooden trinkets into a shallow wooden bowl. They stop their game as you approach, shuffling into a casually guarded formation and watching your group with wary eyes. “I think they’re sizing us up…” Lloriel mutters. You frown. “Are we unwelcome?” “Let’s ask!” Mira chimes. She untangles herself from Vanille’s side and hops forward, arms flopping above her head excitedly. “Hello! We’re travelers! Can we visit your home?” “That depends,” the foremost frog offers hesitantly. “… On what, exactly?” you ask. “On whether or not you’re gonna cause trouble.” An appraising gaze sweeps from side to side, a thousand micro-expressions darting across amphibian features far too fast for you to read. You’re not quite ready to reach for your spear just yet, but the wooden shaft’s presence jumps to the forefront of your mind.<<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true || $Lurram_Lizards == true>> Maybe they can smell the lizards on you? Regardless, t<<else>> T<</if>>hey definitely don’t seem thrilled at your arrival, with a notable wariness toward one of your friends in particular: Sherine. “Are you merchants?” one of the frog girls asks. “I don’t see any wares.” “Nope. We’re tourists!” Mira shouts back. Lloriel chokes back a giggle. You stop yourself from face-palming. The frogs are less amused, and share a round of bewildered looks amongst themselves. “We’re just travelers,” you offer in your most diplomatic tone. “We’re actually on business from the temple—err, Walst-on-High. We met with High Priestess Ialise, and are just here to speak to the, uhh… ‘sachem,’ I think?” The frogs exchange uncertain glances: the looks of people who don’t especially //want// to say yes, but are aware they probably //should//—or perhaps worried about the consequences if they don’t. Big dark eyes drink you in for a long moment before the de facto leader finally grumbles, “Tolun’Moa is open to all. You can enter, but be on your best behavior.” She and the rest of the guards shuffle aside. Name-dropping for the win. You nod polite thanks and start to walk forward, only for a tail tip at your leg to draw you back. “Perhaps it would be best if I wait outside,” Sherine murmurs quietly. “Why?” She nods toward the still-leery frogs watching from their perch. “There’s a certain… implicit hierarchy among monster girls. Assumptions of predator and prey—and the wariness that relationship carries.” You raise an eyebrow. You’ve noticed a similar trend with Mira in the past, but you’d assumed that was a peculiarity rather than a codified state of being. Perhaps it’s more pronounced among monster girls? It’s not like frogs and snakes get along in the wild… “No. Please come with,” Tess hisses as she sidles closer to Sherine. “They’re terrified of you, and are looking for any excuse to eat me. I’m hoping that those two will cancel each other out.” Sherine chuckles. “Very well, but I won’t be held responsible for any… incidents.” “That’s the best part,” Ashlyn jeers, strutting confidently across the bridge. “It’s hot when people cower. Right, <<= $name>>?” [[Only if you’re a sadist…|Effigy]]

You take your first step onto the wooden planks, only to abruptly double back and approach the waiting frogs as you remember a very important bit of business. “Hey, uhh, could we get directions to see the sachem, Rabbeth’oa?” you ask. A brief smile flashes on the monster girl’s wide face. She points down the length of the rope bridge. “Keep going until you hit the fountain, then make left. Red roof. Can’t miss it.” <<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true || $Lurram_Lizards == true>>“Great, thanks.” You move toward the bridge again before //another// thought strikes. “Oh hey, one last thing. I heard about a skirmish yesterday in lizard territory. Any idea where those scouts might be? Especially the one with the, err… meal.” The lead frog casts a wary look at Tess. “… Why?” That’s… a good question. Obviously //you// know why, but it’s not like you can just come out and say, //‘We wanna ask if she has any leftovers.’// <<if $Crest1 != "smuggle" && $Crest2 == false>>You throw your arm around Tess’s shoulder. Given your height difference, it’s more menacing than congenial, and the lizard girl’s shiver doesn’t help in the slightest. “This one wanted to pay her old rival a visit.” “R- Right,” Tess stammers, playing the part adequately, if not all that enthusiastically. “I want to thank her predator.”<<else>>Your resident lizard girl suddenly steps forward. “Maisy—err, the lizard that got eaten—she’s a rival of mine. Was hoping I could pay her a visit, rub it in while she’s still kicking. Or thank her predator if she’s not.” Oh damn. She can play the part well.<</if>> The frog nods. “Sure, yeah. Plol’a lives on the western canopy. It’s a little place with a red-and-yellow door.” A proud little smile bubbles onto her lips. “I painted it myself.” “Oh, that’s great, thank you.” Knowledge in hand<<else>>Course set<</if>>, you follow your companions onto the bridge and begin the long and precarious crossing to the village proper. Planks creak, ropes groan, and the entire structure sways back and forth in a way that has you genuinely worried the entire thing is going to upend you all right into the drink. Sherine’s a particular point of concern. Twice a board audibly cracks, but does not break. You can feel the bridge shudder with each slither, its deck gradually shifting around the lamia’s substantial weight. A part of you wishes you’d asked her to go last. Another part wonders if maybe she should’ve waited until the rest of you were off the bridge entirely. Since both of these options are long past, you settle for staring diligently at your feet and trying very hard to not think about what might be waiting in the murky water below. Miracle of all miracles, the work of amphibian engineering holds. You step off the last plank and find yourself on more stable ground: a large walkway cobbled together from a thousand disparate pieces of wood. They’ve all been worn down to form a mostly uniform surface that, to your surprise, doesn’t even sag beneath your feet—or only sags a little beneath Sherine. The city is a maze of sprawling walkways branching left, right, up, down. Narrow streets layer atop one another, or double around and stack above themselves. Buildings are arranged in chaotic, haphazard stacks that loom over the paths like the world’s most ambitious jenga tower. Even the straightest shots are winding paths between homes and stores and a dozen other small structures sometimes plopped right in the middle of what you’d normally consider a street. Small huts and shacks and pitched overhangs lie on either of the central promenade, connected by narrow walkways of wood planks or smaller bridges. Or even sometimes nothing at all, leaving a several-foot gap of empty air between street and stoop. Are you just supposed to… jump? Oh right, and there are frogs. Everywhere. Ambling and chatting and stealing more than their fair share of concerned glances at your two less welcome companions. A few steps shy of bustling metropolis, yet busy enough to build an ambient buzz. And the further you go, the denser the crowds grow—though they’re always eager to part as you pass, the lively thrum dimming to a furtive murmur. At the village center, a dozen walkways and concourses all converge around a large jutting stone sculpture sunken waist-deep into the lake. Carved legs stand atop some deep bedrock obscured by a thousand layers of mud. A series of wooden trusses hold the common area about ten feet above the murk, the platform itself built around the colossus’s oddly angled chest. Only the jaw and chipped nose of the figure’s face remains. Many of the finer details have been long eroded, but you still get the gist of it. It’s a person. Or at least, it was representative of one at some point— God fucking dammit, it’s another statue of you. It took a moment to make the connection due to the fresh layers of paint and plaster added to the old structure. Additionally, new masonry has been laid between your outstretched arms: a stone bowl. The spout for the makeshift fountain is your left nostril… which disturbingly implies that all the statues you’ve seen of yourself might be anatomically accurate. [[Nope|Eat Bug]]

A sudden wet //splurch// has klaxons blaring in your mind. You wheel about, fully prepared to behold some act of ongoing voracious indulgence and praying one of your companions isn’t involved. Instead, you find the nostril-fountain spewing forth a glob of odious green muck that splats more than splashes into the bowl below. A few piddling drips follow, and then it’s run dry once more. “It’s a shame,” a voice from your left mutters. You turn to see a frog girl shaking her head, too-wide lips pursed to a scowl. “Excuse me?” “The fountain.” She gestures ahead. “Saw you looking. It’s //supposed// to make salt water fresh—or something like that. Makes it drinkable, anyway. Someone put an enchantment on the statue, but as you can probably tell, it’s been acting up. Haven’t had a wizard in town who could make the repairs.” She casts a hesitant glance toward your party, lingering notably on Sherine. “C- Could //she// fix it?” “Uhh, Sherine?” you start. “I don’t think she—” “Why are you peasants asking the snake?” Ashlyn bellows from over your shoulder. She struts into view, arms akimbo—You have to do a double take when you see her in that stupid witch costume from the wedding. Worse, her skirt’s flapping in a breeze you’re pretty sure just conjured up for herself. “Behold. Your savior is here.” You fully expect the next ten seconds to bring wanton violence and chaos such as the world has never seen—rampant death, destruction, hellfire, and at least one sexually profane act. Instead, Ashlyn sidles her way to the basin and begins carefully prodding at the stone in an approach you can only describe as cautious, measured, and the slightest bit disconcerting. The mage hums as she scans, taps, and fiddles, murmuring arcane nothings that are either way over your head or being spoken entirely for effect. She makes three laps around the large basin, each pass seeing a different book in her hands as she flips through her notes. Once, she pauses to kick the statue. She blasts away a smear of blue paint on the cheek, then leans forward to inspect it more closely. You and the rest of the gathered onlookers peer and squint. A rune lights up, faint golds and greens. A gasp passes through the crowd. “I see the problem,” she proclaims in the same haughty voice, but much quieter now that she’s actually using her brain. “I’m not an artificer, but there should be a few extra lines on this rune here for the siphon to work.” “Can you fix it?” someone asks. “Child’s play,” the mage responds as she cracks her knuckles. Sleeves glide up her biceps as arms sweep arcane gestures. Her stance widens, then dips. She backs her ass up against you, likely on purpose. A low moan bubbles out of the mage’s heaving chest. She’s sweating, undulating. A swirl of purplish energy climbs up her legs, slips under her dress. Mist pours from her sleeves. Eyes glow with power. Nostrils flare dramatically. A trembling arm reaches out. Thin fingers point at the symbol, then flick through the air as if painting upon the fabric of reality. She draws an ‘L’ and pokes out a couple dots against the intangible canvas before spewing forth an ecstatic groan. You feel a slight tremor beneath your feet as she climaxes. You’re a hair’s breadth from fleeing the marketplace for safer ground when a geyser of crystal clear water sprays forth from your nose. The statue-in-the-shape-of-you’s nose, to clarify. An awe-struck gasp sweeps through the market, swelling murmurs of joy and appreciation bubbling in its wake. A crowd gathers around Ashlyn, offering heartfelt thanks, words of congratulations, and even gifts. In the span of a few breaths, a dozen baubles and foodstuffs and offerings are pushed upon the mage, who seems all too eager to bask in her newfound glory… at least until a few of the market-goers thank her for her ‘remarkable charity’ rather than her ‘incredible genius,’ at which point her expression immediately sours, and she hastily excuses herself to march back over to your side. <<if $RVAshlyn >= 13 && $FuckedAshlyn == true>>The moment she’s clear of the crowd, Ashlyn slumps, grasps your shoulder, and lets out a relieved sigh. “Holy fuck, never let me do that again.” “What? Seems like it went fine.” “Yeah, ‘cause I was fuckin’ lucky. I know //nothing// about runes. I just recognized the rough schematic my mentor used for turning her sweat into potable water.” “I’m genuinely not sure I want to ask why—” “That’s only the third weirdest thing she did,” Ashlyn exclaims with suddenly far too much glee. “One time I noticed her laying traps for garden moles, and she explained that when she got bored she liked to—” “Oh hey!” you interrupt. “I just remembered I left Mira with a thing and, uhh, need to deal with that. So I’m just gonna…”<<else>>“Bow before me, minion.” “Your fawning fans are over there,” you retort. “Yeah, they’re boring now. Keep trying to give me stuff: jewelry, trinkets, their firstborn. It’s lame. I don’t want their junk.” You roll your eyes. “You’d make a good dictator.” “Thank you! You get it: can’t be an evil overlord if your potential minions all die of dehydration.” She tuts, then glances around. “We good to go? “Not really. Mira was here just a second ago…”<</if>> Something warm and round bumps against your leg. <<if $MiraEvent8 == true>>The slight swell of Mira’s stomach—Damn, you missed her swallowing the bug. “I’m ready!” the demi cheers, utterly pleased with herself. “Was it good?” She shrugs. Her taut middle clings close as she sways from side to side. The roly-poly and all its details are really tightly packed in there. “It was alright. I’m glad I tried, though.”<<else>> “I’m ready to go,” Mira cheers as her stomach contentedly gurgles away. “Did you need something, <<= $name>>?” “I, err—” You hesitate and take a moment to collect yourself as the excited din begins to ebb. “Did you find anything else interesting?” “Oh, yeah! They’ve got lots of super neat food, but like you said, I’m still a bit full.” She sloshes her belly for emphasis, then beams. “I can wait.”<</if>> You nod and smile as the rest of your group gathers. Vanille and Lloriel appear in the middle of exchanging book recommendations, both parties attempting—and failing—to veil just how eager they are to share their reading lists. Tess still clings near to Sherine’s side, and true to the lizard girl’s prediction, the two of them together do seem to be canceling out each other’s energies. As long as no one gets eaten, you’re not gonna complain. //You wouldn’t complain either way.// Anyway! <<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true || $Lurram_Lizards == true>>Where to next? [[Visit the sachem|President Frog]] [[Look for Maisy|MaisyQuest1]]<<else>> [[Visit the sachem|President Frog]]<</if>>

<<switch $Sachem>> <<case 1>> “You’re the… leader of Tolun’Moa, right?” She simply shrugs. “You think they let just anyone have an office like this all to themselves?” A short, sharp laugh bubbles from her throat. “Yes, I’m the sachem—appointed by majority consensus for… four years in a row, now?” “Wait, //appointed?// You vote?” “We hold an election for the position every spring.” Rabbeth’oa nods as if it should be obvious. “How else would we do it? It’s the best way to make sure whoever’s in charge has a majority of Tolun’Moa’s interests at heart.” Well damn: Havendorian democracy. Sure, you weren’t expecting to find it run by frog people in a laketop village in the middle of a swamp, but here it is all the same. “Who gets to vote?” Vanille asks. “Anyone who’s lived here since the last election.” “Everyone?” The knight sounds surprised. “That doesn’t cause… problems?” The sachem shrugs. “It’s worth the hassle. The bean counters take care of the logistics, and we get Ialise or one of her sisters to show up and make sure the whole thing’s fair.” “Fyn Edel has something similar for the High Council,” Lloriel adds. “Everyone’s more invested if you have a bit of representation in politics.” Vanille hums, lips curled to a pensive frown. “Certainly would go some way in keeping people accountable…” <<case 2>> You gesture toward the bubbling pot attached to her abdomen. “So, uhm… who’d you eat?” “Someone who asked silly questions,” she shoots back with a sly grin. Tension builds just long enough that you start to genuinely worry before she suddenly barks out a harsh, croaking laugh. “Nah, I’m messing with you.” A webbed hand wetly slaps her stomach, making the mushy mass beneath do //very// interesting things. “Some upstart got it in her head she wanted to be sachem. Happens from time to time, though most have the decency to do things the right way. There’s a process: petitions, deliberations, even a vote of confidence if it gets to that—not that it ever does.” The sachem leans back and lets her fingers sink deep into her paunch. “Instead, this idiot broke into my house. An informal challenge calls for an—//urrap//—informal solution.” You nod along, as if what she’s saying is all obvious and reasonable. Which it is. You eat people who break into your house. What else would you do with them? “Besides,” Rabbeth’oa continues, “People like to know their leader is eating well. It’s good for morale //and// my waistline.” <<linkreplace "Make a joke to lighten the mood">><<replace "#choices">>“Y’know, in a way, your political rival got to be sachem in the end.” Pregnant silence fills the room. You shrug slightly and make a funny, awkward gesture for good measure. A pop of laughter bursts out of Rabbeth’oa. Her whole body trembles with joy from head to… tum. Vanille, Lloriel, and Sherine seem less thrilled by your antics, but Tess and Mira titter quietly. Oh, and @@color:lime;Ashlyn grabs your ass, which you interpret as approval. So that’s nice.@@<<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Ask how often that happens">><<replace "#choices">>“Does //that// happen often?” you ask. “The, uhh… assassination attempt?” Rabbeth’oa waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s pretty rare. Maybe two or three times a year, tops.” You spend a moment contemplating the quiet horror of it all, then turn to Vanille for reassurance. She offers only a mildly bewildered shrug, which doesn’t help in the slightest.<<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<case 3>> You let out an huff equal parts irritated and baffled that things have gotten so turned around. These are //their// stupid swamp monster politics, and now suddenly she’s the one doing //you// a favor? “Okay, fine, what can we do for you?” Rabbeth’oa smiles with the relaxed confidence of a woman who always knew she was going to get her way. “Nothing too dire, I promise. There’s a local witch my people have never gotten along with.<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>” You lean toward Ashlyn and murmur, //“Relative of yours?”// //“Do… Do you think that being a mage is hereditary? Are you a dumbass?”// “She’s been living near our village for, oh, going on five years now,” the sachem continues. “<<else>> She’s been living near our village for, oh, going on five years now. <</if>>Hasn’t been an issue, since she mostly keeps to herself, which is fine by us.” “So what’s the problem?” you ask. The frog sets down her pipe and folds her hands across her stomach. “Long story short, she’s stealing our spawn. It’s unacceptable.” Oh cool, frog girls lay spawn. There’s a tadpole out there with a human face on it. Perhaps thousands of them—Wow! More anatomy questions you didn’t need answered! Isn’t learning things great? “My scouts say she broke into the spawn house two nights ago.” Rabbeth’oa vaguely gestures to one of the parchment stacks. “From our count, it looks like she took about a third of the fertilized eggs.” //Fertilized… how?// “Eggs?” you ask, barely managing the single syllable. “Little pods, about yea wide,” she pinches her fingers to the width of a thumb tack. “Kinda look like glass beads, but they’re spongy if you touch ‘em. There’s a little black dot in the middle, too. That’d be the frog.” “And they were //stolen?// That’s terrible. I- I’m sorry for your loss.” “We haven’t given up all hope just yet. We know that the vile witch makes her lair just south of here. Problem is, no one wants to actually confront her.” Hands tap an agitated rhythm against jiggling flesh, then pause as the sachem’s lips quirk into the slightest of grins. “But that’s your job, right? Being adventurers, and all that.” Egg retrieval does sound sorta like a fetch quest. And while you’re not too happy about facing down a witch, at least you have an expert in your party. <<case 4>> “So, uhh, why does no one else want to do something about this witch problem?” “Tolun’Moa is primarily a hub for trade in Lurram. We don’t regularly have visitors as… well armed as you. And…” The monster girl’s eyes across your group’s weaponry, then settle on Sherine for a furtive moment. Rabbeth’oa frowns and casts her gaze elsewhere. “Ahem. My people find her intimidating.” “Intimidating how?” The sachem shifts in her seat. “Her magic, and… Well, you’ll understand when you see her.” That’s entirely too vague and ominous. <<case 5>> “Just to be clear: what exactly do you want us to do about the witch?” Rabbeth’oa sucks down another quick draw from her pipe. She smirks. “Simple. Get the eggs back and make sure she won’t steal them again. Up to you how you wanna go about doing that.” “I’m kinda surprised you’re not immediately jumping to more extreme solutions,” you remark. “She has a bunch of your—” spawn? “—offspring.” “Only a few dozen of them—not even tadpoles. Numbers aren’t a big worry for Tolun’Moa, but I know it’ll put minds at ease to get a clutch like that back.” She puffs out her chest and puts on a stubborn frown. “Besides, my people like it when I avoid hostilities with any faction, large or small. It’s bad for business.” Like she was //‘avoiding hostilities’// when she sent a scouting party into lizard territory yesterday? You glance over your shoulder at Tess. She’s been silently fixated on Rabbeth’oa’s stomach this entire time. On the bright side, the poor monster girl’s no longer trembling with fear, so that’s nice. “Like I said before,” the sachem continues. “The witch’s lived here for five years, and this only became a problem recently. She’s… not what you’d call a neighbor, but rather a known presence—like the Brimond Mountains on the horizon. But if violence is what it takes…” Rabbeth’oa settles the topic with an indifferent shrug. <<case 6>> “Alright, we’ll get the eggs back and deal with the witch for you,” you say, half confident and half sighing. “So bold,” the sachem says with a satisfied grin. “I’ll have a runner ready by the time you return.” Rabbeth’oa provides more specific directions to the ‘witch’s lair’ and, with logistics finished, leans back into her comfy chair to resume smoking. Your group files out of her office, then winds through the narrow, bureaucratic hallways out onto the wide platform outside. You draw in a deep, grateful breath of sappica-free air and receive an immediate reminder that you’re still in a fucking swamp. “That went reasonably well,” Vanille begins, watching with mild concern as you try to hack the taste of stagnant salt water out of your lungs. “Not super happy about being given //<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>yet <</if>>another// task to complete today, but she seems trustworthy.” “Yeah, I think she’ll pull through for us.” Quid pro quo is the language of politicians, after all. You check that everyone is accounted for among your group, then nod. “Alright, let’s go visit the witch.” “The lair!” Mira cheers. [[To the lair|Frog Quest]] <</switch>>

<> <<if $Sachem1 == false>> <<link "“Are you the leader of Tolun’Moa?”">> <<set $Sachem1 to true>> <<set $Sachem to 1>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sachem2 == false>> <<link "“Who’d you eat?”">> <<set $Sachem2 to true>> <<set $Sachem to 2>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sachem3 == false>> <<link "“What can we do for you?”">> <<set $Sachem3 to true>> <<set $Sachem to 3>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sachem3 == true>> <<if $Sachem4 == false>> <<link "“Why does no one want to deal with the witch?”">> <<set $Sachem4 to true>> <<set $Sachem to 4>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sachem5 == false>> <<link "“What exactly do you want us to do about the witch?”">> <<set $Sachem5 to true>> <<set $Sachem to 5>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sachem_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sachem1 == true && $Sachem2 == true && $Sachem3 == true && $Sachem4 == true && $Sachem5 == true>> <<link "“Alright, we’ll get the eggs back and deal with the witch.”">> <<set $Sachem to 6>> <<append "#Sachem">><<include "Sachem_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <</if>> <>

The floorboards quietly groan as you peek around the corner and find yourself in what you can only describe as a cross between a kitchen and a laboratory. The space itself is lit by more candles, crude lumps just plopped onto shelves without any aesthetic sense. A dark iron cauldron squats in the middle of the room. Cupboards ring the walls. Almost every table and bench is covered with ingredients for what might be cooking or alchemy—you can’t even begin to tell which is which. A lone figure sways gently over the cauldron, wielding a length of lacquered wood to stir the violet contents within. She wears a long dress of modest whites and browns, warm and charming. A faded-red kerchief rests atop long, ashen hair, a single splash of vibrance amid a sea of comforting earth tones. But all of this matters very little when compared to her most pressing feature: a band of pale, pearly scales flowing like a narrow river of milk from the bottom of her dress. You follow the rapidly tapering stream to where its tip curls around a table leg. Oh, a lamia. She’s drastically smaller than Sherine, both in length and girth, her dainty tail only extending a half-dozen feet beyond the point where her underbelly touches the floor. The tip narrows rapidly to a smooth nub the same pearly-white as the rest of her. While you don’t doubt that appendage is strong enough to strangle you, the lack of bulk almost makes you appreciate just how large your companion’s human features are. And while you’re making comparisons, Sherine’s singing voice is lower. A flicker of movement catches your eye at the back of the woman’s head. You stare, blink, then stare again in abject disbelief as a thick bundle of hair moves of its own accord, slowly and deliberately rising from her back. It sways to and fro, rises to head height, curls around the side of the lamia’s head, then finally pokes her in the cheek. She jolts. “Oh, guests! I didn’t hear you come in.” You brace yourself for the worst, but all the lamia does is reach up and fiddle with her kerchief before turning to face your group. What you’d initially mistaken for a kerchief is actually a blindfold, securely fastened at the sides of her head and resting tastefully over a sweet little gumdrop of a nose. Her skin is pale, very nearly the same white as her scales save for small splotches of rosie warmth on her cheeks. Delicate lips curl into a smile. A pair of adorable fangs poke out. Pointed ears waggle merrily as the thick dreads of her hair— Moving. Her hair’s moving. //Writhing.// <<linkreplace "It’s not hair">>It’s not hair. It’s too big, too //alive.// One of the braids is looking at you. <<linkreplace "Fuck!">>Snakes. They’re snakes. She has snakes for hair. She’s a fucking gorgon. Despite the blindfold on the monster, both you and Vanille whip your gaze aside, desperate to avoid eye contact. A light, airy voice prods you from your bewildered doom-spiral. The monster is talking. “… Sorry for being so rude, but I’m happy to have guests! Oh, uhm, my name’s Athylisia—call me Athy, please.” She pauses and tilts her head, causing a snake to bump against her shoulder. “… Who are you? S- Sorry, I don’t recognize your scent.” What a very normal and not-at-all creepy thing to say. “Hi, Athy!” Mira cheers, bounding forward. “I’m Mira, and these are my friends!” When you finally work up the courage to face the gorgon directly, your eyes can’t help but be drawn to her hair—err, snake hairs? Hair snakes? There’s only eight of them, all the same color as her tail, albeit with finer scales to accommodate smaller forms. Each moves of its own accord, beady black eyes taking in every detail, tongues flickering at random intervals. Ice broken, you and your companions begin to introduce yourselves. When someone new speaks, the gorgon adjusts to face them, and all snake-eyes turn synchronously before splitting off to tend to their own interests. Occasionally, one of the heads will droop down toward Athy’s ear as if to whisper. And each time, she tilts her head, offers a slight shake or nod. It’s delightfully creepy. “S- So, uhm…” The lamia’s hands clasp and unclasp. “What brings you all to my home? I’m afraid I don’t really have much in the way of hospitality to offer at the moment. The cauldron isn’t dinner—no, no, //definitely// wouldn’t want to eat that. B- But I can fix something up if you’re willing to wait! Tea perhaps? I have quite a few blends that have been aging for a few years. They’re probably wonderfully bitter by now.” A pang of guilt aches in your chest as you realize you’ll need to meet her cordiality with conflict. You work up a mote of courage and clear your throat. [[Ask about the eggs|Why'd It Have to be Snakes?]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

“Have you see—Do you know about, err, frog spawn?” Athy’s lips quirk to a confused frown. “Frog eggs? What about them?” She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t have any—I’m not a frog.” A bubby bout of laughter spills from her thin lips. “I don’t have a mirror though, so hopefully you can confirm for me.” “You’re… you,” you reply, uncertain if you’re actually qualified to make such a declaration for someone else. “But anyway, uh, Tolun’Moa thinks you took some of their spawn, and they want them back.” The lamia blanches. “T- They think I //stole// them? Oh my, oh no. Why? I wouldn’t do that. They’re precious, and certainly not mine. I- I would never even dream of doing something like that to the frogs, especially not after they’ve been so nice to me, letting me build a home here, tend to my plants, make my spells and potions, go for the occasional evening stroll, maybe sometimes grab a bite to eat when I’m feeling a little peckish and I don’t have time to prepare anything a bit more formal—especially when I’m in the middle of a project and I don’t want to pack everything up only to—” “Wait, hold on,” you interrupt, waving your hands //for some fucking reason.// “They saw you. It was two nights ago. You entered the, uhh, spawn house, took a few dozen eggs, and left.” “B- But, I—” Athy turns and begins slithering fretful circles around her cauldron, muttering as much to herself as to you. “Okay, I was out that night collecting herbs, like I usually do. I prefer the dark because I’m less likely to startle one of the neighbors. But when I go out, I wear my blindfold and cloak and everything just to be sure. I actually don’t mind, really. It lets me appreciate all the other small details. Lurram’s usually so warm and muggy, but sometimes after dark this refreshing breeze blows in from the ocean and you can smell the sea salt in the air and it’s just wonderful. And besides, I have my hair to do the—” Her ramble stops dead in its tracks. Her brow furrows so fiercely, you can see the crease through the headscarf. An arm suddenly snaps up and catches one of her snakes by the throat. She drags it down in front of her face, the reptilian noodle seemingly extending from her scalp like one of those infinite clown scarves. “Snakob! How //could// you!” Athy’s voice trembles. “I can’t believe you’d lie to me like that. I trusted you when you said it was just algae. I //knew// you were acting strange when you kept telling me to be quiet for some reason and—oh, I should’ve known better!” … Do the snakes //live// on her head? Is her scalp for rent? Are they //part// of her? Can hear their silent whispers… or has she gone completely mad from inhaling too many fumes? <<linkreplace "… Are you hallucinating, too?">>… Are you hallucinating, too? How could a person have snakes for hair? That sounds like something from a bad acid trip. The gorgon releases the offending snake, then turns back to you, mortified. “I’m //so// sorry. I absolutely never would’ve taken them if I’d known. This is all his fault. He tricked the others to conspire against me.” Wait, //he?// Why is her hair male? Furthermore, //how does she know?// “I’ll give them back right away!” Athy continues, turning back toward the shelves and fumbling through reagents of every shape, size, color, and state of matter you can imagine. She occasionally pauses, fingers brushing against glass or a bit of plant. A snake will reach down and tap against her hand to shift her aim, or sometimes stretch to wrap around an object and pull it into her grasp. The gorgon touches, shakes, sniffs, and occasionally tastes twenty objects in the span of a minute, each sampling met with an increasingly agitated huff and a more frantic search for the next. After a dozen more, she freezes, then slowly turns in place to sightlessly peer at a corner of the room much like any other. “Ah, crumb,” she murmurs as the bottom of her fist gently thumps into her palm. “Is there a problem?” Vanille asks. Athy churrs. “I can’t trust my hair to be my eyes right now, since they’re little bastards. //But,// they do a lot of organizing ingredients and reagents for me, and I don’t uhm…” She shuffles to a yet-unsearched corner of her workspace. A heavy metallic trunk sits atop a table. The thick layer of crumbly patina tells you it’s seen better days, and there are two snake-sized breaches eroded in different places along its exterior. The gorgon places a hand atop the box. It doesn’t even budge. “The eggs are in here, I’m pretty sure. D- Don’t worry though, everything’s stored away safely—very important for all the ingredients that need to be kept out of the light. The latch is rusted shut, so I just can’t really reach in and get it. Or even find it, since Snakob and the others tried to hide this whole ordeal from me.” “Where’d you even find this?” Vanille asks. “I dredged it out of the swamp,” Athy explains. “Took a week to haul it back here. It was… exhausting.” “It’s pretty small,” you note, eyeing a hole half again the size of a golf ball. If Athy can’t get her dainty wrists in there, you’re not gonna fare much better. “Anything you can do, Mira?” “I don’t think so,” the demi says. “There’s nothing to pick. The whole locking mechanism is kinda… gone. Maybe Vanille could pry it off?” “I think it’s gonna fall apart if we try,” the knight mutters. “If we’re careful, we could peel away some of the boards on the lid and—” “Light-sensitivity,” Lloriel points out. “I could try to restore the lock—” “Lame!” Ashlyn finds her cue to interrupt. “It might take hours to do the nice thing. I’ll just shrink you, and you guys can go in there and get it. Easy peasy.” Mira gasps. “Make me small!” “What? No. That’s a horrible idea,” Vanille blurts out. “It’s obscenely dangerous.” “Relax, Knifey. You’ll be there to protect your precious <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>boy-toy<<else>>hero<</if>>, and if worse comes to worst, you can just leave and we’ll try something else.” You glance at the box, then over to the mage. It’s a simple and straightforward plan. First the fountain, now this? Ashlyn’s on a roll today. “Oh, that’s much better than my idea!” Athy chirps. “I was going to use a potion to turn you into rats, but as long as you push the jar with the eggs toward the hole, I’ll make sure you’ve found the right one. Should be much easier with opposable thumbs.” “Uhh, yeah. That works. I guess.” Sure, there’s like a dozen things that could go wrong, like being accosted by a house cat that’s now functionally a dragon. But since you haven’t seen a witch’s familiar lurking about, you’re probably good. You grab Ashlyn by the wrist before she can work a spell. “But you’re coming with us.” “Uh no. I’m staying behind and talking shop with Athy. Maybe swap potions, howl at the moon together, learn a new cackle. Y’know, girl-talk.” “It’s not up for debate, Ashlyn,” you say, blunt. “You’re coming with us.” Ashlyn sulks like a child who’s been told she has to eat her vegetables. Finally, she lets out a resigned huff. “Ungh, fine. You suck. You all suck. I hate you.” [[“Uh huh, sure. Now get on with the magic.”|Mira is small]]<</linkreplace>>

After making sure your friends are ready, you brace for the disorienting shift. A flash of purple fills your vision. The world stretches and contorts, then snaps into a new scale, distorting the mundane to the unrecognizable. A shoebox in the corner seems more a plateau. A stool next to the counter looms overhead like the scaffolding of a skyscraper. Floorboards span the length of fields, the cracks between them like small ravines. … And you’re on the floor, nowhere near the trunk. “Dammit, Ashlyn,” Vanille groans. The mage throws up her hands. “This is what happens when you shrink my giga-brain. A waste! Being tiny is an utter waste of my intellect and talent.” You glance up the leg of the table, then to your party. Mira might be able to climb it—with a ‘passenger’—but there’s no way she could bring you, Vanille, Ashlyn, Lloriel and Tess— Oh holy shit, the lizard girl. You totally forgot she was here, weapon out, stance wide. She’s quaking, frantic. You wince. “Tess, I’m so sorry, I took for granted—” “What the fuck!” Yeah, that’s the normal reaction. Then again, Vanille and Lloriel seem to have taken it in stride. And Mira’s fucking stoked, bouncing over to the lizard girl. “Don’t worry, Tess!” the demi cheers. “We’re adventurers! This kinda stuff happens to us all the time.” Not exactly how you would have sold it, but Mira’s words seem to quell the worst of Tess’s panic. Or maybe it’s hard to wield a spear while a cat girl is holding your hand. “Uhh, hey Athy?” you call out, hoping your voice carries far enough. Past experiences indicate being three inches tall has shockingly little impact on volume, but it’s never too late for the world to suddenly start caring about physics //purely// for the sake of making your life more difficult. “Oh!” the gorgon exclaims, then tilts her head. “Oh dear, you’re down there. Yes, I can see how that would be a problem. Well, I can’t //see,// but—” “Do you think you could, err, help us up?” you say. “We’re right by the tip of your tail—Please don’t move suddenly.” She freezes, then bends awkwardly to the floor. Knuckle rap against the wooden boards as she lays her hands flat. You and your group climb aboard, then take the Athy Express up to the table and step off. Tess is only mildly perturbed as the visage of the rusty trunk expands before you like a colossal temple. Vanille insists on entering first. Even at your miniscule size, she’s still forced to stoop as she clambers inside, taking great care to avoid the dagger-sized splinters. You go next, experiencing a short and thoroughly disorienting drop into the lightless void. A shuffling echo bounces around the box. “I know I have a glowrod in here somewhere,” Vanille mumbles in the pitch. Elven whispers tickle at your neck. You blink in surprise as a pale blue light slowly fills the abyss, then turn to find a precious mote hovering in Lloriel’s hands. She breathes into cupped palms, increasing luminosity, then releases her spell. The arcane dot floats over her shoulder like a fairy, then dips behind her head to hide when she notices you staring. “Woah!” Mira cries out, scurrying forward and attempting to peer behind the elf’s back. “Uh, sorry.” Lloriel shrinks—metaphorically, of course. “No, that’s perfect. Just… unexpected.” You watch as the light cautiously peeks around a lock of silvery hair. “I didn’t know you could do that. Are you a mage?” “I- I only know a few simple spells like this.” “Don’t be so distracted by flashing lights,” Ashlyn says, smacking you and Mira upside the head. “Let’s find these eggs and get out of here.” You finally turn to survey the interior of the trunk, then nearly cry out in alarm. Glass jars stand like massive test tubes—the sort you’d find in some mad scientist’s subterranean laboratory where they conduct human experiments and keep the subjects suspended in liquid stasis. Opaque glass and warping refraction render the things in these containers only mildly less terrifying: a towering beast with pallid flesh turns out to be a mushroom; a nightmarish assembly of bones and musculature is merely the roots of an aquatic plant. The gallery of false horrors stretches to your left and right before vanishing into darkness. Only the wall at your back is illuminated by Lloriel’s spell, leaving the rest a murky and inscrutable void. “So, uhh… where to check first?” you ask. Lloriel sighs. “There shouldn’t be //that// much space to explore in here. Follow me.” Your party begins to make a slow and methodical sweep of the trunk, checking each jar and bundle of reagents carefully to make sure you’re not overlooking anything. A part of you wonders what frog girl spawn is going to look like at your size. Will you be able to see the tiny little tadpole girls flitting about in their translucent shells? While it’s <<if $Orrault5 == "Ashlyn" || ($Orrault7 == "Ashlyn" && $MiraDating == false) || $Khobb6 == "Ashlyn">>hardly<<else>>not exactly<</if>> your first being shrunk down, you’ve never had to actually navigate the world while a twentieth of your normal size. Everything is unimaginably huge. Your eyes are telling you that you’re in a grand hall, but you //know// you’re just in a modest trunk perched on a kitchen shelf. The gallery warps sound and silence alike: every syllable, every muffled footstep. The box is only a couple feet long, far too small to create an echo. It’s a shame that Shrunken Harmonics 101 wasn’t taught at your college. It would have come in handy right now. [[Search for the frog spawn|Get in the snake box, Shinji]]

“Is that… a beetle?” Vanille asks, fingers gently tapping glass. The massive carapace wiggles slightly among the urine-colored liquid. You watch it drift for a moment, trying to get a bead on exactly how large it is through the odd refraction of the glass tube. “This looks like an angry rain cloud,” Mira cheers at the sight of what you’re pretty sure is a live jellyfish. “Ah, here we are!” Ashlyn croons. A sweeping arc invites your group to huddle in and take a better look. The ‘jar’ is hardly recognizable as such. Too tall, too wide. A profane display at a nightmarish aquarium. Dozens of little oblong spheres sit suspended in gallons and gallons of goo, like someone dumped hand sanitizer all over a huge pile of snow globes. Dark specks wobble about in the jelly, floating nuclei. Some are bigger than others, the first impressions of a tadpole-tail poking out, swinging freely. “A bit bigger than I expected…” Vanille grunts as she checks over the container. The knight assesses. Leather boots stomp about, then find themselves braced against the metal floor as she heaves. The glass squeals as it’s dragged from its solitary station. Lloriel’s light bends around the cylinder— A shadow slides along the wall. Mira freezes. Ears suddenly stand tall, flickering, searching. She starts frantically waving for Vanille to stop. //“What?”// you whisper. The demi sniffs the air, then //changes.// Tail poofs out. Shoulders hunch, almost feral. A dribble of drool dangles from Mira’s lips as her eyes go wide. Tasty, delicious, skittering mouse girls dart across the slim darkness, taking shelter in the crevices of the ingredient gallery. The nearest crouches behind a bottle of sliced mushroom caps. Little eyes and huge floppy ears stare back at you. A tiny scratch at your back has you cautiously turning in place. Another mousey face, more ears and tails and furry limbs. Some have toothpicks as weapons. Most aren’t wearing clothes. There’s easily two dozen of the monster girls all watching you and your group. You’re surrounded. “Mira…” you start as your gaze returns to the demi. She’s yet to move an inch—er, micro-inch. Human rationality holds back crazed feline instincts. She knows where every single person is in this trunk. Friends, countrymen, mice. Her eyes flit around wildly, lock with new targets, yummy targets, whole person-sized snacks just waiting to be gulped down. Yet she waits. Restrained. In control. Her ears stand at attention, holding for a command. It’s extremely unfortunate that this newfound impulse-control can’t be better recognized and rewarded. You’re proud of her. You want to tell her. It’s just a little hard to do that as a mouse girl is flying at you with an open mouth. [[Duck?|Snake Attack]]

Chaos spreads like fire. Allies and mice dart about, bounce off the metallic walls and scramble every which way. Tess is lunging with claws out, but other than her and Mira—the demi’s gulping down your attacker, existing stomach bulge be damned—nobody seems to //want// a fight. Ashlyn tosses out a few spells to sow further chaos. Vanille’s steadfastly at your side with her shield raised, and Lloriel’s exuding her usual nervous timidity as she stays close. The mice are hardly attacking at all, only occasionally, lashing out as they bump into panicking, squealing kin like pinballs. Tess scampers after a mouse girl in a desperate frenzy, the duo scurrying down the gallery and toward the entrance— A blur snaps her prey up and away. The entire trunk rattles as something huge and terrible thumps from outside. You stumble and bounce off a nearby jar. More mice abandon the fight, scurrying toward the light of Athy’s kitchen one by one. “Is everything alright in there? Are you okay?” Athy’s delicate soprano booms like the voice of a god. Huge open jaws burst into the metal container, slithering and darting for fresh prey. The snake scoops up a fleeing monster girl. A pair of dangling legs flash, then disappear in the blink of an eye. Fangs advance, gobble up every delectable inch. Another serpent pushes through the aperture and rudely bonks his head against the first. The predator thumps back, then swallows indignantly. Athy’s snake-hairs eclipse the light of the opposite entrance like the head of a massive hydra. The crowd of fleeing mice reverse course, but not before the slowest among them is snatched away. You watch the tight outline of the mouse girl slide down a serpentine neck, every curve excruciatingly detailed, a feast for the eyes. The snake gobbles up a second meal, then retreats with his prizes, leaving the entrance empty. “Mouse girls? Again?” you hear Athy’s sweet tones laced with concern. “They always get into the good ingredients, little pests.” She clicks her tongue. “Just be careful about <<= $name>> and the others.” Another snake penetrates the breach, hungry and hissing. <<linkreplace "“Athy!”">>“Athy!” you holler at the top of your lungs. The cacophony of the crazed skirmish overpowers your little voice. A new snake invades fangs-first, only to be met by Vanille’s blade. The beast diverts its assault and goes after a springing mouse girl instead, grabbing its meal and retreating to make way for the next greedy viper. “Vanille!” you shout to the knight as she deflects a panicking mouse girl off her shield. Once you have her attention, you point toward the far aperture in the trunk where you entered. “Close off that side. Stop the snakes from getting in!” She’s off before the last word leaves your lips, darting behind a colossal glass cylinder and shoving it toward the entrance with every ounce of might she can muster. She grunts and heaves, pushes with heroic strength. Progress starts slow, but the knight’s momentum builds with each step. She’ll seal the breach. She just needs time. //Glck!// You find Mira trying to cram another meal down her throat. “Mira, I need your help.” She spits up and immediately springs to attention like a soldier. Her would-be meal scampers away. “What can I—//hic//—do?” she asks with wild excitement. You point toward Tess as she oscillates wildly between lashing out at passing mice, and cowering every time a strand of serpentine hair draws near. “I need you to calm Tess down, and then I need both of you to watch Vanille’s back. Guide and protect her, alright?” “On it!” Mira scrambles to Tess’s side and works her magic. With any luck, that’s one of two holes plugged. Now for the other side… You hook your arm through the mage’s and start dragging the redhead to the other hole in the box. Lloriel’s hot on your heels, silent as a… well, y’know. Ahead at the breach, things are going poorly for the mice girls. Each clamorous moment sees another diminutive monster girl vanish behind a pair of hungry jaws. The snakes fight amongst each other for turns at the smorgasbord, each grabbing a few meals before withdrawing from the box so the next hungry customer can take their place. Snakob, the meanest of the bunch, reappears for seconds, thirds. Then, he spots you and lunges. You and the two spellcasters dive behind a large box with a brass latch. It reeks of tea leaves. A slithering body bumps against the cover and presses you three against the wall briefly, wedges you in firmly. Boots planted, you push and strain for freedom as pointed teeth appear around the corner. Dripping fangs snap and chomp a breath away from your face. //Twang.// An arrow brushes against your ear and impales the snake in the soft tissue. Athy squeaks. The beast retreats, then goes for easier prey. A moment later, the snake withdraws with a pair of furred legs wildly kicking between its lips. “We need to block this off!” you hiss, pointing at the temporarily vacant hole. Two heads try to force their way through, only to thump against the rusted metal as each prevents the other from entering. “Or just kill the snakes.” Ashlyn gags, then spews an entire sword out of her throat. She offers it to you. “Here you go, hero. Go slay the beasts.” “No! They’re part of her,” you say for Athy’s sake… and definitely not because you’re worried that if you cut off one snake head, two more will take its place. “She’s literally trying to kill us.” “On accident!” “You’re an idiot.” Ashlyn offers the sword to Lloriel, who also rejects the murderous proposal. “You’re both idiots.” You stare at the entrance, thinking, bracing. The entwined shadows of dueling snakes fight in the foreground over who gets the next attempt at devouring the tiny people trapped in the box. “We just gotta block this off…” [[… With that big box of tea|Does This Count As A Hydra Gameover?]] [[… With magical assistance|Snake Shack]]<</linkreplace>>

“Can either of you undo the shrink spell?” you bark, swinging your spear—and also Ashlyn’s throat-sword, because why turn down an extra weapon in a crisis. Ashlyn rolls her eyes. “Only if you want our bones to explode from being in a tiny fucking box as we suddenly expand.” She makes a little explosion gesture with her hand. “We’ll probably survive for a few seconds in agonizing pain as we’re all scrunched together—Honestly, not the weirdest orgy I’ve been to.” You can’t be certain, but ‘scrunched’ is probably the scientific term for that horrible mental image. “No, a partial dispel.” You grunt as you keep wildly thrusting your weapon at the breach. “Just on my tunic.” “Uhh… Maybe? It won’t be easy, I’ll need time and help.” You nod. “I’ll provide a distraction. Use Lloriel.” “I like the way you phrased that, <<= $name>>,” Ashlyn churrs, then grabs the shorter woman’s wrists and forces her hands against her corset. “Start squeezing, elf. You’re mine now.” “Wh—” “Warn me when the spell’s ready,” you shout, already pulling your tunic over your head. You sling the sleeves around your waist and brandish your spear. A bead of sweat rolls down your bare shoulders. You shout like a barbarian as you rush forward with the stabby end of your weapons. <<linkreplace "Waaagh!">>Your charge immediately garners the attention of the newest arrival to the all-you-can-eat buffet, who decides that <<= $name>>-Sans-Shirt will be an excellent first course. You dodge a lunging set of jaws, counter with a strike against alabaster scales, then duck under the serpentine body and dive into the narrow crevice between a pair of vials. You don’t check if the serpent tries to follow, instead sprinting through the narrow corridor and out the other end to ready another attack before he loses interest. Beady eyes trail you as you round the corner, ready and waiting. A successful jab deflects the striking snake. You draw no blood, but another swing across the creature’s face sees it pulling back. Scales wind and bunch and coil, scrunching the slithering foe into a corkscrew. You keep jabbing and poking, your target curling in on itself further and further. Its neck cranes before extending out to chomp at the haft of your weapon, but you’re already gone. Another feint, and the snake nearly bites himself. You’re stomping forward, all your attention dedicated to giving the giant reptile no quarter. So focussed, you don’t even notice as a mouse girl slams into your side. You fall into the tackle. She ends up on top—because of fucking course she does—and immediately stretches a panicked maw across your face. A wild swing of your arm avoids a pin on your left side, and you tuck and roll to the right. You go nowhere, but the manuever frees her suckering lips from your cheeks with a wet //splop.// You pull both legs up against your chest, find footing for your feet against her pelvis, and push with all your might. The mouse girl rises nearly an entire foot in the air— The snake’s jaws clamp over her body. Rough scales scrape against the front of your bare chest as the beast’s momentum glides its body forward. Breath hitches in your chest. It swallows. You //feel// it with your whole body. A lump passes and presses, heavy and wriggling. A flickering tongue whips against your face as the snake pulls back and prepares to scoop you up next. “Athy!” you scream. She doesn’t answer. You start shouting the names of the rest of your companions, but no one’s coming. You scramble back on your palms. Boots kick, scrape against the metal floor. Saliva drips between your legs as the bifurcated maw widens. Dark flesh waits, pulses. The snake coils, rears its head for a final strike. “<<= $name>>!” Lloriel shouts. Flopping, flailing, you yank the tunic from your waist, then hurl the bundled shirt at the open jaws. Woven cloth explodes, engulfs your vision like a maroon eclipse. Jars clink and clatter, wood vessels groan. A muffling wave spills, blankets you in—Oh god, the body odor. It reeks. You wear this all the time, and damn do you stink. Sweat and grime and raw swamp wastewater. The shirt’s pulled back toward the hole as the snake tries to get away with its ‘meal.’ You clamber free of the sodden cloth to avoid being yanked right along with it, then watch as it lodges firmly in the circular gap, pulled so tight that the fabric strains and the seams begin to tear. But it holds. Even as something thumps against the improvised plug from the outside, even as you can hear the agitated hissing of half a dozen gorgon hairs robbed of one last treat, the shirt holds, and you finally let yourself breath the slightest sigh of relief. Heavy boots and sloshing footsteps approach from the other end of the dark rat trap: Vanille and Mira, with Tess in tow somewhere behind the demi’s protruding stomach. The knight helps you to your feet, then hunches with the rest of your ground near the giant tea box. Silence falls like fog after a destructive summer storm. The thundering slams of snake-hairs ebb, the reverberating pounds of the metallic trunk fading into the background before stopping entirely. Dust settles, each fleck highlighted by Lloriel’s timid sprite, still hiding in the crook of the elf’s neck like a scared child. “<<= $name.first()>>- <<= $name>>? Did… the mouse girls eat you all?” You scramble for the gigantic cloth and mush your face against the bundle, swimming and sprawling until you manage a suitable gap. The candlelight of her kitchen is blinding. “Please put your hair up in a bun!” “O- Oh, s- sure. Sorry.” The gorgon sounds confused, but after a few moments of muffled rustling, she says, “Okay, what next?” “We found the spawn. It’s on the right side of the box—//Your// right. Just reach in and pull it out.” You’re leading the other five toward the dark end of the trunk when the ground suddenly shakes. You’re already bracing yourself against the nearest ingredients when Athy lets out a small squeak. “Bumped the table. Sorry.” Delicate fingers penetrate the gloom. Athylisia’s giant hand feels about, her manicured nails tapping a rhythmic //tick-tick// like a curious crow against a window. You give a wide berth to the strange operation, then breathe easier when she unwedges the jar of spawn and pulls it from the makeshift entrance. The aperture opened, you peer out at the otherwise empty tabletop. You can see Athy’s shadow bobbing up and down like a buoy with anxiety. “We’re coming out now,” you shout. “Step away from the table.” “All the way on the other side of the room, please!” Mira cheers. She’s mimicking your authoritative tone. “O- Okay,” the gorgon chirps, now muffled //and// distant. “Now what?” [[Time to get out of here|Stricking Vipers]]<</linkreplace>>

A few minutes of awkward logistics later, you’re all standing in Athy’s kitchen-slash-laboratory, shaking off the last traces of vertigo as you reacclimate yourselves to viewing the world from normal height. You yank your shirt out of the box and hastily don it<<if $AshlynEvent11 == "fuck">> before anyone can see the sex-scratches Ashlyn gifted you last night<</if>>. “I’m never gonna get used to that,” Lloriel mutters as she checks herself over. Mira pokes her re-smallened stomach with a frown. It sloshes. “What happened?” you ask. “Is the mouse girl gone?” “No, she’s still in there,” the demi mumbles, crestfallen. “But she didn’t get bigger with me. I wanted to be super full again.” “I already un-did the shrink spell. The mouse wasn’t big in the first place,” Ashlyn sighs. She rolls her head atop her shoulders like a basketball, stretching her muscles, clenching and unclenching her jaw. A hideous ‘pop’ rings out. She moans in post-coital bliss. You turn toward Athylisia. She’s swaying nervously in place, clutching the frog spawn jar tight. Her bloated hair wriggles and writhes atop her scalp, clearly displeased by the red ribbon restraining their freedom. Mockingly, you stick your tongue out at one of the snakes. “S- Sorry,” Athy mumbles. Embarrassed lines on her face deepen. “All this trouble because of my stupid mistake.” “It’s okay,” you say with a shrug. Why do you keep gesticulating for a woman wearing a blindfold? “I must find a way to make it up to you.” “Really, it’s fine. Just getting the eggs back is all we need. Rabbeth’oa seemed willing to let bygones be bygones as long as they’re returned safely.” The gorgon tilts her head. “Do you mean Rabbeth’a? Oh, is she the one who sent you?” Her lips curl to a disappointed frown. “She could’ve just visited herself. It’s been so long since she’s stopped by.” “Rabbeth//’a?// Is that her sister, or something?” “It’s the same frog.” Tess sheepishly supplies. “The sound at the end signifies her title.” “Athy, you //know// Rabbeth?” “Of course I know her! She’s the wonderful frog who welcomed me to Lurram when I first came here. And I was so worried about not getting along with my new neighbors, too. I brewed some of my best tea—brownie leaf with a dash of queen bee honey—and we had a lovely conversation. She was so friendly and kind and, oh, she must’ve stayed for hours and—” “Waitwaitwait, hold on. Rabbeth’a—Rabbeth’oa, whatever—is the frog girl sachem. She’s been the sachem for //years.// She never told you who she was?” “No, she never mentioned it,” Athy says, bewilderment on her tongue. “She was here, oh, must’ve been last summer…” The smile slips from the gorgon’s face. “I think,” Vanille starts, a quiet edge to her voice, “it’s best if you explain exactly how the two of you met, and what you discussed.” Athy coils around a nearby stool, weaving herself among the legs tightly. The wood creaks under her stranglehold as she clasps and unclasps her hands fitfully. Finally, she thumps her forearms down on the table for stability. “Like I said, she came to visit when I was still settling in, building the cottage. It was a mess; the roof leaked, and most of my plants were hardly more than buds.” The gorgon laughs, strained. Thumbs twiddle anxiously. “She was very friendly. Maybe a bit nervous, but once I introduced myself and offered her tea, she seemed to relax. We talked about lots of things: why I’d moved here, what I did with my free time, the food I liked to eat—Truth be told, I think she was most worried that I eat frog girls, but I assured her I much prefer smaller prey.” Mira nods vigorously. “Rabbeth’a explained that the other frogs were, umm, a little nervous with a witch making her home nearby, and that it might be best if I… keep to myself.” Her restless digits continue to accelerate, tapping and flicking frantically now. “She must’ve noticed I was disappointed, because she immediately promised she’d come by whenever she had time. I guess she must be very busy as sachem, though…” “Athy…” Vanille begins, cautious and despondent. “Rabbeth’oa isn’t your friend. She’s their sachem. She could’ve told her people that you’re not a threat at any time. And she hasn’t.” If she had feet, Athy would be stomping. “B- But, she said it was for my own safety—” “That’s probably how she became sachem,” Lloriel says, a tinge of inappropriate excitement in her voice. “She went back to her village and told everyone that she managed to keep the fearsome beast at bay. It’s why she sent us to—” The elf falters when Athylisia’s tail suddenly //thwacks// against a nearby cabinet. “Er, sorry. You’re not a beast. You’re very nice. But the frogs don’t know that. Except Rabbeth’oa—” Lloriel stops herself once again as awkwardness swallows her whole. “I should stop talking. Sorry.” “W- Well, i- if they’re afraid, “Athy stammers. Her whole body’s trembling now. “Then maybe it’s best that I keep to mys—” “Tolun’Moa is a thriving village,” Vanille interjects. “People from all over Lurram live and trade there. All kinds.” “All kinds…” Athylisia squeaks. “Except me.” The room falls silent as the gorgon curls forward and burrows her head in the crook of her elbow. Even her hair droops, utterly crestfallen. <<linkreplace "Try to console her">>“I… I’m sorry…” She rises suddenly and you lurch, afraid she’s about to take her anger out on the nearest, edible thing. Instead, she merely shakes her head. “My sisters warned me about this. Said I was better off under Lilith’s wing.” Her tail thumps against the table. “I’m so stupid.” “You’re not stupid,” Mira counters. “And you’re not alone. You and Tess can be friends now!” Tess’s expression performs a vigorous series of impractical gymnastics: terrified, pitying, confusion, terrified again, and finally—after noticing the entire party staring expectantly at her—yielding. “Uh, y- yeah, sure. I can come visit sometimes.” You nod. “And I’ll talk to the herons at Walst and tell them to check up on you every now and then.” You gesture to the still-bubbling cauldron, only to find Ashlyn scooping up a glob with two fingers, then sticking the mysterious unidentified substance in her mouth. Silently, you shoo her away from the brew, then turn back to Athy. “You’re clearly a skilled alchemist, maybe they’ll buy your potions, or offer you work at the temple.” Athy sniffles. “You’re all too kind. Thank you.” She draws a deep, stabilizing breath. “Even if it’s upsetting, I really do appreciate you telling me all this. I… I wish I could offer you something in exchange.” “Uhm… We //do// still need the frog spawn,” you say. “Oh, right! I’m so sorry, here.” She unspools from her seat. Dainty arms decorated with flecks of pearly scales extend. She offers the jar of eggs with a smile. Even one of her snake hairs is smiling at you— No wait, that’s not a smile. That’s malice in his beady little eyes. Snakob’s mad he didn’t get to devour you when he had the chance. The noodle maintains eye-contact as it wriggles free from the twisted bun atop Athy’s head. He drifts slowly over a pointed ear, then reaches around to the back of the gorgon’s head. He comes back into view with a corner of a kerchief in his mouth. The strip of red cloth slips, catching briefly on a nose before lethargically drifting down Athylisia’s face. Ringed irises of brilliant blue, like radiant crowns of sapphire amid clear midday skies, lock onto yours. ‘They’re quite beautiful…’ is the last coherent thought you have before your body turns to stone. [[Fade away…|Rock Hard!!!]]<</linkreplace>>

“What do you mean, //‘here we are?’// There’s nothing here!” Ashlyn sneers as she kicks a clod of dirt with her boot. The clump lands against a nearby stump with a thick //splursh.// Tess cowers. “Th- This is further than I’d go on my own. I- I’m not supposed to visit the dryad village, Sazelle said so.” She shudders. “Every lizard girl knows not to come here. Lots of terrible stories about this place.” This patch of Lurram is damp and muddy as all the rest. There’s no sign of a village; no waymarker, fencepost, nor disturbed rock. There’s not even a footprint. The only standout feature is the towering trees<<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>, and even Tolun’Moa had mangroves so that’s not particularly new<</if>>. If you were being charitable, you might say that this particular patch of peat is more lush than others, but you might only feel that way because you’re looking for a village of plant people… What the heck is a dryad, anyway? What //should// you even be on the lookout for? Are they alluring green women rooted in place like Allie the Alraune? Might they have fleshy bodies with wooden arms and legs? Maybe they’re nature sprites like Lili? Should you be expecting something shorter or taller than yourself? … Will it even be humanoid? You tap your chin idly. “Tess, have you actually seen a dryad?” “O- Only once.” You pick the oddest tree you can find among the dozens in your sight line. It doesn’t really look at all like a humanoid, but if you squint really hard, you get the faintest impression of a forty-foot tall monolith standing guard over the burgeoning forest like a sentinel. You point at the ‘hilt’ of the stalwart tree’s blade. “Do they look like that?” “No. Much smaller. But, uh, I- I didn’t get a good look honestly.” The lizard girl casts her gaze to the dirt, embarrassed. “I- I ran away as soon as I heard the rustling leaves.” You open up the question to the entire party. “Anyone know what a dryad looks like?” A round of quiet murmurs turns up empty-handed. You sigh. “Well, let’s just keep going, I guess.” Tess’s tail thumps awkwardly against the back of your leg. She flinches. “I- I should stay here, away from the forest. They don’t like visitors, a- and if they think I’m with you, then you might never find them.” “But we’re friendly!” Mira cheers, grabbing the lizard girl’s hand and pulling her along. Thoughts tumble about in your brain as you plod after your group. Ialise and Tess both described the dryads’ presence here as ‘a clan.’ Even if you’re the most hyper-efficient nature-loving recycler, you’ll still need infrastructure to serve and house a group of people. You need heat, shelter, insulation, food, livestock—or some analog of those things. Perhaps you ought to look for signs of extreme gardening, curated mossy shapes, unusual flower cultivations, or bonsai with off-puttingly realistic features. [[Perhaps a hedge trimmed in your image|Feed Me, Seymour]]

While none of the landmarks you imagined appear over the next few minutes, a more discerning eye finds the swamp //has// changed. The plant life has grown more dense, the trees broader, the canopies thicker. The stench of stagnant water has yielded to a thick, mulchy odor tinged with pungent flora. The ground’s still miserably sodden, the perpetual fog winding between the trees and choking back what little sunlight makes it through the canopies, but this swath of Lurram seems to be a whole lot more lush, bordering on verdant in its own damp and dreary way. The abundance of plant life makes it even //more// difficult to get around, forcing you to wade through dense thickets and hack past curtains of tangling creepers. A prickle of gooseflesh rises along your forearms. An odd smudge catches in your periphery. A confusing shape, unmoving. You pause, then rotate slowly in place until the offending blur comes into focus. It’s… a tree. You’re pretty sure it’s a tree, yet there’s something about it… “Hey, what’s that?” you ask, gesturing for your companions. “That’s another tree, dude,” Ashlyn groans. “Dryads are probably gonna be running around on two legs and… I dunno, wearing leaf kilts or some froofy bullshit.” “Right, sure. But doesn’t that kinda look like… a person?” It’s certainly person-//inspired.// The rough shapes are there: the vivacious curve of hips, the delicate contours of legs, the sweep of shoulders. But it’s all distorted and elongated to arboreal proportions, a peculiar mix of surreal and beauty and disconcerting familiarity. Okay, so this //probably// isn’t a dryad. They’ll need to be a bit more, er… mobile if they’re supposed to make the trip back to Walst for the meeting. But maybe it’s dryad-related? It’s the closest thing you’ve seen to sapient life in these parts. Might as well check it out. <<linkreplace "Poke the tree">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Swamp4 to true>>Two steps forward to poke at the tree, and the last stable image your brain processes is a thick vine wrapped tight around your ankle. Vanille shouts as you’re yoinked clean off your feet. The world inverts, spins and flips upside down. Vertigo twists your insides like a pretzel. Blood rushes inside your skull. Lungs bellow out a cry for help as the underbrush bursts to life in a frenzy of lashing vines, thorny brambles, hungry maws of muddy green and stark scarlet. The shambling mass curls and grabs your weapon, then twists it free and wields it against your nearest companion. Vanille catches the haft with a lunge, twirls it, then goes on the offense. Malevolent and teeming, the pile of hungry plants attack. A strand like verdant razor wire surges for Ashlyn’s chest but meets an upraised arm instead. The leafy appendage wraps tight and pulls the mage off balance, twisting the words of a nascent spell into a shouted curse. Sherine’s on her way when an oblate green mass unfurls nearby, revealing a pinkish interior between two jagged rows of thin thorns. The venus flytrap and its pair of thick, trunk-vines lash after her, whipping and curling like rabid worms. At your back, Tess’s hacking cough comes to a choked stop as a dense glob of sap splatters on her face. Mira’s scurrying feet scramble past. A wet, sinuous muscle slaps against your forehead. You look up—well, down at the ground—and start squealing as a bulbous head of cabbage smiles at you. Red leaves like ruby lips peel apart. The vegetable opens to a row of pearly teeth, all neatly interwoven. A wet, slobbery //tongue// reaches, twisting and coiling around your middle as the sylvan monster rises to snap you up in a single massive bite. [[Try to escape|Tree Elf]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Play it safe">><<replace "#choices">>You shake your head, then turn back to your companions. “Nevermind, it’s—” Something dry brushes against your leg—the barest whisper of a presence, questing and inquisitive. Your foot rises and stomps into a combat stance, a battle reflex you didn’t know you had. A single ambitious vine wraps around your boot, pulls your leg forward. You bat it down, spear already whirling in hand— Vanille’s blade slices across your vision, a blur of steely blue. You’re already backpedalling as she yanks you toward safety. The forest bursts to life, malevolent and teeming. Everywhere you look finds some hostile scrap of vegetation: lashing vines, thorny brambles, hungry maws of muddy green and stark scarlet. A dozen vines lash out. You meet the first with the sharp of your weapon, then block another with the wooden haft. A strand like verdant razor wire lunges for Ashlyn’s chest but meets an upraised arm instead. The leafy appendage wraps tight and pulls the mage off balance, twisting the words of a nascent spell into a shouted curse. Sherine’s on her way when an oblate green mass unfurls nearby, revealing a pinkish interior between two jagged rows of thin thorns. The venus flytrap and its pair of thick, trunk-vines lash after her, whipping and curling like rabid worms. The lamia responds in kind, attempting her usual death-roll, but the amorphous foe lacks any vital parts that can be strangled or crushed. She thrashes, struggling to untangle herself from the ever-tightening knot of scale and vine, then flops into the mud as her tail’s drawn slowly inside the clasping maw. At your back, Tess’s hacking cough comes to a choked stop as a dense glob of sap splatters on her face. Mira snatches and lifts the lizard girl as the ground opens up. Dense roots like teeth snap after the demi’s scurrying feet. Once clear of the ankle-biters, Mira thumps her cargo into the dirt and starts swiping the gunk away. You swing and swipe at loose tendrils. A tall, vibrant flower rises up and sneezes pollen at you. A defensive sleeve finds your face as you turn and stumble away. You’re coughing, halfway to safety, when a vine finds your leg. Vanille shouts as you’re yoinked clean off your feet. The world inverts, spins and flips upside down. Vertigo twists your insides like a pretzel. Blood rushes to your skull. Lungs bellow out a cry for help as a wet, sinuous muscle slaps against your forehead. You look up—well, down at the ground—and start squealing as an overgrown head of cabbage smiles at you. It’s tongue reaches out once more for a grip, and you clench and curl yourself just out of reach. Red leaves like ruby lips peel apart, the sylvan monster’s maw unfurling as it rises to snap you up in a single massive bite. [[Try to escape|Tree Elf]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You flail wildly at the eyeless horror. Another tendril squeezes your wrist, clamps your arm firmly to your side and squeezes tight. Vanille rushes for the abomination’s stem and readies her sword like a woodman’s axe. Sudden, blinding light bursts at the edge of your vision. A lance crashes down from the heavens. The honed spiral of wood screams across the battlefield, plunges through the black hat atop Ashlyn’s head, and impales itself in the mud, vine-wrapped wood quivering with a warbling hum. “Halt!” a commanding voice rings through the woods. The hostile bramble quivers, shudders, and rustles to a halt, though you’re still hanging by your ankle, head pounding in the ensuing silence. Humanoid shapes emerge from the surrounding brush—//of// the surrounding brush—as if the foliage itself has taken form. Figures cast in verdant greens step forward, lean and wary and brandishing weapons of the selfsame hues: lances wrapped in ivy, a keen shortsword shaped from a leaf, a heavy shield made entirely of tree bark. “Firestarter! Singe one more frond and the next will not miss.” It takes a moment from your piss-poor vantage, but the ring of char around Ashlyn’s feet becomes clear. An arc of fire dance between her palms, crackling and thirsty and aimed at what you’re now certain are dryads. “Aww, are these your friends?” The mage stomps on a quivering vine, gnashes her heel in the mud. “What are you gonna do about it?” “Impale you in the heart.” “Which one?” “Do not test us, outsider,” the creature growls. The mage sneers. “I have a dozen tests prepared, all of them about dryad flammability.” “You can’t reason with her,” Vanille explains in a sharp, authoritative tone. She stomps forward as all eyes turn to her, then sheathes her blade with a screech. “She’ll set everyone here on fire just for fun.” Ashlyn lets out a cackle worthy of the pointiest of hats, equal parts gleeful and maniacal. “She’s right. I’m insane.” A round of murmured agreements rumble from your companions. You’d offer one too if you weren’t busy trying to remain conscious. The dryad’s eyes widen as fingers the color of celery stalks tighten around her spear. “M- Madness. You’ll be burned. All of you!” “Not as badly as you,” Vanille says. She raises her hands in an ameliorating gesture and takes a step. “But we can avoid this. Talk to me, and I’ll keep her in line.” A long and nervous silence stretches between the trees. Wary eyes stare from the brush, three—no, //four// sets watching, appraising. Muscles tense. Feet shift. The fire in Ashlyn’s palms crackles with promised cataclysm. Each slight motion meets a reflexive twitch from the forest itself, anxious and paranoid and coiling tighter by the moment, waiting for something to snap. A distant sound catches your ear: the rustling of leaves and the squelching of mud. Something’s approaching. Gazes turn, braced. A bush quivers and shakes. A figure, lithe and spry, bursts from the undergrowth in a shower of leaves and twigs. Topaz eyes gleaming, the new arrival springs forward, hoists a wooden container, and flings the contents at the mage before anyone else can even think to react. A torrent of water hits Ashlyn square in the torso, drenching her hair and blouse, plastering her sleeves to her arms, soaking into her skirt and dripping down her legs. The fire sputters, hisses, and dies, leaving a few smoldering cinders in her palms. Another long and uncertain silence settles over the scene, utterly flabbergasted. The spriggan woman tucks the wooden vessel under one arm, wipes a strand of leafy hair from her brow, and lets out a relieved sigh. //“Phew,// glad I got here in time.” She turns and does a quick, sloppy little curtsy to your group. “Hi, I’m—” She falters as every other dryad abruptly drops to a kneel, weapons lowered and heads hunched. “M- Matriarch,” one of the genuflecting figures manages. “You shouldn’t be—” The newcomer rolls her eyes. “Shush! I’m just here to help.” “Y- Yes, my matriarch. I apologize, my matriarch.” “Oh, stop that. Stand for our guests, be polite.” She waves her arms. The dryads rise as one and immediately move to protect their matriarch as she flits about the clearing. She directly addresses the little shop of horrors below your dangling body. “And yes, that counts for //you,// too.” The vine around your ankle begins gradually lowering you to the ground—and thankfully //not// toward the plant maw. Vanille’s at your side the instant you’re free. You hastily assure her you’re fine, rise to your feet and check on the rest of your friends. Sherine’s been released from the flytrap’s grip and is now massaging a section of her tail while directing the odd scornful glance toward the offending plant. Mira and Tess look to be okay, though the lizard girl’s still a bit woozy. And… Wait a second. <<linkreplace "Where’s Lloriel?">>Where’s Lloriel? A brief scan finds a pair of leather-clad legs flailing from the maw of a colossal plant shaped like an upturned bell. The vague shadow of an elf splashes around behind a thin green veil. Slim arms slip and slide along the fibrous walls as Lloriel sputters in the open-air digestive trap. Mira’s already scrambling up to the rim of the greenery. She grabs the lip and throws herself toward the ground. The pitcher wobbles, tilts and tips. A wave of stinky, acrid goo sloshes across the forest floor, carrying a disheveled and deeply embarrassed Lloriel with it. The elf’s fussing and fidgeting as Mira tries to wipe her clean, then warns the demi before casting a quick spell. A wave of water suddenly spills overhead, washing away the goop and rendering her mostly clean. How handy. You’ll have to ask Lloriel for a quick rinse the next time you get dunked in hydrochloric acid. Your party’s dignity mostly intact, you turn your attention back to the dryads. There’s eight of them in total—a few more than you would’ve guessed from your initial upside-down survey. Each carries a ‘grown’ weapon of some variety, lowered to a cautious guard rather than being actively brandished. They form a tight ring around their leader—er, matriarch. It’s a curious title for such a waifishly dressed woman. She’s blemishless and has only recently outgrown gangly teenage features. The floral sweeps atop her head reach out in all directions, a jagged burst of vivacious pink fireworks. “I’m so sorry for the rude introduction,” the dryad matriarch offers with an apologetic frown. She squats down and places the bucket on the ground alongside the rest of the carnivorous biomass. The earth quivers, then //accepts// the vessel with a series of embracing roots as if the strange woman had effortlessly repotted the bucket. “Some of the plants can be a bit overeager sometimes.” She steps toward the oddly shaped tree you were eyeing earlier, her voice bright and appreciative. “These were always Rhea’s favorite when she was a seedling. Look how big they’ve grown under her boughs!” Delicate, verdant fingers loops under the vegetable abomination’s ‘chin.’ The dryad scritches, and Audrey III emits an odd, churring noise which will probably haunt your nightmares for the next few days. Botanical affection given, the dryad matriarch turns to face you and your companions with a warm smile. “My name’s Sable. What brings you to our forest?” You brush a few leaves from your tunic and… are you supposed to bow? She //is// a matriarch. You settle on a polite nod. “We’re from Walst-on-High. We’re to relay a message to the leader of your clan.” Expectedly, the dryad lights up. “You’re in luck! That’s me.” She reviews each of your party in turn, then frowns when she comes to Tess. “I was curious which sister Ialise would send next, but I wasn’t expecting a lizard girl.” “S- Sorry—” “She’s our guide!” Mira chirps as she steps up to Tess’s side. “Tess has been helping us get around the swamp. That’s how we found you.” A chorus of wary murmurs rumble between the dryad guard as eyes flit toward the lizard girl, appraising, judging. The dryad that threatened Ashlyn earlier—you’re gonna call her ‘Angry One’—glares fury at the scared monster. Sable shrugs. “Works for me. So, what can I do for—” “Matriarch,” one of the fellow dryads meekly interrupts. “I- If I may, wouldn’t it be best to discuss such important matters in the security of Melica… a- and in the presence of Steward Cupressa?” “Absolutely not,” Angry One interrupts. “A Firestarter hasn’t walked our lands in a decade. There won’t be any negotiating with these outsiders—” “That’s not anyone’s call to make but my own,” Sable insists. She hasn’t quite mastered the commanding, regal tone yet, but it’s enough to make her entire retinue shamble to silence. “I’d quite like to visit your village,” Sherine croons. You watch her tail slip along the sodden ground and curl at Ashlyn’s feet without alerting the mage. “I promise I’ll choke her out if she tries anything.” Sable frowns. “That sounds… violent.” “Nah, I’m into it,” Ashlyn says as she intentionally steps between the coils. The mage raises both palms toward the group of dryads, then suddenly claps her hands together. All but Sable flinch. The matriarch looks between your two companions with mild concern, but eventually shrugs. “I guess we’ll go, then. I’ll lead the way!” Her fellow dryads seem none too pleased, but they fall in line behind their leader in sullen silence, leaving you and your party to follow. [[Follow Sable|Cat Grass]]<</linkreplace>>

In the forest queen’s royal presence, you take every step carefully for fear that you’ll be treading on the roots or stems of someone’s great aunt. Vanille picks up your hesitation like a hound following the scent of blood, and soon enough she’s a single pace ahead of you, guiding the safest path for you to literally follow in her footsteps. As you find the rhythm, you sneak peeks at the retinue, soak up some of the finer details now that you aren’t hanging over a friggin’ piranha plant. The dryads are all roughly human in shape: five-fingered hands and five-toed feet, two arms, two legs, no visible tails or other strange protrusions. Maybe a bit on the lean side. Each bears a varying shade of green flesh, though they still blush the same reddish hue like blood-bearing humanoids. The royal guard all wear the leafy approximation of a padded tunic and leathery chaps—some sort of lacquered wood, you guess—while the matriarch sports a pair of pantlets and a short-sleeved tunic that leaves a few inches of verdant waist exposed. If you squint, she kinda looks like Mira. Maybe if the demi were stretched a foot taller. And green. And made of plants. Also, it’s impossible to tell if Sable’s actually clothes, or if they’re merely an extension of her body. You’re not about to ask. “Are those clothes, or are they a part of you?” Mira asks, bounding along at the dryad matriarch’s side. “Clothes,” Sable says with a warm smile. “We fashion them ourselves, for modesty or protection.” “They’re really pretty!” “Thank you.” The dryad lets out a slight chuckle, then pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I ever got your names.” “I’m Mira!” She beams, looking over her shoulder and pointing to you and your companions in turn. “And that’s <<= $name>>, and Vanille, and Ashlyn, and Sherine, and Lloriel, and Tess!” Sable follows along, offering slight nods and kind smiles. A part of you wonders if seven names in the span of ten seconds might be a bit much, but you’re sure Mira will be more than happy to remind her. Despite a tiny squeak of caution from Vanille, you shuffle forward to match Mira and Sable’s strides. The demi tugs on Sable’s half-shirt. “You called that pretty tree Rhea, right? Is she a dryad, too?” “Of course.” The matriarch nods, then gestures to the surrounding forest. “Most of the trees around us are.” Mira points. “Is that tree a dryad?” “Yes.” “How about… that one?!” “Yes.” “That one?” “Yes, her too.” “What about this shrub!” the demi asks with wildly unfounded confidence. Sable giggles. “No, that’s just a shrub.” “Ohhh…” You gaze between the passing trees. “Do they all have names—the tree, err, dryads, I mean?” “Names of their own choosing, yes. And they keep that name when they take root,” Sable says with another nod. “Though most have been forgotten.” “That sounds kinda… sad,” Mira murmurs, tail swishing in fitful arcs. “It’s natural. Outside of the trees in Melica, they begin to forget us as well.” “That’s even sadder…” The matriarch tilts her head. “Is it? A seedling like myself might live to see the turn of a century, but once we’ve taken root, dryads can stand strong and tall for a thousand years. Their concerns are very different from our own, as is their sense of time and place.” She offers a wistful smile. “And even if they eventually forget us, they find new friends. Thousands upon thousands of rooted dryads spanning northern Lurram alone, whispering through their branches and roots, feeling the sap pulse in their veins. I’ve always thought it sounds kind of nice.” “I guess so,” Mira says, though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Sable shuffles to the demi’s side and places an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, they say that the moment the last seedling forgets a rooted dryad’s name—and the moment the last thought of her former seedlings leaves a rooted dryad’s mind—//that// is when the tree will finally bear its fruit, and a whole new bunch of seedlings bloom. “But enough about me,” the dryad says with a slight shake of the head. “You’re not a lizard or a frog, which means you must be from beyond Lurram, right? Are you travelers? Adventurers?” “Both,” you say. An eager glint shines in Sable’s eyes. She shuffles a step closer. “Can you tell me what it’s like outside of Lurram? The places you’ve visited? Some of the things you’ve seen?” Vanille gracefully steps in. “Sounds like a fair trade to me. What would you like to know?” At Sable’s behest, Vanille offers up a near-complete description of everything around Lurram itself: the ocean to the west, the Havendorian Heartlands to the south, the forest beyond the Brimond Mountains. The knight speaks of your travels in vague terms, embellishing a bit here and omitting place names there—notably Orrault. The matriarch’s attention lingers on the details of the wedding in Khobb for a zealously long time. Apparently, eating the groom is the most romantic thing she’s ever heard. “Tell me more about the cake, please. You said it’s made of eggs, and crushed-up grains and sugar cane?” “Basically. And then it’s baked in an oven,” you offer, glad to finally be of use in the conversation before immediately realizing that a plant person wouldn’t know what the fuck an oven is. “Er, that’s—” Sable laughs. “I’ve heard of baking. I appreciate your propriety, however.” You jolt as Mira suddenly reaches into your bag. Every single one of the dryad guards goes on high alert as she retrieves a tightly-packed ration. “I have some here!” she cheers, then unwraps the compressed disc of cake and offers it to her newest friend. “You can have it!” The guard watches in helpless, abject horror as their matriarch takes the slice and pops it in her mouth wholesale. Her cheek puffs for a moment as she chews— Everyone tenses as Sable stops dead in her tracks. “It’sh….” “It’s good, right?” “Thish is amayshing.” She swallows. “I- Is there more?” The matriarch looks directly at you as she licks her lips. “I- I didn’t even know I had that,” you offer hastily, arms flailing, heart racing. You’re pretty fucking sure it wasn’t in your bag this morning, which means Mira planted it on you. … Is she trying to get you eaten? “Ah.” Sable nods. She licks her lips again to lap up the last little bits of goodness, then sighs. [[That was close|Take Me Down To The Dryad City Where The Girls Are Green And The Grass Is Pretty]]

You carry on through the dense woodlands with Sable at the lead and Mira stuck firmly to her side, pointing and gesticulating with one hand while dragging along a significantly less eager Tess with the other. The matriarch follows no discernable trail nor visible landmarks, but the forest around you gradually changes, so you’re definitely heading //somewhere.// Marshy browns shift to a more genuine green. The mud beneath your boots solidifies into a mulchy soil. The scents of plant life hang thick in the air, a heady blend of a dozen different species you can’t even begin to identify. A small part of you wonders if you’re about to discover some new allergies… The forest grows denser with each step, the trail narrowers, the brush at your side thicker and taller. A few suspiciously moving vines, lurch in your periphery. Another toothy abomination lurks just off the path. Once or twice a tendril strays toward you or one of your companions, only to be dissuaded by a gentle hand or stern glare from the dryads. Suddenly, your path is barred entirely by a wall of brambles and thorny bushes, easily half again your height. It’s the sort of obstacle that would take a machete, strength, endurance, and a whole lot of band-aids to gradually work your way through, but knowing your luck, the damned thing would start growing back before you made any real progress. The dryad matriarch approaches, steps into the welcoming embrace of lush greenery. She teases fingers along the leaves, presses gentle palms against supple stems. Sable leans in, whispers sweet nothings. The dense biomass quivers and parts, the leaves rustling like the sound of a lover leaving bed. “H- How did you do that?” Ashlyn asks, wide-eyed. “I ask the plants very nicely.” She beckons with a sweeping arm. “Please, follow me.” Warily, you shimmy and lurch through the narrow gap in the thicket wall, taking great care to not snag your clothes on the thorns. It’s a brief but no less claustrophobic trek before a glimmer of light heralds the end. You step into another world, a living and breathing utopia blooming with the kind of beauty that poets and painters spend their whole lives chasing. Roads of packed earth flow like eddies between intricately arranged roots and branches woven into fanciful balustrades and palisades. Every inch, every step is in perfect harmony with nature. Every swerve, every bend all curated, every ounce of biomass in balance. Even the rays of the sun feel meticulously arranged to brighten and highlight the most profound aspects of this exalted ecosystem. You catch a soothing lungful of nectar-laden air, then exhale, purified. Sable leads you and your friends between the village buildings—if you can even call them that. The bark structures are fairytail-like things: capped with leafy greens, sheets of slanted moss, or sometimes lacking any sort of roof entirely. Rectangular voids in the bark walls create windows. The trees that form the houses themselves grow horizontal shelves, sills, and fruiting branches of all kinds, including some you’ve never seen before. Dozens of dryads gather on patios and balconies to watch the matriarch’s procession with keen curiosity. None are particularly happy to see you, but you can’t help but notice the derisive whispers and sneers when they see Tess among your group. Sable marches on, oblivious to—or more like uncaring of—the cool reception. She charts a course for the village center, marked by a single, massive tree. It towers above the others, grand and breathtaking, roots like buttresses, trunk like a massive cathedral spire. Innumerable openings dot its expanse: small windows, some dark and murky, others glowing with a gentle light. Great boughs drape over the village like the arms of a protective mother sheltering her children. The dryad matriarch marches up to the base of the tree, plants her feet, and turns to face you with her usual congenial expression. “Here we are,” Sable cheers. She looks to your group, then over at her guard, counting. A nod precedes, “I’ll let Cupressa know the situation. Please bring our guests up.” The matriarch smiles, then steps //into// the tree. The bark parts like lips, a narrow slit just barely large enough to accept Sable. Her tunic flutters, then vanishes as the wall itself closes up behind her, utterly unchanged from a moment prior. //Great, the trees eat people here.// No no, you must have blinked or something. You can’t just pass through solid matter willy-nilly. There’s gotta… be… a door… You look around the tower for an entrance, but find none. You step back, then start scanning the rest of your surroundings. It dawns on you that you haven’t seen a single door so far in the entire village… [[And now you know why|Motherfucking Snakes On A Motherfucking Elevator]]

