At this hour The Kettle's in a lull. Conveyors hitch up outside, eager to reach actual civilisation before sunset; the guards are still on patrol before the requisite evening piss-up. Buzi kills time shuffling roundhouse cards at the bar and chewing on ice-cubes so big they bulge his cheeks. His eyes light up when he sees you.
"Hey."
(link: "\"How's the trade?\"")[ \
---
"How's the trade?"
"Well, the clientele's changed." He gestures at his new body. "For the better. All the conveyors coming through Watercreek want a piece of me."
"I bet. You been enjoying it?"
He takes one hand in another and looks away. "Yeah, kind of. Never thought getting done was so hot. Guy running his hands all over you and all, you know?"
Oh, kid, wait until you find out about threesomes.
"How about Komil? Had good chemistry with him during that thing we did."
Buzi half-smiles holds up a palm, 'no'. "That was fun, but he doesn't do anything with other members unless someone requests it. Nice guy, though. He'll drink you under the table."
You sincerely doubt that.
---
]
(link: "\"How's the body treating you?\"")[ \
---
"How's the body treating you?"
"C'mon, you know."
"I'm serious. Saransz never published anything, but with some grinding I can reverse the spell."
Buzi snorts and rolls his eyes. "It's fine. Strange to move around in, that's how I'd put it. There's more of me, in places I'm not used to. But..."
"Growing on you?"
"Could say that." Then, impishly, "I never realised how fun breasts are. You can touch them *whenever you want*!"
The only appropriate response is to knock him on the back of the head. He takes it with a grin.
"Good for trade, too."
---
]
(link: "\"Do you think of yourself differently, like this?\"")[ \
---
"Do you think of yourself differently, like this?"
"How do you mean?"
"I've known patients whose sense-of-self changes after taking the elixir. Girls who prefer being boys, people who realise their body was wrong all along, people who don't feel one way or another."
"Hmm. I like being a boy. Even if I don't look like I used to. Feels more comfortable. Is that allowed?"
"You're the only person who gets to decide, kid."
A smirk. "Thanks."
---
]
(link: "\"Think you'll ever take the third hearing?\"")[ \
---
"Think you'll ever take the third hearing?"
Buzi wrinkles his nose. "Nah. Worth it if this is your main collective, but that's not me. As much as I enjoy it."
"I once knew a succubi get the fourth in a year. She's in the capital, bedtending for petty royals. Good position, if you can stand the politics."
And the assassination attempts, according to her letters. At least most were mistaken identity. Stay safe out there, Solria.
He squeaks his stool closer to the bar and puts his elbows down. "A year for a succubi is ten for me, and I've got my own stuff I want to do. See the world! Tehraum, when things are more normal. Hitch a conveyor heading out of here and see where it takes me."
You do that, kid. The world doesn't need anyone to see it, but it means getting out of Watercreek.
You think Buzi will end up just fine.
---
]
[[See what else you can do.->The Kettle]]Buzi takes two glances to recognise.
Most strikingly, he's wearing a bra, the plain kind midwives keep on hand. His tits are unambiguous, bigger than some girls'; no surprise his colleague, the pale Tehraum girl, is going free today. Below, Buzi's hips are full curves, pudgy feminine fat swallowing his muscles.
While this whiskey lasts, you watch from the far end of the bar. At least two drunks and one sober guy beeline for Buzi. He waves them off, projecting confidence as he clutches his arms around himself.
"Don't even say anything," he says when you approach. "I'm not stupid, you know? Once is a fluke, twice is bad luck."
"And three?"
Buzi licks his lips. They're ($thought: "fat and cushioned", 1). |thought)[Fouler-mouthed staff at the Academy had a phrase for that.] "I won't say I like this, but if this is what the spell is telling me, guess I've got to listen."
"That's a start." You pull up a stool, draw in close and look from side to side. "In my experience, people appreciate a new body best by using it."
He nods, slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, was thinking the same thing, you know? I, um, don't think I'd be much good at sex right now." That anxious grin speaks volumes. "But we could do something like last time. I liked last time."
Of course he did. Buzi will remember that for the rest of his life. You roll your head back on your shoulders, grinning. "Oh, you're not doing anything with me today."
Buzi frowns. "Then...?"
You rap an empty glass on the bar-top. The final member of Buzi's sex-collective, the tall muscled harpy, perks his head up.
[["Today I'm watching."->Boys and Girls]]"Ever done it with a guy before, Komil?"
"Few times." He's got the deepest harpy voice you ever heard, and it's still scratched glass and gravel. "Less difference than people say."
A man after your own heart. You lean against the bedroom wall, arms crossed, and take in the glorious sight of Buzi with his face down on the bed, ass up, the sow ready to be bred. Komil lathers ($exposition: "his cock", 1) with the weird pine-sap lubricant all harpy guys use.
[Komil's tribe doesn't have cloacas, so he fucks human-style. Excepting, of course, his cock. He has a fascinating corkscrew like tightly-bound rope strands. Tiny flexile spines flatten back across the skin, only visible when the light catches them.
Oh, right, there's a person attached to the cock.
Komil's tall, which isn't unusual for a harpy, but his thick barrel-chest and warlord arms are. Not very aerodynamic. A tasteful cord the same shade as his feathers keeps his wings tied down. Good manners for human buildings.
](exposition|Buzi shivers. "Never been on this end, you know. Be gentle, Ko?"
Komil shrugs. "$givenName paid for rough."
You squat down by Buzi, meeting his eyes. "We can stop," you say. "It's alright. I'm deliberately going fast. Let the idea build up, and you'll never do it. Better to leap and have leapt."
Buzi closes his eyes and sways back and forth on the bed. Komil raises an eyebrow a fraction of an inch; you motion to hold steady. Gears turn at their own speed.
"Alright, just to see what it's like. And because you asked. But I'm not going to enjoy it or anything"
Buzi is on a high cliff. You can only smile. How would you put it? 'For the sake of knowledge.'
[["There's your cue, Komil."->Raw]]You didn't ask Komil for foreplay, so Buzi doesn't get any.
"Dragon-fucking-fire!" he says as Komil penetrates. You've never seen someone grab bedsheets that hard.
You kneel by the bedside and slip a hand into your trousers. The angle is perfect.
Buzi's tits are big enough to suckle, areolae pale and wide. The ass was already fat, but now it's a soft, jiggling pillow. His cock, barely bigger than your pinky, swings back and forth with Komil's thrusts.
You twirl your fingers as a hello. "How's that feel?"
"Hurts. Hurts like a... oh..."
A feminine moan squeaks past grit teeth. You reach up and squeeze his cheek. "Enjoy the experience."
The show is precisely what you wanted. Komil makes sex look good: his rhythm is dead-straight, a ticking clock, and he flexes his brilliant feathered chest with every thrust. You're tempted to kick Buzi to the floor and get (seq-link: "fucked", "choked") for a while instead.
Buzi, head driven into the mattress, oscillates between gasping horror and euphoria. Occasional peals of muffled, manic laughter. A thin clear stream of pre-cum flows from his still-limp cock. That corkscrew, huh.
You collect some on your finger and show it to him. "Funny, I thought you weren't going to enjoy this? Looks like you're going to cum all over yourself."
He shakes his head. "Nhhh. No. Not gonna. Ow."
You smirk and wipe the pre-cum on the boy's face. This is all very good and wholesome, but not enough. You want Buzi's first time taking to be special.
($reveal: "\"Komil? Rougher.\"", "payload")
|payload)[=Ever the professional, Komil doesn't break stride to grab Buzi's hair, grown long and dense by the spell, and wrench his head back. He thrusts harder, goes deeper, slapping his balls against Buzi's ass.
"Augh!" The kid's eyes go wide with concern and pain.
"You like that?" you say, giggling. "Does it feel good? Ready to cum yet? Once you do, you're never going back. You know that, right?"
"Ow ow *ow*! $givenName! Please!"
"You're right, my apologies. Komil, please, harder?"
"Of course."
With a great reverberating crack, Komil slaps Buzi's ass so hard his entire waist reverberates. Buzi's eyes roll back, instantly lost in the rarefied heights where pleasure and pain breed. Your true home.
"Never thought you could feel like that, did you?" you whisper.
You grab Buzi by the cheeks and draw him into a deep kiss. He gags in surprise; another hard spank from Komil breaks any remaining resistance. Buzi returns the kiss ravenously, sucking on your tongue. You bite at Buzi's lips, scratch down the sides of his face.
Fuck the curse, fuck the Academy, fuck knowledge and decency and morals.
This is what you live for.
Buzi's moans are indistinguishable from your own animal growls and the harsh, arhythmic slaps Komil lays down on Buzi's fat ass.
[[No surprise he cums like a faucet.->Cleanup]]Groaning like a stuck pig, Buzi bucks and jerks so hard you and Komil both have to hold him in place. His cock, still semi-soft, streams milk-white cum that pools in his foreskin and drips onto the sheets.
"There we go." Satisfaction sugars your voice.
Komil, finger on the pulse, dismounts elegantly and recedes. The kid gibbers gently in a made-up language. You're a native speaker. You crawl onto the bed and kiss Buzi again, guiding him back to earth. A melty, squishy heap is the best either of you manage.
Dragonfire, his ass is beet-red. Komil didn't break the skin, but he came close. Good man.
"So, how are you feeling, Mr. Not-Going-To-Like-It?"
Buzi talks with a cottonwool tongue. "Shut... up. Dragonfire. I can't close my legs right."
"You get used to that. You learn to like it."
"I didn't realise anything could feel like that. Wow. I could live like this." He sounds like he can't believe what he's saying. "Thank you, $givenName."
His hands run breathlessly over his chest, his legs, his thighs, his hips. You give his tit another grope, this time playfully. He whimpers all the same. Girl bodies are nice, mostly. He can find out about the back-pain on his own.
"Oh, it's nothing. Consider it my contribution to the sex-collective. Now you can serve everyone downstairs—all those sweaty, stinky conveyors coming through..."
Buzi feigns offence but the undercurrent of curiosity isn't hidden hard. Unconsidered doors open in his mind. Sweet victory. At this point, momentum does the rest of the work. All the little petrifying questions that build up over life (why is this alright but this isn't? why does it actually matter who I fuck?) disintegrate before the power of unchained thought.
"There's one other thing," you say, caressing Buzi's hair.
"What's that?"
You spread your legs. "[[I've not cum yet->Mother]]."Komil takes his leave when everyone's cleaned up. While you cuddle Buzi, he produces a delicately-embroidered handkerchief from some entirely mysterious place and carefully wipes his cock clean of boy-sweat, lubricant and anal-froth.
"You didn't cum," you say, gesturing vaguely at your cunt. That corkscrew.
"I appreciate the offer," Komil says. "But that's for my free time." On his way out, he flicks his fingers in a gesture of arcane, informal solidarity to Buzi. "Look suits you, Buz."
You respect a man with principles.
Then it's you and the kid, gone through the whirlwind. Cuddles and kisses help. You grope his ass once or twice, and he doesn't mind.
"$givenName," he murmurs, elbow on the pillow. "You mentioned something back when you last cast the spell. About knowing who you were."
"I say a lot of shit sometimes."
"Who are you? Yourself."
"Not a nice person," you say without thought. "I only cared about you for sex and because it was fun fucking up your body. I knew this would happen from the start, but I didn't tell you. It was fun watching you squirm. It was fun being cruel."
(link-reveal: "You're meant to add something else.")[=
(link-reveal: "\"Sorry.\"")[=
($reveal: "That's it.", "payload")
|payload)[=Buzi gets a dopey lopsided look. "This might be a shock, but I joined the sex-collective so I'd have sex with people, you know? I kept signing on with you 'cause I was enjoying it too. Even if you're way different than the usual custom."
A moment stretches out. Sunlight bleeds in, slices up the room. Buzi's in amber, you're in shade. Downstairs a person is laughing.
"Besides," Buzi says. "I like this body, and you helped me find it. I count that as being nice."
You changed his life's trajectory in weeks. Will you remember him in five years? Call it a dozen before him, being conservative, stretching back to the early Academy dormrooms. All their faces are blurry. Some are dead, some in respectable jobs and respectably sexless marriages. Some happily depraved and yearning for you daily.
Bounce between people, fuck them up or save them by whim or chance and ricochet to the next. Never stay long enough to catch the ripples.
You're old enough to be his mother.
"You really don't mind?"
Buzi flops onto his belly. "It doesn't have to be stars and dragonfire every time you meet someone, you know? Sometimes you can just do things. People move around and have fun. Balance everything in a little black book and you'll rot away in your bedroom."
"Maybe I should." Kamal at least had the decency to die.
Buzi rolls his eyes. "You like raping people?"
"No." (visited: "Don't Fight It")[Not for a long time. Nobody who remembers.]
"Then stop being so self-important and let me take responsibility for shit too. Tell the truth, I was in a rut before this, you know? World needs people to stir stuff up."
You've lived with worse ideas.
"Thanks, kid. You want something to drink?"
"Mercy, yes."
(set: $nextBuziPassage to "Talking with Buzi")\
($endSequence: "It's whiskey all night.", "Watercreek")There's a pale-skinned girl, which is rare around these parts. Displaced from Tehraum? Or came across with a merchant-family. She toys with a slice of lemon on a glass of melted ice and ignores you.
One of the boys is a thick-built harpy who towers above you and everyone else in the bar. He's got good muscles, sleek black feathers and a raven's beak. Definitely from the capital. While the others lounge around, clearly bored by the dreary locale, he stands upright, chest pressed out, a walking advertisement.
He nods professionally: "Evening, miss." Deep voice for a harpy.
Finally there's a lithe mousy sort with sugarwater and a straw.
A halfway? No, he's just thin, lots of angular edges where groping gets you a handful of bone. He wears a common sex-collective outfit: low-cut tunic that shows off the pecs, or lack thereof, frilled undershirt, tight pants.
"Hey." He raises his glass, eyes bright. "You're staying here, right? At the inn. I've seen you coming and going."
You nod. "Here for a while on official business. Can I ask your name?" Some circles have rules around that.
"Sure. When I'm here I'm Buzi."
"What kind of things do you do?"
"I've taken the second hearing," he says. Not bad, not amazing. Must be pretty new. "But I learned other stuff in the Onlu."
Oh, watch out, we've got a wildcard on our hands. Not the Onlu.
"Anything you particularly enjoy?"
He sips his drink. [["Talking with people."->Sleeping with Buzi]]
[[Not right now.->The Kettle]]Buzi slinks into your room, reclines on your bed and knots his legs together. He rolls his head around his shoulders, flexes his arms. "So, what did you have in mind? Top or bottom are both fine for me. Or something less lighter? People say I do good with my tongue."
You have high standards for tongues. But more importantly, you're fixated on how he moves. An awkwardness seeps out of him. Buzi stretches his arms too slowly, rolls onto the bed with unnecessary care. He under-exerts, falls short, as if expecting stronger muscles.
"Your body's changed recently, hasn't it?"
His eyes shoot open. Bullseye.
"That easy to tell, huh?" He sighs and leans back, arms behind his head. "When I joined the collective, everyone was talking about this potion that gave you your ideal body. I thought, hey, might as well get prepared, y'know?"
You lean against the wall with a shit-eating grin. Now that takes you back. "Saransz's elixir. I used to administer doses back at the capital. Let me guess, it made you smaller? More femme?"
"Yeah, though dragons know why. This isn't what I want at all!" He points to his hips, his thin arms. "I drank it imagining myself, y'know, stronger. Taller. Bigger in the right ways. They gave me a bad batch."
Oh, this is delicious. Buzi will merit ($thought: "further attention", 1). [Nothing to do with the curse, naturally. Good old prurient interest is its own justification.](attention|
The elixir shifts you towards your ideal body, it's true. But Saransz, the sly bastard, weighed the calculus towards long-term happiness, not your current desires. The body you get is rarely what you expect.
"You want an expert's advice?" you say. "Don't worry about it. Live with it for a while and see if your mind changes."
He shrugs and blows out air, lifting up his dangling fringe. "I guess. You wanna start?"
---
"Holy dragons above," Buzi says, chest heaving. His legs knock against each other uncontrollably. "How'd you do that? How'd you even do that?"
You smirk. "You have sex much?"
The fuck was alright, but next time, you'll have to go harder. You piss into the commode under the bed to avoid infection and cast (thought: "the placating charm", 2). [Your first published work. The Academy board hemmed and hawed, but the sex-collectives practically put up statues in your honour. No more vile potions to keep your menses, what a dream.]
"You go right to the bone, huh. Uh, a few times. Not a lot. The collective has you practise the other stuff so much it kinda slips by."
Done pissing, you roll up against him and ruffle Buzi's hair. ($corruptionText: 75, "Put his head in a tight vice. Crack bone. ")Saransz's elixir hasn't totally sapped the manual labour muscles from those forearms.
Dragons, he's only a kid. You were never that young.
"Yeah, that won't do. Watercreek's my home for a while, so I'll give you some practice, how's that sound?"
A butterfly-stomach smile. "Seems like you're a damn good person to learn from. Thanks."
(set: $nextBuziPassage to "The First Spell")\
It's only late afternoon, but getting dressed again is a bore, so you kick Buzi out with most of his clothes and ($endSequence: "settle in for an early night", "Watercreek").{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
} \
"I want to ask a favour, $givenName."
Buzi has his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. He caught you heading for your room, exhausted after a tussle with some creepy-crawlies in the swamp and not in the mood to think of him as an actual person. Not when the sex was merely fine.
"You said you gave out doses of that potion. The one that changes your body. Can you, uh, do that here? In Watercreek?"
Nevermind, this will be good.
"I'll do you one better," you say. "I studied under Saransz for a semester. Give me a minute and I can cast a charm identical to the elixir."
"Huh. And it'll make my body how I want it? Properly, this time?"
"I said identical. The spell gives you what you want, doesn't say anything about what you expect."
Buzi says a quick oath to some dragon whose name you don't recognise. "I'll take the risk."
An empty store-room behind the bar, away from customers and more spacious than your room, is perfect. Sacks of flour, years old, prop up water-warped shelves decked in curls of grimy dust. The only light comes from a small square-cut in the door leading out back.
"Sit right there," you say, "and don't move unless you want an irrational amount of limbs."
Left, left, third circle, redact, right. The only hard requirement for casting a spell is doing the movements by muscle memory. The Academy offered lessons on dance to make it easier for the neophytes. Saransz, after years of practice, is trivial.
The power-of-change peaks. You thrust out and slap your palm against Buzi's forehead. Magic arcs invisible around the room and the air bursts into the smell of roasting pork fat.
When the steam dissipates, Buzi sits against a shelf, cobweb over his shoulder, blinking fast and quite confused.
"I, uh, don't think it worked."
You take your palm away and step back. Fingerprints gone, as usual. Back by tomorrow.
"Application by charm's always slower than taking it orally," you say. "Your body has to translate it into biology. Eat a big meal tonight and drink lots of water. No bread, no alcohol and no masturbation."
Buzi frowns, pursing his lips, but accepts it. The part about jerking off is bull, but always makes for a good laugh.
"If you say so," he says, then breaks into a grin. "Next time you call on me, you'll see what I'm really capable of, alright? Don't plan to walk straight the day after."
He actually winks.
(set: $nextBuziPassage to "Changes")\
($endSequence: "\"You bet, kid.\"", "Watercreek")Buzi looks different.
Even at a distance, the changes are obvious. His shoulders are thinner. His thighs are thicker. The hard edges of his face and hips are smoothed into plump, soft, eminently grabbable fuck-handles. And are those fledgling breasts propping up his shirt?
The charm works well on him.
He's pushing a bar-top drink coasters back and forth with a scowl on his face.
"Finally," he says. "$givenName, the spell went wrong. Just look at me!" He beats his chest petulantly. "I was thinking about who I want to be really hard last time."
Adorable. Do you have to sit him down and spell it out? No, you've seen this before. Once people get an idea in their head, Ixi himself can't shift it. The greater fun is seeing how far the kid will push before realising the truth.
Before he realises he's ($thought: "over the edge", 1). |thought)[
And if you happen to give a push, well, more's the mercy. His role is to entertain.]
"Remember what I told you? You never know what you'll come to appreciate."
You grab the fat of his waist, a real good handful, and squeeze. Buzi gasps in a higher-pitched voice than likely intended. You don't let go.
[["Anyway, my room. I've got plans."->Prelude]]"No sex tonight," you call from the bed as Buzi strips.
The charm is even more obvious when he's naked. His cock is half the size, long as your thumb, and his once-firm ass jiggles with enough mass for a clean bite. You could cup those tits in your hand, squeeze, get a moan.
That always mindfucks a boy, the first time.
Later. You spread your legs.
"You talked up your tongue, last we met. Time to prove it."
Buzi looks real good with his face buried in your cunt. You leg-lock him there and take a firm scalp-scraping grip on his hair. The Onlu must have practicals, because he treats your clit with respect rare to men: tender pokes, teases, dancing attention over brute attacks.
Certainly better than his fucking, ($thought: "if textbook", 1). |thought)[You should know: you wrote them.]
But Buzi lacks the vigour you need. He's distracted, glancing up periodically to check your reaction when there should be no singular thought in his little brain besides eating cunt. And that hand creeping down to his cock isn't exactly subtle, either.
($reveal: "He needs pressure.", "payload")
|payload)[=You tug his hair, drawing up a surprised, blinking Buzi. His chin's glazed.
"$givenName?"
"Inspiration struck. Lie down."
He's too smart to question you. Buzi gulps and runs damp fingers through his hair, which is perfect; sex without fear is assisted masturbation. You straddle his chest with a smirk you learned in postgrad.
"Squeeze your toes if you can't breathe," you say.
Before he responds, you twist around and sit squarely on his face. He's ($thought: "a perfect seat", 2). Your taint muffles his yelp of surprise to a damp whimper, and with a minor readjustment your ass directly blocks his nostrils.
|thought)[Humans are way easier to suffocate than harpies. Big noses are awkward, but beaks outright hurt. You've never tried with a minotaur. Would you even be big enough?
][[His toes squeeze instantly. Excellent.->Air Control]]You reach back and tug hard on Buzi's hair.
"Listen up, kid. I'm thinking about your air, not you. The only thing you're thinking of is getting me off. Quicker I cum, quicker you breathe. Understand?"
A whistled panicking squeak and it's off to the races.
The difference is stark. Buzi laps at you like a hungry street-dog, getting faster as it sinks in that you really meant it. Little jets of air from his nose tickle you as he strains for air.
($reveal: "Oh, yes.", "payload")
|payload)[=His technique is sloppier, but there's the energy you wanted. The strongest orgasms of your life all came wrapped in a heart-choking panic, either yours or someone else's. A full-body shiver takes you as Buzi gets downright frantic. His legs kick wildly, heels tussling up the bedsheets.
No proper clocks in Watercreek, but call it a minute gone. Experts last fifteen, more if you drag it out with a spell on their lungs. Buzi, surprised and inexperienced, won't make half that. His hands desperately slap at your thighs.
"Not till I'm done," you hum. "Better hurry up."
You settle down, crushing his face with your full weight. He tries to scream anyway; you have to laugh. You're already close to cumming—endurance was never a strong suit—but he doesn't have to know that.
He is trying awful hard, though. [[He deserves something for the effort.->Squeeze]]Buzi's crotch is clean and babyskin smooth, the hair fallen out. His cock, a soft flap of flesh, fits snug between two fingers. You squeeze. Buzi thumps his hands on the bed, legs writhing.
"Keep focused," you say. "Need to make me cum, boy."
He likes being called that. To your dark amusement, his cock barely grows when hard, instead stiffening into a pale nailless thumb. No wonder the elixir knocked his self-confidence. You start with a single finger, the gentlest touch you can manage. His cock twitches and jerks like a startled cat.
How cute.
Buzi clearly doesn't notice when you cum, because the licking stays ferocious. The orgasm's good, a teeth-clencher, you'd fall off without grabbing his fat elixired tits.
Ever true to your word, you grant Buzi air. Expanding his lungs temporarily is so simple the spell doesn't even require speech; with that he can last for another half-hour easily. Of course, that doesn't mean he knows it.
Amused by Buzi's cock, you make a ring around his cockhead with your thumb and forefinger. Squeezing that tight loop over the bulging head wrings out so much pre-cum you don't even need spit for lubricant.
His balls tighten immediately, which is fine. You're coming down anyway, more eager to cuddle than suffocate. A few good strokes and Buzi can experience a breathless orgasm. That makes for important training.
($reveal: "...or.", "payload")
|payload)[=A cruel thought takes you. A mean, nasty thought. Oh, should you do it? Should you? Yes...
When Buzi cums you pull your hand away and sink your nails into his thigh. You time it correctly, and, though he tries, he can't pull back from the edge. He shakes back and forth as the orgasm builds fruitlessly.
"Mhm!" he says. "Mhhhmm!"
You dig your nails in. "Don't struggle. Let it happen. Don't struggle."
($thought: "He doesn't", 1). |thought)[Good boy.] Buzi trembles as his cock dribbles a thin stream of cum onto his hairless crotch and the bedsheets. The orgasm flows out forcelessly, like water from a pierced goatskin.
($grantWillpower: 15)
[[Soft sobs come from under your ass.->Ruined]]Even when he calms down, Buzi is ruddy and slathered in sweat. He sways as he sits cross-legged on the bed, staring through the walls. You kiss his cheek, lick up the side of his face.
"You did well," you say. "A fair few pass out."
"I, uh." Takes him a couple tries to get the words out. "I'd like to ask why."
"I wanted to. Is that a problem, boy?"
You chose the word well.
Your favourite part of showing someone real sex for the first time is seeing the dawning horror cross their face afterwards. When you see beyond the normal world, you know irreversibly that you can never go back, never renounce the accursed share. All that remains are higher cliffs, sharper knives, harder boots.
A couple dead languages you studied at the Academy, their names barely known, use the same word for horror and ecstasy.
Buzi feels it. His eyes are wide. He blinks quickly and bites his lip. "I guess not."
You ruffle his hair, since it made him bashful last time, and pull him in for a hug that will last the next few hours. The happy part matters too.
Buzi is a complete mess, the mark of a day well-spent.
"You kinda stink down there, you know," he says. "But in a good way."
(set: $nextBuziPassage to "The Second Spell")\
($endSequence: "\"I'm honoured.\"", "Watercreek")"Hey, $givenName."
Buzi holds his hands behind his back as you come to the bar, a demure capital maid greeting the master of the house. You approve.
Things haven't been awkward since last time, per se, but he's clearly had no idea how to start a conversation with you. Letting him wallow in it was only partly for your amusement; he has to learn to reach out anyway.
"You want Saransz's spell again."
Buzi rests his head in his hand and chuckles quietly. "How'd you know?"
The edge approaches.
"The way you look," you say flatly. "Happy, even if you don't admit it. You woke up this morning, looked at yourself, saw tits and found it hot. Only sensible to keep going."
"Don't be stupid!" says Buzi. Careful, boy. Petulance can be cute, but it doesn't permit talking back. "People are laughing behind my back. I do want you to cast the spell, but so I can get back to normal. Not like this."
And that's it. The ruthless path of logic carries another true seeker into the hinterlands. You're so glad you got to give the final push.
You shrug. "No problem. We'll do the same as last time."
---
Your palm comes cool off his skin, despite his red belly glistening with sweat. Heat transfer, natural laws, something Maera called particulate demons you never pretended to understand.
The Kettle's storeroom is quiet and still. Hollow voices of patrons echo through the walls ($thought: "like chronomatic ghosts", 1). |thought)[Shit, one charm and you're back at the Academy.]
Buzi lets out the breath he's held for the past quarter-hour. "That's it. One way or another."
"Mind if I offer some advice?"
"Please don't say 'learn to like it' again."
"I'm not." You learn against an empty crate with lemons painted on the side. "Be honest with yourself, kid. It helps. I know what I am. I'll leave it at that."
Buzi tries to say something, but fails. He stares at you, rubs his temples and leaves without saying anything.
The doubt is natural. Back before you accepted yourself, back when mutilated corpses and animal cocks evoked shame instead of arousal, doubt wasted years of your life. Buzi doesn't have to trust you for you to help expedite that process.
(set: $nextBuziPassage to "Newborn")\
You stretch out in an empty storeroom, ($endSequence: "queen of the material world.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Changes"))
}\
Buzi is demonic with cards.
Outside it's raining dragon-tears and you've got no intent to ruin a third pair of boots this week. This is your fifteenth day stuck inside The Kettle, and there's only so many ways to organise your notes before tedium gets crushing. Mercifully, the rain also kills Buzi's usual custom, so he's happy to school you at roundhouse.
"How'd you get so good?" You concede your second game in a row.
Buzi fans out his hand, collapses the cards and disappears them up his sleeve. "Five years in a secret gambling den under Longe's March," hushed whisper, "where a single loss meant death."
"And this was before or after you visited the void on borrowed harpy wings?"
He sticks out his tongue and straightens the edges of the deck against the table. Flicks you your king, speaker, bricklayer, butcher. "Picked it up in the Onlu. Not much else to do at a collective camp when training's done for the day."
"I assumed they fucked through the night over there."
"C'mon, those people were my friends. That'd be weird."
Weird indeed. Who would do that, $trueName?
($endSequence: "The rain lasts all day.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "The First Spell"))
}\
Watercreek doesn't have a farmer's market anymore, or farmers, but every few weeks old Tirril offloads the turnips and beets he can't sell to the heartlands. You detest turnip-beet stew, as it happens, but blocking the experience of eating it from reaching your conscious mind is good practice for the future.
You're bagging up produce when a familiar mousy voice asks Tirril how the soil's been, what with the recent rains.
"Buzi?" you say.
The boy's eyes go wide as dragon-eggs. "$givenName? Uh. Hello."
"Normal clothes look good on you."
"Hey, don't tease." He puts a hand to his head and looks away. "Others in the collective leant me pieces to make my work-outfit."
Fishnets and open-jackets draw eyes even in the ($thought: "exciting parts of the capital"). |thought)[No promises about the Onlu.] "I never actually asked what you did outside of the sex thing."
"Most of the year I'm in the woodworker's collective. It's why I'm in Watercreek in the first place, stripping down the unused buildings for lumber. The other thing is a way to meet people."
"Still, Watercreek?"
He rubs the back of his head. "I go where they send me. Despite the stories, I've never had trouble here."
Not just stories. Stay off those roads at night, you want to say. But innocence is not something to break casually.
"Anyway," Buzi says, looking to the side.
You wave goodbye with just the wrist as he scurries down the street away from you.
One of Eiyren's infuriating quirks. Sex with strangers is completely normal, albeit vulgar, as long as you're in the collective. But studying sex? Actually trying to understand how and why people do it?
That gets you awkward silences, vague denials for funding, a pokey windowless office in the worst wing of the Academy.
($endSequence: "Not that you're bitter.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Changes"))
}\
You wake perturbed. A dream on the fleeting edge of memory. Usually sleep is a featureless void. Dry mouth. Blink. Wrong pillow, fuck, still in Watercreek. Roll a die to decide what direction you march off in today.
Something is growing out of your leg.
Looking under the sheets, the something is a soundly-snoring Buzi, face stuck to your crotch.
Ah, yes. Yesterday was a 'break this living object' mood, not 'rip me into bleeding gristle'. The kid's learned well; he barely protested as you dragged him from the bar by the hair. Did he cum, in the end? Legitimately hard to remember with all the false stops in the edging.
Well, no point wasting a good thing.
Off the beside dresser you grab a ledger that needs fair-edits and wrap your feet around Buzi's neck. He wakes with a start and ($thought: "a futile struggle", 1). [Strong legs are the only constant in your body.](thought|
"You stay right there, boy, and keep on where you left off. I've got work to do."
A wordless groan from under the sheets. To his credit, Buzi doesn't struggle. With a face stuck in your musty cunt all night, plus dried juices from yesterday's circus, he'll smell of you for a good long while. ($corruptionText:80, "Don't let him wash.")
Buzi's cunnilingus is lethargic, but diligent.
"Miss?" he murmurs. "Can I get breakfast, at least? You grabbed me before dinner last night."
"Priorities, boy. Get me off and you can eat."
And there he goes, back to full speed. What's seven hours of uninterrupted worship between friends? The game, of course, is to see how long you can hold back orgasm. Your experience versus Buzi's skill is not an even match.
Now, these notes. Two columns or three, and what margins...
($endSequence: "Breakfast comes late.", "Watercreek")Buzi's about your height, which is small for most people his age. Despite Saransz's charm, there's an underlying wiry strength to his arms.
Shadowing a spotlessly smooth face, his hair's a messy auburn mop that perpetually threatens to cover his eyes.
As for clothing?
Well, the sex-collective lives and dies on first impressions. Today he's donning a leather jacket two sizes too big, unbuttoned down the center, bare chest beneath. Pants, if you can call them that, are the new fishnet style big in Longe's March.
A delicious package. ($corruptionText: 35, "Better bleeding out on the floor.")
[[Enough ogling.->The Kettle]].{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
Seeing you wander the coven with nothing to do, Maera invites you in for a study-session.
That quickly degenerates into a heated debate on the inner mechanisms of the corruption-curse. What other topic of discussion could there be?
"Don't start with me about monads," you say, waving a cup of licorice tea dangerously close to Maera's aludel. "Dreaming up some fanciful symbol so powerful it can twist reality to whatever you want, it's—"
"But think of the consequences if we do! The corruption-curse? Nothing. Dust in the wind." Maera is hunched over in her hammock, wide-eyed, cheeks flush. The triangle of crisp honeycake in her hand is entirely forgotten. "We just need to find it. Or, not find. Decipher, unravel, construct it..."
"Let's talk about something else," you say firmly.
Maera freezes, train of thought interrupted, then settles back into her hammock. She temples her fingers and grins slyly. "Fine. We'll see who's laughing when I turn salt into caesium."
You push her swinging with an extended foot. "Teacher, oh wise teacher. A question, actually. Am I on the right path?"
She perches her chin on the hammock lip. "How so?"
"The curse. Sometimes I'm out there, in the mud, bleeding and sore. And I wonder if I wouldn't be more useful with you, doing real research."
"$trueName. You haven't always been the star academic. But the way you tackle problems nothing short of astounding. Nobody thought condoms could be preserved past a week until your work."
"You know I got lucky working with the aerologists."
"And it doesn't matter; you make your own luck."
Maera pans around her lab. Scales and alembics jostle for space around a volcano of note-paper erupting in slow-motion.
"I've spent five years here, gathering data, but it's all been non-invasive. Lots of pretty pictures describing the curse, but nothing *understanding* it." Fists clench, unclench. "Your methods are unsavoury. But you make more progress in a week than I do in a year."
You digest her words, nodding slowly, and take a sip of the licorice. At the Academy she put in fennel, too, but the Watercreek climate kills the seeds.
"Thank you for the permission to fuck monsters, miss."
Only by great experience do ($endSequence: "you dodge the lobbed honeycake.", "The Coven")Maera fought the landslide of time and won. She's identical to when you last saw her, the hurried goodbye in a candlelit Academy hallway.
People ($thought: "who liked her", 1) called her The Ox for her broad shoulders and perfect crescent-moon horns. [Those who didn't ignored her whenever possible.](thought| The horns part crow-quill hair, once glossy and sharp-cut, now draping uncovered shoulders.
Maera wears what succubi call conservative.
The fabric mesh is a thousand hand-sewn loops of interlinked cotton, like the metal mail Eiyren battle-mages wear to war. Beneath her bare body lies visible. Never enough for lascivious details, nothing for axe-grinders on the faculty to call out. But the red fishscale patterns of her skin ripple with every movement, a brushstroke flowing in air.
By chance you meet her eyes and go back in time.
Succubi irises are totally black. Her gaze, even in a casual moment, is uncompromising and undiscriminating. The first time you met her, incoherently alive in the barrows of the break, those eyes pinned you to the ground. She showed you compassion with blunt impartial force, the same way she cracked open nature's skull and siphoned out its secrets.