Mind afire, you start pacing to dispel some of the panicked energy, but are rebuffed by the remaining dryads all shifting nervously in place. They spend a long, uncomfortable moment glaring at you, then each other, and then at Tess. “She waits outside,” the toughest among the royal guard says snidely. You’re about to stand up for <<if $Lurram == 1>>the<<else>>>your<</if>> guide when she simply sits on the ground, shivering. Tess scoots toward the nearest tree, then shrivels under the harsh glares of the guard, shellshocked and utterly resigned. You put your foot down and look around for answers. “Wait wait, what’s even happening right now.” “We’re to bring you to the royal chambers.” “And that’s… in this tree?” “In the boughs of Piri, overlooking Melica.” “… Are we supposed to climb?” “Our rooted will not accept outsiders. We will need to carry you.” You don’t even have to wonder for a millisecond what they mean by ‘carry.’ There’s only one answer, every bit as absurd as it is inevitable. Your companions all arrive at the same conclusion, too. You can see it in the mixed expressions: consternation, trepidation, and more than a bit of bewilderment. <<if $Collateral == "Vanille">>A bubble of laughter escape’s Ashlyn’s bosom. She drapes an arm across Vanille’s shoulder. “This’s twice today for you, huh? Really must suck.” Vanille pushes her off and grunts. She casts an apologetic gaze your way. You sigh, then ask the group, “Everyone alright with letting the dryads eat them temporarily—We’re gonna be let out, right?”<<elseif $Collateral == "Lloriel">>“I’m sorry, Lloriel. I- I didn’t think this would happen twice today.” The elf shrinks. “I- It’s okay,” she squeaks. You roll your eyes and sigh, then ask the group, “Everyone alright with letting the dryads eat them temporarily—We’re gonna be let out, right?”<<else>>Havendorians will do anything for a free meal… You roll your eyes and sigh, then ask, “Everyone alright with letting the dryads eat them temporarily—We’re gonna be let out, right?”<</if>> Ahead, Angry One nods, but offers nothing else in the way of assurance. “Do we have to be //eaten,// specifically?” Ashlyn asks, directing the question at the nearest dryad. She attempts a catcall, though the verdant woman simply tilts her head in confusion. One of her allies leans over and whispers something in her ear, and the monster girl goes from underripe-green to tomato-red in an instant. “A- An alternative can be arranged…” “Then I’m in,” Ashlyn cheers, notebook and quill already in hand. A round of murmured agreement rumbles through the rest of your group, absent one voice in particular. Sherine, instead, folds her arms and glares up at the massive arbor. “I’ll be waiting out here with Tess,” she says, already moving toward the little lizard. Vanille frowns. “Why?” <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>Sherine flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Simple logistics. I’m at least four times your size and weight. Besides, you and <<= $name>> are more than capable of handling some light diplomacy without me.” “It’s a royal summons,” the knight insists with a slightly indignant edge. “We’re guests, and Sable is expecting //all// of us—not just the ones who find it convenient.” You side-eye Tess. The small lizard furtively shakes her head. The lamia rolls her eyes. “I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal of this.” “Neither do I.” Vanille folds her arms, a tight scowl on her lips. “You already sat around and let us deal with the gorgon witch earlier today. Or yesterday when you sat on the outskirts of the fight while Mira, Lloriel, and I did all the hard work.” “I was protecting <<= $name>>.” Vanille grunts, heavy and sarcastic. “This isn’t about <<= $name>>. It was a fight we didn’t want in the first place. Had you swapped with one of us, thrown your weight around a little more, we maybe could have avoided it.” “I don’t soil my scales at your whim, Vanille.” “We’re a team. We all need to pitch in.” Sherine sighs, then points to the waiting dryads. “You can whinge all you like, it doesn’t change the fact that I won’t fit, plain and simple.”<<else>>“It’s obvious: I won’t fit.”<</if>> “You’re wrong about that, snake.” The beefiest dryad from among the royal guard steps forward, pushing her lesser counterparts aside like the parting tide. She’s got about a foot on you and is impressively well-built: wide shoulders, grave hips, thighs like… tree trunks. The puns are gonna be unavoidable while you’re in the dryads’ domain, so you might as well strap in. “I can take you just fine,” she says proudly, puffing out her chest and midriff. Your professional assessment leaves you slightly salivating, but ultimately uncertain about her claim. You’ve seen weirder things in your time here, but Sherine’s over twenty feel long… Sherine’s brow twitches in mild annoyance, but the lamia hides the reflex as quickly as it manifested. “I highly doubt you can handle me, sweetheart.” “I’ve had bigger.” Sherine rolls her eyes at the challenger. “Well, if you think you’ve got the gut for it…” she says, lifting a single limp wrist and dangling it back and forth like she’s begrudgingly feeding a neglected mutt. The other woman takes the bait. Ochre flesh passes over dark verdant lips. She swallows hard enough to drag Sherine forward and provoke an unexpected yelp. Another arm goes in, then biceps. The lamia ducks and grunts as the dryad’s jaw scoops her up. Shoulders, breasts, waist all vanish in an undulating gulp. Viscous, pale green saliva dribbles down puffed cheeks. A leafy breastplate rises as the dryad’s stomach swells. Greedy hands scouring the length of Sherine’s tail for purchase, scales sliding beneath fingers as she slurps and //shlorps.// After Sherine’s hips have passed through the cacophonous maw, the dryad pauses. She clutches her ballooned stomach and bends forward, exhausted and panting around the interminable tail dangling from her lips. Her fellow dryads move to pity and comfort, but the tough woman has none of it, immediately straightening her spine and widening her stance. The vigorous slurping resumes, renewed by the mere thought of perceived ineptitude. You all watch in stupefied awe as the braggart dryad slowly sucks up the ridiculously long noodle. By the silent reverence, the lack of any other movements happening anywhere nearby as this spectacle unfolds, you’re pretty sure that noisily eating your food isn’t considered rude anywhere in Havendor, even here in the pristine, hallowed ground of the dryads’ home. Scale by scale, gulp by gulp, breath by heaving breath, the dryads works her way through Sherine’s long-ass tail. Her middle’s grow to gravid proportions, easily the size of two people, green flesh thinning and straining to the point of bursting. Yet she holds all the way to the finish line. //“Hwuurp,”// is all she has to say for herself. The dryad draws a huge breath as she massages her neck. “Told ya I could—” Sherine writhes at the insult, and the dryad falls over backward. It takes two of her friends to hoist her back to her feet, and the overstuffed plant woman wastes no time making a beeline for the giant tree. She presses her gut against the bark. The wooden wall creaks and groans as she squeezes herself through, far from the image of grace. A horrid creaking later sees the strange void within the tree sealed up once more. Both you and Ashlyn peer curiously at it, looking for any trace of the vanished dryad and your companion. It’s both a mercy and a malice that the tree doesn’t bulge out with the excessive load. You wanted to see that… but also you’d never be able to unsee that. The great oak suddenly shudders. Leaves shamble and shake without wind. A confusing groan leaks from between the grooves of the old bark. You jump back as the overstuffed dryad bursts from about five feet up, rejected and squeezed out like a zit in a shower of greenish goop. You swear the tree lets out one tiny little cough before going still. Sherine spills out of the dryad’s mouth head first. Mostly dry, she drags her tail free from the stunned predator in a few undignified seconds, then stands tall and brushes herself off. “Someone’s eyes were bigger than their stomach.” //“Hurrghh,”// is all the dryad can manage. <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>Well, that’s one way to settle an argument<<else>>Well, she certainly proved her point<</if>>. And on the bright side, your guide won’t be left alone in hostile territory. Then again, her babysitter is Sherine… “Then it’s settled,” Sherine says, finishing the final touches on adjusting her outfit. She nods cordially to you and Vanille, a perfectly flat and pleasant expression. “I’ll be waiting down here. Have fun.” A delicate hand alights upon your shoulder. You flinch and turn to face the shortest dryad from the guard. Without a word, she opens her jaw over your head. Her pink tongue stays flat against your chin as she takes the first gulp, the pulsing throat undulating and gripping onto your head. Muted //shlurps// resonate through your body as you’re hefted up off your feet, bent forward, then crammed deep down into the dryad. Arms pinned, you slip and slide into the strange sack. Dripping goop splatters your skin, vicious saliva coating your clothes, your hair. You’re thankful as your face hits a not-actively-sloshing stomach, but the stench is overpowering. The dryad’s insides reek of heavy, earthy scents, like petrichor and fresh mulch. You’re being moved before you’ve even tucked inside the gut. She ignores your shimmying legs pressed tight in her throat and walks on. You brace yourself as the stifling heat of her tract suddenly changes— You’re in the tree. Your body feels as if gravity were on a lunch break. Your hostess murmurs, the buzzing vibrations resonating down her throat, though the boundaries between her and the endless expanse of sylvan voidspace warp and wane. You feel like you can move, stretch yourself out, but are still trapped in space. Your ears pop as she… rises? On a daring whim, you open your eyes to pure darkness, not entirely sure what you were expecting. The bizarre sensation ebbs as the dryad reenters the world. She bends forward and heaves. Your feet find the floor immediately, and once stable, the throat and stomach outright reject you. Rippling walls of flesh pulse and squeeze you up and out like toothpaste. Lips ascend your disheveled tunic, pull it all the way up to your armpits. Your head pops free a moment later. The dryad smiles courteously and steps back into the tree to leave you to reconcile the strange reality by your soggy lonesome. [[Get your bearings|Spring Matriarch]]

You find yourself in a chamber that strikes a paradoxical balance between cozy and unnervingly alien. It’s small, the size of a room at an inn, but the floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of a single unbroken expanse of wood that slopes and curves in a way no human craftsman could reasonably achieve. The sole piece of furniture is a small table of shaped wood resting against the far wall, featuring a strikingly red flower in a pot of sun-cracked clay. A single, tidy window lies tucked into the wall to your right, but the majority of the light comes from a strand of curiously glowing ivy strung about the room like festive bunting. The faintest murmurs of hushed conversation trail from the room’s sole exit: an ovular aperture shaped into the wall, more like an opening in a cave than a proper carved door. You shuffle closer, ears strained. An unfamiliar voice whispers, “… Running off like that when you have responsibilities—” “I’m //fine!”// A second voice—Sable—hisses back, followed by more that you can’t quite hear. “Your safety is more important than…” The first trails off as you round the sloped corner and poke your head into the room to find two dryads staring back from behind a broad desk. The one on the right is Sable, but the other is new. She stands tall and lean, arms folded behind a rigid back. Flowing robes paint a picture of stark and stately grace, formal to the point of ostentatious. Her hair of long, ghostly-white leaves drapes past her shoulders and curls ever so slightly at its tips. The unfamiliar dryad steps forward as if to speak, only for Sable to head her off. “I can handle introductions myself.” The elderly woman hesitates, then nods. “As you wish, Matriarch.” Sable sighs and waits as your companions //splorch// free of their dryad transports and shuffle into the room. Once everyone is more or less settled, she steps before the desk. “Well, I know we’ve already introduced ourselves, but Cupressa here—” //“Steward// Cupressa,” the older dryad corrects. Sable rolls her eyes. “Like I was saying, //Steward// Cupressa is a stickler for formalities, so…” She stands a bit straighter, adopting an admirable attempt at more regal pose. “I am Spring Matriarch Sable, and this is my steward, Cupressa.” You and your friends offer introductions of your own, after which Cupressa gives the slightest bow physically possible. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” she says in a managed monotone. “What brings you to Melica?” The matriarch shoots Cupressa a quick glare for the stolen line. “We’re here on behalf of the priestesses at Walst-on-High,” you explain. “Ialise has made summons for a Clansmeet.” “A Clansmeet. Again?” Cupressa scoffs. “My head has barely stopped pounding from the last time we had to listen to the endless bickering of those belligerent reptiles.” “No one said //you// had to go, Cupressa,” Sable remarks with an edge of disapproval. “It’s not myself I’m worried for, Spring Matriarch,” Cupressa says. “Your duty is here, to your people, to this forest. You must keep our rooted safe from the beasts of the swamp, tend to our lands, address the needs of our brethren. Whatever petty concerns the other clans might hold matter little. Besides, can this Clansmeet really be so important if that coven of harpies has sent… //outsiders// to issue the summons?” “We won’t know if we don’t attend,” Sable insists with a brief frown. “And what if it is important, and Melica wasn’t informed or, worse, left out of decisions.” Cupressa surveys the room with a long and withering stare, alternating between Sable and your party. Finally, she lets out a tremendous sigh. “Very well. Since I see you won’t be dissuaded, I must remind you that you’ll be serving as a representative of all Melica while at the Clansmeet. You’ll need to maintain a respectable front, but keep the other clans at a safe and comfortable distance so as to not concede your peoples’ needs.” “I know, I know,” Sable interjects. “I’ve been to three of these. I’ve met with the other leaders before. It’ll be fine.” Cupressa scowls. “Do not confuse familiarity with comfort, young matriarch. The lizards may be dense simpletons, but don’t underestimate their penchant for wanton violence. And the frogs have always been keen manipulators—that new chief of theirs, especially—always looking for a favored angle, wriggling their way out of every conflict. Both clans will sense even the slightest weakness and seize the opportunity to wring you for all we’re worth. You must never let down your guard, never show even the slightest sliver of trust or cordiality beyond what proper diplomatic comportment demands.” As the steward’s rant finally dies down, you clear your throat. “It sounds like things between the dryads and the other clans are a bit, erm… fraught.” The matriarch tilts her head and frowns. “Not fraught… We just don’t talk at all—outside of these Clansmeets, I suppose.” “Seems like you don’t approve.” “Not at all,” Sable says with an enthusiastic shake of her head, sending a few petals bouncing. “Don’t get me wrong, all these careful negotiations can be exhausting at times, but open communication is the first step toward friendly neighbors. There’s no reason the clans should always be at each other’s throats like they are now.” “As if the other clans would ever stop clawing at one another like rabid animals,” Cupressa remarks. Sable shoots her steward another glower. “But, as Cupressa is so keen to remind me, my duty as spring matriarch is to ensure the safety of my people and the forest. Favorable relations with the other clans—who //also// live in Lurram—are vital.” Seems like they want to attend. <<linkreplace "Seal the deal">>“So, Sable—” “<<if $xe == "they">>They mean<<else>><<= $Xe>> means<</if>> Spring Matriarch Sable,” Vanille interjects. She’s halfway to kneeling when she adds, “Apologies.” “R- Right, sorry,” you say. There’s that strange title again… “Uhm, what exactly does //spring// matriarch mean? I assume you’re not only in charge during one season a year.” Cupressa scoffs. “Of course an outsider would fail to understand such a simple concept.” “And how are they //supposed// to understand if we never even try to explain,” Sable shoots back, then offers you a sympathetic smile. “The title of matriarch is hereditary: each dryad who holds the office passes it on to their first offspring. But since rooted dryads take such a long time to first bear fruit, the position is held by a cycle of four matriarchs. Spring, summer, fall, winter—in that order,” she taps off the list on her fingers. “So then before you took the title, it would’ve been the winter matriarch, right?” you ask. Sable nods. “Exactly, though I, ah… I inherited the role a bit earlier than expected.” A surreptitious glance between matriarch and steward suggests there’s a story—one to which you are absolutely //not// privy. “Regardless,” Sable continues, “that’s why I have Cupressa to offer her support and experience. She counseled the winter matriarch before me, and I value her input greatly.” “Even if you so rarely show it,” Cupressa remarks dryly. “As evidenced by the outsiders standing in the very heart of Melica.” A brief, awkward silence settles over the room before you clear your throat. “So anyway, about Clansmeet…” you start. “If you would, err, humble us with a response, we’ll be out of your lands within the hour.” Sable nods. “Of course the dryads will attend. We’ll set out <<if $Lurram >= 3>>as soon as possible<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>early this evening<<else>>this afternoon<</if>>.” “Preparations must be made, Spring Matriarch,” Cupressa chides. “A retinue, provisions, and you’ll need to practice before you present your key in proper ceremony—I heard about last time, and I will not suffer such embarrassment again. We should wait until tomorrow morning at the earliest.” An odd expression flits across Sable’s features. “Th- That’s all fine, of course,” she says. “We’ll be there <<if $Lurram >= 3>>as soon as possible<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>early this evening<<else>>this afternoon<</if>>, definitely.” “Wait, really?” “Yeah. Why?” she responds, a bit too quickly. <<if $Lurram >= 1>>“I… I guess I didn’t expect it to be so straightforward.<<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter>> Champion Sazelle hasn’t made things easy for us…” “That brute rarely does…” Cupressa drawls. Sable huffs.<<elseif $Lurram_Frogs == true>> Rabbeth’oa tried to jerk us around before accepting.” “As is her nature…” Cupressa drawls. Sable merely rolls her eyes.<</if>><<else>>“I’m just… a bit surprised it was so straightforward, I guess. Hopefully the other clans are just as understanding.” “My condolences in advance,” Cupressa drawls. Sable merely rolls her eyes.<</if>> [[Be on your way|Miraquest 2: Friendship is Magic]]<</linkreplace>>

You offer what you assume is a stately, regal bow to the Spring Matriarch and the Steward. You’re halfway to the door when your eyes are caught by the red flower on the nearest table. It’s watching you with a cheerful smile on its little face and waving farewell with its tiny feminine body that could fit in the palm of your hand. Boggled, all you can do is offer a return wave before turning to search for a ride back down to the base of the massive treetop palace. Ashlyn’s already eagerly climbing back up inside her dryad of choice—the two of them seemed to have formed a weird rapport in their brief time together. You’re not gonna complain about her exploring weird things, but you ain’t gonna watch, either. Just kidding. The plant woman maintains a stable squat as her backside descends the mage’s legs. Cheeks fall all the way to the floor, then rise as the sylvan woman fixes her posture. A hand pokes the top of her writhing gut before she waddles over toward the designated exit. She seems… intrigued? Confused? Post-coital? Typical emotions from interacting with Ashlyn. Wet //glurks// in the periphery suggest the rest of your companions are well on their way. A dryad of your own clears her throat—a woman with slim shoulders, trimmed aquamarine hair, and absolutely no sense of decency as she seizes you by the shoulders and slams her wide open maw right over your head without even a //‘pardon me.// //Predators these days…// She swallows you down in rote, mechanical fashion, leaving you to spill into a stomach slightly more cramped than your first trip. The strange, weightless sensation tugs at your brain, eeks down your spine like a dribble of ice water, then vanishes just as quickly. Exiting the Timberverse is less pleasant this time. You’re forcibly ejected by your impatient hostess, rolled back up and out of the throat in a single constrained lump and spat into the grass. Sherine, Tess, and Lloriel offer a small, confused greeting as you catch breath and test your limbs to make sure nothing got crushed. The dryad who disgorged you has already fallen back in line with the rest of the guard to simply stare hate at you for apparently ruining their afternoon tea. With a sigh, you rise to your feet once more. You set to brushing away the slime from your clothes, and soon find another set of hands helping out. Vanille, coated in stomach goop, pats you down with a wide white cloth from her pack, dabbing and wiping the stray dribbles of vicious verdant spittle. “Vanille, I’m fine,” you offer as she fusses over your tunic. A zealous scrape against your chest touches upon your scar— You wince. She immediately backs off. “S- Sorry,” Vanille squeaks as gunk droops down her forehead. You watch her fiddle with the white dress she wore at the wedding for a moment, ignorant to the smears of green now tarnishing its beauty. Another, stronger wince on your part sees her sheepishly putting it back into her bag. Of course, no amount of piteous glares stop the knight from subtly putting herself between you and the nearest dryads. And speaking of, the plant folk are none too happy that you’re idling about in their territory. Dozens of vibrant, leery eyes watch every twitch, every shake of the boot to kick off the last flecks of spittle. Their spears are bigger and, presumably, better made than the random stick on your back. And you’re more than happy to be on your way. Tess and Sherine are already waiting, with the former looking particularly eager to leave. Ashlyn’s disentangled herself from her weird anal fun while Lloriel and Vanille look on with judgement. And Mira… is nowhere to be found. You peer curiously toward the tower tree. A dryad growls as you take half a step forward. “W- We’re waiting for our friend. Mira. She’s a feline demi. I- I’m sure you remember her—” Vanille nudges you in the spleen. You decide to stop talking. A minute passes in awkward silence. The next adopts a distinctly more nervous air. By the third, you’re pacing in tight, fretful circles to vent the nervous energy. “Okay, seriously. Where is she? Is something wrong?” you ask, and receive faces of stone—okay, technically plant—in response. One of the guards murmurs something to another, then ducks inside the tree. Stolid facades attempt to hide an obvious truth: they don’t know either. Your companion and her hostess are either taking their sweet time for reasons none of you can guess, or they’ve vanished. //“Did you see the dryad that took her?”// you whisper to Vanille, then Lloriel when the knight shakes her head. “It was after me,” the elf mutters, eyes cutting wary swathes across gnarled bark, keen for the slightest disturbance. Just like during your introduction, Sable appears unexpectedly. Bright eyes flash a slightly guilty look at you and your group. She reluctantly pulls both arms away from the tender swell of her stomach, leans forward, and reaches an arm down her throat to pull Mira out in the most dainty act of regurgitation you’ve ever seen. The matriarch holds the demi in her arms for a loving moment, then squeezes once and sets her down on the ground. The demi scurries over on warm and light feet. “You okay?” you ask warily, trying very hard to ignore the intensifying glares from the dryads. “Yah!” she cheers. “Sorry it took so long.” //Was there traffic?// You turn to Sable for an explanation, but all you find is the last of the Spring Matriarch slipping back inside the tree, leaving you with a slew of unanswered questions and a bunch of uncooperative dryad guards who are absolutely //not// going to provide an explanation. “Let’s go!” Mira says as she yanks your tunic. [[Leave Melica|Cat's Out of the Bag]]

Everyone is eager to get the hell out of this place. You step carefully back along the way you came, trying desperately hard to remember your every footfall so as to not accidentally walk onto the dryads’ lawn. Mira tries to yank you in another direction and nearly throws you off balance. You’re hissing anxiously as she tries to pull Vanille next. “Uhm, I… I think it’s this way,” the demi says, pointing off in what you’re pretty damn sure is the wrong direction. Vanille gently corrects her in your stead, saying, “No, we came from the other way, remember?” She starts to move, but Mira hesitates, tail poofed and ears flicking in transparent agitation. The demi opens and closes her lips several times before finding the right words. “M- Maybe we should go this way instead,” she manages. “It’s, uhh, faster. A- And safer. I can tell.” A brief pause lingers between you and your skeptical companions before Vanille eventually asks, “Mira, is everything alright?” “Of course!” the demi blurts with a hair too much enthusiasm. “Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine.” She shuffles in place, then adds, “There’s something cool that way that I wanna show you—e- everyone.” You and Vanille share a look and a nod. <<linkreplace "“Alright, let’s go your way.”">>“Alright, let’s go your way.” With the demi at the lead, you begin the walk southward through Melica, weaving between trees and buildings and tree-buildings. Mira glances over her shoulder every few steps, as if she’s worried you’re going to dart away at any moment. But even when you reach the village edge and walk through another living thicket, she offers not a word of explanation. The silence lingers as you pass the bramble-wall and walk a winding path through the dense forest, until any sight of Melica is completely lost among the foliage. Finally, Mira turns, plants her feet, and stares down your group, lips curled to a conflicted frown. She looks to you, then Vanille, then finally back to you. “<<= $name.first()>>- <<= $name>>, can… can I speak to you and Vanille?” the demi manages in a mousy voice. “A- Alone?” You and Vanille share another look. The knight chooses to talk first this time. “Can you say it to everyone, Mira? We all trusted you when you wanted to lead the way—not just <<= $name>> and me. You should tell all of us, especially if it’s important.” The demi’s eyes flit from face to face, nervously calculating. She chews fitfully on her bottom lip as her tail scythes the air in bristly arcs. “O- Okay, it’s…” She draws in a deep breath, then tries again. “So Sable says there’s a problem—with attending the important Clansmeeting.” This //was// feeling a little too easy. “What kind of problem?” you ask. “It’s her key,” Mira says. “The one she’s supposed to use to go inside the big temple. If she doesn’t have it, she says the meeting can’t happen.” “That would definitely be a problem,” Vanille mutters, brow furrowed. “So, the Spring Matriarch needs us to find it for her?” “Oh, not ‘find!’” Mira chirps. “Sable told me where she left it, when I was in her tummy. There’s an outpost or something nearby. She said they use it to keep an eye on the lizard girls—” “They //what?”// Tess blurts out. “For protection!” Mira insists, then tilts her head. “… I think. I dunno. She said lots and lots about the lizard girls, so I guess she’s kinda worried about them—Not you of course!” The demi hastily adds, gesturing apologetically to Tess. “I’m sure she knows you’re super nice! B- But the others, well… <<if $Crest1 != "smuggle" && $Crest1 != false>>They were mean<<else>>She seems to think they’re kinda mean<</if>>.” “And is there any good reason the lazy queen can’t go get the key herself?” Ashlyn drawls. “I think she’s worried that old lady-tree will find out,” Mira says. “Especially after Sable ran off to meet us early <<if $Lurram >= 3>>this evening<<else>>today<</if>>.” “And the matriarch told you this herself?” Sherine asks next. “W- Well…” The demi trails off, fitfully wringing her hands. “Maybe I was, umm… a bit too eager to help.” Ah, so that explains Mira’s embarrassment. “It’s just that Sable’s so nice!” she continues. “She’s friendly, and she answered all my questions, a- and she’s, uhh… The key is super important! It’d be really bad for her if anyone found out she lost it. She told me where to go; it’s not that far, really! And she’ll even meet us outside the village so we don’t have to walk the whole way back! And she explained what the key looks like, a- and all the plants should leave us alone on the way.” //“Should?”// Lloriel mutters. “It’s okay, Mira,” Vanille says. “It sounds like you did the right thing.” “I did?” she asks, ears perking with nascent optimism. Sherine sighs. “As much as I’m not thrilled with spending even //more// time wandering around these swamps, if the dryads can’t attend the Clansmeet, all the rest of our effort will be for naught.” “Right,” you say. “I don’t think we really have any choice but to help here. Everyone else agree?” Vanille and Lloriel immediately nod, much to Mira’s delight. “Having royalty owe you a favor is never a bad thing,” Sherine offers with a coy smile. “Don’t you agree, Ashlyn?” The mage scowls and mutters something about ceding to authority, and that you’re all //‘a bunch of limp-dicked pansies.’// But she doesn’t say no. “Tess?” Mira asks, hopping to the lizard girl’s side. Her gaze fretfully flits to the nearby trees. “I just wanna leave as soon as possible…” “It’s alright!” Mira cheers, grabbing her hand. “We’ll be super quick, promise!” And then you’re off with Mira in the lead and the rest dutifully following. Tess shuffles over to the demi’s side. “So… what kind of scouting outpost did you say this was again?” [[Onward|Distant B-52s Noises]]<</linkreplace>>

The trek southward feels much like the one into the village, if perhaps a bit more cumbersome now that you lack a dryad matriarch clearing the path. Mira claims the trees are helping ‘show her the way,’ but you still constantly shuffle, wade, brush, and swipe through the thick undergrowth as you trudge along in the demi’s wake. On the bright side, the carnivorous plants leave you alone—a fact you’re especially grateful for when you notice an oversized flytrap closed around a bulge that’s a hair too small to be human… or too far along in digestion. Ashlyn sighs as she sidesteps a large flower that reeks of rotten fruit. “Aside from the nature guidance bullshit, did our beloved matriarch leave any //actual// directions?” Mira nods. “Sable said it’s a half-hour south, near where the river is fed by the tributary… I dunno what that is, though.” “It’s a branch of a bigger river,” Lloriel supplies. “Probably heading west, toward the coast. So even if Sable’s directions don’t pan out, we’ll stumble across one of the two rivers, then follow it until we find the other.” “Nuh-uh! We won’t have to!” Mira insists. The elf shoots you and Vanille a wary glance, clearly not sharing in your companion’s optimism. “So, uhh, Lloriel,” you start, looking to change the subject. “That dryad village was pretty different from any other town or city I’ve seen in Havendor so far. Are elf villages like that too?” She turns and looks at you with calculating eyes, as if she’s still trying to weigh whether or not you’re playing the long con with this whole ‘from another world’ bit. Eventually, she offers a slight shrug and says, “Not really.” “Hey, hey,” Ashlyn interjects. “Just because <<= $name>>’s an ignorant halfwit doesn’t mean you can take advantage of <<= $xir>> trusting nature and lie to <<= $xem>>. That’s my hobby, find your own. Everyone knows elves love nothing more than living in trees.” “We don’t live //in// trees,” Lloriel insists with an indignant edge. “A- At least not like the dryads. We build our homes //on// them.” “What, like actual tree houses?” you ask. “It’s probably a little bigger than you’re thinking,” Vanille adds. “Whole cities built in forest canopies. <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>They actually look a bit more like Tolun’Moa, with all the platforms and connecting bridges<<else>>They’re a real sight to see<</if>>.” “We don’t //all// live in trees,” Lloriel rebukes. “Some of us don’t even live around trees big enough to support those kinds of homes.” “But they wish they did,” Ashlyn taunts in a sing-song tone. “Something about elvish nature—the innate urge to sleep nice and high off the ground, out of reach of all those scary nighttime predators.” Mira perks up. “Oh, I used to do that back in Icilia! When I couldn’t find shelter, I’d camp somewhere really high up. That way the other thieves couldn’t sneak up on me and steal my stuff.” A long and uncomfortable silence falls over the group, broken only when Vanille shuffles to the front, wraps an arm around the demi’s shoulder, and pulls her into a quick sideways embrace. When the knight finally lets her go, she lingers to ruffle Mira’s hair. “W- What?” Vanille shakes her head. “Nothing, it’s just… I’m glad you’re traveling with us now.” Mira beams. “Me too!” [[Make that three|Nearby B-52s Noises]]

You kick your way across the next league of muddy, repetitive swampscape. Pools of brackish water gather, congealing like raindrops on a window until a steady stream forms. You stick to the high ground where you can. “I think we’re getting near my clan’s territory,” Tess growls. She leans up on her tippy-toes and peers around. “I had no idea there was a dryad outpost here. I can’t believe they’d stoop to secretly spying on us.” “Are you sure this is near //anything?”// Ashlyn murmurs. She’s not exactly a cartographer, but the mage has a point: you’re in the middle of nowhere. “Everything in this damn swamp looks the same. How do you even find your way around?” “She’s a scout,” Mira chirps. “Like me! We’re good at finding our way, right Tess?” The lizard girl churrs, but offers nothing further as her thoughts turn inward with conspiracy. <<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>>Having seen her village firsthand, however, you can’t help but share some of the dryads’ concerns. The lizards don’t exactly seem like they make for the best neighbors, and having a bit of extra warning for any impending aggression wouldn’t hurt.<<else>>You can’t help but do the same. Are the dryads especially paranoid neighbors? Or are the lizards really //that// bad?<</if>> “There it is!” Mira suddenly cheers. She points excitedly to a tall speck out in the distance, nearby invisible between the dense array of tree trunks and mist. She’s at Vanille’s side a moment later, asking for a lift up onto the knight’s shoulders. Mira points again, even more excited this time. “Yup! See, it’s that tree right next to the, uhh… tributary!” Ashlyn peers ahead at the distant landmark with a deep scowl. “How can you possibly tell one tree apart from the others? We’ve passed a dozen already.” “Those were rooted dryads. Sable explained it earlier.” “And these aren’t?” the mage balks. “Obviously not,” Lloriel says. “The rooted dryads stopped being dominant ten minutes ago. At this point, we’re mostly surrounded by spruce, cedar, and a bit of old-growth cypress, plus the odd…” She trails off with a self-conscious flush. “I’m not really dispelling the whole ‘tree-lover’ thing, am I?” “Not especially,” Sherine admits. The tributary winds to your right, small and muddy brown, but the waters of the lake itself are a vibrant, pelagic blue. Strands of <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>midday<<else>>late-morning<</if>> mist cling to the surface and eddy about the branches overhanging the far shores. Your side is almost entirely clear save for the reeds, knee-high grasses, and a single particularly gnarled tree perched a dozen feet or so from the lake’s edge. It’s an almost picturesque scene when held against the damp and dreary Lurram norm to which you’ve grown accustomed. This is the same sort of cultivated masterpieces present in Melica; a little slice of ecologic heaven. And in true dryad fashion, you see absolutely nothing in the way of recognizably inhabitable architecture. “See, there!” Mira cheers, pointing directly at… the tree. You blink, then look again. Even with the demi pointing the way, the disguise is almost perfect: the aged bark, the withered and barren branches, even the roots jutting from the mud around the base of the trunk. Only one small detail breaks the facade: the squat door tucked into the tree-turned-outpost’s front, resting ajar. “Is it… supposed to be open like that?” Tess asks. “I doubt it,” Vanille says with a frown. Her sword hisses free from its scabbard to hold steady vigil at her side. “Stay close, just in case.” The knight takes the lead, and the rest of you fall into formation, weapons drawn and gazes wary. Serenity contorts to an unnerving stillness, only the gentle lapping of water and the faint trill of insects break the still <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>midday<<else>>late-morning<</if>> air. You and your companions draw closer to the supposedly abandoned outpost one careful step at a time, sharing a collectively held breath. Frantic sounds rattle from inside: the muffled clattering of wood, the scrambling of furtive feet, the soft chittering of something lurking. Lying in wait. Poised for a hapless morsel like yourself to traipse through the door and right into their waiting, many-fanged maws. Vanille braces, sword gripped tight. She steps forward, reaching for the edge of gnarled bark. The door flies wide with a sudden crash. Blurred shapes burst from within, then dart past Vanille’s sword and make a beeline for the lake shore. Small monster girls—three of them, some sort of rodent—dive into the reeds, then stare back at you and your companions with dark, beady eyes. You reel, heart thundering. “Muskrat girls,” Tess breathes out, sounding every bit as relieved as you feel. “Must’ve clawed their way in, probably looking for food. It happens all the time in Crest.” “Little fuckers gave me a heart attack,” Ashlyn mutters. You let out a sigh of relief and turn your attention back to the outpost. The exterior of bark is a seamless match for the rest of the tree trunk, the doorway small enough that everyone but Mira and Lloriel will need to crouch to fit through. With it closed, you suspect the outpost would be near-invisible. Vanille enters first, sword still drawn as she stoops through the low portal and shuffles inside. She immediately calls over her shoulder, “It’s clear.” Ashlyn and Lloriel follow, then Tess and Sherine. You’re about to enter next when a small hand tugs at your sleeve. You turn to find Mira, eyes wide. Drool dribbles from the corner of her mouth. “<<= $name>>…” she says, a slight tremble in her voice. “C- Can I…” You follow the demi’s gaze to the shoreline where the trio of little muskrat girls still peer out from the reeds. “Oh!” you exclaim. “You, uhh, wanna try and catch one.” “Yah.” Her head bobs eagerly. “One. Maybe two. They look really tasty.” [[Let her grab a quick snack|Crocodile Loch]] [[Ask her to stay with the group for now|Crocodile Loch]]

“Mira—” A dark blur erupts from the lake. Massive jaws snap up two of the muskrats, locking them behind a cage of teeth in a single, colossal bite. The third narrowly darts off through the reeds, only to run right into the maw of a second behemoth lunging ashore. Twin forms rise, water cascading off broad shoulders and flicking from bulky tails. The two beasts //tower// above the reeds, hulking monstrosities of muscle and sinew. A pair of quick, almost indifferent gulps consign the trio of muskrats to mere ripples, utterly vanished behind expanses of skin and dark green scales. Eager, hungry eyes peer from beneath manes of drenched hair, fixed firmly on you. The small rodents were hardly a snack. A mere appetizer for the main course. Mira’s already grabbed your arm in both hands. She’s dragging your fear-frozen ass across the grass, the world passing in a frantic blur. Crazed, dripping maws snap in your wake. Faster and faster. Huge strides and hungry leaps rapidly close the gap until everything goes dim. Lloriel slams the bark door. A brace //ka-thunks// into place an instant before the entire portal shudders under the weight of a monumental slam. Wood groans, strains. Scraps of lichen and splinters of wood pour from the ceiling in shimmering curtains. You recoil, staggered by the shockwaves. Another thunderous crash, the heavy boom echoing violently in the tiny space. Vanille and Sherine throw themselves against the buckling partition. “What the fuck is that?” Lloriel cries out. You blink, trying to adjust your eyes to the dim den. Another crash, this time accompanied the scraping of razor claws. Lloriel asks again, and you only barely register the mouth sounds as words. You //just// saw them. What the fuck //were// they? The lizard brain wants to say ‘dinosaurs.’ It’s the only thing that could be so large, so horrifically strong. The tail. The scales. Havendor’s dredged up some fucking fossils to haunt your waking nightmares. A simpler, saner answer spills from your lips. “Crocodiles. T- Two of them.” Hundreds of teeth flash through your mind. It doesn’t help that you can hear one of them outside trying to gnaw their way through a window. “Fuck!” Tess curses. “We’re fucked. Fuck fuck fuck. One is bad, but two? Two means—” You grab the lizard girl by the shoulder and lock eyes. “Tess, how do we fight them?” She stares at you, bewildered and frantic. “D- Don’t? Run. You run faster than everyone else. Or you die.” She clutches her hands to her head and breaks down. “No no no no. We’re fucked, fucked //fuckfuckfuck…”// You tune out the panic as adrenaline floods your veins, catalyzing terror into steely resolve. Focus. Look around. Take in where you are and what you’re up against. The outpost is small and simple. Scant bedding is pushed into a far corner, tossed and torn. Assorted odds and ends lie scattered across the floor: foodstuffs, parchment, a twine-wrapped bundle of charcoal, a small knife meant more for cooking or carving than stabbing. Only one door, currently braced. There’s no other entrances. Three small, circular windows dot the walls, each hardly larger than a porthole on a ship. Waxen amber panes tint outside light a warm orange. A hulking shadow stomps past. You flinch as a claw bursts through the slim aperture, scraping, searching like a woodpecker hungry for termites. “We’ve fought big creatures before,” you hear yourself say. “Yes, but—” Vanille grunts as a calamitous slam nearly pushes her off the door entirely, “—we can’t use numbers to our advantage. The only way out is—” Another slam, “—this door. And we’d have to leave one at a time.” She’s right. Trying to squeeze through such a small exit would be tantamount to feeding yourselves into a blender single file. The impacts against the door cease. You freeze, fear nipping at the nape of your nick, prickling down your spine. Ears ring, strain for any shift or thud, some betrayal of the crocodiles’ presence or— A clawed hand crashes through the window mere feet from your head. You scramble away as the limb grasps, flails and, upon coming up empty, instead tears a sizeable chunk from the wall of the outpost on its way out. The hulking reptiles work in tandem, each feeding off the other’s frenzy as they rip and hack at the walls of the outpost. Claws rend a section of bark in two. Teeth shatter an amber window. A tail batters against fragmenting wood in a shower of splinters. Small gaps of <<if $Lurram >= 4>>dusk<<else>>daylight<</if>> stream through an increasing number of holes as the merciless assault continues. They’re making progress, and it’s not slow. No way to sneak out with two of them attacking in tandem. The walls are holding for now, but the effort to squeeze everyone through a window or one of the new breaches would be monumental—especially for Sherine. The only other exit is the narrow, battered door. One way out. … And one way in. [[Make your own ambush|Crocodile Chop]] [[Defend the bunker|Crocodile Shock]]

It’s time to turn the tables, limit the scope of the fight in your favor, and that narrow doorway is your ticket out of here alive. “Vanille!” you shout over the cacophony of destruction. “Grab that bar and get ready to open that door!” “Are you crazy!” she screeches, shoving her shield against the besieged wall. “They can only come in one at a time! We hit the first one with everything we’ve got.” “What about the second!?” “Whatever we have left.” You whistle and get everyone’s attention, frantically directing your allies to face the front entrance. “Weapons out. Attack on my mark.” Ashlyn gleams at the melee fighters in your party, wild-eyed. “Collateral damage!” “She fires first, then everyone else piles on,” you correct. “Nothing explosive.” The mage grumbles, but you can’t hear it as a whole section of wall crumbles beneath raking claws. You turn your back to your companions and grip your spear tight. Watching. Waiting. The destructive fury of dragging nails circles the disintegrating hovel. Bark crunches and peels at your back. Vanille grips the underside of the bar. She’s knocked back a solid foot as another vicious slam quakes the outpost walls. “Are you sure about this, <<= $name>>?” You bite your tongue, keenly focussed on the other croc. A shadow lumbers past the slits in the nearest wall. Another smashing blow erupts at two o’clock. The outpost groans, weary and pained. Walls buckle as the ceiling shifts. Splinters fly as the storming footsteps resume. “This building won’t hold much longer…” Sherine warns. Rusty coils slide underfoot. The lamia doesn’t have nearly enough room in this tiny little outpost to coil up for her signature viper strike. One o’clock. You shift your grip on your spear, sweaty hands doing you no favors. Taut strings of Lloriel’s bow creak. Mira shifts at your side, tail smacking between you and the elf. A thundering heart keeps your gaze on the outside world, watching through the newly formed cracks in the trembling walls. You thrust your spear through the window as the clock strikes <<if $Lurram >= 3>>midnight<<else>>noon<</if>>. The speartip hits the crocodile’s scales and stops dead in its tracks with a resonant //clang.// It doesn’t even leave a dent. But it’s enough to provoke a response. A massive arm thrusts through the window inches behind your withdrawing spear, grasping, flailing. [[“Now!”|Crocodile Rock]]

You whirl about and hunch, ducking under a hook-like fingernail. A beam of blinding daylight cuts in from the wide-open doorway, and is immediately eclipsed by a pouncing fiend. She’s massive, easily half again your size—a terrifyingly large presence in such a small space. The beast lunges forward, all claws and teeth and fury. The door frame cracks like plywood, folds like matchsticks. Bark shatters. Wood splinters. Ashlyn claps out a spell, then reaches down her bustier and pulls out her tits. They //pop// free from her chest with a disturbing, watery sound before she hurls one like a baseball. A fleshy orbs smack into the crocodile’s face, wet and engulfing. There’s a muffled screech as the monster careens right into Vanille’s shield. Scaly legs slip as Lloriel sinks three arrows at once into a kneecap. The wings of the steel heads are still visible, a mere glancing blow. Sherine springs forth and coils around the kneeling beast. Mira and Tess scramble to Vanille’s side, weapons bared. Steel and stone strike thick skin and thicker scale. The full assault draws only a superficial ounce of crimson. Vanille swings again, chopping and hacking uselessly against the impenetrable shell. A flopping arm swings a blind swipe over the knight’s head. With the slashing plan in shambles, Vanille shifts the grip on her sword, then drives the pommel into the soft flesh under the crocodile’s armpit. The beast yelps, falters. You allies heave and shove until the titan collapses. Together, they grab a flailing arm and struggle to pin as the lamia’s grip tightens on the opposite side. You drive your spear into the ground in front of the elbow, then wedge the haft against part of the jagged wall to lock it in place. A deadly claw reaches for Sherine, then settles for scraping at the croc’s smothered face, frantic, furious, desperate to peel away the boobalicious bubble blocking her sight, her maw, her airway. The croc thrashes under your party’s assault. Mira catches a blow from a thick, trunk-like tail, and bumps against the near wall of the outpost. The demi’s on her feet and searching through your bag a moment later. Vanille and Tess make way for Ashlyn to chuck another sticky spell onto the croc’s arm, glueing the limb against her back. Sherine takes a heavy elbow in the middle of her body. The lamia grunts and heaves as red scales circle another inch tighter. Vanille and Lloriel tame the whipping tail and bring it down under scraping legs. Mira darts under a slamming shin with a rope, ties the leg to the errant tail in a rapid flurry. The battle to keep the beast down continues for far too damn long. She’s still kicking even after an exhausting struggle, though copious blobs of sticky breast-matter and Sherine’s efforts are enough to keep the croc pinned and out of the fight. [[Now for round two…|Crocodile Talk]]

You scramble back into position, waiting for the next croc to burst in. You’ve burned your opening salvo, you’re down one of your strongest fighters, and you’ve still got one more to go. Now it’s time for the real fight. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, dances beneath your skin, pounds in your ears. Breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Every muscle is tensed, coiled, braced. Knuckles turn white as your spear creaks under a fierce death grip. … And yet the second crocodile doesn’t come. Agonizing seconds crawl past one by one. Five. Ten. Twenty. And still, nothing. No stomping footsteps, no cracking wood, no deep growls that resonate in your bones and set your hairs on end. Only the shallow breaths of you and your companions, the muted groans of the restrained crocodile, the soft hiss of scales winding tight around a squirming captive. You dare to glance from the doorway for the briefest instant. No shadows lurk beyond the riven walls or linger among the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>twilight<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>afternoon light<<else>>morning light<</if>>. There’s just… nothing. And then, from beyond the ruined doorframe, comes a hesitant, “Uhh, are you okay in there?” You fire a bewildered glance at your companions. They look every bit as confused. Another long pause stretches across the stagnant swamp air before the voice returns. “… Honey?” The pinned crocodile lets out a strained, muffled gasp—the most she can produce with the arcane globule plastered around her head. Under the dense flesh, her eyes bulge from their sockets. You blink, then slowly peer back toward the vacant doorway. “Are you, err… asking about the crocodile… girl?” Something shifts past the sundered wood, a fleeting suggestion of a hand or tail or some other extremity. “Oh. Oh no. That’s, uhh…” Grass crunches beneath heavy feet. “She’s not hurt, is she?” You glance toward the still wriggling crocodile halfway inside the outpost. It’s been either five seconds, or five minutes since the crocodile went to ground—Adrenaline won’t tell you which. The monster girl’s still breathing though, despite Ashlyn’s smothering spell clutching tight around her entire reptilian head. You clear your throat. “Hurt, but alive. Are you the—” Oh, there’s absolutely //no// tactful way to say this, “—other one?” A final, pregnant pause lingers before she responds. “… Yes.” <<linkreplace "Oh boy…">>The squirms of the bound crocodile intensify, and Sherine tightens her coils in response. You give your best ‘what the fuck, please explain’ look to Vanille and receive more or less the same… so that’s a nonstarter. Before anyone can find the words to grapple with present circumstances, the crocodile lingering out of sight speaks again. “I’m Bethel, and that’s Sheila—she’s my mate. So is there any chance you could please, uhm… let her go?” “Why would we do that!?” Vanille shoots back. Bethel hesitates before offering a meek, “Because I asked nicely?” Sheila rolls her eyes. “You can’t be serious,” you blurt out in disbelief. “She literally //just// tried to eat us.” “Oh, yeah. Sorry, it’s… You know how it is when you’ve gone one snack already squirming in your stomach, and then you see even more delectable scampering morsels. You just can’t help yourself sometimes…” For some reason, all eyes turn on Sherine, who offers a begrudging shrug of agreement. “We’re sorry about your house, too,” Bethel offers. Sheila rolls her eyes again. “It’s not our house,” Mira cheers wearily. “Oh, that’s… good.” Bethel hesitates. “That’s good, right? I think it’s… Yeah, so uhm, about Sheila…” Vanille takes a step toward the doorway and raises her voice. “What guarantee do we have that you won’t simply attack us again if we let her go?” “I… promise?” the crocodile says, sounding more nervous-anxious than deceptive. “We’re very sorry we tried to eat you. Is there anything I can do to get her back? We’re normally not like—Well, no, that’s not true. B- But Sheila is a real sweetheart if you get to know her, honest!” Sheila lets out a muffled groan you choose to interpret as //‘I crave human flesh!’// Vanille’s gaze shifts between the empty doorway and you for a long moment before she finally lets out a weary sigh and says, “Give us a moment. Don’t try anything.” “O- Okay,” comes the faint, nervous reply. [[Huddle up|Crocodile Balk]]<</linkreplace>>

You and your companions form a quick huddle—well, all except Sherine, who’s still busy keeping the uncooperative crocodile in a tight pin. Silence hangs heavy as each of you exchange uncertain glances with the others, waiting for the first to speak. “So, uhh…” Tess eventually starts. <<if $Lurram == 1>>“I know this sounds kinda crazy, <<else>>“Having spent the day with you, I don’t feel entirely crazy for saying this,<</if>> but I actually feel bad for her. I- I mean, I know they just tried to eat us, but Bethel really seems to care—” Mira eyes the door, then shuffles in place. “I agree with Tess. We shouldn’t eat people’s friends.” A faint thread of a whisper leaks from the demi’s lips. //“Even if I really wanna sometimes.”// The restrained crocodile punctuates the statement with another agitated groan. “But what if that friend’s a dick?” Ashlyn asks. “She’s really nice if you—” The protest from outside abruptly falters. “Err, sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” Lloriel gives Ashlyn a strange look, then huffs out a weary sigh. “I agree with Mira and Tess. We should let her go. We won, and I don’t think the crocodiles will try again. A- And after hearing Bethel make her apology, I’d feel bad about hurting either of them further.” “Let’s hurt //both// of ‘em then,” Ashlyn helpfully suggests. “That’s… not any better?” the elf responds, thoroughly bewildered. “I’m new here. How do you guys normally settle this sort of thing? Do you vote?” “Err,” you stammer as you scratch the back of your neck. “It, uh, hasn’t really come up all that often. I guess we talk it out, try to come to a consensus?” Ashlyn smirks. “That’s a weird way of saying ‘I, de facto dictator of the party, always make the final call.’” “I- I don’t always…” Okay, maybe you do sometimes. Or a lot. Wait, how often //are// you the one making decisions like this. Are you really the <<if $xe == "he">>king<<elseif $xe == "she">>queen<<else>>sovereign<</if>> of <<= $name>>’s Adventuring Party, consulting your advisors before handing down a royal decree? Does the universe, in fact, revolve around you? “<<= $name>> makes the calls ‘cause <<= $xes>> really smart, and we trust <<= $xem>>.” A nascent, proud smile flits across Mira’s lips. “And <<if $xe == "he">>he trusts<<elseif $xe == "she">>she trusts<<else>>they trust<</if>> us.” Ashlyn grumbles, having once again lost to the Power of Friendship. Lloriel clears her throat. “In that case, maybe we should ask what Sherine thinks, since she’s the one actually restraining the croc right now?” The lamia tries her best at an indifferent shrug even as her jaw is clenched in a perpetual grimace, forehead slick with exertion. Muscles tense and strain beneath copper scales as she responds, “I’m curious what she would taste like, but travelling around Lurram has been miserable enough without a big meal weighing me down. So I suppose I’d pass.” You blink. “We were, uhh… talking about whether or not to let her go, not who gets to eat her.” “Oh.” She shrugs again. “Well, my answer stands.” You opt to put Sherine down in the ‘mercy’ camp, then look over at the knight. Brow furrowed, she misses the social queue. “… Vanille?” She stares past you for a pensive moment, cogs whirring behind auric eyes. When she speaks, it’s slow, but resolute. “As much as I don’t like the risk we’d take by letting the crocodile go, the idea of killing her in cold blood just doesn’t sit well with me.” “Wait, wait. You were considering //murdering// her?” Tess balks. “I- I didn’t think you’d go that far.” “The point is we’re not,” you insist, deliberately moving past the moral quandary of murder versus eat-murder. “Aside from Ashlyn, we’re basically agreed.” [[Release Sheila|Crocodile Walk]]

<<set $Lurram_Dryads to true>><<set $Swamp5 to true>>You leave the crumbling, creaking ruins of the dryad’s outpost in your wake. And while retracing your steps means you’re keeping more of the muck from your clothes, the mud doesn’t seem so bad after fighting for your lives. A few minutes into the return trip, Ashlyn bounds up beside you. She’s frolicking like a schoolgirl. The mage waves at the group with one arm and yanks you with the other. “Just gotta have a quick chat with my bestie here, don’t mind us.” You’re mildly concerned until you notice the conspiratorial glint in Ashlyn’s eyes. Then you’re terrified. She drags you a good fifteen paces ahead of the rest, then //clonks// her temple against yours like she’s leaning in for a selfie. “So, did you notice it?” “Notice what?” “The ‘outpost,’” she says with exaggerated air quotes. “The totally normal base of operations for spying on your neighbors. Y’know, that tree husk with barely any windows.” You roll your eyes. “What’s your point?” “It wasn’t an outpost, <<= $name>>.” She leans in closer, somehow. It’s like her lips are inside your ear. //“It was a love nest.”// Here she goes with another conspiracy. It’s difficult to tell how genuinely she believes the things she says, or if it’s all just to get a rise out of you. “Sable’s fuck-fort,” Ashlyn continues before you can protest. “Love lodge, hump hut, boner barracks, shagging shed, cuck cottage, kissing kennel.” “<<if $RVAshlyn >= 9>>Need to workshop that last one—<<else>>That last one’s pretty tame—<</if>>” You shake your head and refocus. An incredulous frown crosses your lips. “You’re being ridiculous. There’s no way. I didn’t see anything like that.” “C’mon, <<= $name>>. It //reeked// of honey and pussy.” So crass. “I didn’t smell anything.” “You were busy fighting for your life.” “And you weren’t?” “Unlike some people in this group, I have priorities,” Ashlyn counters. She snaps her fingers. “There was a bed.” “That’s so the dryads can take shifts while on watch.” “It was a really big, comfy bed. For two.” “Multiple people taking shifts,” you offer, your defenses and verisimilitude weakening. “Taking shifts to watch //what?// The trees? Bethel and Sheila humping their latest catch into oblivion?” She gestures around the swampy woodlands, rife with sweet fuck-all. “Besides, you saw how fast the dryads showed up after I summoned them—” “—Brought //fire// into the plant people’s domain—” “—They’re paranoid tree-huggers who know the instant someone encroaches on their land with that crazy root network of theirs. They don’t need a friggin’ remote viewing building to spy on their enemies.” You’re about to rebut, but can’t find the ammunition. “That’s… actually a fair point. They //did// have a pretty immediate awareness when we entered their territory.” You glance at the nearby trees, wondering if you’re already surrounded by rooted dryads once more. They //are// a bit eerie… “It’s probably just a place for Sable to get away from time to time. She seems like a free spirit and is probably under way too much pressure for someone her age.” “I’ll agree with you on that,” the mage chuckles, then, as if to goad the forest itself, yells, “That Cupressa was a real bitch!” You flinch as a pop of laughter sounds in the distance. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way,” Sable hollers from her perch. She’s sitting upon the branch of a large tree with her legs crossed, kicking idly at the air just at the edge of earshot. The dryad rolls backward and melds into the main trunk of the tree, then emerges from a much closer specimen. “<<= $name>>, Ashlyn. Nice to see you again. Where’s Mira?” Ashlyn’s about to speak when you jam an elbow into her side. No need to cause an international sex scandal today. Besides, you already hear the demi’s scurrying footsteps coming up from behind. “Sable!” the demi cheers. She falls into the dryad’s embrace, then squirms one arm free to present the Lurnasian trinket. “We found it!” “You’re lifesavers, all of you.” She disentangles from Mira, then stows the key in a tidy pocket of her leaf-tunic. “My steward would have grounded me if she’d found out I’d misplaced my key.” “How’d it end up in—” You jab Ashlyn again, then put on your most polite and formal voice. “I understand your discretion, and we appreciate you trusting us with this task.” You shoot a nervous glance over your shoulder, then add, “Uh, unfortunately, I am sorry to say that your outpost has been destroyed.” Sable blinks, lips quirked to an odd squiggle. “Oh my, what happened?” <<linkreplace "Well…">>You provide the matriarch with a brief overview of your encounter with the pair of crocodile monster girls. She seems genuinely surprised to learn they lived near the outpost. Maybe dryads are a bit too leafy for the crocodiles’ tastes. Naturally, you omit any fuck-shack suspicions and shoot no less then three glares at Ashlyn when she tries to interject. “Well, I… I suppose I’m glad everything worked out in the end,” Sable finally offers. “I’m sorry about the close call. I swear I wouldn’t have sent you into danger if I’d known.” Vanille steps forward. “We appreciate the opportunity to serve, your highness.” She’s halfway to bowing when Sable puts up her hands. “No no, please. I’m not your matriarch, there’s no need for propriety. We’re just, uhm, diplomatic—” “Friends!” Mira cheers. The dryad chuckles. “Yes, diplomatic friends.”<<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>> “We could always use more of those…” you mutter, thoughts souring as you consider the day’s prior failure. Sable frowns. “Something wrong?” “It’s just…” You shift in place. “Well, we <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>managed to get Rabbeth’oa and the frogs to agree, but we’ve <</if>>hit something of a snag with the lizard girls. And if we can’t get all three clans to attend…” “Then the Clansmeet doesn’t happen,” the matriarch supplies. She hums for a pensive moment. “I see the problem. Sa—//Champion// Sazelle can be a bit stubborn…” A bitter silence settles along the woodland trail, only to be abruptly broken when Sable snaps her fingers. “I think I might be able to help. Though I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you another favor.” She fishes in a separate pocket on the back of her tunic and pulls out a small scroll that looks like it was made of blanched leaves. A single carnelian blossom adorns the surface, its stem wrapping the bundle tight like improvised twine. “A message?” Vanille asks. “Of a kind,” Sable says. “I’ve had some, ah, practice getting the lizard girls to cooperate. I think this might help—to convince Sazelle, at least.” “We’ll take any help we can get,” you say, taking the sealed scroll and stowing it carefully in your pack. “Thank you very much.”<<else>> She hums, then nods. “Mm, speaking of diplomacy… have you already visited Crest?” “Uh, not yet.<<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>> We’re going there next.<</if>>” The dryad’s strange facial expressions continue to twist and turn like a maze. “She can be… a bit stubborn. I doubt she’ll want to attend. And if all three clans don’t…” A bitter silence settles along the woodland trail, only to be abruptly broken when Sable snaps her fingers. “I might be able to help, though I will have to ask you for another favor. I’m terribly sorry.” “N- No, that’s fine.” You brace yourself for the matriarch’s maw to unhinge. At least you’re not quivering in fear this time… Maybe that’s a bad sign. “I’ve been meaning to get this to Sa—//Champion// Sazelle. Could you deliver it for me?” She produces a small scroll that looks like it was made of blanched leaves. A single carnelian blossom adorns the surface, its stem wrapping the bundle tight like improvised twine. “A message?” Vanille asks. “Of a kind,” Sable says. “I’ve had some, ah, practice getting the lizard girls to cooperate. I think this might help—to convince Sazelle, at least.” “We’ll take any help we can get. Thank you very much,” you say, taking the sealed scroll and stowing it carefully in your pack.<</if>> “Of course!” the matriarch cheers. She stoops down to give Mira another hug, then says, “Thank you for your help today. I’d like to give you something—a parting gift.” The demi’s eyes go wide as Sable produces a small shirt of interwoven leaves and brilliant white flowers. It’s much like the matriarch’s own in shape and cut, if shrunk down a size or two. “It doesn’t fit me anymore, but you are very small and very cute. I think it will be perfect for you.” Mira beams, then starts to wobble. You watch the demi <<if $Orrault6 == "”Mira" && $MiraDating == true>>fly through the same stages of grief she suffered when she tried on the dress in Orrault<<else>>ride a wild rollercoaster of emotions<</if>> before she finally manages to whimper out a, //“Th- Thank you,”// from quivering lips. Mira sniffles and buries her face in Sable’s chest to gather strength, then steps back and nods. The matriarch ruffles Mira’s hair, then rises. “Thank you again for all your help,” Sable says. “Will I see you at the Clansmeet?” “Uhh, I’m actually not sure,” you admit. “We’ll definitely be at Walst tonight, though.” She offers a slight bow. “I’ll see you then. Good luck with <<if $Lurram_Frogs == false>>the rest of the clans<<else>>in Crest<</if>>.” The matriarch steps back into the nearest tree and vanishes without a trace. <<include "Swamp_Navigator">><</linkreplace>>

You skirt around half a dozen small lakes on your way deeper into lizard territory. The muddy ground underfoot begins to dry out, firm up. The shade of the trees makes the humidity a little more bearable. Even better, Tess is on home turf—she knows the best routes, the easiest terrain. Your guide runs her hand along boulders here and there, taps the butt of her spear on the occasional hewn stump. She seems to be muttering, though you can’t discern if it’s a mnemonic jingle, or the sort of bargaining one does with themselves when losing their mind. A few paces back, Mira’s ears twitch. A flick of the tail. She stops to sniff the air. “I smell something.” Something good? Something… tasty? You sniff too— “Is that smoke?” The lizard girl shrugs. “Probably, yeah.” “It’s stinky!” Mira pinches her nose. “Is… that bad?” you ask Tess. She eyes you <<if $Lurram >= 2>>warily<<else>>skeptically<</if>>. “Why would it be? It’s <<if $Lurram >= 3>>only evening<<else>>the middle of the day<</if>>, the forges are probably in use.” “Oh, is that—what do you make?” “Iron, mostly. There’s a few small pit mines scattered around the village. We can only go so deep before draining the groundwater becomes impossible, so we dig a new one every few years.” Tess reaches into her tunic and pulls free a necklace, displaying it with a proud, shy smirk. A tiny sliver of dark-grey metal dangles from a hemp loop. It’s dingy and crooked, a shade greasy at the base from repeated touch. “This is the only piece I’ve earned, for my first successful hunt—err, hunting party. I didn’t get any prey for myself… but Champion Sazelle personally gave me this.” Mira ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ at the bit of rough iron, all wide eyes and inquisitive fingers. Tess thumbs the metal trinket for another moment with a wistful smile, then shakes her head and tucks it away. “Let’s keep going, we’re almost there.” [[Follow your guide|Lizard Gates]]

The forest persists until it doesn’t. It simply ends at the edge of a huge clearing, though you’d be hard-pressed to actually call the fallow tract mud ‘clear.’ A massive wooden palisade rings most of the flat, dry area, a brutally present fortress surrounded by a strip of barren, desolate earth, the nearest wall hardly more than a minute’s walk from the treeline. The only things to peek over the opaque barricade are plumes of lazy smoke—the source of the acrid scent now obvious. Other colorful odors permeate this space as well, press up against the barrier between the wet swamp air and the settlement. Odors whose absence you hadn’t noticed since you left Orrault. It’s civilization. It’s sweat, spit, and blood. Toil and labor. The scents of metal and lumber and crowds of people. It is, as Mira so tactfully put it, stinky. But a good, pungent stink. A stink of life. A pair of lizard girls slouch against broad, teetering slabs—a jury-rigged gate if you’ve ever seen one. Clawed hands scratch at worn spear hafts, metal heads sharpened to lethal tips. Muscles ripple beneath armor of leathers and pelts, all tied together by gleaming bands of burnished iron. Despite being alone, the two monster girls make a formidable pair. Neither of them are familiar from yesterday’s skirmish, and despite your casual approach, they seem ready to square off, a pair of thick tails kicking up eager sprays of dirt with each weighty swish. “Y- You’re gonna do the talking, right?” Tess says suddenly as she slows her pace and fades toward the rear of the group. Vanille shoves the lizard girl forward, back to the front. //“Ah. Crap,”// Tess murmurs. “Taken hostage again, Stub?” one of the guards jeers as soon as you’re in earshot. She thumps her chestplate. The other snickers, and prepares her weapon. Does she not appreciate your extremely disarming and overtly humble posture? “Don’t bother, soft-skin: we won’t pay for her return.” She jabs the end of her spear into the dirt, leans on it for stability, and nods to Sherine. “Feel free to eat her now, boss. We’ll watch!” Oh boy. This is gonna be interesting… “H- Hello,” you begin in your most amenable tone. It’s hard to appear just barely above sniveling, but also well below dignified and confident. There’s a line to ride. “We’re from Walst-on-High to deliver a summons to your chieftain.” “Why’s a runt like you doing the talking?” “Why’s a runt like you doing the talking?” The left lizard spits. The loogie lands at your feet. “Nobody gets into the village without going through us.” You frown and gesture to the narrow opening in the gate, just wide enough for you to enter one at a time. “May we, uh, pass through?” //“You// can pass through my ass.” The monster girl turns and slaps said ass. The fur tabard covering her behind flutters just enough for you to get a glimpse of just how thick her warrior thighs are. Goddamn… No, focus. Quest first, ogle later. “Please, it’s really important.” You suppress a wince. That sounded pathetic, and the open jeers from the monster girls only confirm you’ve painted an ‘I am eminently bully-able’ target right on your forehead. “Don’t care. No visitors.” <<include "LizGuards_Ask">>

With a frustrated huff, you turn back to your companions. “Okay, team huddle. Away from the gategate.” “Going somewhere?” one of the lizards snarks at your back. “Yep. Away.” You don’t bother looking. Mira pipes up. “Wait, but—” “Don’t come back unless you wanna get gulped!” the other monster hollers. “Just ignore them,” you add, guiding everyone back to the treeline. You walk until you’re out of sight—and comfortably out of earshot—from the lizard guards, finding a quiet nook in the shade of a broad-canopied cedar before finally turning to your companions and fixing them with a weary stare. “We know,” Ashlyn heads you off. “They’re pricks.” “Yeah, but—” You huff out a sigh. “<<if $Lurram == 1>>I was kinda hoping we wouldn’t hit a wall so soon.”<<else>>After the last village, I was kinda hoping the lizards would be more cooperative. Not sure why, in retrospect.”<</if>> You offer Tess an apologetic glance. “No offense.” “None taken,” she squeaks. Vanille lets out a sigh of her own as one leather boot digs a rut in the mud. “<<= $name>>, what are you thinking?” “Thinking about how we can get in and talk to the champion.” You tap your chin. “Anyone have any suggestions? There’s no bad ideas.” “I can start a fire,” Ashlyn says without a hint of irony. “<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>Please no, not again.<<else>>There’s //some// bad ideas.<</if>> Any sort of attack or frontal assault is out of the question. We’re guests in Lurram, and we’re not here to fight. We’re just messengers.” You wince and pivot to your guide. “I’m sorry for putting you through that, Tess.” “Through what?” You stare at her, torn. “Your sisters, they uh, they didn’t seem to like you very much.” Tess manages a shrug, though there’s an undeniable hint of discomfort in it. “I deserve it. I’m the runt.” “So?” Mira chimes in. “I’m small.” “<<if $MiraTum >=1>>You’re…” the lizard girl glances at Mira’s middle. “It’s different. <</if>>You know how to fight. I can’t do anything.” “You know your way around the swamp, and you can take care of yourself and others.” “Those aren’t respectable things.” “Says who? Is that how all your family treats you?” the demi asks, tail bristling. Tess nods, small and embarrassed. A bright hot mote of ire sparks in Mira’s eyes. “What about a distraction?” Lloriel suggests. “The guards didn’t seem all that attentive.” “I already suggested the fire,” Ashlyn mutters. The elf arches an eyebrow, then gestures to her quiver. “I was thinking I could shoot a screamer across the clearing, or something.” “We don’t want to cause too much of a scene,” Vanille says. “Anything that risks raising an alarm is only going to make our life harder.” Which would put you back at the ‘raid the lizard’s home’ style of plan. And while you need the chief—Champion? You still don’t quite understand what that title is supposed to mean—to attend the Clansmeet of her own volition, you doubt she’d be on board if you fought your way to her. … Unless you’re planning on dragging her back to Walst kicking and screaming the whole way. //You have several champion-containers more than eager to volunteer.// “Uhh, hey Sherine,” you say, definitely not imagining the lizard champion squirming in her stomach. “<<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>I know things didn’t work out between you and Rabbeth’oa, but do you think you’d have any better luck with those two?”<<else>>Any chance you could try to, erm, //persuade// the lizards at the gate?” Sherine blinks, coy and expectant. “And by ‘persuade’ you mean…” “You know what I mean.”<</if>> “I know a lost cause when I see one, <<= $name>>,” the lamia says with a shake of her head. “That pair isn’t going to be won over by sweet words and whispered promises. At least not today. You need to lay groundwork for that sort of thing.<<if $Crest_BullyPlan == true>> But… I know the type, and have some advice: match their toughness. They respect power. Strength. Make them think you’re a greater threat than they can handle, and they might just back down.” “‘Might?’” Sherine shrugs. “Or they might attack to prove you wrong. Fortunately, I don’t have that vulnerability.” Fingers find their way to your chin, willing you to meet her gaze. “If you’re going to be speaking on our behalf this often, we’ll need to work on your approach. I’m more than happy to offer private lessons.”<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>> //“Public// lessons,” Vanille grunts.<<elseif $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>> Mira silently fidgets in your periphery.<</if>> You nod a steely, humble thanks and pull away from Sherine’s touch. “It kinda sounds like you’re suggesting we just bully our way in.” Tess cowers as eyes fall on her. “I- It’s not a bad idea.” You blink. “Really?” “I, uhh…” She shrinks in on herself. “I- I mean, you saw how they are.” “… Okay. So we’ve got ‘bully the guards,’” you mutter. “Any other ideas?”<<else>>” “Alright, fair enough. Any other ideas?”<</if>> <<if $Lurram == 1>>“What if I sneaked in?” Mira tilts her head. Her ears flicker. “Snuck in?” “Snucked,” Ashlyn incorrects. “What if I snucked in? While Sherine sexes the lizards, I’ll climb over the wall!” Tess snorts and shakes her head. “No, Mira, that’s not—It’s impossible. There’s a couple hundred lizards inside.” Lloriel shudders. “That seems… very dangerous.” “I can be very sneaky!” Mira insists with a keen grin. “Remember when I stole all that money from the gate guards at Orrault?” The elf pales. “You //what?”// “Yeah, I—Oh, wait!” Mira turns to Ashlyn. “You could make me small<<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>, like with Athy and the snakes<</if>>! No one will see me then!” “Wouldn’t it take a lot longer to get across the village and back at that size?” Lloriel mutters. “And how would you convince the champion to go to Clansmeet if you’re only a few inches tall?” Ashlyn clutches her middle, barely constraining a slurry of laughter. “Also—//pfff//—what if you get stepped on? I- I can’t…” The mage peels away from the group to walk it off, muted cackles leaking out of every pore. “Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.” Mira says, somewhat crestfallen. “Maybe we could try digging a hole under the wall instead?” “What if it floods?” Lloriel asks, taking Mira entirely seriously. “Also, how would we know when we’re under the chieftain’s building?” They both look at Tess. The lizard merely blinks at them. “What? No. I don’t know how to do any of that. I’m sent away on errands //because// I’m no good at mining and digging.” Tess taps her chin. “It would take weeks to tunnel under—No! Why am I even considering this?” As a weary laugh trails from your lips, you peer over to where Ashlyn’s slipped from sight. Maybe she’s got the right idea; you’re falling into a bit of a rut, and taking a breather to clear your head won’t hurt.<<else>>“What if I sneaked in?” Mira tilts her head. Her ears flicker. “Snuck in?” “Snucked,” Ashlyn incorrects. “What if I snucked in?” Tess shakes her head. “There’s a couple hundred lizards inside.” “If anyone catches me, I’ll eat ‘em,” Mira insists, deadly serious. “I can still climb with a full stomach, right <<= $name>>?” You blink at her hopeful gaze. “Y- You… What if you’re already full?” “That…” Mira frowns. “I guess I’d need Ashlyn to come with me.” “I’m not sure ‘Ashlyn’ and ‘stealth’ are compatible concepts,” Vanille quips. The demi nods, self-assured. “I’ll eat her, climb up the wall, and then she can shrink them all.” Ashlyn clutches her middle, barely constraining a slurry of laughter. “I’m not—//pfff//—I- I can’t…” The mage peels away from the group to walk it off, muted cackles leaking out of every pore. “Okay, well maybe there’s something you can do, Lloriel?” Mira asks, undeterred. <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>“You had that cool light, yeah? Any other spells that could help out?” “I really don’t know much magic,” the elf admits. “At least not the sorts of spells that will help with a situation like this.”<<else>>“Maybe you could, umm… No, Vanille said the arrow would be a bad idea. Maybe we could try tossing a firebomb?” Lloriel shudders. “That seems… very dangerous.”<</if>> You peer over to where Ashlyn’s slipped from sight. Maybe she’s got the right idea; you’re falling into a bit of a rut, and taking a breather to clear your head won’t hurt.<</if>> “I’ll be right back,” you say to your companions. “Keep brainstorming without me.” [[Take five|Consult Asslyn]]

Vanille scoffs. She gives you a brief, warm smile, then makes a pair of fists as she gets back to the task at hand. The knight marches on like she owns the place, and it’s hard not to find yourself bolstered by her confidence. [[Onward|Bully_Catcalling]]

You follow, turning your attention to the town proper. Streets of hard, compact dirt weave between pools of mud and scattered detritus ranging from discarded food to flecks of metal that gleam in the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>midday<<else>>late-morning<</if>> light. Stalls, stands, and ramshackle carts wedge between the larger structures or spill onto the avenues themselves. Their contents range from stacked and loosely bundled reeds to a pile of sharpened arrowheads to a medley of wood-and-stone tools. There’s no sense of organization among the village. Nothing approximating a town square, a market, or even so much as a store. It’s haphazard, chaotic, as if the powers that be were content to merely shove these odds and ends into an open corner before going about some other architectural business, leaving the problem of storage and logistics to some unfortunate city planner. “There,” Tess suddenly says, gesturing with one hand over the squat skyline to the tallest building in the center of town—only two stories with a decorative top. In your short trek, you pass nearly a hundred saurian bodies all busy with labor and toil. The lizards are packed impressively tight within the walls of Crest, dwelling in what you can only describe as a few shades nicer than a slum. They jostle and shift, bump in an ever-surging and eternal traffic jam of flesh and scales. Livestock animals meander about ramshackle pens: spike-horned goats and what you think might be an extremely hairy cow. Perhaps it’s a buffalo. Either way, it’s rigged up to a heavily-used plow near a plot of choked and fallow farmland. You can see why hunts are a point of pride for these people. The swamp may not provide much in the way of fertile ground, but there’s plenty of beasts to go around. You’re not entirely sure how catches are shared when the hunters can swallow prey whole, but it’s not any of your damn business. About fifty feet in, you’re drawing a few stern looks here and there. Challengers. Tough-as-nails lizards, towers of muscle looking to impress and impose on Vanille’s turf. At least no one has yet approached or said anything about your presence— Vanille snaps her fingers at you and stomps closer. She grabs your skull and forces your gaze toward the ground. //“Don’t make eye contact,”// she murmurs, then nudges your side. //“You’re mine for the next few minutes. Look the part. Look eager to serve me, and only me.”//<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>> //Nnf.//<</if>> “S- Sorry.” “You better be!” she booms for the sake of the onlookers. Most flinch in the face of overt abuse and return to their toils, though the largest, most metal-adorned lizards are unphased. You shuffle your way inconspicuously toward the center of the group, sidling up beside Tess. The lizard girl’s maintained a small, meek demeanor this entire time, and you’re not sure if it’s to blend in better with your group, or if she genuinely feels this way in her own home. //“We going the right way?”// you ask. //“Just head toward the biggest building,”// she hisses without looking up. The slight monster girl shoos you away, as if she doesn’t want to be seen consorting with the enemy. You don’t blame her. <<if $xe == "she">>Your best attempts to remain inconspicuous don’t seem to be meeting quite the success you’d hoped. Each step finds a few more gazes drawn your way. Some are less wary and far more… appraising. “Need somewhere to spend the night, pretty girl?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. “I’ve got just the place…” Another bumps against your shoulder and favors you with a wide smirk. “Hey, delicious. Wanna ditch those soft-skins and see what a //real// woman can do?” She thrusts her hips. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… and hunger. <<linkreplace "“N- No thank you.”">>“N- No thank you,” you stutter, trying to hide among your party like a wounded gazelle. The lizard heads off your retreat, one hand reaching for your wrist. “Aw, c’mon, babe,” she croons with a decidedly un-subtle belly pat. “We’d be so good together. Got a spot all picked out for ya.” Her tail joins in the effort, tugging at your waist, beginning to guide you away from sheltered safety. <<linkreplace "“Sorry, I- I’m here with my group. We’re just here on an errand.”">>“Sorry, I- I’m here with my group. We’re just—” “Don’t worry about them.” She reaches an arm around your shoulder, the bulge of her bicep pressing against your neck. “I’ll keep you safe. You can trust me.” You’re rapidly losing your ability to do otherwise. The slightest push would be enough to sweep you off your feet. A single pull could send you tumbling. The drooling lizard’s turning you toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. <<linkreplace "“P- Please, I don’t want any trouble.”">>“P- Please, I don’t want any trouble.” “No trouble at all. I’ll show you around.” A thick wrist loops under your chest. You’re lifted from the ground as she shuffles off the path and into— Vanille grabs you and pulls you to her side. “She’s mine.” The lizard scoffs, then gestures to the rest of your party. “C’mon, how many can you need?” “I need this many //per day.”// The knight’s lips curl to a sneer. “You don’t? Do you just go hungry? How embarrassing…” You’re being dragged away before you can see the monster girl’s reaction. When she doesn’t press further, you assume Vanille’s bluff must’ve worked. //“Thank you.”// //“Hate this,”// she growls back before resuming her swagger at the front of the group. [[Keep moving|Bully_Social Brutality]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>Your group’s best attempts to remain inconspicuous don’t seem to be meeting quite the success you’d hoped. Each step finds a few more gazes drawn your way. Some are less wary and far more… appraising. <<if $MiraTum <= 2>>“Hey kitty-cat, need somewhere to spend the night?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. She thrusts her hips at Mira. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… or hunger. Probably both. Another jostles Mira’s shoulder and favors her with a wide smirk. “Wanna find out how a //real// woman can take care of you?” The demi shuffles a bit closer to <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>your<<else>>Vanille’s<</if>> side and murmurs out a nervous, “N- No thanks. I’m with my friends.” “I can be your friend, too. I’ve got the perfect spot—saved just for you.” She slaps her stomach. “Nice and cozy.” You step forward and do the right thing. “She’s not interested.” The lizard girl simply nudges you out of the way and grabs Mira’s wrist. “Aw, c’mon, don’t ignore me. You’re a demi, right? I love these little ears. Great for nibbling.” She licks her lips. “We’d be so good together.” Her saurian tail joins in the effort, curling around the demi’s lithe waist, guiding her away from the group. <<linkreplace "Stop her">>You barely start to raise your voice and stomp forward when the lizard shoves you aside. You thump against a nearby wall as fluttery panic rises in your chest. “Don’t worry about them,” the lizard girl says as she reaches an arm around Mira’s shoulder to stop her from looking back at you. A bulging bicep presses against the back of the elf’s neck. “We’re gonna have fun…” The slightest pull would be enough to sweep her off her feet, cram her into a reptilian gullet. The drooling lizard’s turning her toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. A thick wrist loops under your friend’s chest, pulls her up against washboard monster girl abs. Together, they shuffle off the path and into— The lizard stops dead in her tracks. Vanille’s standing staunch, arms folded, glaring death at the larger woman. The lizard girl scoffs, pulls Mira closer. “What’s a little soft-skin like you gonna—” Vanille’s knuckles crack against the lizard’s jaw. The would-be predator thumps against a nearby wall, head spinning, scaly claws nursing her stunned face. The knight catches the springing demi and sets her firmly atop the mud, then turns the diminutive woman around and marches her back toward the rest of the group. You scurry after the pair and settle under Vanille’s other wing. <<if $Lurram == 1>>“Why is everyone here so mean?” Mira mewls. “What’s wrong with them?” “You can’t be everyone’s friend. SYou barely start to raise your voice and stomp forward when the lizard shoves you aside. You thump against a nearby wall as fluttery panic rises in your chest. “Don’t worry about them,” the lizard girl says as she reaches an arm around Mira’s shoulder to stop her from looking back at you. A bulging bicep presses against the back of the little demi’s neck. “This’ll be fun.” The slightest pull would be enough to sweep her off her feet, cram her into a reptilian gullet. The drooling lizard’s turning her toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. A thick wrist loops under your friend’s chest, yanks her up against washboard monster girl abs. Together, they shuffle off the path and into—ome people just suck, Mira,” Vanille mutters. “Sorry I let you get singled out like that.”<<else>> “I don’t like these lizard girls,” Mira hisses. “Can I go back and eat her?” “We need to keep moving,” Vanille insists. “Sorry I let you get singled out like that.”<</if>> “It’s okay.” “It’s not,” she growls, then resumes her swagger at the front of the group. [[Keep moving|Bully_Social Brutality]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>“Hey long-ears, need somewhere to spend the night?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. She thrusts her hips at Lloriel. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… or hunger. Probably both. Another lizard proves a little more bold, jostling the elf’s shoulder and favoring her with a wide smirk. “Wanna find out how a //real// woman can take care of you?” Lloriel turns beat red and shuffles nervously toward the middle of your group, stammering out a muttered, “N- No thank you.” “Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun. I’ve got just the spot for ya.” She slaps her stomach. “Nice and cozy.” You step forward and do the right thing. “She’s not interested.” The lizard girl nudges you out of the way and grabs Lloriel’s wrist. “Aw, c’mon, don’t ignore me. You’re an elf, right? So small and delicate—my favorite size.” She licks her lips. “We’d be so good together.” Her saurian tail joins in the effort, curling around the elf’s lithe waist, guiding her away from the group. <<linkreplace "Stop her">>You barely start to raise your voice and stomp forward when the lizard shoves you aside. You thump against a nearby wall as fluttery panic rises in your chest. “Don’t worry about them,” the lizard girl says as she reaches an arm around Lloriel’s shoulder to stop her from looking back at you. A bulging bicep presses against the back of the elf’s neck. “We’re gonna have fun…” The slightest pull would be enough to sweep her off her feet, cram her into a reptilian gullet. The drooling lizard’s turning her toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. A thick wrist loops under your friend’s chest, pulls her up against washboard monster girl abs. Together, they shuffle off the path and into— The lizard stops dead in her tracks. Vanille’s standing staunch, arms folded, glaring death at the larger woman. The lizard girl scoffs, pulls Lloriel closer. “What’s a little soft-skin like you gonna—” Vanille’s knuckles crack against the lizard’s jaw. The would-be predator thumps against a nearby wall, head spinning, scaly claws nursing her stunned face. The knight catches the wobbling elf and sets her firmly atop the mud, then turns the diminutive woman around and marches her back toward the rest of the group. You scurry after the pair and settle under Vanille’s other wing. “Th- Thank you,” Lloriel mewls, her cheeks red as tomatoes. Vanille nods and flashes a slight smile. “Of course. I’m sorry they singled you out like that.” “I- It’s okay. I’m used to it.”Lloriel winces. “I’ll try not to get in trouble again. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” “It’s okay. C’mon.” [[Keep moving|Bully_Social Brutality]]<</linkreplace>><</if>><</if>>

As you walk, it rapidly becomes apparent <<if $xe == "she">>you<<else>>your companions<</if>> aren’t the only targets of lizard girl, erm… //interest.// For every seven-foot, broad-shouldered, square-jawed titan, there’s at least three lizards of comparably lesser caliber receiving //more// than their fair share of unwanted attention. Most are your height, though some are smaller still, closer to Mira’s and Lloriel’s diminutive build—apparently some Havendorians just come out small… and adorable. In contrast, the proudest and loudest lizards are always armed, always have food, and are always covered in dangling strips of trophy-iron, like over-decorated military generals in an unstable dictatorship. You flinch as a diminutive lizard girl hurries around an oncoming corner, a large basin of water sloshing in her hands. Studs of iron jangle over her chest as she darts past you and scuttles off toward where a behemoth lies sprawled atop a wooden recliner. The wooden tub thunks down. “Don’t spill,” the big one grunts. “S- Sorry,” is all the runner can manage before dropping to both knees. The littler lizard hastily rips a strip of cloth from her already-sparse shorts and gets to scrubbing. “You’ll be there tonight, right?” A thin, protective arm rises over her chest. She can’t bring herself to meet the larger lizard’s gaze as she stammers out a hesitant, “Uhm, V- Vaz actually wants me to—” A huge hand grabs her wrist. “I don’t see Vaz around, do you?” The woman gives a weak tug. “B- But I—” “C’mon, what’s the harm? It’ll be just like old times. Vaz doesn’t need to know.” “Know about //what?”// A second behemoth stomps into view, followed by a half-dozen diminutive tagalongs. The gaggle of monsters are lizard girl arm-candy, plain and simple, sporting short, jagged haircuts and wearing clothing that accents their thick tails and toned arms. Each is adorned with a myriad of small metal piercings along their brow, chest and tail. A hollow-triangle pendant wraps around their throats—to match their guardian’s. The large intruder scowls at the opposing brute, arms folded. “Is this bitch bothering you, sweetheart?” The first lizard rises to her feet, knocking the water tub aside. The two stare at each other, faces red and muscles flexed. They’re wearing the exact same fit of open-front jerkins with absolutely nothing beneath, connected in the middle only by a narrow fastener that leaves a wide swath of cleavage and midriff exposed to the open air—the getup of a consummate douchebag. A fight breaks out in the blink of an eye. An open palm catches a meaty fist. A retaliatory swing aimed right at the skull goes wide, and the dodging lizard lunges forward with an open maw. Slobbery jaws snap against air, spittle flying everywhere. As if she were watering the ground with saliva, a crowd of broad-shouldered women immediately sprouts up, jeers and laughter building as you and your group inevitably draw nearer. Panicked underlings scatter, glancing nervously over their shoulders and giving wide berth to their superiors. You look for an alternative route, but the shitty city-planning has you locked in. All you can do is pick up the pace and scurry away from the fracas. The foot-washing lizard, only a pinch larger than Tess, makes a break for an alleyway when another snatches her by the tail and yanks her back. “Nononowaaait!” she squeals. The servant is tossed into the melee like the bouquet at a wedding—you’re honestly shocked nobody snatches her out of the air and gulps her on the spot. Instead, she bounces off the back of one of the brawlers, then falls to the mud and scrambles away on all fours. Tree-trunk-legs shuffle and shove her back into the fray. She’s bounced around in the mosh, yelping and whimpering until the two who started it finally notice their floundering prize. [[Go be a hero|Monster Mosh][$RVVanille += 2]] [[Fuck that|Yuri Gatekeeping (Bully)]]

No goddamned way you’re gonna intervene in that mess. You’ve just gotta get to the chief, and get out of this wretched town. Boisterous gulps send shivers down your spine. The loud and proud victory-belch forces you up to the front of the group, right between Vanille and Sherine where Tess has already instinctively hid. Smart girl. You’ve felt more welcome in some stomachs than you have on these bustling, muddy streets. Finally, you arrive at your destination: a large and imposing structure that stands taller—if not all that much stabler—than the other huts and shanties. Great slabs of stone form a frame like a phalanx of spears pointed up and inwards, narrowing to a squat tower of wood adorned with the hides and bones of innumerable creatures. You do a quick pass to make sure ‘human’ or ‘demi’ don’t number among the smaller ones, but it’s hard to be sure with the sheer quantity. As you expected, the two lizards guarding the inner sanctum are even larger than the ones outside the village. Each stands sternly, swathed in a shell of half-plate and wielding gleaming pikes with wicked points. The weapons //clunk// together in a metal criss-cross as you approach. “What do you want?” one of them grunts. Vanille steps forward. “I have a message from Walst-on-High to deliver to the champion.” The lizards meet her with stolid silence. //“Now,”// the knight continues, unwavering. The other lizard favors her with an appraising gaze. “Very well, but I can’t let you pass without collateral,” she says, slow and stern. “We’ll leave our weapons outside—” “No, I don’t care about your trophies.” Her lips curl to a cruel smile. “I mean one of you.” “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Vanille grunts as she turns to your group. Sherine bobs her head. “It’s a sensible precaution to make sure we play nice when speaking to a dignitary.” A nervous smile tugs at the corners of Mira’s lips, but she offers a halfway reassuring nod that this is, in fact, reasonable. “Who should it be, Vanille?” A full battery of emotions wage war across Vanille’s face. Most of them are anger, or anger-related, but the hottest give way to guilt and self-sacrifice. <<if $VanilleEvent6 || $RVVanille >= 16>>But she’s not alone. Vanille’s gotten you this far, carried your asses through this shithole long enough. It’s time for you to step up. <<linkreplace "Offer an alternative…">><<replace "#choices">>[[Offer yourself|Bully_Offer yourself][$RVVanille --, $Collateral to "Ashlyn"]] [[Offer Mira|Bully_Offer Mira][$RVVanille --, $RVAshlyn --, $RVSherine --, $RVLloriel --, $Collateral to "Ashlyn"]] [[Offer Ashlyn|Bully_Offer Ashlyn][$RVAshlyn ++, $Collateral to "Ashlyn"]] [[Offer Sherine|Bully_Offer Sherine][$Collateral to "Ashlyn"]] [[Offer Lloriel|Bully_Offer Lloriel][$Collateral to "Lloriel"]] [[Offer Tess|Bully_Offer Tess][$Collateral to "Ashlyn"]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> [[Call the guards’ bluff|MC Does An Angery][$RVVanille ++]] [[Stay silent and trust Vanille|Bully_Vanille's Choice][$Collateral to "Ashlyn"]]<<else>>Finally, she lets out a weary sigh. “Alright. Ashlyn, you’re staying behind.” “Oh, master,” the mage laments, a hand to her chest. “If I’d only known I was so precious to you, I would have confessed my feelings sooner. Alas, that time has passed, and now we can only pine for what could have been.” The knight rolls her eyes. “We’re only gonna be a few minutes—” “Hark! I must go now! Condemned to soup-hood by my star-crossed lover.” She swoons, melodramatic to the point of obscenity. “Remember me the next time you see two animals humping in the wilderness.” “Just go, or I actually //will// forget about you.” <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">><</if>>

“Okay, fine. But once I’m out, you all better have some glowing compliments ready about how good my ass looked sticking out of her mouth.” You’d expected her to put up some sort of fight, but Ashlyn steps out of the huddle and toward the lizard, thrusting an accusatory finger at the monster girl. “Alright, Meathead,” the mage says. “Make sure you put on a show for my friends here. Make it sensual. Weird.” The monster girl simply flexes her jaw. Ashlyn glances back. “Oh, and don’t actually forget about—” A sudden, wet //glurck// rings out as the lizard guard lunges forward and engulfs your companion’s head and shoulders. Hands immediately clasp to the mage’s arms, fingers digging into flesh and cloth, hoisting up and in. The first gulp claims Ashlyn’s breasts. The second has the lizard’s jaws working their way down the mage’s stomach. The monster girl’s definition of ‘putting on a show’ is speed-eating. She’s all haste and no relish, not even pausing for the slightest swipe of the tongue or a quick, appreciative //hmm.// But even //that’s// not fast enough for the impatient lizard girl. She reaches for Ashlyn’s legs and pulls them up toward the mage’s partially ingested torso, folding your companion at the hips and knees. Ankles bump against thighs. A skirt rides up and reveals a generous, indecent view of the mage’s ass. … It does look pretty good. Something about the way her thighs push up the bubbly butt—Speaking strictly out of obligation to Ashlyn’s somber request, of course. Vanille and Mira tense at your side, the knight’s hand clenching tight and Mira’s tail flickering wildly. Both gazes flit uneasily between the disappearing mage and anywhere else. Your other companions watch with more mixed reactions: confusion from Lloriel and Tess, and from Sherine, the slightest hint of schadenfreude masked behind indifferent sobriety. For your part, you can only try not to gawk as the lizard gulps Ashlyn down. Each swallow is matched by a ferocious toss and a slight thrust of her head as she pushes as much as pulls her prey down her gullet. She grows more violent in her lurching gulps and harsh shoves, forced to ingest an ever-widening meal. Every wet //gluck// accompanies an equally wet spray of spittle. When a few drops splat against your forehead, you shuffle an awkward step back. Teeth eclipse the hem of Ashlyn’s skirt. Lips gradually close as the mage sinks further and further back into the lizard girl’s jaws. The monster finally manages to close her mouth entirely, only to immediately open them again in one last, massive gulp that sees the mage sinking down her throat, feet and ass slipping through curtains of slick red flesh before vanishing entirely. Ashlyn thumps down into the monster girl’s stomach with an audible //splash,// but the lizard doesn’t even budge an inch. She slaps her stuffed gut with an open palm and, in traditional Havendorian fashion, lets out a triumphant, crass belch. You swear she aims it directly at you. You’re doubly sure it was a targeted attack when you hear Ashlyn’s words carried along in the breathy aftermath. //“Fuck you, <<= $name>>.”// “Okay,” the lizard guard grunts, sounding immensely satisfied. “You’re good to go in.” It takes a few moments to remember how your feet work, but you eventually lurch forward, one hand reaching for the doorway as your companions follow. [[Head inside|Lizard Chief]]

The heat hits you first. It’s oppressive, forceful, dry and parched like a harsh desert. The source is evident: two massive braziers that sit at the far end of the room, flames leaping from their metal grills and casting the windowless chamber in myriad, disorienting shadows. Scant scraps of wood poke from beneath haphazard strands and swaths of red cloth, some tied firmly in place, others left to gently sway like strips of muscle and tissue. Between the warmth and the ever-shifting red, it feels as if you’ve crawled inside something massive and alive. Only two sounds occupy the room: the steady crackle of fire, and a harsh rhythmic scrape that draws your attention to a throne set between the two braziers. The seat is rough and jagged, made mostly of broken branches with the bark still on, as if someone tore a tree apart with their bare hands, then assembled the pieces into an approximation of a chair. It looks just about as comfortable. A solitary lizard sits upon the throne. She’s not the hulking behemoth you pictured: a massive, muscled tyrant ruling over the brutish lizard girls, beating and eating any would-be usurpers into submission. Yet you’re certain she could throw you through a wall without a second thought. Toned arms rest atop amputated branches, muscles rippling with each swipe as she runs a coarse whetstone along the sharp of a wicked glaive. A thick tail lies draped over the edge of the throne, flicking occasionally, dark green scales catching the firelight. Behind her, an entire set of spit-polished platemail stands on a wooden rack. The only metal on her person is a striking collection of iron chips dangling from a loop of coarse twine around her neck. It gives the impression of a tooth necklace owned by a trophy hunter rather than a piece of fine jewelry. The monster girl doesn’t even spare your party a glance, eyes trained on her weapon and partially hidden behind jet-black hair woven into a tangle of coarse braids. “What?” The single word emerges as hardly more than a mutter. It’s indifferent, disinterested to the point of boredom. It takes you a moment to find a response. “Champion, err… Sazelle?” You receive a reassuring nod from Tess and absolutely nothing from the champion herself. “W- We’re here on behalf of Walst-on-High to request—” “No.” “I—What?” you stammer. “I said no.” Another harsh scrape. Scant sparks scatter to the floorboards. You draw in a slight breath and try again. “But we haven’t even told you—” “A Clansmeet, right?” //Scrape.// “After the last fell through.” //Scrape.// “Uhh, yes?” “Then my answer stands.” Silence returns, interrupted only by the hiss of whetstone against blade. The lizard girl pauses to inspect her work, running a finger along the edge and giving a slight grunt of satisfaction. She immediately turns her attention to the other side. You wait a moment longer, just to make sure you’re being well and truly ignored, then finally go for a //third// attempt. “If you just let me try to explain—” The lizard’s glaive thumps against the floor. It takes every ounce of resolve to not jump. “I’m not interested in hearing you dither and whine,” she growls, eyeing you for the first time. “Make your case, and make it quick.” Damn you, Rule of Threes. The last obstacle was the champion herself. <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>> After a moment’s consideration, you reach for Sable’s gift<<if $Swamp2 == true>>, hoping your quick intrusion into the dryad’s privacy didn’t leave any evidence—and that she was right about being able to convince her apparent… partner?<<else>>, hoping the dryad was right about being able to convince the champion<</if>>. The moment the scroll leaves your bag, Sazelle leaps from her chair and crosses the room in the blink of an eye. The carefully wrapped sylvan bundle vanishes from your hand. The glaive clatters to the floor, abandoned and forgotten as the lizard thumps back down on her throne, her tail scything through the air in fitful arcs. Fingers grasp at leafy parchment and pull at woven vine, a mixture of impatient eagerness and delicate reverence. The lizard unrolls the scroll, eyes darting back and forth. She makes it three or four lines down<<if $Swamp2 == true>>—about as far as you dared to read—<<else>> <</if>>and suddenly folds the message closed, a vibrant scarlet blooming upon her cheeks. “I’ll attend.”<<set $Lurram_Lizards to true>> You blink, slow and baffled. “What?” “Tell Ialise I will attend the Clansmeet,” Sazelle states. “We will arrive by sunset. No later.” Her gaze flickers between you and the scroll clasped tight in her hands. “You can leave now.” <<if $Swamp2 == true>>Well damn. What sort of relationship do these two have? And more importantly, how absolutely fucked are you if the Champion of the Lizards ever learns you peaked into her mail? “I, uhh… R- Right,” you manage, resolving that you’ll burn that bridge when you come to it. “Err, thanks.”<<else>>“I, uhh… R- Right,” you manage. “Err, thanks.” <<if $Collateral != "Ashlyn">>You’ve hardly turned away from the throne before Ashlyn’s elbowing you in the side, eyebrows waggling like flags caught in a hurricane. //“I know, I know,”// you mutter. //“I saw it too.”// The mage merely smirks, but you have no doubt you’ll be hearing some righteous gloating when privacy allows. You should be grateful she’s not whooping and hollering right here in Sazelle’s chambers.<</if>><</if>><<if $Collateral != false>> <<linkreplace "Leave quickly">>“Is Kira still trying her usual routine?” The remark stops you just before you reach the door. You find Sazelle eyeing you with the closest thing you’ve seen to genuine interest since you first entered—which admittedly doesn’t amount to a whole lot. “Uhh, who?” you ask. “Kira,” she reiterates, as if it explains anything. “Looks strong, but she’s an empty-headed pile of slag. You saw her on the way in, unless she abandoned her post. Never should’ve given her such an easy job.” A mote of dread begins to well in the pit of your stomach. “Y- You mean one of your guards?” “It’s…” Sazelle hesitates, hisses out a sigh, then waves a hand. “Nevermind, either it doesn’t matter, or you’ll figure it out soon enough.” You don’t even wait for another dismissal before you’re speed-walking toward the exit. [[Rush outside|Collateral Retrieval]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>[[Leave quickly|No Collateral]]<</if>><<else>><<include "Sazelle_Ask">><</if>>

The elf nods once more, as if convincing herself that this is actually happening. She hands her bow, quiver, and boots over to Mira, then shuffles awkwardly over toward the lizard girl. Seeing the two of them next to each other, you realize that Lloriel’s barely half the monster girl’s size. … Is she gonna be filling enough? The lizard immediately grabs the elf by the waist and hoists her skyward. A brief moment of confusion shifts to morbid fascination as the monster girl reaches for Lloriel’s legs and pulls them up toward the elf’s torso, folding your companion at the hips and knees. Ankles bump against thighs, knees squish around a narrow chin. Even her pointed ears are pressed flat against her skull. The greedy monster crams her compacted meal-to-be into her gaping maw, then guzzles the poor elf down in a single, heaving //gluck,// throat bulging to obscene proportions as your companion is pulled, pushed, and shoveled inside. Vanille tenses, the fingers of her right hand clenching tight as her gaze flits between the disappearing elf and anywhere else. Mira, meanwhile, stares ferociously at the bundle of equipment in her arms, as if afraid it’ll jump away at the first chance. The lizard takes heaving, wet gulps as the Lloriel-shaped-bulge sinks deeper by the second. Rank droplets of saliva splat against your forehead as lips seal over the elf’s toes. One last //glurck,// and Lloriel splashes into the guard’s stomach. Somehow, she looks even smaller fully ingested. Her subtle shifts and squirms register as only the slightest imprints beneath all those layers of muscle and flesh and armor. //Looks cozy.// “Alright, you’re—” The lizard lets out a raucous belch, then licks her lips and slaps her stomach, nearly to the point of flattening it. “You’re good to go in.” [[Proceed|Lizard Chief]]

“Climb in, sugar,” the guard croons as she leans forward. Sultry altos and breathy miasma spill as she places one upturned palm atop the other, then simply waits. //“… Fuckin’ bitch,”// Vanille mutters as she reluctantly plunges a wrist down the lizard’s throat. Her other hand finds a reptilian shoulder for stability as a muddy boot steps upon the monstrous woman’s hand. Golden hair ducks under a row of jagged teeth. Shoulders hunch. The knight shunts herself through the spongy maw. Flesh ripples like curtains as the lizard woman swallows. A startled yelp squeals out between layers of thick muscle as she suddenly heaves your companion skyward by her boot. Jaws snap as she bucks, rattles her body about. The monster girl shimmies as a lump forms at the top of her throat, then rapidly falls down her front. Bulging flesh expands. Stomach balloons. Spine straightens as her tail points toward the ground in a rigid line, almost like a tripod. With gravity’s aid, the lizard makes quick work of Vanille’s torso, then begins to take rapid, lunging swallows to work down the knight’s faintly kicking legs. She’s a rough and messy eater; each heaving //gluck// jostling your companion like a slab of meat, each wet slurp accompanied by a spray of saliva glittering in the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>afternoon<<else>>late-morning<</if>> sun. In the blink of an eye, she’s claimed Vanille’s thighs. Another, and she’s past her knees. //Gumlp!// Something small and fierce grabs your sleeve, shocks you from the macabre spectacle. Mira pulls you a half-step closer. All you can do is offer a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as you pass into the building together. “Such a squirmer,” the monster coos. She squeezes her gut, testing its heft, its satiety. The look in her eyes indicates it’s everything she’d hoped it would be. //“Bwuurp.”// “You are //not// my friend,” Mira growls as she passes the huge monster. The lizard scoffs, shows off her prize. “Aww, is the kitten mad?” “I wouldn’t underestimate her if I were you…” Sherine warns as she pulls up the rear of the group. One last glance over your shoulder sees the lizard poking her writhing stomach in cruel amusement. Her chuckles haunt you as the door thunks closed at your backs. [[Go talk to the chief|Lizard Chief]]

<<if $Lurram >= 2 && $MiraTum <= 1>><<set $MiraEvent9 to true>>Once Mira is bound to Ashlyn’s satisfaction, the dastardly duo and their innocent demi recruit set off for the village gates. Mira has to be corralled by her duplicitously minded co-conspirators into a sufficiently subdued shuffle, the demi faux-stumbling along in Ashlyn’s wake. The guards quickly notice their approach and straighten their spears. Words are exchanged. Arms gesticulate. The lizards seem wary, but when Ashlyn grabs Mira and tosses her forward, their caution wanes. One steps forward and plants her spear in the mud. Maybe it’s just your mind filling in the gaps, but you swear she licks her lips. Vanille bristles at your side. And then the guard in front of Mira suddenly vanishes. The demi flies from her bindings as she leaps for where the lizard once stood. Sherine’s tail wraps around the second guard’s chest and head, squeezes tight, and reels her in like a starving angler with their first bite of the day. You grab Vanille, Lloriel and Tess, then hurry across the field, trying your damnedest not to ogle as Sherine devours her prey. Too far for sound, you settle for indirect details: squirming limbs and shifting coils, slight lurches heralding taught flesh, one form sinking rapidly into another. By the time you draw close, Sherine’s polishing off a pair of impotently squirming feet as the wriggling bulge of the lizard’s torso begins slipping into her tail. Nearby, Mira and Ashlyn share hushed conversation. Well, Ashlyn’s doing most of the talking, while Mira’s responding with a whole lot of silent nodding. Once satisfied, the demi comes bouncing over to meet you with a suspiciously tight-lipped grin. “Hi, Mira. Whatcha—” The demi’s tongue pokes through closed lips, a miniscule blotch of ruddy brown and grey on the tip. Armor. The banded chest piece the guard was wearing. Eyes gleaming, Mira gingerly plucks the bit of sodden metal and leather free. //“Loohk wha I can do!”// she cheers around a full mouth, then flicks shrunken equipment away. Her tongue pushes at the insides of her cheeks as her brow furrows, eyes crossing in furious concentration. “Th- That’s, uhh…” Another poke of the tongue. Another shrunken piece of armor: the skimpy leather tabard. Your cheeks burn hot as you cast a furious glance about, then burn all the hotter when you realize Vanille’s watching too. “That’s… i- impressive, Mira,” you eventually manage. Fuck tying a cherry stem; she’s performing surgery. “Did you, uhm…”You shoot a glance over to a certain sex-mage and her shit-eating grin. “Did Ashlyn teach you how to do that?” //“Mmhmmph! It’sh eashy!”// Mira chirps, pausing to remove another article of lizard girl attire. Out comes not one but two teeny-tiny gloves which are promptly discarded with the same casualness as the rest. The demi beams. “Loohk!” Her mouth opens. A soggy and exceedingly dazed lizard girl lies sprawled in the middle of her tongue, dressed in naught but undergarments. The miniscule monster girl lurches upright the moment she sees light, then tries to dart forward in a slippery, disoriented lurch. A deft tongue tip bars her path, flicks at her shoulder when she tries to juke around, then tosses her back inside when she scrambles the other way. The demi giggles and shuts her lips. Muted forms bulge from behind her cheeks. A stray limb pokes from its fleshy prison, only for a dart of wet pink to steal it back. A thrumming purr resonates from Mira’s chest, tail swishing furiously behind her back. Her eyes gleam with wild delight like… well, like a cat toying with a bug. This nearly happened to you all those weeks back in Amberglen, an eternity ago. Would the bond you now share spare you from Mira’s predatory urges? //… Would you want it to?// The sudden clearing of a throat shakes you and demi both from your respective fixations. Mira immediately turns her gaze on a stone-faced Vanille, then offers an apologetic frown. “Shorry.” She gulps. The briefest ripple, and the lizard girl’s gone. “Was I being rude?” Vanille draws in a slow, steadying breath. “N- No, it’s… We should hurry inside. Before anyone notices the guards are missing.” The demi nods, sober. “Oh, sorry.” “It’s fine.” You catch Tess eyeing the exchange with a mixture of confusion and mild horror. Lloriel shares a similar expression, though her eyes keep shifting to Sherine, tracking the full-sized lizard girl’s progress as she slips further into the lamia’s serpentine body. “Hey, uhh, what happens when the other lizards //do// notice their missing clanmates?” the elf asks, meek. “Play dumb,” Ashlyn remarks. “Say they were gone when you walked by. Maybe some <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>crocodiles<<else>>swamp monsters<</if>> got ‘em.”<<else>>With a bit of assistance from Sherine, Ashlyn ties herself into a sufficiently compromised knot of a sex-mage, arms and ankles bound, wrists pressed tight behind her back. She hops a bit, nearly trips into the mud, and finally allows herself to be hauled off in the lamia’s coils. You and the rest of your companions watch anxiously as Sherine weaves a winding path toward the gate. The guards notice her approach, straighten their backs and raise their spears. Words are exchanged. Arms gesticulate. The lizards seem wary. But when Sherine whips her tail and throws Ashlyn to their feet with all the enthusiasm of a serf offering taxes to their lord, the leftmost lizard immediately approaches. Maybe it’s just your mind filling in the gaps, but you swear she licks her lips. And then the mage leans upright and bonks her forehead against the monster girl’s chin. The guard vanishes. Sherine’s tail wraps around the second guard’s chest and head, squeezes tight, and reels her in like a starving angler with their first bite of the day. “Well, that’s that,” Vanille mutters, a few shades shy of pleased. She huffs out a sigh. “Let’s hurry over before anyone notices.” You follow in the knight’s footsteps, trying your damnedest to not ogle as Sherine devours her prey. Too far for sound, you settle for indirect details: squirming limbs and shifting coils, slight lurches heralding taught flesh, one form sinking rapidly into another. By the time you draw close, Sherine’s polishing off a pair of impotently squirming feet as the wriggling bulge of the lizard’s torso begins slipping into her tail. Ashlyn, however, seems to be having problems. True to her word, she’s slipped free of the bindings, but now the mage is scrambling about in the mud, fingers questing, head swiveling. “Don’t tell me you lost the lizard,” you say as you walk up to the mage’s side. “I didn’t //lose// her,” Ashlyn grumbles. “I just can’t //find// her. Would’ve been a whole lot easier if I didn’t have to cast the shrinking spell while on my back.” “And here I thought that would be your preferred position,” Sherine says once she’s taken the last gulp and let out a breathy sigh. “Besides, I recall someone telling me to ‘sell the bit.’” The mage pauses to flash a wry grin. “Fair enough.” She turns a smirk to you. “Did you see the headbutt-into-shrink spell?” “I did.” “Cool shit, right? Hands-free casting is hard as hell. I think next time I’ll try to cast with my ass. Butt-bump-into-shrink spell.” You sigh. “Please just find the lizard.” Before either of you can resume the search, Mira walks up, reaches into the folds of Ashlyn’s robes, and produces a tiny lizard girl complete with tiny banded armor and tiny angry shouts. “Here you go!” the demi cheers. Ashlyn accepts the shrunken treat, pops it into her mouth, then immediately swallows. //“Eugh,// tastes like mud,” she mutters. You catch Tess eying the exchange with a mixture of confusion and mild horror. Lloriel shares a similar expression, though her eyes keep shifting to Sherine, tracking the full-sized lizard girl’s progress as she slips further into the lamia’s serpentine body. “What happens when someone notices they’re missing?” the elf asks, meek. “Play dumb,” Ashlyn remarks. “Say they were gone when you walked by. Maybe some <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>crocodiles<<else>>swamp monsters<</if>> got ‘em or—Stop that.” Ashlyn swats away a curious finger poking her bustier: Mira’s. “Can I have the next one?” the demi asks. <<if $MiraTum >= 2>>Ashlyn pokes Mira back, right in the belly. “Only after you finish your lunch.”<<else>>The mage scoffs. “Only if you behave.”<</if>><</if>> Vanille folds her arms and directs a pointed gaze to the open gate. “Let’s get going. Everyone understands the plan?” “Act like we’re lizard girls who belong here.” Mira glances at Vanille’s backside. “Is it going to be hard because you don’t have a tail?” The knight flashes a slight smile. “I think I’ll manage.” [[Walk with confidence and purpose|Murder_Enter Village]]

You step through the gate and almost immediately grind to a halt. In retrospect, the harsh, jagged palisades of Crest weren’t just a bristly defense to dissuade intruders; they were a tone-setter. Buildings stand squat and rough, every bit as harsh as they are sturdy. Rough-hewn stone frames support walls of splinter-strewn wood or stacks of timbers topped with straw and thatch. Some are fashioned into reasonable semblances of homes. Other log-pile-dwellings still have their bark which has begun to slough off under constant exposure to the elements. A forge sits a short walk from the gate—one of many, based on the heat and stench. It’s a rough, brutish construction: a simple pit of stone and a manually operated bellows. A pair of lizard girls hoist a clay crucible from the towering flames, then dump its partially molten contents right onto a large slab of wrought iron—presumably serving as an anvil—slag and all. The instant it’s settled, they’re hammering at the incandescent bloom in a shower of sparks. “There,” Tess suddenly says, gesturing with one hand over the squat skyline to the tallest building in the center of town—only two stories with a decorative top. You follow, taking care to avoid the scalding motes as your attention turns to the town proper. Streets of hard, compact dirt weave between pools of mud and scattered detritus ranging from discarded food to flecks of metal that gleam in the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>midday<<else>>late-morning<</if>> light. Stalls, stands, and ramshackle carts wedge between the larger structures or spill onto the avenues themselves. Their contents range from stacked and loosely bundled reeds to a pile of sharpened arrowheads to a medley of wood-and-stone tools. There’s no sense of organization among the village. Nothing approximating a town square, a market, or even so much as a store. It’s haphazard, chaotic, as if the powers that be were content to merely shove these odds and ends into an open corner before going about some other architectural business, leaving the problem of storage and logistics to some unfortunate city planner. In your short trek, you pass nearly a hundred saurian bodies all busy with labor and toil. The lizards are packed impressively tight within the walls of Crest, dwelling in what you can only describe as a few shades nicer than a slum. They jostle and shift, bump in an ever-surging and eternal traffic jam of flesh and scales. Livestock animals meander about ramshackle pens: spike-horned goats and what you think might be an extremely hairy cow. Perhaps it’s a buffalo. Either way, it’s rigged up to a heavily-used plow near a plot of choked and fallow farmland. You can see why hunts would be a point of pride for these people. The swamp may not provide much in the way of fertile ground, but there’s plenty of beasts to go around. You’re not entirely sure how catches are shared when the hunters can swallow prey whole, but it’s not any of your damn business. About fifty feet in, you’re drawing a few wary looks here and there. Nobody approaches or says anything, but the spreading curiosity is palpable. Vanille nudges your shoulder. You straighten your posture and walk on with feigned confidence. The hardest part is averting your gaze. Why does machismo require disinterest? There’s cool stuff here, a whole new culture to learn about. It’s not your fault for being curious. You shuffle your way inconspicuously toward the center of the group, sidling up beside Tess. The lizard girl’s maintained a small, meek demeanor this entire time, and you’re not sure if it’s to blend in better with your group, or if she genuinely feels this way in her own home. “We going the right way?” you ask. “I told you already, just head toward the tallest building,” she hisses without looking up. The slight monster girl shoos you away, as if she doesn’t want to be seen consorting with the enemy. You don’t blame her. <<if $xe == "she">>Your best attempts to remain inconspicuous don’t seem to be meeting quite the success you’d hoped. Each step finds a few more gazes drawn your way. Some are less wary and far more… appraising. “Need somewhere to spend the night, pretty girl?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. “I’ve got just the place…” Another bumps against your shoulder and favors you with a wide smirk. “Hey, delicious. Wanna ditch those soft-skins and see what a //real// woman can do?” She thrusts her hips. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… and hunger. <<linkreplace "“N- No thank you.”">>“N- No thank you,” you stutter, trying to hide among your party like a wounded gazelle. The lizard heads off your retreat, one hand reaching for your wrist. “Aw, c’mon, babe,” she croons with a decidedly un-subtle belly pat. “We’d be so good together. Got a spot all picked out for ya.” Her tail joins in the effort, tugging at your waist, beginning to guide you away from sheltered safety. <<linkreplace "“Sorry, I- I’m here with my group. We’re just here on an errand.”">>“Sorry, I- I’m here with my group. We’re just—” “Don’t worry about them.” She reaches an arm around your shoulder, the bulge of her bicep pressing against your neck. “I’ll keep you safe. You can trust me.” You’re rapidly losing your ability to do otherwise. The slightest push would be enough to sweep you off your feet. A single pull could send you tumbling. The drooling lizard’s turning you toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. <<linkreplace "“Please, I don’t want any trouble.”">>“P- Please, I don’t want any trouble.” “No trouble at all. I’ll show you around.” A thick wrist loops under your chest. You’re lifted from the ground as she shuffles off the path and into— <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>The lizard stops dead in her tracks. Vanille’s standing staunch, arms folded, glaring death at the larger woman. The knight points to you. “She’s mine.” Your captor scoffs, pulls you against her abs. “What’s a little soft-skin like you gonna—” Vanille’s knuckles crack against the lizard’s jaw. The would-be predator thumps against a nearby wall, head spinning, scaly claws nursing her stunned face. The knight catches your wobble and sets you straight and firm atop the mud, then turns you around and marches you right back in line with the rest of the group. “Th- Thank—” Vanille simply pulls you along at an urgent pace, offering nothing. This isn’t the time to show any weakness in front of the rest of the lizard girls’ prying, predatory eyes. <<include "Postbully">><<elseif $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>You jolt as a hand seizes yours. “<<= $name>> said no,” Mira hisses, glaring up at the lizard girl easily twice her height. The lizard girl is so flabbergasted by the tiny defiance that she fails to stop the little woman from simply pulling you out of her monstrous grip. <<if $MiraTum >= 3>>“Th- Thanks, Mira.” “You’re welcome!” Mira drags you along at a rapid clip, back toward the safety of your party. With every stumble, you reflexively look around to check if anyone saw your embarrassing sidetrack, but all saurian eyes are fixated on Mira’s previous prey with a sense of quiet respect. <<else>>Mira makes it a few steps before the monster girl regains her senses and tries to follow, only to be met by flashing steel as the demi draws a dagger. //“Mine.”// Mira growls out the last word with the sort of anger you haven’t seen since times best forgotten. The lizard’s taken aback too. She eyes the small demi and the smaller dagger, weighing her odds. She doesn’t like what she finds. After a moment, the monster girl backs off with an agitated hiss, then turns and slips away. “Thanks, Mira,” you manage. “Y- Yeah, of course.” The demi breathes out a shaky huff, the last traces of anger and fear gradually fading in emerald eyes. The dagger vanishes under her clothes. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean, uhh… y’know.” “Of course.” You offer a reassuring grin—for both your sakes. “I appreciate the save. Really.” She smiles, slight and shy.<</if>> <<include "Postbully">><<else>>Slender fingers alight upon the lizard’s shoulder, almost delicate in their touch. The lizard stops in her tracks as a familiar voice cuts through the ambient bustle. “The lady said no,” Sherine chides. A scoff. “So?” “It’s bad form. Lazy and wasteful.” The lamia tenderly pries the lizard’s hand from your wrist, only for her own smooth digits to take their place. “Try a gentler, more personal touch. <<= $name>> here isn’t even that hard. Watch.” Garnet eyes meet your own, warm and inviting. A smile that could melt a glacier curls upon scarlet lips. “<<= $name>>, you belong to me, right? Mine to do with as I please?” “Y- Yes, of course,” you stammer out, not seeing a whole lot of other options. Also, you’d be lying if you said otherwise. “See? Not so difficult.” Sherine directs a smug grin at the lizard. “But I’ll be taking her back, thank you.” The lizard girl merely stares in a mixture of disbelief and indignant rage. But she lets you and the lamia go nonetheless, apparently far less keen to hit on someone whose ‘owner’ can hit back. <<include "Postbully">><</if>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><<else>>Your group’s best attempts to remain inconspicuous don’t seem to be meeting quite the success you’d hoped. Each step finds a few more gazes drawn your way. Some are less wary and far more… appraising. <<if $MiraTum <=2>>“Hey kitty-cat, need somewhere to spend the night?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. She thrusts her hips at Mira. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… or hunger. Probably both. Another jostles Mira’s shoulder and favors her with a wide smirk. “Wanna find out how a //real// woman can take care of you?” The demi shuffles a bit closer to <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>your<<else>>Vanille’s<</if>> side and murmurs out a nervous, “N- No thanks. I’m with my friends.” “I can be your friend, too. I’ve got the perfect spot—saved just for you.” She slaps her stomach. “Nice and cozy.” You step forward and do the right thing. “She’s not interested.” The lizard girl simply nudges you out of the way and grabs Mira’s wrist. “Aw, c’mon, don’t ignore me. You’re a demi, right? I love these little ears. Great for nibbling.” She licks her lips. “We’d be so good together.” Her saurian tail joins in the effort, curling around the demi’s lithe waist, guiding her away from the group. <<linkreplace "Stop her">>You barely start to raise your voice and stomp forward when the lizard shoves you aside. You thump against a nearby wall as fluttery panic rises in your chest. “Don’t worry about them,” the lizard girl says as she reaches an arm around Mira’s shoulder to stop her from looking back at you. A bulging bicep presses against the back of the little demi’s neck. “This’ll be fun.” The slightest pull would be enough to sweep her off her feet, cram her into a reptilian gullet. The drooling lizard’s turning her toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. A thick wrist loops under your friend’s chest, yanks her up against washboard monster girl abs. Together, they shuffle off the path and into— A band of copper whips around the monster girl’s throat and hoists her a foot off the ground. “I have a spot for you, too,” Sherine coos, pressing herself against the strangled lizard. “Though I might skip the foreplay.” The lamia begins to hoist the lizard skyward, then hesitates and glances toward Mira. “My apologies, did you want her?” “Ye—” Mira looks at your concerned expression. //“Nooo.// I meant no.” “Y- Yeah. It’s fine,” the lizard wheezes, trying to pry her fingers between the lash of scales and her neck. “We don’t have to do anything rash, right?” Sherine stares at the captive monster girl, no doubt sizing her up, figuring out exactly how long it would take to add her to the growing collection of lizards churning in the depths of her tail. A small crowd of townsfolk have gathered to watch, waiting with bated breath. Your own breath hitches, the pressure rising with each passing second. The lamia suddenly relents, leaving the lizard to tumble to the dirt with a pained gasp. She scrambles to her knees and scurries away to the mixed surprise and relief of both you and the reptilian onlookers. You swear a lizard in the crowd mutters, //“Coward,”// at her fleeing kin. With the excitement over, Sherine places a hand each on your and Mira’s shoulders and guides you back toward the rest of the group to continue on. <<include "Postbully">><</linkreplace>><<else>>“Hey long-ears, need somewhere to spend the night?” calls a lizard leaning against a passing hut. She thrusts her hips at Lloriel. “Just come on over. I’ll take good care of ya.” It’s hard to ignore the undertone of violence… or hunger. Probably both. Another lizard proves a little more bold, jostling the elf’s shoulder and favoring her with a wide smirk. “Wanna find out how a //real// woman can take care of you?” Lloriel turns beat red and shuffles nervously toward the middle of your group, stammering out a muttered, “N- No thank you.” “Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun. I’ve got just the spot for ya.” She slaps her stomach. “Nice and cozy.” You step forward and do the right thing. “She’s not interested.” The lizard girl nudges you out of the way and grabs Lloriel’s wrist. “Aw, c’mon, don’t ignore me. You’re an elf, right? So small and delicate—my favorite size.” She licks her lips. “We’d be so good together.” Her saurian tail joins in the effort, curling around the elf’s lithe waist, guiding her away from the group. <<linkreplace "Stop her">>You barely start to raise your voice and stomp forward when the lizard shoves you aside. You thump against a nearby wall as fluttery panic rises in your chest. “Don’t worry about them,” the lizard girl says as she reaches an arm around Lloriel’s shoulder to stop her from looking back at you. A bulging bicep presses against the back of the elf’s neck. “We’re gonna have fun…” The slightest pull would be enough to sweep her off her feet, cram her into a reptilian gullet. The drooling lizard’s turning her toward an alley, toward a dark and dire end. A thick wrist loops under your friend’s chest, pulls her up against washboard monster girl abs. Together, they shuffle off the path and into— The lizard stops dead in her tracks. Vanille’s standing staunch, arms folded, glaring death at the larger woman. The lizard girl scoffs, pulls Lloriel closer. “What’s a little soft-skin like you gonna—” Vanille’s knuckles crack against the lizard’s jaw. The would-be predator thumps against a nearby wall, head spinning, scaly claws nursing her stunned face. The knight catches the wobbling elf and sets her firmly atop the mud, then turns the diminutive woman around and marches her back toward the rest of the group. You scurry after the pair and settle under Vanille’s other wing. “Th- Thank you,” Lloriel mewls, her cheeks red as tomatoes. Vanille nods and flashes a slight smile. “Of course. I’m sorry they singled you out like that.” “I- It’s okay. I’m used to it.”Lloriel winces. “I’ll try not to get in trouble again. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” “It’s okay. C’mon.” <<include "Postbully">><</linkreplace>><</if>><</if>>

As you walk, it rapidly becomes apparent <<if $xe == "she">>you<<else>>your companions<</if>> aren’t the only targets of lizard girl, erm… //interest.// For every seven-foot, broad-shouldered, square-jawed titan, there’s at least three lizards of comparably lesser caliber receiving //more// than their fair share of unwanted attention. Most are your height, though some are smaller still, closer to Mira’s and Lloriel’s diminutive build—apparently some Havendorians just come out small… and adorable. In contrast, the proudest and loudest lizards are always armed, always have food, and are always covered in dangling strips of trophy-iron, like over-decorated military generals in an unstable dictatorship. You flinch as a diminutive lizard girl hurries around an oncoming corner, a large basin of water sloshing in her hands. Studs of iron jangle over her chest as she darts past you and scuttles off toward where a behemoth lies sprawled atop a wooden recliner. The wooden tub thunks down. “Don’t spill,” the big one grunts. “S- Sorry,” is all the runner can manage before dropping to both knees. The littler lizard hastily rips a strip of cloth from her already-sparse shorts and gets to scrubbing. “You’ll be there tonight, right?” A thin, protective arm rises over her chest. She can’t bring herself to meet the larger lizard’s gaze as she stammers out a hesitant, “Uhm, V- Vaz actually wants me to—” A huge hand grabs her wrist. “I don’t see Vaz around, do you?” The woman gives a weak tug. “B- But I—” “C’mon, what’s the harm? It’ll be just like old times. Vaz doesn’t need to know.” “Know about //what?”// A second behemoth stomps into view, followed by a half-dozen diminutive tagalongs. The gaggle of monsters are lizard girl arm-candy, plain and simple, sporting short, jagged haircuts and wearing clothing that accents their thick tails and toned arms. Each is adorned with a myriad of small metal piercings along their brow, chest and tail. A hollow-triangle pendant wraps around their throats—to match their guardian’s. The large intruder scowls at the opposing brute, arms folded. “Is this bitch bothering you, sweetheart?” The first lizard rises to her feet, knocking the water tub aside. The two stare at each other, faces red and muscles flexed. They’re wearing the exact same fit of open-front jerkins with absolutely nothing beneath, connected in the middle only by a narrow fastener that leaves a wide swath of cleavage and midriff exposed to the open air—the getup of a consummate douchebag. A fight breaks out in the blink of an eye. An open palm catches a meaty fist. A retaliatory swing aimed right at the skull goes wide, and the dodging lizard lunges forward with an open maw. Slobbery jaws snap against air, spittle flying everywhere. As if she were watering the ground with saliva, a crowd of broad-shouldered women immediately sprouts up, jeers and laughter building as you and your group inevitably draw nearer. Panicked underlings scatter, glancing nervously over their shoulders and giving a wide berth to their superiors. You look for an alternative route, but the shitty city-planning has you locked in. All you can do is pick up the pace and scurry away from the fracas. The foot-washing lizard, only a pinch larger than Tess, makes a break for an alleyway when another snatches her by the tail and yanks her back. “Nononowaaait!” she squeals. The servant is tossed into the melee like the bouquet at a wedding—you’re honestly shocked nobody snatches her out of the air and gulps her on the spot. Instead, she bounces off the back of one of the brawlers, then falls to the mud and scrambles away on all fours. Tree-trunk-legs shuffle and shove her back into the fray. She’s bounced around in the mosh, yelping and whimpering until the two who started it finally notice their floundering prize. [[Go be a hero|Monster Mosh][$RVVanille += 2]] [[Fuck that|Yuri Gatekeeping]]

You return to find more opportunistic lizard girls making moves on your party using the same sorts of tactics: aggressive singling out and subtle separation. Unfortunately for them, Ashlyn exists. “Ooh yeah, baby. Take me to bed—My safe word is, ‘Someone help! She’s on fire!’” The mage draws a set of confused, wary eyes. The smallest monster girls all take a step back when she starts sexually moaning. The boldest retreat when the mage starts flashing her breasts. It’s hard not to laugh—it’s like watching a herd of dogs being corralled by a sheep. Even though the attempts to add to their waistlines were unsuccessful, the lizard girls who took passes at your party receive high-fives and a healthy dose of teasing from their peers just for trying. The camaraderie might be uplifting if it were directed toward less licentious goals<<if $xe == "she">>—and if //you// hadn’t been the target<</if>>. Your companions circle the wagons as soon as you’re all grouped again, with Vanille and Sherine taking particular care to watch the flanks for any more opportunists. [[Keep moving|Murder_Social Brutality]]

No goddamned way you’re gonna intervene in that mess. You’ve just gotta get to the chief, and get out of this wretched town. Boisterous gulps send shivers down your spine. The loud and proud victory-belch forces you up to the front of the group, right between Vanille and Sherine where Tess has already instinctively hid. Smart girl. You’ve felt more welcome in some stomachs than you have on these bustling, muddy streets. Finally, you arrive at your destination: a large and imposing structure that stands taller—if not all that much stabler—than the other huts and shanties. Great slabs of stone form a frame like a phalanx of spears pointed up and inwards, narrowing to a squat tower of wood adorned with the hides and bones of innumerable creatures. You do a quick pass to make sure ‘human’ or ‘demi’ don’t number among the smaller ones, but it’s hard to be sure with the sheer quantity. As you expected, the two lizards guarding the inner sanctum are even larger than the ones outside the village. Each stands sternly, swathed in a shell of half-plate and wielding gleaming pikes with wicked points. The weapons //clunk// together in a metal criss-cross as you approach. “What do you want?” one of them grunts. You step forward. “We have a message from Walst-on-High to deliver to the champion.” The lizards meet you with stolid silence. “It’s, uhh, important we get an audience,” you continue in an admirable attempt at unwavering. The other lizard favors your group with an appraising gaze. “Very well, but I can’t let you pass without collateral,” she says, slow and stern. Oh. That was easier than expected. It’s a surprisingly reasonable request. You wouldn’t want a bunch of outsiders waltzing in and assassinating your leader, after all. You nod and grovel hastily before they change their minds. “We’ll leave our weapons outside, no problem.” “No, I don’t care about your trophies.” Her lips curl to a hungry smile. “I mean one of you.” Spoke—err, thought—too soon. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you grunt, turning and pleading to your group. “Is this a thing?” Sherine bobs her head, uncertain how to break the news to you. “It’s a sensible precaution to make sure we play nice when speaking to a dignitary.” Vanille merely grunts agreement. A nervous smile tugs at the corners of Mira’s lips, but she offers a halfway reassuring nod that this is, in fact, reasonable. “Who should it be, <<= $name>>?” “Wait, why <<if $xe != "they">>does <<= $xe>><<else>>do they<</if>> get to pick?” Ashlyn whinges. “Aren’t we a //teeeaaamm?//<<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>> The frog girls have a democracy, why can’t we?” You shudder to think of Prime Minister Ashlyn’s reign of chaos. Oh, the scandals…<<else>>//”//<</if>> Vanille rolls her eyes. “<<= $name>> is the least biased here—being an outsider makes <<= $xem>> neutral.” “Ohhh, <<= $xes>> //‘neutral.’// Good point, good point…” The sneer on her face hones to a dire edge. “Wise judge of character, as usual. Silly of me to question it.” You can see the barely restrained laughter welling up behind Ashlyn’s bosom. She’s giddy. Tittering. About to blow a load right on you. <<include "Collateral_Ask">>

As your guide and your vanguard take the first steps out of the alley, Ashlyn shuffles over toward Mira with arcane energy already buzzing between her fingertips. She reaches out and presses her hands against— Mira shimmies her massive body and dodges out of the way of the spell. “Mine!” she barks. A protective arm curls around the head of her prey—the only part she can reasonably grab. “Don’t make me digest her all at once. P- Please.” Ashlyn looks at you, smirks, then looks back at Mira.<<if $Crest1 == "murder" && $MiraTum <=2>> Oh no, not again.<</if>> “How about digesting her just a bit? Halfway-melted, so you can stand on your own? The leftovers will be real loud and squishy. Lots of sloshy goodness. Like a heavy, warm bathtub.” You tug at your collar uncomfortably. Did it suddenly get hotter? “Hmmm…” Mira churrs. She slaps her belly playfully and hits the lizard girl squarely on the head with a meaty //thwump.// “Alright!” A purplish surge envelops the demi’s gut. You blink and half of it just vanishes into thin air. You blink again, making sure you didn’t miss anything. Mira hops off Sherine’s tail with ease, landing gracefully on the dirt with arms excitedly outstretched. Her stomach bounces, the packed ball //gorgling// happily. There’s no trace of the lizard left: no internal movement, no muffled fury. Just a perfectly gravid swell.<<if $Swamp3 >= 2>> That’s <<= $Swamp3>> digestions today? This cat is a terror.<</if>> Words still haven’t returned when the bubbling little lady nudges you toward the exit of the alley. Lloriel glances over her shoulder at Mira with unbridled curiosity, then quickly returns focus to getting the heck out of Crest. Sherine and Ashlyn press at your back, urge you to pick up the pace and catch up with Tess and Vanille. “Serves you right. Nobody eats my friends,” Mira grumbles at her sloshing stomach. She shakes the bulbous weight around experimentally, then looks up at you. A smile spreads across her face. “Except for me!” A cold, bracing shiver seizes you as Mira belches again. Her curious gasp catches your attention. “<<= $name>>, look!” She holds out a partially digested strip of iron—one of the honor tokens the lizards seem fond of. You cough and shake your head, trying to find your voice. It’s in there somewhere, you’re pretty sure. Or maybe Mira’s eaten that too. What can’t she swallow at this point? A sputter and a gasp clear your airway. “Th- That’s good, Mira. And good job telling Ashlyn t- to stop. I’m proud of you.” “Really!?” she cheers, leaping a foot into the air in spite of herself. //Slosh.// “Y- Yeah, I was worried you’d, uh—that you weren’t comfortable standing up for what //you// wanted with everyone in the group.” A beautifully bright, fiercely determined fire burns in her eyes. She releases you from the deep discomfort of her gurgling presence to bound over toward Vanille. Vanille mostly grunts and marches on in response to the sudden cat, fingers hovering at the hilt of her sword as an entourage of curious lizards grows in your wake. The presence of your companions keeps them at bay, if only just, and you quickly make it back to a familiar open street lined with forges and carts. The gate’s in sight. You’re nearly there. Only a few dozen more steps— “Hey, Stub!” You turn, one hand instinctively reaching for the haft of your spear. Dammit, you were so close. But it looks like you’re not getting out of here without one last trial. <<include "Side Quest">>

A figure shoves her way through the throng like a ship’s prow through a wave. She’s taller than the rest, a hulking colossus, and the crowd scatters in her wake. A sweep of garish, violently red hair sets a solid baseline for the rest: a jerkin with a neckline that plunges to subterranean depths, trouser-shorts dyed a feverish yellow, and far, //far// too much jewelry—an entire bandolier of metal accolades displayed proudly. She ignores you and your cohort entirely, gaze fixing firmly on the diminutive lizard girl huddled by your side. “Stub, hey!” she booms again, closing the distance in three sweeping strides. “Finally found you.” “That’s not her name!” Mira growls. She juts herself between Tess and the newcomer<<if $MiraTum >= 5>>, stomach wobbling menacingly<</if>>. “Woah, okay. Uh, sorry.” “Wh- What do you need, Dax?” Tess asks, cowering in the shadow of the larger lizard girl. “I’ve been, uhh, a little busy today. S- Sorry. I- I can help you out later, or maybe tomorrow.” “No, nothing like that.” Dax waves a hand, the dismissive gesture rendered vaguely sinister by filed, lethal claws. “You were out on patrol yesterday, right? Any idea where Maisy ran off to?” “Oh, uhh…” Tess shrinks in on herself. “She got eaten… by a frog.” You thank your lucky stars that Maisy isn’t one of the lizards Ashlyn or Sherine ate, or this would suddenly be a whole lot more awkward of a conversation. “Well that was rude of her.” Dax rests her hands on her hips and glowers. “I really needed her to cover my shift tomorrow morning. Got plans for the afternoon, and wouldn’t want some measly guard duty getting in the way.” She trails off into a moment of sullen silence before yellow eyes suddenly flicker your way and go wide, as if she’s only just now noticed you’re here. “Oh, hey,” she nudges Tess, “Did you get yourself kidnapped again?” “N- No,” Tess mutters, equal parts indignant and mortified. “I’m helping guide them around Lurram. I- Ialise asked me to bring them to each of the three clans.” Dax scratches her head. “Sounds like a pain. Any chance you’ve visited the frogs already?” <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>“We have, yes,” you offer. The lizard stares and blinks, as if she’s surprised that you’re capable of speech. Ultimately, she ignores you and directs her response to Tess. “Well, if you happen to find yourself out west again, maybe you could check in on her, see if she’s still in one piece.”<<else>>“Not yet, no,” you offer. The lizard stares and blinks, as if she’s surprised that you’re capable of speech. Ultimately, she ignores you and directs her response to Tess. “Well, it’d be great if you could check in on her while you’re at it, see if she’s still in one piece.”<</if>> “She was eaten yesterday. She’s probably not—” Tess stifles the protest with a sigh and surrenders to a weary nod. “Fine, sure. I’ll try to find Maisy.” “Attagirl.” Good deed delegated for the day, Dax takes her leave. “Friend of yours?” you eventually ask. “What’s a ‘friend?’” Tess smirks as you wince. “I’m kidding. Dax is, uhh… She’s one of the better ones. I don’t mind doing stuff for her most of the time. She actually compensates me for my work, and she and the champion usually have me do tasks that I’m good at.” “Oh, uh, that’s… good.” You search for more positive words and, inevitably, find none. “Do you think we should try to look for Maisy?” <<if $Lurram >= 2>>Tess shakes herself from a moment of confusion. “Gah, right. I forgot that you’re like this. Being back home distracted me, sorry.” Before you have a chance to ask her to elaborate, she continues._<<else>>Tess stares at you with a look of almost violent confusion. “Why are you asking me?” “You know more about Lurram and its clans than I do.” “I- I do.” She nods, seemingly to convince herself. “… And I want your input.” The lizard girl’s face twists to an odd squiggle that, after a moment just long enough to be awkward, resolves into a hesitantly optimistic smile. <</if>>“I uh, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check—Dax might let me have another one of her goats.” Tess sighs wistfully. “That was a good day.” A tiny glimpse of pink tongue flits across her lips like a… well, like a lizard. You’re gonna assume the gifted ungulate was eaten whole and alive. Why else would someone look so happy reminiscing about ‘having a goat?’ You opt to let Tess daydream while you mentally register the potential rescue. It might not be too far out of your way <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>to return to Talun’Moa and ask around<<else>>to look around when you visit the frog’s village<</if>>, but you highly doubt there’s gonna be much of the lizard left. Tess was right: it’s been over a day since she was eaten. But hey, if it’s a way you could repay your guide, it might be worth a try. With the last bit of ‘Lizardville’ excitement finally behind you, your party passes through the gate and into Lurram proper.<<if $Crest1 == "murder">> The exterior still sits unguarded; apparently no one’s noticed the missing lizards yet.<</if>> <<include "Swamp_Navigator">>

“Will you just c’mon! We’re done here.” You yank Ashlyn onward to catch up with the rest of your group. <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>Ashlyn immediately gasps, experiment forgotten. “What’d the champion say? What’d she do? No, wait, how did she //look?”// <<if $Swamp2 == true>>“Pretty much what you expected,” you admit. “Snatched the letter the instant she saw it, then immediately agreed to attend the Clansmeet. She, uhh, didn’t seem to notice that we’d taken a peek.” “You mean //you’d// taken a peek.” “I only—It was your idea!” you protest weakly. “Not my fault you’re too gullible for your own good.”<<else>>You whistle out a reluctant sigh. “Turned beet-red and immediately agreed to the Clansmeet. You were right.” “Of course I was,” the mage says, puffing out her chest. “Illicit scandals are my favored terrain.”<</if>> At your encouragement—and more than a little pulling from Vanille—Ashlyn reluctantly leaves the thoroughly disoriented lizard girl, and you all begin to make your way back to the village gates. You walk with an extra spring in your step, motivated both by another success and the knowledge that each and every monster girl in the village can practically smell that Ashlyn’s been prey. It’s in their flashing eyes, their flaring nostrils, the wet tongues running along their lips as they watch her pass. The sooner you get out of here, the better. “So, how’d I look?” Ashlyn abruptly asks. <<else>> “Oh, you actually got her to attend?” You sigh. “No, she’s a stubborn bitch and we have no leads.” “Ha!” Ashlyn openly gloats at your utter failure. “You suck at diplomacy.” “I know, I’m not proud of how it went down, either. We’ll figure it out later.” “Maybe //you’ll// figure it out later—No wait, that’s encouragement.” At your insistence—and more than a little pulling from Vanille—Ashlyn reluctantly leaves the disoriented lizard girl, and you all begin to make your way back to the village gates. You walk with an extra spring in your step, motivated both by another success and the knowledge that each and every monster girl in the village can practically smell that Ashlyn’s been prey. It’s in their flashing eyes, their flaring nostrils, the wet tongues running along their lips as they watch her pass. The sooner you get out of here, the better. A sudden nudge at your side. “So, how’d I look?” <</if>> “What?” “Getting gulped. How’d I look?” Ashlyne smacks her ass for emphasis, then tries to smack yours. You lurch forward to dodge, then yank her along vigorously. You tilt your head in and gesture for her to shut the fuck up. “Could you not right now? It really isn’t really the time—” “A compliment //now,// or I turn you into a cucumber.” “Can you ac—Uh, you have nice legs. Like, ‘nice’ in a completely normal way, which is strange because nothing about you is normal.” Ashlyn chews on it for a moment. “Alright, you pass. Vanille! Ey, //Kniiifeeey,”// she croons, scurrying to hang off the knight’s arm. Vanille grunts and marches on in response, fingers hovering at the hilt of her sword as the entourage of curious lizards grows in your wake. The presence of your companions keeps them at bay, if only just, and you quickly make it back to a familiar open street lined with forges and carts. The gate’s in sight. You’re nearly there. Only a few dozen more steps and— “Hey, Stub!” You turn, one hand instinctively reaching for the haft of your spear. Dammit, you were so close. But it looks like you’re not getting out of here without one last trial. <<include "Side Quest">>

The moment you’re clear of the champion’s hut, you cut a straight path—or as straight of one as you can manage—for the village gates. <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>Despite your success<<else>>After your utter failure<</if>>, you’re not feeling especially welcome in Crest. Even more so than before. Maybe it’s the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>lingering<<else>>midday<</if>> heat, but the lizards seem to be growing rowdier. You spot more leery glares and hungry eyes, more boasting and blustering, more squabbles and scuffles. Vanille takes the lead, fingers hovering at the hilt of her sword as a small entourage of curious lizards grows in your wake; <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>are they here to exact revenge for eking out a diplomatic success?<<else>>can they smell the failure on you?<</if>> The presence of your companions keeps them at bay, if only just, and you quickly make it back to a familiar open street lined with forges and carts. The gate’s in sight. You’re nearly there. Only a few dozen more steps and— “Hey, Stub!” You turn, one hand instinctively reaching for the haft of your spear. Damnit, you were so close. But it looks like you’re not getting out of here without one last trial. <<include "Side Quest">>

The tail-happy lizard flails a short flight away, desperately trying to claw the prismatic shard-growth from her face. Her mighty efforts only makes things worse as the amorphous blob //crawls// down her arms and hands, leaving a chunky, crystalline trail in its wake. Ashlyn’s nearby, cackling so hard she’s almost bent double, completely unaware of the spectacle unfolding behind her: Vanille in the thick of a vicious melee. She kicks one monster against a nearby tree, knocking her unconscious. The knight lays into her scaly ally, a relentless assault. She bashes wooden weapons to shreds. The harried lizard keeps stepping further and further backward, toward the pond, toward the treeline— Zalla and her second-in-command jump out from the scrub. Vanille deflects a crude spear, but the bulky leader clamps her jaw around the knight’s sword arm. The blade falls to the muck as the first swallow engulfs the knight’s elbow. Zalla digs her claw into Vanille’s leather armor and yanks herself closer like she’s harpooned elusive prey. She gulps and swallows all the way up to a straining shoulder. Vanille blindly blocks a hit from the opposite side as she turns all her efforts onto the predator. Stance widens. She twists, but can’t dislodge the zealous lizard. A knee thrusts suddenly, but the monster girl rolls with it, seizing another inch with clamped teeth. Her tail whips around to harry the knight as a flanking lizard once again hammers against Vanille’s defenses. Lloriel bursts from the mud and jams her thumb under Zalla’s jaw. The behemoth croaks out a wretched //glrkk//—enough of an opening for Vanille to yank free her arm and catch an oncoming attack from the second lizard girl, hand fierce against the club’s hilt as she locks grip with her foe. Another claw swings, meets a knife freshly drawn from Vanille’s holster, and simply swats away the weapon. Mira’s scrambling across the ground and picking up the short blade a moment later. She tosses it up for Vanille to catch, then lays in with her own knife. The lizard jerks back, too quick to be caught by the counterattack, but forced to abandon her club all the same. Vanille pursues. Mud splats and squelches beneath leather boots, slick and treacherous, yet her footing never wavers. Each stomp is measured and deliberate, each strike of her blade rooted in steadfast foundations. She advances, slow and steady. Indomitable. A presence that cannot be ignored. An onslaught too relentless to repel, yet too close to risk a full retreat. On the other side, Zalla swipes fury at Lloriel, the lizard girl still coughing and gagging, one hand pressed firmly at her throat as she attempts to soothe the pain. The elf avoids the first swing, but is grabbed on the second. Zalla prepares to cram her prey into her mouth. A blur of black fuzz darts right past the lizard’s claws and leaps into close quarters dagger-first. A steely arc meets hastily raised leather armor, then sweeps low and slashes at the monster girl’s legs. Zalla whips around to smack her thickset tail at the demi, but Mira’s already gone, diving through the muck and reemerging behind the lizard girl’s back. She scores a shallow cut, ducks a quick swipe, then effortlessly hops over a frantic knee before launching herself off the monster girl’s shin, and stabbing at the lizard’s face once more. Zalla drops her elven meal and, in a rage, lunges for the demi. Mira’s too fast, flowing right past razor claws like liquid. She plants her feet on the lizard’s shoulders, then propels herself toward where Lloriel’s already regaining her footing. The demi takes three steps, retrieves a bow from where she’d apparently stashed it in the ground earlier, and tosses it to its owner. Lloriel pivots, nocks an arrow, and aims across the battlefield. “Vanille!” Mira shouts. The golden girl sidesteps the shot without even looking. Lloriel’sarrow slips through a narrow slit in the lizard’s broken shield and impales her bicep. She yelps. Her spear falls. Vanille kicks her in the gut. The lizard drops like a stone. Zalla rushes the little duo, but she’s lost all her backup. Vanille retrieves her sword just in time to block a heavy fist with the hilt. Mira //splats// through the mud for a counterattack. Lloriel readies another shot as the frenzied monster girl lunges for the demi. An arrow knocks her off course, sparing Mira the crushing bulk. Bloodied, furious, Zalla roars. She pries her spear from the ground and dives forward with the iron tip pointed at Vanille’s throat. Mira batters the haft aside, scores a glancing hit on Zalla’s leg, then slinks around Vanille. She hands the knife off to Lloriel as Zalla circles to the other side. The elf becomes Vanille’s new shadow. She peels off when the rampaging lizard rushes, then dives in after a reckless folly. As the bloodlust turns on the smaller of the two, the knight goes on the offensive with a devastating series of blows. The first cuts across Zalla’s tail as she attempts to meet Vanille’s aggression with her own. The second splinters the hardwood haft of the lizard’s spear, lobbing the metal clean off. The third soars past the sundered weapon and grasping claws, grazes the leather jerkin, and comes to a stop pressed firmly against her exposed throat. Mira and Lloriel bring steel against the other sides of the thick, scaly neck, the trio of blades clattering. “Enough!” Vanille shouts. The world falls still. An unearthly quiet seizes the swamp, broken only by ragged gasps, muted groans, and the slight shift of nervous feet in sticky mud. Zalla dares not fidget an inch, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, thin lines of scarlet betraying the kiss of sharp steel. “We’re not here to fight,” Vanille continues, the slight tremor in her tone a lone sign of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She nods to the other two threatening blades around her opponent’s neck. “We’re just travelers. We’re trying to reach the large structure in the swamp’s middle. We never meant to trespass on your lands, nor do we have any desire to do you harm.” The lizard stares at Vanille for a long, indecisive moment, eyes flickering between the knight’s face and those of your companions, then finally back to the blade at her throat. Inscrutable thoughts eddy and churn behind reptilian pupils. Finally, she offers the slightest of nods, slumps her shoulders, and slowly slings what’s left of her spear across her back. Vanille, Lloriel, and Mira sheathe their blades in turn. The knight nods to Zalla and, without glancing away, calls out, “Let her go, Ashlyn.” “Do I //haaave// to?” “Yes.” Ashlyn lets out a petulant sigh, but the prismatic mass crystallizing down the lizard’s arms snaps and pops out of existence. The leftover resin cracks and crumbles, sloughing off her scales and falling to the ground in semi-translucent, almost plasticky sheets. The mage grabs a piece and, <<if $RVAshlyn >= 13>>to your complete lack of surprise<<else>>to your mild alarm<</if>>, takes an experimental, crunchy bite. //“Ugh, lime?”// “<<= $name>>, Sherine, you both alright?” Vanille calls next. You and the lamia respond in the affirmative, and a collective sigh of relief hisses through the trees. [[Glad that’s over|This Article is a Stub. You Can Help by Expanding It]]

The other lizard girls rouse their fallen companions and form a tight, injured huddle about a few dozen feet away. They all look to be standing—some less confidently than others—leaving only one among their ranks still incapacitated, discarded against the tree stump. You can see her breathing. She’s perfectly alive and, as far as you can tell, isn’t bleeding out or anything. Why would the lizard girls just abandon her? “Here, <<= $name>>!” a bright voice cheers. You blink, then turn to find Mira covered from head to toe in mud, offering your spear, the haft perched gingerly atop her palms like it’s a precious gift. The head of the spear is caked in a thick layer of muck from its time spent impaled in the ground. “Oh, thanks,” you say, noting that the weapon’s probably one of your //least// sullied pieces of equipment. At least Mira got dirty doing her sick-as-hell acrobatics. You just went through your usual ‘tossed around like a doll’ routine. “That was really impressive,” you abruptly continue. “You supporting Lloriel, fighting alongside Vanille.” The rosy traces of a blush poke from beneath earthen brown. “O- Oh. You think so?” She shimmies a bit, then abruptly straightens her back and dons an admirable attempt at a stoic frown. “I mean, Vanille did most of the work; she’s the good fighter. And Lloriel too! I- I just try to help.” You place a muddy hand on Mira’s shoulder and offer a reassuring smile. “I don’t think she could ask for much better ‘help’ between the two of you. I know I couldn’t. Calling shots for Lloriel? And that move you did, launching off the lizard’s knee? I’d just trip and fall.” You pause to glance down at yourself. “Y’know… again.” <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>Mira offers a slight giggle, but an awkward silence falls in its wake, uncertain and tentative. You find unspoken words in the quiet: decisions that need to be made, things that need to be said. But now’s neither the time nor the place, even if a part of you wants to reach for them anyway. The demi shifts back and forth, lips quirked to a strained frown. She eventually finds a few words of her own. “I’m, uhh… I’m gonna go check on the unconscious lizard, make sure she’s okay.” You give her a coy look. “You’re not gonna try to eat her, right?” “N- No! Not unless it’s okay to…” Mira glances over at the lizard’s huddle, then shakes her head. “No.” “Good call.” You hesitate, then add, “Thanks again, Mira.” She nods but lingers for a moment longer, furtive. Just when you’re certain she has one last thing to say, she instead shakes her head, offers another smile, and finally darts away. You let out a slight sigh once she’s gone, but before you can dwell on //would’s// and //should’s,// you realize Sherine’s left as well<<else>>A warm chuckle bubbles from Mira’s lips as she breaks into another cheery grin. “You do fall a lot.” She pauses to glance over her shoulder, tail curling to an inquisitive arc. Finally, the demi looks back and says, “I’m gonna go check on the unconscious lizard, make sure she’s okay.” You give her a coy look. “You’re not gonna try to eat her, right?” “N- No! Not unless it’s okay to…” Mira glances over at the lizard’s huddle, then shakes her head. “No.” “Good call.” You hesitate, then add, “Thanks again, Mira.” One last grin, and Mira’s Mobile Medical Assistance is off to meet a client, leaving you to realize Sherine has drifted away as well<</if>>. You find her by Ashlyn, Vanille, and Lloriel, the four keeping a wary eye on the ongoing lizard huddle. The knight nudges the elf’s shoulder, jocular. Lloriel awkwardly bumps back as a comrade. “Any idea what they’re talking about?” you ask as you approach. Ashlyn shrugs. “They’re not exactly subtle.” //“They wanna see the temple; let’s just bring ‘em there,”// one of the lizard girls audibly hisses, demonstrating Ashlyn’s point beautifully. “‘Temple?’” you ask. Lloriel nods. “That big stone structure, if I had to guess. They’ve mentioned it a few times now.” //“She’s not gonna want anything to do with them,”// another lizard says, though you missed whatever she’s responding to. //“Exactly,”// Zalla hisses back. //“Which is why we’re not making it her problem.”// A few more seconds of inaudible murmurs pass before the gaggle of monster girls fall in line with their leader. They turn back to you in tight formation, Zalla at the spearhead. “We’ll let you continue to the temple,” she offers, the very picture of magnanimity. “But you can’t go any closer to our village.” “We, uhh… don’t know where that is,” you remark. “Which is why Stub will show you the way.” //“What?!”// a small voice squeaks. You turn to discover Mira returning with a small lizard girl propped against one shoulder. The monster stares with a mix of shock and alarm, lips twitching. “B- But, I didn’t—” “She’s not good for much, but she’ll probably get you there safely,” Zalla barrels on. “And hey, if she doesn’t, just throw her at whatever’s bothering you and run before it’s finished gulping her down.” “Not that it’ll take long,” another lizard adds. A round of snickers rattle between the monster—all except Stub, who obediently diverts and sullenly stumbles toward your party. A nervous hand runs through an oily slick of dark hair, underdeveloped claws not quite dangerous enough to risk giving herself a shave in the process. Her chartreuse eyes flicker anxiously from Vanille to you to Sherine, then back to you again before her narrow brow furrows to a fitful knot. Up close, you recognize her as the same lizard girl who spotted you after that bit of rotten log tumbled into her leg. Is she eyeing you up because she recognizes your fault in all this, or is she considering you as a snack when she finds the opportunity? Despite her timid, outward appearance and short stature, you’re certain the mottled-scaled, slender, monster girl could take you without a problem. //Are you just gonna size up everyone you meet? Judge them based on how well you think you’d ‘fit’ together?// Yes, obviously. It’s for your own safety. The lizard girls turn away and begin to march off into the swamp, leaving three of their companions behind. Admittedly, Stub was by choice, but the other two… Ashlyn’s meal is somewhere in the void, presumably. Who fucking knows. But Sherine’s is much more visible, layers of scale and flesh and muscle busily pulling the unfortunate lizard girl deeper into lamia’s tail. She’s well over halfway down and still sinking. And based on her weakening struggles, you’re not sure how much longer she’s going to remain conscious. Or whole. You suppress a <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>grimace and turn your thoughts to less dour matters<<elseif $FuckedSherine == true && $RVSherine >= 6>>shiver and reluctantly turn your thoughts to less tantalizing matters<<else>>shiver and turn your thoughts to less deeply conflicted matters<</if>>. “So you’re gonna be our guide?” Mira chirps, bouncing on the balls of her feet and eyeing the diminutive lizard girl with wide, eager eyes. “I, uhh… I guess?” the lizard girl mutters, so quiet it’s almost inaudible. “Hi, I’m Mira!” the demi immediately clings to the monster girl’s side, either oblivious to the lizard’s awkward demeanor, or determined to overcome it with copious charm. “I’ve been a guide too! It’s super fun!” Stub stares wild-eyed at Mira like the demi’s a second away from devouring her on the spot. Given your previous experiences with ‘Guide Mira,’ it’s not an unreasonable concern. “W- We should, uhm… I’ll take you to the temple now.” She shifts away a nervous step, starts to turn, then looks back and frowns. “Please stay close. The swamp’s dangerous.” With that, she sets off at a fretful clip, Mira close on her heels. “Is that your spear? <<= $name>> has a spear too!” [[Mira's gonna befriend the shit out of this lizard...|The Great Mi-ra Will Not Be Defeated!]]