When you met Maera she had twenty-four papers to her name. A year later, in joint authorship, that rose to fifty. Who better to invent sex-magic with than a sexless succubi?
Her fingertips are rubbed raw and smudged with ink. Alchemical burns tattoo her shins. With her, (link-goto: "you stand a chance", (history:)'s last).You lean on the railing outside Maera's place and look around the coven.
Thick walls of drooping leaves insulate this tiny ramshackle place from the swamp, and the world as a whole.
Your skin drips with humidity. Thin mist perpetually trawls the slopping, muddy ground. Wooden shacks stand on raised stilts above brackish water, twined bridges connecting them; the walls are blackwood draped in fabrics and sequins.
On them hang portraits of succubi, landscapes, naked bodies.
This coven has no well, no sewage system, no irrigation. People will live without these things before they live without pictures and colour.
Torches burn through the day. At the Academy, Maera called it cultural, like a holiday except 'it's always happening'. Special oils to keep your spirit tied to your body.
The succubi are industriously casual.
Some work: carrying water, grinding grain, a man's muscles bulging as he uprights a toppled rain-collector on someone's roof. Others lounge on swinging hammocks and feather-stuffed chairs, bodies a cluster of veils and jewellery, watching you pass with sly smiles. Men and women dance around an incense fire, singing in a language so old it's only known for song.
You are a novelty. Brave ones approach, clothed in musk and soft laughter, wordlessly offering you their hand. No, not right now, thank you. Sugarcane treats appear in your palm, kiss-marks on your cheek.
Some way off, children play, skipping stones across a large puddle. Their horns are barely nubs. Have they ever met a human?
[[Would you do that to them?->The Coven]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
Boots full of mud-water, neck full of gnat-bites, a perpetual bad smell crawling up your nostrils: yes, it's another day trawling through the delightful swamps of the lower Watercreek basin, hoping to run into something horrible and full of lust.
Truly you made a good decision coming to this part of the world.
The swamp, at least, is now familiar. Mapping it out's not worthwhile, no real structures for landmarks, but you traverse its directionless marshes with skill. Rough mental cartography says you've never strayed into the far-south-west quadrant.
So, that's what you're doing today. So far it's a whole lot of nothing. Your intimate parts itch from lack of use.
The swamp is denser here.
Giant weeping willows shroud the path with layered curtains of leaves dipping into bog waters. All is murky and organic, the belly of a gigantic, greenery-eating monster. An excellent place to hide something.
The leaves are thick but do not prevent a certain smell from reaching you: charred meat and frying fat. You orient yourself and push through a final shield of leaves, emerging into a clearing.
The village is surrounded on all sides by dense trees. The houses stand on raised platforms above the wet of the ground, a network of stairs connecting them. Torches on long poles dot the perimeter.
The smell of meat comes from a big iron pot frothing with stew outside one of the houses. The man stirring the pot hears the leaves parting and looks up, sees you. He's got dark red skin, bull-gore horns and a forked tail.
"Oh, shit!" He cries. "[[A human!->Discovery]]"Bloatling meat is delicious, given it's boiled for several hours to sweat out the poison. You're scheming how to get a second bowl when the incubus from before sits beside you. This close, you can make out the scales.
"Sorry again about that," he says. "It's not often we get visitors here, especially not people looking like you."
That's a reference to your clothes, more than anything. Trudging through swamps in a tunic from the Capital isn't exactly sensible, but you never claimed to be smart. Just determined.
"Don't worry about me," you say. "I don't plan on revealing this place to anyone else. As far as I know, nobody from Watercreek has come this far out since the curse hit."
He beats a loose fist against his chest, thankful. Succubi aren't illegal, exactly, but since the curse came prejudices flared up hard. If you had money and prestige you could get by, but an entire community like this? Better to stay hidden.
"I'm glad you understand," the man says. "We don't have many friends nowadays. My name's Toro, by the way. Forgot to introduce myself."
"$givenName, and it's nothing. A person I respect deeply—my tutor back home, actually—was one of your kin."
He furrows his brow. "At the Academy? You don't mean Maera?"
What? [["She's here!?"->Rebind]]Maera's study is a particularly narrow shack kept in shadow by willow leaves. The walls only mostly attach to the threadbare roof. Toro leaves you by the thin plank stairs leading up to the door, saying he wouldn't want to ruin a reunion.
The stairs are long, for how little distance they cover.
Can she really be here?
Your mentor since childhood, friend and true confidant for nearly as long. You worked together. You laughed together. You invented sex-magic together. Maera wrote to dragons and put parliament to heel. Undergrads whispered she summoned demons for research notes. A murky dump like this, on the edge of everything, is scarcely fit to contain her.
Soft dim candle-light seeps out from under the door. A simple hinged board of wood, it has no lock nor handle. An ear-press: inside, footsteps, things moving. Murmurs: a voice: a woman's. You creak open the door.
It's her.
Maera is siphoning liquids between two beakers with a long fluted glass. "Come in!" she calls, then sees you. The glass slips, falls, splits to two long even pieces. "[[$trueName->Tea]]?"Instead of hugs, Maera shakes your hand for so long and with such vigour your wrist aches. You don't mind. You've never minded.
($grantWillpower: 30)
"Dragon's blood," she says over a cup of pu'er, "it's good to see you."
([[Examine her more closely?->Examine the Tutor]])
Her hammock's hanging from the wall to save space, and there's only no chair, so she sits on a work-desk while you squat on the floor gremlin-style, sipping tongue-burning tea.
Turns out she's here for the same reasons as you.
"I needed data from the source. Air samples, soil samples, resonance measurements—did you know the curse warped the gravitational waves around Watercreek? Streams from Mt. Torre are running backwards! I even tracked affected beasts for excreta. Though, um, it sounds like you've had better luck in that department."
Succubi blush blue, like a bruise. Maera wears it like makeup.
"I've made progress," you say. The tea is ($thought: "absurdly bitter", 1). |thought)[Some things never change.] "Got the bones of a purifying charm the capital thaumaturges would kill for. But fuck all that. Maera, how are you?"
Her shoulders droop and she hunches over. "You what it was like after the curse hit. I thought my position would help, but the dean didn't even send a letter. Office, tenure, money. All gone in a day. I guess that when the axe falls, it falls for everyone. Sticking with my kin and ($thought: "staying out of sight", 2) was the safest bet."
[No succubi ever got killed, the lettered law held. But in some places it got close. Too close to know what next week promised.
](thought|The unspoken question is so obvious it's hard to think about. Why, when she left, didn't you follow? All those years biding the smirks of your peers, stomping through massacred towns to hacksaw autopsies, you could have spent here. It might have made a difference. Even on the curse.
A hand on the shoulder is all you can bear.
"Fuck the Academy. We'll break this curse and have them kissing our feet."
One eyebrow raises.
"Metaphorically."
The high-strung emotion of a long-awaited meeting inevitably degenerates into banal pleasantries. Maera makes it easy. Six years gone from human circles, your updates on the state of theoretical spellcraft are greatly appreciated. In turn, she shares her research on the curse. The mathematics makes your head spin, but you glean patterns: beautiful, dangerous patterns.
($grantKnowledge:)
"You're always welcome here," she says, hopping off the table. "The other succubi know you're a friend. Keep me updated on your work, so long as you leave out the, ahem, methodology. Who knows how we'll help each other."
"Careful," you say. "Talk like that, and I might think we can actually beat this curse."
($endSequence: "Shared smiles. Beaten, tired, determined.", "The Coven"){
}\
"Hmm."
Maera doesn't so much run her hands over you as pass them through you. The tint of her skin turns from red to green to spectral blue, then jumps off the prism of telescopic light entirely.
A hard chill shakes you. She grabs your pancreas.
"Yes, there's definitely traces of the curse here." Researcher-voice, frog-dissection voice. "I don't have the materials for a proper cleanse, but I can give you the standard treatment."
"The second method?"
($reveal:"\"Mhm. Lie down and I'll get the dowsers.\"", "payload")
|payload)[=Curing the curse in individual subjects is theoretically possible. The second method you developed with Maera is as close as anyone's managed. You hope to never develop a third.
Maera stands over you, holding a long lacquer-wood rod between her forefinger and thumb. Like spooling up invisible yarn, she draws out the corruption. The sensation is similar to getting your blood tapped, except blood doesn't struggle to stay in the vein. You ($thought: "grit your teeth", 1). |thought)[Not as bad as the experimental trials.]
"I'm going to be crude and charge you," Maera says, eyes focused tight on the minute movements of the rod. Her horns glow faintly as she works. "Preparing the materials out here isn't easy."
"Ngh. Fine."
The method only takes a few minutes. As you sit up, Maera cracks the rod in half and tosses it out a window; tomorrow it will rot into harmless grime.
($grantWillpower: 20)
($deductGold: 30)
The curse is still kicking around your core, you can feel it, but the load is lightened. You draw more air with every breath. Your thoughts are clearer.
"Thanks, Maera."
"Any time, $trueName." She half-smiles. "[[Stay safe out there.->Talking with Maera]]""$trueName." She says it with the weight of dragons. "You know what I'm going to ask."
Fuck, please, no. Anything but this. Your skin itches—tempting to remove it. "Maera."
"Don't try to get around it. You remember our promise."
There is no escape. You are subject to her questions. Death, and other mercies, are unavailable. Her gaze scours your flesh.
(link-reveal: "\"How have you been holding up?\"")[=
You shrug. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."
"Stomping through beast-infected wilderness and subjecting yourself to—" She can't say it. "—all kinds of things, that hasn't affected you at all?"
"Of course it has. But I keep on top of it. If things get hard I take a day off and write up notes."
"That's not a day off. Look, I'd rather be doing my own research than playing mother. But we both know it's better if someone asks you these questions. We don't want something happening again."
Statues in gardens. Long nights that bled into mornings, fingers sore and bleeding from so much writing. Sticking yourself with the sharp end of quills to stay awake.
"I've learned since then," you say. Superior technique, reduced expenditure. You can go for months without a break. "And this isn't about me. I'm trying to save Eiyren."
"I know." Maera massages her forehead, stretching the gaps between scales. "But take care of yourself, alright? Visit me. Even if you don't think you need to."
She's expecting you to say something. It's easy for her. Maera wasn't in the whirlwind.
"Alright. I will."
(link-reveal: "\"After the curse, are you going back to the Academy?\"")[=
"Probably," you say. "I want to see Krecher and the dean's faces when they realise it was me who turned back the corruption-curse."
"That's not a good motivation," Maera says.
"I know. But it's the motivation I have."
She rubs her horns despairingly. "I won't say anything about the dean, but Krecher isn't so bad. He spoke highly of your work on how sexual disease transmission in the capital collectives."
You sniff. "Never said that to my face, though. Or the funding board. Stuck-up old sexless fuck, like the rest of them." You pause. "Sorry."
Maera waves a hand; she's used to it. "You'd be surprised what a glass of good sherry does to him. Anyway, the sex doesn't stop you from getting funding. By the dragons, the board gives grants to necromancers, so long as they help the military."
"The rejection forms say otherwise."
"The rejection forms are for *public consumption*, $trueName." Maera is pained. "The Academy projects a certain image. Trust me, it's not the sex. It's the other things."
You cross your arms and look at the floor. You promised to listen to Maera's questions, not to answer.
(link-reveal: "\"The thoughts?\"")[=
"Worse than at the Academy," you say. An understatement. "Which is what I expected. I've seen a lot out here."
"There's a lot to see," Maera says with a sigh. "The usual topics?"
"Yeah."
And it's left at that.
---
Maera picks up a leaf of loose papers from her workdesk and shuffles them absent-mindedly. "You're free to go. Thank you for indulging me."
"Mhn."
...no. Before the moment passes, you're struck with a desire to not leave it at that. "Thanks, Maera. I know it's hard. Know it's always been hard having me around."
"Oh, $trueName!" She puts her hands to the side of her face and pulls the skin back. "Don't talk like you're an unwanted skin infection. You're the best pupil I've ever had, despite everything. It's an honour to be your tutor."
[[Despite everything.->Talking with Maera]]{
($hubStatFailures:)
(set: _flavor to (a:
"Flickering lanterns cast shadows on the walls. You see faces.",
"Succubi lounge under the willow-leaves, gossiping about a recent hunt.",
"Ruddy faces peer at you from around corners, disappearing when you turn.",
"The air chokes with the musky smog of swamp-water, incense and succubi pheromones.",
"Pools ripple with the croak of frogs and buzzing insects.",
"There's the *fwoosh* of bursting fire as something explodes in Maera's study. She'll be fine.",
"Succubi gather round a cauldron, cooking stew. They offer you some.",
"Two men box each other in the mud, practising their skills.",
"Some succubi are fucking against the wall of a building. Good for them."
))
(if: (visited: "Comfort"))[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Ameria lounges on a hammock strung between shacks. She waves with a lazy smile."))
]
(set: _flavor to (shuffled: ..._flavor))
(if: $warnedMaeraBeforeVisitingCity is true and $ishiykState is "visited" and not (visited: "Details"))[(goto: "Reporting Back")]
} \
You're in the nameless succubi coven hidden in the deepest corner of the Watercreek swamp. Succubi filter around the huts, carrying bags or wood or tools on their way to the endless toil that keeps even a small community afloat.
(print: (_flavor)'s 1st)
{(link:"Save game")[
(if:(save-game:"A"))[Game saved.
](else: )[An error occurred while saving the game.]]}
[[Visit Maera->Talking with Maera]]
[[Look around the coven->In the Coven]]
(link-storylet: "Wander the coven", where its tags contains 'coven', "There's nothing left to explore in the coven for now.")$knowAboutMatingPost[
[[Check out the mating-post->The Mating-Post]]]
[[Head somewhere specific->Places of Interest]]
---
($hubOptions:)
---
[[Head back to Watercreek->Watercreek]]{
(set: _state to (cond:
$ishiykState is "metIshiyk", "Met Ishiyk, no Icon",
$ishiykState is "gotIcon", "Got Icon, No Ishiyk",
$ishiykState is "ready", "Ready",
$ishiykState is "visited", "Visited City",
))
}\
(display: _state){
(set: $maeraFirstIshiyk to "ishiyk")
}\
"I met a demon, the other day."
Maera pauses, silvery fluid dripping from the pipette held flexed between her fingers. "Oh?"
The forced casual tone of are-you-joking-or-not. Something you used to hear a lot more frequently.
"Goat-headed sort, at a crossroads outside of Watercreek. He knew what I'm doing in Watercreek—all of it. He offered to show me the City, Maera."
Her black dot of her eyes expand, as if adjusting to darkness. The pipette falls to the floor as she grabs you by the shoulders. "Have you eaten today?"
"Yes."
"How much water?"
"Two skeins."
"How bad are the thoughts?"
"Maera, look." You gently shift free. "I'm as stable as I ever am, and I've considered this seriously. Who knows what knowledge a demon has about the curse? I know the risks as well as you do."
"I wouldn't be so sure you do," Maera says quietly. She sits on a work-table and puts a hand to her brow. "But... seven spirits, $trueName. The City. Is the curse ($thought: "really that important", 1)?"
[How many widows have you seen these six years? At least a hundred. Generations of families ripped apart. Hunger and war kill more, but the curse is small enough to fit in one person's mind. It can be solved. You can solve it.
](thought|"Yes." You break into a watery smile. "And I'm willing to risk never coming back."
Maera chokes on her breath and looks away. Could you have sugarcoated that? Easily. But you've seen things she hasn't, outstripped her in experience and bloody-toothed determination. She needed to know.
"Well. I know you wouldn't consider this if it wasn't necessary. What did he say, this demon?"
You walk away from her, hands behind your head, pulling at your hair. "I don't remember the specific words. I know, I know, I should've written them down. But he meant a stay there. Not permanent. He didn't say 'pledge', and that's what they say in all the songs for perpetual service."
When you turn back, Maera is kneading her hands together and nodding slowly. "Yes. Alright, that's workable. Assuming the old songs are reliable, you have a chance. Risky, but plausible. I'll run calculations, get out my scrying set."
"Appreciated. I need to find something first, anyway. An icon of his hidden somewhere in Watercreek."
Maera nods, then catches your eye. "Tell me, before you go?"
To say goodbye. Just in case.
[["Of course."->Talking with Maera]]{
(set: $maeraFirstIshiyk to "icon")
}\
"I visited Kamal's tower recently."
Maera shudders. "That awful thing. Whenever I'm within ten miles of Watercreek I see it polluting the skyline. Morbid curiosity, I'm guessing?"
"Mostly. But I did find something. Look at this..."
Kamal's metal icon sheens in the soft light of Maera's athanor. It rests in your palm, heavy, flakes of green paint coming away on your thumb. She squints at the sigil, a circle cut by three lines, as one would a venomous animal.
"This safe to touch?" she says.
"Nothing cursebound I've noticed. Skin-contact for a few days and no side-effects."
Maera takes the icon and holds it under a field-researcher's magnifying glass, twisting it around to observe every angle.
"Not curses I'm worried about," she hums, clicking her teeth. "I don't recognise the sigil, but that's not saying much. Demons always have multiple."
"Lower or higher order, do you think?"
"Lower. Objects with higher provenance aren't susceptible to oxidisation." Maera clacks the icon onto an empty spot on her desk and stares at it with narrowed eyes. "So. Kamal's tower, you say. You think the relationship's causal."
It would certainly make a neater story. Kamal was always a second-rate talent—the curse within his power, but only just. Demonic aid would make the formation of the corruption-curse a lot easier to understand.
"Hard to discount the possibility. I was hoping it'd add something to your theoretical approach."
Maera puts knuckles to her forehead and massages her horns. "No, unfortunately not. Demon powers don't follow useful rules. We only call what they do magic out of convenience. Learning Kamal consorted with them is interesting, but if I'm going to puzzle out the curse it'll be from the boring old angles."
Oh well. When you write a history of the curse, this will make a nice footnote.
Maera's happy to give you the icon back after taking a few scrapings for later study. She advises you not to sleep with it; besides that it seems as safe as anything demonic is.
You were hoping for greater insight into the curse, but dead-ends are inevitable. Who knows, maybe the icon wil have further use down the line.
[[Turn to other matters.->Talking with Maera]]{
(set: $warnedMaeraBeforeVisitingCity to true)
(set: _readyPassage to (cond:
$maeraFirstIshiyk is "", "No Previous Talk",
$maeraFirstIshiyk is "icon", "Icon before Ishiyk",
$maeraFirstIshiyk is "ishiyk", "Ishiyk before Icon",
"error"
))
}\
(display: _readyPassage)"Maera, I'm planning to go to the City of Demons."
She laughs, in the disbelieving way people do when you tell them their son was ripped into wet chunks by a stray direwolf the night prior.
You briefly explain everything. Your encounter with the mysterious goat-demon at the crossroads outside Watercreek, discovering the metal icon bearing his sigil in Kamal's tower. Rehearsing this conversation in your head, you expected dramatics, broken glass and shouting. Instead Maera sits stock-still, interjecting only for perfunctory questions to clarify detail.
(display: "Warning")"Maera, you remember that demon icon I showed you?"
"Oh, yes. Did you find another?"
"I'll do you one better. I found its owner."
She freezes, mouth hanging open.
"You don't mean—"
"At the crossroads outside Watercreek. A goat-demon. He offered to take me to the City, to learn about corruption."
No way to drop something like that on someone without offering a full explanation. You describe the encounter in detail: the mists, the fires, the offer. The voice that followed you home.
(display: "Warning")"Maera, I found the demon's icon."
Her casual demeanour turns rigid in an instant. Her spine straightens, and she gazes at you with eyes pure black. "Oh."
(display: "Warning")When you wrap up the story, you're both sat cross-legged on the floor. The candles are running low, sputtering into pools of cooling wax. She turns the icon around in her long, slender fingers.
"You're seriously considering it. Letting a demon spirit you away to the City."
"I have to," you say. "For the sake of knowledge. If the demons have secret knowledge to the curse's origin, or the nature of corruption, I can't let that escape."
"Naturally. Research is paramount." Maera breaks off and rubs her eyes with her palms. "But dragon's blood, $trueName, you're tearing me up. One person in a thousand comes back from the City, if that. I want to offer you something, some lifeline, but..."
"But nothing would work. I know. Think of it this way: if I'm not back in a month, put on a glamour and sneak into my room in Watercreek. You'll find my notes there. Our progress on the curse won't be lost."
"($thought: "You will be", 1)."
[And who's to say that isn't for the best. One less weight around her neck.
Stop, pull back from the brink. You've got to lighten the mood.
](thought| "Please. If things look bad, I'll just start telling them about your monad. Give it an hour and they'll be begging to send me back here."
She laughs half-heartedly and wishes you luck, not wanting to discuss it any further. But when you leave she shakes your hand, slowly, tenderly, holding it for so long you think she won't let go.
($endSequence: "But she does.", "The Coven"){
(set: _readyPassage to (cond:
$warnedMaeraBeforeVisitingCity is true, "Reporting Back",
$warnedMaeraBeforeVisitingCity is false, "Surprise Return",
"error"
))
}\
(display: _readyPassage)"By the way," you say, idly examining the viscosity of brittle-red bloatling blood in a long matrass. "I visited the City of Demons."
Maera jumps back, startled, feet actually leaving the floor. "You what? You don't mean—"
The blood flows thick and turgid. Not at all how yours did under Ishiyk's knife. That spurted out freely like rain in monsoon season. You seemed to never run out.
"Hark," you say, "and [[witness the revenant->Details]]."A belt tightens around your chest as you enter the succubi coven.
You can't see the belt, or touch it with your hands. But every step you take tightens it, makes it harder to breathe properly. A few succubi pass you on the narrow streets of the coven, paying little heed. Maera's human friend is a familiar sight.
You approach her hut with feet of slow, dense rock. This is your first time back in the coven since leaving the City. Should you have returned sooner? Has she been anxious, staring up at the ceiling from her hammock at night?
The door to her hut ($reveal: "opens to a gentle push", "payload").
|payload)[=The handshake is brutal and prolonged.
Maera doesn't cry. Succubi can, they have all the right anatomy. But even when grants were denied or research was retracted, when illness carried off family in distant covens, Maera bore it all without a sliver of outward emotion. Today her eyes are damp.
"I am," she says shakily, "glad to see you're well. Thank the dragons, and the spirits, and the mountain gods too."
You insist on brewing the tea. The normalcy of it is pleasantly novel.
"Well," you say breezily, "it was everything people say it is. The demon did things to me."
Maera looks into her cup and doesn't drink a sip. "Are you... $trueName, are you..."
"I'm alright." Are you intending to talk so calmly. "It wasn't great, but I made it through. He honoured his word, and I learned a lot about the curse."
"I see."
($thought: "The tea's awful", 1). [Alcohol is easier. Keeps you warm for longer, too.](thought| The two of you sit in silence, pointedly not looking at each other. Do you know the source of the awkwardness? You do. She is glad her student didn't become a slave of eternal torment to cackling demons. But Maera doesn't know the words. One of the reasons you became her student in the first place.
Etiquette dictates you break the deadlock.
"I can tell you about the City," you say. "The knowledge I gained."
That word makes Maera's eyes light up.
"Tell me everything," she says. "[[Every last detail->Details]]."Maera listens in rapt, slack-jawed horror that gradually shifts to twitchy-eyed academic interest. She interrupts only to ($thought: "clarify ancillary details", 1): the texture of the rock the City stands on, whatever phonemes of demonic language you picked up. You set up the tortures, but skip the play-by-play.
[Nothing is written down. Maera doesn't need it. She didn't invent memory charms, but she used them when the rest of the Academy was too squeamish.
](thought|"Dragon's blood," she says finally.
"Yeah." You tip your head back against the wall of the hut, sitting splayed out on the floor. Speaking out what happened makes it real in a way you didn't expect. The experiences aren't in your head alone anymore.
"I wish I had the Academy library here," Maera says. "Just from memory I can cross-reference so much of your account with the old songs, folk-tales, the testimony of Yimon! $trueName, you're the most reliable source academia's had on demon-kin in a century, at least!"
"I'm honoured to know getting raked over the coals by Ishiyk advanced our science. Actually, that reminds me. He mentioned *you*."
Maera's mouth works silently before her mind catches up. She has the look of a child sneaking a cut of the good butter late at night. "Ah. I was wondering if it was a different goat-demon. He, um, used a different name with me."
"All that shit the undergrads said about you summoning a demon for research, that was real? If the dean found out they'd have burned down the entire department wing. Let alone if the seneschal got wind of it. Dragon-fucking-fire."
She smiles weakly. "My thesis was due. Does that explain it? Demonic social structure was the hot topic back then, and I needed novel research, so..."
Maera never ceases to surprise. No, that's wrong. Anyone who's mad enough to come to the blighted epicentre of the corruption-curse is plenty mad enough to cavort with demons. The unseen masters of the world must laugh at how two such madwomen ended up in the same room.
Laugh away. People like you and Maera change the world.
The discussion stretches into the yawning hours of early morning. Maera litigates every detail, collating them against her own encounter with Ishiyk. The topic is ultimately tangential to stopping the curse, but it will make a superb monograph for ($thought: "the Academy press", 2) in a few years. [Assuming the Academy takes either of you back.](thought|
You finally heave up off the floor and beg to be released back to your bed in Watercreek before sunrise. Maera sees you outside into the coven with a final handshake.
"I'm so glad you made it back," she says. "I don't want to lose you a second time."
How do you respond to that? In the end, you say nothing and ($endSequence: "stomp through the marshy undergrowth back to Watercreek", "Watercreek").{
(set: _needTreatment to (if: $Willpower < ($getMaxWillpower:)))
(set: _ishiykStarted to $ishiykState is not "unstarted")
(set: _ishiykDialoguesNotExhausted to not (visited: "Details"))
(set: num-type _dialogs to 0)
(set: _storylets to (open-storylets: where its tags contains 'maera' and 'dialogue'))
} \
Maera is tinkering with scales and magnets when you let yourself in. The study bubbles with activity: resonant stones in scrying sconces hum in chorus, measuring invisible frequencies. A thermomagical athanor pulses heat, calcifying ritual bones for dowsing or healing.
On the wall is a painting in the typical north-coven style, fluid colours dripping into hazy shape. It shows the capital in all its splendour, and above, the Academy.
Your tutor barely looks up from her work when you enter. "$trueName, excellent, good to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable. Pass me that retort?"
[[Look at Maera.->Examine the Tutor]]
(for: each _storylet, ..._storylets)\
[\
(link: (_storylet)'s dialogue)[ \
(display: (_storylet)'s name)]
]
---
_needTreatment[
[["The corruption-curse has been getting to me. Can you help?" (Pay 30 gold)->Restoration]]](if: _ishiykStarted and _ishiykDialoguesNotExhausted)[
[[Speak with Maera about demons.->On the Preternatural]]](event: when _dialogs is 4)[
[[It looks like Maera wants to ask *you* something.->Hard Questions]]]
[[Leave Maera to her studies and return to the coven.->The Coven]]{
(storylet: when true)
(urgency: 4)
(metadata: "dialogue", "\"I'm glad to see you again.\"")
(set: _dialogs to it + 1)
} \
---
"I'm glad to see you again."
This gets Maera to actually put down her equipment, no mean feat. "Me too. When this curse is done for, we'll have to make up for lost time. We can find somewhere nice."
"Please don't say you're thinking of the Onlu."
She throws up her hands. "I enjoy horse-races and gambling. Those are both legal!"
"Yes, but you'd hate it there. You know what they say about that place? The girls never wear flowers in their hair, because they're ($thought: "always", 1) ready for sex."
[Yes, obviously not a problem for yourself. It's called being considerate.
](thought|Maera rolls her eyes and grins.
"Fine. You pick the spot, as long as it's not out in the wilderness."
She alone knows everything. No tearful confession—things simply dripped out over the years. The relationship strained, but she stayed. Even kept you as her pupil. That's why you wanted to fall in love with her.
($thought: "It won't happen", 2). |thought)[Never could spark the feeling in yourself.] But you still feel it sometimes.
---{
(storylet: when true)
(urgency: 3)
(metadata: "dialogue", "\"What do people around here do for fun?\"")
(set: _dialogs to it + 1)
} \
---
"What do people around here do for fun?"
"If you're frisky, there's always the mating-post." Seeing your flagrant lack of recognition, she catches herself. "Sorry, succubus thing. It's a literal post in the center of the coven where people meet up for, well, you know."
"Ah, like the sex-collectives."
"Mostly, except less paperwork. And you can only have one girl and one boy there at the time. Don't ask why, just how it's always been."
"Alright. Thanks for the info." (set: $knowAboutMatingPost to true)
---{
(storylet: when true)
(urgency: 2)
(metadata: "dialogue", "\"Glad to back around other succubi?\"")
(set: _dialogs to it + 1)
} \
---
"Glad to back around other succubi?"
She considers the question. "You know how they say you can never go home? It's good, but not what it was before."
"The sex thing?" you venture.
Maera shakes her head, but means yes. "The Academy made me forget. Being around people who don't bring up sex in every conversation made me think I was normal."
"You are normal, Mae. Just because you—"
A wave of the hand, yes, had this conversation before, no need to play it all out again.
"The others don't understand. They think I'm hurt and, I don't know, just need the right touch. When I was a kid I pretended, but I'm no good at pretending now. I focus on my research and they leave me alone."
You squeeze her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Very quiet. A glance to the picture on the wall she doesn't try to hide. "Once the curse is gone, maybe the Academy will take me back."
"The Academy doesn't deserve you. You're bigger than them."
"Ha. Maybe. Thanks, $trueName. Having you around again helps a lot."
---{
(storylet: when true)
(urgency: 2)
(metadata: "dialogue", "\"Don't suppose you have any more protective charms I can borrow.\"")
(set: _dialogs to it + 1)
} \
---
"Don't suppose you have any more protective charms I can borrow."
Maera chuckles at her old work around your neck.
"Sorry, I've got nothing more useful. Other avenues have occupied my attention. That thing's plenty powerful, anyway."
You shrug, rubbing it between your fingers. You're more naked without it than without clothes.
"When you gave it to me, you said you made it for someone. Is that something personal?"
Maera grimaces. "Yes, it is, but it's alright, but it's also a long story. I was, oh, trying to open a dialogue with someone above my station. That's the best way to put it."
"They didn't appreciate it."
"I never showed them. The moment came, I realised how paltry it was and got cold feet." She shrugs, looking down at her work. "Wasn't meant to be."
(if: $availableOutfits does not contain $outfitAnticurseWeave)\
[
"Though," she continues, "it does [[remind me of something->Anticurse]]..."
]
---{
(set: $Gold to 201)
(set: _accept to "~~Buy the weave. (200 gold)~~")
(if: $Gold >= 200)[
(set: _accept to (link-goto: "Buy the weave. (200 gold)", "Transaction"))
]
(set: _refuse to (link-show: "Don't buy it.", ?refuse))
}\
Maera kneels at a desk-drawer rifling through matte-sheets, printboards, blueprints.
Dragons only know what secrets lie in her drawers. Maera probably found a way to stick the entire void above the sky in a bottle and put it to one side because she couldn't find any good citations for the paper.
"Here we are." Her horntips casually scrape the desk as she rises, holding aloft what you can only parse as a sheet of shimmering crystals. A thousand points of tiny light, every colour of the rainbow, twinkle and fade in an unpredictable rhythm.
"It's very beautiful," you say, "but I don't know what I'm looking at."
Maera holds up a showwoman's hand and silently adorns herself in the glittering wave. It drapes over her shoulders and reaches to the floor, shrouding her entire body.
"The person I made your amulet for," she says, "is a fearsome scholar in their own right. If they wanted, they could cast out the corruption-curse in a tea-break. Their demon's heel is that they hate to get involved; it took me weeks of letters to get the knowledge to build this."
You run your fingers over a loose handful of the shimmering cloak. The inset gems bump and crenelate the material, but they move. The fabric is alive in your hand.
"You finally did it," you murmur. "Protective gear against the curse."
"The one thing I took with me when I left the Academy." Maera twirls, casting light all around the room, eyes bright and twinkling. "I call it the anti-curse weave. Not a perfect guard, but fathoms better than anything else you'll find."
"I'm sold. What's the catch?"
Showboating over, Maera folds the weave into an untidy square and shakes herself off. "Too good to be true, I know. As much as I want to just give it to you, $trueName, the truth is that we're starving out here. Get me some gold—call it two hundred pieces—and we can get a line to the caravans over the border in Tehraum. They won't rat us out."
"You don't need to give me an incentive to help you," you say.
"Too bad. I am. Help us out and you get the weave."
The Ox strikes again, sigh. Just like Maera to flatly refuse charity unless she can sell it as a way to help the giver in return. You won't complain, mainly because it wouldn't change her mind, but also because her weave does seem particularly useful.
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
]
[
{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
"I want to help," you say, "but I'm treading water day on day. Without a proper income, whatever gold I scrounge together goes on repairs to my clothes or magical equipment."
Maera steps firmly on the ground and raises her eyebrows. "You know how I feel about grovelling apologies. If you don't want to pay, that's the long and short of it. Offer's still open for if you change your mind."
Yes, a perfectly normal and uncharged business transaction that will determine whether the children in the coven outside starve. It's not worth pushing the topic, so you [[return to other matters->Talking with Maera]].
](refuse|Nobody ever considers how heavy gold coins are. Two hundred of the fuckers, even distributed across every satchel you own, is backbreaking weight.
Whatever. Maera stays taciturn as she takes the money, but grants you a firm handshake. The last time you got one like that was graduation.
"Thank you," she says. "With this we'll be able to hold on for another few months here. The weave's all yours: I hope it keeps you safe."
"Can't hurt. And I'll take every bit of protection I can get."
($deductGold: 200)
($grantOutfit: $outfitAnticurseWeave, $outfitAnticurseWeave's name)
Only one question remains. [[Who made the weave?->Talking with Maera]](if: (visited: "Comfort"))
[You swing by the mating-post, looking for someone charitable enough to scratch a deep itch in your cunt, and are surprised to see Toro sitting by the pole alone.
"No takers today?" you say, leaning on the raised platform.
Toro has a small wooden ball he tosses in the air and catches without looking. "Oh, just bored. We don't get the new books here, you know."
"The new ones are all bad," you say. "Nobody even gets naked before halfway through, nowadays. Ameria's not here?"
"She's out hunting. Talks about you plenty, by the way." Toro winks. "You sound like someone who knows how to have fun."
(link: "\"I want you to hold me down, fuck me until I bleed, and stomp my stomach as long as your boot holds up.\"")[="Thanks. Not in the mood for boys today, though."
Toro pulls off an astoundingly casual shrug in the time it takes that wooden ball to fall. He catches it without looking. "We have a lot of days left before the world really ends, Maera says. Come around whenever, I'm usually here."
[["Thanks."->The Coven]]
](else:)
[= \
{
(set: _accept to (link-show: "Of course you do.", ?sex))
(set: _refuse to [[[You're good for now.->The Coven]]]<choice|)
} \
In the centre of the coven is a clearing, a town square of sorts. Where Eiyren capital would have a decadent statue to the unifying parliament, or a fountain or something, the coven has a simple raised platform made of wood. ($exposition: "A tall pole", 1) stands in the center. [Maple, barely visible beneath a hundred dozen stickered triangles of fabric, red blue and yellow. On top is a metal sphere painted with red lines. The symbolism escapes you.](exposition|
Two succubi loiter by the pole, chatting and casually rubbing each other's bodies. ($thought: "One man, one woman", 1). Wait, isn't he who caught you entering the coven in the first place? Yes, his name was Toro. Dragon's luck. They look up genially as you head into the square.
|thought)[The girl is hotter. Squeeze-me hips, the right amount of belly-fat.
]"Hey there, new face."
Tension below the curiosity. Not used to seeing humans in recent years.
Toro nudges her. "The mysterious $trueName."