Mira is far too keen on speaking to your latest acquaintance, rebounding into Stub’s space each time the lizard makes an increasingly unsubtle attempt to put distance between the two of them. You smile as the demi bobs along in your guide’s wake, ears flicking and tail twitching. You recognize the routine. Questions bubble forth one after another, bouncing from subject to subject—the swamp, the lizard, her clan, the frogs. Each answer only seems to beget more enthusiasm and, of course, more questions, though you hear little in the way of the lizard girl’s actual responses. It’s okay; you can catch up with Mira later. “So do we have any idea what’s actually at this temple?” Lloriel asks from a few paces back. At your noncommittal shrug, she withers. “Wh- What if this is some sort of trap?” “It’s a possibility,” Vanille offers. “But I doubt it. As much as they seemed eager to get us out of their hair, sending us to the temple didn’t sound like a long-term solution. More like…” “Shoving the problem off on someone else?” Sherine supplies. “Exactly.” You briefly entertain a wry ‘or //into// someone else,’ but ultimately decide the attempt at humor would fall flat. You //are// in hostile territory, if the lizard girls are to be believed. And it’s not like you received anything in the way of assurances. Even if the temple isn’t an actual trap waiting to be sprung, that doesn’t mean you //shouldn’t// expect danger. Instead of endlessly speculating, you cast your gaze toward the pair at the vanguard. Maybe it’s your boundless optimism speaking, but it seems like the lizard girl //might// be warming up to Mira. At the very least, she’s surrendered the death grip on her spear and slung the weapon back over her shoulder. You hurry a few steps ahead and clear your throat. “Hey, err—Stub, was it?” She winces as soon as the name leaves your lips, then casts a nervous glance over her shoulder like she’s expecting bared teeth. “Tess, please,” she corrects in a meek voice. “‘Stub’ is something that… It’s something my sisters call me.” You frown and, for the first time, notice the agitated tail twitching behind the monster girl’s back. Her kin all bore tails as long as their legs, thick and weighty enough to serve as an improvised weapon—you’d know. But Tess’s tapers rapidly to a narrow, gangly knob of pallid scales, lopsided and frail and no longer than your forearm. It moves like rundown clockwork, each flick and shiver stilted and awkward. “Yes,” she suddenly says, noticing your gaze. “It’s the tail.” You flush. “Was it… injured? Or cut somehow?” “I wish. It would’ve grown back.” Tess stifles a mirthless chuckle, then sighs. “But it’s, uhh… I hatched this way.” You sidestep the fascinating implications and instead offer a contrite nod. “Sorry, I didn’t know.” She blinks, brow knit in a mix of confusion and suspicion. Finally, she returns to looking ahead and mutters, “S’alright.” An awkward moment passes before you remember to pursue your original query. “So, uhm, what are we going to find at this temple place?” She hunches her shoulders and gives you another look, a hair more appraising than outright suspicious. “It’s safe, if that’s your concern.” It’s certainly //one// of your concerns. Definitely not the only one, but you’re also getting the sense you’ve expended her patience—or worse, squandered some of the good will Mira’s earned. [[Retreat for now|Monstermade]]

You’re shimmying back into your clothes when a soft, furtive knock sounds from the door. You stare, breath hitched in your throat, one foot caught in your still-damp trousers. Do the dangers of the outside world know you’re naked, defenseless? Have they grown bored waiting for you to waltz into their expectant maws and instead decided to take the initiative and impose themselves upon your stoop? “<<= $name>>, are you awake?” a familiar voice croons. Half-right. You’ve only barely covered up by the time you unlatch the door. The wood partition creaks open to Sherine, restored to her usual drop-dead gorgeous self. Well, okay, she’s never //not// drop-dead gorgeous, but it must be exhausting to get the gunk out of all those scales after the day’s trek through the swamp. Now she gleams and shimmers and sways in the evening light, every bit the perilously alluring lamia you’ve come to know. She takes one look at your wet hair and asks, “Did I miss the show?” “Uh…” “Oh, good,” she purrs. “I was worried I’d have to keep myself entertained for the evening.” Garnet eyes flicker past your shoulder as a finger absently twirls with a strand of midnight brown hair. A keen smile flashes across her lips. She’s not here for polite conversation. “May I come in?” <<linkreplace "Invite her inside">><<replace "#choices">><<set $SherineEvent4 += 0>>You step aside. “Sure—” Sherine sweeps into the room like a wave, a length of coils wrapping around your legs and carrying you right along with her. In a single, fluid motion, the lamia closes the door with a dextrous flick of her tail tip, sprawls upon your bed, then finally deposits you a few feet away from her reclined torso. She watches as you find your bearings atop an accommodating expanse of her serpentine body. An amused grin dances upon her lips. “… Make yourself at home,” you eventually manage. The lamia pouts. “That’s not the reaction I was hoping for. Am I really that predictable?” “Well, sweeping me off my feet’s kinda becoming your thing.” That earns a delighted laugh. “Oh, <<= $name>>. I’ve been pining for a<<if $Orrault7 == "Sherine">>nother<</if>> chance to get you alone.” You suppress a slight shudder. “The wedding was only two days ago.” //“Properly// alone,” she says. “No having to find a quiet corner tucked away from the celebrations. No… surprise guests.” A slight blush warms your cheeks. “R- Right, I’d been meaning to ask about that…” Something shifts beneath you, accompanied by the slightest groan. You stare down, brace your hands, and try to surreptitiously shuffle, only to abruptly freeze as your thigh brushes against a shape beneath the scales—something slight and soft, barely defined enough to qualify as solid. Yet at the slightest contact, you feel it give way, //melt// into the coils and join the rest of the churning mush siphoning through the lamia’s stomach. The lizard girl. What’s left of her. “I don’t think //she// counts,” Sherine croons. “Th- That’s not what I—” “Oh?” She clenches. You sink another inch. “Are you disappointed, <<= $name>>? Should I have stored her further up? Kept her around longer?” “I didn’t—” You falter as the lamia pulls you a foot closer. “Maybe you were hoping we’d have some time together while she was still squirming,” Sherine hums. “A chance for you to dispel that flimsy mask of propriety you’re always putting on in front of your friends and truly //indulge.// Revel in your ‘impossible’ fantasies.” Another foot. Your toes brush against hay. “Or maybe you were jealous.” A hand reaches forward to cup your cheek. “Jealous that she was able to spend all afternoon exploring my body, while you’ve been left wanting.” “I- I, uhh…” Sherine hushes you with a kiss. It’s a fleeting thing, barely enough to leave you craving more. She licks her lips as you part, crimson sparks dancing in her eyes. “Don’t worry,” the lamia coos. “I have plenty of time to make it up to you.” A delicate ballet of hands and tail lifts you onto the linens, positions you beneath Sherine. Questing fingers tug your pesky tunic up and over your head before the lamia settles upon your bare chest. A hand guides your own to the soft swell of her breast, then slithers over your shoulder and finds a comfortable home at your back, pulling you close. Her lips meet yours, fervent and needy. An eager tongue prods between flimsy doors and finds an eager partner in the hall beyond. You twist, tangle, weave until you’re breathless and lightheaded, until the intoxicating taste and scent of her floods your senses and leaves you woozy. The shifting mass encircles, winds and slides all over your body, a relentless assault heightened by precise touches of deft hands. She presses the firm, full, sloshing part of her tail against you at every opportunity, going so far as to force your fingers off her chest and onto her scales to squeeze and play. The rising choir of churrs and groans within match those without. She drives her hips against your crotch until you’re at attention, then rises above you, brushing her hair back into place. “You know, <<= $name>>…” she murmurs, eyes sweeping across your flesh, “I think you owe me something more. For the //pleasure// of my company.” You gasp, breath shallow amid her clutching coils. “Uhh, l- like what?” “We both know you’re not going to give me what I really want. At least not yet.” She sighs wistfully. “No, I’ve come to terms with biding my time and waiting for all the excitement of this ‘heroic quest’ to die down.<<if $Orrault7 == "Mira" || $FuckedAshlyn == true>> And I don’t mind sharing you with the <<if $Orrault7 == "Mira" && $FuckedAshlyn == true>>demi and mage<<elseif $FuckedAshlyn == true>>mage<<else>>demi<</if>> along the way, either—Oh, don’t act so surprised. Of course I know.<</if>> But…” You hear a rustling, choking noise from somewhere below. When you try to sit up, Sherine presses her full weight on your chest. “If you won’t offer yourself to me, I suppose I’ll take the next best thing.” Your cock drifts into view—No, not like that. It’s the chicken you found earlier in your room. The fowl’s bound by the tapering end of Sherine’s tail, wriggling helplessly against her lazy grip. “Y- You’re going to eat… a chicken?” You choke back a laugh as she plops the bird in your hands. Garnet eyes flash. //“You’re// going to feed him to me.” A glistening tongue pushes through ruby lips, unfurls like a red carpet. Hot breath washes over your hands, faint drops glistening upon your fingers. The chicken in your arms squirms as the temperature rises. Silent, fully aware of her aura, Sherine’s jaw opens wider and wider, filling your vision, drawing nearer and nearer as she leans her curves into you. And then she waits, expectant. Maw looming, eyes shut, thick breathy huffs filling the entire room. <<linkreplace "Feed her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVSherine += 2>><<set $SherineEvent4 += 2>>Your heart thunders in your chest, wild and furious. You shift upright and tentatively reach forward, arms trembling. Fingers brush against Sherine’s tongue, earning an appreciative hum from the lamia that crackles through your nerves with untamed excitement. Lips effortlessly stretch to accept the squirming chicken one feather at a time. Your hands follow, plunged into torrid heat, saliva slick against your skin, pouring down your forearms. Knuckles bump against the insides of her cheeks, faint and muted indentations protruding from the russet expanse. As the last tailfeathers slip inside, Sherine closes her mouth, slowly, luxuriantly. Scarlet lips seal the sacrificial bird behind curtains of warm flesh and hold your hands firmly in place. Garnet eyes bore right into your soul. Sherine stares, lips curling around your locked wrists. You flinch as her tongue glides under your forearms, teases between the gap. It wraps around the panicking bird and pulls the prize from your fingers. A single, easy gulp. Sherine’s eyelids flutter. A slight moan rumbles around your hands. You watch through the narrow aperture between your bound arms, the avian lump slipping down Sherine’s throat, neck bulging ever so subtly. The lamia’s chest distends, breasts shift to accommodate the newcomer, then sway back into position as her stomach juts, a tender, delicate swell. An appetizer. Sherine watches the main course. All it would take is another swallow. She waits, eager, salivating. Lost in her gemstone gaze, you realize it’s not even your choice. You could protest, you could shout and scream, but it wouldn’t matter. You’re entirely in her clutches. She’d //let// you have the rest of the night, and every night after would be a gift, a lease. There’s no safety net. No anchor. No fey protection to spare you the ravages of a stomach that has claimed far greater prey. You couldn’t stop her. You’re not even sure you’d want to. At the very last moment before you teeter over the edge, lips part. A breathy sigh spills from an empty throat. Sherine shimmies out of her thin top, slides down to meet you with the expanse of her enchanting body. She presses your cheek to her abdomen, right against the writhing bulge. You can hear the panicked squawks, feel the muted struggles through supple flesh. Wet hands find her waist once more. You hold tight, push yourself against the bump and listen, shudder<<if $SherineEvent1 == true>>, bask in the familiar moment. You’ve been here before, that night in the barracks with some nameless Orrault guardsman stewing in the depths of her tail. And while the chicken isn’t the most impressive meal by comparison, //you// fed it to her, saw it go down mere inches away<<elseif $Quarry2 == "Sherine">>. You’ve been hands-on with the full lamia before, but now she’s right on top of you, you’re alone, and while the chicken is nowhere near as impressive of a bulge as all those bandits, //you// fed it to her, watched it go down mere inches away<<else>>. Sure, you’ve watched Sherine feed, and sure, the chicken is nowhere near the most impressive bulge, but //you// fed it to her, watched it go down mere inches away<</if>>. Sherine’s abdominals flex, and the chicken’s squirms abruptly intensify. You watch, rapt, as the writhing bulge slowly, inexorably slips deeper. After a breathless eternity, it finally vanishes beneath her skirt, lost in the endless coils, so small and insignificant it won’t even make a dent. It’s gone, past the event horizon. Digestion might take time, but Sherine has already claimed it as her own. The rest is a mere formality. A part of you is disappointed, but the primal, starving part burns like never before. It takes a minute to find the willpower to free yourself from the warm, supple flesh of her empty midsection. You reluctantly pull away, then blush when you notice Sherine watching from above. She slides back down to face you, resting her chest upon yours. “Did you enjoy that, <<= $name>>?” Sherine croons, all honeyed tones and raw sensuality. A warm hand presses against your fierce erection, and the lamia’s eyes glimmer. Sherine leans close, hot breath splashing across your face as you feel her fingers begin to tug at your trousers. @@color:lime;“Let me give you a reward for being <<if $xe == "he">>such a good boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>such a good girl<<else>>so cooperative<</if>>.”@@ [[Yes please|Feed and Fuck]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Don’t feed her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $RVSherine -->><<set $SherineEvent4 += 4>>“I- I’m not gonna feed you,” you stammer. @@color:red;Sherine’s lips snap shut, then immediately curl to a frown. “What a shame.”@@ She lets out a trailing sigh. “And here I was hoping I’d found a happy middleground—an appetizer to distract me from the main course.” She looms, and you realize just how vulnerable you are. Completely in her clutches, held tight in a vice of scales and muscle. “But if you refuse to play along when I offer an alternative…” The lamia approaches your hands. Lips part just enough for a pink tongue to slip between scarlet lips. Spurred on by the impending predator, the chicken manages to escape your trembling fingers, scrambling off to places insignificant. Sherine’s eyes never waver from your own as her tongue presses against your hand, slips up and over a knuckle, dips between two fingers, and ever so gently curls beneath a metacarpal. She hums her appreciation, lips curled to a rapacious grin. Slick saliva dribbles along your skin. Knuckles bump against the insides of her cheeks, faint and muted indentations protruding from the russet expanse. Wide lips seal tight, hold your hands firmly in place. Garnet eyes bore right into your soul. Sherine stares, lips curling around your locked wrists. She takes a single, empty, throaty gulp. Sherine’s eyelids flutter. All it would take is one simple lunge and you’d be hers. No safety net. No anchor. No fey protection to spare you the ravages of her stomach. You couldn’t stop her. You’re not even sure you’d want to. Lost in her salivating gaze, you realize it’s not even your choice. You could protest, you could shout and scream, but it wouldn’t matter. You’re entirely in her clutches. She’d //let// you have the rest of the night, and every night after would be a gift, a lease. At the very last moment before she teeters over the edge, lips part. A breathy sigh spills from a vacant throat as your hands thump to the linens, wet and heavy. Sherine flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Don’t be surprised if I lose interest.” Coils tighten faster than you can squeal. You’re hoisted, pressed against her empty belly, smothered. Copper scales wind and writhe about your legs, twine up to your chest, curl ever so gently at your neck. Slowly, almost lovingly, Sherine drapes her arms over your shoulders and wraps them behind your back. Her coils pull you into a tight embrace, warm and soft and utterly uncompromising. She draws deeply upon your neck, sucking all the heat from your flesh. A shiver rumbles through her tail, all the way to the tip. Skin pulses, craving heartbeat thrumming with your own. Lips rise to your ear. A torrid breath accompanies a whispered promise. //“… Or decide to finally take what’s mine.”// Sherine unspools, relinquishes you back into the world. Nonplussed, she slithers from the bed and struts toward the door. All she offers is a disaffected shrug. “Goodnight, <<= $name>>.” And with that, she’s gone. Shivering, you lurch to your feet and lock the door. The chicken, remarkably untraumatized from its brush with serpentine death, clucks softly from its roost under the stone desk. You slump onto the bedding. Sleep is the farthest thing from your mind, but you can only find the willpower to stare up at the ceiling and listen to your heart thunder away in your chest. [[Pass out… eventually|Swamp Morning 1]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Politely refuse">><<replace "#choices">><<set $SherineEvent4 += 1>>“Sorry, Sherine,” you manage, awkwardly shuffling from one foot to the other. “It’s been a long day, and I’m just looking to get some rest. M- Maybe another time?” She frowns. “I won’t deny I’m a little disappointed, but I understand.” You offer a parting nod before stepping back, only for glimmering copper to suddenly bar the way. //“Though…”// A wry smile plays at the corners of Sherine’s mouth. “It would be such a shame if I came all this way only to leave //completely// empty-handed.” She holds your gaze with a cool, coy grin even as more of her tail presses forward, cresting through the doorway in a rushing wave that threatens to bowl you down. The torrent stops, suddenly, with a loud thump and a stifled //bwok.// “This should do nicely.” She smirks, then feigns surprise. The tail returns, tip coiled firmly around your chicken’s throat. “Oh, something wrong, <<= $name>>?” “I, err… Th- That’s mine,” you manage, limp. “What about yours?” “Still sitting in its cage,” she says with a shrug. “Morsels like this are rarely worth the trouble, especially not when I’ve already eaten. But yours looks //so// much tastier.” A wet tongue trails along her lips. Hungry eyes ensnare. “I wonder why…” A dozen malformed, conflicting thoughts clatter around in your mind like billiard balls. None reach your lips. Sherine smirks. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? We both know //you’re// not going to have it.” “S- So you’re just going to take it instead?” The lamia places a hand over her chest. “Oh, I would never.” The chicken suddenly drops, and you catch it on instinct, fingers grasping to find a proper hold amidst ruffled feathers and scrambling talons. //“You’re// going to feed him to me.” A glistening tongue pushes through ruby lips, unfurls like a red carpet. Hot breath washes over your hands, faint drops glistening upon your fingers. The chicken in your arms squirms as the temperature rises. Silent, uncaring, fully aware of her aura, Sherine’s jaw opens wider and wider, filling your vision, drawing nearer and nearer as she eases upon her tail, leans her curves forward. And then she waits, maw looming, eyes shut, thick breathy huffs filling the entire room. <<linkreplace "Feed her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $SherineEvent4 += 2>><<set $RVSherine ++>>Your heart thunders in your chest, wild and furious. You reach forward, arms trembling. Fingers brush against Sherine’s tongue, earning an appreciative hum that crackles through your nerves with untamed excitement. Lips effortlessly stretch to accept the squirming chicken one feather at a time. Your hands follow, plunged into torrid heat, saliva slick against your skin. Knuckles bump against the insides of her cheeks, faint and muted indentations protruding from the russet expanse. As the last tailfeathers slip inside, Sherine closes her mouth, slowly, luxuriantly. Scarlet lips seal the sacrificial bird behind curtains of warm flesh and hold your hands firmly in place. Garnet eyes bore right into your soul. Sherine stares, lips curling around your locked wrists. You flinch as her tongue glides under your forearms, teases between the gap. It wraps around the panicking bird and pulls the prize from your fingers. A single, easy gulp. Sherine’s eyelids flutter. A moan rumbles around your hands. You watch through the narrow aperture between your bound arms, the avian lump slipping down Sherine’s throat, neck bulging ever so subtly. The lamia’s chest distends, breasts shift to accommodate the newcomer, then sway back into position as her stomach juts, a tender, delicate swell. An appetizer. Sherine watches the main course. All it would take is another swallow. She waits, eager, salivating. Lost in her gemstone gaze, you realize it’s not even your choice. You could protest, you could shout and scream, but it wouldn’t matter. You’re entirely in her clutches. She’d //let// you have the rest of the night, and every night after would be a gift, a lease. There’s no safety net. No anchor. No fey protection to spare you the ravages of a stomach that has claimed far greater prey. You couldn’t stop her. You’re not even sure you’d want to. At the very last moment before you teeter over the edge, lips part. A breathy sigh spills from an empty throat. @@color:lime;“Thank you, <<= $name>>,” Sherine says simply.@@ She slithers away between thunderous heartbeats. You’re left quaking in the doorway, unmoored, cold and alone… and without a chicken. A violent shudder wracks your body from head to toe, a sharp gasp plunging you back into the icy waters of reality. Saliva cascades down your hands, dribbles from your fingertips, //plit plits// against barren stone. Distant and listless, you drift back inside your room. You wipe your arms, your wrists, but stop at the last little drops upon your fingertips. Morbidly curious, you lift your hand to your nose. … Goddamn. You need a cold shower. [[Sleep… eventually|Swamp Morning 1]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Don’t feed her">><<replace "#choices2">><<set $SherineEvent4 += 4>><<set $RVSherine -= 2>>“I- I’m not gonna feed you,” you stammer. @@color:red;Sherine’s lips snap shut, then immediately curl to a frown. “That is //genuinely// disappointing.”@@ She lets out a trailing sigh. “I understand this ‘heroic quest’ of yours is important enough that you’re not just going to throw yourself to me on a whim. I’ve come to terms with biding my time and waiting for all the excitement to die down.<<if $Orrault7 == "Mira">> I don’t even mind your dalliance<<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>s with the demi and mage<<else>> with the demi<</if>>—Oh, don’t act so surprised. Of course I know. And I’m willing to share.<<elseif $FuckedAshlyn == true>> I don’t even mind your dalliance with the mage—Oh, don’t act so surprised. Of course I know. And I’m willing to share.<</if>>” An accusatory finger pokes the chicken in your arms, and you reflexively flinch away. “But if you keep refusing to play along when I offer an alternative—when I’m forced to settle for the next best thing…” She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Don’t be surprised if I lose interest…” Fingers latch to your forearm faster than you can blink. You’re wrenched through the doorway, copper scales winding about your legs, twining up to your chest, wrapping tight over your mouth and muffling a cry of alarm to a muted squeak. The chicken flutters from your arms. Slowly, almost lovingly, Sherine drapes herself across your chest, hands slithering over your shoulders and clasping behind your back. She pulls you into a tight embrace, warm and soft and utterly uncompromising. She draws deeply upon your neck, sucking all the heat from your flesh. A shiver rumbles through her tail, all the way to the tip. Skin pulses, a craving heartbeat thrumming with your own. Lips rise to your ear. A torrid breath accompanies a whispered promise. //“Or decide to finally take what’s mine.”// Sherine unspools, relinquishes you back into the world. “Goodnight, <<= $name>>.” She turns and slithers away, leaving you standing in the hall for a long and bewildered moment. Eventually, you lurch back into your room and shut the door. The chicken’s there, clucking softly from its roost under the stone desk, remarkably untraumatized from its brush with serpentine death. You slump onto the bedding fully clothed. Sleep is the farthest thing from your mind, but you can only find the willpower to stare up at the ceiling and listen to your heart thunder away in your chest. The sun’s long gone by the time your pulse returns to normal. It takes hours before you feel the first, faint traces of unconsciousness. [[Sleep… eventually|Swamp Morning 1]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

An hour of shared passion, sweat, moans, and rabid thrusting passes in the blink of an eye. The snake easily outlasts you, and there’s a languid twenty minutes where your exhausted body is simply used as a prop for her pleasure, but you try your damndest. <<if $FuckedSherine == true>>You did better than last time, if the satisfied smirk on Sherine’s sleeping face is any indicator.<</if>> The sun’s long gone by the time you can feel your limbs again. The lamia snores gently at your side, under your back, draped across your front in a blanket of gently gurgling coils. You might still be able to free yourself from the loose tangle, but it’s impossible to pass up a chance to sleep among a giant snake’s coils. Even with the day’s lingering heat, you don’t mind the added warmth. You’re already sweaty; what’s a little more? You watch her torso rise and fall as she gently shuffles. A faint, innocent smile crosses her lips when you squeeze your interlaced fingers. You snuggle in, watching the flickering candlelight dance upon the ceiling. A stray thought lingers in your mind, warding off sleep. You were more than happy to feed the chicken to Sherine, to indulge in the sensual process, revel in the aftermath. But what comes next? You know the lamia’s appetite all too well. It’s not even hunger. It’s something deeper, primal. An implacable need. And it’s going to take more than a chicken to fill. But where are you willing to draw the line? What if Sherine wants to eat one of the harpy priestesses tomorrow? Or your guide, Tess? … What about one of your friends? Would she go that far? Would you let her? Could you stop her? [[Sleep|Swamp Morning 1]]

<<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>><<include "A Cup of Fuck">><<elseif $VanilleEvent6 == true>>You think back to the training exercises you<<if $Orrault6 == "Vanille">>learned at Orrault’s conscript barracks<<else>>learned on the road to Orrault<</if>>, grab your spear, plant you feet, and begin running through a basic drill: stance, thrust, retreat, stance. It’s a good thing the room’s so damn large. Your speartip never even gets close to the far wall. //Tap tap.// You freeze mid-lunge, gaze turning to the door. That definitely wasn’t your spear. “<<= $name>>?” Vanille’s voice filters through the heavy wooden partition. “Can I come in?” <<linkreplace "Let her in">>A hand reaches for the latch on instinct, only to freeze at the last moment. You’ve been here before: alone in some sort of religious site, freshly-bathed, a companion knocking on the door. An ounce of caution wouldn’t be remiss. “What’s the name of your mentor?” “Tristan Vekara.” You whistle out a sigh of relief and open the door to find Vanille staring at you with concern—an expression that only grows more severe when she notices the sweat slicking your brow. “Is everything okay?” she asks warily. “Oh, yeah, fine.” You awkwardly gesture with the spear, then hastily prop the weapon against the wall. “Just doing some training. Y’know, while I have the chance.” “… And the question?” “Uhh…” An embarrassed hand rubs at the back of your neck. “I guess I was being a bit paranoid, sorry. Come in, please.” “I’m not going to complain about you taking extra precautions. It’s diligent,” she says as she steps inside, politely closes and latches the door at her back, then turns an appraising gaze on your accommodations. <<include "Fate Stay Knight">><</linkreplace>><<else>><<include "Swamp Night 1 Default">><</if>>

Fuck it, you’re doing this. Life has to be more than just eking out a tame and meager existence in the protective shadow of your friends. So what if there’s a little risk. A little //danger?// That’s what makes it exciting. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>You open the door and nearly jump out of your skin when you find Vanille blocking the way. She’s just as surprised as you, knuckles hovering awkwardly an inch from your face, about to knock. “<<= $name>>… Where are you going?” “Nowhere.” She stares at you. You stare back. “Alright,” she says with a shrug. She slides forward for a hug, then slips inside your room and lets out a pleased sigh. Apparently, you won the staring contest. Your prize is an evening spent with your hot lady knight friend who kisses you sometimes. … Why were you planning to go out exploring again? <<include "Fate Stay Knight">><<else>><<include "Explore Walst">><</if>>

<<if $Swamp1 != "Ashlyn">>No, no. You’re not just going to go wandering around alone. It’s not like you have a kink that encourages you to put yourself into dangerous situations— <</if>>//Taptaptaptaptap.// Ashlyn’s voice filters through the heavy wood, muffled and without any bite. “Open up, bitch.<<if $Swamp1 != "Ashlyn">> You can’t hide from me!<</if>>” <<set $Swamp1 to "Ashlyn">>You let out a begrudging sigh and plod over. A hand on the handle, you turn the lock over once, then pull— She’s naked. The witch’s tattoos swirl and bend as she leans into the frame, but you can’t stop your gaze from falling all the way down to the firecracker of bright red pubic hair at her crotch. Her crawling fingers find your arm and start climbing toward your shoulder seductively. “Show me your otherworldly sex moves, <<if $xe == "he">>Spaceman<<elseif $xe == "she">>Spacewoman<<else>>Space-they<</if>>.” [[Fuck Ashlyn|Kama Ashlyn][$AshlynEvent11 to "fuck"]] [[Don’t fuck Ashlyn|Ass Is An Illusion][$AshlynEvent11 to "ass", $FootWorld to true]]

“Alright,” you say with a shrug, then stand aside and gesture for her to enter. The mage hesitates. She leers warily through you and into your room. “Wait, really? It was that easy?” <<if $FuckedAshlyn == true>>“Yeah. We’ve had sex before, and I’m bored as hell.”<<else>>“Yeah, I’m bored. Isn’t that enough?”<</if>> A dismissive hand flutters across your vision. “Oh, I don’t actually need to hear your reasons, I just wanted to call you ‘easy.’” You close the door behind her with a roll of your eyes. It’s not exactly the ‘exchange of cultures’ you’d intended to share with your traveling companions when you admitted to being from another world, but it was inevitable that Ashlyn would come knocking sooner or later. The mage moseys on in and immediately laughs when she spots your cock. “I take it you skipped dinner.” A smirk flits across your lips. “You wanna eat the bird?” you ask, hopeful about the prospect of foreplay. “Nah, but I have something else you can put in your mouth.” She turns her palms up and thrusts her hips forward. A baffled moment passes before she resumes a casual pose. “I’m kidding. We’re gonna start with basic stuff.” Ashlyn reaches around to her backside and pulls a notebook out— “Are you serious?” you blurt out. “Were you keeping that in your ass, or do you have another pocket dimension like the one in your cleavage?” “First of all, I contain multitudes. Second, I’ll have you know I clenched my buttcheeks together and held it all the way over here.” “Impressive.” You suck in a breath for confidence, exhale a quick prayer that you’ll survive this encounter, then start climbing out of your trousers. There’s a brief pause of decision-making before you throw caution to the wind and strip away socks, underwear, then tunic. <<linkreplace "Get to it">>“So, where would you like to start?” you ask. Ashlyn stares for a silent moment, tilting her neck curiously from side to side like a dog confused by its own reflection in the mirror. //“Holy shit,”// she murmurs. You quash the urge to cover yourself. “What?” She points at your chest, at the closed gashes and the discolored skin that’s since filled the breaches. “It, uh, it looks a lot different now that it’s all scarred up. That dragon really tore you a new one.” She leans forward, fingers teasing seductively around the slashes of your scar. It tingles slightly. “Pretty hot, though.” “Uhm, yeah, I—” “I was talking about the explosion,” she interrupts, a whimsical smile tickling her lips. “That must have been pretty hot… temperature-wise.” You throw the cackling witch onto the bed, then crawl up after her and press yourself against her side. Each little kick of laughter sends a small pulse of excitement into your nerves. Skin meets skin, flesh to flesh. An erection sprouts. Fingertips spider across hills and valleys, dig into a jungle of pubic hair. You’re biting, licking up the slope of her clavicle, her neck, her lips— Ashlyn abruptly pulls away. “Woah woah woah, I said sex, not romance.” “Kissing is good for arousal,” you counter. “Besides, I’m doing it because I know it annoys you.” The mage pauses, staring blankly. //“I think I love you,”// she says in a quiet breath, then leans forward and plants a sloppy smooch on your mouth. You chuckle as you pull away and swat down the gossamer strand hanging desperately between you. “In a non-romantic way, of course.” “Of course. You get it: nobody in their right mind //wants// romance, but we all want someone to yank our chains, y’know?” “You can yank //my// ‘chain.’” “Ah, perfect!” She lights up, then sprawls away from your embrace. Ashlyn retrieves the book from the corner of the bed, then slides back into place under your arm. She pulls your free hand onto her boob, then snaps her fingers. A quill appears. “That’s actually my first question: what are the common euphemisms for ‘penis’ in your world?” You take the sudden conversational pivot in stride. “Uh, let’s see… there’s dick, member, dong, pecker—” you gesture toward the caged chicken, “—cock, weiner, wang, johnson, boner, knob…” She thumps her book against her thigh and glares daggers at you. “Who the fuck is ‘Johnson?’” “… I have no idea on that one, actually.” “Fuck! I wish there was a sex organ named after me.” <<linkreplace "“Which part would it be?”">>“Which part would it be?” “You know how your hips get weird and wide when you’re sucking someone up your ass, and how the bones snap back together afterward? I’d want that little stretchy sinew that pinches the frontal lobes of the pelvis together to be someone’s ‘Ashlyn.’” “That’s… so incredibly specific.” Also, that’s not a body part the two of you have in common. You’d tell her, but you’re slightly worried that if you do, she’ll vivisect you on the spot purely from curiosity. Getting torn open isn’t on your calendar today—not in that way, at least. “Yeah, you have no idea how many dissections I had to do to figure out there’s a friggin’ muscle there. Do you know how hard it is to find a dead body in Havendor?” Her facial features scrunch up like she’s sucking on sour candy. “Oh uh, sorry. Necromancy isn’t exactly bedroom talk.” “Wait, that’s what you call ‘necromancy?’ It’s not, like, ‘raising the dead?’” “Why would you levitate a perfectly good corpse?” “No, I’m talking about reanimating bones and stuff. When I think of ‘necromancy’ in stories from my world, I think of animated skeleton warriors.” She guffaws. “That’s just moving objects around. Any half-trained magical idiot can do that.” She has a point there. And talking about zombies would probably be a bonerkill, but you //are// curious… “Uh, while we’re on the topic… I know you’re not the right person to ask about ‘norms,’ but I wanted to know: Havendorians don’t eat their dead, right?” Ashlyn gags. “Freshly killed animals are fine, but nobody eats dead people—” She catches herself. “Ghouls do, I guess.” “And ghouls are…” “Disgusting creatures.” She shudders. “You don’t want to meet one.” “Oh, //‘meat!’”// you blurt out, then gesture for her to add it to her list of penile euphemisms. “That’s another one. I don’t know how common all these are, but any phallic object could be used on the fly and most people will understand what you’re talking about. Pogo stick, trouser snake, joystick, shaft—” “Nonono.” A pair of fingers squinch your lips shut. Ashlyn furrows her brow. “Unless your cock is withstanding torsion, then ‘shaft’ makes no sense. Tension and compression are the main forces, so call it a beam or a column.” “You’re such a fucking nerd.” “Don’t come into //my// sex house and be //wrong.// I’d kill you, but you’d enjoy that.” [[Try not to commit any sex crimes… for now|Kama Ashlyn 2: Even More Sex]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>>

“N- Not tonight—And stop flashing me.” “Lame!” She turns to leave. “I’ll see ya later.” You lurch forward.“W- Wait. Can you… still hang out? I’m kinda bored.” //“Hmm!// If //only// there were something two consenting adults could do together to cure boredom. //Hmmmmm!// That’s a tricky one, <<= $name>>—No, no wait, don’t shut the door! I’ll hang out, but you’ll have to do me a favor in exchange for my majestic presence.” A chill runs down your spine at the thought of ‘owing Ashlyn one,’ but the looming threat of lonely boredom eclipses your fear… and common sense. You gesture for her to enter. Ashlyn doesn’t move, instead peering past you curiously. “Do I have to wear clothes?” You sigh and glance at her naked body and the splattering of animated, living tattoos adorning it. It’s not the first time you’ve seen them, but they’re still fascinating. Shifting… swirling… Are some missing? She snaps in your face. “Clothes. What’s your policy?” You wave dismissively. “Sure. Do whatever you want. Did some of your tattoos move?” The mage groans in frustration as she struts by. “Fuckin’ Plume knocked a few of them off when that stupid spell forced everyone out of me. She even emptied my cleavage, which was upsetting. But, I got to keep one.” Ashlyn turns around to close the door behind her, then juts her ass out. A small, green-skinned humanoid inked onto her left buttcheek by an amateur glares furiously at you. She’s swathed in a gaudy, gemstone-studded outfit like a saturday morning cartoon villain. The mage cranes her neck. “The fact that tat wasn’t ejected raises an interesting question about whether she’s alive or dead.” “By my world’s science, she’s both. At least until observed,” you mumble. You furrow your brow, not entirely sure what to make of any of this. The thought that she trapped people in her tattoos is stretching Ashlyn’s ‘believability index’ pretty far. Ashlyn points to her ass. “Can… Can you not see her? She’s right there, dude. Are you going blind from too much masturbation?” You guffaw. “Don’t call me out like that.” “Why not?” “Because it’s true.” Ashlyn cackles and shuffles over to inspect your accommodations. She tilts her head at the scraping inside the coop, then laughs when she spots the chicken. “I take it you skipped dinner.” A smirk flits across your lips. “Had some wedding leftovers. You wanna eat the bird?” Maybe you can goad her into putting on a show. “Nah, I don’t eat meat.” She moseys on over to poke through your belongings. She peeks in your journal curiously, then shrugs. The desk itself catches her eye. She puts her weight on it and smirks. Next, her naked ass saunters over to the window to check out the view, but that distraction also loses its luster after a few moments. You clear your throat before she starts trying to amuse herself in more destructive ways. “Anyway, you said you wanted something in return for ‘your illustrious company?’” “Oh right!” Ashlyn cheers. “I want your mana.” “I’m not interesting enough on my own?” “Nope.” You pause. “Wait, what do you mean by—” Ashlyn slaps her empty belly. “Get in my gut, dumbass. I need to top up before we go down into whatever-the-hell weird magical shit is rumbling in the temple’s bowels.” You glare at her in silent protest. She withers slightly. “… Everyone else already said no. Something about, //‘not trusting me,’// and, //‘I will stab you in the face if you ask <<= $name>>.’”// “Vanille?” Ashlyn whistles. “She’s //sooo// fucking hot. Sometimes I daydream about hurting you just to see what she’ll do to me in retaliation.” You sigh and try your damndest to write her words off as jest. You gesture vaguely at her middle. “So uh, taking my mana… will it hurt?” “Oh, you’re actually considering—” She kills her moment of startled empathy and switches to an aggressive posture. “What? You don’t trust me?” “Not really.” “If anything happened to you, Vanille would kill me. Mira would, too. Those two have paired up, and not in a sexy way. It’s gross, incestuous… like sisters.” A soft, relieved smile finds your lips. “I’m actually really happy for them—” “Anyway! This ‘negotiation’ is over. I’m a powerful wizard demanding your mana, and you’re just some <<if $xe == "he">>guy<<elseif $xe == "she">>gal<<else>>rando<</if>>.” She turns around once more and bends forward. Palms slap jiggly buttcheeks, then spread. “Choice is an illusion.” [[Get in|What's Upbutt With You?]] [[Get in|What's Upbutt With You?]] [[Get in|What's Upbutt With You?]]

You pass the next ten minutes sharing slang for ‘vagina,’ then spend twice as long deflecting questions about their origins—mostly offensive, if you’re being honest. When the list’s fully fleshed out, you’re surprised to find that many of the terms overlap between your worlds, though the etymology differs. In Havendor, it’s mostly empowering words passed down from Monish. Ashlyn lets out a frustrated churr as she taps the wet tip of the quill in the corner of the page. She sets the items down at arm’s reach and nods. “Time for the fun part.” Hips shift and bump against your junk—ah, that’s another one—before she reaches down with supple hands and pulls you to attention. A tongue rolls out of her mouth and finds your neck. Spit smears across your flesh. Chills ripple through your body as you reciprocate, tease the tips of your fingers against her folds and rub gentle, firm circles. Ashlyn spreads her arms and legs out like she’s a poseable action figure. “Alright, tell me what to do. Walk me through every position from your world. Start with vaginal penetration, work your way back to anal, and then we’ll talk oral.” Awkward yet eager, you ease the mage onto her back and push her knees flat against the bed. You climb up onto her missionary-style, and start sinning. You spend a minute in scientific silence humping Ashlyn, pushing deeper and deeper until you’re firmly wedged in. Pulsing walls ripple around your cock as she matches your rhythm down below, though up near your head she’s restless. Twice she tries to wrap her arms around your back and pull you closer, but the loss of leverage slows your motion. She releases and turns away. After a minute, she’s reaching for her notebook once more. Violet eyes flit up to yours, then back down to her notebook. “Too much eye contact.” “Yeah, it’s a little weird,” you admit. “This is ‘missionary.’ It’s pretty vanilla.” Ashlyn growls. “Does ‘vanilla’ //also// mean ‘plain’ where you come from?” “Oh uh, yeah.” “That’s ridiculous! It’s the opposite of plain. It’s a rich-flavored, finicky plant that requires specific climates—they’re such a pain in the ass, they’re only raised by wealthy idiots.” She smirks as she flexes her weird anatomy, pussy suckling just a bit harder. “You know what would make this more //Vanille//-a? If I dyed my hair blonde and stabbed you.” You snort. “Do you have something against her?” “Yeah, she refuses to have sex with me.” Ashlyn folds her arms and pouts. “Maybe she’s worried you’ll be triba-//dismal.”// The mage lights up, bright as a supernova. “Ha! An insult //and// a pun! This is why we’re fuckbuddies, <<= $name>>.” She breaks kayfabe and lifts a leg up and around your hips. “Except for this position. This is boring. I got all the notes I need, go to the next one.” <<linkreplace "Cowgirl">><<replace "#choices">><<set $AshlynEvent12 to "cowgirl">>You sigh and pull out, then start turning her around. “Let’s do cowgirl next—Damn, that probably means something else in Havendor, doesn’t it?” “Yup. Show me anyway.” You’re laying on your back and guiding Ashlyn’s crotch onto your erection a moment later. Clenching thighs press firmly against your hips. You dig your fingers into her ass and start gyrating under her. She guffaws as she lurches into motion. “Wait wait, //I’m// supposed to do all the work for this one?” You brace your feet against the bottom of the bed, then thrust up as hard as you can. Ashlyn squeaks. “Okay, I got it.” “There’s also ‘reverse cowgirl.’” Ashlyn spins around without your dick slipping out, then wiggles her ass toward your face and resumes riding. “Like this, I assume?” You can barely manage a nod as a sudden swell of pleasure surges from the tip of your shaft and short circuits your brain. Ashlyn drives and pushes atop you like an actual rancher riding a beast of burden, each pass dousing more and more of your crotch in warm sticky fluid. She pushes you all the way to the edge, then spins around to face you once more. Climax denied, you huff. “So what’s ‘cowgirl position’ mean in Havendor?” “Why would you ask me such a thing? You’re lucky enough to find out for yourself one day. To explore, to discover things naturally, organically. You should be hungry for this knowledge. Thirsty, even.” “It involves lactation, doesn’t it?” Ashlyn squeezes her left tit. A tiny spray of white liquid shoots out and splashes against your cheek. “Wanna taste?” You wipe your face. “No.” She cackles and thumps her notebook down onto your chest. It only hurts a little, but you’re more than happy to be her desk for the moment, humping and thrusting away. “Okay, but for real,” you start again as the lingering question of etiquette starts to eclipse the rest of your thoughts. “Is it offensive to bovine demis and monsters? Do they have a sex position called ‘horny humans?’” The cackle intensifies. “You should ask Sherine.” <<include "Kama Ashlyn 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Doggy">><<replace "#choices">><<set $AshlynEvent12 to "doggy">>You pull out, then flip the mage over and help her up onto her hands and knees. You’re kneeling up behind her, sliding your shins between hers in the next breathy moment. She squeaks at the first forceful thrust, then pushes back. Ashlyn sets the pace, but the errant groans are more than enough to spur you on. You’re driving hard, grip firm around her waist, pounding with abandon. Slippery flesh slaps. Ashlyn buries her head into her shoulder as an orgasm wracks her form from tits to toes. When she finally stops quivering, the mage finds her voice. “We call this ‘empty predator,’ a companion position to ‘lazy predator,’ because it looks like I’m laying on top of a belly.” She lifts one hand for a moment to pretend there’s a big squishy mass between her and the bed, then folds both of her forearms up over her head and arches her back like a stretching cat. “If I were big enough, I could push some of my gut under you, like this. We’d both sit on it and fuck the way we are now. Super great for digestion. Really breaks down prey.” “Wow, uh, that’s, uhm—” You gulp down a desperate, sweaty breath. “We call it doggy style.” Ashlyn cackles. “Don’t tell Mira.” You’re about to laugh with her when an etiquette question eclipses the moment. “Is it offensive to canine demis and monsters?” Ashlyn laughs even harder, but offers nothing in the way of useful knowledge.<<include "Kama Ashlyn 3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

You sigh and unwind, unclench. For as much of a ruckus as she can cause at any given moment, Ashlyn’s sharp, staccato wit is appreciated. Especially against the bare simplicity of Lurram. Today’s trek was nothing but monotony. Ashlyn is the opposite. You throw anything at her and she’ll get you laughing about whatever new insane worry crops up. The stark absurdity of Havendor becomes fun with her. She’s also alarmingly flexible and eager to be bent and positioned for fuck’s sake. It’s the most focussed you’ve seen her. She follows every detail, every instruction, and waits for you to finish speaking before providing a suggestion. She gives you the time and space to find the groove, to fine-tune the angle of attack and perform each position as best you can. Her commentary is precise, scientific. When you’re thrusting, her notebook’s out—on the bed, on her chest, on your chest, on your bum. When she’s the prime mover, the mage is humping and squatting and bouncing and gyrating with unfettered glee. Over the next hour, you both immerse yourselves passionately in fucking. Not lovemaking. Fucking. She’s eager to mix in some aromantic extracurriculars, and you’re more than happy to be the teacher’s pet. She suckles and nibbles. She bites. She pulls. You return the favor when the position allows. Any time that one of your mouths is busy, the other maintains the conversation. She meets each demonstrated sex act with the acknowledgement that she’s done it before—usually under a different name. She communicates her interest and pleasure, and encourages you to do the same. Better yet, each time you orgasm, she’s pressing a refactoring spell into your hips. Your balls tingle as you’re reloaded. Your erection doesn’t waver. Instead, you plough on through to try the next position. [[Sex magic is awesome|Kama Ashlyn 4]]

Ashlyn doesn’t have a spell for your physical exhaustion, however. You’re about ten minutes into a break—sitting in front of her open legs as you perform different finger-penetration techniques—when she raises an eyebrow at you curiously. “Your heart isn’t in this one, <<= $name>>. Wanna switch?” “No, it’s—” You push your wrist through her labial folds. She’s so stretchy and just so… weird, warm, and intensely inviting. “Fisting like this would be more special if it weren’t so easy to just fit my entire self up inside you.” Ashlyn sighs. “Not the first time I’ve been told I’m ‘too loose.’ Though it’s usually about my morality, rather than my pussy.” “Which part of the body is the ‘morality?’” Her vagina clamps down as she laughs. You try to pull out, but goddamn those muscles are strong. “It’s fucking bizarre that you can eat people like this,” you say, basically daring her to engulf the rest of you. “Kinda changes the limits of what sex could be, too.” A tilt of the head. “How so?” “Well, like… does having someone climax while they’re in your mouth count as giving them head?” She snorts. “I love that question. I co-wrote a paper on it.” “And your conclusion?” “The other writer was terrible in bed, but very tasty.” You sigh. “I walked into that one.” “So did they.” An amused smile wanders across the mage’s features. She finally lets your fist go. “You good to get back at it? Want me on top for a bit?” “Uh, let’s do…” You wrack your brain for more—your knowledge is starting to run dry. “Sixty-Nine.” “No, it’s only been thirty-one.” You shift her into position. “No, that’s what it’s called. We, uh, lay like this, kinda opposite, and then put our mouths on each other’s genitals.” You find a firm grip on her hips. She’s warm and squeezable and thick as hell. As often as she threatens to erotically murder you in unimaginable ways, you’d accept dying between these thighs. “Monster-girling. Very nice.” Ashlyn’s lips hover at the tip of your penis. She licks. You’re about to dive into her tongue-first when a thought suddenly strikes. “Y’know, I was gonna ask why you said that, but it just occurred to me that we’ve been sticking to mostly snake-in-garden intercourse. I’m sorta assuming a lot here, but monsters have vaginas, right? It makes a lot of sense that they’d have their own refined set of sex positions.” “Not all of them, but yeah, most monster girls are consummate lesbians. Pretty sure ‘lesbian’ is a word we picked up from Monish, too.” She snickers. “That’s why I prefer to dick them down. They’re always impressed with my johnson. It’s an easy confidence booster.” You bump your nose against her dickless crotch and catch an incidental whiff from her bush. “You can do that?” “Dude, magic. Do you think this is even my original body? I can transmute myself in all sorts of ways, and they’re //all// fun.” “Then why aren’t we doing that? Get some tentacles going, or a crab claw around my neck.” Ashlyn laughs. “Gotta establish a baseline, do the rote work of science first. Plus, I wanna see what you got, then I’ll show you mine.” She suddenly twitches and jerks to life. “Ohhh, I get it! Because the number sixty-nine looks like—” “Yeah.” “Okay, that’s cute.” The mage gives your penis a farewell kiss, then extricates herself. A moment later she’s waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Lemme cast another thing on you. It’ll make this more pleasurable. I promise.” “I—” The word ‘pleasurable’ rings like a gong. “Hey, you can craft spells on the fly, right?” She lights up. “Ooo, you’ve got a glint in your eye.” “If I describe something, do you think you can create it?” “I can try. Whatisit?” “Uh, okay, so you know how bees //buzz?”// You make a buzzing noise with your lips. “They move really really short oscillating distances at very high speeds.” “Yeah, sure. Vibrations.” //“Sustained// vibrations,” you correct. “Could you make an object do that? A really smooth object, like a river stone—nothing that would grate or chafe. A- And you’d have to be able to control the speed it buzzes at.” “I can probably do that. Why?” “It uhh, it feels really good when held against your clit.” For the first time in an hour, you blush. “… And other places.” “Say no more.” She whips out her notebook and quill and starts cobbling together what appears to you as very very very advanced mathematics. Her passion is utterly enthralling. For moral support you place your hands on her ass and squeeze as she works. You still don’t have much of a sense of how Ashlyn’s odd brand of magic fits into the magical hierarchy of Havendor, but there’s something deeply attractive about the way she nerds out when it comes to the mysteries of the arcane. A minute later you’re studying her tattoos when she suddenly flips over. She pushes an odd glow into your abdomen. A cool, shimmering sensation sinks through your entire lower half. Equal parts horrified and curious, you look down. <<linkreplace "Oh…">>“… You made my dick vibrate.” “Yeah.” “It’s also glowing.” “Side effects. Didn’t have time to work that out.” You simply sit and listen to the low rumbly hum of your new and improved multi-speed johnson. “This actually feels kinda nice,” you murmur. You shuffle forward on the bed into her open legs like a pilot looking for the runway. Your buzzing and pulsing and spasming legs aren’t making this any easier, but thankfully, a rectangular strip of neatly trimmed red pubic bush is there to guide you to a safe landing. A pale purple glow radiates through her flesh. The dark blurry outline of bones becomes clear, like you stuck your dick in an x-ray machine. Ashlyn starts spasming. Delicate hands dig into your flesh, seize upon your hips as she plunges. “Y- Y- Yeah.” Her ecstatic moaning rises above the muffled buzzing of the vibrator. “Th- This issss f- f- fuck- ing great.” They’re the last words shared before you and she are overrun by the explosive throes of orgasmic fury. Sparks crackle along Ashlyn’s skin, burst from her fingertips. A spell ripples through you in the seconds before you come. You change, edge, start to swell, building and building far beyond the usual plateau of pleasure. The world narrows to flesh and sweat and frenetic thrusting. You’re locked in, you can’t stop, everything depends on this. You spurt for a minute straight. It’s unnatural, yet deeply resonant, as if all the times you’d ejaculated before in your life came together for a reunion tour. One show, one night, one steady stream right up into her quaking body. You’re panting as she’s cooling, still riding the wave and greedily slurping up every drop. As soon as she’s done, Ashlyn peels away and flops onto the bed, arms and legs still twitching. You’re not faring much better. You slump forward, head landing near her abdomen. You can’t feel your legs, thighs, entire lower half. You can’t even feel the claw marks on your back from where she gripped too hard. [[Catch your breath|Kama Ashlyn 5]]<</linkreplace>>

After everything’s said and done, after you’ve come more times in one night than the rest of your entire life, you opt to simply lay there, staring at the ceiling. The sun’s long gone by now. The candle you’d lit—and sexually played with—has burned down to the nub, the faint flickering light turning the distant ceiling into a muddy grey dream. Ashlyn nudges your side. “Your people have any post-coital rituals?” You’re almost too exhausted to speak, but the question is innocent enough. “Uh, I guess, like, smoking cigarettes if this were a seventies movie. Maybe some cuddling.” “Lame.” You stare up at her expectantly. She doesn’t even notice you until you start sliding a finger across her middle, up and down her aggressive curves. “What? Bed not comfy enough?” “I did everything you asked: I demonstrated my total knowledge on the subject.” You nod to her flat belly once more. “I earned this.” “Yeah, you did a good job keeping up.” She laughs incredulously. “Alright, get in, dumbass. I could use the extra mana I’d leech from having you in there overnight, but I’m not adjusting my metabolism for you. You’re assuming all the risk.” “You wouldn’t kill me. Nor would you keep me come morning: I’d enjoy it too much. Plus, I still have too many cool things to tell you about my world.” You stick your tongue out mockingly. “Fuck, you’re right.” She frowns. “That’s not good. You’re not allowed to have power here. I’m gonna need to find new leverage—” @color:lime;Ashlyn stares at you for a second, then chuckles. “Well played, <<= $name>>. You’re out at sunrise, dead or alive.” She opens her mouth for you to simply climb in.@@ [[Crawl into bed and fall asleep|Swamp Morning 1]]

“S- Seriously?” you stammer, tying very hard not to gaze into the void. “Does it have to be this way?” “Yes.” You try to come up with a rebuttal—Nope, use another word. You try to come up with a //counterargument,// try to find any way to convince her that, at the very least, she should ingest you through her mouth. Nothing appears. Maybe it’s all the //gaping// going on in front of you, but the debate was over the moment you opened the door. Besides, this route looks… fine. “You’re such a bitch…,” you squeak as you disrobe. A moment later you’re stepping forward and ducking your head—Yes, you’re going in head-first. There’s no point in putting it off, it’s happening. You’re getting in that ass. Ashlyn giggles as you push your scalp against her backdoor. Cheeks spread over your head. You kneel and grab onto her meaty thighs for stability, then press on. A thick heat engulfs your forehead, rolls over your brow. Eyes shut, you take a final gulp of fresh air, and lean in. Your whole head enters her intestines with a //schlop.// You breathe the rank musk before shoving inward again. Shoulders slide through the clinging sphincter. A moan rumbles through your host. She widens her stance, then puts a hand against her swelling flesh right at the top of your head. Encouraged, you start to rise on your knees, bending and diving and shunting your way inside. While dizzying, the thick soup of humid air isn’t anywhere near as choking as you’d expected. The further you advance through her bowels, the more and more acidic the miasma’s scent gets, but other than that, you’re breathing just fine, stable. Each passage is tighter than the last, yet more than willing to stretch to accommodate your ingress. There’s ample surface area for you to find purchase, and like a throat, the tube pulses and suckles and yanks you along in the right direction. You take comfort in knowing that the trip may be longer, but the destination is the same. Ashlyn’s rising groans are strangely encouraging. You crawl onward, rifling through her insides. You bend and contort around corners, mush and shove yourself against organs and bones. The human body’s a mess of meat and fluid, and shifting among the pitch black tunnels almost makes you feel like a spelunker. You lose any sense of up and down, left and right, but her intestines are linear. There’s no way to truly get lost. As your feet leave the floor, she bends forward and cradles her distended gut. A few good jostles and jiggles bring your ankles through the closing aperture. She shimmies and sways, then lets your toes disappear naturally before standing upright and straightening her spine. “Oof, you’re big,” she murmurs, though you can’t help but notice that she’s touching her middle like any other predator would after a successful catch. You wriggle and worm your way through Ashlyn until you’re breaching the bottom of her stomach. It doesn’t take much to tease the pyloric open—or she was waiting for you to reach it—and the splash of familiar hydrochloric is a warm welcome. You climb into the spacious sac, then curl up, utterly exhausted. Ashlyn stands for a moment, lets her body settle back to semi-comfortable proportions. She takes a single step, then stumbles. //“Fuckin’…”// she grumbles as she flops onto the bed. “You alright?” you ask, bracing against the wet walls. “Yeah. I’m fine. Shuddup.” In the gentlest tone possible, you say, “You, uh, don’t seem to enjoy being full as much as other predators.” Ashlyn sighs. “It’s annoying. I’m just not built for it. I get tired lugging around a full stomach. It’s why I prefer shrinking my meals.” A curious hand finds your flank and traces your outline tenderly. She emits a noise somewhere between a coo and an evil cackle. “Sometimes this is worth it though…” “Uh, thanks.” “Kinda nice having a dumb, lumpy, helpless idiot trapped inside me…” “Now you’re being rude.” She snorts. “I’m genuinely surprised you didn’t whine more before climbing inside my butt. I thought you’d refuse, but you were very efficient and, uh… Well, enthusiastic consent isn’t always my thing, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.” “I’m… glad?” you say, not entirely sure what to make of this. “Well yeah, consuming someone whole and alive is just inherently sexy. Snatching them up and making them yours, //unnf.// It’s intense and //exhilarating.// Like sex. Same rush.” <<linkreplace "“… Is it a sex act?”">>“… Is it a sex act?” you ask, deeply concerned about the impending answer. “Ehh, lines are kinda blurry. It’s not really a scientific question, more of a philosophical one.” Ashlyn shifts again on the bed, still trying to reach a semblance of comfort. Sloshing goop splashes across your body. It tingles. “But also, what //isn’t// ultimately about sex?” “That’s fair. It’s kinda the human condition: we’re horny as hell. My people have been writing about that since forever.” “Yo, you have //multiple// books about sex? It’s not just a couple of old, cum-stained scrolls that’ve been passed around for generations?” The whole gut shakes as you laugh. “Yeah, uh, we’ve had libraries and easy access to information for a long time now. It’s essential, one of the best things we’ve accomplished. I could instantly read pretty much anything written by anyone on the planet.” “That sounds amazing,” Ashlyn moans. “And don’t get me started on visual media. Making and distributing images—drawings, photography, even motion capture—is basically ubiquitous.” “Photography?” “Pictures. It’s like, uh, it’s like capturing light so it can be seen again elsewhere.” “That… makes no fucking sense.” You shug. “I’m doing a bad job of explaining it.” “Then do better,” she chides, legs clamping on both sides. “I’ll digest you unless you explain.” Pressure rises. The sack sloshes and gurgles. You quiver. “You’ve got the incentives all wrong<<if $Orrault6 == "Ashlyn" || $Orrault7 == "Ashlyn">> again<</if>>,” you manage between trembling breaths. Ashlyn chuckles. “I’m not great at this. My taunts either miss entirely, or swing way too far toward outright violence.” “Oh. You’re aware.” “Yeah, but I’m not gonna do anything about it.” Despite the casual tone, her stomach doesn’t ease up on you. You feel a magical tingle buzz through the mage’s body, a small mote like electricity. There’s a soft //fwoosh,// then a deep inhale from your host. She sighs, then draws a second toke, only the faintest scents wafting down into your enclosure. The smoke is thin and sweet, like dried fruits. And, it’s not going to your head, so that’s a nice change of pace from the last time you were drugged inside a stomach. [[…Weird that this keeps happening|Mad Science]]<</linkreplace>>

The mage hums, then finds your head and taps the butt of her pipe against it. Her notebook presses against your shoulder and the distinct sound of quill scribbling against parchment filters through her flesh. “Damn, I’m kinda jealous of your world. Information at your fingertips sounds awesome. I’ve had to travel far and wide to learn most of what I know about fuckology. Though, learning the best sex positions directly from a two-backed beast was pretty cool. They were super chill. We took mushrooms together and saw the universe—For the record, I didn’t see your ‘alleged’ home planet while on that trip.” “Is this gonna be a thing now? Are you gonna deny that my world exists?” You try to nudge her in the spleen. You’re pretty sure you miss. To retaliate, the stomach dumps more acids on you. “How long can you keep up that bit?” “It’s not ‘a bit.’ I’m not a fucking clown. And, I can keep torturing you until you tell me everything I want to know.” She slaps her gut merrily. “What would I be in your world? Like, my title, or my job: alchemist, professor…” //Stripper? E-Girl?// You clear your throat. “Uh, I guess like… Mad Scientist?” “That sounds dope. What am I mad about?” “No, ‘mad’ as in ‘madness.’” “Oh yeah, that makes more sense.” She cackles experimentally. “Ashlyn, the Mad Scientist.” You shiver. “Please don’t start calling yourself that. Nobody but me will have context for it.” She draws another puff from her pipe. “That’s //why// I do it, <<= $name>>. You’re giving me ammunition to unmake you.” “Your stomach is already trying to unmake me.” You shift about in the stinging muck and offer a light, but firm, jab. “Can you turn the heat down a little?” “No. Anyway, so, you don’t have any magic where you’re from, right?” You squirm anxiously, trying to keep yourself out of the pool of nibbling acids. It’s fine. This is probably how she absorbs mana. You’ve survived worse. “Yeah,” you say after a moment soothing yourself. “And you idiots can’t eat people.” Ashlyn giggles. She’s giddy, plotting. There’s evil on the tip of her tongue, violence crackling between her playfully strumming digits. “So I’m thinking if someone, say a mage, were to show up in your world, they could probably do whatever they want without anyone to stop them. Could just conquer the whole planet.” Glad she’s already got a clear understanding of how to be a mad scientist. “I mean, we have guns and stuff,” you counter. “What’s a gun?” You wrack your brain for a moment trying to remember if Havendor has anything akin to gunpowder. Your chest wound eagerly reminds you of the answer. “Uh, imagine if a cannon fit in your hand,” you say. //“Pfft.// I can survive that.” “Kinda doubt it, Ashlyn. Your reflexes are shit.” She chortles. “I got magic. And a meat-shield.” She gives you a taunting shake. “I need you to know I’ve been waiting all my life for someone to call me that and intend it in exactly this way.” She bursts into laughter. “You’re a glorious weirdo.” You can feel her fold up her notebook and set it aside. “When you fell out of your world, did you expect to end up here, of all places? Has the gastric tour been everything you hoped it’d be?” You reach out and admire the plush, squishy, dripping walls. Numb comfort spreads along your skin as you soak and stew, slop about in the murk. A heavy breath draws in the humidity. Sour acidic notes linger like fine wine. The organic thrum of the body-surround sets pace for your own heartbeat. <<linkreplace "Answer truthfully">>“Yeah, honestly. The inside of a stomach is as gross and horrible and welcoming and erotic as I thought it would be.” You sigh, fully at ease. “Still can’t believe you had to perish to get here. Where do you think you’re gonna end up next time—y’know, after you die again? Foot Fetish World?” Her words hurt. They hurt so much. She’s ruining a perfectly fine evening. Why does she do this? “I’m trying //not// to die,” you protest. The mage’s stomach groans happily as more acids pour in. “Uh huh.” She slaps her gut and rolls onto her side, curling and nestling. “Well, good luck with that. I’m gonna sleep now.” You push against the soggy walls in protest. “Uh, can I come out?” “Still need more mana.” “And you have to digest me to get it?” “Oh, no, not at all. I’m punishing you because you turned down sex.” She pulls a blanket over you, across the thin wall of flesh. A knee wedges up into your space as her gut continues to bubble. “And because it’s funny,” she adds with a cheerful pat on your head. What the fuck. “Ashlyn—” A spell bursts. Your ears ring. A deafening pall fills the stomach. You’re drowned in it, utterly muted as the rest of the organic churn rages on without you. An empty yelp’s pushed out of your throat. Wasted air. You kick and splash just fine, however, sloshes echoing unfettered in the tight space. Ashlyn squeezes playfully. “Shh, shhhh. It’s okay. Just sleep. I’ll take what I need. Maybe I’ll see ya in the morning.” Fucking traitorious bitch. You push and shove and kick around the fleshy confines as best you can. A brace, then a heave. Nothing. A punch right into the padding around her spine. Nada. You throw yourself a few more times, splashing and sloshing. Your struggles don’t even make her stir. Either the drugs she was smoking are strong sedatives, or you’re just that weak. You’re not sure if you’ve worked up a sweat, or if the gut’s getting hotter—temperature-wise //and// erotically. You catch a breath, evaluate. There isn’t that much digestive juice in here, and it’s not like it’s melting your flesh off the bone. The discomfort is manageable, numbing. If you sit still, maybe rotate yourself every now and then like a fucking rotisserie, you might last longer. Maybe long enough that you can wake her in the morning, or long enough that one of your more responsible companions will find you. //Or maybe you’ll be soup. Carelessly sloshed by a friend.// [[Fade away…|Extruded]]<</linkreplace>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>You wake to a wash of cool-ish air. The afterlife looks a lot like Havendor, specifically the spacious accommodations of Walst in the Lurram swamp. Though you don’t remember being so low to the ground— Ashlyn grunts overhead. Wet walls squelch and undulate, relinquish your numb body. Jiggly cheeks wobble, smack against your wriggling form as you’re ejected from her backside. As soon as your arms are free, you flop forward, banging elbows against a stone basin. She pushes and bucks until you’re free, then straightens her spine and slaps her ass. The water of the tub is cold against your overcooked skin. Shocks rattle through your system, little bolts of lightning tingling at your extremities, restarting sensation. “Good morning,” she croons, wholly sarcastic. You look up at her and frown. “You didn’t have to let me out the same way I went in.” “I liked the symmetry.” With a sigh, you start washing up. Despite the unorthodox release, you know how to scrub yourself clean of digestive skrunk. “You scared the hell out of me last night,” you start, tone somewhere between begrudging and thankful. “Leaving your stomach on ‘digestion mode’ was kinda rude.” Ashlyn chortles. “I think you’re my first ‘guest’ to ever survive.” “I’m honored.” “Don’t be. I only spared you because of how horny you were about the whole thing. Kept humping my guts in your sleep. It was hilarious.” She furrows her brow. “And don’t complain to me about your fetish. It was exciting //because// you didn’t know if I was serious or not. //Because// you weren’t in control. That’s the thing you’re after. That’s what pushes it from ‘comfortably erotic’ to ‘earth-shattering cum-volcano.’” You quiver. She’s not wrong, but does she need to be so rude about it? “Now, what do we say when someone teaches us an important lesson?” You look down at your hard-on, then at Ashlyn. “Suck my dick?” She cackles all the way down to her knees. [[Enjoy yourself|Feed Ashlyn]]<</timed>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>After feeding Ashlyn breakfast, you send the mage away to prepare for the day. You manage a quick bite while shimmying into comfortable clothes, then hurry to meet up with your group. <<include "Swamp Morning 1">><</timed>>

With a quiet hiss, your door eases open to a hallway stained with evening’s auric glow. Bands of radiant light cast each bump and crack in deep shadow and set the quiet corridor alight like burnished bronze. You grip the haft of your spear tightly. The temple’s probably safe, but that’s no reason to explore unarmed. You might find yourself in need of a long, pointy stick—for clearing vines off ancient murals or pressing hidden buttons set high on towering walls. Dungeoneering shit. Curiosity guides your steps down the corridor and into the vaulted hall that doubles as the south wing’s vestibule. What the chamber lacks in grandeur it more than makes up with a massive, segmented aperture above the doorway that floods the room in natural light. The intricate shapes and layout of the carved stone suggest a pattern, but no matter what angle you view it from, a specific image never quite coalesces. Maybe it’s a pattern intended to shine on the floor when the sun’s at just the right angle. If so, ‘just before sunset’ doesn’t seem to be it. A walkway lines the back half of the vestibule, a dozen feet off the ground. Glimpses of darkened stone corridors, partially obscured behind the elaborate balustrade, indicate there’s a second story, though a brief survey fails to find any stairs—a promising first lead, but not quite the scintillating mystery you were hoping for. Besides, the south wing is where the harpies //wanted// you to be. That means the good stuff is elsewhere. The courtyard-turned-farmplot stands empty. Rows of knee-high wheatstraw and rootstalk sway gently in the breeze, solemn and cold in the shade of Walst’s spires. It’s all a bit eerie now that no one’s around. Long shadows stretch from every bump, pool in every divot of worn stone—a patchwork mix of ancient and new. You’ve gotten the impression the convent of harpies is small in number. It’s an awfully spacious house they’ve chosen to renovate. You skulk and slide across the courtyard, shuffle around the farmland and slip back into the main hall. A surreptitious check finds the arcade empty: Ialise has turned in for the night, off to her… roost? You make a mental note that you haven’t seen where the harpies rest yet. The temple’s tall enough; maybe there’s an aerie up in the central spire. The grand door at the end of the hall still looms, monolithic and ominous. It bars entry to an entire section of the enigmatic temple, and potentially, access to an Echo. A quick jaunt beneath the towering ceiling sees you entering the opposite, identical corridor and spilling out into another enclosure bathed in orange light and murky shade. The courtyard shares the same rough shape as the one in the south wing, but that’s where the similarities end. Broken pavers lie scattered among the dirt. Tufts of grass poke through a hundred different gaps like a pockmarked field. Vines dangle from the shattered remains of the gallery roof and wrap tight around the few columns that aren’t broken entirely, like bits of sinew clinging to a desiccated skeletal frame. The disrepair extends to the north wing itself. The exterior seemed passable on the approach to Walst, but from your current angle, the centuries of strain and neglect are painfully evident. The facade is //mostly// intact, though hastily constructed wood supports suggest this is a tenuous state of being. The courtyard is littered with the telltale signs of ongoing construction: unsorted floral debris, stacks of bricks piled in a corner, buckets of some sort of tar-like lacquer. Given the size of the temple and the dearth of attendants to maintain it, it’s not hard to imagine that the harpies are only at the start of a //very// long restoration. The stones are quietly, humbly, asking for a lifetime of dedication and labor. No wonder the herons call themselves priests. Seeing this, seeing just how precarious things are behind the veil, the prospect of ascending that northern tower suddenly seems daunting and horrendously irresponsible. <<linkreplace "Press on; adventure awaits!">><<replace "#choices">>You can’t chicken out now. Government-appointed safety inspector and roguish adventurer are //not// compatible occupations, and you’ve already chosen your path. Besides, you’ve watched Mira do parkour. You’ll be fine. The doorframe stands empty, a looming, shrouded portal to the world of antiquity beyond. A bit of stray rubble catches on your boot, nearly sending you sprawling the moment you cross the threshold. As you recover, you take a moment to survey the interior. The vestibule is a wide open chamber. Sunlight streams through myriad cracks and holes, creating a muddled canvas of stark light and deep gloom across the floor. Vines dangle from the ceiling like streamers, their shadows gently swaying against the far walls, strange and otherworldly, like you’ve been plunged into the depths of a kelp forest. Straight ahead, the collapsed remains of a large staircase climb to what was once a balcony on the second floor. There’s no obvious way up unless you’re planning to scale the walls, which leaves three potential exits at ground level. One is entirely collapsed. You //might// be able to scramble and wiggle through, but it’s probably a bad idea. Another is cast pitch-black, and you didn’t think to bring a light. You opt for the third: an empty doorway to your left that leads into a hall running along the exterior wall of the building. Apertures facing the ruined courtyard flit by at your left shoulder, while a steady stream of rooms pass on your right. They’re all small and stark, entirely devoid of furnishings save for where some of the ceiling or walls have collapsed inward. A curious finger wipes along the doorframe six rooms down and comes away with a generous helping of grime. Not much dust; must be too humid. As you tarry, you realize the room beyond isn’t featureless like the rest. Two lumps of stone sit against opposing walls—the weathered remains of benches, perhaps. A table lies between the two, an odd device standing on its surface: two stone cups resting on either side of a small pillar. It almost looks like a set of scales, though the balance beam and strings are long gone. The cups are, of course, empty. You turn to leave, and the stone shifts beneath your feet. An audible //crack// gives an instant’s warning before the floor drops. Adrenaline surging, you leap forward, hands grasping for the doorframe, desperate, clawing. Boots skitter across falling bricks, kick desperately for the slightest purchase to propel you forward. Instinct, quick reactions, and blind panic see you narrowly escape the collapse, scrambling on your hands and knees until you’re safely back in the hallway. You stare back at the black void where deceptively fragile flooring once lay. Mira would be proud. A sudden shadow eclipses your vision, swallowing your meager form in its penumbral mass. You lurch, scramble about. A hulking behemoth looms over head, form distorted, limbs stretched to nightmarish proportions. Your spear clatters to the ground. “What are you doing here?” The simple question thaws the chill of dread. The tone is curious, innocent even. You look up slowly, then blink to discover one of the caretakers of Walst. She’s impossibly tall. You’re fully cognizant of the fact that it’s all in the legs, but knowledge can’t stop your monkey-brain from cowering under the harpy. She wears the same draping robes as the rest of the priests, the dangling, faded-brown dancers swaying in concert. Bold grey wings unfurl from her sides with easy grace. A moment of suspicion turns to recognition. She gestures tenderly toward you and smiles like a gentle sun. “Of course! You must be one of the honored guests my sisters were chirping about. Why are you wandering around at this hour?” You blush. Heat rises on your cheeks—or perhaps it’s sunburn. “I, uhh… I got lost?” you say, utterly unconvincing, still scrambling for a real excuse. Amazingly, she buys it wholesale. “How unfortunate! I can’t believe you managed to walk all the way from the south wing without anyone stopping you. And to find your way here, where it’s so dangerous. What if you’d fallen in that hole?” she asks, each word faster than the last. She seems genuinely overwhelmed by the prospect of harm befalling someone she just met. The heron nods, almost frantic. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” <<include "Unbirdthed">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "On second thought…">><<replace "#choices">>Yeah… No. You’re going to trip and fall and impale yourself on ye olde rebar, and then you’re going to get Havendorian tetanus, and you’re probably gonna die because they haven’t invented vaccines yet and your frail Earth-tetanus immunity won’t do shit against the jacked-as-fuck Havendorian bacteria, and it’s gonna suck the whole time and no one’s gonna have fun. Your spear might—emphasis on //might//—help you fight off a ruins-dwelling monster girl, but it’s not gonna do squat against some lame environmental hazard. Sense of self-preservation restored, you turn and bump face-first into a mass of feathers and cloth. You stumble back, trip over a bit of shattered paver, and fall right on your ass. A towering behemoth emerges from the shadows, form distorted, limbs stretched to nightmarish proportions. Panic floods your veins, seizing you in its cold vice. Your spear clatters to the floor. “What are you doing here?” The simple question thaws the chill of dread. The tone is curious, innocent even. You look up slowly, then blink to discover one of the caretakers of Walst. She’s impossibly tall. You’re fully cognizant of the fact that it’s all in the legs, but knowledge can’t stop your monkey-brain from cowering under the harpy. She wears the same draping robes as the rest of the priests, the dangling, faded-brown dancers swaying in concert. Bold grey wings unfurl from her sides with easy grace. A moment of suspicion turns to recognition. She gestures tenderly toward you and smiles like a gentle sun. “Of course! You must be one of the honored guests my sisters were chirping about. Why are you wandering around at this hour?” You blush. Heat rises on your cheeks—or perhaps it’s sunburn. “I, uhh… I got lost?” you say, utterly unconvincing, still scrambling for a real excuse. Amazingly, she buys it wholesale. “How unfortunate! I can’t believe you managed to walk all the way from the south wing without anyone stopping you. And to find your way here, where it’s so dangerous.” Each word is faster than the last. She seems genuinely overwhelmed by the prospect of harm befalling someone she just met. “Why, you //just// fell,” the harpy continues. “What if you’d broken one of your fragile human ankles?” An unwise part of you suggests informing the caretaker that you only fell because she pulled off a horror movie villain jump scare. The rest remains cautiously silent. The heron nods to herself, almost frantic. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” <<include "Unbirdthed">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<set $Swamp1 to "Vanille">><<set $VanilleEvent7 to true>>“These rooms are really nice, yeah?” you say, a bit limp. She nods. “It was a relief to bathe after today’s mess.” “Did your room also have…” You pick up the chicken and present it like you’re an auctioneer. “One of these!” A warm chuckle bubbles from Vanille’s lips. “Yes.” “Any idea why?” you ask. She winces. “It’s, uh… That’s what Ialise meant by ‘providing supper.’” You furrow your brow. “But how am I supposed to… prepare and cook… it…” Your eyes dart to Vanille’s middle before you can quell the urge. No visible bulge. “You didn’t, uhm…” You consider a tactful choice of words, then tuck the complacent bird under your tunic instead. Vanille sputters out a choked laugh. “I had rations,” she manages, then laughs harder when the chicken starts pecking you in the stomach. You yelp and toss the bird aside. It flutters to the ground, then waddles back over to its box. How are your companion’s chickens faring? Mira //definitely// ate hers. Ashlyn’s a wildcard. But how about Sherine? She //is// a snake… A soft thump jolts you from your thoughts, and you turn to find Vanille settling onto your blanket. “So… spearmaster and animal wrangler.” She scooches a bit to get comfortable, then favors you with a wry grin. “Anything else keeping you busy these days?” “I started journaling.” She blinks. “That… sounds like a very good idea. Helping to organize your thoughts, processing everything that must be on your mind.” “Yeah, I feel like there’s a lot I need to keep track of here—and plenty of things from my world I wanna talk about, too. It’s… kinda fun talking about the comparisons.” “Anything I can help clarify?” You don’t even need to open the notebook for this one. “What the hell happened to you in the mountain pass yesterday?” “No idea what you’re talking about.” Vanille folds her arms. “What happened with you and the drider?” “It’s like I said: there was just a giant, fuck-off spider woman. She lured me into her lair by impersonating Mira’s voice, acting like she was in trouble and needed help—nearly flawless mimicry, I might add. By the time I realized it was a trap, I was basically in her clutches. She, uhh… She actually bit me.” You pull down the collar of your tunic and run your fingers across the twin bumps left by the drider’s fangs. “Damn,” Vanille groans, though her tone is muddled, caught between stifled anger toward a foe miles away and begrudging respect for the battle scar. Her lips press into a thin line as you readjust your tunic. She shakes her head, then asks, “What did you see?” “Of the spider? It was pretty dark.” “No, the hallucinations from the venom.” “You //know// about that?” The knight points a finger at herself. “Adventurer,” she says flatly. “From what I’ve read, it’s potent enough to be worth quite a sum, if you can find a buyer.” “Oh…” You blink in slow disbelief, then shake your head. “You seem uncomfortable over there.” Vanille’s legs kick idly against the straw. “Is all the drider talk too much?” You shrug. “Eh, I think I’m getting over the horrors quickly. It’s a skill I’ve developed.” She shifts a bit further back on the bed. “Are you sure? I can stay here tonight if you’d prefer.” “I appreciate the offer, but if I had a panic attack every time something bad happened to me, I’d—” “Are you //sure?”// She wiggles, then pats the blanket at her side. “There’s no way I could make you feel more comfortable?” “How do you—” “Will you just get over here already!” [[Oh, right!|Kiss the Hot Lady Knight]]

<<set $Swamp1 to "default">>You think back to the training exercises you<<if $Orrault6 == "Vanille">>learned at Orrault’s conscript barracks<<else>>learned on the road to Orrault<</if>>, grab your spear, plant you feet, and begin running through a basic drill: stance, thrust, retreat, stance. It’s a good thing the room’s so damn large. Your speartip never even gets close to the far wall. //Tap tap.// You freeze mid-lunge, gaze turning to the door. That definitely wasn’t your spear. “<<= $name>>?” Vanille’s voice filters through the heavy wooden partition. “Can I come in?” A hand reaches for the latch on instinct, only to freeze at the last moment. You’ve been here before: alone in some sort of religious site, freshly-bathed, with a companion knocking on the door. An ounce of caution wouldn’t be remiss. “What’s the name of your mentor?” “Tristan Vekara.” You whistle out a sigh of relief and open the door to find Vanille staring at you with mild concern—an expression that only grows more severe when she notices the sweat slicking your brow. “Is everything okay?” she asks warily. “Oh, yeah, fine.” You awkwardly gesture with the spear, then hastily prop the weapon against the wall. “Just doing some training. Y’know, while I have the chance.” “… And the question?” “Uhh…” An embarrassed hand rubs at the back of your neck. “I guess I was being a bit paranoid, sorry. Come in, please.” Vanille steps inside, politely closes and latches the door at her back, then turns an appraising gaze on your accommodations. An awkward silence grows, only to be abruptly shattered by the harsh scrape of metal against wood as your hastily propped spear begins to slide down the wall. You lurch to grab it, tuck it more securely by the desk, and finally turn back to the knight. “These rooms are really nice, yeah?” you say, a bit limp. She nods. “It was a relief to bathe after today’s mess.” “Did your room also have…” You pick up the chicken and present it like you’re an auctioneer. “One of these!” A warm chuckle bubbles from Vanille’s lips. “Yes.” “Any idea why?” you ask. She winces. “It’s, uh… That’s what Ialise meant by ‘providing supper.’” You furrow your brow. “But how am I supposed to… prepare and cook… it…” Your eyes dart to Vanille’s middle before you can quell the urge. No visible bulge. “You didn’t, uhm…” You consider a tactful choice of words, then tuck the complacent bird under your tunic instead. Vanille sputters out a choked laugh. “I had rations,” she manages, then laughs harder when the chicken starts pecking you in the stomach. You yelp and toss the bird aside. It flutters to the ground, then waddles back over to its box. How are your companion’s chickens faring? Mira //definitely// ate hers. Ashlyn’s a wildcard. But how about Sherine? She //is// a snake… A soft shuffle jolts you from your thoughts, and you turn to find Vanille pacing around the room, idly examining the accommodations. “So… spearmaster and animal wrangler.” She favors you with a wry grin. “Anything else keeping you busy these days?” “I started journaling.” She blinks. “That… sounds like a very good idea. Helping to organize your thoughts, processing everything that must be on your mind.” “Yeah, I feel like there’s a lot I need to keep track of here—and plenty of things from my world I wanna talk about, too. It’s… kinda fun talking about the comparisons.” “Anything I can help clarify?” You don’t even need to open the notebook for this one. “What the hell happened to you in the mountain pass yesterday?” “No idea what you’re talking about.” Vanille folds her arms. “What happened with you and the drider?” “It’s like I said. There was just a giant, fuck-off spider woman. She lured me into her lair by impersonating Mira’s voice, acting like she was in trouble and needed help—nearly flawless mimicry, I might add. By the time I realized it was a trap, I was basically in her clutches. She, uhh… She actually bit me.” You pull down the collar of your tunic and run your fingers across the twin bumps left by the drider’s fangs. “Damn,” Vanille groans, though her tone is muddled, caught between stifled anger toward a foe miles away and begrudging respect for the battle scar. Her lips press into a thin line as you readjust your tunic. She shakes her head, then asks, “What did you see?” “Of the spider? It was pretty dark.” “No, the hallucinations from the venom.” “You //know// about that?” The knight nods. “It’s fairly common knowledge. Drider venom is something of popular recreational substance, assuming it’s properly distilled and safely imbibed.” “Oh…” You blink in slow disbelief, then shake your head. “I’m sorry.” Vanille’s legs kick nervously at the straw. “Is all the drider talk too much?” You shrug. “Eh, I think I’m getting over it quickly. It’s a skill I’ve developed.” She shifts uncomfortably. “So… what did you see?” she asks again. <<linkreplace "Cat girls all the way down">>You think back to the training exercises you<<if $Orrault6 == "Vanille">>learned at Orrault’s conscript barracks<<else>>learned on the road to Orrault<</if>>, grab your spear, plant you feet, and begin running through a basic drill: stance, thrust, retreat, stance. It’s a good thing the room’s so damn large. Your speartip never even gets close to the far wall. //Tap tap.// You freeze mid-lunge, gaze turning to the door. That definitely wasn’t your spear. “<<= $name>>?” Vanille’s voice filters through the heavy wooden partition. “Can I come in?” A hand reaches for the latch on instinct, only to freeze at the last moment. You’ve been here before: alone in some sort of religious site, freshly-bathed, with a companion knocking on the door. An ounce of caution wouldn’t be remiss. “What’s the name of your mentor?” “Tristan Vekara.” You whistle out a sigh of relief and open the door to find Vanille staring at you with mild concern—an expression that only grows more severe when she notices the sweat slicking your brow. “Is everything okay?” she asks warily. “Oh, yeah, fine.” You awkwardly gesture with the spear, then hastily prop the weapon against the wall. “Just doing some training. Y’know, while I have the chance.” “… And the question?” “Uhh…” An embarrassed hand rubs at the back of your neck. “I guess I was being a bit paranoid, sorry. Come in, please.” Vanille steps inside, politely closes and latches the door at her back, then turns an appraising gaze on your accommodations. An awkward silence grows, only to be abruptly shattered by the harsh scrape of metal against wood as your hastily propped spear begins to slide down the wall. You lurch to grab it, tuck it more securely by the desk, and finally turn back to the knight. “These rooms are really nice, yeah?” you say, a bit limp. She nods. “It was a relief to bathe after today’s mess.” “Did your room also have…” You pick up the chicken and present it like you’re an auctioneer. “One of these!” A warm chuckle bubbles from Vanille’s lips. “Yes.” “Any idea why?” you ask. She winces. “It’s, uh… That’s what Ialise meant by ‘providing supper.’” You furrow your brow. “But how am I supposed to… prepare and cook… it…” Your eyes dart to Vanille’s middle before you can quell the urge. No visible bulge. “You didn’t, uhm…” You consider a tactful choice of words, then tuck the complacent bird under your tunic instead. Vanille sputters out a choked laugh. “I had rations,” she manages, then laughs harder when the chicken starts pecking you in the stomach. You yelp and toss the bird aside. It flutters to the ground, then waddles back over to its box. How are your companion’s chickens faring? Mira //definitely// ate hers. Ashlyn’s a wildcard. But how about Sherine? She //is// a snake… A soft shuffle jolts you from your thoughts, and you turn to find Vanille pacing around the room, idly examining the accommodations. “So… spearmaster and animal wrangler.” She favors you with a wry grin. “Anything else keeping you busy these days?” “I started journaling.” She blinks. “That… sounds like a very good idea. Helping to organize your thoughts, processing everything that must be on your mind.” “Yeah, I feel like there’s a lot I need to keep track of here—and plenty of things from my world I wanna talk about, too. It’s… kinda fun talking about the comparisons.” “Anything I can help clarify?” You don’t even need to open the notebook for this one. “What the hell happened to you in the mountain pass yesterday?” “No idea what you’re talking about.” Vanille folds her arms. “What happened with you and the drider?” “It’s like I said. There was just a giant, fuck-off spider woman. She lured me into her lair by impersonating Mira’s voice, acting like she was in trouble and needed help—nearly flawless mimicry, I might add. By the time I realized it was a trap, I was basically in her clutches. She, uhh… She actually bit me.” You pull down the collar of your tunic and run your fingers across the twin bumps left by the drider’s fangs. “Damn,” Vanille groans, though her tone is muddled, caught between stifled anger toward a foe miles away and begrudging respect for the battle scar. Her lips press into a thin line as you readjust your tunic. She shakes her head, then asks, “What did you see?” “Of the spider? It was pretty dark.” “No, the hallucinations from the venom.” “You //know// about that?” The knight nods. “It’s fairly common knowledge. Drider venom is something of popular recreational substance, assuming it’s properly distilled and safely imbibed.” “Oh…” You blink in slow disbelief, then shake your head. “I’m sorry.” Vanille’s legs kick nervously at the straw. “Is all the drider talk too much?” You shrug. “Eh, I think I’m getting over it quickly. It’s a skill I’ve developed.” She shifts uncomfortably. “So… what did you see?” she asks again. [[Train and then go to sleep|Swamp Morning 1]]<</linkreplace>>

The moment you’re in range, Vanille grabs your hand and yanks you into her lap. An arm wraps around your shoulder and pulls you close. Her chest presses against your side as you find a comfortable home in the crook of her neck. “You’re such a doof,” she murmurs, one hand idly tousling your hair. Your cheeks burn as you peer into her eyes. “I know, I’m an i—” Warm lips quash your attempted humility. Words taper to a satisfied hum, fingers dipping beneath your chin and gently willing you back into close combat. Your hand slips along her side, finding a comfortable anchor in the small of her back. Minutes drown among a burbling river of kisses. Time slows, becomes a gooey, sticky thing. Lips caress and part, then meet again. Twisted tongues untangle as you slouch into a heady stupor. //“Mmh,// so nice,” you murmur. She kisses your forehead. “It’s the reason I came to visit. I missed you.” “Mm, s- sorry. I’ve been distracted these last couple days.” You nestle into her chest. “It’s hard to steal private moments when we’re traveling as a group.” Vanille sighs, fingers resuming their curious twirl across your scalp. “I appreciate the discretion… and it’s probably best if we keep this from the others.” Her chest rises and falls. “Especially Mira.” You pause, then wait for the other half. The telltale whistle of Vanille’s roiling thought-churn rings out. It’s crystal clear at this range: a slight flaring of her nostrils before she says something difficult. “We talked for a //very// long time the night of the wedding. I barely got any sleep.” She tarries for a fortifying breath. “Mira told me everything, about how strongly she feels about you. She went on and on. And it’s… intense. She //really// loves you. “I listened, and listened… and nearly lost her when I talked about you in the same way. And then, I said that she needed to tell you how she felt, that she needed to get the feelings out before they burned right through her.” A relieved tickle crawls onto your lips. “You two used to fight a lot. I’m glad you’ve come to care about her.” Vanille lets out a strained chuckle. “I have. Quite a lot. She’s like a… She’s a kind girl who’s been abandoned too many times. It’s caused her a lot of pain, and she has every right to tell you how she feels, regardless of circumstance.” The embrace tightens around your chest. “A- And I believe it’s only fair that you get the chance to respond. Truthfully… Because it’s ultimately between you two.” A slight smile haunts Vanille’s features. “And telling her all of this worked. I think. I think she’s been doing a lot better, and I assume it’s because she had a chance to express how she felt to you.” “She did, and it was… difficult.” You sit awkwardly for a moment. “But what about you? It must have been hard to encourage her by staking your relationship with me.” A curt laugh pops overhead. “How do you do that?” “Do what?” “How do you always make room for everyone else’s well-being?” You chortle. “You’ve asked that a few times now.” “I still find it still exemplary.” It’s not wholly unexpected that Vanille would be both fiercely protective of the people she holds dear //and// downplay her part in their world. And while it’s a far cry from—Oh god, it was only a few days ago that she was practically looking for a sword to fall on. Okay, okay. This is a huge shift, but a welcome one. Emotionally healthier. No need to overcorrect. You shuffle deeper into her arms, then plant a kiss in the crook of her elbow. “For the record, this doesn’t just concern me and Mira. The //choice// might be mine, but the consequences are shared. You’re a major factor, and while I do owe her an answer, you deserve the same respect.” You pause for a moment to review. “Mainly, I’m calling you out for dismissing yourself.” She puts her chin on your head. “Just seeing right through me, huh?” A low sigh whistles through your hair. “You’re right. I guess… I was trying to say that I’ll respect your decision.” “I know. Thank you.” “But you //do// have to give her an answer eventually.” “I promised I would.” You stretch out on Vanille’s lap. A moment of comfortable quiet passes before you pull yourself back under her wing. “Not tonight, though. I want to give her time to start making fulfilling friendships on her own—and she’s already trying so hard at it. Did you see her with Tess?” Vanille gives a light chuckle. “I did. The poor monster girl has no idea what she’s in for tomorrow.” “A thousand questions from the curious cat.” “It’ll be only a thousand //if she’s lucky.”// <<linkreplace "Enough about Mira; kiss Vanille some more">><<include "Kiss the Knight">><</linkreplace>>

<<timed 10ms t8n>>You and Vanille tie tongues once more—slower, more lethargic. The room dims as the sun finally sets. You sink further into the bed of straw. Nearly buried, you yawn. “Speaking of tomorrow, I’m actually starting to feel a bit tired.” “I’ll leave you be then.” Vanille begins to stand, nearly yanking you off the bed when you continue to hold tight. It’s a token gesture, given she could drag you across the room like a plastic bag, but she stops all the same. “Don’t go…” you say, drifting off. “I’m still scared of driders, and stuff.” Vanille hesitates for a moment, then settles in at your side, placing herself between you and the door. A strong arm girds your waist. Warmth shields your back. //“I’ll stay,// she whispers. //“Just this once.”// [[Sleep|Swamp Morning 1]]<</timed>>

Oh no. Those are bad words. Very bad words. Fully loaded with innuendo and said with such pure intent. “Waitwaitwait,” you manage, arms flailing. Her skirt is already rising, bundled clumsily in mottled grey wings. Body feathers rustle and flutter. The harpy bites her lip. Thin legs bend, and her body simply falls, the gooey slit between her legs wide enough to eclipse the setting sun. This is why bird watching is supposed to be done from afar. A pungent, earthy aroma provides the barest moment’s warning before her sex hits your face. Pliant flesh spreads across your cheeks, grips the bottom of your jaw, clutches tight to your ears. It’s hot, unbelievably so, stifling and sweltering and stealing the breath from lungs in an instant. Viscous fluids mat your hair to your scalp, pour over eyes clamped shut, run down your nose and dribble into your nostrils. You want to sputter, cough, gasp. But that would only make it worse. Fucking hell, was the harpy wet before she even started? Was this a premeditated abduction? //More like a premeditated snatching.// Okay brain, that’s a step too far. The soundscape of the outside world vanishes, replaced by cacophonous squelching, the deep thrum of an organic engine, and the faintest resonant vocalizations that are unmistakably moans. By the time you actually think to struggle, the harpy’s already worked her way past your neck and is currently making the big stretch to take in your shoulders. You squirm and manage to provoke nothing more than a deeply aroused gasp. Stick-legs clamp around your sides, pinning your arms and torso firmly in place and leaving only your legs to scramble against the ground, as if finding purchase is going to do anything more than speed things along. With a great heave and a full-body shudder, the harpy crests your shoulders and begins the long slide down. Dribbling warmth heralds the torrid embrace of flesh oozing down your arms and seeping through your tunic, staining the skin beneath with its sticky embrace. The constriction around your head gradually tightens, never quite crushing, but enough to quell your feeble struggles. Inch by inch, second by second, coo after coo, you slip further inside the bird woman’s… cloaca? Vagina? Regardless of the orifice, you’re pretty sure you headed womb-ward. It’s the scent; that cloying aroma flooding your senses, heady and deep, a far cry from the acrid stench to which you’ve grown alarmingly accustomed. Does that mean you’re safe? Probably not. It just means your imminently melty demise is going to be a whole lot more biologically confusing. The attendant reaches your waist with alarming speed, feathery thighs pulling tight around your own. She stiffens, braces, then abruptly pulls you up, hefting your encased torso into the air and wrenching your legs from their earthly roots. You flail anew, wild and disoriented, only for your feet to abruptly connect with solid ground once more as she thrusts back down. The harpy’s height, the momentum, your own panicked struggles—all three serve to push you violently into the monster girl’s sweltering depths like a nail ramming itself against a very wide and uncompromising hammer. You feel as much as hear the harpy moan, breathy and rapturous as you rocket deeper, past your thighs, your knees. You’re forced into her womb, made to curl upon yourself and find some semblance of comfort amid the ever-shifting slickness. The upward slide finally ebbs as she reaches your shins, then fully tapers at your ankles, leaving only a pair of booted feet squirming from her lower lips. One last contraction, a final shimmy of her hips, the daintiest tap against your sole, and you’re enveloped entirely. A gradual shudder, slower than the rest, courses through her body as you slip up and inside, legs and feet joining the compact <<= $name>>-ball in the lightless depths. “Ohh, I’m so sorry.” Her voice rumbles through your ears, remarkably clear. “I hope I didn’t wake anyone up. I didn’t mean to make so much noise.” That’s not the part she should apologize for! “I- It just felt wonderful. You’re so small, yet you move like you’re used to this.” The not-stomach shakes. Wing feathers sweep gently across your prison. “You’re just perfect in there: filling, yet sitting passively. Like a precious little egg. S- Sorry.” None of that feels like an apology. In fact, it’s the opposite, like she’s calculated each word to be just oblivious enough to provoke a reaction. Is this some sort of roleplay? An elaborate excuse to justify melting-slash-absorbing you? If you start protesting, will she feign offense and merrily slosh you in reprisal? “Oop,” she churrs, lurching. You brace yourself as the world suddenly rises. “Right, I need to put up some warning posts around that collapse. Wouldn’t want anyone to fall in. Just need to remember where we keep them…” She chuckles and pats her abdomen with a wing-arm. “I can be a tad distractible, so sorry!” Of course. Wouldn’t want her to be sidetracked from the ever-important task of melting you down to a nice, homogeneous slurry for purposes yet unknown to modern science. [[Who would want that? Certainly not you…|Chicken Dance]]

The harpy chirps, and you’re off, bobbing along in rhythmic fashion. It’s an odd sensation, different from any other predator who’s devoured you. Her gait is longer, slower, while each rise and fall is more severe. In exchange, there’s minimal sway back and forth—though perhaps that’s more due to //where// you’re being kept in her body. Is the womb meaningfully lower in the torso than the stomach? Sure, the original placement of the organs is completely different, but given she’s currently packing a whole-ass human, is there that much of a difference when accounting for all the swelling? Perhaps she— Wait. You’ve been eaten. Why the fuck are you pondering this now, of all times? You need to focus on getting out! You could struggle, protest, or perhaps try negotiating your way out, but if any of those wind up pleasuring your predator—physical stimulation for the first, and potential sadistic turn-ons for the other two—you’d only be hastening whatever the torment her womb can do to your body. It’s not like you could squirm much anyway; your confines are remarkably tight, fleshy walls gripping the bare skin of your arms and gently willing you to curl further in on yourself. It takes a measure of effort to maintain your vaguely comfortable pose, let alone actually try to make the harpy experience discomfort. Suddenly, the attendant jolts. “Oh, right! I forgot your spear.” An airy chuckle rumbles through her body. “Silly me, I’ll just have to go back and get it.” <<linkreplace "Keep her on task">><<replace "#choices">>“Uh, sorry, maybe we could stay on task? Set up the warning posts and then take me back to my room,” you say despite how comfy you are. You could sleep in here. Actually, you could sleep in here //forever.// “Er, please?” you add sheepishly. “But you need your walking stick. How else are you gonna walk around?” That’s… not how that works, but you can appreciate why a long-legged bird person would think it’s important. You rub the bridge of your nose. “Yeah, but—” Your hostess shifts. You’re swung around, then dropped slightly as she inhales. The harpy chirps out a quick breath. She repeats the process a dozen times, sucking you in, then easing you back out. Between each breath, she’s rising and lowering herself. Twice she bends forward and lets you hang awkwardly before righting herself once move, shuffling a few paces, then huffing and puffing again. //“Hoof,// so many candles,” she mutters. “These shouldn’t be all lit at this time of night.” She’s blowing out candles now? Wasn’t there like, a thousand of them? This has nothing to do with the warning signs //or// your spear. You might’ve just made things worse… <<linkreplace "Prod her again">><<replace "#choices2">>“Hey, uhh, did you forget about the collapse?” you ask. The heron lurches to attention, sending your confines sloshing. “Wh- What? No, of course not. I just remembered something else I needed to do and—Oh, oh! The watering basket! And the hinge on the pantry door! And the potatoes for tomorrow’s dinner!” “That sounds like… a lot,” you mutter. You’re surprised at how much even the simple sentence takes out of you. By the time the last word leaves your lips, you’re ready for a nice long nap. You roll a shoulder. It’s a stiff, gooey thing, the effort nearly monumental. You’re starting to wear a bit thin here, and she’s not helping. Couldn’t she just turn the damn organ off, or at least turn the thermostat down a few degrees? All you can do is desperately hope she’ll get done with her chores and plop you out soon. … If she was even serious about helping you in the first place. Maybe this is all part of a teasing, predatory game for her. In fact, she’s humming to herself while… sweeping? You’re pretty sure that’s the sound of a broom against stones. <<linkreplace "Poke her //yet again//">><<replace "#choices">>“Don’t worry about the potatoes…” you murmur like you’re half asleep. “I just wanna go home.” “Right! Of course, silly me. You’re more important than, uhm…” She trails off into quiet mumbling. Her steps grow agitated, her motions jerky and fitful. A dozen steps this way, a sudden pause, a pivot, then three more steps the other before she’s stopping all over again. She twists, turns, hems, haws. And all the while you’re left to slosh about, tossed this way and that like a dingy caught in a very warm and unusually viscous storm. The fluids around your feet gradually rise. Each inch only adds to the oppressive heat, the smothering caress of flesh and muscle and sticky wetness that seeps into your very being and ease you into languid torpor. “… Who left this basin here?” Another turn. Another sway. The harpy’s womb is a crib whose gentle rocking urges you into a sleep deep like no other. You feel yourself unspooling, unraveling. Every passing eternity you feel less of yourself and more of your luxuriant confines, more of the gooey, resplendent warmth. Uncertainties, concerns, responsibilities—all are washed away with each gentle bob. Why not close your eyes? Why not simply give into enervation, award yourself a well-earned rest? “… shelves need to be cleaned. I think that’s mouse girl hair…” You’d praise her devotion to her work, but you’re out of words entirely. The world’s narrowed to nothing more than a dark, warm slurry of waning consciousness. You float along in the womb, a little egg tucked safely away where you belong. The last you hear is a cheerful, “Hello!” and then, “No, I haven’t seen her. Did you ask…” from your hostess. She resumes humming as she wanders and waddles through the halls of the temple, drifting from task to task, distracted as a goldfish. <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathUB ++>><<set $deathHarpies ++>><<set $deathStupid ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 02.05.01]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Just give up and wait">><<replace "#choices">>You sigh and let yourself go limp. You can’t seem to get through to this bird-brain that she’s actively melting you with her womb. She trails off into quiet mumbling as she sweeps, then takes a dozen determined steps, a sudden pause, a pivot, then three more steps before she’s stopping all over again. She twists, turns, hems, haws, and all the while you’re left to slosh about, tossed this way and that like a dingy caught in a very warm and unusually viscous storm. You’d praise her devotion to her work, but you’re out of words entirely. The world’s narrowed to nothing more than a dark, warm slurry of waning consciousness. You float along, a little egg tucked safely away where you belong. The smothering caress of flesh and muscle and sticky wetness seeps into your very being and eases you into languid torpor. [[Fade away…|Birdthed]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Just let her do her thing">><<replace "#choices2">>Okay, no more distractions. She said she’d release you after a couple chores, and you’re gonna trust her. This definitely won’t backfire. Definitely. The harpy finishes with the candles, then swings about, and you’re off again. You stew in silence for several minutes, feeling the viscous fluids run down your body and pool around your legs, listening to the distant thrum of the monster girl’s heart. Each stride sends you on a relaxed, bobbing arc, like you’re a tiny ship sailing over the gentlest of ocean swells. The walls knead at your skin, an odd mix of disconcerting and comforting. You can feel them gently shift and press against your bare flesh, subtle and ever-present. An absent finger presses against your forearm. You don’t seem to be getting any softer… yet. Then again, you don’t exactly know how wombs work relative to stomachs. Maybe it takes some extra stimulation to actually get them going? Maybe that’s where your host is heading—finding somewhere private for a bit of self-gratification? The harpy suddenly squawks in surprise. “Oh, I’d completely forgotten you were in there! Sorry!” A brief moment of silence. “Uhm, where were we heading again? I think it was…” She tapers off into mumbling, too quiet to discern from within. Her steps adopt a more fitful, agitated energy, pitching and swaying without warning. Yet despite rockier seas, you can feel your eyelids growing heavier. Enervation seeps into your veins with each step, weighs down your every limb, leaves your thoughts vague and sluggish. A soft //click// sounds in the periphery of your senses. It’s unimportant. Sleep tugs at your every shift and shiver, lulls you toward its embrace with the promise of rest. This all started with sleeping troubles. Why not take the solution when it’s offered? [[Sleep|Birdthed]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Don’t interrupt her">><<replace "#choices">>The harpy swings about, and you’re off again. Is this another part of the bit? Deliberately prolonging your stay, biding time until absorption can set in? //‘Oh forgetful me! Guess I’ll just have to keep you in there a few minutes longer, no matter how soft you’re getting. Sure hope you’re not dripping between my legs by the time I’m done, tee-hee~’// The alternative is far more baffling: that she’s actually being sincere about her offer, and retrieving the spear is a genuine act of consideration. You doubt it. Havendorians tend to be driven by their hunger—err, libido, in this case. Why help someone when there’s a perfectly good meal-and-or-sex-toy ripe for the taking? The womb abruptly compresses, accompanied by a muffled grunt from the harpy. “Would you like it in there with you?” You blink, which does fuck-all in the dark. “Uhh, the spear?” “Yep.” “N- No thank you,” you stammer out, confused and panicked. She merely chirps out a happy, “Okay!” and you’re moving again to places unknown. You stew in silence for several minutes, feeling the viscous fluids run down your body and pool around your legs, listening to the distant thrum of the monster girl’s heart. Each stride sends you on a relaxed, bobbing arc, like you’re a tiny ship sailing over the gentlest of ocean swells. The walls knead at your skin, an odd mix of disconcerting and comforting. You can feel them gently shift and press against your bare flesh, subtle and ever-present. An absent finger presses against your forearm. You don’t seem to be getting any softer… yet. Then again, you don’t exactly know how wombs work relative to stomachs. Maybe it takes some extra stimulation to actually get them going? Maybe that’s where the harpy’s heading—finding somewhere private for a bit of self-gratification? Wherever the monster girl’s going, she’s certainly moving at a relaxed pace. The specific passage of time is difficult to discern in the lightless chamber, but it’s been longer than the couple minutes you needed to creep your way across Walst. The harpy suddenly squawks in surprise. “Oh, I’d completely forgotten you were in there! Sorry!” A brief moment of silence. “Uhm, where were we heading again? I think it was…” She tapers off into mumbling, too quiet to discern from within. Her steps adopt a more fitful, agitated energy, pitching and swaying without warning. Yet despite rockier seas, you can feel your eyelids growing heavier. Enervation seeps into your veins with each step, weighs down your every limb, leaves your thoughts vague and sluggish. A soft //click// sounds in the periphery of your senses. It’s unimportant. Sleep tugs at your every shift and shiver, lulls you toward its embrace with the promise of rest. This all started with sleeping troubles. Why not take the solution when it’s offered? [[Sleep|Birdthed]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> … Seriously? Bird pussy? You get the pick of any way you wanna go out in this world. Anything. And you choose to get yourself melted by bird pussy? Oh, don’t give me that. You //chose// this. You walked face-first into a situation made entirely of red flags. What rational—no, wait. Sane? Intelligent? … Conscious? Yeah, let’s go with that. What conscious human being thinks going out exploring on their own would //possibly// end well? And when the bird got you, you just kept pestering her. Even when you saw it was making things worse. Why? <<if $deathUB >= 5>>Are you on the vaginal world tour or something?<</if>> <<case 2>> And you’re back. Look, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see the inherent eroticism in being shoved up a vagina and melted down into your base components. I’m not a prude. But could you maybe pick a predator who’s a bit more… interested? Someone who //cares?// This birdbrain doesn’t even notice the moment you go from person to slurry. Sure, she eventually figures it out, but she doesn’t even enjoy it. What a fucking waste. <<case 3>> Oh, I get it. You //like// that she doesn't notice. You //want// her to melt you without even realizing. … I’d call you a weirdo, but honestly, this doesn't even make the top ten. I’m just disappointed. That’s fine. If you want a predator who doesn’t give a shit, then I’m not gonna give a shit either. You keep doing your thing. I’ll be here when you finally decide to move on, do something interesting for a change. <<default>> Nope, not encouraging this. Try again. <</switch>> [[Return|Explore Walst]]

A crushing weight suddenly bears down on your form. You jolt, panicked. Your confines undulate and writhe, forcing you to curl even tighter, compressing and compacting. You wince, try to groan. All that comes out is a pained wheeze. Blinding light floods your vision. You hit something unyielding with a wet slap, then collapse into a tangle of limp limbs and drenched cloth. A sputtering, hacking cough spills from your lips alongside a few ounces of fluid you’d rather not consider. Everything is so cold, so hard. It takes all your effort to roll onto your back. The harpy stands over you, straightening her robe. She favors you with a broad grin. “Here you are!” Her tone is nightmarishly casual. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself from the ground and peer around the blinding inferno. Vague details crystallize: a familiar pack propped in a corner, a stone desk, a chicken clucking at the stone floor. Holy shit. She was telling the truth. You can scarcely believe your eyes. Hell, you can scarcely believe your //luck.// The harpy turns to leave before your beleaguered body regains speech. The door nearly closes before she stops in her tracks, peeks back through, and says, “Make sure you don’t wander again. I’d feel awful if you got hurt!” And then she’s gone, leaving you cold and wet and very, //very// tired. A part of you wants to flop back on the floor and pass out in a big, messy pile. The greater, responsible you, however, reluctantly rises to your feet and throws yourself in the bath. By the time you’re scrubbed clean, then re-scrubbed, then re-re-scrubbed just to be sure, the sun has well and truly set. You fall asleep the instant your head hits the pillow. [[Zzz…|Swamp Morning 1]]

<> <<if $MiraTum < 0>> <<set $MiraTum to 1>> <</if>> <<if $Lurram_Lizards == false>> <<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>> <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>> [[Return to Crest with Sable's letter|Traveler_Router][$Lurram_Going to "LizardsReturn", $Lurram ++, $MiraTum --]] <<else>> <</if>> <<else>> [[Visit the lizard village|Traveler_Router][$Lurram_Going to "LizardsFirst", $Lurram ++, $MiraTum --]] <</if>> <<else>> <</if>> <<if $Lurram_Frogs === false>> [[Visit the frog village|Traveler_Router][$Lurram_Going to "FrogsFirst", $Lurram ++, $MiraTum --]] <<elseif $Lurram_Frogs == true && ($Lurram_Lizards == true || $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true) && $Lurram_Sidequest == false>> [[Return to Tolun'Moa to search for Maisy|Traveler_Router][$Lurram_Going to "FrogsReturn", $Lurram ++, $MiraTum --]] <<else>> <</if>> <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>><<else>> [[Visit the dryad village|Traveler_Router][$Lurram_Going to "Dryads", $Lurram ++, $MiraTum --]] <</if>> <>

<<if $Swamp5 == true>><<set $Swamp5 to false>><<include "Travel_Letter">><<else>><<switch $Lurram>> <<case 1>> <<include "Travel1">> <<case 2>> <<include "Travel2">> <<case 3>> <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true && $Lurram_Lizards == true>><<include "Travel5">><<elseif $Lurram_Dryads == true && $Lurram_Frogs == true>><<if $Lurram_Sidequest == false && $Lurram_Going == "frogs">><<include "Travel3">><<else>><<include "Travel5">><</if>><<else>><<include "Travel3">><</if>> <<case 4>> <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true && $Lurram_Lizards == true>><<include "Travel5">><<elseif $Lurram_Dryads == true && $Lurram_Frogs == true>><<if $Lurram_Sidequest == false && $Lurram_Going == "frogs">><<include "Travel4">><<else>><<include "Travel5">><</if>><<else>><<include "Travel4">><</if>> <<case 5>> <<include "Travel5">> <</switch>><</if>>

<> <<if $LizDialog >= 2>> <<if $LizGuards1 == false>> <<link "Attempt to persuade the guards">> <<set $LizGuards to 6>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards2 == false>> <<link "Attempt the bribe the guards">> <<set $LizGuards to 6>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards3 == false>> <<link "Attempt to name drop Ialise">> <<set $LizGuards to 6>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards4 == false>> <<link "Ask if Tess can vouch for you">> <<set $LizGuards to 6>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards5 == false && $Lurram_Dryads == true>> <<link "Tell them you have an official letter">> <<set $LizGuards to 6>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<else>> <<if $LizGuards1 == false>> <<link "Attempt to persuade the guards">> <<set $LizGuards1 to true>> <<set $LizGuards to 1>> <<set $LizDialog ++>> <<set $Crest_BullyPlan to true>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "LizGuards_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards2 == false>> <<link "Attempt the bribe the guards">> <<set $LizGuards2 to true>> <<set $LizGuards to 2>> <<set $LizDialog ++>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "LizGuards_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards3 == false>> <<link "Attempt to name drop Ialise">> <<set $LizGuards3 to true>> <<set $LizGuards to 3>> <<set $LizDialog ++>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "LizGuards_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards4 == false>> <<link "Ask if Tess can vouch for you">> <<set $LizGuards4 to true>> <<set $LizGuards to 4>> <<set $LizDialog ++>> <<set $Crest_SmugglePlan to true>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "LizGuards_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $LizGuards5 == false && $Lurram_Dryads == true>> <<link "Tell them you have an official letter">> <<set $LizGuards5 to true>> <<set $LizGuards to 5>> <<set $LizDialog ++>> <<append "#Liz">><<include "LizGuards_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "LizGuards_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <</if>> <>

<<switch $LizGuards>> <<case 1>> Alright, so the guards are a pair of belligerent assholes. That doesn’t mean you can’t try to win them over. You’re clever. “You two seem like reasonable people,” you offer. The leftmost lizard folds her arms. “You haven’t been paying attention.” Channeling your innermost diplomat, you put on a friendly face and try again. “I understand that we had something of a, erm, lacking first impression, but maybe we can still patch things up, find a friendly middle ground.” //“‘Can,’// sure,” the other guard offers with a sneer. “But we won’t.” “You don’t even want to try?” “Why would we?” “Because, uhh…” Nope, you’ve tried the ‘reasonable people’ approach already. “B- Because you’re, erm, such loyal and dedicated guards. And you seem like you care an awful lot about your duty to the village, and—” One of the lizards interrupts with a //very// audible and deliberately prolonged yawn. When she finally finishes, she blinks and fixes you with a contemptuous smirk. “Oh, were you still talking?” You try very hard to not sigh. You fail. <<case 2>> “Could we offer you something?” On cue, Mira pulls out a pocketful of shiny stuff from your bag and presents it like she’s a model on a game show.<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>> The leafy shirt, somehow, gives her an air of importance, as if Sable was literally rubbing off on her.<</if>> “Don’t need your shiny crap, but you can offer me <<if $Lurram >= 4>>dinner<<elseif $Lurram >=2>>lunch<<else>>breakfast<</if>>.” The lizard girl on the right pats her stomach proudly, then turns a hungry gaze onto Mira. She licks her lips. “The little one looks tasty. Not much of a trophy, but at least I’ll be done with her before <<if $Lurram >= 4>>it the hay<<else>>dark<</if>>. Might even need to grab another snack.” Everyone, including Ashlyn, stomps forward. Sherine even manages an intimidating thump despite not having feet. “Don’t threaten her,” Vanille growls. She taps the hilt of her sword. The lizards pause for a moment, startled to see any resistance to their jeering. The standoff lasts until the larger monster girl scowls and says, “No deal. I’d need <<if $Lurram >= 4>>dinner<<elseif $Lurram >=2>>lunch<<else>>breakfast<</if>>, too—you fussy soft-skins probably won’t go down easily. And we don’t got room for the lot of ya.” <<case 3>> “We //are// here from Walst-on-High,” you reiterate. “You know, the harpies at the big temple?” “Uh-huh,” one of the guards mutters, unimpressed. You fold your arms. “Ialise herself is calling for a Clansmeet.” “That old crone? Who do those herons think they are, anyway?” The guard nudges her partner playfully. “Hey, remember the last time one of those hags visited?” The other lights up. “Oh yeah! Srutta friggin’ ate that long-legged idiot before she could get three words out.” You balk. “Wasn’t the champion, erm… upset?” “Oh yeah, furious. She wanted some bird for herself. Ate Srutta and digested both of them on the spot.” Ah…<<if $Lurram == 1>> You suddenly understand why the task of rallying the chiefs for Clansmeet was passed along to you.<</if>> <<case 4>> “Can Tess vouch for us?” you ask. “Since this is her home.” //“Vouch for?”// The lizard girl guffaws. “Why would anyone care what a runt like her thinks?” “Because she’s your… sister?” “Not by blood. Not even a related brood.” “Stub was probably a chicken egg that accidentally got left in the clutch. She’s just pretending to be a lizard girl.” You catch Tess withering out of the corner of your eye. “Is she at least welcome back into her village by herself?” you ask, almost pleading. The slight lizard girl at your side turns a startled glare onto you. The guard chuckles callously. “I //guess// she can return if you gutless whelps aren’t actually gonna eat her.” “Yeah, we need someone to scrub out the chimneys,” the other guard adds. “Stub’s skinny and prey-less enough that she hardly ever gets stuck.” //“Last time, you two left me in there overnight…”// Tess mewls, kicking at her feet. She shivers, then jolts when she notices you looking at her. <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“D- Did you want to dismiss me?” You wince. “No, I’m sorry, we still need your help.” Tess relaxes a little, though it’s hard not to sympathize. The lizard girl’s prospects don’t seem great: go home to abuse, or stay with you and wait for the other shoe to drop. Does she still think you’re gonna eat her after she’s done escorting you around Lurram? Tess bows slightly and quietly asks, //“Do you want me to try and get the letter to the champion?”// //“Would that work?”// She hesitates. //“I- I doubt I could get an audience on my own any time soon. It would help if an outsider were there.”// Her brow furrows into a fitful knot. You offer a wan smile. //“Alright, don’t worry about it.”// “Aww, does Stub need to ask her new ‘champion’ for permission?” One of the lizard girls spreads her arms. “We’ll take her back, I guess, but if you come back to claim her, we’d be happy to tie her up and toss her over the wall for ya.”<<elseif $Lurram <= 2>>“D- Did you want to dismiss me?” You wince. “No, I’m sorry, we still need your help.” Tess relaxes a little, though it’s hard not to sympathize. The lizard girl’s prospects don’t seem great: go home to abuse, or stay with you and wait for the other shoe to drop. Does she still think you’re gonna eat her after she’s done escorting you around Lurram?<</if>> <<case 5>> “We’ve actually got a letter from Spring Matriarch Sable, of the dryads.” The pair of lizards stare at you blankly. “It’s for the champion.” One of the guards blinks. Both remain silent. “The, uhh…. The Matriarch seemed to think she would want to see it.” Finally, the smaller one speaks up. She rests her spear across her shoulder and lets both arms hang from the haft. “And this concerns us because… why? Why would we give half a shit about a letter from some plants? Do we look like herbivores?” “N- No,” you offer, mostly certain that they meant the term in offense. “I’m asking because we need to deliver the letter in person.” “Sounds like a //you// problem, honestly.” <<case 6>> “So, there’s nothing we can do?” Vanille suddenly barks. She folds her arms. “You assholes just aren’t gonna let us in?” “Heyooo, look at the attitude on her.” “Bet she’d be a squirmer,” the other lizard jeers. “My shift’s almost over. You wanna spend the <<if $Lurram >= 3>>night<<else>>afternoon<</if>> together?” She opens her mouth, lazy and expectant. Seriously? The lizard—no, wait, //reptile//—part of your brain wants to deck these two. They’re out here on their own, and their wild overconfidence means you could probably throw a sucker punch. But a more wizened and worldly part knows you’d accidentally throw a hand down their throat. Also, there’s an entire village of lizard girls just past that gate, though the monolithic barrier obscures any specifics. And barging your way into Crest won’t exactly make a great first impression with their champion. [[Back off for now|Lizard Huddle]] <</switch>>

You find Ashlyn nearby, straddling a tree trunk. She’s just staring out at the gate. You have no idea if you should sit in front or behind her, so instead you just stand and cough awkwardly to get her attention. “Thoughts?” She shrugs. “Nah, my ideas are too good for you.” “I mean, you joke around a lot.” You hesitate, then add, “I’m sorry if I don’t take you seriously sometimes.” Ashlyn flips you off. “I wouldn’t want you to.” She points her middle finger toward the lizard fortification. “It’s just the two guards out there. What if we just, y’know, eat them.” “And then what?” “Walk inside?” She splays one hand, then lets it flop back to her side. “Think about it: no archers on the walls, no watch towers or posted sentries. All their defenses are on the outside. If we don’t make a racket, who’s gonna know we aren’t supposed to be there?” That’s… actually not a terrible idea. <<if $Crest_BullyPlan == true>>If Sherine’s right, the lizards defer to power and confidence. <</if>>But there’s a whole lot of risk, too. You’d be behind those walls, surrounded by an entire clan of potentially hostile monster girls. If things go wrong, they’re going //very// wrong—for you and all of your friends. “Wait,” you blurt out. “Are //you// suggesting we //don’t// make a big show of things for once?” She smirks. “I know, right? Subtlety is for losers, but the thought of walking through the front door with a bitchy little lizard in my gut is making me kinda horny.”<<if $Khobb6 == "Ashlyn">> She shivers. “Been thinking about doing it with you ever since you hid in my dress at the wedding.” That… Yeah, that would be hot.<</if>><<if $Crest_SmugglePlan == true>> Huh… That gives you an idea. The guards said that Tess could walk through the gate on her own. Couldn’t you be brought inside with her ‘help?’ <<if $Khobb6 == "Ashlyn">>The lizard girl doesn’t have a dress you can hide in, but you wouldn’t want to be six inches tall when addressing the champion, anyway. No, there’s only one way you’re gonna be smuggled in at full size. <</if>>It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve considered a plan like this. <<if $Orrault3 == true>>It’s how you got into Orrault. <</if>> Hell, you did it two days ago to get into that sappica lounge. Maybe you’re just meant to be a carry-on… <<if $Lurram == 1>>Sure, Tess isn’t exactly a known quantity, but at least you’d only be putting yourself at risk<<else>>And Tess has already stuck with you through a rough scrape or two. Worse comes to worst, you’d only be putting yourself at risk<</if>>.<</if>> “A- Anyway, that is a good idea, Ashlyn.” You crack a wry grin. “Guess I’ll need to tap you for plans more often.” “Tap this ass—No wait, you tricked me into being useful!” “We’re all counting on you!” you cheer, dragging her back over to the rest of the group. You return to find your companions huddled around Mira drawing a diagram in the mud with a large stick. <<if $Lurram == 1>>It’s not really working, but that’s not stopping the demi from trying. “Any new ideas?” you ask, peering over Lloriel’s shoulder curiously. “Mira wants to build a catapult to fling herself over the wall,” the elf groans. She turns away from the demi’s excited fervor. “She wanted me to throw her at first,” Vanille adds. You turn to the demi and are blinded by her gigantic grin. “Mira, you getting a little restless?” “Maaaybe…” Vanille gives her a quick pat on the head, then favors you with a nod. “So, <<= $name>>, what’s the plan?”<<else>>There is an unnerving amount of violence being doodled. “Uhh, any new ideas?” you ask, peering past Lloriel warily. “N- No. Maybe?” Tess gives you a strange look. “Mira thinks she can fight three lizards at once,” Lloriel offers. “I, erm, admire her optimism.” Vanille puts both hands on Mira’s shoulders and clamps her in place, letting her fervor come to a halt. The knight favors you with a nod and a strained, “<<= $name>>. What’s the plan?”<</if>> <<if $Crest_SmugglePlan == true>>[[Be ‘smuggled’ past the gates|Tess Smuggle 0][$Crest1 to "smuggle"]] <<else>><</if>><<if $Crest_BullyPlan == true>>[[Bully your way past the guards|Vanille is a Bully][$Crest1 to "bully"]] <<else>><</if>>[[Let your hungry teammates eat|Guard Murder][$RVAshlyn ++, $RVSherine ++, $Crest1 to "murder"]]

“I have an idea… but it’s weird.” You cast a surreptitious glance toward your guide. “So, they said Tess is allowed through the gate, right?” The lizard girl nods slowly, as if she were talking to a child. “Uh, yeah. It’s my home.” <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“But you’d only get an audience with the champion if you brought along a messenger, right?” you ask, hoping she’ll catch on and spare you the embarrassment of having to say your stupid idea aloud. “Probably, yeah…” <<else>>“But you didn’t seem that optimistic about getting to the chief on your own,” you ask. She wilts. “I- I doubt I could get an audience any time soon. It would help if an outsider were there for clout.” <</if>>“Right, so only //one// of us needs to go with you.” <<if $Orrault3 == true>><<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>A gloved hand grabs your arm. Vanille stares, dread welling in her auric gaze. “No wait, <<= $name>>, you’re not—” You ignore the concerned knight. “Tess, could I ask you to do something very weird for me?” The lizard girl clutches her hands to her chest. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that…” “<<= $name>>. No,” Vanille barks. “It’s out of the question. I won’t let you.” You frown, but stand your ground. “It might be the only way.” “What are you two talking about?” Mira asks, ever curious. “<<if $xe == "he">>H- He wants<<elseif $xe == "she">>Sh- She wants<<else>>Th- They want<</if>> Tess to smuggle <<= $xem>> inside the village.” The knight tightens her grip. She’s a breath short from shaking the sense back into you. “Doing it with Mira was one thing, but this is unacceptable.” “Wait,” Tess suddenly blurts out. She holds her arms out in front of herself, pantomiming a stomach. Like everyone else in Havendor, she underestimates your approximate size. //“‘Smuggle?’”// Lloriel chokes on a cough. She raises an eyebrow at both you and Mira. “Y- You’ve done that before, <<= $name>>?” You sigh. “It was to get into Orrault. We didn’t have enough money for the toll after we lost all our stuff at a haunted temple.” You pause to bask in the absurdity of the sentence you just muttered. A glance over at Mira finds her licking her lips and jealously glaring at Tess. You shake your head dismissively. “Sorry, a story for another time. Anyway, with Tess’s help, I can—” “I said no,” Vanille huffs. “You can’t just—” An agitated hiss slips between your teeth. “Vanille, we //need// to <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>get this letter<<else>>speak<</if>> to the champion. It’s not a matter of choice. We //have// to get in there, and unless you want Ashlyn dealing with the guards her way, this is our best bet.” “It doesn’t have to be you,” she growls, an undercurrent of desperation bubbling beneath her words. “Who else? We’re not looking for a fight, so it needs to be someone meek, unimposing. Someone who isn’t going to be seen as a challenger or a threat.” “So you’re just going to prostrate before her and hope she shows you mercy?” she barks back. “<<if $xe == "he">>Mom and Dad<<elseif $xe == "she">>Our Moms<<else>>Our parents<</if>> are fighting,” Ashlyn mutters to Mira, a shade too gleeful. The demi ignores the mage’s jab and steps forward, lips curled to a determined frown. “<<= $name>> is right. <<= $Xes>> the best choice.” She plants her feet and stares up at Vanille. “Tess can handle someone like <<= $name>>!” … What does that mean? Mira presses on. “And <<= $xes>> gonna be way better at convincing the chief—” “Champion,” Tess corrects meekly. “Yeah. <<= $name>>’s way better at making friends.” The demi lays a gentle hand on Vanille’s shoulder—bicep. She tries; that’s what counts. “We should trust <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xe>> can do it.” The knight lets out a long, long breath. @@color:yellow;She offers you a brief, thin smile, then turns a dire glare onto Tess. “If there’s so much as a single acid mark on <<= $xir>> clothes…”@@<<else>><<set $RVVanille -->>“That… makes sense…” She nods slowly. You tarry for a breath, hoping the lizard girl might catch on and spare you the embarrassment. When she doesn’t, you huff and press on. “Tess, could I ask you to do something very weird for me?” “I’m not sure I like the sound of that…” “I was hoping you could smuggle me inside your village. I- If you’re willing, of course.” “No. It’s out of the question. I won’t let you,” Vanille barks. “Doing it with Mira was one thing, but this is unacceptable.” You frown. “It might be the only way.” “Wait, you mean like…” Tess holds her arms out in front of herself, pantomiming a stomach. Like everyone else in Havendor, she underestimates your approximate size. //“‘Smuggle?’”// Lloriel chokes on a cough. She raises an eyebrow at both you and Mira. “Y- You’ve done that before, <<= $name>>?” You sigh. “It was to get into Orrault. We didn’t have enough money at the time after we lost all our stuff at a haunted temple—” You pause to bask in the absurdity of the sentence you just muttered. A glance over at Mira finds her licking her lips and jealously glaring at Tess. You shake your head dismissively. “Sorry, a story for another time. Anyway, with Tess’s help, I can—” “I said no,” Vanille huffs. “<<if $xe == "he">>Mom and Dad<<elseif $xe == "she">>Our Moms<<else>>Our parents<</if>> are fighting,” Ashlyn mutters to Mira, a shade too gleeful. The demi ignores the mage’s jab and steps forward, lips curled to a determined frown. “<<= $name>> is right. <<= $Xes>> the best choice.” She plants her feet and stares up at Vanille. “Tess can handle someone like <<= $name>>!” … What does that mean? Mira presses on. “And <<= $xes>> gonna be way better at convincing the chief—” “Champion,” Tess corrects meekly. “Yeah. <<= $name>>’s way better at making friends.” The demi lays a gentle hand on Vanille’s shoulder—bicep. She tries; that’s what counts. “We should trust <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xe>> can do it.” The knight lets out a long, long breath. @@color:red;“If there’s so much as a single acid mark on <<= $xir>> clothes…” She seethes. She’s not even speaking directly to Tess, rather she’s fuming like a volcano directly at you.@@<</if>> <<= $xem>> back. I- I promise.” She shuffles in place, then mutters under her breath, //“You scare me.”//<<else>><<set $RVVanille -->>“That… makes sense…” Tess nods slowly. You tarry for a breath, hoping the lizard girl might catch on and spare you the embarrassment. When she doesn’t, you huff out a breath and press on. “Tess, could I ask you to do something very weird for me?” “I’m not sure I like the sound of that…” “Could you eat me and smuggle me inside your village? I- If you’re willing, of course.” All at once, Lloriel coughs, Sherine smirks, Mira jealously licks her lips, and a bubble of laughter pops out of Ashlyn. “What!?” Vanille barks. “N- No, you can’t. It’s unnecessary, absurdly dangerous.” You frown. “It might be the only way.” The knight stomps a foot in the mud. “I won’t allow it. You’d be entirely on your own.” “I’d have Tess with me,” you counter. Your tone doesn’t waver as you add, “<<if $Lurram >= 3>>We’ve been traveling together for almost a whole day. <</if>>I trust her.” You and Vanille turn to Tess who’s holding her arms out in front of herself, curiously pantomiming a full stomach as if visualizing the fit. Like everyone else in Havendor, she underestimates your approximate size. The lizard girl yelps when she notices you and Vanille staring. “U- Uh… That’s a lot of trust,” she squeaks, blushing sheepishly. “A- Are you sure about this? You don’t even know me.” “There’s three—” you glance at your group, then amend your count, “—two and a half people who will hunt you down and kill you if you do anything stupid.” Mira bobs her head as she performs the same mental math as you, then bops over to stand at Vanille’s side. The knight lets out a long, long breath. @@color:red;“If there’s so much as a single acid mark on <<= $xir>> clothes…” She seethes. She’s not even speaking directly to Tess, rather, she’s fuming like a volcano directly at you.@@ It’s more than enough to get the lizard girl quaking. “I- I’ll bring <<= $xem>> back. I- I promise.” She shuffles in place, the mutters under her breath, //“You all scare me.”//<</if>> <<if $AshlynEvent11 == "ass">>[[Climb in… again. Damnit, Ashlyn!|Smuggle Rejoin]]<<else>>[[Climb in|Smuggle Rejoin]]<</if>>

“Okay, I think Sherine’s on the right track here. These lizards listen to power and aggression, so I say we use that to bully our way past them.” Sherine offers a sympathetic smile. “<<= $name>>, as much as I appreciate your confidence, I’m not sure either you or I are the best candidates for that role.” “Absolutely tragic,” Ashlyn drawls. “If only we had a companion who was intimidating, forceful, and had an extensive track record of belligerence toward authority figures.” Slowly, she points an accusatory finger at a certain golden-haired knight. Vanille blinks. “Me?” “You’re gonna get us past the gates by using your ‘commanding’ voice.” She blinks again, still astonished. “I… Do I have a ‘commanding’ voice?” Everyone, including Lloriel and Tess, nods. “Oh…” You chuckle approvingly. “I should have thought of it in the moment and let you take over. You push guards around all the time: Amberglen, Orrault. You even called the marquis a cunt. What’s two lizard gatekeepers?” “Disrespecting authority is one of my turn-ons,” Ashlyn helpfully adds. Vanille tries to fold herself up and hide. It’s impossible for her warrior-frame. A beet red stains her cheeks. “I… I didn’t know you all had this perception of me.” Ashlyn gives her a pat on the bicep—apparently jocular slap-ass is saved for people who //can’t// crumple her into a ball. “Flex those muscles, babe.” “Don’t call me that,” Vanille snaps back. “See? She’s already in character.” The mage smirks. She’s pulling at the knight’s sleeves a moment later. “I’m serious though, take off your top. Need to see those <<if $AshlynEvent11 == "ass">>guns if this is gonna work.” Everyone stares at Ashlyn in utter confusion while you nearly choke. “How could you possibly have figured that out?” “Yesss! I fucking got it!” she cheers, immensely pleased. “You said a ‘gun’ was like a cannon, which is a powerful //arm//-ament which packs a //punch.// I just put two and two together.” “You scare me sometimes.” Vanille ignores the banter and shakes her head.<<else>>juice-presses if it’s gonna work.” Vanille shrinks.<</if>> “Are we sure Sherine shouldn’t do this? Threaten t- to eat them, or something? She’s more imposing than me… probably.” “I may have the mass,” Sherine says with a shrewd smile, “but I’ve cultivated a certain… demeanor, and it’s not the right flavor for those two.” //Femme Fatale, with emphasis on ‘Fatale.’// “Are you alright with this, Vanille?” you ask. “It’s better than the alternatives, I suppose.” Vanille hums as she shimmies out of her tunic before Ashlyn can rip the sleeves away. The knight sorta shrugs, then adjusts her armor. She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow… with those arms… Goddamnit, Ashlyn. Vanille huffs out an exasperated breath. “I’ll, uh, do my best to give a convincing performance.” She thumps her chestplate and nods confidently. <<linkreplace "Get going">>The two guards spot you before your party’s even left the treeline. You’re immediately fixed with a pair of hefted spears and wary stares, eyes tracking every step of your long and awkward trek to the wall. //“Sherine, pretend to say something to me,”// Vanille mutters while you’re still out of earshot. “Oh, what big eyes you have…” “I don’t want to hear any excuses!” Vanille shouts. “You told me this was the place, and I expect better from you going forward! All of you are useless!” Oh damn. You don your best ‘thoroughly cowed’ expression as you draw close, trying to look every bit the brow-beaten, meek subordinate. Your companions do the same, and the lizards’ attentions shift to Vanille at the party’s head. “Back so soon?” The monster girl scoffs and thumps the butt of her spear against the ground. “Changed your mind about being <<if $Lurram >= 3>>dinner<<else>>lunch<</if>>?” Vanille folds her arms and puffs out her chest. She’s up in the lizard’s face with a fierce stomp. “There was a misunderstanding. I’m here to collect what I’m owed: I beat up that whelp Zalla yesterday, and now I’m taking what’s mine.” The lizard scoffs, then puffs herself up to match the knight’s swagger. “Zalla? No way.” “Wait, is //that// where she got that black eye?” the other asks. “She said it was a door.” Vanille swaggers. “That’s not all I gave her: fracture on the forearm, bruises on both knees and elbows, and a chipped tooth. Destroyed her spear—Hell, I coulda snapped her little neck if I wanted. All that and there’s not a scratch on me.” She gestures to your group. “And her missing underlings? Where do you think they went?” Most of you are too mortified to react, but Sherine picks up the cue. She licks her lips, juts her hips, and shows off an expanse of long, smooth copper. Lloriel shifts aside to clear space, then takes an extra, shuddering step away from the knight just in case. “So, where is the puny coward?” Vanille scoffs. “Given how pathetic she was, I figured she belonged on door duty, doing boring, child’s work. Didn’t think someone so weak would be allowed to lead a hunting party.” The pair of lizards flounder between bristling at the fusillade of insults and withering under the knight’s relentless, domineering presence. Vanille stomps back and huffs, throwing up her hands. “Ungh, fine. I’ll get her myself. Let me through, or you’re gonna be appetizers for my servants.” “Woah okay. We didn’t mean any trouble,” one of the lizards offers as the pair hastily shuffles aside. “Just tell us next time,” the other adds, pointing to you. “Don’t let your floppy servant do the talking.” The first nods. “Probably get more use out of <<= $xem>> on your hips. I’ll feed ‘em to you right now if you—” Vanille’s elbow slams into the lizard’s stomach. The monster girl stumbles back, words stifled to a pained, wheezing gasp. “How I discipline my harem is my business,” the knight growls. “Now get out of my way.” Both lizards immediately comply without another word of protest—well, one steps aside. The other sorta lurches and tries very hard to not collapse. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>[[Damn, that was… kinda hot|Bully_Enter Village]]<<else>>[[Follow Vanille|Bully_Enter Village]]<</if>><</linkreplace>>

You hem and haw for a fitful moment, trying to find the perfect choice of words to explain a plan that effectively amounts to ‘let’s just murder two people.’ “So, uhm… Ashlyn made a very reasonable point.” Yep, good start. Place the blame on someone else, someone reliable. Someone whose opinions will soften the inevitable backlash. “There’s only two guards at the gate.” “<<= $name>>,” Vanille says, wary. “I thought we already ruled out an attack. If we start a fight, how are we supposed to persuade the champion to attend the Clansmeet?” “It doesn’t have to be a, erm… //fight,// exactly.” You flash an apologetic frown to the knight. “If we surprise those two guards, they never raise an alarm.” Lloriel’s eyebrows rise. “Are you suggesting…” @@color:lime;“I think <<if $xe == "they">>they are<<else>><<= $xe>> is<</if>>,” Sherine says, eyes gleaming. “I’m surprised such a delightful plan was Ashlyn’s idea.” The mage smirks back. “A broken clock recognizes genius twice a day, and all that.”@@ “It’s not ‘delightful,’” Vanille interjects. “It’s an unprovoked attack on a clan we’re supposed to persuade—not //force//—to attend a peaceful meeting. Even if those two guards are… difficult, we can’t just get rid of them because they’re in our way.” “I’m more than happy to handle that part,” Sherine offers. “Hey, I get one!” Ashlyn adds. “It was //my// idea.” The knight’s eyes narrow. “That’s not the problem, and you know it. Besides, these are Tess’s clanmates. What does //she// think?” “If it’s the only way…” the lizard girl grumbles. “I’m worried what’s going to happen if you fail, but if you beat them, you deserve to eat them.” She assesses your group’s strength, then shrugs. “I guess I’m fine with it.” //“Ugh,// seriously?” Vanille huffs. She turns to you, locking golden eyes for a long moment<<if$VanilleEvent6 == true>> before finally nodding. “Okay, I think <<= $name>>’s right. This is the best way forward.”<<else>><<set $RVVanille -->>, then lets out a low sigh. @@color:red;“I don’t like it, <<= $name>>. But if you think it’s the best way, I’ll follow.”@@<</if>> “It wasn’t <<= $name>>’s idea,” Ashlyn smarms. “I’m being plagiarized!” “So we just walk up there and surprise them?” Lloriel asks. “Uhh… I hadn’t actually gotten that far,” you admit, scratching the back of your neck. “Ashlyn? Sherine? This kinda seems like your thing.” <<if $Lurram >= 2 && $MiraTum <= 1>>“I wanna eat one.” You blink in surprise, then turn to Mira. “Err, what?” you manage. “I wanna eat one of the guards,” the demi repeats. “They’re mean and rude, especially to Tess. So I wanna eat one as payback.” Tess stares at Mira with a look of profound bafflement before quietly muttering, //“Uhh… thanks?”// “It’s fine,” Ashlyn says with a dismissive wave. “Mira can have mine. Sherine’ll take the other.” “How gracious of you,” the lamia muses quietly, then turns her attention back to the demi. “So, little one, any ideas?” Mira nods, shifting fitfully from one leg to the other in an odd blend of excitement and resolve. “I was thinking we could pretend you’re gonna offer me. L- Like you and <<= $name>> did with that harpy.” She points over her shoulder. “Those jerks seem pretty hungry, and I’m small. We just need to get close enough, and then we get ‘em!” Her wide grin falters as she casts a nervous side-eye at Vanille, awaiting approval. “It’s not like I’m actually gonna let them eat me,” Mira adds. The knight harrumphs and folds her arms. “I didn’t like the plan when <<= $name>> did it. And we were //all// there to back <<= $xem>> up.” “Relax, I’ll tag along,” Ashlyn says. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll help. Good enough, Knifey?” Vanille eventually nods even as her lips remain pressed to a thin frown. “Better. And at least you’re not obviously armed. Thank you, Ashlyn.” The mage sidles over to Mira and whispers something in the demi’s ear. Two sets of eyes—one emerald green, one cosmic violet—alight upon you before Mira gives an eager nod. A deep dark shiver crawls down your spine. “Great,” Ashlyn cheers. “Let’s fuckin’ do this. Need me to tie you up or anything, Mira? Make it more convincing?” “Ooh, yeah!” Mira beams as the mage produces a length of her finest cord. “Just keep it a little loose. I can wriggle out whenever.” You and Vanille silently stare at the unfolding scheme with a mix of confusion and concern. Ashlyn shoots the two of you—though mostly //you//—a grin and a wink. “Don’t worry, I know how to fake a binding. We’ll be done before you know it.”<<else>>The dastardly duo whisper a few schemes back and forth, then nod in synchronous harmony. A cold shiver rattles down your spine. “We’re gonna tie me up sexual-style, then Sherine’ll offer me up as tribute.” Ashlyn smirks. “When we’re close enough, we jump the bitches.” You blink. “Y- You’d be tied up…?” “You’re saying that like I’m not the Master of Bondage. Like I don’t know how to fake a binding. Do I look like a subby little bitch?” “<<= $name>>, we’ve got this handled,” Sherine reassures in her smoothest, most crooning tones. “Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours about it.”<</if>> [[Worry anyways|Eat Guard]]

<<set $VanilleEvent8 to true>>“Vanille—” “I know,” she grunts. You grab the knight’s arm. “She’s—” “I know!” Vanille yanks you forward. A deep furrow darkens her features. “We just have to talk to the chief and put this behind us.” “I can’t just do nothing!” Vanille stops. The entire party comes to a halt, waiting for instruction. The knight locks eyes with you, golden gaze searching, fury on her brow, anger in her fists. You hate that you’ve forced her hand, that your stupid morals demanded a pause like this in hostile territory. You don’t know a damn thing about the culture here. It’s not your business. That little lizard girl’s fate isn’t your problem—And what the hell are you going to do to help her anyway? Offer yourself in her stead? Over Vanille’s dead body. You can see it in the knight’s eyes. She knows all this, she’s come to the same conclusions. You’re making a bad call. She knows not to pick a fight with an entire clan of roided-out monster girls, that doing so means putting you, her ward, in mortal danger. Vanille steps in, pushes against you. You can feel the heat of her huffing breath. @@color:lime;//“<<= $name>>, you’re amazing,”// she whispers.@@ She reaches into your bag and pulls out a clump of wax. She splits it in two and crams a lump in each ear, then holds out an open hand to Lloriel. Vanille mumbles unintelligible syllables, and the elf hands over a strange brown shell. The knight tucks it behind her back, then gestures for the rest of you to keep your distance as she storms over toward the mosh pit. “Hey! Assholes!” she booms. Arms extend wide. She puffs out her chest, makes herself as large as possible. Heavy boots stomp as she pushes and shoves her way into the crowd. The fight grinds to a confused halt as she steps up to the lizard who started it. “This hardly seems fair. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Vanille bellows, loud enough for everyone. The hulks take the bait, circle around your companion. You catch the little lizard girl scurrying out of the pit during the distraction. She makes a break for it as soon as her tail’s free from the throng. The hulking lizard thumps her chest, gets in Vanille’s face. “What’s a little soft-skin like you gonna—” Vanille slams the screamer against the lizard’s midriff. [[Cover your ears and run|Mosh_Run Out of Town]]

“I’ll do it—” “What the fuck! No! Absolutely not!” Vanille stomps right up to you and grabs you by the collar. A clenched fist rises. You wince. She huffs like a bull, the heat on her breath matching the molten fury roiling in her eyes. Her piercing glare bores a white hot hole through your skull. @@color:red;She isn’t faking it. This is genuine anger.@@ Vanille clutches you for a long, tense moment. She’s searching your soul, trying to figure out what idiotic whim convinced you to speak up. Finally, she shoves you aside and points at Ashlyn. “Go be collateral.” Her words are cold and cruel. Ashlyn’s immediate laughter, however, is anything but. “Oh, master,” the mage laments, a hand to her chest. “If I’d only known I was so precious to you, I would have confessed my feelings sooner. Alas, that time has passed, and now we can only pine for what could have been. Hark! I must go now! Condemned to soup-hood by my star-crossed lover.” She swoons, melodramatic to the point of obscene. “Remember me the next time you see two animals humping in the wilderness.” “Just //go.”// <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

“Mira, could you—” @@color:yellow;“<<= $name>>, no!” Vanille balks, equal parts mortified and disappointed. “W- Why would you… No. No.” She glares back at you, molten gold eyes boring a hole through your skull.@@ “Take Ashlyn,” she finally growls. The mage belts out a harsh laugh. “Damn. That’s cold, Knifey. @@color:red;Not as cold as <<= $name>> tossing Mira into the furnace, though.” She punctuates the statement with a scathing glare.@@ “I- I was gonna ask her first—” you look around for any support you can find. @@color:red;“I can’t help but agree.” Sherine lets out a //tsk// of disapproval. “I expected better of you, <<= $name>>.”@@ @@color:red;“That does seem a little callous,” adds Lloriel.@@ Wait, //Lloriel?// She’s been with you for, what, three days? Why’s //she// piling on? At the periphery of your vision, you catch Mira glancing between your companions with abject confusion. You swear the demi mutters, //‘I wouldn’t really mind…’// “Enough!” Vanille growls. She stamps her foot and points to Ashlyn. “Get on with it. Now.” <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

This is bullshit. This cocksure lizard is trying to swindle her way into a temporary belly-buddy so her day job is a little less dull. Fuck her. Fuck this town. Channeling Vanille’s prior bravado, you stomp forward hard enough to send a spray of mud into the guard’s shin. Ire blooms in reptilian eyes, and you match it. Exceed it. “Fuck off,” you spit. “We made it past the gate guards and through the entire village. We’re not going to let the two of you stop us from seeing the champion.” The slightest shred of uncertainty curls at the lizard’s lips, but she steels herself in an instant. “Don’t try me<<if $xe == "he">>, boy<<elseif $xe == "she">>, girl<<else>><</if>>.” “Or what? There are seven of us, and two of you. Even //if// we give you someone for ‘collateral,’ you still seem more than happy to let a bunch of armed adventures meet your champion face-to-face.” You point an accusatory finger. “This is all just for show. You don’t give a shit about your champion’s safety. We’ve already bested an entire patrol of your warriors, and we’re perfectly fine adding two more to that tally if that’s what it takes!” The pair of lizards stare at you for a stretch of interminable silence. Disbelief and incredulity stain their gruff features. Claw-tipped fingers clench and release the hafts of their pikes, tails tapping uncertain rhythms against the hut’s exterior. “Fine, whatever,” one of them grunts, shuffling aside. “Just make it quick.” … That worked? You did it? It takes a few moments to remember how your feet work, but you eventually lurch forward, one hand reaching for the doorway as your companions follow. Vanille brushes up beside you. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>@@color:lime;//“I’m a little turned on right now,”// she whispers into your ear, then walks on like nothing happened.@@<<else>>@@color:lime;//“I’m incredibly proud of you,”// she whispers into your ear, then walks on.@@<</if>> [[Go talk to the champion|Lizard Chief]]

Frantic eyes lock onto yours. You brace, hold your breath as the gaze stretches toward eternity. The fire in Vanille’s eyes flickers, spits molten gold. She twitches, then holds an arm across her abdomen and sucks in a breath as deep as the earth. A small streak of pride fills your heart as Vanille slowly, deliberately, calms herself. The spiral stops right before your eyes, and it’s beautiful to behold—Even more so when she opens her mouth next. “Ashlyn, go be collateral.” “Oh, master,” the mage laments, a hand to her chest. “If I’d only known I was so precious to you, I would have confessed my feelings sooner. Alas, that time has passed, and now we can only pine for what could have been.” The knight rolls her eyes. “We’re only gonna be a few minutes—” “Hark! I must go now! Condemned to soup-hood by my star-crossed lover.” She swoons, melodramatic to the point of obscenity. “Remember me the next time you see two animals humping in the wilderness.” “Just go or I actually //will// forget about you.” <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

You step forward boldly, then say with just the right amount of venom and sass, “Ashlyn loves being collateral.” @@color:lime;The mage explodes into laughter. She bends double cackling so hard, draws a few nearby eyes, then trails off into a very long and very feigned sigh.@@ “Damn, just gonna volunteer me like that, huh?” “I- I was going to pick you, too,” Vanille admits, guilt staining her features. Ashlyn sighs and flips you both off. <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

“I- I know this is a weird idea, but maybe Sherine could handle this one?” Vanille stares blankly at you. She tilts her head. “You mean Sherine should eat her?” “N- No.” You swallow the painful, tangled knot in your throat. “I- If she could be collateral… while we talk to the champion.” @@color:yellow;The lamia stares at you with genuine surprise, one eyebrow slowly ascending like a rickety elevator. “<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>Surely being ingested once was more than enough for this little adventure.<<else>>Is this a joke, <<= $name>>?<</if>>” A slight edge of restraint colors her voice.@@ “Uh- Uhm…” “I can shrink—” Ashlyn starts to ‘helpfully’ offer before Vanille jabs her in the gut. “Nope, you’re gonna be collateral,” she says to the mage, forcing her upright and pushing her toward the massive lizard girl. “Go on.” “Damn,” Ashlyn wheezes, still recovering. <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

Well, you don’t know her all that well, but she is small and… Compact. Yeah, that’s a polite way to put it. Practically speaking, she’s easy to get down and bring back up. “Uh, maybe…” You clear your throat awkwardly. “Lloriel, would you be alright doing this?” The elf simply stares at you for a moment, face entirely devoid of recognition. “Lloriel?” Vanille prods. “O- Oh!” the elf suddenly squeaks, wide eyes flitting between Vanille and the guard. “Uhh, I- I can do that for you—Er, for the group.” “Are you sure?” the knight asks gently, almost relieved. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s okay. I have someone else—” “N- No, it’s just, uh…” She steals another furtive glance at the lizard, then lowers her voice. “Are you sure I should be in charge of something so important?” … //‘Important?’// Vanille’s lips curl to an inscrutable scowl. “… Yes, of course. We trust you.” <<include "Lloriel Collateral Rejoin">>

“How about Tess?” you ask quietly. “Who?” the monster girl guard interrupts. “Tess, the—” You huff out a sigh, then gesture to the diminutive lizard girl lingering toward the back of your group. The guard blinks slowly and stares for a long moment before her face //finally// lights up in recognition. “Oh! <<if $xe == "he">>He means<<elseif $xe == "she">>She meansl<<else>>They mean<</if>> you, Stub. Since when did you start calling yourself ‘Tess?’” “A- Always?” the monster girl squeaks, nearly inaudible. “Stub’s better.” The rude guard turns her attention back to you. “But anyway, no, that’s the dumbest offer I’ve ever heard.” “Wha—Why?” You turn to your companions for help and find only silent judgment. Realization gradually begins to dawn on you, but Tess spells out the answer anyway. “I’m not one of your traveling companions. I’m only helping you because Za—because Ialise told me to.” Vanille shakes her head. “That doesn’t mean we’d leave you behind.” Auric eyes flit to you, then back to the lizard guards. A slow breath trails from thin-pressed lips before Vanille turns and points. “Ashlyn, I’m sorry. Can you—” “Oh, master,” the mage swoons, a hand to her chest. “If I’d only known I was so precious to you, I would have confessed my feelings sooner. Alas, that time has passed, and now we can only pine for what could have been.” The knight rolls her eyes. “We’re only gonna be a few minutes—” “Hark! I must go now! Condemned to soup-hood by my star-crossed lover.” She swoons, melodramatic to the point of obscene. “Remember me the next time you see two animals humping in the wilderness.” “Just go or I actually //will// forget about you.” <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

<<switch $Sazelle>> <<case 1>> “The Clansmeet is important,” you say. “For you, and for Lurram.” Sazelle frowns. “Is it?” “Of course. Why else would Walst call for it?” “Because they are idiots who worry and fuss over every slight inconvenience,” she supplies. “Lording over a Clansmeet is the only power those harpies hold. They are delusional enough to believe that polite, amicable words alone will keep our blades from each other’s throats.” It’s your turn to frown. “So you think it’s just a waste of time?” “Unless you can prove me wrong.” Something like a smirk settles on the champion’s features. “Do //you// know what this Clansmeet is for?” “I, uhh…” You huff out a frustrated sigh. “Not really, no.” Sazelle grunts and settles back in her chair, then adds, “If it’s really so important, //Priestess// Ialise is free to come and tell me herself. I’ve been craving heron.” <<case 2>> “Shouldn’t you meet with your allies?” //“Allies?”// Sazelle scoffs. “Should I consider the treacherous frogs or single-minded dryads my ‘allies?’” “Err… neighbors, then?” “Competitors,” the lizard spits. “Enemies in all but name, no matter how many Clansmeets the harpies call. Trading empty niceties is a fool’s game that only serves to buy time for the weak. My clan does need such a handicap.” “So you just want to fight everyone forever instead?” “I want my clan to grow and thrive.” The metal of Sazelle’s glaive taps against a gnarled branch. “Right now, fighting is the best way to achieve that. You and Walst have not offered a compelling alternative.” <<case 3>> “If you don’t attend, the Clansmeet doesn’t happen,” you explain. The champion stares at you for a long moment. Finally, she tilts her head and asks, “If two weaklings are drowning in the water, am I expected to throw myself in and try to save them?” <<if $Collateral != "Vanille">>“If you can, yes,” Vanille says, stepping forward<<else>>“If you can, probably yeah,” you say, mildly baffled<</if>>. “Why take the risk for someone else’s mistake? Kindness? Pity?” Sazelle shakes her head. “Should I bear my throat for their benefit, then feign surprise when they tear it out?” “That seems… harsh,” you say.<<if $Lurram >= 2>> “From what we’ve seen, the other clans seem pretty reasonable.”<</if>> “And you outsiders seem naive.” She runs a clawed finger along the haft of her glaive. “You should leave Lurram while you still can, consider yourselves lucky the swamp hasn’t claimed you.” <</switch>>

The crowd cries havoc, covers their ears, and generally howls in confused agony. Furious claws dig into the dirt, scramble clumsily after a sprinting Vanille. You’re already running in the same direction. The knight in all her physical glory rushes along besides you, then latches onto your arm and pulls you along even faster. Tess appears on the other side, and between the two of them, your flailing feet only hit the ground on every other step. Sherine grabs Ashlyn as the mage falls behind, and Lloriel— The elf runs at the head of your group. She twists for a split second to fire a volley over your head, then darts to where the road intersects. Mira appears from around the corner to shout directions, and your whole party makes a sharp turn around a squat wooden shack. The demi leads the way through narrow alleys and ramshackle roads back to the village gate. Your ears stop ringing. A stampede of thundering feet and raging cries grows at your back. <<if $Crest1 == "bully">>The belligerent guards at the gate<<else>>Two newly assigned guards at the gate<</if>> brace themselves as you rush the last few feet toward freedom. Vanille slams against the left one in a vicious shoulder tackle and sends her careening. On the other side, Tess hops over a swipe of a spear. You, unfortunately, take a hard wooden haft to the ankle and stumble to the dirt. You kick and yell when something starts dragging you, then realize you’re going in the right direction. Lloriel’s there trying to tug you back onto your feet. You rise on a battered knee and dart over toward— Ashlyn finishes a spell. The gate suddenly lurches, creaks and bends. Thick, veiny branches sprout between the gap, a chaotic lattice of overlapping penises. The wave of chasing lizards hits the wall, but the new growths are enough to keep the teeming mob at bay. Saurian axes don’t appear until you and your entire party are entering the safety of the woods. <<linkreplace "Make a break for it">>You run until you can’t hear the angry mob. Just to make sure you’re truly out of range, you keep going until Mira’s satellite ears settle down. Panting, you lean against a huge nearby oak<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>—hopefully, it’s not a dryad—<<else>> <</if>>and nurse your ankle. It’s not bad, probably won’t even bruise. A sense of ease washes over you as the rest of your party recuperates. No injuries across the board. A successful escape. As blood stops pounding in your ears, you realize that whining noise that’s been following you all the way here turns out to be Ashlyn’s groaning and whining. “Vanille, <<= $name>>, you’re fucking idiots,” she says, “What did you think was gonna happen” “I- I tried to—” Vanille throws an arm around your shoulder. “We weren’t gonna just let her suffer.” Ashlyn throws her hands up. “Did you miss all the rest of the suffering?!” @@color:lime;“I’m sorry <<= $name>> and I have morals!”@@<<if $Crest1 == "bully">> Vanille huffs and folds her arms. “<<else>> @@color:red;“You fucking should be! After everything I did to get us in there? You wasted all our time with that shit decision.”@@ “All you did was <<if $MiraTum >= 2>>get tied up sexually—Sherine also helped get us in there!” “I risked myself,” the mage says, indignant. “A bit. Kinda. And the snake’s angry too.” “I never said I was angry,” Sherine chides. “It’s your body language. You’re furious.” The lamia’s brow furrows. “If you’re going to keep putting words in my mouth, Ashlyn, I’ll eventually take something more filling.” “You two, stop,” Vanille says with a sigh. She shakes her head. “<<else>>shrink a guard—Mira did the actual eating!” “Exactly. I did all the hard work, and she got the reward.” “Do you want her back?” Mira asks, brow furrowed. She’s serious. “Wha—No.” Vanille blurts out. “That’s not the point. None of this is the point. <</if>><</if>>What’s done is done. There’s no reason to fight over it.” A long, weary silence falls over your group, punctuated by deep, recovering breaths—mostly from you—and the agitated tapping of feet. “So, now what?” <<include "ReEnter Crest">><</linkreplace>>

<> [[Offer yourself as collateral|Murder_Offer yourself][$Collateral to "Vanille"]] [[Ask Mira to be collateral|Murder_Offer Mira][$RVVanille --, $RVAshlyn -- $RVSherine --, $RVLloriel --, $Collateral to "Vanille"]] [[Ask Vanille to be collateral|Murder_Offer Vanille][$Collateral to "Vanille"]] [[Ask Ashlyn to be collateral|Murder_Offer Ashlyn][$RVAshlyn ++, $Collateral to "Ashlyn"]] <<if $Collat1 == false>> <<link "Ask Sherine to be collateral">> <<set $Collat1 to true>> <<set $Collat to 1>> <<append "#Collat">><<include "Collateral_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Collateral_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> [[Ask Lloriel to be collateral|Murder_Offer Lloriel][$Collateral to "Lloriel"]] <<if $Collat2 == false>> <<link "Ask Tess to be collateral">> <<set $Collat2 to true>> <<set $Collat to 2>> <<append "#Collat">><<include "Collateral_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Collateral_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Collat1 == false && $Collat2 == false>> [[Fuck their absurd request and demand they let you in|MC Fails an Angery][$RVVanille ++, $Crest2 to true]] <</if>> <>

<<switch $Collat>> <<case 1>> “I- I know this is a weird request, but could you handle this one, Sherine?” “Oh.” She blinks, then gestures casually to the lizard guard. “You want me to eat her?” “N- No.” You swallow the painful, tangled knot in your throat. “I- I’m asking if you could be collateral while w- we talk to the champion.” @@color:yellow;The lamia stares at you with genuine surprise, one eyebrow slowly ascending like a rickety elevator. “<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>Surely being ingested once was more than enough for this little misadventure.<<else>>Is this a joke, <<= $name>>?<</if>>” A slight edge of restraint colors her voice.@@ “Uh- Uhm…” “I can shrink—” Ashlyn starts to ‘helpfully’ offer before Vanille jabs her in the gut. The rest of your companions look between Sherine and the lizard girl with growing skepticism. The guard herself spends a quiet moment sizing up the lamia, but she seems to share their doubts. “I appreciate the confidence,” she says, “but I can’t do much //guarding// if I’m lugging around something three times my size. ‘Sides, not sure I could get all of her down at once.” An odd silence falls across the group as they wait for a new proposal. <<case 2>> “Hey, Tess? Would you mind doing this?” “Who?” the monster girl guard interrupts. “Tess, the—” You huff out a sigh, then gesture to the diminutive lizard girl lingering toward the back of your group. The guard blinks slowly and stares for a long moment before her face //finally// lights up in recognition. “Oh! <<if $xe == "they">>They mean<<else>><<= $Xe>> means<</if>> you, Stub. Since when did you start calling yourself ‘Tess?’” “A- Always?” the monster girl squeaks, nearly inaudible. “Stub’s better.” The rude guard turns her attention back to you. “But anyway, no, that’s the dumbest offer I’ve ever heard.” “Wha—Why?” You turn to your companions for help and find only silent judgment. Realization gradually begins to dawn on you, but Tess spells out the answer anyway. “I’m not one of your traveling companions. I’m only helping you because Ia—because Zalla told me to.” “That doesn’t mean we’d leave you behind,” you protest. “<<if $Lurram == 1>>I, uhh… Even if that’s true,<<else>>Besides,<</if>> I’m not worth much to the clan.” “See? Even the runt gets it.” The lizard belts out a cruel laugh that abruptly flattens into an unamused scowl. “Try again. And actually think about it this time. I’ve got better things to do with my day.” <</switch>>

This is why you’re here; it’s the most useful function you can serve in Havendor. It’s not even self-effacing—it’s just a fact. It’s tactical. You have no idea what challenges lurk within this menacing building, but out of everyone present, you’re gonna be the least useful on the other side of this door. … Or maybe you secretly want to be eaten by a muscled lizard woman. Who can say? You clear your throat. “I’ll do it—” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>“N- No, no,” Vanille stammers as she stumbles forward. @@color:yellow;She glares back at you, molten gold eyes boring a hole through your skull. “No. Ignore <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xes>> confused. Take me instead.”@@ “Vanille…” you start, but the knight doesn’t even look at you. The moment the lizard smirks, you know it’s too late. Vanille’s steered the situation out of your hands. “I, uh, I taste better, anyway,” the knight adds. Dammit, dammit, dammit.<<else>><<set $RVVanille -->>@@color:red;“Absolutely not.” Vanille turns a dire glare on you. Molten fury roils behind her eyes.@@ “But—” She smacks a fist against her palm. “This isn’t up for discussion, <<= $name>>.” She stomps toward the lizard and growls. “Take me. //Now.”//<</if>> <<include "Vanille Collateral Rejoin">>

You hate to do this to her, but… “Mira, would you be okay for a bit if—” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>@@color:yellow;“<<= $name>>, no!” Vanille balks, equal parts mortified and disappointed. “W- Why would you…”@@ “Err, I just thought she’d—” “No, no,” Vanille stammers as she stumbles forward. @@color:yellow;She glares back at you, molten gold eyes boring a hole through your skull. “No. Ignore <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xes>> confused. Take me instead.”@@ “No, wait—” The moment the lizard smirks, you know it’s too late. Vanille’s steered the situation out of your hands. “I, uh, I taste better, anyway,” the knight adds.<<else>><<set $RVVanille -->>@@color:red;“Absolutely not.” Vanille stomps for emphasis, face locked in a defiant scowl.@@ “B- But—” “I said no.” Vanille stares you down with the raging fury of the sun. “If you’re gonna insist, I’ll do it myself.” She marches up to the lizard girl with heavy, defiant strides.<</if>> As the lizard girl sizes up Vanille, the rest of your companions glare you down with naked ire. @@color:red;“Really, <<= $name>>?” Sherine lets out a //tsk// of disapproval. “You were going to make our precious little Mira do the dirty work?”@@ “I- I was gonna ask first—” you look around for any support you can find. @@color:red;Ashlyn shakes her head. “That’s cold, <<if $xe = "he">>bro<<else>>dude<</if>>.”@@ @@color:red;“That does seem a little callous,” adds Lloriel.@@ Wait, //Lloriel?// She’s been with you for, what, three days? Why’s //she// piling on? At the periphery of your vision, you catch Mira glancing between your companions with abject confusion. The demi mutters, //‘I wouldn’t mind…’// “Enough!” Vanille growls. She stamps her foot and holds her fists out for the lizard girl. “Get on with it. Now.” <<include "Vanille Collateral Rejoin">>

<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Slowly, reluctantly, you cast your gaze to Vanille. Her eyes meet your own in quiet, somber understanding as the knight draws a steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “It’s alright.” It really isn’t. <<else>>“Uhm, Vanille…” She winces, then nods solemnly, as if she knew this was coming. A thin smile breaks across her lips as surrender flashes in her golden eyes.<</if>> @@color:yellow;Mira growls out a fierce hiss. She glares at the lizard girl, hurling metaphorical daggers. You watch the demi hop fitfully in place, like a boxer right before a fight. She keeps her weapons sheathed and lips sealed, however.@@ You put a hand on Vanille’s shoulder. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” She nods. “It’ll be okay. Just uh, stay focussed and talk quickly with the chief, alright?” The knight steps forward and holds her arms out for the lizard girl. “Let’s get this over with.” <<include "Vanille Collateral Rejoin">>

“Ashlyn, go be collateral,” you say with just the right amount of venom and sass. @@color:lime;The mage explodes into laughter. She bends double cackling so hard, draws a few nearby eyes, then trails off into a very long and very feigned sigh.@@ <<include "Ashlyn Collateral Rejoin">>

Well, she is at least small and… Compact. Yeah, that’s a polite way to put it. Practically speaking, she’s easy to get down and bring back up. “Lloriel, would you be alright doing this?” The elf stares at you for a moment, face entirely devoid of recognition. “O- Oh!” she suddenly squeaks, wide eyes flitting between you and the guard. “Uhh, I- I can do that for you—Er, for the group.” “Are you sure?” you ask gently. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s okay. I can pick someone else—” “N- No, it’s just, uh…” She steals another furtive glance at the lizard, then lowers her voice. “Are you sure I should be in charge of something so important?” … //‘Important?’// “Uhh… Yeah, of course. We trust you.” <<include "Lloriel Collateral Rejoin">>

This is bullshit. This cocksure lizard is trying to swindle her way into a temporary belly-buddy so her day job is a little less dull. Fuck her. Fuck this town. You’ve had enough. You’re done being pushed around. You stomp forward hard enough to send a spray of mud into the guard’s shin. Ire blooms in reptilian eyes. You match it. Exceed it. “You know what? Fuck off!” you shout. “We’ve already made it past the gate guards and through the entire village! Let. Us. Through!” A silent pall falls around you, a seething, teeming aura of contempt. “‘Made it past’ the others, huh?” the towering lizard girl starts, chewing on the words like stale jerky. “You hear that, Kira? This shrimp thinks that walking into our home is a feat.” //“Srnk.// That just means…” A keen, toothy smile slashes across her reptilian face. Her shadow crawls up your neck as she looms. //“You’re surrounded.”// Grunts of laughter slither through the gathered crowd. Curious, dangerous, hungry eyes all watch, wait for the signal to swarm the fools who walked into their hive. The largest lizard girl, the one smirking above you, takes the first swipe, huge claws grabbing right for your neck. Vanille’s palm smacks into the back of your head, forces your gaze downward. She slams into the warrior with a heavy shoulder. Her swift hand reaches into your bag and grabs a brown shell, then slams it into the lizard girl’s chest. <<linkreplace "Cover your ears">>The entire crowd cries havoc, covers their ears, and generally howls in confused agony. Furious claws dig into the dirt, scramble clumsily after a sprinting Vanille as she drags you along like a ragdoll. Tess takes up the other side, and between the two of them, your flailing feet only hit the ground on every other step. Sherine grabs Ashlyn as the mage falls behind, and Lloriel— The elf runs at the head of your group. She twists for a split second to fire a volley over your head, then darts to where the road intersects. Mira appears from around the corner to shout directions, and your whole party makes a sharp turn around a squat wooden shack. The demi leads the way through narrow alleys and ramshackle roads back to the village gate. Your ears stop ringing. A stampede of thundering feet and raging cries grows at your back. <<if $Crest1 == "bully">>The belligerent guards at the gate<<else>>Two newly assigned guards at the gate<</if>> brace themselves as you rush the last few feet toward freedom. Vanille slams against the left one in a vicious shoulder tackle and sends her careening. On the other side, Tess hops over a swipe of a spear. You, unfortunately, take a hard wooden haft to the ankle before stumbling to the dirt. You kick and yell when something starts dragging you, then realize you’re going in the right direction. Lloriel’s there trying to tug you back onto your feet. You rise on a battered knee and dart over toward— Ashlyn finishes a spell. The gate suddenly lurches, creaks and bends. Thick, veiny branches sprout between the gap, a chaotic lattice of overlapping penises. The wave of chasing lizards hits the wall, but the new growths are enough to keep the teeming mob at bay. Crude saurian weapons don’t appear until you and your entire party are entering the safety of the woods. [[Catch your breath|Raned Out 2]]<</linkreplace>>

<> <<if $Sazelle1 == false>> <<link "“The Clansmeet is important.”">> <<set $Sazelle1 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 1>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle2 == false>> <<link "“Shouldn’t you meet with your allies?”">> <<set $Sazelle2 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 2>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle3 == false>> <<link "“If you don’t attend, the Clansmeet doesn’t happen.”">> <<set $Sazelle3 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 3>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle1 == true && $Sazelle2 == true && $Sazelle3 == true>> [[Uhh…|Sazelle End]] <<else>> <</if>> <>

You run until you can’t hear the angry mob. Just to make sure you’re truly out of range, you keep going until Mira’s satellite ears settle down. Panting, you lean against a huge nearby oak<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>—hopefully, it’s not a dryad—<<else>> <</if>>and nurse your ankle. It’s not bad, probably won’t even bruise. A sense of ease washes over you as the rest of your party recuperates. No injuries across the board. A successful escape. As blood stops pounding in your ears, you realize that whining noise that’s been following you all the way here is Ashlyn’s tittering laughter. “<<= $name>>, what the hell was that? Was that your ‘scary voice?’” “I- I tried to—” @@color:lime;Vanille throws an arm around your shoulder. “<<if $xe == "they">>They weren’t<<else>><<= $Xe>> wasn’t<</if>> gonna just leave one of us as collateral. //This// is why <<= $name>> makes the calls.” The knight thumps your bicep. It hurts, but the look of pride on her face is enough to dull the pain. “<<= $Xes>> the best of us.”@@ <<include "ReEnter Crest">>

Lloriel sighs. “We didn’t get to talk to the champion, and we’re kinda stuck outside now.” <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“It’s alright. We’ll think of a new plan.” The knight gives you a huge, proud grin. “We just have to get the letter to her, right? I’m sure we can come up with something a little more covert this time. Maybe Tess could—” “Er, actually, I have an idea,” you interrupt warily. <<if $Crest_SmugglePlan == false>>It’s not exactly your best plan, but having experienced the lizard village first hand, you have a better idea of how their culture works. They’re proud people who respect few, simple things. Size, prizes, a good meal. If you can make Tess big enough with the right trophy… “Tess and I are gonna go in,” you conclude. Vanille tilts her head. “Like, with a disguise?” “Er, not exactly. She’s gonna smuggle me in<<if $Orrault3 == true>>, like we did in Orrault<</if>>.” @@color:yellow;All the pride drains from Vanille’s face. “Oh.”@@ “It’s our best shot. They recognize her and will let her into her own home, especially if they see her doubling back after running away with us. She can only carry one of us, and…” ‘You’re only putting yourself at risk,’ is what you want to say, but can’t. No, you gotta make this palatable for your party… and then you gotta make yourself palatable for Tess. “I’m confident I can get to Sazelle and deliver the letter. It’ll be easy. Twenty minutes. We’ll be in and out.” Ashlyn and Sherine snicker at your word choice. “Wait,” Tess suddenly blurts out. She holds her arms in front of herself, pantomiming a stomach. Like everyone else in Havendor, she underestimates your approximate size. //“‘Smuggle?’”// “Yeah. If you’re okay with that.”<<if $Orrault3 == true>> Lloriel chokes on a cough. She raises an eyebrow at both you and Mira. “Y- You’ve done that before, <<= $name>>?” You sigh. “It was to get into Orrault. We didn’t have enough money for the toll after we lost all our stuff at a haunted temple.” You pause to bask in the absurdity of the sentence you just muttered. A glance over at Mira finds her licking her lips and jealously glaring at Tess. You shake your head dismissively. “Sorry, a story for another time.”<</if>> Vanille scowls and shakes her head. “I don’t like this.” Mira steps forward, lips curled to a determined frown. “<<= $name>> is right. <<= $Xes>> the best choice.” She plants her feet and stares up at Vanille. “Tess can handle someone like <<= $name>>!” … What does that mean? Mira presses on. “And <<= $xes>> gonna be way better at convincing the chief—” “Champion,” Tess corrects meekly. “Yeah. <<= $name>>’s way better at making friends.” The demi lays a gentle hand on Vanille’s shoulder—bicep. She tries; that’s what counts. “We should trust <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xe>> can do it.” The knight lets out a long, long breath. @@color:yellow;She offers you a brief, thin smile, then turns a dire glare onto Tess. “If there’s so much as a single acid mark on <<= $xir>> clothes…”@@ It’s more than enough to get the lizard girl quaking. “I- I’ll bring <<= $xem>> back. I- I promise.” She shuffles in place, then mutters under her breath, //“You scare me.”// [[Get this over with|Smuggle Rejoin]]<<else>>You’re not exactly happy to have to resort to this, but now that you’ve seen the village first-hand, you’re pretty sure it will work. <<include "Smorgle">><</if>><<else>>“It’s alright. We’ll think of a new plan.” The knight gives you a huge, proud grin. “Or we could come back later and try again after things have calmed down.” It’s not a bad idea to wait for cooler heads to prevail. Then again, you highly doubt the lizard girls are gonna do anything about their cultural belligerence. That seems like a generational trauma, the sort of thing you make small, incremental changes towards addressing over decades. For the foreseeable future, any attempt to parlay will need to be done through your lizard guide. <<if $Crest_SmugglePlan == false>>Huh. ‘Through’ Tess… Having experienced the lizard village first hand, you now have a better idea of how their culture works. They’re a proud people, and what better way to show that pride than with a trophy? Tess wears one around her neck, the strip of crude iron. What if she were to wear a different trophy… perhaps around her middle? A big one, in fact. You sigh. You’re pretty sure that hitching a ride inside Tess would work. <<else>>… Which unfortunately brings you back to the idiotic plan you had about twenty minutes ago to smuggle yourself into the village ‘through’ Tess. It would probably work.<</if>> Hell, you did it two days ago to get into that sappica lounge. Maybe you’re just meant to be a carry-on… Fuck it. Might as well get this over with. <<include "Smorgle">><</if>>

“Tess is gonna smuggle me in,” you say warily. @@color:yellow;All the pride drains recedes from Vanille’s face. “Oh.”@@ “Wait, you mean like…” Tess holds her arms out in front of herself, pantomiming a stomach. Like everyone else in Havendor, she underestimates your approximate size. //“‘Smuggle?’”// “Yeah. If you’re okay with that.” “Uhh…” “It’s our best shot. The guards recognize you and will let you back into your own home without a hassle, especially if they see you doubling back after running away with us. Plus, I assume you can only carry one of us, and…” ‘I’m only putting myself at risk,’ is what you want to say, but can’t. No, you gotta make this palatable for your party… and then you gotta make yourself palatable for Tess. You smile at the rest of your companions. “I’m confident I can get to Sazelle<<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>> and deliver the letter<<else>> and convince her<</if>>. It’ll be easy. Twenty minutes. We’ll be in and out.” Ashlyn and Sherine snicker at your word choice. Vanille scowls and shakes her head. “I don’t like this.” Mira steps forward, lips curled to a determined frown. “<<= $name>> is right. <<= $Xes>> the best choice.” She plants her feet and stares up at Vanille. “Tess can handle someone like <<= $name>>!” … What does that mean? Mira presses on. “And <<= $xes>> gonna be way better at convincing the chief—” “Champion,” Tess corrects meekly. “Yeah. <<= $name>>’s way better at making friends.” The demi lays a gentle hand on Vanille’s shoulder—bicep. She tries; that’s what counts. “We should trust <<= $xem>>. <<= $Xe>> can do it.” The knight lets out a long, long breath. @@color:yellow;She offers you a brief, thin smile, then turns a dire glare onto Tess. “If there’s so much as a single acid mark on <<= $xir>> clothes…”@@ It’s more than enough to get the lizard girl quaking. “I- I’ll bring <<= $xem>> back. I- I promise.” She shuffles in place, then mutters under her breath, //“You scare me.”// [[Get this over with|Smuggle Rejoin]]