"Oh, Maera's friend!" Her eyes light up. "She's told us so much about you—always good to meet a friendly human. I'm Ameria, by the way. Want to have sex?"
As if asking about your breakfast. Got to love succubi.
The buzzing for sex sits always at the back of your skull. Sure, it's not at the forefront when you're fighting for life with a monster or doing intricate needle-work. But it only really shuts up after fucking.
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
The mature choice is to decline. Not living like an animal, one's better nature and all that. It is, however, ($thought: "much easier", 2) [and much more fun](thought| to spread your legs the instant someone offers.
($deductWillpower: 3)
Ameria offers you ($thought: "her hand", 3). |thought)[Scales gleaming, the fingernails perfect, even out here. Succubi earn their reputation.] "Let's use my place. It's too cold for outside."
Toro waves genially as you trail after her, deeper into the coven.
[["Have fun, you two."->Comfort]]](sex|Ameria has a yurt on the high edge of the coven where the ground is drier. A thick pelt carpets the floor, and more furs adorn the circular walls. They keep in the heat produced by a small pyromatic sconce in the center filled with white-hot sand.
Dressers and tables offer a selection of glasses, bottles, books, sexual tools you recognise and some you don't. Impressive. Instead of a bed, ($thought: "three large hammocks", 1) hang from the ceiling. [Deep enough for plenty of sweaty twisting bodies. Places like that swallow people whole.](thought|
"Are you ready," Ameria says, untying her hair, "to witness the legendary skills of the succubi?"
"Please," you say. "I've lived with Maera for years, you don't have to play it up."
She shrugs and grins. "What if I enjoy it? Go get comfy while I freshen up."
($reveal: "You don't need any encouragement.", "payload")
|payload)[=Been too long since you did this. For a month after the break, you went to a nice place like this in the capital and got your mind squeezed bone-dry every last night. The motions are automatic: hair into a loose ponytail, clothes neatly folded and set far from any potential fluids. No water to rinse your mouth, but you'll live.
Ameria's at a dresser, rubbing damp cotton pads over her skin. Everyone's heard of the mysterious succubi oils, but the boys you've fucked didn't use them. A girl thing?
The hammock is disgustingly comfortable.
"Lingerie or no lingerie?" Ameria says from worlds away.
"No lingerie." Never any point, besides ripping it apart.
She slips over the colossal walls of the hammock and curls up with you, naked. A lightly-scaled arm wraps around you, tickling in all the right ways.
She's beautiful. Not all succubi are icons of lust, but the reputation came from somewhere. Ameria's toned curves beg for tender hands. Her dark red skin contrasts with the creamy orange of the hammock perfectly. The oil she applied shimmers gently.
No, oil is the wrong word. It's thicker, viscous like gel or tree-sap. Yet it thins on her skin immediately, forming a beautiful glossy sheen that turns the base red of her skin into something actually glorious to look at. Ameria is a sunrise and a sunset.
"Do you want to feel me?" she whispers.
"Yes," whispering, shaking. [["Please, yes."->Feeling]]Her scales are firm and pleasant to touch: running your finger over ridged tree-bark slick with oil. Ameria watches contentedly as you glide your palm around her shoulders and down her breastless chest.
You entwine a leg with hers, rubbing toes.
"Soft," you murmur.
"Not bad yourself, cutie."
Ameria trails a long, dainty finger in loops around your tits. The dull side of her claw furrows your skin, scratching an itch you didn't know you had.
Budging in closer, she takes a nipple in her mouth, gnawing gently, rolling it between her teeth. You grunt. It hurts, but in a good way, and Ameria knows it. Claws dance softly scrape the inside of your thigh as she chews, drawing shaky breaths out of you.
But she breaks off, fixes you with a devious smile. "Actually. How would you like to try my oils for yourself?"
You blink a few times, which she interprets as a yes. Wow, she can just flow up and over the edge of the hammock. Succubi keep finding ways to surprise you.
Peering up out of the hammock, Ameria tips vials at the dresser into something like an elegant, elongated teapot. The spout tapers into a long fluted shape. A grainy green liquid pools in the pot.
You raise an eyebrow.
"Something extra," she says. "[[Heighten the senses->Like Honey]]."Melting back into the hammock, Ameria drips the liquid onto her fingertips. It flows like no oil you've seen before: long, fat teardrop bulbs, slowly running over her hand. The smell is fragrant, but you can't place the herb.
"A succubi secret," she says with a casual wink.
Ameria massages you. Her hands work you dexterously, fingers supple as they bend into every crack and crevice of your body. The oil is warm and tingles as it seeps into your skin. Keeps on tingling, actually, when Ameria has moved elsewhere. Soon, your entire body is crackling with little shocks that bring out goosebumps.
Oh wow. Oh, wow...
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Ameria's wistful, finger curling in your hair. She kisses the side of your neck.
"What *is* this..."
Things feel different. Vivid and weighty, like sprinting in water. Colours bleed into each other and stay when you close your eyes. Things are fuzzy and enveloping. Every time you look at something, you look at it for the first time. Every time you look at Ameria, you've never seen anyone so beautiful before. You want to kiss her and never stop.
($reveal: "Instead, Ameria slips a long, thin, forked tongue into your ear.", "payload")
|payload)[="Hnnnuhhh," you say.
This is a new one. Ameria's tongue tickles at the ridges of your ear, a tiny flicker rubbing against the sensitive hairs that have never been touched before. Before you get used to the sensation, she goes deeper and licks lovingly at your inner canal.
You melt into a golden horny wave. Ameria takes your brain in her hands and squishes it through her fingers.
She's so close her smell is overwhelming, fresh girl-sweat and marjoram and comfort. Every time her tongue licks inside of your ear, your legs quiver and twitch uncontrollably. Her hand is on your belly. You don't know where your hands are.
Things entangle and get blurry.
Ameria's body is full and complete. You never run out of it. She envelops you like heated honey, a sweet stickiness where every movement is the right one.
Your limbs flow into hers in a constantly evolving sequence of hugs and squeezes that happens to grind her clit into your hand and mouth. Ameria still tongue-fucks your ear, but now her finger's in your mouth, tenderly rubbing at the gums, slipping and sliding over your tongue as you gurgle childishly. Her eyes are dilated to dinnerplates, beautifully dark pools to drown and never be found in.
You don't cum in an explosion or a crashing wave. You add colours to the rainbow: the world pulses, grows deeper, breathes out again. Your mind is completely fucked, but in a way that rinses and invigorated. Squeezed through a thin tube to the smallest elements and reconstituted.
"Fuck."
($grantWillpower: 15)
You lie there with breathing that isn't at all conscious. In the depths of bliss you watch your chest rise and fall, lucid and detached. Ameria holds your head to her chest, heart thudding once for every two of yours. She whispers things in a succubi language you don't know, a language so tender it must only be able to speak sweetness and kindness.
Eventually colours settle back to their ordinary brightness. The smells of real life return: fabrics, plantlife, the coven's septic-heap from far away.
[["I think the oil is wearing off," you say.->Precarious]]Ameria sticks her tongue out and bops your nose with a finger. Her eyes ($thought: "are still massive", 1). |thought)[The erotic pamphlets in the capital never show that. You've always liked it.]
"You took that well. Some humans pass out from half as much oil. Orgasm good?"
"I feel like I should reciprocate."
She snorts. "Please, this was a treat. Been far too long since I got to give a human the works."
"You've done ($thought: "this", 2) before, huh." [Whatever 'this' is, exactly.](thought|
"Mhm. In Midslaine country, before I ended up here. Every second-crescent I'd find a cute farm boy and blow his mind, girls on the waxes. Hours and hours and hours, we went on. Those kids will remember me for the rest of their lives."
She sighs and sinks back, eyes growing wet. Her breath catches. "I love sharing it with you. All this shit about wars and curses, when people could feel like that every day."
"Something went wrong when we invented economics. Or lawyers, one of the two."
"You said it. Shit, look at me. You want something to drink? Normal alcohol, nothing like the oils. Toro makes good whiskey from the peat."
Tempting, tempting. But you should get going.
Ameria washes you clean of oils, partly with towels, partly with tongue. It is deeply difficult to put on clothes when a horny big-eye succubi gnaws at your shoulder, runs kisses up your neck and gropes your tit from behind. A good problem to have.
You grant her a farewell kiss on the lips, plus a promise to stay in touch.
At last you make a dignified exit, ($endSequence: "floating through the air.", "The Coven"){
(set: _free to (visited: "Ending the Contract"))
(set: _storylets to (link-storylet: "Explore the City", where its tags contains 'city-of-demons', "There's nothing left to explore in the City for now."))
(set: _flavor to (a:
"The constant crackle of flames from below fills the air.",
"Hissing steam curls around the buildings.",
"Twirling embers cloak the air and singe your hair.",
"Demons pass by you, engaged in discussion and laughter.",
"Shadows cast on the street move without without anyone to cast them.",
"You bump into a fish-demon, their skin clammy like corpse-flesh.",
"From far-off you hear the scream of a servant, or perhaps mad laughter.",
"The floor is an uneven patchwork of rough stone and hot metal.",
))
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitNightProwler)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Your sultry outfit garners absolutely no attention."))
]
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitDemonBindings)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"A few demons nod approvingly at the thorns under your clothes."))
]
(set: _flavor to (shuffled: ..._flavor))
(set: _displayedFlavour to _flavor's 1st)
(if: _displayedFlavour is $lastCityFlavour)[
(set: _displayedFlavour to _flavor's 2nd)
]
(set: $lastCityFlavour to _displayedFlavour)
} \
You're in the City of Demons, quasi-mythical plane of corruption and servitude. Goat-demon Ishiyk's marble palace of torture stands behind you. You are free to explore the City; bearing his sigil, none will claim ownership of you. (unless: _free)[You may not, however, return to the mortal realm until your contract with Ishiyk expires.]
_displayedFlavour
{(link:"Save game")[
(if:(save-game:"A"))[Game saved.
](else: )[An error occurred while saving the game.]]}
[[Visit Ishiyk]]
[[Examine the City->In the Place of Darkness]]
_storylets
---
($hubOptions:)
---
_free[[[Focus on Ishiyk's sigil and return to Watercreek.->Watercreek]]]Demons are best examined from the corner of the eye, as direct sight can have untowards circumstances. You glean this one's form through sideways glances: he is a towering, goat-headed, bent-legged hermaphrodite.
(link:"Start with the head.")
[A caprine head, as established, grey and shaggy-haired. A roving breed that leaps mountain passes. Thick black bars for pupils. Knobbled horns—two, five?—curl up and twist around themselves.
His tongue is forked and fully black.]
(link:"Move onto his torso.")
[The demon's middle is close to normal, if humans sprouted *four* arms from their sides. The hands are thin, dainty, and lack fingernails.
His bare chest exposes two fat, sagging female breasts with black nipples. The skin is pale like a corpse from the Academy dissection lab drained of blood. No veins. If the sun hit right, you could see through him.]
(link:"Finish with his lower half.")
[Furred, knobbly goat-legs hold the demon's weight. Naturally, he bears black cloven hooves, unscraped and smooth, as if varnished.
Dense matted fur obscures his crotch. Man-like, goat-like or nothing there at all: anything is possible with demons.]
(link:"Anything else that stands out?")
[He exudes heat like a geothermal rock. A few paces away, it's the gentle blanketing warmth of a log-fire. Up close, water would boil.
No particular smell save the muddy musk of goat-fur. Memories of the farm.]
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)Taken in glances, Ishiyk's estate is imposing and close to beautiful.
Widely berthed by long-eared grass and tropical trees, the overall design is a squat white rectangle like a bar of medicinal soap. The ground floor is open to the air, ceiling held by pillars decorated with interlocking snakes.
A foreign warlord fancifully rich on selling amber to chronomancers would build such a palace for himself on the backs of slaves. In this Ishiyk's home is a staggering representation.
But the details, ingeniously wrought, jar and scrape against each other like bones in bloodsogged plaster.
No discernable pattern spaces the pillars. An entire corner of the palace is unsupported yet hangs sturdy. The white marble of the floors and walls contains no veining, no patterns at all, nor cracks that delineate individual slabs. Was the entire edifice wrenched fully-formed from the fancy of a singular instant?
An unseen source inside emits a fragrance between lemongrass and sulphur. The furniture is arbitrary and awful. A single wooden stool, the demon's throne, sits isolated and off-center. Through a doorway you spot ladders of identical make and colour standing against a featureless wall.
Candles hang inverted from fine black ropes emerging directly from the ceiling. They drip and melt onto the floor, the whiteness of their wax lost in the blank marble.
The servants are everywhere. Some bowed, most kneeling. They watch you but do not speak.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last){
(storylet: when visits < 1
and (visited: "In the Swamps")
and $Knowledge > 3)
}\
Mist outside of history envelops the crossroads outside Watercreek.
You take this route to the marsh basin below the forests. There's a shorter path, but this way lets you check the trivium for notices and, more honestly, avoid muddying your boots on wetter tracks. The morning sun is muted by wispy planes of fog that curl around the trees. Rural folk call it the distance between worlds closing.
You are above such superstitions.
You are privy to what such fog actually entails.
(text-colour:red)["Hail, mortal."]
The voice, arresting, comes from a nearby clearing not present the week prior. Squinting, you make out an obscure figure, tall and humanoid, circled by lights.
A cold shiver twists up your guts. You've prepared for this, spent nights learning the things to say and the things you must never say. Everyone does, even children. But nothing can ready you for when it actually happens. Do you run? Hide? No, no use.
The figure solidifies.
Pale blue flames encircle the demon, feeding on the mist as they burn. The grass that surrounds them smokes and cinders but does not diminish. The goat-man has [[four arms and cloven hooves->Examine the Demon]]. An uncommon form, seen only in marginal texts, and not easy to countenance when it stands before you smiling.
"Hail," you say. "($thought: "What do you want", 1)?"
[Do not show fear. You must not show fear.
](thought|"Simply in search of conversation, mortal. Is that a crime? A hunter of corruption with your pedigree surely has much to talk about."
"I do not."
You will run. The stories say to walk backwards, so they don't leave your sight, but the people in stories never got away, either. You're not looking back until you're in The Kettle and behind every protective charm you can muster.
"Leaving so soon, $trueName?" The voice is ($thought: "not at all a goat's", 2). [It is smooth, measured and fathomlessly deep. It sounds like the end of the world came, and nobody cared, and nobody knew why nobody cared.](thought| "Perhaps I was mistaken. I believed your travail was searching for all the sundry breeds of corruption."
"The curse's corruption, not yours."
A goat's head laughing is not a sight you wanted to see. "All the more, friend! Does the wine-lover not appreciate the ultimate origin of his desire in the tasting of grapes? Does the honey-maker not study the nature of the bee?"
You pause. "Say whatever you want. I'm not coming with you. I will not serve you."
The demon keeps grinning. Two arms are behind his back, two in front. "That is your choice, of course. But should you change your mind, you require only [[my sigil->Locomotion]].""I'm not familiar."
Every demon has their own sigil. Before people stopped counting, tables of demonic insignias filled reams and reams of paper, entire bookshelves in liturgical libraries.
(if: $foundDemonIcon)
[{(set: $ishiykState to "ready")} \
"Ah, but you've already seen it. Do you not recognise our work?"
The thought surfaces at the exact moment the recesses of your pack vibrate. You don't need to open it up to find what's moving.
The icon you found at Kamal's tower.
The demon smiles.] (else:)
[{(set: $ishiykState to "metIshiyk")} \
"Of course. I am not often around these parts, and icons in my bearing are few and far between. But there is, in fact, one already in this world. Why not explore your new home more deeply, dear one?"
"You mean Watercreek."
He ignores you.]
"With that in your possession, why, my domain is no great distance away. Tell me, $trueName. Do you know what the greatest vehicle in all the world is?"
"They say steam and pressure can move metal at prodigious rates."
He tuts. "No, no. The greatest vehicle is your bed. It will take you anywhere you can imagine, and many places beyond. Paint dots on your wrist, friend, to see me in your sleep."
The goat-demon's grin fades to a thin pursed line. The next time you blink, he is gone. Grass smoulders where he stood, and the air stinks of charcoal, but he's gone.
Finally you can breathe again.
Always have to be careful around demons. One wrong word won't sink you—true intention matters—but their decorum is not something to test lightly.
You turn from the crossroads, pensive but resolute.
(text-color: "red")[*And if you do succeed in your quest...*]
A voice in your head, sultry whispers from the dark side of the bed.
(text-color: "red")[*I will allow you to serve me at greater leisure. A show of thanks for the mortal.
Fare-thee-well.*]
Impossible not to shudder. No: it's nothing, it doesn't mean anything. A departing echo of something already gone. Dozens of records in the Academy archives.
You don't relax until ($endSequence: "the next morning.", "Watercreek")You thought the dots were folklore. All Academy research showed that abductions to the demon-realm happened without causal mechanism, at any time of day. People stepped outside to draw from the well and never came back.
But if that's what the demon wants, that's what he'll get.
You traded some scraps to a passing conveyor for a tube of paint, the stuff illuminators use for manuscript covers. Dark green, as it happens, same as the icon. The design's easy enough to translate into points. You practice on old research notes, three times, carefully, certainly not putting off a choice that looms like a capsizing whale off foreign straits.
Dragonfire.
People don't come back from the City of Demons. Entire bloodlines disappear, the grown son bravely venturing after his lost father only to be followed by his own orphaned child.
Yes, some return. One every hundred years. The infamous black-iron buckle of Keyes. But when they do, they come back different. Wrong.
Is this truly necessary?
(link-reveal: "You choose to...")[=
(set: _choice to (confirm: "Enter the demon-realm? You may not return to Watercreek for some time. You will be able to save the game.", "No", "Yes"))(if: _choice is true)[
---
You choose to go.
Before you can double-guess yourself, you daub the dots onto the back of your wrist and lie in bed, fully-clothed, staring at the ceiling.
You unbuckle Maera's charm, gentle warmth on your fingertips, and lay it on the pillow. Any gaptooth drunk knows no spell of return works in the City.
[[Dragons save you.->Contract]]
] (else:)[
---
You choose to stay.