You shoot Vanille a final, apologetic glance, draw in a steadying breath, then— Tess’s humid maw engulfs your face. You reflexively lurch away, but she’s already a step ahead of you. Her clawed foot presses along your inner thigh as her hand grabs against the small of your back. Your shoulders pinch together. Lips flare at the base of your neck. The warm veil falls down your biceps. Tess vibrates with excitement, meets each defensive impulse with electric ferocity. She’s trying to hide it, but the lizard is reveling. It’s impossible to ignore while on the receiving end of her utmost attentions. The tips of her fingernails dig just a little into your flesh. Her teeth clamp and press and sting, pitched perfectly in the narrow margin between animalistic gnashing and erotic play. A frantic, wet tongue smears wildly, lapping up every flavor. For the alleged ‘runt’ of the litter, Tess certainly knows what she’s doing. She lifts your whole body up and gulps hard. The lizard grabs both cheeks and crams you down her throat. She bucks and gulps, disgustingly loud from your front-row seat. Elbows hit the bottom of her squishy gut. You slide in helplessly as her jaw clamps around your ankles, face smearing against the slick walls. Tess’s body automatically shoves you into a ball, pushes you all the way to the bottom of her slimy sack then lets you hang there as the last of your legs enter the organ. Arms curl in their signature embrace, the natural state of reflexive possession when one has another living being curled up in their stomach. Your host widens her stance, shifts awkwardly in place as she adjusts to the new weight. A tummy rumble turns into a desperately stifled belch. A foreign hand pushes against your head. You hear a smacking noise and Ashlyn chuckling nearby. “Look at me,” Vanille barks at your host in a tone as serious as a heart attack. “If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I will find you, cut you open, and leave your corpse in a ditch for the ghouls.” “I- I—We’ll be quick,” Tess squeals. A faint, //“You better,”// follows the lizard girl as she turns, sways, then takes her first plodding step. Burden cradled in both hands, Tess waddles her way through the sparse forest back toward the gates. You feel as much as hear each footstep through the mud and packed dirt. The stomach resonates with every muffled thud, shimmies and shakes and sloshes out a wobbling rhythm as she falls into a steady pace. “Are you okay in there?” the timid lizard asks. “Should I carry you higher? Lower?” Every stomach you’ve been in has been cozy and plush, warmly inviting yet thunderously intimidating. The lizard girl’s gut is no different. If anything, the smell is a bit more… sharp. Like rust or blood, almost. But otherwise, she’s as dry as can be. The swaying curtain of flesh is comfortably loose, yet taut enough to swaddle. “Uh, I think I’m fine…” you manage amid the flood of serenity. An awkward silence stretches in the thin space between your skin and hers, broken only by the steady shift of wet flesh and the muted groans of a body in motion, heard from the perspective only a gastric sojourn can provide. “That’s… that’s good,” she finally says, a panicked edge in her trembling voice. “<<if $Lurram >= 3>>Mira and Vanille<<else>>The blonde and the feline<</if>> both threatened me with steel. It was… frightening.” “I’m sorry about that. They’re… protective.” “You’re lucky you’ve got such strong bodyguards.” “I am. I trust them with my life.” You reach out toward what you think is her palm. “And you, too. Thank you for doing this, Tess.” The lizard girl scoffs as she retracts her hand. “I’ve never heard of prey being thankful.” While you’d prefer she didn’t refer to you as ‘prey,’ right to your face, after having eaten you, but you’re not really in a position to argue linguistic semantics with the monster girl. You could probably convince yourself that it’s a sign of respect among various Havendorians cultures. The soft, spongy walls seem to be treating you with dignity, the empty, damp pit impressively clear of anything even remotely acidic, and perhaps Tess means the same. Maybe she’s getting into character, psyching herself up to convince her sisters that this isn’t a ruse— “Oh my god, I called you ‘prey,’” she suddenly blurts out in an embarrassed slurry. “I am so sorry. I- It was instinct. I- I promise I didn’t mean it. I’m definitely not thinking about how nice it feels to have you in there, o- or wishing I could digest you right now. Not at all…” How thoughtful. <<if $Crest1 == "murder">>“Uhh, <<= $name>>?” Tess suddenly whimpers, her nervous tone setting you on edge. “The guards are back.” “What?” “Err, not back. But there’s a new pair of guards at the gate. And they’ve already seen us—I mean, m- me.” “It’s fine,” you assure her. “Just act casual. You’re turning home after a catch. You belong here—” A silencing thump to the head is enough to shut you up. “S- Sorry, we’re almost there. It’d be weird if they saw me talking to my stomach… right?” Who knows? Maybe the lizard girls would find it funny? Publicly taunting your prey would fit pretty damn well with the general trend of saurian belligerence you’ve seen so far. A jolt rattles through the lizard girl’s body. “Oh, y- yes. I’m back.” A smattering of unintelligible words fail to permeate the stomach before she responds, “Hostage? N- No. I was… They needed a guide.” You strain your ears and barely discern a muffled, “… Caught a good-sized meal for yourself…” “Well, I uhh…” Tess’s hand rubs along the top of your head, less pleased than anxious. “They didn’t get rid of me. I… I left! Got tired of them and all they’re, umm… talking.” “Oh, that’s obnoxious,” one of the guards says, clearer than before. She must be close. “Can’t stand idiots like that.”<<else>>“… I’m gonna be quiet until we reach the gate,” Tess whimpers. You can feel the embarrassed heat on her cheeks all the way down in her gut. “It’d, uhh, be weird if they saw me talking to my stomach… right?” <<if $Crest2 == true>>Who knows? Maybe the lizard girls would find it funny? Publicly taunting your prey would fit pretty damn well with the general trend of saurian belligerence you’ve seen so far.<<else>>How should you know? This isn’t your area of expertise. … Who are you kidding, yes it is.<</if>> “Just act casual,” you offer reassuringly. “You’re returning home after a catch. You belong here—” A silencing thump to the head is enough to shut you up. She immediately apologizes. You brace yourself as Tess waddles the last few steps. A jolt rattles through the lizard girl’s body. “Oh, y- yes. I’m back.” You can only guess what she’s responding to, but when you strain your ears, you barely discern the response. “… Caught a good-sized meal for yourself…” “Well, I uhh…” Tess’s hand rubs along the top of your head, less pleased than anxious. “That group I was traveling with—” She falters as one of the guards speaks, though you can’t quite make out the words. “N- No! They didn’t get rid of me. I… I left! Got tired of them and all their, umm… talking.” Definitely could’ve given a more convincing delivery. At least the guards seem to buy it. “… Ate the gibbering idiot…”<</if>> “Y- Yeah. So annoying, I just had to steal a snack for myself after putting up with that.” Another stomach pat, though she’s somehow even less confident than before. It’s more of an awkward slap, like she missed a high five and has no idea what to do next. “J- Just gulped <<= $xem>> right down when the others weren’t looking, then headed back here. <<if $xe == "they">>They were<<else>><<= $Xe>> was<</if>>, erm, r- really tasty! A- And big! Way bigger than a goat. Maybe two goats. A- At least.” … What is Tess doing? Is this a joke, or does she really have no idea how to act like a braggadocious predator? Are you not a good meal?! The lizard girl begins swaying back and forth like a restless pendulum, each fitful swing stronger than the last. “You know how great it is grabbing and eating someone who doesn’t see it coming. E- Especially when they haven’t actually done anything to deserve it. Just makes me wanna, erm… eat them more!” Dear god, why is she still talking? Why are the guards //not// talking? “Chatty soft-skins are just my favorite. So, uh… delicious!” The swaying has become frantic. Every word emerges strained and desperate, like steam escaping from a faulty pipe. “So good and, erm, squirmy. Can’t wait to digest <<= $xem>> down to nothing. Really, uhh, mulch <<= $xem>> up!” Her actually killing you would be preferable to listening to this cringey proclamation. She says ‘mulch’ like she’s a landscaper. Does she expect you to try to escape solely on how much you want to flee this conversation? [[Stop her|Tess1a][$Crest3 to true]] [[Trust she’ll pull through|Tess1b]]

You rush back outside to find only a single lizard casually leaning next to the door. “Where’s the other one?” you demand. The monster girl smirks. “No idea what you’re—” <<if $Collateral != "Vanille">>Vanille crosses the narrow span in the blink of an eye, sword hissing from its sheath and pressing to the lizard girl’s throat. “No games,” the knight growls. “Tell us where she went.” <<else>>Mira’s on the lizard in an instant.<<if $MiraTum <= 1>> The demi scrambles up the startled woman and hooks herself around the thick, scaly neck. The gleam of a dagger presses against the monster girl’s throat.<<else>> The gleam of a dagger presses against the monster girl’s navel.<</if>> <</if>> “Okay, okay. Not gonna get stabbed for someone who left me holding the bag.” The guard throws up her hands, then points toward the narrow street to her right. “Kira said she was heading home. It’s a short walk thataway, just past the forge.” You’re off before the last word leaves the lizard girl’s mouth, before she’s recovered from having a blade held against her, before you’ve even had a chance to figure out which forge she’s talking about. Tess knows the village. Your party darts down the street, turns left when it abruptly ends, then turns right into a narrow alley. You count the seconds in frantic heartbeats, boots thudding against packed dirt and squeezing through patches of mud. How long did you spend in the champions hut? How far could that opportunistic fucker have gone? <<if $Collateral == "Vanille">>You nearly stumble over her on the next turn. The greedy lizard’s ass up in the dirt, groaning and moaning, only semi-conscious. There’s a cartoonish lump forming on her head, and a splintered board on a nearby hut where said head bashed into the wall hard enough to knock the monster girl silly. Her bulbous, writhing stomach sends the lizard flopping about with each furious kick and shove. But try as she might, Vanille can’t squirm entirely free. You, Mira, and Lloriel all clamber onto the incapacitated guard to hold her in place. A slender elven arm plunges down the throat, questing. A purely reflexive gulp from the lizard pulls Lloriel in up to her shoulder. Sherine’s tail wraps around the little elf and anchors her in place, then yanks once she’s grabbed Vanille. A sudden heave and a disgusting //shhlorrrp// sees half the knight extracted. She coughs and sputters in the fresh air, goopy, drippy, spilling onto the dirt. You join the tug-of-war effort and grab her other arm, then pull her hips up and out of the esophagus. The lizard groans. She flails in the first moments of clarity. You kick away her arm the second it gets too close, then fall over as the last of your companion //splops// free. Kira’s stumbling to her feet, eyes wide as she realizes who exactly is stealing her attempted ‘free meal.’ She barely makes it onto her knees before Mira lunges. The little demi takes her prey with a ferocity unmatched. Shoulders pop one after another, //shlurped// into the descending cat girl’s crashing maw. Mira bucks, practically drags herself down the wide torso, tiny fingers digging into the gaps between the lizard’s scales. She heaves the monster further inside in massive waves, gulping and cramming and shoveling every inch through her gullet like she hasn’t eaten in a year. Wet squelches ring out. Flesh rolls, grows to the point of busting. Lips crest scaled thighs. The distended lump jutting from Mira’s <<if $MiraTum >= 3>>already pretty fuckin’ full<else>>inverted<</if>> middle throws fists against the dense walls. Arms and legs curl around the swell and squeeze tight. Mira lets herself fall the rest of the way down while pinning her prize. It works without a hitch. She’s tumbling in the dirt with closed lips a moment later. Mira flops forward, clutching her middle as she tumbles to sitting upright. //“Urp,”// is all she has to say for herself. She can’t even reach her little arms all the way around the furious, writhing mass spilling from her torso, and instead focuses on trying to clench her gut as hard as she can. It does nothing to reduce the nearly-twice-her-size monster girl kicking within. //“Holy shit,”// Ashlyn and Lloriel mutter at the same time. Sherine’s circling around the overfull demi a moment later, bringing Mira up on to her coils like she’s tenderly elevating the body of a fallen hero. “You okay, sweetie?” “Yup!” she cheers without a hint of lethargy or satiety. She props herself upright and pushes her belly forward proudly. Wild pride fills her emerald eyes. “Look, Vanille!” The knight stops wiping stomach goop from her hair just to stare at the demi, utterly thunderstruck. Inscrutable emotion rolls behind those molten eyes as she glances from the demi, to you, to the impression of the lizard who’d just tried to get away with eating her alive. She coughs, shakes her head. It doesn’t work the first time, so Vanille tries again and comes out with an intense, contemplative frown. “Ashlyn, jus—just deal with this. Make sure Mira can move on her own: we need her ready for anything.” She turns to Tess and gestures toward the mouth of the alley. “We’re done here. Lead us out.” [[Check on Mira|Post Vanille Rescue][$MiraEvent10 to true, $MiraTum to 5]]<<elseif $Collateral == "Ashlyn">>As luck would have it, you find Kira around a blind corner, sprawled in a narrow alleyway, arms wrapped around her middle. Her stomach is writhing something fierce; Ashlyn must be putting up one hell of a fight in there, enough that the duplicitous monster girl has ground to a halt. She doesn’t even glance your way until you’re practically on top of her, and when she does all she manages is a hoarse, “Oh gods… //hlrkk.”// “Let her go,” Vanille shouts, sword drawn. The lizard stares at you with an utterly pitiable expression, face green and eyes watering. “I can’t! She’s—” Something black, oily, and //sinuous// spews forth from the monster girl’s maw and splats into the mud. The abomination wriggles and splashes before burrowing out of sight—presumably back to the hell from whence it came. The greedy lizard groans and moans, rapidly losing face. You, Vanille, Mira, and Lloriel all shuffle awkwardly to help the struggling predator, bracing her against the raging fit of coughs and sputters. Lloriel’s the bravest among you and plunges a slender elven arm down the throat, questing. A reflexive gulp from the lizard pulls her in up to her shoulder. Sherine’s tail wraps around the little elf and anchors her in place, then yanks once she’s grabbed onto Ashlyn. A sudden heave and a disgusting //shhlorrrp// sees half the mage extracted from the lizard. She moans lasciviously in the fresh air. You join the tug-of-war effort and grab her other arm, then pull her hips up and out of the esophagus wholesale. “Oh, you’re back,” Ashlyn says simply. “I hadn’t even finished the first experiment.” She dusts her shoulder clean of a glob of dark spittle, but is otherwise, somehow, completely dry. Hell, her clothes are on. What the fuck was she doing in there? You roll your eyes. “What, you wanna go back in?” Ashlyn looks over at the lizard girl still coughing and gagging and rolfing up that horrid substance. The mage’s lips turn to a squiggle. It’s her thinking face. She’s already got her notebook in one hand. She’s actually considering it. [[This bitch…|Ashlyn Retrieval]]<<else>>The twists and turns keep coming. Your mental map of Crest strains, then breaks entirely. What the village lacks in size it makes up for with its disorganized sprawl. Without the omnipresent palisades—and Tess’s guidance—you’d be hopelessly lost. The lizard girl guides you from one narrow street to the next, stopping before no less than half a dozen huts and hovels in the span of a few minutes. Each pause is accompanied by an increasingly agitated sigh before you’re off again at a more frantic clip. “It’s this one,” Tess says, gesturing ahead. “Last hut on the left, I think.” //“‘You think?’”// Vanille echoes, breathless and furious. “I- It’s not like I’ve been there myself,” the lizard manages, casting a <<if $Lurram <= 2>>mildly terrified<<else>>nervous<</if>> glance back toward the knight. Brow furrowed and lips set in a furious scowl, Vanille looks like she’s one more wrong destination away from kicking down doors and letting her sword do the talking. Finally, Tess stops, turns, and points. A thatched roof spills over a broad, ramshackle awning, stray bits of straw scattered before a stoop consisting of a wooden box that looks like it’s one strong kick away from disintegrating into splinters. A slight orange glow peeks from under the door. Vanille stompss toward the threshold. A gloved hand thumps against the door like a clap of thunder, the fragile slab of wood rattling on its hinges. No response. Vanille unleashes a full barrage, fist pounding until you’re all but certain the door is going to crack in two—if not the whole fucking wall, given the way it’s trembling beneath every slam. You scurry forward, fingers instinctively grasping for the spear at your back as a nervous glance finds your clamor is attracting a few wary gazes from nearby townsfolk. Just when the knight’s patience is running its thinnest—when she’s a half-second from hacking her way inside instead of ‘politely’ battering the hut to death—the door //clicks,// then gradually swings inward. A swell of flesh and a smattering of green scales appear first. “Fuck off, I already told you I’m busy mulching this dumb—” The words die as Kira’s face emerges from behind the portal. Her expression contorts to shock, then alarm. “Ah shi—” Vanille’s shoulder slams against the door. The wooden slab connects with the lizard’s face. All three fly into the hut with a shower of splinters and a squeal of bent iron. The greedy lizard tries to scramble upright, but Vanille’s fist lays her low. Her head hits the floor with a dull //thwack,// lolls about limply. Glassy eyes wobble in their sockets like goldfish in a too-small bowl. Vanille pries the lizard’s maw open and plunges her arm straight into the slick gullet. A reflexive gulp from the lizard pulls her in up to her shoulder— Vanille’s elbow //cracks// against the lizard’s skull even harder, knocks her out cold. A thin dribble of blood seeps from the open wound. The knight doesn’t care. She jams a knee into the lizard’s thigh for stability, then heaves. An odd, wet squelch fills the air as the gut shifts, curls in on itself. Another tug, another inch leaning further into the monster girl’s throat— Vanille throws all her weight backward. The maw spews up her shoulder, her arm, and her elf all in one violent expulsion. The knight unfolds the utterly confused elf, then sets her gently on the ground. Lloriel’s coated from blue-haired head to barefoot toe in thick slime. Her clothes are a disheveled mess, tunic plastered to her midriff, trousers riding up to her knees. But otherwise, she seems unharmed. [[Phew|Lloriel Retrieval]]<</if>>

<<set $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter to true>>“Enough,” Sazelle bellows before you can find another argument. “You’ve wasted my time and squandered my patience.” You suppress a frustrated sigh. Is she really this deadset on ignoring the Clansmeet? Sherine catches your eye and shakes her head. The intent is clear: this is a losing battle, and trying to fight it out will only make things worse. You swallow your agitation and what little is left of your pride. “We’re very sorry,” you manage. “We’ll be on our way, then.” “Good.” That’s as much of a dismissal as you’re going to get. <<if $Collateral != false>><<linkreplace "Leave quickly">>“Is Kira still trying her usual routine?” The remark stops you just before you reach the door. You find Sazelle eyeing you with the closest thing you’ve seen to genuine interest since you first entered—which admittedly doesn’t amount to a whole lot. “Uhh, who?” you ask. “Kira,” she reiterates, as if it explains anything. “Looks strong, but she’s an empty-headed pile of slag. You saw her on the way in, unless she abandoned her post. Never should’ve given her such an easy job.” A mote of dread begins to well in the pit of your stomach. “Y- You mean one of your guards?” “It’s…” Sazelle hesitates, hisses out a sigh, then waves a hand. “Nevermind, either it doesn’t matter, or you’ll figure it out soon enough.” You don’t even wait for another dismissal before you’re speed-walking toward the exit. [[Rush outside|Collateral Retrieval]]<</linkreplace>><<else>>[[Leave quickly|No Collateral]]<</if>>

“<<if $Crest1 == "bully">>I’m sorry, Lloriel. You’re my responsibility, and—” The knight fretfully<<else>>S- Sorry about that, Lloriel.” The knight<</if>> wipes her clean like a panicked mother. “Thank you for doing this for us.” “I- I… Yes. You’re welcome?” She shivers. “S- Sorry, I’m still a bit dazed.” The elf spends a moment making herself presentable—or at least as close to presentable as she can achieve while still absolutely drenched. She’s startled from her fussing when Vanille grabs her shoulders and meets her gaze. “You sure you’re okay?” the knight asks, a quiet intensity lingering behind the words. //“Mhm. Mhm.// How’d the meeting go?” “Don’t worry about—” <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“Super good!” Mira cheers. “She was mean and scary. But then she looked at my friend Sable’s letter and agreed to go to the meeting. And then we came back and got you.”<<else>>“Super bad!” Mira cheers. “She kicked us out of her house. And then we came back to get you.”<</if>> “It’s only been a few minutes?” Lloriel murmurs, astonished. Sapphire eyes flit over to the incapacitated lizard. “I couldn’t tell. I think it was too tight in there.” Vanille winces. “Sorry.” She takes the elf by the shoulder and guides her to the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” You follow, only to notice Mira and Sherine lingering toward the back of the group, assessing the dazed lizard girl, weighing their options. The two predators glance toward one another, then back to Vanille who’s already out the front door, and finally share a shrug before following. Apparently Kira gets to live another day. At Vanille’s encouragement, you set a rapid clip for the village gates. It becomes clear each and every monster girl in the village can smell that Lloriel’s been prey. It’s in their flashing eyes, their flaring nostrils, the wet tongues running along their lips as they watch her pass. The sooner you get out of here, the better. Vanille marches on, fingers hovering at the hilt of her sword as the entourage of curious lizards grows in your wake. The presence of your companions keeps them at bay, if only just, and you quickly make it back to a familiar open street lined with forges and carts. The gate’s in sight. You’re nearly there. Only a few dozen more steps and— “Hey, Stub!” You turn, one hand instinctively reaching for the haft of your spear. Dammit, you were so close. But it looks like you’re not getting out of here without one last trials. <<include "Side Quest">>

//“Tess,”// you hiss with grit teeth. //“What the fuck? This is so unconvincing!”// //“S- Sorry, <<= $name>>,”// she mumbles back, though it’s way, way too loud. Her voice doesn’t travel through her body, but rather permeates through the skin of her flesh. You freeze. Shit, can Tess not discreetly throw her speech down her throat? It worked for you and Auri in the sappica lounge back in Khobb. “Are you talking to it?” the guard barks in disbelief. “N- No!” you hostess protests. It doesn’t help that she wraps a pair of protective arms around you. “She totally is! Stub and this stupid lump are up to something.” <<include "Tess2">>

You clench your teeth and bear the pain. You’ve endured worse. Besides, Tess is a native of both Havendor and Lurram. You’re a schmuck who can’t even pull off a fake stomach with a sack of grain. Between the two of you, she’s the expert, and you’re just going to have to put your faith in her. That faith becomes more and more strained by the second as interminable silence stretches between the diminutive lizard girl and the pair of guards. You can feel Tess fidgeting, but no one speaks. Are they just… staring menacingly? “Yeah, no.” The guard huffs out a sigh. “Stub and this stupid lump are up to something.” <<include "Tess2">>

Tess stiffens. “N- No we’re—I’m not.” “Look, it’s not even struggling,” the other guard adds. “<<if $xe == "they">>They are<<else>><<= $Xe>> is<</if>>! <<= $Xes>> just really, ah, weak.” A sudden, unfriendly poke rattles your cage. “Mhm. She’s lying. And here I thought Stub was actually showing some teeth for once. But no, she’s tryin’ to sneak in an outsider.” “Even when she’s on top, she’s takin’ orders,” the other guard jibes. “Pathetic.” The lizard grunts, and Tess jolts, lurching forward in a stumble. “C’mon, we’ll show ya how it’s done.” Your hostess tries to resist, sending your confines bouncing with every struggle and squirm. You brace against slick walls as Tess is hauled away, helpless against the guards’ overwhelming strength. The most she can offer is a feeble, “N- No, wait!” as she’s dragged along. There’s a //thud// as the gate closes. You’re bumped against something hard. Tess kicks as she’s lifted off the ground— You feel yourself falling. A pair of arms shield you from the outside of the stomach, but you hit with a bone-rattling crash regardless. A shared groan slips from you and the lizard girl as she’s yanked up, then pushed back against something unyielding. “Hey, wh- what are you doing!” she manages between grunts and pained hisses. A defensive arm covers the top of your prison as you’re settled. Closed legs. Back straight. Gut on lap. You’re sharing a chair. “You’ll thank us one day,” one of the guards grunts. “Probably.” Tess shuffles and shifts. She seems to have free movement with her arms, but you can’t tell if she’s being bound to the seat with rope or peer pressure. Those damn guards sound close though… “Don’t worry, Stub. We’re just gonna keep ya here until we’re sure you’re actually going through with it.” “Yeah, gotta make sure you digest that whelp. At some point you’re gonna get hungry enough that you can’t stop yourself.” “B- But that could be days,” Tess protests weakly. “That’s up to you.” A rough hand shoves against your shoulder. “‘Sides, not like you’re gonna starve.” “Better get started, Stub,” the guard taunts. “I- I don’t… It’s… I didn’t want to…” “C’mon, rough him up a bit. Show that meat it belongs to you.” A leathery shuffling from beyond penetrates the thin walls of flesh. “Can help things along if you really need it. Few glugs of this, and <<= $xe>>’ll be mush in fifteen minutes” What the fuck does that mean? Do they have some sort of ultra-potent Havendorian digestive supplement? Wait, why are you even asking? Of course they do. This is hell. And what hell would be complete without the raging fires of homeopathically accelerated digestion? “Promise we won’t tell anyone you took the coward’s approach,” the guard jeers. “… Probably.” Tess wavers, a dozen half-formed syllables warbling down her throat. The staccato thunder of her heart hammers in your ears. The groan of an anxious stomach booms, disconcertingly close. The lizard girl shifts, shuffles, but the moment of frozen uncertainty lingers. She’s panicking. [[Lament your ‘horrible’ experience as her prey|Tess2a][$Crest4 ++]] [[Pretend to be her meat and stop moving|Tess2b]]

“Tess!” you squeal in your most pitiful falsetto. “You’ve gotta let me out! It’s already burning in here!” The lizard girl lurches. “I- It is? Ah—Yeah, of course it is! I’ve just been tricking <<= $name.first()>>—err, my food into thinking <<= $xes>> safe!” You press a hand into the wet flesh of her stomach, hoping it makes for a convincing panicked squirm. “How could you? I thought we were gonna sneak inside together. I trusted you!” For added effect, you put your legs into it, hoping you won’t hurt Tess. “Ooh, look at <<= $xem>> go,” the guard jeers. “Love watching them kick. Feels good, right Stub?” “Uh- Yeah. Mhm. The best.” Good enough. “Tess, please!” you cry out. “My friends are gonna notice I’m gone, and then they’ll come back here looking for you.” “Like we’re gonna tell ‘em where she went.” The lizard slaps Tess on the shoulder in what’s probably supposed to be a familiar gesture. From Tess’s flinch, it just winds up hurting. She manages to recover. “R- Right, by the time they figure it out, you’ll be mine.” The lizard punctuates the statement with a firm squeeze, and you dutifully squirm in response. “Yeah, yeah! Turn up the heat. Really mash <<= $xem>> in there!” The guard jeers before smacking you on the head. You don’t even need to play up a reaction—that fucking hurt! “Help that weak stomach of yours along, Stub.” <<include "Tess3">>

You do what you do best and go limp. Entirely boneless. Become one with the tummy. Let yourself slip into a void of weightless suspension, feel the boundaries between you and the outside world blur and slip away, until all that’s left is an all-consuming oneness that— Wait, isn’t this what you’re trying to //avoid// happening? “<<= $name>>?” The whisper’s too loud. When a finger suddenly pokes against a tender spot on your side, you reflexively twitch. “The hell are you doing, Stub?” one of the guards barks. Tess lurches. “Oh! I, uhh… <<= $name.first()>>—err, my food’s already pretty far along. Thought they might’ve already turned to mush.” She’s catching on, but it comes a hair too late. “That ain’t mush,” a lizard jeers. “I just saw ‘em move.” The other belts out a laugh. “Damn, Stub. You’ve never churned something this big before? I didn’t know you were //that// pathetic.” “I- I have,” she murmurs, meekly indignant. Another mocking guffaw. “Nah, you’ll know when it happens. Shape’s totally different. All the edges blur, and there’s this wonderful slosh—nothing more satisfying.” “Not that you’re gonna ever get there at this rate,” the other adds, punctuating the statement with a firm shove. “You gotta do better than that! Help that weak stomach of yours along.” <<include "Tess3">>

Tess starts awkwardly pushing and shoving you around, like you’re a pile of unwanted vegetables on a child’s dinner plate. She grunts and jeers at your expense, but it’s not particularly convincing… She genuinely doesn’t want to hurt you. Maybe Vanille scared her a bit //too// much. You lean into it as best you can, moving your body along with just a bit of added force when she pushes. A tactical kick to what you think is the bladder elicits a reflexive blow from Tess, a solid //thunk// on the shoulder, but she immediately goes back to gingerly prodding afterward. The guards sigh, bored with the display. Tess is doing fine following your lead, but she lacks pizzazz, lacks the expected cruelty of her brethren. You’re gonna have to help her put on a more convincing show. [[Thrash around|Tess3a][$Crest4 ++]] [[Audibly suffer|Tess3b]]

You throw yourself sideways, nearly knock Tess off her chair. The lizard girl yelps and clutches your flank, shoves you back into place forcefully. You use her own motion against her and lurch in the opposite direction. “Hey!” she cries. A forceful shove rams you back into place. Two arms curl to keep you still, but you’re already wriggling yourself out of her grasp. Legs extend, stretch the stomach. She tries to squinch you back into a ball, but you’re already throwing kicks and punches toward the front of her gut. “Woah, there we go!” one of the guards cheers. “Now <<= $xes>> getting it!” “Show ‘em who’s boss, Stub!” “Y- Yeah, that’s right,” Tess says with rising confidence. She elbows you in the skull. “My stomach is much stronger than you! You’re just food now. Sit still, dammit!” You opt not to sit still, partially because you’re finally finding the rhythm with your dance partner, and partially because she’s actually starting to injure you now. Each blow is heavier than the last. She’s bashing and slamming now, driving serious hits at your body. The cushion of flesh between is mercifully protective, but if this gets any worse, you’re gonna have bruises. “Will you just… just give up in there so I can digest you!” Tess grunts, fully enthusiastic now. Another hammer blow to your spine forces you to reposition. She batters and pummels your every move. You’re wearing down, rapidly losing strength and stamina. You cover your head with your arms and go limp in the stomach, curl up into a still little ball to try and wait out the onslaught. Tess gradually catches on, slows her assault. Closed fists turn to open smacks. Blows turn to slaps. She clutches and squeezes; her grip’s changed, the way she holds her stomach is less protective and maternal, more possessive and proud. “Look at that!” one of the guards jeers. She thumps your side. “You must really be broiling ‘em alive in there.” The other one also joins in on the fun of prodding your ragged form. The two bullies mush you up a little further, just to add insult to injury. You grumble and groan in response—genuinely—then cower as the gut rumbles around you. A surprising //urp// pops out of Tess’s throat. Her stomach clenches in the aftermath. The lizards fucking love it. //“Daaamn,// that wasn’t half bad! Look at little Stub! Brings a tear to my eye, it does.” After jabbing twice more without another belch, she pulls back and clicks her tongue. “She’s looking a little rough, though. Guess you can’t expect too much from a hatchling.” “Haha, yeah…” Tess says, laughing with her clanmates. She thumps her fist in her palm to hide the twinge of pain and concern in her tone. “So anyway, now that I’ve beat <<= $xem>> up, can I go?” “Haha. No.” <<include "Tess4">>

“Ah, fu—Hey!” you blurt out between pummels. “That hurts!” A fist falters mid-strike. “S- Sor—I mean, uhh, yeah! Of course it hurts.” “Y- Yeah, but—Oww!” Another pulled punch hits right between your hunched shoulder blades. You’re spine still tingles, but what should be a resonant thud is dulled to a wet //thwack.// You try to sell it with a pitiful, “Please, I think something’s broken.” “I don’t care what happens to my, uh, food,” Tess declares with lacking bravado. She adds a too-gentle shove for good measure. “You’re gonna be slop in a few hours anyway. Why should I care about a few broken bones now?” The words are more or less right, but when she punctuates the statement with little more than another love tap, you start to worry you might be doing //too// good of a job complaining. “I don’t… know how much more I can take,” you wheeze out. “Are you even trying, Stub?” one of the guards grunts out with audible disgust. “That’s your //meal,// not your drinking buddy. If <<= $xes>> able to talk back, you’re not doing your job.” “Unless you like the begging,” the other guard adds, faintly wistful. The first scoffs. “Squirming gets old. The real fun’s beating the fight out of ‘em entirely. Gotta hit harder, like this.” A violent slam rockets into Tess’s stomach and hits you right in the forehead. Stars dance before sightless eyes as the lizard girl bends double, forcing you to compress right along with her. A pair of pained gasps eke from trembling lips. “O- Oww,” Tess eventually groans, faint and muted. “Not so—//urp//—hard.” “Don’t be such a wuss.” The girl slaps her on the shoulder. “Hear that burp? That’s the stuff. Means you’re really churnin’ <<= $xem>> in there. A few more like that and we’ll be talking.” The diminutive lizard girl straightens, then lets out a weak, //ourp.// The stomach flesh wraps tight around your legs for a moment, then eases back to its original dimensions. “L- Like that?” she asks. “Eh, I’ve seen better.” <<include "Tess4">>

Damnit, it looks like you’re going to need something more. Something that really ties the whole ‘being melted alive’ package together, wraps it in a cute little bow, and finally convinces these fucking guards to let Tess go and finish off her meal—err, stop pretending to digest you. Yeah, that’s the goal here. //Doesn’t have to be…// [[Try to get her to belch|Tess4a][$Crest ++]] [[Do you best deathrattle|Tess4b]]

You need to make Tess belch. And not just any, dainty, belch, either. You need //the big one.// The mother of all belches. A climactic, resolute, definitive belch, the kind that can change the heart of a nation. The raucous revelry that perfectly culminates a meal. The kind your grandkids can still hear ringing in the historic distance. The final note, the last thing prey hears before total annihilation. You expand and contract as rapidly as you can, thrusting your arms, legs, knees, shoulders, chest in every which way. A startled Tess resumes the beatdown. Good, she’s helping, rapidly changing the volume inside the stretchy sack. You suck in huge lungfuls of air, then cough and huff and hiss them back out as fast as you can. You do this until you’re light headed. Until you’re about teetering on the edge of blacking out. Until your limbs are exhausted and Tess is hitting you for real. Until… //Hic.// <<linkreplace "No, that’s not it…">>//BWUUOOOORP!!// You gasp as every cubic inch of free space collapses. Walls tighten, flesh wraps, ensorcels and encircles and squinches you into a fetal ball. Everything quivers and quakes in the wake of the monstrosity, Tess’s whole body rattling in the afterglow. She can’t cover it up, can’t hold back the sheer ecstasy booming from deep within. “F- Fuck…” She tries to catch her breath. Her greedy body shares none of the air with you. “I’m so s- sorr—” The guards burst into applause. A standing ovation, if you could actually see them. Or see anything. Even in the lightless pitch, you’re pretty sure your head’s too busy spinning to bother making your eyes work. “That’s the stuff!” “Yeah, let ‘em hear it, Stub!” Against the new tighter confines, you shift. Nothing. You wiggle and lose some more freedom. Less than nothing. You try to claw back a little more space, beg the meaty curtains for an extra gulp of air. Zilch. You’re edging toward suffocation. Slowly but surely you’re gonna drown. Tess’s gut isn’t giving you any quarter. It wants you now. It knows the pure joy of holding someone close in tight, slimy embrace. It’s love. Her belly’s in love with you and it wants to smother you, snuff you out, claim you all for itself now and forever. Your head spins. Your limbs are numb, distant. Perhaps you played the role of meal //too// well… <<if $Crest4 >= 2>><<include "Tess Wins">><<else>><<include "Guards Laugh; Very Mean :(">><</if>><</linkreplace>>

This is an act, a show, and every good performance needs a dramatic sendoff. Your eclectic medley of gastronomical trivia both scientific and fantastical has all been in unknowing preparation for this singular moment. You’ve stayed in so many stomachs, //overstayed// in at least a few of them. You know this. You’ve lived it. You start by setting a baseline: some good, light struggles. You haven’t given up the fight quite yet, but you’ve been in here a while. You’ve only got so much energy to spend, impending digestion be damned. Each push is the tiniest shred weaker than the last. Ever so slowly, you’re waning, fading. “Tess, please,” you call out weakly—sell it with the tone. Wretched. Pleading. “I don’t know… how much longer I can last in here.” “<<= $name>>? B- But I’m not…” Either she gets the memo, or she genuinely believes she’s currently digesting you alive. You’ll take it—you can sort out the emotional trauma later. “It’s—” You pause to sputter out a few wet coughs. “It’s getting… hard to breathe.” Your kicks grow weaker, your shoves limper—definitely all a part of the act, and absolutely //not// related to the fact that you’re genuinely growing wearier by the minute. A few wordless groans escape your lips as you gradually relax your posture, allowing the stomach walls to slowly close in and take their claim. “I…” You’ve done good so far, but now it’s time for the master stroke: the emotional gut-punch that drives it all home. “Tess, I trusted you…” You push a few more times, your weakest and most pathetic yet. A few final gasps, one last, piddling kick, and then a single, full-body shiver. You slump, utterly limp. Silence reigns beyond the stomach walls, thick and heavy. When a delicate finger pokes your head, you don’t respond. “Hmph,” a guard finally grunts. “That’s not how prey’s supposed to go. That was too pitiful, too, uhh… Whad’ya call the opposite of happy?” “Angry?” the other supplies. “No, the other one. The sissy one with the tears. It’s…” She snaps her fingers a few times, then huffs out an agitated breath. “Whatever, not important. Guess I was expecting more squelching noises, a few last-second desperate struggles, a bit of…” “Flare.” “Yeah, that. Where’s the triumphant burp, Stub?” Tess shivers. “I- I, uhh…” “That one loud, really wet gurgle?” “I don’t think—” “How about the irrepressible urge to slap your stomach, really feel that idiot sloshing around?” “Why would I—” “Do you at least feel a tingle between your legs?” “N- No?” “Hey, don’t blame the hatchling,” the other guard counters. “Maybe her stomach’s still too weak for the fancy stuff. We all have to start somewhere, I guess.” A pregnant pause lingers before the first lizard relents. “Yeah I guess. ‘Specially when she’s so scrawny.” <<if $Crest4 >= 2>><<include "Tess Wins">><<else>><<include "Guards Laugh; Very Mean :(">><</if>>

“Well I’ll be damned,” one of the guards blurts out with a booming laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Stub here was an actual predator.” “I- I mean, I ate <<= $xem>>…” “Yeah, whatever. But now you gotta finish ‘em off.” The note of glee in the lizard’s voice sends a chill down your spine, stifling heat be damned. Tess freezes too, hands suddenly clasping tight around you and her stomach in a gesture that hopefully reads as more possessive than protective. “Wh- What do you mean?” she stammers. “You gotta really crush him down. Put <<= $xem>> in his place.” The lizard girl’s arms clench a bit tighter. “I, ah, d- don’t know if that’s—” “Relax, Stub. Just this one last thing and you get to spend the rest of the <<if $Lurram >= 3>>evening<<else>>day<</if>> feeling <<= $xem>> melt away.” A new hand presses against the outside of Tess’s stomach and gives a probing shove. You go limp and allow yourself to be pushed around in your best impression of a liquid—It’s remarkable how naturally that comes to you. “Ah, yeah. Practically mush already. This’ll be easy.” The hand shifts to the side of Tess’s stomach before a second grasps on the opposite. “So what you’re gonna wanna do is take those core muscles, y’know like when you’re doing crunches—you do crunches, right?” You don’t like where this is going. “Y- yeah, of course,” Tess says. “Great, so you take those, tense ‘em nice and tight…” Nope, not one bit. “And pull tight. One big //squeeze.”// The hands press inward for emphasis, but thankfully retreat before the lizard can realize you’re not quite as soupy as you’re pretending to be. In their absence, you’re left with a moment of quiet to contemplate the impending crunch. It’s fine… right? You’ve already survived Tess pummeling you with her fists. How much worse can her abdominals be? The lizard girl trembles. “I, uhh… I don’t know if I—” “You can do it,” one of the guards bellows. “Look, it’s just like this.” You hear the leather and metal armor creak even through the stomach walls. “Your turn.” “O- Okay,” Tess manages, quiet and nervous. The stomach tenses. Every instinct screams for you to brace, to lock your arms and legs tight and try to hold out. But you force yourself to remain limp and pliable, a perfectly plausible partially digested <<= $name>>. All at once, the walls close in. Flesh and muscle seize like a vice, clamp against skin and cloth, bear down with a weight utterly disproportionate to the modest stature of your lizard hostess. Wet folds press tight against your face until all you can feel is slick heat. Muscle envelops your ears, blots out all but the pounding of your own heart thrumming inside your head. The pressure builds and builds. Pains and aches spring from a thousand joints, ooze through weary limbs, stir panic in your rapidly asphyxiating mind. She’s strong. Too-strong. How-the-fuck-is-she-so-strong levels of strong. All at once, the mystery of Havendorians digesting metal is solved: they just pulverize it into oblivion. This is a stomach that could crush cinder blocks, solid slabs of concrete. Rebar and all, smashed into a point singularity. You’re a hell of a lot frailer than rebar. The compressing stomach squeezes a thin gasp from your lungs, the last trace of air. You can feel yourself waning, a thinning slice of awareness in the encroaching void. You grit your teeth, steel your resolve, rage against a force so far beyond yourself it’s difficult to comprehend. It’s a hopeless battle. You only pray Tess succeeds—and that there’s enough of you to bother letting out in the aftermath. [[Fade away…|Being Tess]]

A prodding finger presses through the fleshy veil to jab you in the thigh. “Ah yeah, still solid. Betcha they’re just faking it again.” You hear a definitive //pop,// the uncorking of a waterskin. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about, Stub. We all gotta start somewhere.” Tess shifts in the chair, recoiling and flinching away from the approaching amateur pharmacist. “N- No, wai//—gulg—”// Brackish liquid plashes down the yielding throat. The stomach instantly bubbles. Acids start flooding in. Fuck! You press your palm to the funnel above, desperate to stop the flow. More of the nasty shit oozes between your fingers. Tess gags and gurgles. You can feel her entire body fighting around you, failing to repel her aggressors. Reflexive swallows force more of the bubbling concoction into the gut. Every ounce of the stuff turns into a wave of acid, sends the stomach into overdrive. Desperate, you press your lips to the source, try to cut it off. You’re coughing and gagging and gripping your throat a second later. It burns, inside and out, tastes fucking awful. You can’t keep any of it down, instead hacking more of the glop into the rising typhoon. Stomach slop gnaws at your flesh, burns through your clothes in an instant. Course waves rip and tear, dissolve the flimsy barrier between you and the raging gut. You thrash in abject terror. The pain is cold and deep, like icicles being driven into your veins. You’re bubbling, fizzing, being churned up. Fingers still pressed over Tess’s lips, the guard laughs at your misfortune. A callous hand presses from above, dunks your flailing head into the acid bath like it’s a game. “Yeah, yeah, now you’re doing it right.” A heavy slap to the stomach is lost amid the inner cacophony. “Look at how much she’s rounding out.” “Did you give her too much?” “Nah, she needs the help.” Tess finally shoves the other woman away. Your hostess scrambles to her feet and bends forward, preparing to heave, to vomit, but the lurch never comes. An arm clutches the bottom of her dangling, swaying gut. A low churring noise spills from her lips, and she plops her ass back down. //“Hoo…// damn,” she moans as the predatory high overrides her faculties. Scaled fingers draw lazy circuits around your frantic, flailing bulges. “This is—//hoourrrp//—this feels amazing…” “Right?” the lizard boasts. “I told you you’d be thanking us.” “Tess!” you screech before your vocal chords give out entirely. “S- Sorry, <<= $name>>. I don’t… I don’t think I can let you go now.” She restrains an ecstatic quiver. “You sh… should stay in there… and melt for me.” “… You two have fun,” is the last you hear from the guards. A door shuts somewhere beyond the churn. Tess simply sits there, alone, squandering the chance to release you. You try to kick and demand her attention, but she’s too lost in the revel to do anything but enjoy the ride. Gentle arms sweep across the expanse of flesh, delighted by every little agonized twitch as you burn just beneath the surface. She gasps and groans in utter euphoria as your movements slow, as the last efforts of your distant, dissolving limbs give out and you’re forced to simply sit helplessly and stew in your fate. Toned arms squeeze playfully overhead, taunting with their strength. She could crush you up and put you out of your misery. It wouldn’t take much to mercifully snuff you out, but doing so would mean cutting her own euphoria short, and the hedonism of Havendorians knows no such bounds. Seconds stretch to minutes as you’re gurgled up at Tess’s pleasure. Her gut’s already pumping the liquid slurry into her lower digestive tract. Her whole body relishes the task of assimilating you while you’re still alive, piece by piece, chunk by chunk. She burps and moans, lays back and delights in smoothing out the lump in her middle, in pushing you into the perfect post-meal bulge. <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathLizards ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>><<set $deathTess ++>><<set $Crest3 to false>><<set $Crest4 to 0>>[[Melt away…|Death 02.05.02]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Y’know, I really thought you’d pull through. This is just about as ‘in your wheelhouse’ as a challenge can get. A real home-field advantage. Sitting around like a lump of meat. Pretending to be dying and-slash-or dead. Being as useless as humanly possible. Just a normal day, right? Oh well. Better luck next time. <<case 2>> Yeah, yeah. I know that was mean, but that’s no reason to get yourself killed just to receive an apology. First, you’re not getting one. And second, you’re placing a //whole// lot of faith in this ‘returning from the grave like nothing happened’ deal. What if you just didn’t come back? What if you threw yourself into the void and then just… remained dead. Ever thought about that? <<case 3>> Well, you clearly aren’t all that terrified of the specter of death, ‘cause here you are. Again. You’re not //actually// confused on what you need to do, are you? I know I already said it, but this should be pretty easy for you. You know this stuff. You’ve //lived// it. Now get back out there, and show them what you’re made of. Meat, by the way. You’re made of meat, and apparently it’s very tasty. <<default>> The pep talk failed. I’m out of ideas. This one’s on you. <</switch>> <<if $FootWorld == true>>[[Return|Footworld1][$FootWorld to false]]<<else>>[[Return|Smuggle Rejoin]]<</if>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>A soft murmur lulls you from the torpor of unconsciousness, a steady and rhythmic incantation that hums through flesh and bone, buzzes in your skull. //“... Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead—”// Tess flinches as you shift and groan. “Oh! <<= $name>>, are you okay in there?” You wheeze. “Yup. I’m fine…” “Phew. Good. We’re clear now, uh… You were really acting like I’d crushed you with that clench.” Haha, yeah. Acting… You slowly come to, letting the rest of your senses try to fill in the gap amid the humid darkness. Sight’s shot, obviously. The stomach’s still free of acid, though you think you can catch the occasional whiff of fear—you’re pretty sure it’s Tess’s. Your curled, stiff limbs and achy body remains suspended in the fleshy sack, swaying as your hostess moves. Aside from the nervous hum above, the world beyond can only be heard in muffled bursts. Hushed, chattering lizards. Thumping manual labor. A rhythmic, metallic //clanging.//<<if $Lurram_Dryads == false>> You sure wish you could witness some of this place for yourself. You’d love to be able to see the forges in action, get a sense of what Tess’s people are like—though if the gate guards were any indication, these lizard girls are crude and unfriendly.<</if>> <<if $Crest3 == false>>You spend a minute stewing in silence before a contrite urge finally overwhelms your embarrassment. “So, uhm… Sorry. A- About not trusting you back there. With the lizards, and the gate, and all that.” “Oh, no! I- It’s, ah…” Fingers absently run along your sides as Tess fidgets. “I don’t blame you. I’m not the most convincing predator.” “Yeah, but still… I nearly got us in trouble.” The lizard girl shakes her head vigorously enough that her whole body sways. “It’s fine. I’m just glad we’re both okay.” “Me too.”<<else>>A sudden tap against your side draws your attention. “Sorry, <<= $name>>,” Tess murmurs. “For what?” “Getting caught at the gate like that.” She fidgets, fingers absently running along your sides. “I guess I’m not the most convincing predator.” “It’s fine,” you offer. “Everything worked out in the end. I’m just glad we’re both okay.” “Y- Yeah!” she chirps, a slight spring coming to her step. “Me too.”<</if>> Your hostess weaves, sways, and scurries her way toward the village center. She’s remarkably lithe, even when lugging around a whole extra person’s weight. Her predatory awkwardness must not extend to hampered mobility. “So…” you begin, trying not to sound like a tease. “How many people have you actually eaten, Tess?” “T- Tons! Plenty!” She hesitates. “… A few, at least.” “Tess, you don’t have to prove anything to me.” She sighs. “S- Sorry. I usually have to lie and brag to be taken seriously, or—well, you heard how my sisters were. I- I’ve eaten lots of animals, but you’re probably the biggest thing I’ve ever had. Everyone else takes the good meals for themselves—Erm, uh, not that you’re bad. Actually…” She clutches her gut, pulls you in tight. “I’m pretty proud I got you down so well. <<if $Lurram >= 2>>Mira<<else>>Your feline friend<</if>> was right: you’re really good at this.” Having no idea how else to respond, you offer a polite and cheerful, “Thank you. I think you’re doing a great job.” When the silence grows awkward, you add, “Are we almost there?” Tess jolts, apologizes, then picks up the pace. She scurries across her village with you in tow, each urgent step knocking you back and forth. Abs expand and contract. She belches slightly as the world dims. She’s standing in the shade, to clarify. You’re not blacking out again. Hopefully. [[Hang in there|Tess Collat]]<</timed>>

<<if $Crest2 == true && $VanilleEvent8 == false>>“Hey, Stub’s back!” a sudden voice jeers in a not-so-thinly demeaning way. “And she’s fat with prey. That’s unexpected.” Another voice—you recognize it as the gate guard from outside the champion’s hut who demanded collateral—calls out, “I thought you were those soft-skins’ captive.” “No, I just tricked them until I could pick one of them off.” Tess says with a hearty slap to the gut. The organ resonates and rings with pride. “That shows some serious teeth.” The lizard snorts out a derisive laugh. “A few more meals like that and maybe you’ll grow up big and strong.” “I- I’m an adult—” Tess stops herself. She shrugs. “Whatever. Anyway, uh, I- I learned something important from the outsiders. I need to speak to Champion Sazelle.” “Woah-ho, one good meal and suddenly Stub thinks gossip is important.” The guard pauses, but when Tess doesn’t back down, she adds, “You sure you wanna go in there right now? She’s in a mood.” //“… needs to get laid…”// is all you can hear from the other lizard. The two gaurdswomen share a laugh. Your host shuffles uncomfortably in place before one of the guards says, “Head on through, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”<<else>>“Hey, it’s Stub!” a sudden voice jeers in a not-so-thinly demeaning way. “And she’s fat with prey. That’s unexpected.” “I’m surprised she’s alive. I’d heard she’d been eaten by a frog.” “No, no, that wasn’t her. Stub was swallowed by a muskrat girl.” “Uh,” Tess says, clearing her throat. “Actually, I’m right here, and //I’m// the one who got a meal.” Tess says with a hearty slap to the gut. The organ resonates and rings with pride. “A big, meaty, soft-skin.” “That shows some serious teeth.” The lizard snorts out a derisive laugh. “A few more meals like that and maybe you’ll grow up big and strong.” “I- I’m an adult—” Tess stops herself. She shrugs. “Whatever. Anyway, uh, I- I learned something important while hunting, and I need to speak to Champion Sazelle.” “Woah-ho, one good meal and suddenly Stub thinks she’s important now.” The guard pauses, but when Tess doesn’t back down, she adds, “You sure you wanna go in there right now? She’s in a mood.” //“… needs to get laid…”// is all you can hear from the other lizard. The two gaurdswomen share a laugh. Your host shuffles uncomfortably in place before one of the guards says, “Head on through, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”<</if>> [[Head inside—Er, well, wait for Tess to head inside|Smuggle Sazelle Convo]]

As Tess navigates the chieftain’s dwelling with confident strides, you can feel the heat rising like you’re being carried into a hot spring or sauna. You sit in the stomach like a good meal as a murmured voice fails to permeate the gut. “O- Oh, right! No, I actually, umm…” //“Tess?”// you whisper and nudge, gently drawing her attention. //“Is that her? Do you want me to—”// A petulant grumble is the only warning the organ gives before violently rejecting you wholesale. You’re pushed up through a too-tight tube in a geyser of absurd muscular action, then coughed out without a second thought. You spill face-first into a world of dry, oppressive heat. Flames leap between two massive braziers on the far side of the room, cast the windowless chamber in myriad, disorienting shadows. Scant scraps of wood poke from beneath haphazard strands and swaths of red cloth, some tied firmly in place, others left to gently sway like strips of muscle and tissue. It’s… shockingly similar to your previous confines. More spacious, perhaps. And much more of a fire hazard. Oh, and there’s a fearsome lizard girl staring at you, thoroughly bemused. A solitary lizard sits upon the throne. She’s not the hulking behemoth you pictured: a massive, muscled tyrant ruling over the brutish lizard girls, beating and eating any would-be usurpers into submission. Yet you’re certain she could throw you through a wall without a second thought. Toned arms rest atop amputated branches, muscles rippling with each clench of clawed fingers upon scarred wood. A thick tail lies draped over the edge of the throne, flicking occasionally, dark green scales catching the firelight. Behind her, an entire set of spit-polished platemail stands on a wooden rack. The only metal on her person is a striking collection of iron chips dangling from a loop of coarse twine around her neck. It gives the impression of a tooth necklace owned by a trophy hunter rather than a piece of fine jewelry. “It’s been a year. I told you all to stop bringing ‘gifts’—That’s a person.” The lizard chief leans back on a throne that looks like someone tore a tree apart with their bare hands, then assembled the pieces into a crude approximation of a chair. And it looks just about as comfortable. “Congratulations on your first hunt, Tess.” “Er, no, <<= $xes>>—” You immediately prostrate yourself in front of the Lizard Champion. “Champion Sazelle,” you start, hoping all the stomach goo really ties the ‘humble peasant’ look together, “I bring a word from Walst-on-High—” The monster-in-chief slams her first against her throne. Wood splinters and cracks. “Unbelievable,” she grunts. “That old hag is getting desperate with her messengers; I didn’t expect something //this// fucking stupid.” You gesture awkwardly to Tess and yourself. “Er, no this circumstance isn’t about—” “You’re here to summon me for a Clansmeet, right?” Sazelle snarls. “After the last fell through.” “N- Not ‘summon,’ more… invite very politely.” “The answer is no.” A silent pall falls across the room. The lizard leader pries a bladed weapon from her wall and inspects it, running a finger along the edge and giving a slight grunt of satisfaction. You wait a moment longer, just to make sure you’re being well and truly ignored, that she isn’t just being dramatic, then try again. “If you just let me try to explain—” The glaive thumps against the floor. It takes every ounce of resolve to not jump. “I’m not interested in hearing you dither and whine,” she growls. “Make your case, and make it quick.” <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>> After a moment’s consideration, you reach for Sable’s gift<<if $Swamp2 == true>>, hoping your quick intrusion into the dryad’s privacy didn’t leave any evidence—and that she was right about being able to convince her apparent… partner?<<else>>, hoping the dryad was right about being able to convince the champion<</if>>. The moment the scroll leaves your bag, Sazelle leaps from her chair and crosses the room in the blink of an eye. The carefully wrapped sylvan bundle vanishes from your hand. The glaive clatters to the floor, abandoned and forgotten as the lizard thumps back down on her throne, her tail scything through the air in fitful arcs. Fingers grasp at leafy parchment and pull at woven vine, a mixture of impatient eagerness and delicate reverence. The lizard unrolls the scroll, eyes darting back and forth. She makes it three or four lines down<<if $Swamp2 == true>>—about as far as you dared to read—<<else>> <</if>>and suddenly folds the message closed, a vibrant scarlet blooming upon her cheeks. “I’ll attend.”<<set $Lurram_Lizards to true>> You blink, slow and baffled. “What?” “Tell Ialise I will attend the Clansmeet,” Sazelle states. “We will arrive by sunset. No later.” Her gaze flickers between you and the scroll clasped tight in her hands. “You can leave now.” <<if $Swamp2 == true>>Well damn. What sort of relationship do these two have? And more importantly, how absolutely fucked are you if the Champion of the Lizards ever learns you peaked into her mail? “I, uhh… R- Right,” you manage, resolving that you’ll burn that bridge when you come to it. “Err, thanks.”<<else>>“I, uhh… R- Right,” you manage. “Err, thanks.”<</if>> [[Leave quickly|Back Into Tess]]<<else>><<include "Sazelle_Ask1">><</if>>

<> <<if $Sazelle1 == false>> <<link "“The Clansmeet is important.”">> <<set $Sazelle1 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 1>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher1">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle2 == false>> <<link "“Shouldn’t you meet with your allies?”">> <<set $Sazelle2 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 2>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher1">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle3 == false>> <<link "“If you don’t attend, the Clansmeet doesn’t happen.”">> <<set $Sazelle3 to true>> <<set $Sazelle to 3>> <<append "#Sazelle">><<include "Sazelle_Switcher1">><</append>> <<replace "#Ask">><<include "Sazelle_Ask1">><</replace>> <</link>> <</if>> <<if $Sazelle1 == true && $Sazelle2 == true && $Sazelle3 == true>> [[Uhh…|Smuggle_Sazelle End]] <<else>> <</if>> <>

<<switch $Sazelle>> <<case 1>> “The Clansmeet is important,” you say. “For you, and for Lurram.” Sazelle frowns. “Is it?” “Of course. Why else would Walst call for it?” “Because they are idiots who worry and fuss over every slight inconvenience,” she supplies. “Lording over a Clansmeet is the only power those harpies hold. They are delusional enough to believe that polite, amicable words alone will keep our blades from each other’s throats.” It’s your turn to frown. “So you think it’s just a waste of time?” “Unless you can prove me wrong.” Something like a smirk settles on the champion’s features. “Do //you// know what this Clansmeet is for?” “I, uhh…” You huff out a frustrated sigh. “Not really, no.” Sazelle grunts and settles back in her chair, then adds, “If it’s really so important, //Priestess// Ialise is free to come and tell me herself. I’ve been craving heron.” <<case 2>> “Shouldn’t you meet with your allies?” //“Allies?”// Sazelle scoffs. “Should I consider the treacherous frogs or single-minded dryads my ‘allies?’” “Err… neighbors, then?” “Competitors,” the lizard spits. “Enemies in all but name, no matter how many Clansmeets the harpies call. Trading empty niceties is a fool’s game that only serves to buy time for the weak. My clan does need such a handicap.” “So you just want to fight everyone forever instead?” “I want my clan to grow and thrive.” The metal of Sazelle’s glaive taps against a gnarled branch. “Right now, fighting is the best way to achieve that. You and Walst have not offered a compelling alternative.” <<case 3>> “If you don’t attend, the Clansmeet doesn’t happen,” you explain. The champion stares at you for a long moment. Finally, she tilts her head and asks, “If two weaklings are drowning in the water, am I expected to throw myself in and try to save them?” “If you can, probably yeah,” you say, mildly baffled. “Why take the risk for someone else’s mistake? Kindness? Pity?” Sazelle shakes her head. “Should I bear my throat for their benefit, then feign surprise when they tear it out?” “That seems… harsh,” you say.<<if $Lurram >= 2>> “From what we’ve seen, the other clans seem pretty reasonable.”<</if>> “And you seem naive.” She runs a clawed finger along the haft of her glaive. “You should leave Lurram while you still can, consider yourself lucky the swamp hasn’t claimed you.” <</switch>>

You make it about half a step before realizing you’re forgetting about your ride. You turn to ask Tess if she’ll validate your parking— The lizard girl is already eating you face first, just as eagerly as last time. She gobbles and gulps and swallows you down faster than before as if she’s somehow leveled up in the last twenty minutes. Hips and knees and feet tumble down her throat. The warm sack below is ready for you to flop and curl within. The predator lets out an appropriately proud burp all on her own. They grow up so fast. You hear Sazelle’s muffled voice through the stomach walls as you settle in. Your host freezes. “Tess… do what that old priestess tells you…” You can’t quite tell the champion’s tone amid the rampant, excited squelching of Tess’s stomach. It’s happy to see you again, but you really need it to shut the fuck up right now. “I- I’m sorry, Champion. She’s… she’s nice to me, so I don’t mind.” An odd silence hangs in the air. Tess shifts nervously, entirely unsure what to do with her hands; she’s torn between wanting to snuggle and smother and playfully squeeze the hell out of you, and wanting to be polite in front of her boss. “… When you’re done, there’s something important… new maps of Lurram’s border…” The stomach bounces up and down excitedly. “O- Of course! It would be my privilege. Th- Thank you.” Sazelle’s grunt ends the conversation. Tess is walking off with you in tow, a light spring in her step. [[Be smuggled out of the village|Smuggle_Sidequest]]

<<set $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter to true>>“Enough,” Sazelle bellows before you can find another argument. “You’ve wasted my time and squandered my patience.” You suppress a frustrated sigh. Sazelle’s made it clear: this is a losing battle, and trying to fight it out will only make things worse. You swallow your agitation and what little is left of your pride. “I’m very sorry,” you manage. “I’ll be on my way, then.” “Good.” That’s as much of a dismissal as you’re going to get. [[Leave|Back Into Tess]]

The slight thud of a door and the muffled hum of Crest signal your exit from the champion’s hut. You bob down a set of stairs, then resume the steady sway of a purposeful walk as your hostess presumably charts a course back to the town gates. <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“Glad that worked out,” Tess chirps merrily. She pats her belly happily, as if to congratulate you. “Yeah, I… I didn’t really do anything.” You chuckle, rueful. Convincing Sazelle to attend was shockingly simple—not accounting for the ridiculous series of events that needed to occur to get you to the champion. In fact, part of you feels kinda guilty for not heeding Vanille’s advice earlier: this //was// excessively dangerous. Tess and you managed to lie your way through the gate, but it was a much closer call than you’d like to admit. “Maybe you could have delivered the letter all on your own,” you say. Tess churs. “B- But then we couldn’t have done this together. And this is… fun.<<else>>“Sorry that didn’t go well,” Tess chirps merrily. You frown at the tone. “Uhh, yeah. I didn’t expect her to be that, erm… stubborn?” “She didn’t eat either of us, so that’s a win.” “W- Wait, you were worried about that?” “Uhm…” Tess shuffles a bit, stomach lurching in a lazy arc. “Well, for you more than me. She can be a little, ah, terse when getting bad news. And no one’s safe. Not even our strongest warriors.” A pensive finger taps against your shoulder before she adds, //“Especially// our strongest, now that I think about it.” “Removing any potential competition before they get too uppity?” “That’s what the big ones always say, yeah.” Why worry about political maneuvering when there’s lunch on the line? “What does Sazelle say?” Tess hums for a moment, then squeezes her gut. //“Urrp.”// Immensely amused by her own joke, Tess pets your head and giggles. “Though, I have a new theory: the toughest people look the tastiest.” You choke out a sputtering laugh. “Guess I must taste fucking awful, then.” “No, no! Not at all.” The lizard girl clutches her stomach a tad //too// tight. “You were delicious—//are// delicious.<</if>> Oh, hey! How are you?” she says, suddenly breaking off her conversation with you to greet one of her sisters out in the real world. You don’t catch much of it, but get the sense that one of Tess’s peers is immensely jealous. A moment of chatter and a hearty slap on the gut, and Tess is on her way once more. She belches lightly, then apologizes. “Is it bad?” you ask, blunt. “Hmm?” Her tone is distant, pleased. Hands absently stroke the swell of her stomach, fingers daintily tracing your contours through the veil of flesh, idle explorations punctuated by an occasional, happy pat-pat. “The urge to digest me.” “What! No…” She lets the syllable hang for exactly the right amount of time for you to start worrying, then adds, “I… I, uh… You’re sort of a status symbol right now?” She waves to another passerby. The heavy stomps lead you to believe it’s a much larger woman. “Everyone’s being nice to me, so you’re staying put—Er, at least until—” “Stub! Hey, Stub, is that you?” You can hear the voice plain as day, stomach walls be damned. It’s a loud and resonant alto, the kind that could shout over a roaring crowd and cow even the most belligerent heckler in an instant. “Stub, hey!” the voice booms again, stomping close. A jangle of metal and bone //ting-tingling// accompanies each footfall. “Finally found you. Didn’t recognize you with this.” A huge finger pokes your spine. “Yup!” Tess says proudly, jutting you forward. “Got it all for myself!” “Well I’ll be damned!” The new arrival belts out a merry laugh. “Knew you had it in you, Stub. Guess I’ll need to ask for a favor elsewhere.” “N- No! I can help. Wh- What do you need, Dax?” Tess asks in the shadow of the larger lizard girl. “I’ve been, uhh, a little busy today, but I can make time.” “Oh, it’s nothing major.” Dax makes some sort of gesture that sets her ornaments jingling anew. “You were out on patrol yesterday, right? Any idea where Maisy ran off to?” “Oh, uhh…” Tess shrinks slightly, disarming her boastful stance. “She got eaten… by a frog.” “Well that was rude of her.” Dax lets out a weary sigh. “I really needed her to cover my shift tomorrow morning. Got plans for the afternoon, and wouldn’t want some measly guard duty getting in the way.” She hesitates. “Hey, maybe you’d be up for it? Could probably convince Sazelle to let you take a watch now that you’re a proper huntress and all that.” “O- Oh, I don’t know if I—” “Relax, I’m kidding.” Dax claps Tess on the shoulder, the simple gesture reverberating through your spine like canonfire. <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>“I was actually at Tolun’Moa earlier,” Tess admits, though you’re not sure if she’s proud or ashamed. “I didn’t see Maisy—er well, the frog that ate her…” Dax hums. “Well, if you happen to find yourself out west again, maybe you could check in on her, see if she’s still in one piece.”<<else>>“I… I’m actually supposed to go to Tolun’Moa today—Uh, Sazelle asked me bring a message to their chief.” You smile, impressed by Tess’s quick thinking. “Awfully long trip for such a big stomach.” The lizard chuckles. “Guess you’re the kind of gal who likes to walk off a meal, huh?” “Something like that,” Tess says sheepishly. “Well, it’d be great if you could check in on Maisy while you’re at it, see if she’s still in one piece.”<</if>> Tess shifts, a sudden tinge of nervousness in her step. “She was eaten yesterday. She’s probably not—” Tess stifles the protest with a sigh and surrenders to a weary nod. “I’ll try to find Maisy.” “Attagirl.” Good deed delegated for the day, Dax takes her leave. Tess resumes her strut toward the gates. “Friend of yours?” you eventually murmur with a slight push to draw your hostess’s attention. “Dax is, uhh… She’s one of the better ones. I don’t mind doing stuff for her most of the time. Dax actually compensates me for my work, and she and the champion usually have me do tasks that I’m good at.” “Like looking for this, uhm, Maisy?” This is your way of silently asking, //‘Hey, you were telling the truth back there, right? My companions didn’t eat your friend yesterday… right?’// <<if $Lurram >= 2>>Tess almost freezes in place, then shakes herself from a moment of confusion. “Gah, right. I forgot for a moment that I’m traveling with you and your group and that you’re all like, weirdly considerate of me. Being back home distracted me, sorry.” She quietly adds, //“And having you in there isn’t making it any less confusing…”// Before you have a chance to ask her to elaborate, she continues. <<else>>A long moment of silence stretches between you, Tess, and the stomach wall that divides you. “Tess, do you think we should go look for her?” “Why are you asking me?” she finally murmurs, wary. “You know more about Lurram and its clans than I do.” “I- I do.” Fingers absently tap-tap along your shoulder blades and provoke a slight, involuntary shiver. “… And I want your input.” The nervous drumming stops. The stomach rises, then falls with a deep, cleansing breath. When Tess speaks again, there’s an optimistic glint behind the words. <</if>>“I uh, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check…” A slow hug curls up around you. “I, uh… Thank you for trying to help me.” “Of course,” you cheer. “We’re allies.” You opt to let Tess enjoy her newfound clout in Crest while you mentally register the potential rescue. It might not be too far out of your way <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>to return to Talun’Moa and ask around<<else>>to look around when you visit the frog’s village<</if>>, but you highly doubt there’s gonna be much of the lizard left. Tess’s right: it’s been over a day. But hey, if it’s a way you could repay your guide, it might be worth a try. Tess’s tender ministrations turn to a solid thump. //“<<= $name>>, go limp,”// she murmurs, an edge of concern in her voice. “Where you goin’, Stub?” a familiar, antagonizing voice calls out. It’s the fucking gate guard who tried to get you murdered earlier. Tess merrily slaps her gut. “I’m hungry! Getting seconds.” “Yeah, girl! Show those soft-skins who’s boss!” You release the hitched breath at the same time Tess does. Your lizard hostess waves back nonchalantly, then swaggers away from Crest. [[Glad that’s over|Smuggle Out of Crest]]

You say your bittersweet farewells to Tess’s stomach as the two of you share one last jaunt over packed dirt and squelching mud. You can already feel the muscles clenching as the lizard girl braces herself, ready to bring you back up the moment she’s out of sight. As much as you’re looking forward to the opportunity to stretch your legs, you silently hope the lizard girl is a bit more gentle— //Hllurrrk!// You’re barely back on your knees when Ashlyn opens her mouth and blasts you with a frigid geyser of water, then with a hot stream of dry air that smells suspiciously like her insides. You blink at her in utter confusion. The mage shrugs over her shoulder at Vanille. “It was part of the deal. I tried to offer her copious amounts of alcohol instead…” Sherine watches you regain your bearings. “There… may have been some bargaining in your absence. Vanille was… //spirited// about expressing her frustration.” “We had to restrain her! Twice!” Mira cheers, and you can immediately see why. Vanille’s standing a foot from Tess with her sword drawn, eyes narrowed. “That was more than twenty minutes.” “W- We had to… had to—” Tess falters, bent double as sputtering coughs wrack her diminutive form. “Give her a break, Vanille. The guards gave us a bit of hassle, but we’re fine.” You pry yourself from the mud one weary limb at a time. “Tess was excellent. We made a good team.” The lizard girl blushes, but offers nothing else. Vanille wavers, looking between the two of you. The sword hisses back into her sheath an instant before the knight is upon you, prodding, prying, grasping, poking.<<if $Lurrma_Dryads == true>> Once again, her beautiful dress from the wedding comes out to wipe you down.<</if>> “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you hurt anywhere? Anything stinging or numb?” “I’m fine, I’m fine,” you assure her. Ashlyn pokes her head into the cleaning with leering eyes. You’re pretty sure she’s trying to get a glimpse of you naked. “How’d it go? With uh, chief, or whatever.” <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>“Pretty good,” you cheer. “Sazelle was intimidating, but Sable’s letter was enough to convince her. Like, almost immediately.” You head off Ashlyn and her waggling eyebrows before she can gloat. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You were right.” “Of course I was right,” the mage gloats anyway. “Illicit scandals are my favored terrain.” “Same,” Sherine nods in hearty agreement. Her polite smirk says, //‘I love good gossip,’// but her devious eyes say, //‘Blackmail!’// “Maybe we can talk about this as we walk?” Vanille interjects, sounding a tad uncomfortable. “We’ve only got one village left, and we’re making good time. I’d like to get back to Walst before nightfall.” “Maybe we should give <<= $name>> a chance to rest first?” the lamia counters. “<<= $Xe>> might want a few minutes to un-cramp <<= $xir>> legs before we start walking in earnest. Not that I’d know, myself.” She gestures to her not-legs with a wry grin. “I think I’m fine,” you say. A quick stretch, a satisfying //pop// from somewhere in your spine, and you’re feeling more than ready. “Let’s go.”<<else>>“Uhh, not exactly… perfect,” you sheepishly admit. “We had an audience, I tried to convince Sazelle that she needed to attend the Clansmeet, but…” “She’s a very stubborn person,” Tess admits. “So what now?” Vanille asks. “I, uhm… I don’t know.” You scratch the back of your neck. “I guess we try <<if $Lurram_Frogs == false>>the other villages<<else>>the dryads<</if>>, see if we can at least get two out of three. Maybe that’ll give us some bargaining power we can use to persuade the champion?” “I could eat her!” Mira declares, ever the bargainer. “We bring her back to Walst, force her to attend the important meeting.” Oh no, not again. “We’ve got plenty of daylight left,” you say, heading off any further ridiculous plans. “Let’s regroup while walking to the next village. I’m sure we’ll think of something before the day’s out.” “Are you sure you don’t want to rest first?” Vanille asks. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>“You can carry me,” you tease as you go limp in her arms. Vanille drops you. She rises and marches on. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”<<else>>“Tess can carry <<= $xem>>,” Sherine offers with a sly smile. “No! It’s my turn!” Mira cries. “That’s not funny,” Vanille grumbles as the rest of the group pops with laughter. “You’re all horrible.”<</if>><</if>> <<include "Swamp_Navigator">>

<<if $Crest2 == false>><<if $Crest1 == "murder">>“I’m not sure what I expected, honestly.” You’re muttering and mumbling to yourself as you crouch behind a nearby log and peer out at the familiar gate. There’s two guards posted. Newly minted and every bit as unfriendly. They’re currently bantering—presumably about how to be even //less// useful than their predecessors. “It’s not like they were gonna leave the gates open, <<= $name>>,” Vanille grumbles. “There are a lot of lizards in Lurram,” Tess supplies. “Especially now that Sazelle unified all the splinter factions. That, and we breed really fast—Er…” She trails off before she can embarrass herself further. “So, what are we gonna do now?” you ask, not entirely keen on the prospect of murdering your way back inside. “Maybe they’ll be more reasonable?” you say, basically out of obligation. “I say we just go.” Vanille gestures to the dryad’s letter poking out of your bag. “We’ve been here once, and we’ve got an official message to deliver. We’re better prepared this time.” <<linkreplace "Alrighty then…">>The guards’ banter lessens as you approach, the blatant laughter and jocular tone quashed to a nervous glare. They watch with serpentine eyes as you and your group stroll right up to them. You flinch when one of them finally speaks. “You must be the ones the champion told us about.” Huge arms fold across the lizard’s chest. “We are?” Vanille asks, a guarded edge to her voice. The lizards exchange an exasperated glance before the one on the left drawls, “Unless someone else is lugging around a lamia in Lurram.” She thumps her spear against the wooden gate, then shifts a step to the side. “We got orders to let you through. No idea why, but whatever.” The second guard pushes the gate an extra foot open, then joins her companion in shuffling aside to make room. It’s hard to believe it’s actually this easy, that the lizards are just going to //let// you waltz right in after all the trouble you went through last time. Is this some sort of trick? Are you going to walk through that door and into a phalanx of sharp spears and open, eager maws? “Go on,” one of the lizards says. “The champion gets impatient if you keep her waiting, and //we// don’t want any part of that.” You look to your companions, receive a round of shrugs, and finally stride forward. As you slip through the gate, one of the guards mutters, “‘Sides, looks like that lamia of yours still has room.” Ah, that explains it. The trek through the village is swift and isolating, just like last time. A hushed murmur fills every muddy path, every dirty road. Lizard eyes watch your procession with disdain. They loiter around in packs, glare malice your way. Even Tess isn’t spared. You can’t find any of the monster girls who were brave enough to hit on <<if $xe == "she">>you<<else>>your group<</if>> earlier, which is a small mercy. Also, you don’t spot the poor girl you abandoned in the mosh pit. A pall of shame fills the rest of the trip, all the way to the champion’s hut where the second set of guards are waiting. <<if $Collateral == "Lloriel">>Well, there //are// two of them present, technically, but one of them is a bit rounder than the other. Apparently, she saw an opportunity after you left Kira incapacitated in her home. She even knows better than to fuck with your group a second time. The guard simply leans against the wall rubbing her gut as you pass without incident.<<elseif $Collateral != false>>The difference from last time, of course, is that Kira has been replaced. She must have taken a sick day… Her replacement is about to step up and say something when her partner barks at her to stand down. Leery lizard eyes watch as you and your group pass without incident.<<else>>The same pair you yelled at stand alert, anticipating your arrival. They nod at you slightly, then let your group pass without incident.<</if>> [[Enter|Sazelle Return]]<</linkreplace>><</if>><<else>>For the //third// time today, Tess’s jaws clamp over your head before you’ve had the chance to fully brace yourself. She’s even faster this time, each gulp and slurp pulling you deeper until all that’s left are your legs funneling down the lizard girl’s throat. Maybe she’s eager to reunite her stomach with its dearest friend. She’s plodding and waddling her way to the village gates before your legs have finished sliding down her gullet. You dutifully fall limp, resuming your well-practiced impression of partially digested meat. The slump’s not quite as comfortable a proper curl, but it beats nearly being crushed alive. “Heya, Stub. You find another one?” a guard calls out a minute later. Tess clutches her stomach tight. “Oh, n- no. Still the same one.” “Huh. Would’ve expected it to be smaller.” A brief silence passes, just long enough for you to grow nervous, before the other guard says, “Must be ‘cause her stomach’s so weak.” “Right, yeah.” The two lizards share a hearty chuckle at Tess’s expense, then wave her through without further hassle. The return trek across Crest passes in much the same fashion: the odd jibe or quip, the occasional heckling banter or derisive snark. But it always stops at words. No one gives your hostess any real trouble or bars her path. Apparently Tess was right: a full stomach’s the fastest way to earn the tiniest shred of respect in lizard-world. Shame //you’ll// never be able to take advantage of that. You’re allowed past the last pair of guards and into the champion’s<<if $Crest2 == true && $VanilleEvent8 == false>> hut<<else>>, uhh…. wherever the fuck she lives<</if>>. Before you have the chance to ask if Tess wants to try handling this one on her own, you’re coming back out, every as undignified as last time. Champion Sazelle stares at you from her throne, expression inscrutable. Quiet calculation whirrs between dark, slitted pupils, appraising, assessing. “Well, this is a surprise,” she starts, something like humor’s starved and neglected cousin in her voice. “A pleasant one?” You wipe a viscous glob from your eyes, then wince as it falls to the floor with a wet //splat.// Sazelle ignores you. “I told the guards to let you through when you returned.” “Uhh… why?” Wait, //when// you returned? The champion blinks. “I know a thing or two about stubbornness. I knew you’d be back.” “Uh, sure, but I was more asking why you wanted to see me again?” “I changed my mind.” “About attending the Clansmeet?” you ask, meagerly hopeful. “About eating you.” [[Fuck|Smuggle_Sazelle Return]]<</if>>

Champion Sazelle sits atop her throne, and a glaive rests upon her lap—the same glaive? It’s been hours. Is she planning to whittle the weapon down to a nub? Is this what she does all day? Reptilian eyes show the barest flicker of acknowledgement as you approach—a cautiously optimistic sign. The transparently annoyed huff afterwards is less encouraging.<<if $Collateral != false>> Her gaze lingers on <<= $Collateral>> for but a moment of cold appraisal before she resumes her mask of apathy and boredom.<</if>> “What now?” she growls. “You already have my answer. I don’t like to repeat myself.” “We’ve brought a letter,” you say. “Something on behalf of one of the other clans that might, <<if $Swamp2 == true>>erm… persuade you to reconsider<<else>>uhh… change your mind<</if>>?” Sazelle grunts. “I doubt it.” You reach for Sable’s gift<<if $Swamp2 == true>>, hoping your quick intrusion into the dryad’s privacy didn’t leave any evidence—and that she was right about being able to convince her apparent… partner?<<else>>, hoping the dryad was right about being able to convince the champion<</if>>. The moment the scroll leaves your bag, Sazelle leaps from her chair and crosses the room in the blink of an eye. The carefully wrapped sylvan bundle vanishes from your hand. The glaive clatters to the floor, abandoned and forgotten as the lizard thumps back down on her throne, her tail scything through the air in fitful arcs. Fingers grasp at leafy parchment and pull at woven vine, a mixture of impatient eagerness and delicate reverence. The lizard unrolls the scroll, eyes darting back and forth. She makes it three or four lines down<<if $Swamp2 == true>>—about as far as you dared to read—<<else>> <</if>>and suddenly folds the message closed, a vibrant scarlet blooming upon her cheeks. “I’ll attend.”<<set $Lurram_Lizards to true>> You blink, slow and baffled. “What?” “Tell Ialise I will attend the Clansmeet,” Sazelle states. “We will arrive by sunset. No later.” Her gaze flickers between you and the scroll clasped tight in her hands. “You can leave now.” Ashlyn nudges your side, eyebrows waggling like flags caught in a hurricane. You don’t give her the chance to gloat, instead bowing before the champion and muttering the most polite farewell you can muster. Your group’s shuffling back out of the hut as quickly as you’d entered. <<linkreplace "Stubbornness apparently swings in both directions…">>“I… can’t believe it was that easy,” you mutter as you trudge back through Crest in a baffled stupor. “That’s how you know the sex is //really// good,” Ashlyn moans. “We don’t actually know that they’re—” <<if $Swamp2 == true>>“Yes we do.” The mage folds her arms in smug satisfaction. “The big boss is willing to attend a boring political function. That’s some god-tier tail—Well, dryads don’t have tails, but you get my point.”<<else>>The mage folds her arms. “Maybe //you// don’t, but I know chasing-god-tier-tail when I see it.”<</if>> Vanille lets out a long and withering sigh, but it only eggs Ashlyn on. “C’mon, Golden Girl. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t //de-flower// that queen given the chance.”<<if $RVAshlyn >= 13>> A painful laugh bursts from your chest. “You’re the worst.” “My pun game is impeccable. Bow before me, peons.” “What’s a pun?” Mira asks, which only makes you and the mage laugh harder.<</if>> You spare a glance toward Tess shuffling along at the rear of the group. The diminutive lizard girl wears an expression of mixed horror and shame, like she’s wishing she could just forget the champion’s affair entirely. A slowed pace has you falling in beside the lizard girl before you mutter, “So what are you going do, now that you know about Sazelle and Sable?” “What about them?” Tess says without missing a beat, her face snapping to the perfect picture of confused ignorance. Smart girl. You keep walking, and then you… just leave the village. Without a hitch. What the hell? Why couldn’t this have been easier from the start? It took an hour each way, and your errand was done in about five minutes. It almost feels like you wasted the trip… No, no, this was a small-caliber accomplishment, you deserve a pat on the back. “Vanille, pat me on the back.” She rolls her eyes and smacks your shoulder. “Good job, <<= $name>>. Off to Tolun’Moa?” {SOMETHING HERE!!!!!!!} <</linkreplace>>

Sazelle leaps from her throne in a blur of leather and scales. Two hundred pounds of lizard girl knocks you to the floor and drives the wind from your lungs. Clawed hands seize one wildly flailing arm, then the other. You blink back stars to find an eager face staring down at you, firelight and hunger swirling in reptilian eyes. A dart of pink slips between parted lips, trails along incisors and flesh alike, leaves a sheen of glimmering saliva in its wake. “Nothing worse than passing up a perfectly good meal,” she growls. Her stomach growls too. “Shame you’re so scrawny. Don’t bother fighting back.” Like hell you won’t. You wriggle impotently, the slightest wheeze squeezed from your lungs by the knee against your chest. She could hold you down with one hand—hell, just one finger. The full weight of the monster girl’s crushing you alive. Bones creak. Sparks of pain ignite across your chest, through your arms, anywhere the lizard’s grip meets your frail form. With a grunt, Sazelle slams you back against the wooden floor, sending your head flopping as a fresh burst of agony blooms in the back of your skull. Dulled senses barely register the champion rising, shifting lower. Blurred eyes find a familiar visage standing a few feet away: Tess. The lizard’s frozen, spear clutched tight to her chest, gaze flickering between you and Sazelle. Frantic indecision stains her face, limbs trembling with nervous energy and narrowly withheld action. A dripping maw opens and engulfs your feet. <<linkreplace "Call for Tess’s help before she covers your mouth">><<replace "#choices">>“Tess!” you cry out. “Help, quick!” The lizard girl stares back with wide eyes. Claws scrape fitful gashes against the haft as her spear as she frantically wrings her hands. She fidgets, shakes, jolts like she’s about to move forward a dozen times, yet she can’t quite break free of inaction’s icy grip, can’t summon the resolve to offer aid. In mere moments, the champion’s lips are already up to your knees, the vice of her throat clamping around your shins as your feet are left to squirm behind the veil of her scale-patched neck. Hands clamp to your thighs, fingers digging into your trousers and wrenching you deeper by the second. Instinctual fear wells up from the recesses of your subconscious, blotting out any traces of morbid fascination or forbidden pleasure. There’s no sensuality to the act. No pause to savor, no moment spared to enjoy or relish. To Sazelle, you’re hardly even a meal. You’re a conquest to be claimed, taken, and subsumed. Fingers scramble against coarse wooden boards, panicked. You search for purchase and find only splinters. “Please, Tess,” you manage, voice strained. “Don’t just let her eat me!” A desperate arm reaches toward Tess, only for a clawed hand to grab your wrist and force the stray limb to the floor. Waves of blooming agony radiate up to your shoulder and seep into your chest. You wriggle, squirm, but against Sazelle’s indomitable strength, you’re nothing. Tess only stands there, feet like stone. She huddles in herself, twits, folds, ties her diminutive form tighter and tighter as if she could simply fade away and forget it all. But finally, her gaze meets yours. Slitted pupils in yellow irises waver, glimmer. She shuts her eyes, holds them tight, opens them again to find the same world she tried to flee. Trembling lips mouth a single, fragile word. //“Sorry.”// … Fuck. What did you expect? This is her chief. Her champion. You’re some dipshit who waltzed into her life a day ago and has been dragging her around Lurram ever since. You never stood a chance. Sazelle takes another swallow, lips sliding past your waist, your belt, and the bag she never even bothered to remove that holds—Wait, shit! Sable’s message! Without thinking, you plunge your hand into the lizard girl’s maw. Fingers find their mark and fumble blindly with the clasp, only for the next gulp to drag both bag and hand into the champion’s gullet. You wriggle, groan, strain with every pathetic ounce of might you can muster. The limb won’t budge. Fresh panic flares anew. <<linkreplace "Tell her about the letter">>“W- Wait,” you cry out. “I have a message—” Sazelle lunges. You’re tossed into the air like a ragdoll, another foot engulfed by the lizard’s throat. Her jaws snap shut around your chest with a heavy //clack.// Your words—and the air to speak them—are wrung from your lungs in a pained gasp. Something groans: a part of you not meant to groan, like a ship’s hull being torn in two by towering breakers. You blink back tears, try to assess the damage. The world won’t stop spinning. The floor keeps slipping further and further away. You’re lifted. Another toss. Another //glurck.// You can hardly find the focus to squirm. The dim, firelit interior gradually vanishes behind an encroaching set of jaws. Gleaming fangs graze harmlessly across slickened skin. A wet tongue presses against the nape of your neck, mats your hair, slips up to the crown of your head and forces you deeper, as if your near-freefall into the champion wasn’t fast enough. [[Down you go…|Sazelle Vore]]<</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Get that goddamn letter before she eats your bag">><<replace "#choices">>Your kicking legs slide into Sazelle’s gullet as you plunge an unpinned hand into your bag, desperate, rifling about like a raving lunatic for lost parchment. Journal, whetstone, rations— Frantic, you thrust Sable’s gift at your attacker<<if $Swamp2 == true>>, hoping like hell your quick intrusion into the dryad’s privacy didn’t leave any evidence<<else>>, hoping like hell the dryad was right about being able to convince the champion<</if>>. Sazelle’s eyes go wide. She snatches the carefully wrapped sylvan bundle from your hand and simply lets you fall to the ground as she stomps back over to her throne, tail scything through the air in fitful arcs. Fingers grasp at leafy parchment and pull at woven vine, an odd mixture of impatient eagerness and delicate reverence. The lizard unrolls the scroll, eyes darting back and forth. She makes it three or four lines down<<if $Swamp2 == true>>—about as far as you dared to read yourself—<<else>> <</if>>and suddenly folds the message closed, cheeks blooming a vibrant scarlet. “I’ll attend.”<<set $Lurram_Lizards to true>> Spine aching, legs covered in saliva, you blink, slow and baffled. “What?!” “Tell Ialise I will attend the Clansmeet,” Sazelle states. “We will arrive by sunset. No later.” Her gaze flickers between you and the scroll clasped tight in her hands. “You can leave now.” Sazelle begins to reread the letter top to bottom, side to side. You take the opportunity to fuckin’ book it. [[Get back inside Tess, pronto!|Smuggle_Post Sazelle 2]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>>

Sazelle’s mouth shuts with a final, vicious chomp, vice of teeth ushering in a world of impenetrable, wet dark. An instant later, one last swallow yanks your head over the back of her tongue and into the ravenous depths of her gullet. The walls bear down on you, crush into you, squeeze what little breath remains from your lungs and leave you a groaning, wretched mess. Each gulp strikes like a hammer, pouding you deeper, relentless and unforgiving. You beg—//pray// for reprieve as you reach the stomach. You find none. You’re compacted into a dense ball. The walls grip tight, kneading, already massaging the first acids into your skin. //Uuuuuurrraaap!// A single, thunderous belch from Sazelle just makes things that much worse. Muscle and flesh squeeze, crunch. Your bones creak. Limbs clench tight, anything to shield yourself from the iron grip. You try reaching for your pouch, for anything that can help. You’ve still got the letter, but you can hardly budge. Instead, you try to call out, see if you can somehow get Sazelle to listen. But all that emerges is a pitiful wheeze. The air in your lungs is gone, and there’s nothing down here to replace it. What little sound you make barely reaches your own ears over the rising gurgles and groans. Fuck. That letter was supposed to be your golden ticket, and you never even had the chance to give it to her.<<if $Swamp2 == false>> Worse, you passed up your chance to look at the damn thing, and it’s not like the lizard was kind enough to throw a reading light down after you. Now you’re going to die, //and// your curiosity’s going to be left unsated.<</if>> Your sulking is interrupted as Sazelle rises, marches over to her throne, and roughly slumps back down. Your confines don’t slosh so much as jolt. There’s none of the yielding wetness of other stomachs, and //all// of the sweltering heat, the crushing pressure. So much of it. You’re being cooked alive. “Tess,” the champion suddenly calls out, voice booming like thunder. “Come over here and help me finish <<= $xem>> off.” She pats her stomach for emphasis, the simple touch nearly driving you into unconsciousness. A brief silence passes before you feel a pair of hands press against the stomach. They’re hesitant, tentative at first. With each touch they grow more resolved, until Sazelle lets out a low groan of appreciation. The champion reclines on her throne. Slowly but steadily, the pressure cooker ramps up, sapping the very life from. It’s all raw heat, overwhelming force, and stinging acid. You can hardly muster the will to whimper or squirm. Definition ebbs, blurs. Each second leaves you less of a person, more of a husk. You’re being boiled down, distilled into a form more fitting for Sazelle’s needs. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. A soft voice drifts through the steady chorus of groans, fragile, hesitant, hardly more than whisper. It’s Tess. “Sorry, <<= $name>>…” Sazelle’s posture straightens. Tess’s stomach rubs are suddenly punctuated by a fitful surge of alarm. “You feel pity for <<= $xem>>?” the champion says in a low growl. Tess stammers for a second before arriving at a limp, “<<if $xe == "they">>They were<<else>><<= $Xe>> was<</if>> nice to me.” Past tense. Thanks. Sazelle grunts her disapproval. “You should’ve digested <<= $xem>> when you had the chance.” The massage slows. “<<if $xe == "they">>They were<<else>><<= $Xe>> was<</if>> taking advantage of you,” the champion continues. “Using you for <<= $xir>> own ends. <<= $Xe>> wouldn’t have cared in the slightest if some beast had taken you once you’d served your purpose. Or maybe <<= $Xe>>’d have simply eaten you <<= $xem>>self. You allow yourself to be used too easily.” “Yes, champion,” Tess murmurs. “S- Sorry, champion.” Sazelle lets out another agitated hum, clearly displeased with her underling’s response. The sound tapers into a weary sigh before she speaks again. “But… you did well bringing <<= $xem>> back to me.” She shifts, the slight motion applying that tiniest extra bit of pressure. Breaths come ragged, shallow, each weaker than the last. You simply yield, allow your eyes to drift shut, finally surrender to the merciless walls and allow yourself to ease toward the void. Awareness fades until all that’s left is the tiniest pinprick, barely enough to hear one last, muffled exchange. “Since you devoured <<= $xem>> first, you deserve the credit for a hunt. I’ll award you another metal once I’ve finished sleeping this off.” “… Thank you, champion.” <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathLizards ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>>[[Fade away…|Death 02.05.03]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Ooh, that’s rough. Not the digestion; you’re used to that. I mean the betrayal. You trusted that little lizard, and look how she repaid you. A human life traded for a sliver of shodilly forged metal. Guess that shows what the strangers in this world think you’re worth, huh? <<case 2>> Okay okay, fine. The lizard runt didn’t //literally// trade you for a piece of metal. But she didn’t //not// trade you for the piece of metal either. And you’re still just us dead. If we think about this from a strictly consequentialist perspective, is there really a difference? Or are you more of a deontologist? I’m not really sure how standing by and doing nothing could possibly be seen as an inherently moral action, but… I guess if you’re into enough she gets a pass. Wait, you’re not one of those virtue ethics freaks, are you? <<default>> Just so we’re on the same page, the lizard’s not gonna stand up to her big mean boss, no matter how many times you try. I appreciate your indomitable faith in the good that lies in all man—err, monster-kind, but at a certain point you’ve gotta start seeing a pattern. <</switch>> <<if $FootWorld == true>>[[Return|Footworld2][$FootWorld to false]]<<else>>[[Return|Smuggle_Sazelle Return]]<</if>>

Sheer terror guides your dive into the lizard girl’s gullet, while delicious flavor and impending fullness drives the lizard girl to gulp you down as quickly as possible. You don’t even have a chance to feel embarrassment about her open moaning and shameless grabbing of your butt. “What the fuck was that?” you demand as Tess bursts out of the champion’s throne room and back into Crest proper. “I- I don’t know, I’m so sorry <<= $name>>,” she whispers in a restrained whine. “I didn’t think she’d—Why did…” “It’s fine, it’s fine. It happens to me a lot,” you say, the words not exactly comforting—to you or her. A shared sense of urgency and panic propels you toward the gates at a frantic clip, Tess’s stomach heaving and lurching every step of the way. You don’t care. Anything to get you out of this village. Back to the wet, miserable swamp. Back to the safety of your friends. At least you’ll be bringing good news. “Hey Stub, in a hurry?” The familiar, jeering voice—one of the guards from the gate—has never been a more welcome sound. “Y- Yep,” Tess stammers. “Gotta go, uhm, get another meal. Again. Wh- What can I say, I’m just //sooo// hungry!” She’s out of range before you can hear the response. Probably for the best. You tumble and sway across the dirt field, counting the steps to the treeline. A new set of muffled voices drift from places unseen. Friendly voices. Wary. Questioning. “How’d it go?” “She’s attending. We—” Tess vomits mid-syllable like it’s nothing, “—We’re all set. Let’s go now.” You brace for the impending blast of frigid water from Ashlyn. It’s colder than last time. Almost certainly intentional. When the torrent ebbs, you wipe your face and look around. You’re surprised to see Vanille isn’t threatening Tess. It’s not an outright ‘thanks,’ but it’s better than last time. Mira and Lloriel are there to debrief the lizard girl as well. The demi smiles and laughs and helps Tess calm down while the elf’s lingering stare occasionally drifts across Tess’s middle, then covertly to you. A copper tail tip pokes against your sleeve. “Did something happen, <<= $name>>? You seem nervous.” “N- Nope, not at all,” you manage, pushing yourself to your feet and wringing out a section of your tunic. “Went totally fine. Sable’s letter worked like a charm.” “And nothing else?” “No,” you lie through your teeth. “Why?” “No reason,” Sherine says, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “Liar,” Ashlyn barks. “I know you’re trying to keep all those juicy secrets to yourself. How’d the lizard react? Spill it.” “The letter saved me from being killed on the spot.” You sigh. “They’re definitely involved.” <<if $Swamp2 == false>>“Ooh, let me guess. They’re gonna meet up at Walst in secret and fuck.” “How should I know?” “You //would// know if you weren’t a little bitch and read the letter.” You fold your arms. “I’m not violating their privacy.”<<else>>The mage gasps. “I knew it! Ooh, they’re absolutely gonna fuck at Walst. Betcha that’s the only reason the lizard’s attending the Clansmeet at all. Must be some god-tier tail.” She suddenly grabs your shoulder and pulls you close. “Wanna spy on ‘em?” You scowl. “Ashlyn, I’m not violating their privacy. Err, more than I already did.”<</if>> “I’m gonna violate //your// privacy.” “You already do!” Cosmic eyes flare spectacular glory. “I’m gonna do it //more!”// A shiver rattles through your bones. Mercifully, Sherine slithers between you and the lunatic mage. “Don’t mind her. She’s been a bit bored waiting out here for your return. None of us are quite as willing to subject themselves to her madness as you are, <<= $name>>.” <<if $RVAshlyn >= 13>>“It’s an acquired taste,” you say. Ashlyn beams. //“You’re// an acq—Dammit.”<</if>> Vanille’s return wards off any ensuing insanity. She gently pats you on the shoulder after checking you a third time for acid-induced injuries. “Good job, <<= $name>>. Off to Tolun’Moa?” <<include "Swamp_Navigator">>

The busy nexus is crowded from railing to railing with a marketplace. There’s fewer formal stalls and shops than you’ve seen in other Havendorian cities, but it’s very obvious that this is where Lurram does its business—and not just the frogs. Co-mingled groups of monster girls litter the plaza: frog girls, fishfolk, a pair of shoebill harpies, an otter girl, a tough-as-nails jackalope, a long-necked water buffalo, and even a few demis and humans bustle about in colorful social circles, playing games, talking, fiddling with woodwind instruments. And bartering, so much bartering. It’s easy to watch a single coin make its way around the bazaar, the rope banisters like the bumpers of a pinball machine. A strange metal tool becomes a sack of root vegetables, becomes a large tanned pelt, which eventually becomes a woven basket filled with goodies, each step of the way backed by cold hard copper, silver, and gold. Lloriel saunters curiously toward a frog girl crouched over a humble square of shiny jewelry. The elf unpins a piece of finery from her hair, the icy blue tumbling over her ear as she sits cross-legged across from her partner’s wares. The ornament finds its way to her side of the mat, and the two go back and forth pushing precious metals around. Eventually, business concludes and the elf returns, fingers fiddling with the trinket over her right ear. You shuffle aside to get a better look and find a two-tined hairpin with a decorative flower made of pearls—six of lustrous white for the petals, and one black for the middle. “Saw something that caught your eye?” you ask. Lloriel shrugs, lips curled to a pensive frown as she divides her attention. “I like to swap decorative bits in my travels. It’s polite, makes people like you more, y’know? If you have something of theirs, they have something of yours.” She hesitates, relaxes her grip, then sighs as the pin doesn’t hold. She tries a second time to weave the pin properly into her hair, and yet again it falters. She lets out a slight huff, then hesitates when you hold out your hand palm up. The metal is sleek to the touch, each pearl almost greasy like it’s still fresh from whatever clam surrendered the bead. You stand over the little elf, working diligently to find the perfect spot. You gesture for Lloriel to face left, then delicately gather the loose strands of steel from her brow. She’s about as small as Mira, though Lloriel seems to be less comfortable with being chest-height than the demi: she’s suppressing a nervous tremble in your shadow. Which is honestly a normal fucking reaction when some big dumb human-ape is picking through your hair. In fact, all of your interactions with her have been pleasantly ordinary and simple. Hell, she hasn’t even once given you a hungry look, nor spilled an ounce of emotional trauma into your lap. It’s nice to travel with someone normal. Someone with their shit together. A pointed ear wiggles—//cute//—when you accidentally brush by. You carefully shift the existing beads and baubles in her mane, then slide the new hairpin in without a hassle. She whips her head side to side to test the hold, then realizes she looks completely ridiculous. “Th- Thanks.” the elf murmurs as she blushes. “No problem,” you offer, then turn your attention to the market at large as you realize you’ve fallen behind the rest of your companions. Fortunately, they’re only a short ways away: Ashlyn’s holding up the group to pore over a stack of scrolls being sold by a rather shady-looking dealer. “Hey, <<= $name>>. Look!” Mira tugs on your arm, then points to one of the more permanent structures. You peer at the stall half-built into your statue’s ear. The sign ostensibly claims they’re offering food, though you see no cooking surfaces, nor smell the scent of mouth-watering, crispy meats nearly omnipresent in other Havendorian markets. A few caged creatures chitter about behind the stall. A frog girl brushes past, stomach writhing with the visible shape of what you’re ninety percent certain is an oversized pillbug. You can see the ridges of the isopod’s outer shell pressing against taught flesh as it squirms and scuttles about in a fruitless attempt to escape its organic prison. You turn back to Mira who, at this point, is now actively salivating as she eyes a roly-poly of her own<<if $MiraTum >= 3>> “You’re still hungry?” “I can make room!” “Uhm, maybe…” You clear your throat. “Maybe pass for now, if you can. We still have a long way to go today, and I don’t want you to be overstuffed. J- Just in case.” She pokes her belly, checking, assessing, then nods. “Okay, I think you’re right—I’m gonna look at shiny stuff instead. Can I have some money?” “Of course. Why are you asking //me?”//<<else>><<set $MiraEvent8 to true>><<set $MiraTum += 2>>. “You wanna eat… a bug?” “Ya! I wanna try one, see if it’s tasty!” She pats her belly confidently. “They look a lot livelier than rats!” Right. Cats and small, edible things. Well, at least the caged and prepped pill bugs are going to be a whole lot more sanitary than some rat plucked from a dingy alleyway. You watch as a huge frog girl pulls another writhing bug from a wicker crate full of the things—an indeterminate mass of glossy black and too many squirming legs. A slight chill rolls down your spine. “I don’t see why not. It’s your money, Mira.”<</if>> “I put all my money in your pockets,” she retorts. The fact doesn’t prevent her from reaching in your bag anyway. “Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask: why do you do that?” You lift an arm so the satchel’s a bit easier to access. “Isn’t the point of stealing stuff, to, y’know, have it?” “Nope, the point is to //take// it. That’s the fun part. I don’t really care about //owning// things.” An indifferent shrug becomes a sly grin as three silver pieces glimmer between her fingers. “I’ve returned things I’ve stolen. When Ashlyn’s being a jerk I sometimes take her stuff and put it back in different places to mess with her.” You scoff. “That’s hilarious.” “Ya,” is all she has to say for herself as she bounds away. [[Wait for her return|Ashlyn Does a Good Deed]]

You cross two bridges, weave through three narrow streets, scale a steep and winding ramp, and suddenly find yourselves practically stumbling onto the stoop of a building far larger than the rest. A sizeable porch rests beneath a roof the color of late-evening sunset, a handful of frogs resting in the shade and staring at you with large, guarded eyes. None offer so much as a word of protest as you ascend the porch stairs and push your way through a curtain of shimmering beads that stands in place of a door. A thick, familiar scent of toasted earth hangs in the air. “Sappica,” Ashlyn says just as the name finds your tongue. She coughs and waves away a drifting cloud. “The raw stuff, too.” You take a moment to gather yourself, blink back some of the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. The drugs help you relax, find a steady, calm rhythm. The visions remain at bay this time, yet there’s something oddly bolstering about the haze. With your inhibitions quelled, so too are your near-constant fears and paranoias. And without them, you find an oddly confident streak in yourself. Three halls later and you’re knocking on a door. A thick voice bids you entry into a cramped, windowless room filled with recliners and squat tables. A few wax tablets sit atop stacks of parchment. A bookshelf stands in the corner, filled to the point of bursting with scrolls and counting devices. Aside from the drugs, this place reeks of buearocracy. A lone frog langours on the furthest couch. The otherwise-slender woman is obscured by a bulbous apron of stretched stomach. Her flesh thins around the navel just enough to discern the contents. Post-humanoid. Mushy… Ah! Got a little distracted there. So, the rest of her: a slick of greasy, short-cut black hair pulls tight across her skull. Bright spots polka-dot from cheeks to hips, a pair of symmetrical waterfalls. The human swathes of her body are a beautiful sienna, so rich and bold that her amphibian coloration clashes, the greens vibrant enough to make terrible camouflage. A //very// taut wrap across her chest struggles to contain her… assets. And while the fabric itself is somewhat fanciful, its design is nowhere near eye-catching enough to draw your attention away from the gurgling, churning gut. Then again, that may be the point… You step through the heady cloud and offer a shallow, polite bow. “Yes?” she says, turning a lazy gaze from her lounger. The monster girl doesn’t even bother to rise out of the thick haze, instead drawing a deep drag from a pipe in hand, then opening her narrow maw. A geyser of smoke gushes out like a science fair volcano, followed by a deep, hearty belch. Her unburdened hand finds the peak of the semisolid bulge and lingers for a luxurious moment. The mound jiggles at her bemused prodding. You can hear the slosh. Whatever’s in there is mostly liquid, which means it definitely wasn’t a recent, erm… //acquisition.// By the way she comports herself—the lounging and the particular odor of dried sweat—she’s been holed up for quite a while with this victory: a long, slow revel. Maybe she grabbed a midnight snack last night? Or in the early hours of the morning? What better way to start your day than with a bit of calorie-rich murder. A nudge on your waist brings you back into focus. “Sachem Rabbeth’oa?” you say as you bow slightly, trying to mimic monster girl etiquette you’ve seen around town. A little groveling never hurt anyone—as long as it doesn’t bring your head into glomping range. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for giving us your time.” “Yeah, yeah,” the woman says with gentle dismissal. She waves as if the formality is unnecessary, but the huge smile on her face betrays her true feelings. “What can I do for you?” “We are guests at Walst-on-High, and have come on behalf of High Priestess Ialise. With regard to Clansmeet, she’s been waiting for a response from you.” “Not //just// from me,” Rabbeth’oa retorts matter-of-factly. “I’ll bet our friends to the east are too busy fighting over who gets the throne to bother finding someone who can actually //read// the summons. And the plants to the north only bother raising a leaf when there’s a literal fire.” {if met Sazelle}The facts are wrong, but the vibe is right…{elseif Sable}That’s a bit rude. Sable was a delight.{/if} You maintain a stalwart smile. “The other clans are on our travel itinerary, of course.” She chews on the end of her pipe for a moment, staring you down. A smile breaks her thoughtful expression. “Good luck with that.” She slaps her belly and nestles further into her seat. “You can tell Ialise I’m dealing with a problem in Tolun’Moa. Clansmeet by-laws specifically allow for summons to go unanswered if attendance would be to the detriment of the clan.” A webbed hand glides diligent circles around her gut. “Thank you for your time,” she says and turns her head. “A problem?” you ask, refusing to back down so easily. “We’re adventurers. We handle problems.” //Too fucking often…// Rabbeth’oa snaps back to attention. She sloshes herself upright. “Good, then you’ll deal with it, and afterward I’ll send a runner to Walst.” [[Wait, what just happened?|Froggetaboutit]]

“Let’s look for Maisy,” you say, then head toward the western platforms. <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>Tess follows close behind, then stops when the rest of your group hasn’t moved. “Right, I wanted to ask about that…” Vanille starts, favoring you with an appraising look. A sheepish hand finds its way to the back of your neck. “Oh, yeah. I guess you, err, weren’t actually there for that whole thing, were you? When Tess and I were leaving Crest, this big lizard—” “Dax.” “Yeah. She wanted us to find her, uhm… friend? And I thought that since Tess helped us out, we could return the favor,” you say as the lizard girl winces. Ashlyn raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that, like, yesterday? Time is a collective hallucination, but that girl’s definitely //glursshhhh// by now.” “I…” You’re not sure what to say. To both the terrible stomach noise impression, and to the fact that you agree with her assessment about the lizard girl. <<else>>The rest of your group follows close behind, weaving their way through the complex web of Tolun’Moa’s streets. “Hey, <<= $name>>?” Mira bumps your elbow as you walk. “Everything okay? You seemed kinda, uhm…” “Dour?” “Yeah.” She tilts her head. “I think so?” You breathe out a slight laugh that tapers into a sigh. <</if>>“I just, uhm… don’t wanna get our hopes up, I guess,” you admit with a slight shrug. “Seems like we’re not gonna find her still in one piece.” “Not necessarily,” Tess says slowly. “Frogs are weak-gutted.” “Frog girls have slower metabolisms than average,” Lloriel clarifies quietly. “Plus, there’s the rivalry between the clans. Maybe she’s being held ransom?” The lizard girl nods. “Champion Sazelle wouldn’t pay, and the frogs know it. But it really depends on what the frog girl’s been doing since yesterday. If she really put her mind to it, we’re probably not going to find much of Maisy left. B- But I know some predators enjoy taking things slow, showing off their catches for as long as possible.” <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>… Is she speaking from recent experience? Also, w<<else>>W <</if>>hat the fuck does //‘put her mind to it’// mean? You already know that they can ‘power down’ their stomachs, but does that control allow them to digest more vigorously just by thinking about it? It’s not like it makes any //less// sense. “Let’s go check!” Mira cheers with indelible enthusiasm. Vanille smiles and shrugs. “Sounds good to me. I’ll admit the lizard girls weren’t the friendliest hosts, but I’d sleep better knowing we tried our best to help someone in need.” [[Go rescue the lizard girl|Rescue Negotiations]]

“Wha—” The frog girl cuts you off with a snap of damp little fingers. “Six foreigners walk in here, begging me to attend some meeting that shouldn’t concern them in the slightest.” She splays her arms and offers a self-satisfied grin. “Don’t have the damndest clue why, but you obviously want it to happen. And if I’m going to go through all this trouble for you, then you’ll go through some for me. Fair’s fair, no?” The one time you try to be excessively polite and considerate, and you’re immediately stepped all over… While her bluntness is a wet, gurgly slap to the face, you can at least appreciate that she’s willing to negotiate. “Why does there need to be any trouble at all?” Sherine asks, tone sweet and honeyed. She weaves a luxuriant path through cushions and seating, toward the frog. “Surely we can find an arrangement that’s more mutually agreeable or… pleasurable.” The lamia sashays to the side of the couch, serpentine tail coiling playfully between the wooden legs, chest brushing dangerously close to Rabbeth’oa’s head. Arms find a comfortable home amid the plush cushions, a delicate hand draping over the sachem’s shoulder. “It seems like you’ve still got quite the meal there,” the lamia croons. “I’d be more than happy to help you work that off.” A furious blush burns on your cheeks as you start to wonder if now would be a good time to hastily shoo everyone out of the room and give your companion some privacy. If this is going to be a repeat performance of what you’re lovingly going to call ‘The Succubus Incident,’ you should try to protect Mira’s innocence. Rabbeth’oa pinches the lamia’s hand between two fingers and pries it from her shoulder. Stone-faced and unshakable, the sachem drops the errant limb like she’s using a pair of tongs to discard an overcooked strip of bacon. “I’ll pass.” Thoroughly rejected, Sherine slithers back to the group with a slight frown on her lips. //“That usually works better,”// she mutters. “Don’t feel too bad,” Rabbeth’oa remarks, shockingly casual. “You’re not the first to try something like that. Probably won’t be the last, either.” She shrugs. “I’m just not interested in what your friend’s offering, lamia or otherwise.” The sachem hefts herself upright, prompting a fresh round of wet gurgles from her stomach. She takes a final draw from her pipe, then directs a lucid and piercing gaze right at you. “I think I’ve already made my terms perfectly clear,” she says. “It’s up to you whether you want to accept them.” <<include "Sachem_Ask">>

You retrace your steps out of Tolun’Moa—not an inconsiderable task—cross the flimsy rope bridge back to dry-adjacent land—//also// not an inconsiderable task—and set off south on another trek through the marshlands of western Lurram in search of a witch. Vanille’s reclaimed her usual spot at the vanguard. Sherine continues to glide through the mud and sludge, keeping as much of her upper body out of the muck as possible. Or perhaps she just wanted to be tall today. On the opposite end of the height spectrum, Mira’s hooked herself between her new friends’ arms and has dragged both of them into semi-willing conversation. “What’d you think of Rabbeth’oa?” Lloriel shrugs. “Pretty standard politician.” “Standard?” Tess blurts out. “That’s normal?” “I’d say so. Always thinking about optics, somewhat self-interested.” The elf chuckles. “From the looks of it, she’s been encouraging the entire village to barter with outsiders, and I’m sure she’ll benefit from the prosperity of her people.” The lizard bristles. “She’s //not// self-interested.” Lloriel scoffs, then gestures to the trail. “She’s lazing about, smoking in her office after demanding we do something for her—deliberately avoiding doing her job until we do her a favor first.” “But- But she’s doing something in return,” the lizard says incredulously. “It’s not just making demands. That’s a huge difference!” Mira peeks out from around Tess’s hips. “<<if ($Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true || $Lurram_Lizards == true) && $Crest1 != "smuggle" && $Crest2 == false>>Your boss was really big, yeah.<<else>>Is that what your champion is like?<</if>>” “Champion Sazelle is the strongest, so she’s in charge. If you’re weaker, you do what you’re told. It’s a hierarchy. It’s simple, it… works…” The lizard girl’s features turn serious. Conflict roils behind dark eyes. Her tail jerks from side to side as she gathers her thoughts. “While we were talking to her, I kept asking myself if Rabbeth’oa is the person best suited to be in charge, and then I kept thinking about that market, and about how all kinds of people from all over Lurram show up there. There was music. They had nice-looking homes—messy and cramped, but they’re… pretty. A- And Rabbeth’oa //eats.// She’s smaller than the rest of her people, but she’s allowed to eat and smoke and has her own workspace. She gets to have good things, and contributes how she wants to her people—not just through strength, but with her skills.” The lizard blinks, as if admitting all that caused her physical discomfort. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m… kinda jealous.” Sherine chuckles with her silky altos. “Jealousy is never something you should feel about a politician. The only thing you should concern yourself with is how delicious they are.” A murmured, //“Damn straight,”// grumbles from Ashlyn nearby. You ignore her and tilt your head curiously at the lamia. “You say that, but I just saw your seduction bounce off her like she was made of stone.” A coy smile tugs at Sherine’s lips. “Is it really that hard to believe I’m not someone’s type, <<= $name>>?” “I mean…” Yeah? Kinda? A part of you is morbidly curious if the lamia could’ve seduced the drider given enough time… and the appropriate antivenom. //Think of the stomach bulge! All those legs…// “Or //maybe,”// Ashlyn suddenly interjects, “that frog doesn’t have a type at all.” Sherine merely shrugs. “That’s possible.” “I’m serious,” the mage pouts. “She easily deflected Sherine’s sex-allicious extravaganza, and honestly, I doubt I could have done any better.” Ashlyn gestures to her crotch, then at Sherine’s. “My guess is that it’s got nothing to do with whatever’s in our pant… skirt… thing—what the fuck do you call that? Point is, I know the type when I see ‘em.” “As do I,” the lamia says, oddly flat. “You don’t sound happy about it,” you remark. Sherine stares ahead, expression inscrutable. “I’m… mildly peeved, yes.” “Because it means she can’t lure someone into her clutches,” Ashlyn snarks. “She’s only got the one move.” “It’s //one// less thing I can offer,” the lamia corrects. “And yes, it is something I’m more than willing to use to my advantage—//our// advantage. It’s saved your life once, in case you’ve forgotten.” “Wait, when?” Mira pipes up, only to receive a conciliatory //‘I’ll explain later’// pat on the shoulder from Vanille. “My point is,” Sherine continues, “we wouldn’t be out here trudging through more of Lurram on our way to deal with a witch if Rabbeth’oa had been a little more amenable to my advances.” Vanille forcefully—definitively—clears her throat. //“I// prefer doing a good deed for the village than winning them over through… persuasion.” Sherine merely shrugs as her tail sloshes through another slew of muck. “Suit yourself.” [[Onward|The Lair]]

The lair looms before you, a well-kempt wooden structure hovering over a pristine pond, supported by a dozen sturdy columns each infested by coiling, verdant vines. Vibrant flora leaks from every crevasse, drips from the planter boxes, bursts from ceramic pots lining the porch. A nearby watering can sits quietly, menacingly, lurking in plain sight. A quaint window winks at you with a furrowed awning eyelid. A rickety rope bridge rolls forth like a greedy, swaying tongue. Whatever beast lives in this diabolical structure clearly has a penchant for gardening. In fact, this house almost looks like it’s out of a magazine. One of the nice mags, too. Now that you’re looking at it, ‘lair’ is wholly antithetical to how you’d describe this place. There’s friggin’ birds chirping from the rooftop. The only part that doesn’t outright scream ‘cozy and welcoming’ is that bridge which looks like it’s seen better days. Much better days, a very long time ago. “I think I’ll be staying back on this one,” Sherine declares, eyeing the flimsy span like it’s woven from venomous snakes rather than rope. “I’ve pressed my luck far enough with bridges for one day.” “I could shrink you,” Ashlyn offers ‘helpfully.’ “Carry you around like a little burrito.” Sherine glares at the mage. “Are you sure you want to try?” Ashlyn tilts her head, assessing all twenty-something feet of the lamia. Her eyes flare cosmic fire. She bobs about for a moment, calculating. “Have fun waiting out here,” the mage croons before hopping onto the first plank of the bridge. The ropes sway under her weight, whipping and wobbling violently as she takes her first steps. You watch long enough to see the wood planks hold, then turn back to Sherine. “Are you sure about this?” She simply shrugs. “I’m sure you can handle whatever’s in there on your own.” Garnet eyes cast an appraising gaze to the surrounding swamp. “Besides, it’s a nice day. <<if $Lurram <= 3>>For as much as I don’t like the mud and humidity, I’ll happily take the chance to sunbathe.” Right. Cold-blooded animals, and all that.<<else>>I’m going to rest. Navigating this treacherous terrain has been exhausting.” Right, she’s got a lot more body to think about than you.<</if>> <<if $Lurram_Dryads == true>>“Sherine, we might need you in there,” Vanille chides. Sherine flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “You and <<= $name>> are more than capable of handling some light diplomacy without me.” “We don’t know what we’re up against.” She plants her boot firmly in the ground. “You’re coming with us.” “It’s a witch. You’ve got Ashlyn.” The lamia rolls her eyes. “I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal of this.” “Neither do I.” Vanille folds her arms, a tight scowl on her lips. “You already sat around and let us deal with Sable and Cupressa. And yesterday when you sat on the outskirts of the fight while Mira, Lloriel, and I did all the hard work.” “I was protecting <<= $name>>.” Vanille grunts, heavy and sarcastic. “This isn’t about <<= $name>>. It was a fight we didn’t want in the first place. Had you swapped with one of us, thrown your weight around a little more, we maybe could have avoided it.” “I don’t soil my scales at your whim, Vanille.” “We’re a team. We all need to pitch in.” Sherine sighs, then points to the dangling ropes. “You can whinge all you like, but that won’t make the bridge any sturdier.” Vanille glares at her. Ashlyn starts to point out the structural faults in its construction before the knight stomps off and leaves Sherine in the lurch. The lamia doesn’t mind, opting to coil up on a firm piece of ground and simply <<if $Lurram <= 3>>lay in the sun<<else>>rest in the evening haze<</if>>.<</if>> You and your group make their way across the dilapidated bridge one by one. No one is safe from its instability, including the lithe and dextrous Mira, but you all eventually arrive at the comely and plant-strewn threshold. The doorway is painted the color of marigolds. There’s even a dainty wreath of twigs and dried flowers. Honestly, it’s lovely… You cast a confused glance over at Vanille. “Rabbeth’oa said there’s an ‘evil witch’ living here?” “She did…” the knight grumbles. “I’m less certain now.” Your knuckles brush against wood, but the knock whiffs as the door //clicks// open at the slightest touch, then eases inward with a trailing groan. The parting partition reveals a small, dimly lit foyer. An old candle rests on an end table right beside the door. An overflowing flower pot sits nearby, leaves displaying a distressing lack of self preservation as they stretch worryingly close to the lapping flame. More flowers adorn the walls: another wreath, tassels of ivy, strands of blooming vines, planters hung from hooks or sharing shelves with trinkets and jars. Some are even perched atop haphazard stacks of old tomes whose covers crinkle with age and water exposure alike. It’s a mess: less the cluttered pilings of a terminal hoarder and more the kinder, pitiable collections of a homemaker who’s too fond of their belongings to let them go. A friendly tune hums from somewhere within. It’s muffled and obscured. “Uhh, hello?” you call out. There’s no response. Just more quiet singing. //Maybe it’s another drider!// Your party in tow, you shuffle nervously into the entryway, then sidle through the cluttered home. You call out as friendly and disarming a greeting as you can manage, but the only result is that the humming has changed to quiet one-sided chatter, like someone is on the phone in another room. [[Quiet now…|Hail, Hydra!]]

“The tea box!” you shout. “If we get that in front of the hole, it should be heavy enough to keep the snakes out.” You and your allies throw all of your weight against the big wooden block. It doesn’t budge. You all try again, heaving and grunting. You plant both feet squarely, lean forward with just the right leverage, and spread your palms against the sheer surface. Knees bent, Ashlyn wedges herself in the tightest gap between the box and the wall, her back on one side and her feet on the other. And Lloriel is… well, she’s trying. Hmm. You and the wizards are severely lacking in physical strength. Maybe you should have split the group a little more evenly… The damned box shifts an inch with a screech. Then another, a slight jump this time. Your muscles already hurt, but if you just keep going— Scant progress suddenly grinds to a halt. You raise your head, blink against the sweat trickling down your brow, and try to find the obstacle in the murk. The space ahead is empty and still. The remaining mouse girls have all either been picked off by the snakes or gone to ground. You’re bending to pick up your spear and form some sort of physics-based lever-contraption when a little elven boot kicks you in the head. Snake jaws clench, snap down over Lloriel’s flailing legs. A beady slit eye locks with yours as the beast swallows, jaws gliding over your companion. Muffled shouts drift past a heavy curtain of snakeskin. Muted shapes wriggle, writhe: elbows, hands, the vaguest impression of a head twisting back and forth, desperately seeking escape from the encroaching embrace of flesh. A sudden lunge, a snap, and a spray of saliva sees the last of the elf vanish behind fangs and scales. Without a word, you and Ashlyn abandon the box-pushing effort. The two of you sprint frantically down the dark gallery, boots slamming against the metal floor. Ashlyn gets ahead of you, only for a snake head to come crashing down. It grabs her in a single mighty chomp. A slow, almost lethargic gulp, and your companion is reduced to nothing but a faint lump squirming its way down the predator’s serpentine body. You thrust your spear, but the beast’s already withdrawing with its prize. Scrambling feet pursue the snake, but with Lloriel’s light retreating alongside her predator, you can only go so fast. You thrust again as it vanishes, Ashlyn-bulge and all, through the opening. Another snake darts by, shoves you aside as it zooms toward the other side of the trunk, eager to flank the rest of your party. A third squeezes through the opening and lunges right for you, a mighty headbutt knocking you clean off your feet. Slick wet jaws unfurl and snatch up your kicking legs. The beast clamps down with crushing pressure, squeezes the life out of you. Pain shoots down your legs, slams into your already numbing toes. You scramble against serpentine lips, fingers slipping across smooth scales and slick flesh. Legs seek purchase, flailing against the humid insides of the snake’s jaw and finding only the folds of its waiting gullet. Saliva seeps through your trousers and trickles into your boots, viscous and hot. A violent snap draws you into your chest, a pair of massive fangs brushing perilously close to your arms. You strain against the vice, heave and grunt and groan, but find yourself pinned firmly in place like an upstart powerlifter who’s suddenly discovering the importance of a spotter. The snake begins to withdraw, taking you right along with it. Blind panic has you scrambling for the floor, for your spear, for something to help fend off the encroaching maw. You press against the lips once more, but the most you can manage is a faint wriggle, a few impotent squirms. When the beast lunges again, you try to plant your legs in its maw and propel yourself back out. One foot sinks too deep with a faint //squelch.// Frantic, you yank the limb back, but your boot remains stuck. The brief moment of panic is all the creature needs to pull you entirely within its maw. A last, panicked look at the outside world finds only the scales of another snake, a faint bulge writhing behind pearlescent skin. Jaws snap shut with a wet //thwack,// sealing you in a world of impenetrable dark and sweltering heat. Every instinct screams to thrash and flail and writhe your way back out, but icy dread narrowly holds you in place. Amid the ever-shifting walls of flesh, it’s impossible to tell up from down, forward from back. And all it would take is one wrong kick to send you sliding down the snake’s throat. You reach around in the dark, fingers blindly trailing along flaps and folds, grooves and ridges—sensory fragments of a whole you struggle to comprehend. You find something more substantial: a slight seam of crevice. You press forward, and the faintest glimmer of light shines through the crack. You wedge a few fingers into the gap with the kind of strength fueled by sheer desperation. A hand punches through, then an arm. A second arm. Fresh, blessed air spills through, gracing your lungs. You shimmy, wriggle, writhe, and pry the mouth open enough and spill out into a world of blinding light. Athy looms, utterly blind to your plight. Up close, you can see every feature in stunning, gorgeous detail: the little curled nose, delicately pointed chin, tiny and shy mouth. Patches of pale scales steak across her cheeks like shooting stars. Her brow’s furrowed in creases of concern, visible even under the blindfold. You wheeze, squeak out an inaudible cry for help as the jaws pinch tight around your chest. The gorgon’s lips press to a frown.“Snakob, you know I don’t like it when you play with your food.” Wait, //he’s// the bastard who got you? The thought distracts you just long enough that you’re completely unprepared when your captor lunges forward and thrusts you—and himself—between Athy’s lips. “Snakob, what are you—” The gorgon freezes as her tongue laps at your face. “Oh, that’sh actually very good!” A familiarly humanoid maw receives your extruding body, licks greedily, tasting, probing. Her tongue likes you quite a lot, enough that the muscle wrangles an awkward half-kiss with the animate hair to slurp and scoop you out. Transfer complete, Snakob retreats and leaves you in a new damp, dark place. … And with a chance of survival. <<linkreplace "“Athy!”">>“Ath—” Your bed of flesh pitches, dumping you into the gap between tongue and teeth. A glob of saliva splatters against your face, leaving you a sputtering mess as arms and legs scramble across slick surfaces. Immediately, the organ presses forward, shoving itself against your chest, slathering down your legs. You gasp, writhe, and find yourself utterly overpowered in a pool of gradually rising spittle. Athy’s tongue scoops under your feet, wriggles its way along your backside, and forces you onto its surface. The brief glimpse of respite vanishes as you’re immediately thrust to the roof of her mouth, tongue grinding against your back as your face is pushed against the ridges of her palate. “W- Wait,” you try your damndest to call out. “Athy, it’s—” You falter to hack up a glob of saliva. “It’s me, <<= $name>>!” A pleased hum is the gorgon’s only response. A single squish of her tongue drowns out a pitiful shout. The slight gurgle of her stomach drifting up an expectant throat utterly eclipses your fiercest scream. The most that will ever reach Athy’s ears are a few, muffled squeaks—exactly what she expects to hear from a mouse. You’re dropped back to the middle of her mouth, pressed into one cheek, then the other. The tongue prods, scoops and pushes you every step of the way, the mass of pliant flesh never departing, desperate to leech every last ounce of flavor from your skin. And what a delectable flavor it must be. Athy hums, trills, lets out a few wistful sighs. Her head tilts this way and that, saliva washing across your battered form in great waves. You struggle to draw breath. What few you find are hot, humid. You can taste the gorgon in every gasp, feel her flooding your lungs as surely as her spittle seeps through your thoroughly ruined clothes. When the motions slow, when Athy’s finally had her fill, you’re left a gasping, sputtering mess of a <<= $name>> resting atop her tongue. You try to prop yourself upright. Trembling fingers slip across slick flesh, and you splat back down. A trailing, fragmented sigh spills from your lips. The fight’s been battered out of you, drained and drawn and leeched from your very pores. You hardly even squirm when you feel the telltale tilt of the gorgon’s head, when your saliva-slicked form begins to slide ever so slowly toward the back of Athy’s tongue. A gentle ridge bumps against your back as you slip up, over. The slightest tingle of vertigo tickles at your brain. Yielding flesh gives way to a steep slope. You don’t need light to know the void that waits beyond. Athy swallows. To the gorgon, it must be a slight thing. To you, it’s a sudden, deafening //gluck// as walls of flesh clamp down on your body, squeeze and press, push and shove. And then comes the plunge. [[Down you go…|The Bottom Dark]]<</linkreplace>>

You slide down, down into her. Down the throat. Down through the slick, pulsing walls. Down the dark wet tunnel… Where’s the stomach? Did you miss it? Yousink for what feels like an hour. Miles and miles of an agonizingly slow fall, like a dream you can’t wake up from. You wriggle and brace, kick and lurch to try to save yourself from going any further //down.// The tube bends gradually. Your legs tilt forward as the undulating curtain guides your fall like a slide. Slowly, gently, somewhere near the upper edge of the earth’s sweltering core, you level out, float atop the shifting layer of magma—stomach acid. Muscle action drags you along lazily now, almost bored. The tunnel’s tapered to an unbearably tight squeeze. There’s no way to move your arms, your legs. Heavy layers of flesh pile atop you, a smothering blanket. Oppressive heat grows with every passing inch. Ominous gurgles drift from below, echoing, distorted. You’re in her tail, the snake stomach, the conveyor of flesh urging you deeper and deeper toward death. An apt end to your gastric journey through the gorgon. You can’t stop it. Slow as progress may be, it’s an inexorable, inescapable thing. Every shift, every ripple pushes you further down, sends you sliding along walls of slick flesh and pulsing muscle. The deeper you go, the worse and worse her tail becomes. Caustic acids bubble and pop, seep under your skin and burn. Each hopeless lungful draws in more of the miasmatic pitch, thick and sparkling, ravaging your whole body from head to toe. You close your eyes, as much from sheer exhaustion as hope for escape. For an end to the aches and pains as you’re churned away one surge of acid and one ripple of the gorgon’s stomach at a time. A deeper dark creeps at the corners of your perception, draws you into its stygian clutches, and finally engulfs you in an endless void. <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathGorgons ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>><<set $deathShrink ++>><<set $killedMira ++>><<set $killedVanille ++>><<set $killedAshlyn ++>><<set $killedSherine ++>><<set $killedLloriel ++>>[[Melt away…|Death 02.05.05]]

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> You know, I wanna be an asshole and mock you for getting all your friends killed, but… honestly, you did your best. Swampland™ dealt you a rough hand, and at least you tried. Maybe should’ve started running a little //sooner,// I guess. And I’m not really sure where you were planning to go after leaving all your friends to digest in a pair of gluttonous crocs. But I’ve come to appreciate basic self-preservation from you when I see it. <<case 2>> Okay, might’ve spoken too soon. Why are you back here? Did you— … Wait, you wanted to see the other one, didn’t you? You saw one croc gullet and just //had// to know what was waiting at the bottom of the other one, huh? I give you the benefit of the doubt for //one// second, one brief instant where I assume you don’t have the worst possible intentions, and //this// is how you repay me? Whatever. I’m sure you’ll be back again. <<default>> Like clockwork, your //‘dear companions’// take the plunge into some reptile bellies, and you inevitably follow. That’s fine. At least you picked a couple in a wholesome, fulfilling relationship to, uhh… fill. <</switch>> <<if $FootWorld == true>>[[Return|Footworld3][$FootWorld to false]]<<else>>[[Return|Crocodile Loch]]<</if>>

<<timed 2s t8n>>… Except you don’t quite fade away entirely. The world dims to a vague and colorless blur, leaving greyscale phantoms to dart across your vision in slow motion, sounds distant and muffled. Your body grinds to a halt one muscle at a time. You can’t move a single finger or twitch your toes. You can’t even blink. There’s something… fascinating about the sensation, like bondage taken to its absolute extreme. You’re completely helpless, left to the mercy of the world beyond. Athy’s visage cuts through the miasma, blindfolded anew. Hands clasp the sides of your face as she leans close. And then she kisses you on the mouth, scorchingly hot in a world of oppressive numbness. It’s so hot that you’d cry out if you could, so hot it physically hurts, so hot you can feel the sharp pinpricks of pain on your bottom lip, trickling warmth oozing in their wake. The gorgon withdraws. Sight rushes into the void she leaves. You violently gasp—holy shit, you can gasp! Fingers shift, eyes blink. Voices penetrate your ears and rattle around in your skull. Sensation returns in fits and starts, as if your body still needs time to reacclimate after its brief plunge into the abyss. A hand clasps your shoulder, gently willing you to sit upright. Words finally pierce the haze; you get the impression they’re not the first. “<<= $name>>? Hey, <<= $name>>, <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>are you okay?” You shake free the worst of the cobwebs, then turn to find Mira pressed against your side, face stricken with concern. A flicker of hope stirs in emerald eyes, even as her lips remain pressed to a thin line. “Yeah,” you eventually manage, or at least a slurred approximation of the word. Even the single syllable is a bit too much for your uncooperative tongue. You swallow and try again. “Y- Yeah, I’m—” Arms warp firmly behind your back as Mira throws herself into a fierce embrace, the force of the gesture nearly sending you toppling back all over again. A tremulous breath spills onto your chest; a shudder ripples through the demi’s small frame. It’s over as soon as it begins. Mira withdraws to kneel at your side, one arm still supporting your back. Her cheeks are tinged vibrant scarlet. “S- Sorry, I just…” She trails off, then tries again. “I- I thought you… What happened?”<<else>>talk to me.” You shake free the worst of the cobwebs, then turn to find Vanille crouched at your side. Auric eyes swirl with stark concern, her lips remain pressed to a thin line. “I’m, uhh…” You falter as even the simple syllables prove too much for your uncooperative tongue. You swallow, then try again. “I’m fine, I think.” <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>She gives a stoic nod even as she quells a trembling lip. “Th- That’s good.” A quick breath for stability, and she continues. “<<else>>She lets out a sharp sigh of relief. “Gods, <</if>>I was… What happened? You were stiff as stone, and then…”<</if>> “My venom…” a meek voice offers. All eyes turn to Athy standing nearby, a rapidly flicking tail tip betraying the gorgon’s nerves. Her sightless gaze drifts to a distant corner, unable to meet your own. “It’s an antidote. To the petrification.” She shuffles fitfully, then touches two fingers to her bottom lip. You mimic the gesture to find twin dots of crimson on your fingertips. “Oh…” you mutter, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment at her particularly, erm… effusive method of administering the cure<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>—especially in front of Vanille<</if>>. “Why the lips? Why not… I dunno, the neck or something?” “Th- The neck?” Athy squeaks, a sudden blush burning scarlet against pale cheeks. Her tail tip flicks a furious staccato on the floorboards as she turns away and mutters, “I don’t—That would be, uhm. I- I’m not so sure I should…” The gorgon ties herself into a flustered knot. You turn your attention to the rest of your companions to find Ashlyn cackling maniacally. Based on her gasps for breath, she’s been at it for a while. “Man,” the mage wheezes. “I was… hoping that would happen.” Cool. Glad to see <<if ($FuckedAshlyn == true || $AshlynEvent11 == "fuck") && $RVAshlyn >= 13>>your part-time fuck buddy<<else>>she<</if>> was worried. Vanille glowers at Ashlyn, then finally <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>helps Mira hoist you to your feet. Once your up, the demi insists on supporting you on her own; despite her small frame, she’s more than strong enough to handle you slumping against her side<<else>>helps you to your feet and props you against her side, more than able to handle your slumped weight<</if>>. You try walking on your own, but your legs feel like stones, and your feet keep slipping. Athy assures you the petrification should wear off entirely in due time, so you settle for propping yourself against your companion until then. “I’m so sorry about all this… err, again,” the gorgon offers as you say your farewells—your //proper// farewells, this time. Mira has the jar of frog spawn in hand<<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>—though you’re not quite sure //how// she managed to grab it while simultaneously lugging your partially immobilized ass around—<<else>>, <</if>>and you’re all gathered by the exit to the kitchen, performing one last check to make sure none of your belongings are left behind after all the excitement. “But, uh, thank you for being so understanding about all this,” Athy continues. Her mood’s lifted a hair, though whether that’s genuine or merely a temporary wave of relief after your brush with petrification is anyone’s guess. Either way, she gives an admiral attempt at a cheery grin. “A- And tell the frogs I hope their eggs hatch into healthy tadpoles. I’ll, ah, take extra care to avoid their town from now on, I promise.” Words are still a bit difficult for you, so Vanille says the final words in your place. “O- Of course,” The knight hesitates, then adds, “And take care of yourself, Athy, alright?” As the gorgon nods and offers one last thanks, you notice a half-dozen sets of beady black eyes staring right at you—six snake heads that have managed to wiggle their way free from Athy’s bun for the sole purpose of death glares. [[Leave before they try to kill you again|Post Snake]]<</timed>>

Sherine is waiting at the far side of the rickety bridge when you return, her expression of boredom shifting to one of concern when she sees you slumped across <<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>>Mira<<else>>Vanille<</if>>’s shoulder. As soon as you’re across, she slithers to your side. “It’s fine.” An attempt at a dismissive wave leaves your arm flopping limply in its socket. “R- Really, I’m okay. It was an unfortunate accident.” The lamia glares at Ashlyn, lips curled to a scowl. “Hey, don’t look at me,” the mage says, arms raised. “It was the //other// witch—who also happened to be a gorgon. <<= $name>> got <<= $xem>>self petrified. Fuck-ing hilarious.” Sherine’s eyes glimmer with the faintest traces of a knowing smile. “I see. How was the cure?” “Uhh… surprising,” you mutter<<if $MiraDating == true && $FuckedAshlyn == false && $FuckedSherine == false>> as you can practically feel Mira’s silent glower from your side<<elseif $VanilleEvent6 == true>> as you can practically feel Vanille’s silent glower from your side<<else>>, ears burning<</if>>. “Still don’t really get why she couldn’t just bite my neck…” Sherine lets out a pop of laughter. “Oh, <<= $name>>, you have a remarkable way with words.” She fixes you with an endeared grin, perhaps a shade condescending. “Gorgons bite the neck of their partner during sex. It’s erotic.” “… Oh.” “Gotta fuck the statues somehow,” Ashlyn ‘helpfully’ adds. You shrink into your tunic. “She didn’t turn me to stone.” “Rock hard!” “I’d like to go back to the frog village now,” you mutter. In a small act of mercy, the saner members of your group agree. [[Bury your shame|Rab2]]

The moment you’re back in the brackish swamps and mangrove forests, your unresponsive legs become a serious liability—and you’re a little too proud to just ask your companion to sling you over their back. Fortunately, you’re a burden that eases with time. Each step sees more strength returning to your limbs, more certainty in each stride. By the time you reach the bridge into Tolun’Moa, you can mostly walk on your own. When the stench of sappica first hits your nose, you’re confident enough to stand without any support. Rabbeth’oa’s office is every bit as dim and smoky as you remember. The sachem herself, though, is far more receptive to your arrival—not enough to sit upright, of course, but she at least has the courtesy to lean forward when Mira hands her the jar of frog spawn. She accepts the jar of spawn and in exchange offers a hearty belch. A pair of partially digested green underpants fly from her mouth and land near your boot. Everyone tries their damnedest to ignore it. “Ah, wonderful. My people will be relieved to have them back.” The frog gingerly sets the eggs on her table, then regards you all with a curious concoction of wary anticipation and uncertainty. “And none of you seem full or dead, so…” “Would’ve been nice to know you were sending us after a gorgon.” Vanille grunts. “A //friendly// one,” you add. A strained laugh spills from a too-wide mouth. “I see,” Rabbeth’oa says, shifting forward in her seat. “Did you… talk to it?” “Athylisia,” you growl, arms folded. “And //she’s// a lovely person. Which you already //know,// since you’ve been using her for your own benefit ever since she came to Lurram.” The frog scoffs. “How do you figure that?” “You’re lying about your relationship with her to your people. It keeps them afraid, and keeps you in power.” “We’re doing //this,// are we?” Rabbeth’oa lets out a long and exasperated sigh, slaps a palm to her stomach, then finally, slowly sits up in her seat and fixes you with a flat stare. “Since you’re clearly not locals, let me set one thing straight for you: my people wanted the gorgon //dead.// I was supposed to return from that cottage with a full stomach or a bloody spear.” Vanille gestures about the office. “And you picked this instead.” “I found a better option,” the sachem counters with a scowl. “I did the hard work of brokering peace—at great personal risk. So what if I get a cushy position as my reward?” The knight clenches her fists, leather gloves creaking under the strain. “You know damn well the gorgon never had even the slightest shred of hostile intent. You could’ve tried explaining that to your people instead of lying. Actually embody the unity you’re trying to sell to Lurram.” “Yeah!” Mira chimes in unexpectedly. “She’s living all alone because you’re a big jerk!” “Don’t patronize me.” Rabbeth’oa scowls. “The gorgon can say she’s harmless all she wants, but you know damn well her kind are still dangerous. One look and you’re as good as dead.” “That’s not true!” you shout. “She wears a blindfold! She’s been quietly handicapping herself to be a good neighbor, keeping to herself, only venturing out at night so she’s less likely to frighten your people—and look at how it escalated. You nearly had us kill her over a simple accident. She didn’t even //mean// to take the eggs!” Anger, raw and unanticipated, burns in your chest and courses through your limbs and fumes from between your lips in ragged huffs. “All Athy wanted—all she //wants//—is someone to talk to. She thought she had that with you. She never even suspected for a moment that you were just using her to prop up… all this. Tell me how there isn’t room for her to visit Tolun’Moa.” The sachem lets out an incredulous laugh. “Here? You want me to invite her //here,// just let the gorgon walk right into my village, mill about and make a few friends? Are you actually thick enough to think that would work? You’ve seen the looks your lamia companion gets, and she’s a chaperoned visitor. How long do you think that //creature// would last in Tolun’Moa? A day? An hour? A minute? “We can never be //friendly neighbors.”// Rabbeth’oa spits the words like they’re poison. “Fear is the only thing keeping our worlds safely apart.” You bristle. “And how do you think your people would feel if they learned that you’ve been lying to them for years.” The frog shrugs. “You’re outsiders. No one will believe you—and even if you manage to whip up enough outrage, you need me to attend the Clansmeet. Finding a new sachem could take weeks.” A sly grin curls at her lips. “Besides, if I’m not here, who’s to stop my people from just killing Athylisia?” “You’re no better than a despot,” Vanille growls, low and furious. Rabbeth’oa fixes your companion with a wide smile. “Oh? Remind me again how your people treat big, scary monsters that wander a little too close to their homes. Do you wait for the disappearances to start? For enough broken windows and smashed doors that you can make your case, appeal to the local authorities, and try the beast in some court of law for its crimes? I’ve heard about your ‘adventuring guilds,’ your ‘quests.’ Are you really going to pretend that sword on your hip is just for protection?” Slowly, tauntingly, the sachem picks up her pipe from the table and takes a long drag. “Enjoy your naive views, but don’t fret yourselves with politics you don’t understand.” She settles back in her seat and gives a dismissive wave. “You held up your end of the bargain. I’ll send a runner now, then set out with an escort soon. You may leave now.” You’re just about to step out of the room when the sachem clears her throat. You turn back to find her holding the jar of frog spawn, staring through the glass as she carefully tilts it this way and that. She glances toward you. “Nice job, by the way,” she says with a self-satisfied smile that makes your blood boil. [[Leave|Post Rab]]

<<set $Lurram_Frogs to true>>The door shuts with a frame-rattling thud. You walk in silence down the cramped hallways, pass the frogs squatting by the entrance and out into a relatively quiet stretch of Tolun’Moa before Vanille hisses out an agitated breath. “I want to hurt her,” she fumes. You’re not gonna sugar-coat it. “Yup. She sucks.” “I feel bad for Athy,” Mira says mournfully. “She was nice.” “Yeah, I’ve changed my mind about Rabbeth’oa,” Tess grumbles. Mira nods. “Why does she have to be so mean? This town is so cool, but no one understands how much of a jerk the boss is.” You sidle over to offer Mira a reassuring pat. The demi jolts, then scampers forward a few steps before flashing an apologetic frown, concern lingering in her eyes. “You okay, Mira?” She half-nods. “I just…” The demi chews fitfully on her bottom lip, then sidles a few paces closer and murmurs, “I wish there was something more I could do. F- For Athy, I mean. She wanted a friend and… and //I// could be that friend. I’d like to, but…” “But we’re not gonna stay here?” you supply, solemn. “Yeah…” Her stride wavers for a moment. “I know we have really important stuff to do, and it’s not like I wish I could stay. ‘Cause then I wouldn’t get to keep traveling with you and Vanille and everyone else. But Athy just seemed so…” Mira wears her discomfort plain as day, from the folded ears and drooping shoulders to the black tail swishing in slow, sullen arcs behind her back. You shouldn’t be surprised that the demi sees a bit of herself in the lonely gorgon, nor that she’d feel compelled to help Athy however she could. “Focus on the positives,” Sherine gently chides from behind, reminding you that twenty-something feet of lamia can be alarmingly stealthy. “<<if $Lurram_Dryads == false>>That’s one summons completed<<else>>There’s only one more summons needed<</if>>. And this Athylisia’s been cleared of any supposed wrongdoing. She should be fine…” “I- I’ll make an effort to visit her from now on,” Tess says to Mira. “I’m sure she could use an extra set of eyes and hands, a- and I’d like to try some of that tea she was talking about.” “Thank you,” the demi murmurs. She smooshes a hug into Tess’s front, then pulls herself free and asks, “Where to next?”<<if ($Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true || $Lurram_Lizards == true) && $Lurram_Sidequest == false>>>> [[Look for Maisy|MaisyQuest2]]<<else>> <<include "Swamp_Navigator">><</if>>

“Sherine, block that doorway with Vanille! Lloriel, Ashlyn: shoot through the cracks and windows. Keep them off the outpost!” You rifle through your bag frantically for anything that will help. Mira grabs the screamer as soon as you pull it free and hurls it through a breach in the wall. It cracks against a crocodile bicep and emits a screeching cacophony to little effect. The building groans, weeps in agony as huge claws tear into its skin. Lloriel lets two arrows fly, each threading the needle of the creaking, cracking shell of the outpost. Ashlyn has less luck as a sparkly beam shoots from her fingertips and dissipates uselessly against the wooden wall. She grunts out a frustrated “Harumph!” and prepares the next spell. Tess trembles, frozen in fear, eyes darting about for the next thunderous crash. A heavy crack erupts behind you. You whirl about, watch a wall shake and shudder. Another slam elsewhere. More pounding, more thumping and pulverizing destruction wrought against the innocent outpost. The ceiling rumbles. Splinters rain from above. The roof cracks, ripped asunder. Streaming sunlight pours down as the entire building surrenders and collapses. Shit… You throw yourself at the nearest ally to protect them. Something heavy smacks you in the back of the head, and you’re out cold. [[Ow…|Too Full or Not Too Full? That Is the Question]]

<<timed 2s t8n>>You come to slowly, painfully. A tremendous weight lays upon your chest, crushing. It’s dense and thick and… strangely soft and pliant? It’s waggling back and forth— The base of a crocodile girl’s cushy tail rests atop you lazily. Its bulk, combined with your injuries, is more than enough to keep you pinned to in the rubble of the former outpost. //Shhlurrrrp!// A wriggling red cord slaps about overhead, a crimson blur through bleary eyes. Sherine’s lower half coils and squeezes around a hefty arm to no effect, then relinquishes and slaps against hard scales with heavy //thwaps// as she’s slurped down another few inches. You can feel your oppressor’s gut swell against the back of your leg, feel your companion thrash about within. Another croc sits across from the one pinning you to the debris. Two pairs of kicking legs hang from her open maw—Vanille and Lloriel, squished side by side. They thump and flail uselessly, boots bouncing off the bulbous, bulging gut below. Each of your companions is held by their waists in a large clawed hand. The hungry monster girl apparently couldn’t decide who to eat first, and opted to guzzle both of them down at the same time. She pushes and shovels and crams the wriggling bodies into her sloppy gullet, jaw hinging and flapping, claiming her prey inch by frenzied inch. Both monster girls finish at the same time, the one overhead smacking her lips and obsessively touching her bulging throat as the last few inches of tail slide down her chest. Her crude counterpart belches obscenely and squeezes her belly with both arms and an errant leg, crushing and squishing its struggling contents into meaty submission. After a few more burps, she slumps onto your warden’s protruding gut. They share a satisfied sigh. “Feeling better, Sheila-bear? You were getting hangry.” The shorter monster girl, Sheila, slaps her gut and nuzzles up against her partner. “You take such good care of me. I couldn’t eat another bite…” She snickers. “Well, that’s not true. I still have room for dessert.” “Good luck catching it.” “Are you calling me fat?” “You inhaled your food so fast, I was worried you were gonna choke. Can you even see your feet right now?” Sheila laughs and rubs her bloated stomach. “You’re totally right. These four are gonna look good on me.” “You ate six.” “Jealous?” “Not at all,” the bigger girl croons. She leans onto her partner and curls sharp fingers around Sheila’s chin. “I love it when you’re like this,” she murmurs, then plants an amorous kiss on the unsuspecting gator. Happy little //splops// and //chuus// fill the air. The monster girls shift and moan, bumping up against each other as they share tongue and touch. Gentle and loving ministrations stoke the fire in Sheila, subtle squeezes and calculated pecks keeping her attention. … You honestly didn’t expect the most vicious and feared predators in the swamp to be a sickeningly adorable couple. “It’s so nice out,” your captor sighs as she disentangles. “You wanna float around the lake and digest for the rest of the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>night<<else>>day<</if>>?” “Maybe. //Ooor,// do you wanna go up to the mud pit instead?” You can feel the excited jolt rattle down the larger woman’s spine. “Ohh, yes I do! That’s a great idea. You’re so smart and thoughtful.” She pushes a big sloppy kiss onto Sheila, then grunts as she tries to lift her ass. “Oof, I dunno if I can even move, though. I’m sooo full.” The croc shifts, leans back for leverage. Her weight rolls across your small, fragile body. You brace and bear it, but a little squeak leaks out. Sheila’s reptilian eye flits open. The pupil narrows. The nictitating membrane blinks. You lock eyes and lay absolutely still, hoping like hell that crocodiles are hyperopic. They’re dinosaur-alike, right? Maybe their vision is based on movement. If you pretend to be a piece of debris… “Bethel?” Sheila asks, not breaking eye contact with you. A droplet dangles from her salivating mouth. “What’s that you’re sitting on?” “What am I—Oh my. Hello.” Bethel, your matronly blanket, lifts her thigh and tail with a monumental grunt. Flesh recedes from atop your body, frees you from the pin. <<linkreplace "Now’s your chance">>You spring forth and run for your fucking life. Because why not? Bethel grabs you immediately. You don’t even make it two steps, just scooped up by a big green hand and plopped atop her gut like a plush toy. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you under there,” she says with a guilty frown. Gosh, she’s pretty. You almost wanna forgive her. It’s not like you hated it… //“Dessert!”// Sheila gasps. “Praise Lilith, my prayer was answered.” Then, with all the brash confidence in the world, she opens her mouth expectantly. A plume of noxious effluvia pours forth, washes over you. “Well that hardly seems fair,” Bethel giggles, pulling you a bit closer. “Why should you get <<= $xem>>? <<if $xe == "they">>They were<<else>><<= $Xe>> was<</if>> under //my// butt.” The maw snaps shut. “I will gladly eat anything that touches your butt.” “Sheila! Don’t be crass. Not in front of the little one.” Yes, spare your virgin ears and edible body. “I’m not gonna apologize to—//urrp//—food.” Bethel pokes her partner’s tummy. “Didn’t you have enough?” <<linkreplace "“I think you’ve both had enough.”">>“I think you’ve both had enough,” you say, somewhat surprised to hear your own voice. For good measure, you add, “Uh, please don’t eat me?” Sheila scowls. “Oh, you don’t think we have room?” “Th- That’s not what I meant.” “Who’s fuller, then?” “What?” She points at her partner. “Bethel and me. Whose belly is fuller?” You blush. “Uhh, I don’t…” Sheila is obviously bigger. She’s got multiple people in her stomach. You can see parts of each of them, a clumped mass of familiar bodies crammed into a fleshy sack like toys waiting to be delivered on Christmas. Her gut extends past the point of reason, a huge mound she can’t even wrap her arms around anymore. You could hide under that blimp, move when she moved, go unnoticed for hours. But the question wasn’t ‘who’s bigger,’ it was ‘who’s //fuller?’// Fullness isn’t just about volume. No no no, it’s spiritual, a quintessential property dependent entirely on the eater and the eatee. If you devoured three entire dinners all back-to-back, slurped down pounds upon pounds of spaghetti until the point of bursting, you wouldn’t have much to show for it with your normal, boring, human stomach. Hell, you could even over-fill yourself with fizzy drinks and still not reach anything even close. You’d be smaller than Mira after she ate, say, a mouse girl. But you’d be //fuller,// no question about it. There’d be an inertia to your person, an unwillingness to get up and move around, a general malaise and lethargy to every little task you did while digesting. There comes a point in a gratuitous meal where the next bite turns from desire to repulsion. Sheila’s still got room. She prayed for dessert. Bethel on the other hand… The bigger-boned croc is cradling a single, overwhelming meal. That one noodle which extended and coiled across multiple plates. A slurp unending, the kind of bounty akin to finding a four-leaf clover in food form. The largest chip in the entire bag, the one you save for last. A bite so monumental it can be only the final word on the subject before all parties go home and sleep off the extravagance. The way she’s holding herself, the way her flesh attaches to and bunches around her hips, how the plush bumps make the perfect outline… it’s undeniable. She only needed that one special person to be sated—and a muskrat or two as an appetizer, but that’s not the meal she’s gonna remember from today. No, Bethel has partaken of ambrosia, manna, the forbidden fruit. Food will never be the same. So really, who is fuller? <<set $deathTotal ++>><<set $deathCrocs ++>><<set $deathMonstergirls ++>><<set $killedMira ++>><<set $killedVanille ++>><<set $killedAshlyn ++>><<set $killedSherine ++>><<set $killedLloriel ++>>[[It’s Bethel; quality is key|Full of Girls!]] [[It’s Sheila; you can’t beat a stuffing|& Frankel]]<</linkreplace>><</linkreplace>><</timed>>

“I- I think Bethel is fuller,” you admit, strange confidence filling your voice. You offer Sheila a polite, apologetic gesture—a piteous smile reserved for silver medal recipients. “Not that you couldn’t handle more, of course, but your partner has this look in her eye…” “Oh, <<= $xes>> good. <<if $xe == "they">>They know<<else>><<= $Xe>> knows<</if>> <<= $xir>> predators,” the fuller one says. The croc girl rises to her knees and leans onto Sheila’s tummy with a weighty //thwump,// like two titanic ships bumping peacefully. Bethel moves gently and with purpose, so much so that you remain balanced atop her happily gurgling gut without a hitch. A delicate, clawed hand curls around your middle, lifts you up and appraises like you’re a precious bolt of silk. And then she pins your legs together and crams you halfway down Sheila’s throat. “No, wait, please!” you cry out, arms flailing, elbow banging against the wide maw. Just because one of them is fuller doesn’t mean the other should keep eating! They’re both gluttonous monster girls who gorged— Right. Dessert is meant to fill in the cracks. Nevermind. The pulsating throat rises. Tough walls ripple and squeeze and pull you in deeper. Your hips, your waist. Your boots pop into the stomach proper, press against her tightly packed dinner. You thump a fist uselessly against Bethel’s claw as it retreats. Unaided, Sheila bucks, swallows again, but you don’t move. … That’s different. She struggles with your shoulders, strains to gulp the last morsel of her outrageous feast. Your knees bend in her throat, then spring back as the peristaltic action stops. She huffs and heaves to no avail. You grab onto her huge row of teeth, pull yourself upward, try to clamber an inch toward freedom, and it actually fucking works. Has the predator finally hit her limit? Can she only contain six and a half entire people in her gullet? <<linkreplace "Did you win?">>Turns out that, with the love and support of your giant crocodile wife, you can do anything. Bethel’s palm presses against your head, rams you out of sight, down the slippery maw and through the tight, greedy sphincter at the bottom of the monster girl’s throat. The ring of flesh eclipses the last shreds of daylight, seals you in fully. //“Urrghh,”// Sheila groans. “Screw the mud pit. Just roll me back into the lake.” Bethel says something playful and unintelligible through the dense veil of flesh. Foreign hands prod and knead the thick wall of muscle and flesh, mush you into place atop the cramped mess. It’s crammed tight, a pile of bodies all pressed together in a clump, impossible to move more than a few inches with your exhausted body. Digestive slop pours, rains onto the tangle of people. You’re unsure if it’s worse to be on the top near the caustic rain, or at the bottom where you can hear the bubbling acids pooling. “<<= $name>>?” Vanille groans. “It’s <<= $xem>>!” Mira cheers. The demi wiggles her way through the packed confines excitedly. She bumps and bonks into the rest of your friends without an ounce of courtesy as she climbs her way to the top of the stack. “Could you please not—” Tess groans before being cut off by a fleshy smack. “Mira,” Vanille grunts. You feel a frustrated kick reverberate through the throng of bodies, and suspect that when the demi started shifting, the knight got relegated to the bottom. “Mira, don’t eat <<= $xem>>, too.” “Hi,” Mira says as she pops up next to you. She’s warm and wet. “Is everyone else coming?” she asks casually. “No, uh, Bethel ate Sherine—Wait, is someone missing?” “Ashlyn,” Vanille grunts. Huh. Bethel must have had the mage as an appetizer before you regained consciousness. A shame you missed that. “Dammit,” Vanille huffs. “Nobody’s out there to help?” “No, sorry, I guess I was the last.” You really gotta start throwing yourself into danger first. While you appreciate Vanille’s staunch attempts to make sure you’re the last <<if $xe == "he">>man<<elseif $xe == "she">>woman<<else>>person<</if>> standing, it’s not like //you’re// gonna be the one to turn a losing battle around. But, if a predator’s busy chomping on you, maybe that’ll create an opportunity for your companions to triumph.<<if $AshlynEvent11 == "ass">> Oh well, something to remember for your next life in Foot Fetish World.<</if>> “It’s okay, <<= $name>>’s here now!” The feline shoves herself against you and pulls you into a big hug. The heft of her enlarged belly squeezes the breath out of your lungs. Ah, that’s what everyone was complaining about. “Hi, Mira. Who’s in your stomach?” you ask, then immediately pitch a guess, “Is that Lloriel?” “I’m down here,” the elf squeaks, definitely not from inside the demi. “I’m full of girls!” Mira cheers as she pats her writhing gut. “I ate both muskrats when I got here. They were yummy.” Well, you suppose it doesn’t matter either way. You’re all going to the same place: Sheila’s hips. Wait wait, no, you shouldn’t be giving up already. Half your adventuring group is here. You’re supposed to rally the troops, sing an inspiring song and lead your party to victory like a proper bard. “So what’s the plan?” you ask. “I was gonna eat you to keep you safe,” Mira explains before receiving a kick in the leg from below. “Mira! I said—” Vanille shoves and pushes her way through the mass of limbs. She drags herself along the slick walls until she’s in range to cover Mira’s mouth. Unfortunately, the demi presses her stomach against the ascending knight and stops her progress just shy of being a threat. Vanille huffs. “<<= $name>>, don’t let her.” “No, I’m not asking about that. I’m wondering how we’re gonna get out of here.” You throw your best punch against the firm stomach walls. Sheila doesn’t even notice. Vanille’s elbow thumps the elastic. “The croc is really strong. I don’t think I can do anything. Maybe all together…” “She got too many of us,” Lloriel laments. She shifts and squeaks as the tremendous weight of friendly bodies presses down on her. “No room to actually try anything—Er, uh, not that I’m complaining. I’m, uh, glad I’m not alone right now.” “There’s no way,” Tess echoes. “I tried to warn you all about Lurram crocodiles. You don’t fight them; you run. We’re dead meat.” A disheartening gloom settles over your group, except for Mira of course, who seems more than happy to just be along for the ride with a bunch of her friends. Good for her, honestly. Out of everyone, she doesn’t deserve to be digested alone. Gurgles and groans steadily rise, a gastric symphony to accompany the stomach’s impending digesting of its hefty bounty. A morbidly fascinated part of you can’t help but wonder how long it will take for Sheila to actually work through this many people, but given the spray of acid already dripping down the walls, you doubt it’ll be long. A more nervous part wonders how much of it you’ll be alive to experience. Drop after sizzling drop numbs and softens your flesh, bores holes in clothes. The fumes are dense, a choking miasma clogging your lungs and burning your nostrils. Heavy eyes flutter lazily. The gut’s stretched thin enough you can barely see, everything cast in a reddish hue. It’s only vague shapes, gestures at motions, but a welcome supplement to the landscape of gurgling and groaning. Vanille proposes a dozen physical solutions, and between the waves of the caustic maelstrom, you try a few together. The most success you ever meet comes in the form of a belch and an idle rub from your captor as she floats atop the lake. Twice, Vanille blames the failure on Mira’s overeating, but the others are quick to point out that there’d be even less room in here with two more people… somehow. The air’s too thick and acrid to have a discussion about conservation of mass. You rally the strength to keep your friends from getting too miserable and melancholic amid the sloshing darkness. You share stories from your world, recount the good times you’ve had in this one. Vanille’s profuse apologies taper off. Tess stops trembling in terror. Mira and Lloriel manage to share a laugh. And like the stars at dawn, you all gently wink out one at a time until there’s nothing but the soft burbles of a full belly bubbling away. [[Fade away…|Death 02.05.04]]<</linkreplace>>

“I- I think it’s Sheila. You had so many already… I- I can see their outlines,” you say with a shudder. Sheila chuckles, her whole body jiggling with joy. “Heh. I overdid it this time, didn’t I?” “Nono, it’s cute,” Bethel insists. She reaches out and pats her partner’s belly. “I like to see you well fed. We were lucky today. We don’t usually get whole groups like this.” “Yeah, even those idiot lizard girls are smart enough to run away after we grab a couple.” Sheila sighs. She rises to her knees and bumps her big, sloshy gut up against her partner’s. Two huge hands lift and cradle you like you’re a wounded bird. You flinch as she kisses your head, then squeak as she tilts her hands back and lets you tumble right into Bethel’s waiting maw. “No, wait, please!” you cry out as your entire backside is swallowed. Just because one of them is fuller doesn’t mean the other should keep eating! They’re both gluttonous monster girls who gorged— Right. Of course. Dessert is meant to fill in the cracks. The pulsating throat rises. Tough walls ripple and squeeze and yank you in deeper. Your hips, your waist. Your boots pop inside the stomach proper, press against her tightly packed dinner. You thump a fist uselessly against Sheila’s claw as it retreats. Unaided, Bethel bucks, swallows again, but you don’t move. … That’s different. She struggles with your shoulders, strains to gulp the last morsel of her outrageous feast. Your knees bend in her throat, then spring back. She huffs and heaves to no avail. You grab onto her huge row of teeth, pull yourself upward, try to clamber an inch toward freedom, and it actually fucking works. She swallows. You don’t budge. You pull up. Nothing. She tries again, and still you remain lodged in her throat. A hideous shiver wracks her entire upper body. The tunnel undulates in discomfort as she gags. Her uvula smacks the back of your neck. Bethel waves a hand at her partner for help. Sheila just smirks at you and folds her arms across her chest. “You can do it, babe.” A croak of discomfort bubbles out of the predator, her throat rippling around your half-ingested body. She heaves and tries once more to pull you down with peristalsis alone. Another choking gulp sees you sink an inch. You yelp as something moves beneath your feet. You’re pushed back up the same inch. Sheila laughs as Bethel grunts in frustration. Huge claws cover her maw, wrap and push and shove you down. Slowly, like you’re being shaken in a martini mixer by a geriatric bartender, you’re sent down the monster girl’s gullet. Arms slip inside, followed by your chest and shoulders. The tight tube squeezes and pulls, shunts you down further and further until the tight ring of flesh seals you within. “You’re supposed to help me!” Bethel whines as soon as her windpipe is clear. “You know my throat is dainty. I don’t wanna gag.” “Can’t handle… scrawny soft-skin?” is all you can hear through the thick walls. You sink into a tangle of slippery flesh and even more slippery scales. You slide, scramble, tumble into the literal snakepit like sand through a sieve, until finally your limbs catch on a bundle of coils that won’t permit you to fall any deeper. Delicate, loving hands pet the thick walls of muscle and flesh, gently guide you into place amid the cramped mess. Crisscrossing bands of thick snakeskin surround, like you’re in the nucleus of a warm, wet pile of laundry. Heavy cords drape and smother, inhibit your movements and bind you up long enough for all the adrenaline to seep out. Your exhausted body floats in the mass. You listen to the digestive slop splash about, listen to it drip onto the living knot. You’re unsure if it’s worse to be on the top near the caustic rain, or at the bottom where you can hear the bubbling acids pooling. <<linkreplace "Try and get comfy">>“I’m less filling, hmm?” Sherine’s sultry voice slithers into your ear. You flinch at the noise to your immediate left. A coy chuckle and she shifts to the other side, her neverending body coiling and curling around you. She pauses to let an odd bump in her tail press itself against your sensitive areas, then shifts the rest of her cords around until a second body trapped in her depths grinds along your backside. “S- Sorry. I thought if I answered ‘correctly’ they’d spare me.” “You’d leave poor little me in here by myself?” It’s mercifully dark in the sweltering stomach. Dark enough to hide your blush as you push against a person-shaped lump in the lamia’s tail. “We’re not exactly alone. What did you eat, anyway?” “My last remittance.” Sherine sighs. “Some annoying little prey creatures I found.” Ah, the pair of muskrats that went missing earlier. “I take it there’s no one coming to rescue us?” Sherine asks. “No, unfortunately. Sheila got everyone else. I was the last.” You really gotta start throwing yourself into danger first. While you appreciate Vanille’s staunch attempts to make sure you’re the last <<if $xe == "he">>man<<elseif $xe == "she">>woman<<else>>person<</if>> standing, it’s not like //you’re// gonna be the one to turn a losing battle around. But, if a predator’s busy chomping on you, maybe that’ll create an opportunity for your companions to triumph.<<if $AshlynEvent11 == "ass">> Oh well, something to remember for your next life in Foot Fetish World.<</if>> <<if $FuckedSherine == true || ($FuckedAshlyn == true && $FuckedSherine == false)>>“<<= $name>>, are you on a first-name basis with all the women who eat you?” “I- I…” You stammer and blush again. “Are you jealous?” “Perhaps a little.” The coils tighten. Hot breath spills on your flushed cheeks. “I’d hate for the last thing you experience to be the inelegant touch of a woman who doesn’t see you as anything more than food.”<<else>>“Hm, what a shame. This isn’t how I saw myself going out.” “Really?” you ask. Personally, you fully expected it, but you’re not a twenty-foot-long lamia. “I’d assumed that being grabbed by a larger monster was a possibility, but I never really took it seriously.” A long, whistling sigh trickles from Sherine’s lips. “I suppose I was used to always being on top.” As if hearing prophecy directly from the lips of the very, //very// attractive messiah, you slip down under another snake coil. “You uh, don’t think you can get us out?” you ask from the acid puddle. It bites and stings, pulls at your flesh. Sherine grunts. “No. It’s the one disadvantage we lamia have—all tail and no legs means we have less leverage to fight our way out.” “Oh… That makes sense,” you say, crestfallen. Sherine’s body tightens around yours. She lifts you back up out of the bubbling pool. “Now now, no need to be disheartened. It’s almost romantic, melting away as one. There’s still time enough for us to be together.”<</if>> Wait, does she mean… <<if $MiraDating == false && $VanilleEvent6 == false && ($SherineEvent1 == true || $SherineEvent3 == true || ($FuckedAshlyn == false && ($Quarry2 == "Sherine" || ($RVSherine+6 >= $RVAshlyn))))>>You freeze as Sherine slithers around you. Her breath stills. Hunting, encircling prey, securing her meal amid her coils until every avenue of escape is cut off and she becomes inevitable. Warm lips find your own. The press of wet, supple flesh. The nip of teeth. The slightest tug. A hand slides behind your back in a tender hold. Another takes you at the waist, pulls you close. A questing tongue pokes, prods, urges your own to break free from its confines and join it in blissful entanglement. To forget, for just a moment, the fate that awaits and surrender yourself to hedonistic abandon.<<if $FuckedSherine == false && $SherineEvent4 >= 4>> Why the fuck not?<</if>> You allow yourself to be pulled into the lamia’s embrace, to be entwined in skin and scale. Hands grasp blindly, fingers seeking purchase in a world of unending slickness. A pair of thrumming heartbeats match the gastric cacophony, drown it out alongside a rising hymn of gasps and coos and gentle moans. You shift and sway together, flood each other’s senses, tangle and twist and grind. Sweat mingles with gastric juices, dripping from one body to the other. Breath comes slow and heavy, the taste of your partner a precious relief from the choking miasma. Will it still end with Sherine devouring you? With the lamia deciding her desires of the flesh have been sated and using you to satisfy one final need? Part of you would welcome it. None of you cares. You let the world narrow until nothing’s left but Sherine.<<else>>You freeze as Sherine slithers around you. Her breath stills. Hunting, encircling prey, securing her meal amid her coils until every avenue of escape is cut off and she becomes inevitable. “I’ll take care of you, <<= $name>>.” A soft kiss graces your cheek. It’s delicate, like butterfly wings. She licks your neck as you shiver. A squeeze elsewhere, then again as she pulls you into a deep, dark embrace. Sherine swirls and wraps until every inch of you is covered, protected from the harsh elements of the stomach. “Better now?” //“Mhmm”// you murmur. The vice around your chest tightens. Smooth hands aid her rolling coils, caress and massage your aching form. She nibbles here and there, sparks excited little chirps as she slides along your body. Methodically, the lamia compresses every inch of you from fingertips to shoulders, from toes to hips to chest until you’re entirely numb. The world becomes just you and her. Thrumming heartbeats fill your head amid a rising hymn of gasps and gentle moans. Your chest tightens again. All you can do now is coo little burbles of thanks. Sherine shushes you, whispers sweet nothings into waiting ears. She matches your shallow breaths with her own mighty ones, whole body pulsing. No pinches, no pain, just a slow, smothering embrace until you’re gently pressed from one life to the next.<</if>> [[Fade away…|Death 02.05.04]]<</linkreplace>>