The paint-tube drops onto the dresser with a rattle and you step back, dizzy, keep stepping back until you fall onto the bed. When you put a hand to your forehead, you find it trembling.
Far too hasty, $trueName. The demon gave no schedule.
You have options. By all rights your other leads will give you enough experience to craft the purifying charm without once setting foot in that blighted realm.
Only if you reach a dead end. Only then will you entrust yourself to that creature.
[[Sleep is furtive.->Watercreek]]
]{
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The fateful encounter goat-demon Ishiyk at a mist-shrouded crossroads.",
"showcaseText", "A sadistic demon spirits you away to his kind's pocket dimension."
)
(set: $ishiykState to "visited")
} \
This is not a stupid idea. Or, at least, no more stupid than other things you've done.
A foray into the demon-realm is ($thought: "legitimate academic field-work", 1). Days before you left the chronomancers got funding for a huge project backdating soil samples from the City. |thought)[No matter that actually going there has been strictly forbidden by every board of ethics since the Academy went airborne.]
You will learn from this. Clues and raw facts to weave into theories, a fish-net to catch the curse. You are certainly not remembering stories of the City's many tortures and growing wet. No, you are the perfect academic, fingers kneading bedsheets, heart pounding.
(link: "The room is getting darker.")[(link: "The room is getting darker.")[(link: "The room is getting darker.")[(link: "The room is getting darker.")[($reveal: "The goat-demon stands silent and shadowed in the corner of the room.", "payload")]]]]
|payload)[="How good of you," he says, lips curling, "to consider my offer."
"I am not asleep," you murmur from the bed.
"A matter of perspective. Are you ready to depart?"
You swallow hard. The demon is taller than before. Growing, in fact, every time you blink. His horns soon scrape the soft wood of the scissor-brace.
"I'm willing, demon. But we should start on the right foot. What is your name?"
He wags a finger. "Really, now?"
"Yes, yes, you know I didn't mean the true one. Give me something to work with."
He ponders this, ears wagging. It would be cute on a real goat. "I've always liked 'Ishiyk'. From one of your mortal languages, though it died out a hundred thousand years ago."
Time's depth dizzies.
"Alright. I'm ready. For the sake of knowledge."
Ishiyk smiles, the rictus grin of death by lockjaw.
"A word of advice, lambkin. Knowledge destroys far more than it saves."
He clacks his hooves and [[you're gone->Dislocation]].{
(enchant: ?Page, (background: "#660000"))
(enchant: ?Page's lines, (text-style: "fidget"))
}\
(align: "<====>")[The journey is motionless.
You breathe in and out at the same time, except with every part of your body.
You don't want to put what you're experiencing into any more words than that.
Soon, you will be in the City.
Soon, your service will begin.
($endSequence: "A strange and horrible fate awaits you.", "Parades")]The hooks are worse than the thorns.
The thorns merely hurt. A tough, pliant cord like catgut wraps around your body in tight, intricate loops. The cord bears hundreds of sharp rose-thorns the size of fingernails. Although the binding presses them into the soft flesh of your shoulders, belly, and thighs, they only break the skin if you move quickly.
Pain is pain, and you can block out pain.
($reveal: "The hooks are constant see-sawing misery.", "payload")
|payload)[=One pulls your nostrils up into a porcine snout, the other curls deep into your ass. A single thread, minute but detestably strong, connects them.
Every shuffle forward is lose-lose. When you lift your head to relieve the awful tension on your ass, the nose-hook pulls your nostrils so hard you fear they'll rip. Let your head droop and the anal-hook becomes a sharp metal finger scraping out your bowels.
"Don't dally, my lambkin," says Ishiyk, perched cross-legged on your back. The hook-thread draws taut over his bony goat knees; when you are slow he twangs it like a lute. He holds a riding-crop, trailing the end in the dirt beside you. The thorns, of course, do not bother him. "We have a ways to go."
"Nghn."
He didn't gag you, but carting a two-hundred pound demon around on your bare back makes talking difficult. Fucker's *hot*, too, a low-grade scalding. You breath deep and shuffle forward: left hand, right knee, right hand, right knee. The pace is torturous, but any quicker and you'll tear apart.
The riding-crop rests, gently, on the tip of your nose.
"Actually," says your tormentor, "pause a moment, won't you? You've barely looked around your new home."
[[Take in the scenery.->In the Place of Darkness]]
[[Ignore him and keep going.->On the Street]]Above and all around are the walls of an impossibly vast cave, reaching heights scarcely imaginable. On a lakebed of fire rests an endless plain of elevated rock stretching to the origin point of the horizon. Plumes of black smoke rise.
And lo, on that rock is a city, a place of nightmares, name banned in holy places.
The City of Demons.
Buildings of every conceivable architecture crowd the space. Towers and palisades and columns and ramshackle inns crawl and twist around each other. A main street, by preternatural force or truly excellent city planning, runs clean through the line.
From it branch a hundred crooked alleys, tunnels, torture-squares, coliseums, temples, barnhouses, teahouses, blank cube buildings of unknown function.
Anything can and will be seen here, and you have no choice but to accept it as real.
Demons fill the streets and the air, ($exposition: "nightmares beyond imagination and description", 1). [
Many are followed by servants in collars; some bear no visible bondage but gaze after their masters adoringly. They speak a hundred different languages, some few intelligible to you, talking and wailing and laughing and crying. Humans, harpies, succubi, minotaur: all are equal beneath the demons.](exposition|
It smells like brick-work and burning.
(link-goto: "Nobody who reads your research notes is going to believe this shit.", (history:)'s last)Demons on the street politely step to the side when they see you approach.
Some pass by, uninterested; others linger to appreciate your bindings. A few take notes, actually write notes onto slateboards. Their trailing servants either ignore you or offer minute nods of infertile sympathy.
With a swift hit to your asscheeks, Ishiyk directs you to a streets branching off the main thoroughfare. Getting close to the end of this ordeal, if dragons be merciful.
Those hooks hurt in a way that won't go away tomorrow.
Coming up from the alley to meet you is a palanquin carried by imps and humans. In it sits a spider-demon, dozens of hairy black legs clustered around a six-eyed torso, who writhes with excitement at seeing Ishiyk.
"Old friend!" it cries, in the voice of a dying swan.
Ishiyk halts you with a crop to the clit and ($thought: "raises two arms in greeting", 1). |thought)[All four must be for really good friends.] "*Shshshsh*," he cries, "how fine it is to meet you. Faring well?" What must be the other demon's true name slides through your ears. A shame, that could be ($thought: "useful", 2).
[The seneschals have been trying for centuries to ferret out the true names of demons. So far they've gotten four.
](thought|"Splendidly," says spiderface. It arbitrarily strikes you as female. "But who is this new mount you've found?"
Ishiyk's corpse-cold hands tangle in your hair, pull tight. "This one is $trueName. You know that petty curse afflicting the other place? She's taken it on herself to turn back the tide. Say hello, my lambkin."
Prefer to spit blood. "Hello."
Spiderface raps she legs against the palanquin and her servants lower it to the ground. She comes up close, inspects your body, pulls open your mouth, looks inside.
"Interesting find. How long are you keeping her?"
"Oh, she only wanted a sojourn. A month, in their time. I thought this an appropriate manner to show her the way to my domain." Ishiyk scritches the side of your head, only pulling the hair a little roughly.
The spider chortles and peers at you once more. "Barely enough for a prelude. I'm sure she'll be back. She has that air. Fare-thee-well, friend."
[[And then she's gone, carted away by her servants.->Ecstasy]]The pain remains.
Your knees and palms are raw like flayed meat. The paving-stones here are rough and gritty, the pebbles tough and angular. You grit your teeth—fuck, the way the hook pulls on your *nose*—and shuffle forward.
Dragon's mercy, it doesn't end. The displays of dominance and suffering are overwhelming and ever-changing. Demons run knives through servants, rinse them with boiling oils, pull out nails, push nails through tongues.
Sometimes they do it to other demons. Rarely, but undeniably, mortal servants stand *over their masters*. Yet more confusing, they all bear the same expression: a manic, wild-eyed grin frozen between terror and orgasm.
Ishiyk hums cheerfully.
A horrific thought looms: the City is expanding as you pass through it, new demons, slaves and tortures forming as a consequence of your presence.
But the street curves out to reveal an open cul-de-sac. Houses line the path, palatial buildings with multiple floors. At the far end of the cul-de-sac is a columned temple made of gleaming marble.
"Not long now," Ishiyk says. "How do you like the City, lambkin?"
"Respectfully... this place is a... fucking nightmare." Pain breeds adrenaline, but exhaustion is all-conquering. Even when move perfectly the hooks are ripping you apart. You can't do this. You just can't.
(text-color: "red")[*In all living things there is a burning kernel of desire to be here.*]
Ishiyk's palace is close, only a few feet. Each one an ocean.
The crop hits squarely on the lips of your cunt. The pain is bewildering and you keel forward onto your elbows. For a long moment you don't think you can get up again. What will that mean? Death? This is a deathless place.
Endless, endless pain, more hooks, always new and changing...
"Don't you agree, $trueName?"
You don't reply. Instead, shaking, you scrape elbows upright and keep moving down the last stretch [[towards Ishiyk's palace->Unchained]].{
(set: $playerOutfit to $outfitDemonBindings)
}\
Demon hooks, it turns out, shimmer away when undesired. The thorns remain, for now. Ishiyk brings you to your feet with a stately hand.
"Thanks." Dragons, your knees are ground raw.
You stand, stretching aching muscles, and look around the entrance-hall of [[Ishiyk's palace->Ishiyk's Palace]]. He perches on his throne, a bare wooden stool, attended by a pale Tehraum girl and a succubi. One pours wine.
"Welcome to my service," he says, "Your contract begins now."
"That didn't count?"
"Mhm, I'm afraid not." He blinks each eye independently. "As agreed by contract, you will be mine ($exposition: "for a month", 1). I will call when I desire your presence. There will be no ambiguity about that call."
[The details were hashed in the strange timeless space between your world and the City. Ishiyk's original suggestion had been ten thousand years; your counter-offer was accepted without dispute.
](exposition|He licks the wine, not sipping it.
"And besides those times?"
"You are free to wander the City, of course." He cocks his head. "You came to explore the different forms of submission, no? Keeping you locked up would be a breach of contract."
The Tehraum girl and the succubi bow their heads and recede to unseen quarters.
"Corruption, demon. Not submission."
He waves an airy hand. "The former's a passing shadow of the latter. You'll see. Go, do what-thou-wilt; get into trouble. You shan't want for attention."
Ishiyk picks up a heavy tome from a nearby table and ($thought: "flicks through the pages", 1). |thought)[
Light reading, no doubt. *Poisons and You*, *Organ Removal for Beginners*.]
Fine. You won't begrudge getting away from the awful goat-creature for a while.
($grantOutfit: $outfitDemonBindings, $outfitDemonBindings's name)
You stagger out of the palace, weary but determined, ($endSequence: "into the City of Demons.", "City of Demons"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Waiting") and (visited: "Silence"))
}\
You wish you were tied up.
When ropes or thorns bind you, there's no choice. You're stuck, and any struggling is a theatrical way to make yourself feel better. The pain and anticipation happen in an unreal person who shares your body; when the fun's over you step back into the world and that's that.
When the only thing keeping you face-down on a rack is yourself, the illusion shatters.
The rack is thick curling wire in a curved wood frame. Your arms wrap around the edges. It doesn't hurt. All you can see is the inhumanly clean marble of Ishiyk's palace floor, cut into small metal grids. Gravity pulls your body through the wires. It will leave deep red fishnet cuts, but it doesn't hurt.
Much.
Ishiyk paces the room. His hooves clack against the stone with distracted rhythm. Walking up and down benches of sharp and cruel things, deciding which to use today. Click-clack, click-clack, click, click, clack. A long pause. A very long pause. Has he made his choice? Or did he know from the start? Hoof-steps approach the rack.
Moving is perfectly fine. Ishiyk made that clear. Twist and writhe all you like, even brain yourself on the frame. You are only forbidden to look up.
"Come on," you whisper.
Visions of chickens staring at the chopping-block.
The tingling heat of Ishiyk's hand on the small of your back, above the lower intestine. Marking the spot, like a surgeon? Before whatever's in his hand, that (seq-link: "knife?", "whip?", "needle?", "unknown nightmare") becomes real.
"Are you scared?"
Heart's clamouring. It hurts to have a thinking mind. Ishiyk won't kill you or permanently maim you, it's not his style. But sensation is a wide plain. "Yes."
"Shall I begin?"
He waits.
"Shall I begin, my lambkin?"
(link: "\"...\"")["...yes."
"Do your best to stay still. [[Grip the rack tightly->Branding]], please."]White-hot heat presses against the small of your back.
Something hard and flat and searing hot digs into your flesh, pinning you to the rack. When you play with fire-magic, you quickly learn to shy from heat, pull your hand from the flame. But here there is no escape. A patch of skin the size of a coin fries, steam squealing violently. Don't look back.
You scream.
The thing retracts but by some cruel alchemy the pain rises to a thought-blocking peak before finally tapering. The fat in you must have finished boiling. The hair must be completely vaporised.
Branding. Now you know.
Wish you didn't.
"You scream wonderfully, $trueName. A credit to your kind."
"Fuck... you, demon."
"Grip tightly, please."
The brand returns, this time on the soft belly-meat above your hip. Your lips wrap around wire. Metal-taste. Wrenching. The urge to bite down and break your teeth. Eyes are streaming. Already you can only take in air in fast half-chest breaths, hiccups.
Say something, anyway, or you'll forget what words are. "What do you even know of humans."
Ishiyk snorts. In your mind's eye he waves the brand around like a walking-stick. "Humans have been popular in the City since the dragons first made you."
"And all this time," you say, "I thought you liked me for my looks."
That earns you another 'grip' and a press to the backside. It's lighter, only lasts a second. Sarcasm is tolerated, but the price is high: your palms are raw from gripping wire, every muscle in your lower half is ($thought: "strained to snapping", 1).
[Grit those teeth. Don't let him win.
](thought|"Tell me why we are popular, demon."
"Novelty, for most," he says. "For me? Oh, call it indecisiveness. I've yet to truly understand a human. In broad history, you are trivially predictable; but in moments of pitch and consequence, why. The stars could hardly tell. I appreciate that you cannot relate, of course."
"Maybe I can." How strange to empathise with him. "None of us make sense. We're a depraved race. Pain's real to us, not like you—it matters, we know what it means. And we still hurt people. We enjoy it."
Ishiyk comes closer. Soft goat-fur massages your scalding back.
"Do you reckon yourself within that sentiment?"
You shift uncomfortably and close your eyes. "I don't always understand what I do or feel."
"Wiser than you know. [[Grip tightly->Mercy]], please."The branding continues until every square inch of your back is scored and sweltering.
In your delusions, its shape changes with every press. A flat plane for your ass, a curved cup for your shoulders, a ridged ripple for your back.
You want to look back. That would castrate Ishiyk. His mystic power would evaporate and you would no longer be trapped in the darkest place, suffering at the hands of an immortal tormentor. He would be a man holding a brand and nothing more.
But you (link: "can't")[don't] look back. He told you not to.
Mercy, you need a reprieve. Can you get him talking? He loves talking, use that.
"Do this... often, do you?"
"Mhm, no. Most mortals don't meet my standards. I last offered this several hundred years ago. One of your plane's kings, in fact."
"Which? Give me something for the historians back home."
"Oh, lambkin. I fear you're trying to distract me from my work. Grip, would you kindly?"
Oh dragons please no. You really don't think you can take another one. This one will be too much, you'll die screaming or lose your mind once and for all. Please, please don't do it.
Ishiyk brands you once more.
You beat against the rack, knuckles white. That one you survived, but the next will be too much. The pain goes from eclipsing the world to being the world itself; you float inside it.
You scream harder than when your foot got crushed by that carriage in second-year, a little girl spending a whole month in the infirmary on her own. And what's that feeling? The little girl inside of you is crying too, but not from pain.
From gratitude.
If Ishiyk holds the brand, he can put it down. That fills the girl with joy and adoration. When Ishiyk stops, you will want to thank him. A normal person could love him. The thought weighs on your brain like a nightmare.
(link-reveal: "\"Grip.\"")[=
You brace. The command is a relief: when the searing-hot pain comes, you ($thought: "don't have to think", 1). [This is mercy.](thought| Don't have to wait until the next one. You can writhe and howl, an animal with a severed spine who hasn't realised it's already dead.
(link-reveal: "\"Grip.\"")[=
You brace. Two so close? The pain is ($thought: "lesser", 2) for blending together. [He is being merciful.](thought| Ishiyk finds a fresh spot on your back, tender and unblemished. Surely you don't have that much skin left. Your chin is covered in snot.
(link-reveal: "\"Grip.\"")[=
(link-reveal: "You brace.")[=
(link-reveal: "You keep bracing.")[=
($reveal: "The brand doesn't come.", "payload")
|payload)[=Instead, Ishiyk trails his nailless hand up the nape of your neck. He rubs your scalp, ($thought: "gently", 3), massaging it. [No, no, no.](thought| He's squatting beside you, body-heat like a campfire. The fear is lodged in your throat and it's choking you.
"All done, lambkin."
"Done?" You're dazed and inarticulate.
"Mhmm. I don't see a need to continue. Is that acceptable?"
It's happening. As Ishiyk caresses you, your heart bubbles with gratitude. He took the pain away. You don't have to feel it and it's thanks to him. He set you free. Oh, please, let a dragon unmake you, turn you back to dumb dead sand.
"Yes," you say. "Thank you."
"Try calling me by a title, lambkin. I think you will enjoy it."
In moments you will break into great, painful sobs. Each will be a pickaxe in a frozen lake.
($grantWillpower: 20)
[["Thank you, sir."->Afterplay]]Ishiyk sits by as you sob. He doesn't say anything, just caresses the back of your head. When you're a dried-up rock he heaves you off the rack and onto the floor.
"Are we present, $trueName?"
You wipe gunk from your face. Your entire arm jitters. "Yes."
"You did well. Very few make it the whole way through."
"($thought: "Fuck", 1)."
[You want to die. You want to *hug* Ishiyk. This is much worse than it's ever been before.
](thought|"Take your time."
All the time in the world, in this inhuman City. You curl up into a ball and quiver. Your back hurts. The air against your skin hurts. But before falling away entirely, you have to ask. The question haunts you.
"Will there be marks?"
"Not this time."
That's all you needed to hear. You actually feel yourself leaving consciousness: jerking out of sleep, except the jerk doesn't stop. [[Silence and stillness takes you.->Wind-Down]]You wake in one of Ishiyk's many beds. The pillows are fat with feathers and the accursed rack is nowhere to be seen. Your back hurts, but like the memory of a broken limb, not the breaking. That's something. Good.
Ishiyk is in a chair, watching. "Welcome back."
You cough. "My throat is dry."
"That is to be expected." Ishiyk slowly claps his hands against his knees, rises and glides to a dresser where a water-pitcher sits. "$trueName, I asked if you enjoyed causing pain."
"You did ask that."
"And?"
You are adept at deflecting this question, an icebreaker through the frozen lake. Maera knows, though she can only talk about in euphemism and metaphor. Nobody else.
But the pain wore you down to a husked nut.
"I think about it. More than I think most people do. Sometimes the thoughts come when I don't want them to and I have to ignore them. Other times I invite them."
"Have you always had these fantasies?"
"The thought of actually hurting someone makes me sick. Get that clear."
Ishiyk comes to the bedside with the pitcher. All his hands clasp together, save one pouring you a glass of the coldest, sweetest water to ever touch lips.
"Not hurting someone, but someone *being in pain*?"
You grimace. "Or myself. When I see corpses. Or someone holds a knife to me. The first thought is ($thought: "rubbing one out", 1). Since way before the curse, though it's made it worse."
[As if Ishiyk knows that phrase. He'd probably say 'engaging pleasurably with thine own flesh'.
](thought|The goat-demon shrugs, a remarkably human gesture.
"Such things are not unheard of. Forgive my curiosity."
"It's not?"
Nobody before has understood. Some tolerated it to get at your cunt or tried to fix you, but in nobody did you ever see the same bloody-jawed desire: one more reason to stand a shore apart from the rest of the world. Were you wrong?
Ishiyk curls comfortably into a grin. "I have met many humans, $trueName, and their precursors. Very little about a person can be unique. Now, onto other important matters. When I said we were all done, I did not merely refer to your branding."
You have to think about it for a moment. "You don't mean...?"
[["Your service is concluded, lambkin."->Ending the Contract]]Wait, how can that be true? You've only just arrived in the City. There was today, the day he flogged you, the hood over the lake of fire, the needles, the knives, the...
Move the abacus beads. You've been through an incredible amount of shit here; a month disappeared as effortlessly as a dream. No wonder demons can't keep track of time.
"I *have* enjoyed having you around. Hmm." Ishiyk enters deep thought in a way you've not seen before. "This is a breach of etiquette, but would you give me your palm?"
You don't suppose you can say no.
Ishiyk's nailless fingers dance cold on your skin, then withdraw. A sigil ($thought: "painlessly burns your palm", 1). |thought)[The same circle-and-lines as the icon you found in Kamal's tower.]
"Visible only to yourself amongst all mortals," Ishiyk says. "Focus deeply on this mark and you will find yourself returned here."
Your eyebrows raise. "Whenever I want? No contract?"
He chuckles. "You have been entertaining beyond regular measure. That is all. The mark is some benefit and no hindrance to you. Hence I give it freely."
"I'm honoured."
"As you should be. Few mortals have such ($thought: "right-of-unhindered-passage", 2)." [Presumably a single, evocative noun in whatever counts as the true language of demons.](thought|
A strange gift. But one without parallel in all the histories of all the culture of the world. Free from the fear of imminent pain, your mind tingles with opportunity. Maera always wanted to study the City. Who knows what other knowledge this place holds? Not just for stopping the curse, but magic in general?
And, that month did seem awfully short. Barely a prelude, as Ishiyk's spider-friend called it. There must be scores more depravity here to uncover. Another part of you tingles.
"Thank you," you say, this time sincere.
Ishiyk clacks his hooves. "I shall return you to your plane. Visit when you see fit." A wistful look. "All the best on your mission, seeker of purity. Your plane is far more fruitful when unburdened by that upstart crow's curse. Fare-thee-well."
He makes a complex gesture you fail to apprehend. Then the City is gone. You come to in your bed at The Kettle, and for a fleeting moment wonder if it was all a dream.
But, no.
($endSequence: "The mark on your palm is clear and distinct.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
"So, what do you do for fun?"
"Fun?"
Ishiyk is fastidiously washing torture equipment in a large bowl of hot soapy water. There are many (cycling-link: "whips", "blades", "spiked wheels", "spreaders") to go.
"You know. When you're not hurting people or waxing philosophic on the nature of suffering."
He thinks on it. His hands, slick with suds, writhe around an iron clamp. "I enjoy mortal board-games. Do you know ($exposition: "King's Word", 1)?"
[That game is a thousand years old. You only have an idea of the rules because you proofread an Academy colleague's dissertation.
](exposition|"Enough to be dangerous."
The top of Ishiyk's palace is open-air and dedicated to games. Actual games, not torture-games. The City line stretches for miles in either direction: winged demons flit through the air, others jump from rooftop to crooked rooftop. Sulphur on the breeze.
King's Word is surprisingly fun; it's harder than roundhouse to get lucky with the dice, but three bad rolls in a row wipe out the opponent's fortifications.
"A sober comment on the taxes of fortune," Ishiyk offers.
The other rules you don't understand and mostly ignore. He lets you get away with it. The game ends when, after ten minutes rubbing his chin and smiling benignly, Ishiyk concedes.
"Once more?" He says. "Maybe for a wager, this time?"
Oh-hoh-hoh. Oldest trick in the book. But you respect the attempt.
($endSequence: "\"Another time.\"", "City of Demons"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
"You aren't even pretending with this," you say. "That's just a torture device."
"In some languages," Ishiyk says, "torture is a synonym for rapture."
The goat-demon's brought you to a raised balcony on the second floor of his palace. A wide-spanning view of the City below, mortals and masters teeming through the streets like ants. The balcony resembles a capital tea-lounge: long cushioned couches with sturdy armrests, a low ornate table for drinks or the latest radical pamphlets about tax reform.
The furniture faces a strange central object you've never seen before.
Sleek metal legs hold up a large triangular wedge of wood. An acute edge, half as thick as your finger, cuts the air. A strange saddle. No other features decorate the body.
"Have you ever ridden a horse, $trueName?"
[[You do not like where this is going.->On the Horse]]Ishiyk helps you mount the 'horse'. Doing it with arms behind your back would no doubt be amusing, but it's not on today's menu.
"Ah!" Pain, blunt and slow. Ishiyk watches closely.
The horse is cool, the wood polished to a sheen. Impossible to get any grip. The sides of your feet slip off the sides; unable to find purchase, your body weight sits squarely on the horse's upturned angle. Gravity's pull is relentless. Can't lift your thighs, the base spans out too thick. Can't push upwards without your hands.
You're naked, obviously. Trousers would make life too easy.
All you can do is scowl and regulate your breathing. Sharp-dull pain bites your cunt and taint.
"This all?" you grunt, ($thought: "twisting your shoulders", 1). |thought)[
Dragonfire, don't do that, moving makes it worse.]
Ishiyk reclines on a couch, hooves on the cushions, the perfect image of a debonair capital dandy. A tight-lipped corpse smile crosses his lips.
"Because this. Is nothing."
Big words. Sure wish you believed them.
This isn't the worst pain of your life, but it's insistent. No reprieve. Desperate for purchase, you try pulling up your thighs. That digs the rest of your cunt in even deeper, hurting so bad muscles on your neck pop out. Regulating your breathing is a lost cause.
"Do you like my horse, $trueName?"
"Ngh. Never seen this before. You know. Reports of people who've come back from the city. Never. Mentioned it."
"We keep a few surprises up our sleeves. Your researchers are so eager to pin us down in print; it's positively mortifying." Ishiyk's tongue slathers around his lips. He rises casually from the couch.
"Sorry to. Disrupt your. Fffffs." Hissing like fingers caught in a door jamb. "Fun little abductions."
[["Your apology is accepted, lambkin."->Acquaintance]]Ishiyk sees you slouch forward—the pain is exhausting—and wordlessly presses you upright. His hand curls to a single finger under your sweat-drenched cheek. You lock eyes: he's ($thought: "sparkling, engaged", 1).
[Is this how he indulges himself?
](thought|"Of course, they're not all so bad," he says. "I've had wonderful conversations with people from your Academy."
Wriggling saws a rusty knife through your pelvis. But stillness is worse. The pain accumulates on a single tiny spot, so sharp and blinding your bones will snap in seconds. ($corruptionText: 60, "Dance around. Really dig it in.")
"All who called on me for information ended up here. Some are yet mine; others I traded. This was before your time."
The finger ($thought: "departs from your chin", 2). |thought)[Bite through it knuckle and all. See how long that smile sticks around then fucker.]
You want to scream, but you can't because the pain is not an event. Not spikes of agony, no, a wet suffocating rag twisted around your face. You're able to focus on the room and Ishiyk only every few seconds.
"Ah, but I tell a lie. There is one who knows me still in your world. A studious sort, very edifying. Name of Maera, as I recall."
(link-reveal: "What?")[= (link-reveal: "Bullshit. He's trying to get a rise out of you.")[=
But, no, Ishiyk isn't even looking at you. His arms are crossed and his face is drawn into the pleasures of nostalgia. Everyone knew the rumours, sure. The succubi tutor who summoned a demon for research notes. Every year they inflated, until Maera called down the entire legion for an orgy in the luxographic supply-closet.
You'd never even thought to ask her about them. How could anyone take them seriously?
"Back straight, lambkin." The reverie is gone.
You suck in air and force yourself upright. Screaming don't help at all, it's the wrong pain. Instead you hiss and spit and grit your teeth so hard they'll crack.
"Enjoying yourself?" He rests a hand on the end of the horse.
"Fuck," you reply.
($endSequence: "The session lasts another hour.", "City of Demons"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
The back of Ishiyk's palace opens onto a plaza directly overlooking the lake of fire the City rests on. Black iron bollards root into the rock, each looped with rope like docking-posts at a pier.
"A prime spot for some fishing," you say. (text-color: "red")[Or swan-dives]. Careful, always so careful.
"Very good, $trueName. You conceal your emotions well."
No, you're actually just not scared. A sea of roaring fire is disconcerting, but so was floating up to the Academy the first dozen times. Your arms are bound, but with Ishiyk that is no great cause for surprise.
What concerns you much more is when Ishiyk sits you on one of those metal posts and produces a hood ($thought: "from the air", 1). |thought)[Literally from the air, fabric glimmering into reality.]
"A mask?" you say. The hood is black leather, fine red thread holding together shaped sections. It covers the entire head; eyes are an exception. Two minute holes above the nostrils.
"That and more," he says. "An old favourite."
Putting it on's like squeezing a coconut through a sock, but Ishiyk manages. Has to roll down the last bits over your neck. Once on, of course, it fits perfectly. The material is close to comfortable, tight but not suffocating, but your vision is blinkered.
"I am waiting for the next bad thing to happen," you say.
Ishiyk goes affronted, fans out every hand. "Such suspicion! Haven't I earned your trust?"
"Not for all the gold in the Onlu would I—"
The mask grows to cover your eyes, shrouding you in absolute blackness.
[[Air sucks out like a vacuum->Silence]].A heartbeat of sincere panic before you realise you can still breathe. Those tiny air-holes for your nostrils don't provide much. Enough to stay standing, with effort.
"Mmmmgh," you say. "Mhmmm mhm mhh!"
"There, there," Ishiyk says. "No need to panic. Sit down; I'll guide you."
The docking-post's hard against your ass, but you're more focused on how you can't see. Not your first time blindfolded, but usually there are gaps, or the material's thin enough for ambient light. This mask permits nothing. Vision is gone from the world.
"Blindness is no great hindrance," Ishiyk is saying, "if it allows you to see in other ways. Don't you agree?"
"Mhmmmmmmmmmm." Air deprivation setting in.
"In turn, lambkin, you are most free when bound. Remember that, won't you?"
($reveal: "Then he pushes you off the post and into the lake of fire.", "payload")
|payload)[=You don't go far.
At some point, with another pair of hands or good old demonic powers, Ishiyk bound your ankles and looped the rope around the post. The pier must cave inwards, because you don't crack your skull to eggshell against anything. Instead, blood rushes to your head as you hang upside-down above the fire-lake.
Not vomiting is easy when you'll choke and die on it. Not screaming is a lot harder.
"Mmhhhhhhhhhh!"
Everything's completely black. If it weren't for radiating heat and the crackle of flame, you'd never know you were in danger. The comfort's cold. You swing back and forth through a void, darkly, spinning on an axis.
"My apologies for the surprise," Ishiyk calls from above with sing-song cheer. "A pleasure I permit myself."
Whore unto all nations, scourge of all good and proper life, pest-ridden corpse of a tax-collector. These things you want to say to Ishiyk.
Instead you moan into the mask some more.
Ishiyk leaves you there for hours, leaving to tend to his other pets. When time permits, he returns to slacken or tighten the rope, bringing you closer or further from the fire.
($endSequence: "By the end you're too delirious to remember being pulled up.", "City of Demons")The steps to Ishiyk's palace are wide and spotless white. Pillars stand feet apart, bars to the realms' most open jail cell.
As usual, the demon holds office in the wide tiled courtyard that dominates the ground floor. He sits on a high wooden stool, goat legs crossed, attended on both sides by innumerable bowed servants.
"Hello, little one." The goat-demon sounds pleased to see you. "Come for idle talk, or something more serious? A practical demonstration of theory?"
[[Examine him more closely.->Examine the Demon]]
[[Examine the palace.->Ishiyk's Palace]]
(link:"\"Anything happening in the City?\"")[\
---
"Anything happening in the City?"
"Nothing ever happens here, little one. That's the point."
"Is the entire demon realm like this?"
"The city extends unto eternity, though some of my brethren carve out personal domains which contain forests, oceans, similar things."
"They must be clever, not to run out of space."
---
]
(link:"\"All of the mortals in the City. They're...\"")[\
---
"All of the mortals in the City. They're..."
"Here indefinitely, yes. We have them renew their pledge every thousand years or so, in case they change their minds. No, ten thousand years. Certainly some power of ten. Your idea of time is quaint."
Dizzying. But when night nor day never pass here, what's a millennium?
"Humans are all the rage currently," he continues. "Next time I encounter a dragon, I will thank them for such enjoyable playthings."
"Flattered, truly."
---
]
[(link:"\"I want to talk about your icon. I found it in Kamal's tower.\"")[\
---
Ishiyk's lip curls. "Ah, that business."
Since you met Ishiyk, you suspected some connection to the corruption-curse. It was always a matter of debate, how a neophyte like Kamal pulled off something with that grandeur. Was it even human design?
The demon anticipates your question. "Do not *denigrate* me with reference to that ingrate sorcerer. He begged for my power, you know. Promised to serve me after his mortal death in exchange for kingship over his own kind."
"You turned him down."
"To your petty race's benefit. We do not debase ourselves with 'deals'." Venom drips from his forked tongue. "Things would be much different if we did."
Grasp the rope and it slips from your hands. The ship sails onward. "How in the name of the dragons did he manage the curse, then? Its scale went far beyond what any Academy theory allows."
"Mortal conspiracies exist to camouflage a dangerous fact, lambkin. Any single person has the power to change the world."
"I see." Sheer luck. A man doing the wrong thing at the right time, beholden to no special resource except his desire to hurt people. "Thanks for clearing up a mystery."
($grantKnowledge:)
"My pleasure. Please do not bring it up again."
---
]]
[[Return to the City proper.->City of Demons]]{(metadata: "color", "red")
}You *twist* the charm's crucial juncture, like snatching fragments of song out the air. The effect is immediate and dramatic. The curse whirls and whips into a storm. You feel it in your mind, the entire and complete shape of it.
No, a tornado.
Whatever aspect of the curse you had in your room spins out of control and swirls across Eiyren. You're unaffected, but from the screams you can hear outside, everybody else isn't so lucky.
Ahaha. Ahahaha. You did something bad, didn't you? Something very not-good. Oh, oh. Mhmm.
Well, that's something to worry about tomorrow. Sleep is easy.
---
Later, you yawn out of The Kettle in your undergarments, arms stretched over your head. The inn-keep is disembowelled, by the door; you step over him.
Watercreek is fallen.
Direwolves, completely rabid, are gang-raping a woman in the street. She might already be dead—you're not sure, the blood on her neck looks pretty bad. Hm. Turn the other way and a swarm of bloatlings darken the sky, each carrying a pulsing sac of corruption. They dart down to the streets, latching onto fleeing civilians.
Around a corner, the curse has driven Eskar to true frenzy. She's butchering civilians with unabashed glee. Good for her.
What's that coming up through the main gates?
A horse, naturally, slavering diseased drool and emanating musk so thick it wilts plants. A guardsman emerges from an alley to spear it; the musk hits and he falls to his knees, eyes blank and unseeing, a dark stain in his pants.
On the horse rides a dark cloaked figure. It touches a finger to its brow when it sees you. A salute between comrades.
You glide past it, through streets of violence and chaos, until you arrive at Kamal's tower—no, $trueName's tower. That fits better.
From the top, you watch Watercreek fester and fall to your new gift. The curse is perfect and unstoppable. A new wave of animals across Eiyren will fall: by next week the smaller villages will follow suit. In a month cities will join them.
And one glorious day, you will stride through the gleaming gates of the capital, floating on a bed of grime and suffering. All will bow before you, or die, or worse.
With a single finger you will send the Academy crashing to the ground.
You look over your domain and [[laugh and laugh and laugh->Credits]].Eskar overlooks rows of guards doing push-ups outside the barracks. She walks the lines, silently pressing her boot into the sides of those with limp backs. The day is swelteringly hot; the hard-hats reek of sweat.