<<switch visited()>> <<case 1>> Ah, yes. Rely on strength. That always works for you. Did you //really// think pushing that box was a good idea? Actually? Honestly? Don’t get me wrong; relying on the sex-mage’s magic to bail you out of a situation isn’t exactly a great plan either, but she //has// actually helped you in the past. Sometimes. When she feels like it. I’m just saying, your choices are between certain doom and potential doom. I know which one I’d take. <<case 2>> Y’know, I can see what happens after you die. It’s amazing how that gorgon can shrug off your sudden disappearance from her house. No critical thinking skills to be found. She just does not care in the slightest. And neither does your other snakey friend. That copper noodle just takes a nap outside, wakes up, and wanders off. <<default>> No, I won’t tell you where the snake throats go. Stop trying to find out. <</switch>> <<if $FootWorld == true>>[[Return|Footworld4][$FootWorld to false]]<<else>>[[Return|Snake Attack]]<</if>>

You step toward the door, raise your voice, and say it again just in case Bethel was serious about not eavesdropping. “We’re letting her go. But if either of you attack again, we’ll have no choice but to defend ourselves.” “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” Bethel cries out. Ashlyn audibly sighs and rolls her eyes like a teenager whose phone was just taken away. She mumbles out a hex and plucks her errant breasts-weapons from the croc. It’s hard not to watch as she stuffs her top and arranges everything back into place. Sherine uncoils, red scales slipping and sliding across the reptilian woman laying flat on the ground. The lamia dismounts and puts as much distance between her and her passed-over prey as possible in the cramped, wrecked shack. The ground quakes as Sheila rises. Your heart skips as beat as her hunched shoulders bump against the ceiling. She glares at Ashlyn and Sherine, then huffs out a single stormy breath before cramming herself through the narrow doorway. “You know this is what’s going to get us all killed, right?” Ashlyn remarks. “Not the crocodiles in particular, but one day you saps are gonna trust the wrong bitch.” “Like you?” She beams. “Yeah, exactly.” Vanille leads the way as you hesitantly step through the thoroughly ruined doorway. The wooden frame is shattered. The hinges are bent beyond salvage. Bits of bark dangle from fibrous threads, twirling lazily in a <<if $Lurram >= 4>>evening<<elseif $Lurram >= 2>>midday<<else>>late-morning<</if>> breeze. Bethel picks at the splinters and debris as her partner grumbles and grunts, like a mother doting on a fussy child. “Look at all this. I tried to warn you.” She clicks her tongue. “You’re lucky that these people are so kind. Make sure to say ‘thank you.’” Sheila grumbles. “I don’t thank food.” “They kicked your ass, sweetie. Apologize and make nice.” “No—” The single syllable is all Sheila can produce before Bethel’s jaws clamp over her head with a wet //homf.// Bethel’s hands clasp against her partner’s sides, then heave the crocodile up and in with a resounding //gluck.// The massive maw clamps and hinges, heaving up and down like a dog eating a slab of meat. Her neck stretches, her front expands. Finally, Sheila starts squirming, but it’s far too late. You watch Bethel tame and pin the flailing tail nearly exactly the same way your party did mere moments ago. Another gulp brings her down to the waist, and the larger croc has no problem wrapping her lips around her partner’s hips and scarfing her down. Twin legs flip up toward the sky, and Bethel braces. A series of lunging gulps and stray flecks of saliva see the once-proud crocodile reduced to a pair of scaled legs, then shins, and finally a pair of limply squirming feet and a flicking green tail. These too sink past wide lips and gleaming fangs, slide over a thick tongue, and finally slip into the void of Bethel’s throat with one last, almost dainty //glrp.// The rolling bulge descends the crocodile’s throat and joins the rest of the ingested Sheila behind the taut swell of Bethel’s stomach. The massive monster girl happily slaps her protruding middle. “I’m—//urrp//—so sorry for her terrible behavior.” The words are distant and vague, mere starlight in a hazy sky. Bethel’s gut has swollen to a tremendous, ecliptic size. The vast expanse of pale underbelly scales is so massive and round, you swear the <<if $Lurram >= 4>>moon<<else>>sun<</if>> came down to greet you. Sheila shifts from within, the writhing array of lumps utterly hypnotic. All the effort you and your team spent subduing the frenzied juggernaut, the tense deliberation of her fate, sparing her life and going out on a limb for a potentially lethal foe… and the croc gets eaten anyway. “Is… Is she gonna be okay?” you hear yourself asking. Bethel waves a hand. “Oh, she’s fine. I’m just keeping her in timeout until she’s learned her lesson.” The ingested Sheila responds with a fresh onslaught of pitched squirms, limbs bulging behind a taut expanse of flesh and scales. That’s a lot of struggling. “Are //you// gonna be okay?” “Yeah,” the huge monster girl sighs. Bethel winces as she clutches her distended side. “She just ate my lunch, but that’s fine. Just means she’s gonna be punished longer.” //M- Mommy?// You nod, not quite knowing what else to do. This must just be how couples are in this world. Presumably, Arturo and Rabine are off on their honeymoon enjoying each other in similar fashion. “Is there anything I can do for you all?” Bethel asks with a slight bow. She smiles a big toothy grin. “I cannot thank you enough for sparing Sheila. She means the world to me.” You still can’t pull your eyes away. “Uhh, n- no. We’re fine. We’re just gonna get going, if that’s cool.” “Oh! Where are you headed? I’ll take you there, make sure the other monsters leave you alone.” //Say yes to the big-bellied bodyguard.// “No, really, it’s fine. We already have a guide.” You gesture to your left, presumably where Tess is. You can’t tell, your attention is focussed elsewhere. “We’re just glad everyone gets to walk away safely. She purses her lips, but eventually offers a satisfied nod. “I am too.” She puts one hand on her stomach, then starts heading back toward the lake. “Thank you again. It was lovely meeting you. Toodles!” The crocodile—Err, //crocodiles,// walk right into the lake like it’s a casual stroll. Powerful strides propel Bethel-and-company into the water one audible splash at a time. She sinks to her waist, then to her ponderous gut. You half expect her to start swimming like a normal human being, but she just power walks right into the depths. When the water settles, not a trace of her passing or presence remains. How can something that big be that invisible? Damn, crocodiles are scary. Vanille lets out a ponderous //‘hmm.’// She tilts her head from side to side, watching the ripples unfold across the lake. “I’m still not sure if this was a good deed, or if we’re just shunting a problem off onto someone else.” “I think I’d feel worse if we killed them.” You can’t say the same for those three muskrat girls… or anyone else the crocodiles might eat down the road. You could make a case that you hurt more lives by letting Bethel and Sheila go, but also, you’re really not interested in climbing aboard the horny trolley problem right now. The knight places a hand on your shoulder and smiles. “Agreed.” You glance back toward the trashed outpost. What once was an old, gnarled tree now looks like an overused scratching post. The concealed windows are all shattered, half the branches are gone, and the walls have been torn to ribbons. As you watch, something gives way with an audible //snap// and the entire upper half of the tree lurches toward the lake perilously. “Wait, didn’t we need to find—” Mira holds out the ‘key’ in front of you. While not literal, it’s of the same make and style as the three-pronged unlocking device you cobbled together in the Whispered Archive. Whoever the Lurnasians were, they sure enjoyed ‘sleek, alien masonry.’ “Just like Sable said. Let’s bring it back to her!” [[“Lead the way.”|Mira Adds Another Cute Girl to Her Harem]]

You’ve reached the end of the current early-access content for //Another Inner World.// Thank you for being a subscriber! Be sure to return for the next WIP release. In the meantime, we have [[a Discord server!|https://discord.gg/s6CymYpyaY]] Feel free to join us if you wanna chat about AIW, ask a question, or provide feedback. As always, you can export your current save using the sidebar menu to the left, then load it into the next version and pick up right where you left off (here, this page, but with a link to proceed) when the next release is available. __Credits:__ Written by Progressive and Thecheese01 Programmed in Twine 2 by Progressive Editing by EricaRain Additional proofreading, testing, and feedback by Blex (episode 1, 2, 5), Kable12 (episode 1, 5), and Keji (episode 1) Character art by MinaHyena Banner design by Progressive and MinaHyena __Supporters:__ A W æµé€ Aickavon Alyssa Roumen Andy whale ao9zo Apocalypto Apothican Boomer Arinote ArtaxIsSleeping Artem Borovsky Artie-boy Autocrux Avicyn BStreamcat bishbopist @@color:red;Blex@@ @@color:red;Boosted Snail@@ Brett Ripley BrownBear Butt McFarts calm belt Chilled One Chris cin898 Clone Cowgoon Cursed Darkavengershark defalt2417 dirk abney Diseveron Drakeon1015 Dude43235 Dylan Mastine Elmo Eric ExposedSenpai FeloniousWeevil I am fine with my name simply being "Flame". Frank Lance Frog Friend FrogFries Gea gongon Grapes Guardian Gnosis gzc Phorcys19 Happy Potato Hayden Black hi529 @@color:red;honickj@@ Igloo3047 Ithirien James Vredenburg J. Lharr Jasper jayPhrog Joe Fry Joel Boening Johnathon Eller Jon Blazer Kable12 Kasra Kingofhills Kinje Knight Krono Ookami kyop16 Exodiaaddict Lake Hawk Lanon LemonHead Lene Lillie Littleguy145 Robin! Loric @@color:red;Lyl@@ M Tanner M423x Mandos Grimm Manny M. @@color:red;Marc espinal@@ Martin van der Sommen Matheredor MelonFelon01 Mkivy More Tuna MustardFetish Myrtaz NapBonaparte Nic1177 Nicholas Raybourn Nickelo noxwood Oh .Sleeper Omikron770 OptiMystic Fox Paco Gonzalez @@color:red;Petr@@ Phase Caster Placeholder Qu0rbl3 @@color:red;Quentin@@ Quesako Melixie Randombot38 @@color:red;ROCK'N'STONE@@ Rory Ruvaak @@color:red;Sarus@@ Seven Seven Shad0w Shadow Nightclaw Sherlock Sleuther Sir SlimesAreNice somhtam @@color:red;sparhawk115@@ StarlitKing @@color:red;SuperSaiyanSlytherin@@ supetailsrules Tavish Finnegan TheNova129 @@color:red;Thorn Vine@@ Thumic Tobi tofublock Tsavo Tyler Fitzgerald V-Ate VeryVoraciousVixens Vesper Viikinkikiivi VK1113 Wandering Veggie WaylaidVisitor Xaeroch Xancell Xionti Zargean Zob Zerp Zuev Zuiji

“Where’s Lloriel?” Mira suddenly asks. The two words stop you dead in your tracks. You turn slowly and find… a whole lot of nothing. “I… don’t know,” you say, slow and uncertain. Your eyes trail the surrounding swamp, sweeping from tree to brush to mud to tree again. You look to Sherine, second to last in the marching order, but she merely shrugs. You check her tail for Lloriel-shaped lumps anyway. “I didn’t see or hear anything,” Ashlyn offers before you can ask. Vanille puts a hand on your shoulder and looks to the rest of the party. “Let’s retrace our steps. See if we can find where she might’ve split off.” “We’ll go look!” Mira volunteers, eager and urgent. She grabs Tess’s hand and yanks her away the moment Vanille nods approval. The rest of you are turning around and following suit, keeping eyes peeled for a potentially distressed elf. “You think she’s okay?” you ask nervously, mind wandering with macabre possibilities. Lloriel //does// spend a lot of time at the periphery of your group. That withdrawn behavior puts her out of arm’s reach, which means she’s further from the invisible safety bubble of your friends. Nobody would notice if she slipped and fell into, say, a pit of quicksand—a concern that you haven’t had since you were a kid. Vanille nods confidently. “Don’t worry about Lloriel. She’s been adventuring longer than all of us combined. She knows what she’s doing.” “I know, but…” You bite your lip, dour. “{We //just// had an encounter with two giant crocodiles/Athy was super nice, but she could take any of us out with a single glance/The lizard girls are hyper-aggressive. I wouldn’t put it past them to follow and hunt us just for fun}. And nobody’s seen her since—” “F- Found her!” Mira shouts from ahead, though a sliver of her usual enthusiasm is missing. Also notably missing is the elf. The demi waves awkwardly for you to follow. [[Go find Lloriel|Long Elf]]

You find Lloriel lying in the middle of the path. Her lithe elfen body is bound tight, plainly visible through the tawny scales of an unconscious snake. You stare, stupefied. After everything you’ve seen in Havendor, all the impossible anatomy, the improbable biology—and the outright body horror that is Ashlyn—the very last thing you expected to see was a creature notorious for swallowing prey whole //actually doing so.// It’s so… natural? Blatantly realistic? Of course a snake could swallow a living person in this world; they theoretically could back on Earth, too. They basically never do, but they //could.// You blink to make sure this isn’t an unusually small lamia. Your eyes don’t deceive you. The snake’s not even extraordinarily large, either. It’s about half again as long as you are tall, maybe some sort of boa or python. The kind of reptile you’d expect to find in a swamp. And, y’know, animals need to eat, too. In Havendor, you swallow prey whole. It’s what you do. ‘When in Rome…’ There were those snails in Niverdene that tried to eat each other. And sure, you’ve definitely eyed a stray cat that was curiously chubby. Heck, even Luna, the hellhound… ‘girl’ that escaped Palamola Quarry has a body count, and she’s an actual dog now. But your mind’s really having trouble with this one. An animal swallowed Lloriel whole. She’s just //in// there. Arms pinned to her sides, hands folded across her front. She’s shifting, struggling against the clenching walls like the dozens of other times you’ve seen prey struggle inside a stomach. The snake’s just lying there, completely out of it, food coma already settling in. This used to be as close as you could get to the real thing. A decent photo-manipulation, a few bumps and ridges and smudges in the right places were enough to set your mind afire. Every hoax about it back on Earth was both a relief and a macabre disappointment. Witnessing this in person ought to be fulfilling a lifelong goal, and yet after everything else you’ve seen in the past month, this is a bit… tame. Just being around Sherine has been vastly more exciting. “… <<= $name>>?” You finally hear your name. It’s enough to snap you out of the thought spiral. You find that Vanille’s got her blade in hand, ready to cut Lloriel out. “Yo, Knifey, I said hold up,” Ashlyn interjects. Her fingers curl into an arcane gesture. “I wanna try out the transposition spell I’ve been working on.” “I’m not gonna just leave her in there—” The mage scoffs. “Dude, chill. It’ll take, like, five seconds.” Vanille sighs and sheathes her weapon, heeds Ashlyn’s experiment. You take one more glance at the Lloriel-shaped bulge, to sear it into your memory before it disappears. Your companion wiggles and worms rhythmically. The elf’s head is turned to the side, pressed into her jostling shoulder, the slender point of an ear clear against the stomach walls. Her elbows twitch, her feet kick gently, rattling the tail of her predator about like a toy. It’s… a rather halfhearted attempt, as far as escapes go. How the hell did she get eaten in the first place? The mage crouches at the snake’s side in preparation, then pauses and looks at you hesitantly. “Uhh, <<= $name>>, you should probably stand back. Just in case she accidentally voips into a random stomach. Don’t want you to explode—Actually, that’s hilarious. Get closer.” You roll your eyes and step back a few paces. Curiosity forces you to look around for clues. Where’d this snake even come from? How did it eat Lloriel feet-first? Why didn’t you hear the elf shout for help? Does escaping a stomach involve a lot of wrist action? She’s clearly still able to move, so it’s not like she was paralyzed by venom. Constricted, then? [[Step back to safety|Cliffhanger!]]

A purple flash lights up the swamp. The snake glows and shimmers, then blurs as predator separates from prey. Lloriel congeals on the ground nearby, perfectly repositioned two feet to the left of where she once laid trapped. Her outfit’s utterly disheveled, tunic riding up her chest, trousers unfastened and pushed down her thigh, underwear askew. She’s still shaking, heaving frantically, whole body slimy and groaning, bucking, twisting herself into an ecstatic coil, slender elfen fingers buried in the slit between her legs. [[End of Episode 5|Ep19End]]

Just before you descend the spiral walkway that leads back to the central market, Vanille suddenly stops the group. <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>“<<= $name>>, didn’t you and Tess say something about a certain lizard girl when we were on our way into the village? Maisy, I think?” “Oh, right!” Damn. You almost forgot about her. You direct a sheepish glance at Tess, then an equally sheepish glance at Vanille. “I guess you, err, weren’t actually there for that whole thing, were you? When Tess and I were leaving Crest, this big lizard—” “Dax.” “Yeah. She wanted us to find her, uhm… friend? And I thought that since Tess helped us out, we could return the favor,” you say as the lizard girl winces.<<else>>“<<= $name>>, didn’t we have unfinished business in Tolun’Moa?” she asks. “That lizard who was asking after one of her clanmates. We should see if we can find her while we’re here, right?”<</if>> Tess shifts uncomfortably. “Y- You don’t have to do that for my sake.” Ashlyn raises an eyebrow. “Wait, wasn’t she eaten, like, yesterday? Time is a collective hallucination, but that girl’s definitely //glursshhhh// by now.” “I…” You’re not sure what to say. To both the terrible stomach noise impression, and to the fact that you agree with her assessment about the lizard girl. “Tess has been helping us out a ton, and I just thought we should try to return the favor in any way we can. But, I just, uhm… don’t wanna get our hopes up, I guess,” you admit with a slight shrug. “Seems like we’re not gonna find her still in one piece.” “Not necessarily,” Tess says slowly. “Frogs are weak-gutted.” “Frog girls have slower metabolisms than average,” Lloriel clarifies quietly. “Plus, there’s the rivalry between the clans. Maybe she’s being held ransom?” The lizard girl nods. “Champion Sazelle wouldn’t pay, and the frogs know it. But it really depends on what the frog girl’s been doing since yesterday. If she really put her mind to it, we’re probably not going to find much of Maisy left. B- But I know some predators enjoy taking things slow, showing off their catches for as long as possible.” <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>… Is she speaking from recent experience? Also, w<<else>>W <</if>>hat the fuck does //‘put her mind to it’// mean? You already know that they can ‘power down’ their stomachs to be basically harmless, but does that control allow them to digest more vigorously just by thinking about it? It’s not like it makes any //less// sense. “Let’s go check!” Mira cheers with indelible enthusiasm. Vanille smiles and shrugs. “Sounds good to me. I’ll admit the lizard girls weren’t the friendliest hosts, but I’d sleep better knowing we tried our best to help someone in need.” [[Go rescue the lizard girl|Rescue Negotiations]]

The oppressive gloom makes Tolun’Moa all that much more remarkable when you finally see its first, scant traces poking through the fog. The webwork of ramshackle ingenuity glows with the collective illumination of a thousand torches, lamps, and other sources of light that stretch across the surface of the lake like a great swarm of fireflies. Maybe all the browns and greys of Lurram have dulled your palate, but it might just be the most beautiful thing you’ve seen all day. A new shift of guards wait at the foot of the nearest bridge. Remembering last time, you hastily invoke High Priestess Ialise’s name—even if your business with Sachem Rabbeth’oa is already concluded—then almost make your way into the village proper before remembering one key detail. “Oh hey, one last thing. I heard about a skirmish yesterday in lizard territory. Any idea where those scouts might be? Especially the one with the, err… meal.” The lead frog casts a wary look at Tess. “… Why?” That’s… a good question. Obviously //you// know why, but it’s not like you can just come out and say, //‘We wanna ask if she has any leftovers.’// <<if $Crest1 != "smuggle" && $Crest2 == false>>You throw your arm around Tess’s shoulder. Given your height difference, it’s more menacing than congenial, and the lizard girl’s shiver doesn’t help in the slightest. “This one wanted to pay her old rival a visit.” “R- Right,” Tess stammers, playing the part adequately, if not all that enthusiastically. “I want to thank her predator.”<<else>>Your resident lizard girl suddenly steps forward. “Maisy—err, the lizard that got eaten—she’s a rival of mine. Was hoping I could pay her a visit, rub it in while she’s still kicking. Or thank her predator if she’s not.” Oh damn. She can play the part well.<</if>> The frog nods. “Sure, yeah. Plol’a lives on the western canopy. It’s a little place with a red-and-yellow door.” A proud little smile bubbles onto her lips. “I painted it myself.” “Oh, that’s great, thank you.” [[Go rescue the lizard girl|Rescue Negotiations]]

Through a tremendous combination of trial, error, sheer stubbornness, and a not-insignificant dose of luck, you finally stumble upon a door of brilliant yellow and luxurious red. Well, they probably //were// back when the guard originally painted them. Now they’ve weathered to a sort of brown and slightly lighter brown, but the home behind it looks cozy, tucked into a quiet nook away from the more bustling stacks. “So, <<= $name>>,” Vanille starts just before you reach the door. “I was thinking that, since this is negotiation—or hopefully will be—having all of us there at once might be a bit, ah, overbearing?” “That… makes a lot of sense,” you admit as you survey your six companions all assembled before the tidy little home like the world’s motliest crew of repo men. “But, we also shouldn’t go in there with too few people and look weak. Who are you thinking?”<<if $Sachem5 == false>> Sherine frowns. “I’d offer my services, but these people seem to be… wary about lamia. Maybe superstition?” Being uncertain about an apex predator sounds less like spiritual belief and more like rational sense?<</if>> “Count me out,” Ashlyn says. Vanille rolls her eyes. “I was planning to. <<= $name>>, me, and Tess are probably best suited for diplomatic work. And, Lloriel…?” The elf shakes her head at the knight’s querying gaze. “I wanna go!” Mira cheers in her stead, bounding forward and locks arms with the nervous lizard girl. “I can help.” “Oh, sure.” Vanille nods<<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>, though the slightest undercurrent of discomfort stains her features<</if>>. “So that’s four of us. Sound good to everyone?” With agreement from all parties—included and excluded—you, Vanille, Mira, and Tess cross the final span to the door while the rest of your companions fall back a respectable distance to wait and watch. You cross one last, small walkway, climb a narrow stoop, and reach a hesitant hand for the portal before delivering three firm knocks. [[Brace for the worst…|Plola1]]

A voice bellows from the other side of the partition. “Heilun’a, I told you I don’t wanna buy any more soap—” A very large gut attached to a frog woman answers the door. It’s huge, filled to the brim with lumps and bumps and all sorts of obscene jiggling shapes. Each motion sends the full array jostling, sloshing, and generally doing //very// fascinating things that don’t at all distract you from why you were originally here in the first place, which is, err… Oh, right. Rescuing Maisy. Well, you’re pretty damn sure you’ve got the right place. “Oh. Who are you?” the frog girl says. //‘We’re here from the gas company. Have you been experiencing any recently?’// Really, brain? “H- Hi, I’m <<= $name>>, these are my friends Vanille, Mira, and Tess. We were hoping to take just a few minutes of your time.” She blinks. “Uh. You’re not selling anything, right?” She nods as you shake your head. “Alright, uh, I’m Plol’a. What do you need?” You put on your most steely, oblivious face, and gesture to her full stomach. “Have you eaten anyone recently?” “Nope,” she immediately fires back without a hint of shame. She curls a protective arm over her gut—oft-witnessed behavior when the topic arises. “Haven’t eaten anyone in months. My belly’s normally this big. I’m a big girl.” “So, that’s all… not a person?” you ask, incredibly dubious. “Yeah, it’s, uhh, bread. I really like bread, but the bloating can be excessive.” <<linkreplace "“That’s clearly a person.”">><<replace "#choices">>“That’s clearly a person in there. I can see her outline.” She moves to protest, and for a horrible moment, you’re certain she’s about to claim she devoured a bread golem. Instead, she sighs. “Okay, yeah, fine. I ate someone. What of it?” <<include "Plola2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "“Oh okay, have a nice day.”">><<replace "#choices">>“Oh okay, have a nice day,” you say as you whirl about. Tess is all too eager to follow, but Mira and Vanille both chirp in alarm. You take two steps before dramatically pivoting and raising a finger. A keen smile crosses your lips. “Just one more thing. You say that’s all bread. And that’s fine, that’s great. I like bread too. I can respect a woman who likes their bread… but how do you explain the very clear shapes of arms and legs?” “Okay! Fine. I ate someone. What of it?” <<include "Plola2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“Oh. Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry,” Plol’a says, suddenly changing her tune to one of deep insincerity. “She’s just mush at this point. Not worth much to anyone but me.” A lump rises upon the swollen gut. A kick, a muffled protest from under thick flesh. “She’s moving,” you say flatly. “Must be imagining—//hic//—things. Torl’a is the town physician, she can help you with your poor eyesight.” Plol’a covers her mouth as another hiccup hops out of her. “Cuz’ this is definitely mush. I’ve been burping up scales all morning. Wanna see?” <<if $AshlynEvent9 == true>>“Yes, that’s hot” you almost say before catching yourself and correcting to the much more situation-appropriate, “No, that’s gross.”<<else>>“No,” you say, arms folded.<</if>> “I… fine. Okay. //Maybe// she’s still kicking in there, but it’s probably too late. Let me tell you, these struggles are real weak. And she’s pretty soft, too.” She slaps and shoves her stomach for emphasis. It lurches back at her vigorously. “I’m sympathetic, really, but I’m afraid trying to bring her up might finish her off.” Another muffled kick from within has everyone flinching. The lizard girl throws herself back and forth, punching and thumping her tail wildly, strong enough to push Plol’a up against the doorframe. Maisy seems to be quite irate. You can relate. This is getting fucking annoying. “Weak, huh?” Mira says, her little brow furrowed to a frustrated slant. The frog girl flashes a sheepish grin. “Err, maybe she’s got a bit of strength in her after all. Whatever. I’m allowed to eat lizards. They’re a rival clan—my scout leader gave strict orders to digest any lizards we catch. It’s punishment for trespassing on our turf. Gotta churn her up real good, teach ‘em a lesson.” Tess shuffles at your side, but remains silent. <<linkreplace "Ask after the scout lead">><<replace "#choices2">>“Well, if it’s an official order, tell us where to find this scout lead. We’ll—” “No, fuck that,” Vanille surges forward, bringing herself face-to-face with the stubborn frog girl, all bristling animosity and narrowly contained wrath. “Spit her out. I’m not asking.” Plol’a folds her arms. “You can’t make—” <<include "Vanille Smash!!!">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Wasn’t that lizard territory?">><<replace "#choices2">>“Hold on, that was lizard territory,” you counter. “And what the hell do you mean ‘scout lead’s orders.’ I //saw// you eat the lizard.” “Ooooh, //you// were those humans spying on us. I thought you looked familiar.” She licks her lips. “Did the lizards hire you, or something? Is that why you’re working for ‘em now?” You sigh. “We’re not ‘working for them,’ and don’t change the subject. You’re obviously lying about, err, what was your scout lead’s name?” “Rum’a,” Vanille supplies. “And the only order she gave was to retreat.” The frog looks between you and Vanille with exasperation. “Okay, okay. Maybe she didn’t specifically give an order. But she didn’t say I //couldn’t// have her.” Plol’a raises her hands. “A- And hey, I just like having her trapped in my belly. Like you said, I’m not even digesting her. She’s fine, everything’s fine, you can go now.” She reaches to close the door. You thump your boot against the frame and hold steady. “I never said you weren’t digesting her,” you growl. “Just that you haven’t //yet.// And you were the one shouting about how you’d eat your neighbor next. As in, //after// you finished digesting Maisy.” Plol’a guffaws. “Oh, no no no. That’s just a horrible misunderstanding. I was planning to lock Yeer’a up in here—” another boastful slap to the gut; Havendorians can’t seem to resist predatory pride, “—once I let the lizard go. Obviously. My guest and I talked about the arrangement. She knows that whole skirmish was just a casual thing, there’s no hard feelings. It’s fine.” She pushes the door against your foot. You don’t budge. “Please leave,” she says, exasperated. You step further into the duplicitous frog girl’s doorway. “If there’s no hard feelings, let’s ask Maisy. She’d tell us you haven’t been digesting her. If you’re telling the truth, that shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Plol’a retreats, a hand clutching the swell possessively. “N- No! That’s, uhh, weird and, uhm… //Blyuck,// fine,” she grunts. You’re pretty sure that was a Monish swear of some sort. “I’m gonna digest her. What’s wrong with that? She’s //my// meal, I claimed her fair and square. Frankly, it’s rude of you to ask me to give her up.” <<linkreplace "//You’re// the one being rude!?">><<replace "#choices3">>//“We’re// the ones being rude!?” you blurt out. “Yeah. I just said that. Torl’a can help with your hearing, too.” She sighs as if talking to a child. “Look, if you’re done, I’ve got some churnin’ to get back to, so I’m just gonna—” “Enough of this shit.” Vanille surges forward, bringing herself face-to-face with the stubborn frog girl, all bristling animosity and narrowly contained wrath. “Spit her out. I’m not asking.” Plol’a folds her arms. “You can’t make—” <<include "Vanille Smash!!!">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Fair and square? She was the one in lizard turf">><<replace "#choices3">>“‘Fair and square?’” you balk. //“You// were the one in lizard territory. Hell, half your scouting patrol was trying to goad them into a fight. You keep talking about this like you’re the blameless victims when you’re obviously the instigators.” “What? How could you possibly know that?” “We were there!” She squints at you and your group. “Oh yeah, right, you said that.” Does the truth just roll off this girl’s back? “Okay, sure,” Plol’a admits in the most petty tone possible, “maybe I wasn’t //entirely// in the right, but this is Lurram. You eat someone, they’re yours. There’s nothing to talk about here, sooo… bye!” She tries again to slam the door to no avail. <<linkreplace "Call out her shit">><<replace "#choices4">>That’s it. You’re done being polite. “You’re a coward for hiding behind the status quo. You know what you did was wrong, and you’re being a motherfucker about it. You’re despicable.” Plol’a shrugs, entirely nonplussed. “Yeah, but I got a meal out of it, so…” Vanille surges foward, bringing herself face-to-face with the stubborn frog girl, all bristling animosity and narrowly contained wrath. “Spit her out. I’m not asking.” Plol’a folds her arms. “You can’t make—” <<include "Vanille Smash!!!">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Threaten her">><<replace "#choices4">>That’s it. You’re done. “That’s the rule in Lurram, huh?” Your fingers reach for the haft of your spear. “Here’s another one for you: spit Maisy out, or we’ll //make// you spit her out.” Plol’a throws up her hands. “Well sheesh, why didn’t you just start with the threats? I’d have given her up right away if I knew you were gonna be this mean.” The frog girl steps back from the doorway. “I’ll go throw up. Be right back.” Mira steps forward. “You promise?” “Y- Yeah, of course.” //“Really// promise?” The frog scowls at Mira, then looks askance to you and Vanille. “Fine, yes!” She turns with an audible //slorsh,// then stomps back inside. [[Wait and listen|Maisy Released]]<</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“D- Did you eat a lizard girl named Maisy?” Tess stammers. You can’t quite tell if she’s angry at, or intimidated by, the giant tum. “Uhm, hmm, lizard girl…” The frog girl taps her chin, gaze wandering up toward the ceiling. She subtly pulls her tunic down in a feeble attempt to cover her middle. “No, I don’t remember a lizard girl.” “Then who did you eat?” Vanille growls. “My neighbor, Yeer’a. She was getting on my nerves.” Muffled shouting rumbles from the next door over. //“The fuck you did!”// “You’re a bitch, Yeer! You’re next as soon as this lizard—err…” Plol’a frowns, annoyed she let that lie slip so easily. She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. I ate a lizard. Don’t really care what my food’s named, though.” It’s astonishing how accurately the frog folk of Tolun’Moa have recreated the inherent animosity of living in a shitty apartment complex. <<linkreplace "Demand Plol’a spit up">><<replace "#choices1">>“Her name’s Maisy, and you’re going to let her out right now.” Vanille nods approvingly, a hand on the hilt of her sword. <<include "Plola3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Negotiate for Maisy’s release">><<replace "#choices1">>“So, can we negotiate her release?” you ask. “What, you wanna trade or something?” “Uhh, maybe. You seem like a reasonable person—” //don’t laugh, don’t laugh,// “—I’m sure we could come to an arrangement.” <<include "Plola3">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

<<set $Lurram_Sidequest to true>>Vanile’s sword comes screaming out of its sheath. She tackles the frog girl into the opposite wall and presses the razor edge of steel against a supple throat. The stomach writhes furiously between the entangled pair, muffled protests rising to a confused peak. The frog’s eyes go wide. “W- Wait, I’ll—” The knight plunges a gloved hand into the monster girl’s open mouth. Plol’a wretches and gags, writhing pitifully beneath Vanille’s iron grasp. A reflexive gulp pulls your companion in up to her shoulder, but she doesn’t care. She plants a knee on the frog’s thigh for stability, then lurches. The bulge of the frog’s gut rolls, then shifts. A grotesque squelch fills the air as the shape distorts, stretches, then rises up the frog’s gullet and finally spills from her maw in the form of a lizard girl accompanied by a spray of spittle and gastric juices. Prey freed, Vanille leaves Plol’a to slump down the wall in a whimpering, groaning heap. The frog clutches her stomach, eyes watering. She manages a faint, //“Uoongh,// then passes out. Maisy shudders and writhes as she unfurls. Vivid green scales stretch out like a newly hatched reptile. A tail flickers, thumps against a nearby chair. The lizard girl scrambles to her feet in a panic as your group offers a helping hand. “T- Tess?” she asks through bleary eyes. “I- Is Zalla mad I got caught?” //That’s// her first priority!? “No, no. It’s fine.” Tess shakes her head and rises on her toes to give her counterpart a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She swipes away a bit of the mess, but it’s nothing more than a drop in the bucket compared to the thick and slick coat slathered all over the almost-naked lizard. “Uh, Dax actually sent me to look for you.” “Oh, okay. That’s good…” Maisy swipes away a glob of thin stomach soup. Understanding seeps slowly into her features. “… Am I in Tolun’Moa? What are you doing here?” “We’re here to rescue you!” Mira cheers as she retrieves a blanket from the frog’s home. Still shivering, the lizard blinks at the feline wrapping her up. Maisy looks nervously at you and Vanille in turn, then asks Tess, “Who are these people?” “Don’t worry they’re, uhh…” A blush alights upon the lizard girl’s cheeks, a beautifully blended scarlet among the mottled green-and-brown patches of scale. “You’re with friends.” Maisy shrinks, humbled and embarrassed all at once. “Th- Thank you. I didn’t expect…” She bows deeply and aggressively. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused! I’ll report back to Crest right away.” “You sure you don’t need to rest first?” you ask. She shakes her head. “No, no. I’m fine. Bit groggy s’all. Sooner I’m back, the less likely someone’s gonna think I’m gone for good and take all my stuff. I… I think I’m good to find my way out of here.” “Not by yourself you aren’t,” Vanille grunts. You can practically see the furious steam still hissing out her ears. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the edge of town, at least.” “O- Okay,” Maisy squeaks as the knight grabs her by the arm and leads her away. She gives Tess a frantic, anxious look, and the littler lizard girl does her best to reassure her groggy friend that she’s in good hands. A minute passes as Mira quietly rummages through Plol’a’s cramped home for valuables. You watch, utterly baffled, as the demi steals a few coins and knickknacks. “What?” Mira says when she notices you staring. She drops her pilfered goodies into your bag. “She was a jerk. Her stuff is mine now.” You nod, not sure what else to do. Tess sidles up besides you. “<<= $name>>, I uh…” She wrings her hands for a fitful moment. “Thank you. F- For doing this for me.” “Of course.” You offer a soft smile. “I’m sure Dax will appreciate it, too.” The lizard girl nods. “Yeah…” She struggles to keep eye contact, slit pupils flitting to and fro desperate for an escape. You wait patiently for her thoughts to stop ricocheting around in that lovely skull of hers. “I- I didn’t expect you all to go out of their way to help me like this. I’m not used to it, so I don’t really know what to say.” “You already said ‘thanks.’ You don’t need to say anything else. We’re happy to help.” Tess frowns. “I still feel like I owe you.” “Well, it’s been great having you along, and I’d certainly appreciate it if you keep looking out for us while we’re traveling around Lurram.” She nods with sparkling amber eyes. “I can do that.” Mira bounds over and pokes Tess to get her attention. “So…” the demi starts, playfully coy. She nudges her counterpart toward the unconscious frog. “You wanna eat her?” “Wh- What?” Tess yarps. “No, I didn’t do anything to earn that. If anything, Vanille should’ve.” “Golden girl’s boring like that,” Ashlyn says as she strolls up, Sherine and Lloriel at her side. The mage leans through the doorway and casts an appraising gaze toward the unconscious frog girl. “Guess <<= $name>>’s still really good at diplomacy, huh. I miss anything important?” “Mira’s still committing petty larceny,” you offer. “Yeah, girl. Find anything cool?” “A knife!” Mira cheers as she pulls out a weapon. “Oh wait, two!” “Are you… sure you should be doing that?” Lloriel asks meekly from the stoop. “She’s still alive… right? They’re //her// belongings.” “I’d be more than happy to eat her if that would make you feel better,” Sherine offers. “Th- That’s not what—” Lloriel stammers. “Nevermind.” “Sherine, are you hungry? Do you want a snack?” Mira bops up to the lamia and offers what looks to be freeze-dried snails. The monster girl merely chuckles. “I’m fine, but thank you for the offer.” Garnet eyes flicker toward the unconscious frog. “Are we really just leaving her here?” “I mean, we already got what we came for,” you say. Sherine shoots you an unmistakable, //‘You know that’s not what I mean,’’// look, but before she can start laying it on thick, Ashlyn steps forward, takes a snail, and pops it in her mouth while making eye contact with you. //Cronch.// You hear Vanille’s signature footfalls and scurry outside to meet her. Her dark and stormy scowl has transformed into a relief. There’s a lightness to her movements. “What are you all still doing here?” “Nothing,” you say in unison. <<if $Sachem5 == false>>“Oh, good.” She walks up to the house, checks inside—probably to make sure Plol’a is still there—shuts the door, and finally turns back with a slight smile. “Ready to go meet the sachem?” [[Might as well|President Frog]]<<else>>Vanille stares at you for a long moment, then turns her palms up expectantly. “We’re done in Tolun’Moa, right? Let’s get going.” Oh yeah, right. Onward to your next destination… <<include "Swamp_Navigator">><</if>>

<<set $Lurram_Sidequest to true>><<set $Swamp6 to true>>The moment she’s gone, Mira pokes her head through the ajar door, ears twitching. “Don’t worry. If she runs, I’ll catch her.” You don’t doubt it for a second. Mira’s got speed to spare. You’re pretty sure you could let her loose in ye olde Earth forest and she’d have no problem outrunning deer. A horrendous retching noise drifts from out of sight, followed by a series of grotesquely wet //spats.// After a brief pause, a drenched lizard girl stumbles around the corner, woozy and dazed. A sickly Plol’a follows, eyes watering and spittle still smeared across her lips. The moment the lizard girl’s past the threshold, Plol’a slams the door behind her back with a word. Guess she’s as done with you as you are with her. Maisy stumbles forward and nearly trips down the stoop, only to be propped up by Vanille. “T- Tess?” the lizard asks through bleary eyes. “I- Is Zalla mad I got caught?” //That’s// her first priority? “No, no. It’s fine.” Tess shakes her head and rises on her toes to give her counterpart a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She swipes away a bit of the mess, but it’s nothing more than a drop in the bucket compared to the thick and slick coat slathered all over the almost-naked lizard. “Uh, Dax actually sent me to look for you.” “Oh, okay. That’s good…” Maisy swipes away a glob of thin stomach soup. Understanding seeps slowly into her features. “… Am I in Tolun’Moa? What are you doing here?” “We’re here to rescue you!” Mira cheers as she retrieves a blanket from Vanille’s backpack. Still shivering, the lizard blinks at the feline wrapping her up. Maisy looks nervously at you and Vanille in turn, then asks Tess, “Who are these people?” “Don’t worry they’re, uhh…” A blush alights upon the lizard girl’s cheeks, a beautifully blended scarlet among the mottled green-and-brown patches of scale. “You’re with friends.” Maisy shrinks, humbled and embarrassed all at once. “Th- Thank you. I didn’t expect…” She bows deeply and aggressively. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused! I’ll report back to Crest right away.” “You sure you don’t need to rest first?” you ask. She shakes her head. “No, no. I’m fine. Bit groggy s’all. Sooner I’m back, the less likely someone’s gonna take all my stuff. I… I think I’m good to find my way out of here.” “Not by yourself you aren’t,” Vanille chides. “C’mon, we’ll take you to the edge of town at least.” “O- Okay,” Maisy squeaks as the knight grabs her by the arm and leads her away. She gives Tess a frantic, anxious look, and the littler lizard girl does her best to reassure her groggy friend that she’s in good hands. You join back up with the rest of your companions, then guide the lizard girl back to the main bridge. As you walk, Vanille asks no less than three times if Maisy’s sure she’ll be able to make it back to Crest on her own, and despite her assurances, the knight still doesn’t seem satisfied when you finally part ways. You watch as Maisy stumbles her way back onto dry land, passes the guards, and vanishes off into the foggy marshlands of Western Lurram. Tess pauses and draws in a deep breath. She gestures for everyone to huddle. “I uh…” She wrings her hands for a fitful moment. “Thank you. F- For doing this for me.” //“Oh god, it’s one of these,”// Ashlyn grunts as she peels away. “Ignore her,” you say to a startled Tess. “We’re happy to help. I’m sure Dax will appreciate it, too.” The lizard girl nods. “Yeah…” She struggles to keep eye contact, slit pupils flitting to and fro desperate for an escape. You wait patiently for her thoughts to stop ricocheting around in that lovely skull of hers. “I- I didn’t expect you all to go out of their way to help me like this. I’m not used to it, so I don’t really know what to say.” Vanille offers a soft smile. “You already said ‘thanks.’ You don’t need to say anything else..” Tess frowns. “I still feel like I owe you.” You tap your chin. “Well, it’s been great having you along, and I’d certainly appreciate it if you keep looking out for us while we’re traveling around Lurram.” She nods with sparkling amber eyes. “I can do that.” <<if $Sachem5 == false>>Mira lets out a little cheer, then throws herself at Tess for a big hug. Your group’s keen to get back on course toward the sachem’s dwelling—the original reason you came to Tolun’Moa in the first place. [[Onward|President Frog]]<<elseif $Lurram_Dryads == true && $Lurram_Frogs == true>>You spend a quiet moment basking in the positive vibes before reality crashes over you with an icy shiver. “Wait, why didn’t we just go with Maisy? The only place we’ve got left to visit is Crest.” Mira tilts her head. “We’ve still gotta, umm… Huh. Yah, I guess we should’ve.” “Think we can still catch up with her if we hurry?” “Probably not,” Tess says. “I’ve actually been taking it slow when we travel. I doubt you all could keep up if I walked at a normal pace. A- Ah, no offense of course.” “None taken,” Vanille says. “You’ve lived your whole life here. Everyone ready to go?” <<include "Swamp_Navigator">><<else>>Vanille clears her throat, then glances out toward the lake and the mangroves lying beyond. “We’re done in Tolun’Moa, right? Let’s get going.” Oh yeah, right. Onward to your next destination… <<include "Swamp_Navigator">><</if>>

“Stub and this narrow-footed fool are up to something!” Tess stiffens. “N- No we’re—I’m not.” A sudden, unfriendly, clawed foot presses on your chest. “And here I thought Stub was actually showing some toes for once. But no, she’s tryin’ to step with an outsider.” “Even when she’s on top, she’s underfoot,” the other guard jibes. “Pathetic.” The lizard grunts. “C’mon, we’ll show ya how it’s done.” Tess steps over you to protect you, the sole of her reptilian foot drifting dauntingly close to your cheek. She plants her stomper near your ear, just in range for you to catch a fleck of sweat. She pushes her bullies away, but they push back, stepping all over your body, your limbs. Razor nails curl and tease around your flesh, pinch and compress your form as you lay helpless to their whims. A huge instep presses suddenly against your face, gnashes against your nose. “See? like that,” the guard insists. Tess nervously looks at you, then braces. She nods and the pressure on your chest wanes for a moment as the guard switches spots with the littler lizard. Tess mounts nervously. You stare up at her as the foot squeezes your neck. Toes deftly turn your gaze upward. “L- Lick it,” she says, wildly nervous. [[Somebody help!|Footworld1a]]

Sazelle leaps from her throne in a blur of leather and scales. Two hundred pounds of lizard girl knocks you to the floor and drives the wind from your lungs. Clawed feet arrest your wildly flailing arms. You blink back stars to find an eager face staring down at you, firelight and foot-hunger swirling in reptilian eyes. A dart of pink slips between parted lips, trails along incisors and flesh alike, leaves a sheen of glimmering saliva in its wake. “Nothing worse than passing up a perfectly good meal,” she growls. Her stomach growls too. “Shame you’re so scrawny. I hope your feet taste better than you look.” You wriggle impotently, the slightest wheeze squeezed from your lungs by the knee against your chest. She could hold you down with one foot—hell, just one toe. Blurred eyes find a familiar visage standing a few feet away: Tess. The lizard’s frozen, spear clutched tight to her chest, gaze flickering between your feet and Sazelle's. She glances down at her own inadequate stompers. A dripping maw opens and engulfs your feet. [[Call for Tess’s help before Sazelle covers your mouth with her foot|Footworld2a]] [[Get that goddamn letter before she stomps your bag with her strong feet|Footworld2a]]

You come to slowly, painfully. A tremendous weight foot upon your chest, crushing. It’s dense and thick and… strangely soft and pliant? The base of a crocodile girl’s cushy foot rests atop you lazily. Its bulk, combined with your injuries, is more than enough to keep you pinned to in the rubble of the former outpost. //“Guhhnn,”// a chorus of voices groan nearby. You strain and struggle to turn your neck. It's your companions. They're all currently underfoot, being stepped on and crushed by the pair of huge crocodile wives. “I told you,” Tess wheezes. “There are terrible feet in Lurram. You didn't listen...” “Who’s hotter?” Bethel's booming voice asks. “What?” She wriggles her toes across your chin, then points at her partner. “Sheila and me. Whose foot is hotter?” You blush. “Uhh, I don’t…” Sheila is obviously bigger. She’s got multiple people under her clawed stompers. They're smothered. You can barely see them behind those thick ankles. You could hide under that leg, move when she moved, go unnoticed for hours. But the question wasn’t ‘who’s bigger,’ it was ‘who’s //hotter?’// Hotness isn’t just about volume. No no no, it’s spiritual, a quintessential property dependent entirely on the foot-haver and the stepped-upon. If you wore the same pair of sneakers for years on end, walked them to the ends of the earth, you wouldn’t have much to show for it with your normal, boring, human feet. Hell, you could even over-step and still not reach anything even close. You’d be less calloused and less trodden than Mira's beautiful, bare feet after she stepped on, say, a mouse girl. But you’d be //tired,// no question about it. There’d be an inertia to your person, an unwillingness to get up and move around, a general malaise and lethargy to every little task you did while walking around in your shoes. There comes a point in a gratuitous hike where the next step turns from desire to repulsion. Sheila’s massive. Bethel on the other hand… The bigger-boned croc is stepping on a single, perfect bottom: Sherine. A woman with no feet at all, one who was above the foot race entirely. The model of ambulation. The way Bethel's holding herself, the way she stands, her legs, her heel, her alluring contours. The perfect footprint. So really, who has hotter feet? [[It’s Bethel; quality is key|Footworld3a]] [[It’s Sheila; you can’t beat size|Footworld3a]]

“The tea box!” you shout. “If we get that in front of the hole, it should be heavy enough to keep the snakes out.” You plant both of your feeble, pathetic feet squarely against the box and push with all your might. Knees bent, Ashlyn wedges herself in the tightest gap between the box and the wall, her back on one side and her sweaty feet on the other. And Lloriel is… well, she’s trying with those little steppers. Hmm. You and the wizards are severely lacking in foot strength. Maybe you should have split the group a little more evenly considering how often you encounter foot-based challenges… The damned box shifts an inch with a screech. Then another, a slight jump this time. Your muscles already hurt, arches ache, but if you just keep going— Scant progress suddenly grinds to a halt. You raise your head, blink against the sweat trickling down your brow, and try to find the obstacle in the murk. A little elven boot kicks you in the head. Foot-Snake jaws clench, snap down over Lloriel’s flailing legs. A beady slit eye locks with yours as the beast steps on your friend, pressing her into the metal floor. Muffled shouts drift past a heavy curtain of snake-scale. Muted shapes wriggle, writhe: elbows, hands, the vaguest impression of a head twisting back and forth, desperately seeking escape from the encroaching embrace of flesh. A sudden lunge, a snap, and a mighty stomp of the abomination’s podiatric head sees the last of the elf stepped into submission. [[Shit!|Footworld4a]]

Oops, wrong universe. Sorry about that. It won't happen again. [[Return|Smuggle Rejoin]]

Oops, wrong universe. Sorry about that. It won't happen again. [[Return|Smuggle_Sazelle Return]]

Oops, wrong universe. Sorry about that. It won't happen again. [[Return|Crocodile Loch]]

Oops, wrong universe. Sorry about that. It won't happen again. [[Return|Snake Attack]]

“How are you holding up, <<= $name>>?” Vanille asks as you trudge across a relatively flat and dry stretch of Lurram. “Oh, I’m actually doing okay,” you say. “A bit tired, I guess. And I’m probably gonna be sore as hell tomorrow morning. But I’m faring a lot better than I used to.” A weary chuckle burbles from your throat. “I guess it was just a conditioning problem. Needed to get my legs used to life on the road, and all that.” “That’s good to hear.” You offer a slight shrug. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m ever gonna have as much stamina as you guys. Seems like that’s just an Earth-Havendor problem. You’re, uhh…” “Hm?” “I was gonna say ‘different,’ but then I realized how stupid and obvious it’d sound.” Vanille flashes a warm smile. “It’s only obvious if you’re insane. No one can blame you for needing time to get used to all this.” She tilts her head. “Are you almost done, Mira?” You glance up at the demi perched atop the knight’s shoulders. She pinches golden locks to and fro, weaving wildflowers into Vanille’s hair. Yellow lines crisscross, twist and overlap. “Yup!” Mira giggles and dismounts. “How’s it look?” Vanille asks when she notices you staring. “It’s, uhh…” Lopsided. Uneven. Messy and wild. Passionate. “Looks nice.” “You’re next, <<= $name>>!” Mira cheers. <<if $VanilleEvent6 == true>>Vanille glances you over and blushes. “I’d, uh, I’d be happy to help groom you a bit, <<= $name>>.”<<else>>Vanille glances at your head. “Do you need a trim, <<= $name>>?”<</if>> Oh right. You’ve been here a month and have hardly had time to preen. You shrug. “Maybe after we get the Echo and get out of the swamp. A little celebration wouldn’t hurt.” “I’d like that.” <<if $Swamp6 == true>><<set $RVMira ++>><<set $RVVanille ++>>@@color:lime;“Oh, right—I should have said this earlier, but good job with Maisy.”@@ “O- Oh, of course. It was nothing.” “It was the right thing to do, and I’m glad we took the time to help her.” “Me too! I hope she and Tess can be better friends now,” Mira churrs. @@color:lime;“<<= $name>>’s so thoughtful. <<= $Xes>> always trying to help people when they get eaten.”@@ The raging scylla rampages through your memories. You shake your head and banish the past.<<else>>A nice night on a lake. Or maybe lounging on a hammock somewhere. Somewhere less humid. Maybe a sea breeze. A couple chilled, fruity drinks? Someplace without hungry eyes— Maybe you’re setting your expectations a little high.<</if>> “Two out of three chiefs,” Vanille muses aloud. “We’re making good progress. Hopefully—” <<include "Where Lolo?">>

“Hey, Sherine,” you start. “That thing Ialise said to you last night, when we arrived at Walst: that was Monish, right?” “A formal greeting,” she says with a nod. “It roughly translates to ‘My hearth’s warmth is yours.’ Why?” You shrug. “I guess I’m just surprised that’s the only Monish we’ve heard. The <<if $Lurram_Frogs == true>>frogs at Tolun’Moa<<elseif $Lurram_Dryads == true>>dryads at Melica<<else>>lizards at Crest<</if>>, the rest of the harpies at Walst, they all spoke the same language. Uhh, Common?” “Havendorian Common,” Sherine corrects. “And of course they speak it. This //is// Havendor after all.” “Sure, right. But is Monish really that rare?” The lamia offers a half smile. “This far south? Certainly. You’ll mostly hear it from monsters emigrating from the north. Maybe an odd family member or close friend—and the occasional lingual enthusiast as well.” “I’m a lingual enthusiast,” Ashlyn mutters, then frowns when no one appreciates her impeccable wit. Tess glances over her shoulder. “I’ve heard a bit of Monish, b- but mostly from outsiders. No one in my village actually speaks it. At least, not that I know of.” “I’m not surprised,” Sherine says. “Monish isn’t all that common outside All-Den.” “Wait, All-Den?” you blurt out. The name scratches at the recesses of your subconscious. “I think I’ve heard that name somewhere before…” Vanille nods. “That’s not exactly surprising, even for your, erm, //unique// circumstances.” She pauses to clear her throat. “All-Den is a city—and the nation built around it—far to the north. It’s younger than the kingdom of Havendor, though its government has been much more stable since its founding.” “What’s that mean?” Ashlyn scoffs. //“Kingdom,// duh. The Duvals—that’s the current assholes in power—have had the throne for a hundred or so years. But there’s been plenty of dynasties before them. Then the next upstarts gobble ‘em all up. Incorporate them into the new //ruling body.”// She flashes a coy smirk. “Something about royalty makes for the most irresistible meals.” “I imagine that would be //power,”// Sherine offers. “I was gonna say a rich diet.” The lamia shrugs, then turns her attention back to you. “All-Den has had one ruler, and //only// one ruler, since its founding nearly two centuries ago.” “You mean like the same royal family?” “No, one //ruler:// Lilith, the Monster Queen.” Monster… //Queen?// Oh no. Oh nononono. This is far, //far// worse than you’d imagined. This isn’t an entity whose existence—whose //very name// looms over reality and promises an unsurmountable, terrifying, frankly herculean task the likes of which would be sung by bards for generations to come. It’s cliché. Oh, and also probably a source of mortal peril or something. That’s important too. You let out a sigh like air leaking from a freshly punctured tire. “Okay, I don’t even know where to start with that one. Uhh, first things first, I guess: //‘Monster Queen?’// As in, like, a queen that’s really, really mean? Or…” “The title of ‘monster’ is quite literal, I assure you,” Sherine says. “And she’s been alive for two-hundred years?” “Probably longer.” Cool, cool. A functionally immortal monster. That’s good. “And she’s a //queen?”// Vanille clears her throat. “Not //quite// what you’re thinking. It’s a title that predates All-Den. A non-hereditary one with something of a… complicated history. Traditionally, the Monster Queen has been less of a conventional ruler and more a, erm…” “The word Vanille is so admirably attempting to avoid is ‘warlord,’” Sherine offers. “For most of recorded history, ‘Monster Queen’ has been the Havendorian title for a monster who manages to unite enough disparate groups to form a horde. Said horde usually goes on to claim, conquer, or otherwise maraud their way through monster girl lands until they eventually run out of momentum.” “Or interesting targets,” Vanille mutters bitterly. “Then they head south.” “Oh!” you blurt out, the mental lightbulb illuminating the dreary Lurram midday. “And that’s why Orrault was built.” Sherine nods. “A massive fortress city on the northern border of Havendor. Far too tempting a prize for any Monster Queen to pass up, but well enough defended to break the horde.” She splays her hands in acknowledgment. “It’s an elegant solution: the bait and the snare all in one package.” You hesitate, mulling the concept over. You’ve seen the city’s defenses at work first-hand. “W- Wait, so the horde that attacked Orrault: that was this, erm, Lilith’s doing?” All eyes look to Sherine, but Vanille is the first to answer. “That’s the strange thing. Lilith isn’t—ah, hasn’t been, at least—//that// kind of Monster Queen. Her predecessors all burned themselves out in a few years, maybe a decade. But Lilith didn’t make a horde. She built a nation: All-Den.” “A nation… of monsters? That seems like it’d be difficult.” Sherine fixes you with a curious frown. “Is it so different from human society and its myriad disparities? Paupers and nobles, trained soldiers and chefs, craftsmen and moneylenders all clustered together behind their city walls, living together in mostly polite society. Is it so hard to believe harpies and centaurs could not do the same?” An embarrassed flush blooms on your cheeks. “I, uhh—” “It should be,” Sherine abruptly continues with a knowing smirk. “Lilith may have been the first monster to succeed in building a nation, but believe me, she was //far// from the first to try. It’s a nightmarishly difficult project, in more ways than you can possibly expect. “Consider humans’ homogeneity: even accounting for the unique traits of some demis, humans come in a narrow spectrum of sizes, wear similar types of clothes, eat similar foods. When looking for housing, you expect a similar set of accommodations: beds, tables, chairs, windows, doors of certain dimensions. “None of these are universal among monster-kind. And all must be accounted for.” “Simple accommodations are the easiest to solve,” she continues. “Barring rare exceptions, humans are all capable of speech. You possess the same core senses. You’re susceptible to the same set of dangers. You require similar amounts of sleep and largely share the same waking hours. You all breathe air.” [[“It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”|Travel2a]]

Lloriel dodges around a pool of mud a few paces ahead. “So, I’m not the only one who noticed the weird magic under the temple last night, right? Ashlyn?” <<if $Swamp1 == "Ashlyn">>“Last night?” Ashlyn asks, licking her lips. She gives you a lascivious look. You hold a steely face as she continues,<</if>>“I haven’t verified anything yet, but my best guess is it’s some sort of magical labyrinth. We’re definitely in the right place for an Echo, though.” She presents her notebook like it means something. At least Lloriel nods along. “One big mana manifold powering the whole thing… I think.” “I really hope we find one this time,” you muse, warding off the depressing sight of the last empty altar in Tra’mhara’s study. “It’d be a huge bummer if it were empty again—There’s still six more to go,” you say, flashing Destiny’s Embrace. “I’m sure we’ll find one this time,” Vanille says reassuringly. “We’ll get you home. I promise.” //“Hopefully without seeing that dragon again,”// Mira grumbles. Tess’s ears perk up. “A- A dragon?” “Freya led the siege of Orrault,” Vanille says, then flashes a proud smile and nudges your shoulder. “ <<= $name>> here thwarted her plan to destroy the main gates.” Ashlyn chuckles and smacks you on the back. “That dragon girl was so pissed, she ripped <<= $name>> in half.” Mira and Vanille shoot vile glares at the mage. “Surviving the siege was a team effort,” you grunt, pushing the bad thoughts out of your mind. Eager to move onto a different topic, you suck in a deep breath and ask, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever encountered, Lloriel?” “You’re so good at conversation,” she snarks. “S- Sorry.” “Er, no, I’m sorry. It’s a reflex.” She offers an apologetic frown. “It’s just, y’know, an awkward thing to think about. Enormous, scary beasts aren’t exactly the best things to dwell on. R- Right?” Oh god. She’s sane. “I- I guess there was this ettin—twenty feet tall, two heads, mean temper. I was hitching a ride with some farmers when this thing came bursting out of the woods, heading straight for the cart.” “How’d you fight it off?” A sheepish smile curls at her lips. “I didn’t. The ettin went straight for the cart, couldn’t give a damn about me or either of the farmers. We just sat there and watched as it gorged itself on some fifty cabbages, then hobbled off.” You tilt your head. “Are ettins usually veget—I mean, do they prefer eating produce?” “Not to my knowledge,” Vanille offers from ahead. Lloriel lets out a slight chuckle. “Maybe they were just some damn good cabbages. Wouldn’t know. I was supposed to take a few as payment, but I’d have felt bad after the farmers last two thirds of their harvest.” “At least they’re alive,” the knight says. Conversation ebbs as you focus on winding between a particularly dense copse of trees. You take special care to keep your eyes on Tess and Mira at the front, sparing the occasional glance over your shoulder to make sure Sherine isn’t falling behind. A small flock of birds scatters from the boughs of a tree ahead, jogging a memory from last night. <<if $SherineEvent4 > 0>>You almost completely forgot. Maybe you should start writing this stuff down somewhere like—Wait. You rifle through your satchel and produce a small, leather-bound journal. A parting gift from Orrault. A stick of charcoal comes next, and you spend a minute with the writing implement wedged behind one ear as you thumb through the pages to make sure there’s water damage. Once satisfied, you clear your throat to get the group’s attention.<<else>>Good thing you wrote it down! You whip out your journal and thumb to a recent page, then clear your throat to get the group’s attention.<</if>> “Indulge me, please: was it weird that the heron priestesses offered chickens as supper last night? They’re both birds. Are they… related?” “No. There’s a difference between—Ah, okay, I think I see the problem. You’re assuming that demis and monster girls are a type of altered-human, yeah?” “I was…” Vanille shakes her head. “Demis //are// humans in all but appearance. But monster girls are their own, entirely separate collection species—no more half-human than you or I are half-monster-girl. We’re //all// people. Anything with sapience—Everything else is an animal.” “Are they all… compatible?” you ask shyly. “I got this one.”Ashlyn perks up. She cracks her knuckles and smiles. “Yes. Mostly. The closer in shape it is to you, the more likely you can have offspring.” “That sorta makes sense.” Sherine slides up beside you. She nudges you playfully. “What did you expect from the harpies? They’d give us worms because birds eat worms?” Mira pats her middle proudly. “I ate a worm girl once.” “We were there, Mira,” Vanille groans. The demi pivots. “Tess, what do you like to eat?” “Uh, I like fruits and nuts, small rodents and mammals—I’m pretty good at catching them.” She shrugs her shoulders and hides a nervous frown. “ I- I like to set up traps and check on them when I’m sent on errands. Helps keep my energy up, and it’s usually better than the gruel at home. And it gives me something to barter with if I run into trouble, just in case.” “Ooh, can you show me how to make traps for catching mice?” “What kinda trouble?” you interject, mind wandering. “What kind of monsters should we expect to see today?” “Ideally just lizards, frogs, and dryads,” Tess explains in a professional tone. “There’s a bunch of other monster girls that make their home here, but you won’t see ‘em in real numbers. There’s also some, uhm… Well, you //really// don’t want to just ‘run into’ monster girls in Lurram. Trust me.” “That… doesn’t sound promising,” you admit. “D- Don’t worry. As long as we stay close to the villages, we’ll be fine. I know the safe routes around the swamp.” <<set $linkText to "Follow Tess">><<include "Traveler_Combiner">>

You stop for a bite to eat at the halfway point of your travels, perching comfortably upon a nice and dry rock in the shade. For you, lunch is a sachet of nuts, a hunk of bread, and a foisted wedge of cheese from Vanille. The knight and the elf share a bundle of fruits and a bit of jerky. As soon as Mira notices Tess doesn’t have a snack, the demi goes around scrounging foodstuffs from everyone’s bags to <<if $MiraTum >= 1>>give to the lizard girl. The round cat doesn’t need anything to tide herself over at the moment, though you suspect that Mira, if offered a substantial ‘meal,’ would take it in a heartbeat.<<else>>share with the lizard girl.<</if>> <<if $Crest1 == "murder">>And of course, for Sherine, it’s the lizard girl lump already in her tail. //She packed a lunch.// It’s certainly convenient.<<else>>Sherine’s abstaining. She must be saving her appetite, holding out hope for another ‘hearty’ meal today. Come to think of it, you’ve only rarely seen her eat regular food.<</if>> //Cronch.// Tess takes a hesitant bite out of an apple—a treat from the other side of the Brimond Mountains. Her pupils dilate. Tongue flickers. She chirps with pure glee, then gnashes and munches the rest of the fruit in a matter of seconds, core and all. She’s licking her lips, looking around for more, when Lloriel gets her attention. “Are these safe to eat?” the elf asks, holding out a clump of foraged berries. Tess inspects, nods, then hesitantly picks one from the pile when Lloriel insists on sharing. You pause and look at your own meal. “Y’know, I’m kinda surprised I haven’t gotten sick at all. Or uh, caught a disease,” you say, suddenly aware of your breathing. “Or worse: infected you all with something.” Vanille and Ashlyn both tilt their heads. The knight asks, “Why… would that be a worry?” “Well like, viruses, a- and immunity and all that. Someone could have gotten sick and died,” you explain, then trail off when their expressions don’t waver. Lloriel is looking now. Sherine, too. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” “People don’t die from illnesses.” “Yes they—//What?”// You wait for a long moment, poised for the inevitable //‘gotcha!’// It doesn’t come. “You… don’t have plagues, or anything like that? The flu? The common cold?” “Not deadly ones. There’s a few curses that can spread around, but nothing lethal.” Ashlyn bites her lip. “What are ‘viruses?’” “They’re little life forms that, uhh, they’re microsco—it’s so small you can’t see it. And it makes you sick by going into your—” Oh. There’s the fucking problem: an invader can’t survive in their bodies. You sigh. “How does disease work here?” “Uh, I’ve… never actually been ill,” Vanille admits. She looks around for a consensus. Ashlyn and Sherine nod. “Once, about seventy years ago,” Lloriel admits sheepishly. Tess hugs herself and shivers. Quietly she mutters, //“I thought I was sick once, but it turned out to be malnourishment.”// “I’ve been sick!” Mira pipes up. “I caught a cold and a fever after falling into the river in winter. I was shivering and coughing for two days, but then I had a big meal and felt better the next morning.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Uh, and by ‘big meal,’ you mean…” “I stole a whole roast turkey,” she says without a hint of shame. “It was delicious.” A murmur of amusement passes through your group. You rise and seal your bag, adjust your tunic. “Welp, I’m ready to get back to it. Thanks for waiting,” you say, fully aware how slow you eat by comparison. <<set $linkText to "Onward">><<include "Traveler_Combiner">>

A sudden, faint jingle interrupts the steady hum, buzz, and squelch of Lurram. It’s a dull, brassy sound, faintly rhythmic. It almost sounds like… a cow bell? “Mira?” you ask, turning to find your companion has already tilted her head, feline ears flickering. A figure emerges from the murk, long and flowing and painted in pastel reds and humble browns. A pair of white ears droop from the sides of curly and equally white hair that bobs with each step. Twin black nubs poke from her scalp, and you initially assume she’s a goat demi until you notice a digitigrade leg poking from beneath ankle-length robes. If the stifling attire bothers the new arrival, she doesn’t show it in the slightest, merrily marching along at the head of a small parade of… goats. Not goat girls. Goats. Ungulates. Four legs. No human torso. Just boring old goats. “Hello, travelers,” the goat monster girl calls out as she approaches, an oblong bell tied to the end of her walking stick jangling with each step. “Hi!” your one-woman welcoming party cheers, tail bouncing as she bounds to the front of the group. “I’m Mira! Are these your goats? Where are you going?” The stranger chuckles. “Oh, yes. This is my herd. I’m hoping to find a village that’s willing to trade, take a few of them in exchange for some other necessities.” <<if $MiraTum <= 2>><<set $MiraEvent11 to true>>Mira gasps. “I can trade. I have stuff.” The demi immediately hops back to your side, pries open your pack, and begins rifling through the contents before producing <<if $Lurram_Sidequest == true && $Swamp6 == false>>a number of odds and ends you’re pretty sure she stole from Plol’a’s house. When did she stash all that on you?<<else>>a collection of shiny coins you’re pretty damn certain aren’t yours. Huh.<</if>> As Mira searches, you turn your attention back to the goat girl and ask, “Are you a traveler too? You seem pretty used to the road?” “Oh, yes. I roam with my herd, find shelter where I can. Always in search of greener pastures.” She giggles at her own joke, then adds, “I usually like to stay farther south. The weather’s milder. And it’s less wet. But the swampfolk are always hungry.” Hungry, right. You suppose that’s the main reason someone would want to buy a goat and—Wait… “Is this enough!” Mira chirps as she returns to the shepherd with her wares. The two engage in a bit of amicable haggling as you look between the goats, then Mira, then back to the goats again. Before the cocktail of dread and eager anticipation has a chance to boil, one of the animals is being transferred to your companion’s outstretched hands. Mira opens her mouth wide and //homphs// over its head, horns and all. She gulps and pulls the small beast into her maw. Lips roll unimpeded past thick, hairy fur, around the front legs. The demi heaves, tosses her meal skyward and lets gravity condemn the animal to her gullet in a few deft swallows. A hoof flops about, helpless and futile. The animal is barely even trying to escape. Not that it stood much of a chance in the first place, but still— Is this what //you// look like when being eaten? That’s embarrassing… Mira’s <<if $MiraTum >=1>>already-semi-full stomach swells to an alarming bulge—not quite a full person’s worth, but damn close<<else>>stomach swells to a sizeable bulge<</if>>. Faint impressions form beneath the tumescent surface, the muted kicks of a squirming form all wrapped in a snug, sweltering cocoon of flesh. An audible gurgle drifts across the swamp. <<set $MiraTum += 3>>//“Urp//—Thank you!” “It’s my pleasure,” the shepherd says with a warm smile, completely ignoring the visible squirming of Mira’s distended stomach. “I hope he makes you happy.” The mercantile pair share a friendly handshake, only for Mira to suddenly lurch to attention and glance back toward the group. “Oh, oh wait, hold on. My friend is—Tess, do you want one?” The lizard girl flinches. “I- I can’t afford it.” “It’s my treat!” Mira insists. “We’ll both have meals! It’ll be fun!” <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>“No thank you. I don’t want to be slowed down while guiding you around.” She steals a fleeting and worryingly forlorn glance in your direction. “Gotta be ready for anything in Lurram.”<<else>>“N- No thank you. I don’t wanna be too fat while guiding you around,” she says reluctantly. “Gotta be ready for anything in the swamp.”<</if>> “That makes sense,” the demi says, a flicker of disappointment resolving to an expression of sober understanding. “Anyone else? The lady in the back, perhaps?” She nods to Sherine, who offers a polite shake of her head. Makes sense. <<if $Crest1 == "murder">>She already ate<<else>>She’s probably saving room<</if>>. “Safe travels, then,” the shepherd says. A nod, a friendly smile, a shake of her walking stick, and she’s off, goats dutifully trodding along in her wake. The entire parade is either oblivious to or uncaring of their lost kin now wriggling in Mira’s gut.<<else>>“Oh, you’re a shepard.” You gesture to her herd, to the walking stick, to the saddlebag full of survival goodies. “You seem pretty used to the road.” “Oh, yes. I roam with my herd, find shelter where I can. Always in search of greener pastures.” She giggles at her own joke, then adds, “I usually like to stay farther south. The weather’s milder. And it’s less wet. But the swampfolk are always hungry.” Hungry, right. You suppose that’s the main reason someone would want to buy a goat and—Wait… “How’s Lurram for business?” “Tolun’Moa is a welcoming hub. Low tariffs, which is nice compared to the Heartlands. Crest has been my best customer, however. As long as you get there when the lizard girls aren’t ravenous—I sold an entire herd to them last year.” The goat girl eyes your guide. A little sparkle lights up in her eye. “Excuse me, miss?” <<if $Crest1 == "smuggle" || $Crest2 == true>>Tess jolts. “U- Uh, yes?” The shepherd gestures to her flock. “I can see the hungry look in your eye. Would you like to buy?” Tess shakes her head. “I- I can’t afford one.” “I’m open to barter.”<<if $Lurram_Lizards == true || $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>> She mimes tugging on a necklace for a moment. “That metal strip?” Tess flinches, tucks her trophy safely into her tunic. “No,” she growls.<</if>> Mira reaches into your bag. “I can help pay!” she says, by which she means, //‘you// can help pay.’ “No thank you. I don’t want to be too fat while guiding you around.” She steals a fleeting and worryingly forlorn glance in your direction. “Gotta be ready for anything in Lurram.”<<else>>Tess jolts. “U- Uh, yes?” she says, licking her lips of errant drool. The shepherd gestures to her flock. “I can see the hungry look in your eye. Would you like to buy?” Tess shakes her head. “I- I can’t afford one.” “I’m open to barter.”<<if $Lurram_Lizards == true || $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>> She mimes tugging on a necklace for a moment. “That metal strip?” Tess flinches, tucks her trophy safely into her tunic. “No,” she growls.<</if>> Mira reaches into your bag. “I can help pay!” she says, by which she means, //‘you// can help pay.’ “N- No thank you. I don’t wanna be too full while guiding you around,” she says reluctantly. “Gotta be ready for anything in the swamp.”<</if>> The shepard nods, resigned, then scans your group for more potential customers. She glances right past you. “Anyone else? The lady in the back, perhaps?” She nods to Sherine, who offers a polite shake of her head. Makes sense. <<if $Crest1 == "murder">>She already ate<<else>>She’s probably saving room<</if>>. “Ah, very good. Thank you all for your time. Safe travels, then,” the shepherd says. A nod, a friendly smile, a shake of her walking stick, and she’s off, goats dutifully trodding along in her wake. The entire parade is either oblivious to or uncaring of their ultimate fate filling the stomach of some monster girl. Then again, is it really all that different from your world? Why cultivate if not for the harvest? And why go through the effort of raising livestock unless you can extract some tradable good or necessity? Even the most bountiful of egg-laying chickens eventually goes to the slaughter. The only difference here is the method.<</if>> <<set $linkText to "Back to the trek">><<include "Traveler_Combiner">>

<> <<if $Lurram_Going == "LizardsFirst">> [[$linkText|Lizardtown]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "LizardsReturn">> [[$linkText|Lizards Round 2]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "FrogsFirst">> [[$linkText|Frogward]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "FrogsReturn">> [[$linkText|MaisyQuest3]] <<else>> [[$linkText|Not Quite Rivendell]] <</if>> <>/* <<if $Lurram_Going == "LizardsFirst">> |Lizardtown]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "LizardsReturn">> |Lizards Round 2]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "FrogsFirst">> |Frogward]] <<elseif $Lurram_Going == "FrogsReturn">> |MaisyQuest3]] <<else>> |Not Quite Rivendell]] <</if>> <<set $linkText to "DISPLAY_CLICKABLE">><<include "Traveler_Combiner">> */

The second your group begins to walk away from the dryad’s territory, Mira strips off her half-tunic to try on her new clothes. You abruptly turn about-face to give the half naked demi some privacy. Ashlyn pounces, dragging you aside for another exciting private conversation. “<<= $name>>. <<= $name>><<= $name>><<= $name>>. My buddy. My friend. My non-platonic life partner. The sole being in the universe that truly understands me—” “I’m not opening the letter, Ashlyn.” “That’s the proof, though!” she says, grabbing the scroll Sable just gave you. “Proof of what?” you demand, wrangling the rolled parchment back from the mage. “Proof of who she’s been hooking up with in that shack!” “<<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>>Sazelle<<else>>The lizard champion<</if>>?” you balk. “That doesn’t even make sense. The clans all hate each other—that’s why we’re out on these errands in the first place.” “Hate makes sex better. How do you not know that?” Ashlyn smirks. “You should read it.” “Nope. That’s not my business.” “Imagine what dark secrets it could hold. The fate of all Havendor might hang in the balance. There’s no way to know unless you read the letter and find out.” “You just care about the gossip.” Ashlyn holds a hand to her chest. “You //wound// me, <<= $name>>.” She coughs out a dribble of probably-fake blood for emphasis, then wipes her lips. “I can care about both. Think about it: what if Matriarch What’s-Her-Name’s grand plan is to offer //you// as a peace offering. ” <<linkreplace "Read it">><<replace "#choices">><<set $Swamp2 to true>>@@font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; text-align: center; //My eclipse, my rain, my sickle, I bask in the sun, just to remember, How I quiver, in the breeze of your moonlit breath, My uncurling petals—// @@ You snap the letter shut and hastily tie it back up, paying extra attention to recreating the carnelian bow. @@color:lime;Ashlyn’s eyes flash with deadly intrigue. She smiles. “It’s erotic poetry, isn’t it?”@@ You groan. <<if $RVAshlyn >= 13>>“Worse. It’s a //love letter.”//<<else>>“N- No, it—Maybe? I- I don’t know.”<</if>> “I knew it!” she cheers, stomping her heels in the mud in a happy little dance. “Well, go on. What’s it say?” “I’m not reading out loud. I’m not reading it //at all.”// “Oh, come on!” “It’s not my business—not //our// business. It’s between Sable and <<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>>Sazelle<<else>>the champion<</if>>. I shouldn’t have peeked in the first place.” You double check that the letter is returned to the exact form you received it in, checking every petal, every inch of stem.<<if $Lurram_Lizards_NoLetter == true>> If Sazelle finds out, you’re as good as dead…<</if>> But Ashlyn doesn’t relent. “At least give me a line. How’s her prose? What’s the tone like? Is it //sappy?”// “That was awful, and no.” “Please, <<= $name>>. I //need// this. I am a helpless, starving woman wandering the desert, and you are my oasis. All I ask is but one drop. The slightest taste to give me the strength to go on.” <<include "Travel_Letter2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>> <<linkreplace "Don’t read it">><<replace "#choices">>You shake your head and fold your arms. “That doesn’t make any sense. The letter was pre-written. There’s no possible way she’d have anticipated our arrival.” “Please, <<= $name>>. I //need// this. I am a helpless, starving woman wandering the desert, and you are my oasis. All I ask is but one drop. The slightest taste to give me the strength to go on.” <<include "Travel_Letter2">><</replace>><</linkreplace>>

“… It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” you mutter, feeling a bit dumb. “More than I have, at least.” The lamia chuckles. “I should certainly hope so. I was raised in All-Den.” You nearly trip over your own feet. //“You were?”// “I //do// speak Monish, after all.” “R- Right, uhh…” You surreptitiously glance at your companions, hoping to find similarly surprised expressions. Either they’re hiding it well, or this is just one of those things you’d have intuited were you born and raised in Havendor. You carry on under the gloomy Lurram canopies and gloomier Lurram fog until you eventually pluck up the courage and patch together enough self-esteem to try another question. “So why’d you leave?” Sherine tilts her head as she considers the question. “I suppose it wasn’t to my tastes.” You stare the lamia down, trying to gauge if she’s speaking literally or euphemistically. Her expression reveals nothing. “How so?” you finally ask instead. She pauses once more before saying, “The vision of All-Den that Lilith paints is a beautiful one. A paradise for monster-kind. A utopia.” “But reality isn’t quite as glamorous?” She offers a smile equal parts appreciative and sardonic. “No empire comes without costs, <<= $name>>.” A brief pause. “There are two kinds of people who call themselves ‘visionaries.’ The first blazes their trail alone, embracing their status as a leader without followers. Some may eventually trace their steps, meet them at journey’s end. But the visionary lives with knowledge that others may never come. That they’ll spend the rest of their days alone, their path to fading until no trace of it remains. “And then there are the ‘visionaries’ who are not content to wait. Who are not so willing to gamble. They find those beneath them, drag them along the path, refuse to let go until they’ve reached the end of the road and their followers have ‘seen to light.’ To question them is to fight progress, to harm not just others, but ultimately yourself. They are as zealous as they are bold. Uncompromising. Absolute.” “And Lilith would be the second type, I assume.” “Lilith is many things to many people,” Sherine says in a carefully managed tone. “I can only gauge the shape of her from her shadow. I’ve never met the woman myself. Few have.” “But you seem to have an opinion.” For a third time, Sherine falls silent. Lips press to a thin line as cogs whir behind garnet eyes. The moment stretches, long enough that you begin to wonder if you should prompt her again. Finally, she lets out the slightest sigh. “Have I told you about the dens, <<= $name>>.” You frown. “Is that, like, a //part// of All-Den.” A chuckle bubbles from Sherine’s lips. “I can understand the confusion, but no. A ‘den’ is the traditional lamia societal structure. Think of it like a noble house among humans, though the dens are bound more by a web of fragile allegiances than blood.” “Sounds like all the noble houses I’ve ever seen,” Ashlyn remarks dryly. The lamia simply shrugs. “The dens are a rife with betrayal, intrigue, excitement. A uniquely challenging cradle, but one that shapes a certain breed of monster girl: one hungry for the eternal ladder climb, for the thrill of a game with the highest of stakes.” A faint smile forms on Sherine’s lips, then sours. “But few things drive the dens quite like pride. More than one matriarch has fallen from grace over something so trivial as a few demeaning words, and entire dens have been subsumed by others over long-standing feuds. Grudges span generations, to the point where none alive remember its provenance.” Ashlyn folds her arms. “Still sounding a lot like human nobility…” “There are few things the dens loath more than—to borrow a rather unfitting Havendorian turn of phrase—bending the knee.” Sherine lets out a slight sigh. “And so when Lilith came to the dens with her offer of utopia, I’m sure you can imagine how my ancestors responded.” Oh… “It was quick,” she continues. “As bloodless a conquest as anyone could hope. I’ve no reason to believe Lilith was cruel. But the dens were conquered all the same. Made to heel.” “And the lamia probably weren’t too happy about that?” “At first? No. Many a matriarch has gone to their grave lamenting the subservient state of the dens. And more will yet. But most eventually took to the fledgling nation. The scale of Lilith’s ambition meant a new ladder to climb, far higher than even the grandest of the dens. All-Den has been good to the lamia. They’ve thrived. Excelled.” You tilt your head. “So if that’s not why you left…” “Like I said, I found All-Den a bit bland.” Sherine pauses, finding some distant memory in the canopies above. “In many ways, Lilith’s nation is still playing at society, as much a carefully maintained act as it is authentic. It’s not some failing of monster-kind; I’m sure they’ll get there some day. But these things take time.” That… makes a lot of sense, actually. Human society is a thing that’s built on itself over centuries, layer upon layer. The lamia strikes you as the kind of monster girl who thrives in intrigue. What better font than generations upon generations of allegiances, scandals, betrayals, and feuds. “We should probably catch up.” You blink and glance ahead to discover you and Sherine have fallen behind the rest of your group. “R- Right, yeah.” You hesitate, then add, “Thanks, Sherine. For taking the time to explain all that to me.” “Of course, <<= $name>>.” <<set $linkText to "Carry on">><<include "Traveler_Combiner">>

“I have a drink!” Mira cheers as she bounds to the mage’s side and offers her flask. Ears flicker as she tilts her head. “Whatcha talking about?” Ashlyn speaks before you get the chance. “I’m trying to stop <<= $name>> from making a horrible mistake. One <<= $xe>>’ll regret for the rest of their days.” //“Oooh,// that sounds serious. You should listen to her, <<= $name>>.” The mage flashes her smuggest of grins. You huff out a sigh and push the letter into the recesses of your bag. “I’ll… take that into consideration.” A brief pause gives you the chance to notice your companion’s verdant new top. “Mira, is that—” The demi lifts her arms excitedly. The shirt rustles. “This is uncomfortable!” she cheers. “I’m… sorry?” “That’s okay. It’s a gift, so I’m gonna cherish it my way.” She smiles with excessive pride. You raise an eyebrow. “How do you plan to do that?” “I’m gonna eat it!” … It’s a way to make it part of her forever, you suppose. It’s sorta romantic, if you think about it. Mira wouldn’t ever lose track of it, and if you’ve learned anything at all from the demi, it’s that friendships aren’t defined by items exchanged. But, you never expected Shirt Salad would be on the menu. Ashlyn nods approvingly. “It’s probably really good for you. Full of fiber.” <<set $linkText to "Keep on walking">>[[$linkText|Traveler_Router]]