You sit on the lip of a disused well a ways off and wait for a spare moment. Eskar sees you when she pauses to pour a jug of water over herself.
"Marshal." Striding up, she flips you an informal salute.
"Captain." You can't do it as stylishly as her. "Good morning?"
Eskar rubs her beak absently, leans against the frame of the well. "Suppose so. Need to organise this week's roster for forest patrols. Get the monthly heartbeat from the capital. Work."
"You feel anything when you woke up?"
She cocks her head at you. "Nothing. Slept well, for once. No bad dreams, nothing on my chest, no..." Now she ($thought: "grabs you by the shoulders", 1). "You did it! You did, didn't you?"
|thought)[Ow. Those talons hurt.
]Hard not to smile, even when you're being shaken around. "Guess I did. No big deal."
"*Urenia matea se!* This weight on me, gone and I didn't even notice. Oh, $givenName, you're a star of the sky, you're a cloudless current. Every part of me thanks you." Eskar bristles, wings half-extending in chaotic little flaps."What will you do now?"
"As it happened, there were things I wanted to ask before I decided. Will you be staying in Watercreek?"
She considers it with a measured look. "Need a lot less spears in hands as attacks dwindle. No need for a formal squad at all, maybe."
"So, you..."
An energetic shake of the head. "Rooted, that's me. Never been out of sight of Mt. Torre for more than a week. This place's my home, and that means Watercreek too."
"Alright. In that case, careful what you tell the soldiers. The charm's not a panacea."
Eskar crosses her arms, rakes up dirt with her foot. "Yeah, figured. Killing all the direwolves dead, that's too good to be true. It's fine. Tell the men, but temper their expectations."
"You'll see people die outright, rather than falling to the curse."
"Couldn't ask for more." She's entirely serious.
[[Return to Watercreek to think.->True Timelessness]]
[[Stay with Eskar. (End game)->Ending (Wingless Flight)]]"Are you sure about this?" Eskar says, peering over the cliff-edge. "You don't have to. It's for harpies."
Your back's to the edge, heels up against the rim. Wind streams past you: this is the highest part of Mt. Torre harpies inhabit, as close to the *ieri ala* as anyone gets on legs. Scratchmarks of generations past mark the rock.
"I'm going to live with harpies," you say, "I had better do things right. Are you ready?"
Eskar nods several times, jumps between legs on the spot. She can amp herself up all she wants; your mind's simple as stone.
You lean back and let gravity pull you over the edge. Finally, after a lifetime of stifled desires, you fall through the sky.
Wind hits your eardrums like hammers. You glimpse Eskar peering over the edge, telescoping up up up way out of sight in less than a second and she's gone. You twist screaming in the air and face the approaching ground.
From this height Watercreek is nothing but a smudge of squares against the rolling plains. The ground is, oh, a thousand miles away, but you're falling at ten thousand per second, so this shouldn't take long.
You fall through a cloud and go blind from moisture. Blinking madly, the land below has resolved into actual detail: individual trees, the long conveyor's road snaking through Watercreek, the faintest hint of a person if you focus.
($reveal: "Terminal velocity happened heartbeats ago. Few more and it'll be too late.", "payload")
|payload)[="Got you!"
Claws hook into the back of your shirt and arms wrap around your waist. Relentless gravity relents. Eskar smoothes the angle of the fall, turns it from a straight line to a curve.
You're still screaming, so hard your throat is raw like a nettle-rash. Your legs flap uselessly as Eskar smooths the descent into an even glide, leisurely surveying the lands below. You stop screaming.
"That's it," Eskar says. "Got you. Good as married, using human terms."
"Eskar eskar eskar," you're saying. Thinking straight is hard. She's not even shouting, but you hear her perfectly. Currents convey the words.
Her wings obscure the top half of your vision. They billow like storm-clouds, ripples of feathers taking conquest over the sky. At their fullest extension they snap with a whip's crack.
There will be so much to do. You don't care about your possessions at the Academy, let them burn. But getting proper writing-ink on Torre will be an ordeal. Questions for tomorrow. You're soaring in bliss.
"I feel bad," you say.
Eskar looks down from the flight-path. "$givenName?"
"You'll have to carry me all my life."
She caws, amused, and looks back up. "It's alright. When we die, we don't need wings to fly."
That changes everything.
"[[I'll die happy->Credits]]," you say.Every time you visit the City you're astonished at the fact that people live there. The demons and mortals live a strange sort of life, perennially under or holding the whip, but it is life.
You spend a casual afternoon sitting on the lip of a courtyard fountain in the middle of the main thoroughfare. It is built entirely of perfectly clear glass and instead of water it spouts blood.
A many-tentacled monster passes by and is happy to answer some questions.
"Your servants," you ask—a few dozen follow, necks collared—"what's the longest they've been here?"
The tentacle demon can't speak with language, but the information parses into your mind invisibly. Eight hundred thousand years, a succubi who lived on a geological landmass no longer extant and prayed for another life. She looks at her master with adoring glee.
---
Ishiyk waits patiently in his ornate, austere palace. His pets kneel, head bowed, as you enter. Your presence was not announced, but you imagine he knows when you use his sigil.
"The corruption-curse is dead," you declare. No trumpets sound.
He claps theatrically. "I always knew you had it in you, $trueName. My friends bet otherwise, but they'll be on the rack, not myself. Yes, a sterling display. Your plane will be fruitful and ripe."
---
(link-reveal: "\"Can't help yourself, can you?\"")
[
Ishiyk massages his knees nonchalantly. "I am what I am. I do things because I wish to, and they entertain me. Would you begrudge me that?"
Horrible to admit a likeness within yourself to a demon. Even if it's one you've yearned for in moments of (seq-link: "weakness", "agony", "rapture").
"Will it ever be enough?" you ask, looking at Ishiyk's assorted pets. Generations and nations abound.
"Oh, $trueName. I take people for my own amusement, but the fun isn't in the keeping. Staying here is a request they make and I indulge. Coming back, also."
---
]
(link-reveal: "\"Why our plane, Ishiyk? Are there others?\"")
[
He crosses his arms. "Let's not talk about this, lambkin."
"Do not condescend to me," you say, actually pointing a finger. "I risked limb and life and a lot more to dispel this curse that's been so aggravating your abductions in my world. I deserve knowledge."
"I once told you about knowledge," he says. Pursed lips. No, actually biting his lower lip. "I do not withhold information because it pleases me. There are many, many conversations required before that particular conversation becomes meaningful to you."
"I have time."
"And I have more. Take a place by my side once more, and our time will overlap in fruitful ways."
The deal laid bare, though he won't think of it that way. Do you always have to know?
---
]
(link-reveal: "\"Do you think anything like the curse will happen again?\"")
[
"Not for a hundred years. In three generations, the memory will grow thin and weary. Then the next renegade requires a secret weapon for attacking the orthodoxy. Such is the usual rhythm."
"You have a strange perspective on human affairs, Ishiyk."
"A broad one, my child."
---
]
[[Return to Watercreek to think.->True Timelessness]]
[[Serve Ishiyk. (End game)->Ending (Freedom)]]"My fascination," he says. "Have you come for the reasons I think?"
You give a quiet nod and assume your place by the goat-demon's side. Servants make space for you. He reaches down and strokes your hair. The nailless nubs are soft and tender.
"How glad I am that you found the right path for yourself. Your tortures here will be exquisite and unending. Do you wish this, truly?"
"I do, my lord."
"Then we will begin."
Ishiyk's pets bow towards you and to (seq-link: "their", "your") lord.
With a click of his fingers, a polished ring of pure black onyx appears around your neck. The shape is perfect: tight enough to command constant attention without choking. Touching it makes your heart flutter.
"You will only stay as long as you wish to, of course." Ishiyk smiles paternally.
[[That will be a while.->Credits]]The coven is quiet at dusk. Children are already inside, away from the dangers of the outer swamp, and their parents are yet to emerge for dance and play. You walk directly through a large moon-shaped pool of mud, savouring the chill as water seeps into your boots.
Maera's door is ajar. You enter quietly and clear your throat. She looks back, sees you, sets the vials she was examining ($thought: "back in their wooden frames", 1). |thought)[Puts them in the wrong slots and doesn't realise.] Her eyes are red and puffy.
Maera wipes her hands on her apron, palms caked in bauxite dust, and claps.
"I should start by saying congratulations. I didn't before."
"Don't worry," you say. "You can lead the parade parliament throws when we get back."
(link: "\"Well, the curse is gone.\"")[\
---
"Well, the curse is gone."
Maera winks. "Knew you'd get there first. Though you don't sound as happy as I expected."
What can you say that a shrug doesn't?
"After you left the Academy, I was lost at sea. No, floating without an oar. This entire thing, coming out here, it gave me something to do. I kept tallies of the monsters I wrangled. Watching the number go up felt good."
"You can find other things, $trueName. Your other work."
She means the medical stuff. Helping people does feel nice, sometimes, a candle in an starless sky. But then people get used to whatever you create and you have to think up something new. It doesn't end.
"I should cook up my own curse," you say. "Dragons know I'm an expert."
Maera raises a stern eyebrow. "I don't dare think about your idea of a corruption-curse." ($corruptionText: 20, "One day you can show her. Show everyone.")
---
]
(link: "\"Were you crying?\"")[\
---
"Were you crying?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I was." Maera strokes a horn absently. "The awful thing I've been trying to stop for the past half-decade, which lost me the job and home I loved, disappeared. It stirred up some emotions."
"This isn't one of the times when I should say sorry, is it?"
She hugs herself, chin to chest, and smiles.
"You did an amazing thing. But everything's going to change again, and I'm not getting any younger. Life keeps getting in the way of my work."
---
]
(link: "\"Does the coven know it's over?\"")[\
---
"Does the coven know it's over?"
Maera hums, looks around the study. "Told them after I visited you at the tower. They didn't believe me at first, but a bloatling attack didn't cause pregnancy. People cried."
"I can't imagine what it was like, being here. Being driven here."
"Nothing we could do about it." She folds up a sheet of lined paper, creases the edges, and places it gently in a waste-basket. "Most are preparing to leave."
"For Watercreek?"
"No, too many bad memories. Uring is the name I heard most, over the border. Honestly, I'm torn."
"I expected you'd hightail back to the Academy."
"Me too." She sighs. "But they pushed me out. They didn't mourn my absence. Am I going to crawl back and ask for a pat on the head?"
You come to Maera's side, close enough to reach out but far enough she'd have time to pull away. "That's what I've been saying. You're better than them."
"It's a lot to think about."
---
]
(link: "\"Let's hope another dark sorcerer doesn't crop up.\"")[\
---
"Let's hope another dark sorcerer doesn't crop up."
A smile weak as water. "I'll kill the bastard myself."
---
]
[[Return to Watercreek to think.->True Timelessness]]
[[Stay as Maera's pupil. (End game)->Ending (Tutelage)]]You help Maera pack. Her life fits into ($exposition: "one tightly-strapped backpack").
|exposition)[Most of her real equipment is back at the Academy. Some undergrad is probably using it to see the future through different shades of crystal, unaware who first owned it.
]"Need some food," she says, wiping her brow with a rag.
"The conveyors will give you bread on the trip back."
"Back? $trueName, I've decided I can't go back. Not to the Academy. I don't know where I'll go. But everyone here is clearing out, and there's no life at Watercreek."
That there isn't. Maera's decision is a long-awaited reassurance. Ever since you left, you knew in your beating heart's beating heart the Academy had no future for you. Wandering the world while Maera returned would be a brutal separation to bear.
"The Onlu?" you say.
"You hate the Onlu."
"Yes, but people are doing good work there, despite the reputation. An entelech is recording atomic vibrations. A lamia cracked the alinearity special case last year."
"Maybe. Maybe. Is Eiyren even right for me? The curse is over, but people don't change overnight. Only dragons know where I can find a proper lab, let alone patrons. Scales will mean 'cursemonger' for decades."
And now a separate separation rears its head. You have no love for Eiyren; any place that birthed Kamal can birth another. But for all the borders you've crossed, you've never seen outside this land.
The thought unbalances. Kamal wasn't the only dark sorcerer in the world, and if the rumours are true, his monsters were none so vile as those in the far-flung corners of existence. A myriad abominations, untracked, ($thought: "uncatalogued", 1). [The lust for knowledge is the lust for life.](thought|
Maera stares at the study door. Her hand clenches.
You take it in yours.
"Wherever you go, I'm coming with you."
Her eyes widen. "No, I'd slow you down. You're still young, you—"
"Shut up. No, don't look at me like that, just shut up for once. I love you like a sister, and above all I respect you as my tutor. Through all of this, you were my guiding light. You want out of Eiyren? It's nothing. We'll cross to Tehraum tonight. We'll crack the world open and study all the guts within. Point at mountains, oceans, frontiers. I'll cross them with you."
She breaks into a grin you've not seen in years.
"[[Let's make it all three->Credits]], $trueName."Oreija isn't in the *oeiros*.
You clamber up collapsed stone onto the valley walls enclosing the *oeiros*. The morning wind is brisk and unpleasant; if your weather spell is accurate, rain threatens to break at any moment. The view is superb anyway. Miles of mountain slope off to endless plains, a network of river-ways. Squint hard and you can see where maps say Eiyren ends.
Oreija perches on an outcrop of raised rock, head bent back, looking at the sky. She's pretty as a human. Long hair the colour of wheat, wide flat nose. Freckles. Naked, incidentally. You guess her old clothes are long gone.
"You'll never guess the news," you say, sitting besides her.
"Changing back was quite painful," Oreija says, eyes tracking a cloud slowly splitting in two. Her human voice has a harpy accent, shaking a bag of rough gravel mixed with cut glass. "I am glad you did not witness it."
"I'm sorry it took so long. I could have gone faster."
She exhales and (link-reveal: "leans her head on you")[. Dirt and wild berries]. "After six years, you stop counting the days. Thank you, $givenName. You've given me my life back."
Oreija moves with the slow deliberate care inculcated for stronger muscles and sharper nails. She is relearning how to be harmless. Of all the people in the world who do not understand you on any given day, would she misunderstand you least?
(link-reveal: "\"I also took one away.\"")[=
She stiffens.
"It's alright, I understand. You hated that form, cursed every day you lived in it. But it was part of you, and now it's gone. Hard to be normal when you're used to being the monster."
"I shall survive," she murmurs. "And I remain thankful. The *oeiros* is thankful. Are you leaving?"
"I haven't decided. To tell the truth, I'm not looking forward to the attention I'll get when I go back home. I want somewhere isolated."
Oreija stares at her knees, primly against each other, and rests her hands on them. Goosebumps from the cold ripple her skin. She lifts a hand and holds it over your knee, holds it, holds it looking at you, holds it looking at the sky, closes her eyes, puts her hand on your knee.
"I can think of somewhere."
[[Return to Watercreek to think.->True Timelessness]]
[[Stay with Oreija. (End game)->Ending (Two Maidens)]]"Farewell," you say, "and safe flight."
The harpy caws happily and leaps from the plinth, soaring into the night air with deep billowing wings. He joins a cloud of other harpies at high altitude, faces indistinguishable, leaving the *oeiros* empty.
Dragging a hand over your forehead, you stagger to the center and slump against one of the rocks. "Thank the dragons that's over. How did you do this every day?"
Oreija smiles beatifically, sweeping the cool smooth floor. Her shoulders sag, ever so slightly. "You grow accustomed to it. Tending to this place is its own sustenance."
No. You will not accept that.
The mountain gods are ever-close, their gaze too crushing for any one person, even if they were born into it. You rise and take Oreija's hand, letting the broom fall to the floor.
What are the moves? You barely remember the manual, but the intuition of your body surpasses things learned from a book. A step to the right, turn, two to the left, three, swirl.
Oreija falters at first, not knowing the movements, but she has a natural grace and balance. Rhythm comes naturally. You cover the *oeiros*, weaving through the plinths with her in unified step. Moonlight casts dancing shadows on the floor.
"(link-show: "There's something about the curse", ?curse)," you say, focusing on footwork.
["Yes?" Oreija, fearful.
"All that time I spent studying how to undo it, well. Knowledge goes both ways. I would never unleash it, of course, not truly. But..."
Oreija wants to stop the dance, fall to the floor in a paroxysm of thought and pull you down with her. No, you don't think so. You keep it moving, another three, turn, turn, forwards.
"You could turn me back?" she whispers, eyes wide, hand clenching at your hip.
"Easily. As many times as you want. You would only need ask."
"I could run upon the hills again."
"I could ride on your back again."
"We'd journey, we'd hunt."
"We'd feast and we'd travel. And in the daytime we'll tend to the *oeiros*."
Oreija's smile drips with blood. Never have you been more at home.
[["Let's do it tonight."->Credits]]](curse|It's time to go: you've seen everything.
Watercreek has no carriages for hire. The story doesn't end in reverse. When you quit The Kettle for the last time, bags in hand, there's no fanfare.
You hitch a ride on the next merchant-convoy heading in the right direction; a handful of your remaining gold and they're happy to take you. A bag of potatoes sits by your side as you write up your research notes on the long road back to the capital.
By the time you get back, state thaumaturges will know what's happened. Your enemies will hail you as a hero. Parliament will kiss your feet, raise a statue in your honour and consider granting a pension. The gold you stole from the Academy treasurer will be a minor indiscretion lost in the gristle of history.
Nobody will trust you again, of course.
By purifying the curse, you demonstrated unquestionable mastery over it. You know corruption better than Kamal ever did. You can wreak a havoc upon Eiyren others could scarce believe.
The Academy always saw you as an embarrassing little secret to keep hidden from the sponsors. Now you'll be lucky if they keep you locked in a study for the rest of your life.
So be it. There's [[nothing else left->Credits]] for you.So long to the world. Time to turn away.
Mountain caves are habitable, if your standards are low. You find a place on the middling plains, higher than the Torreans come but where there's the odd goat for meat.
Silence is an underrated asset. So much time for reading! Reading, thinking, more reading. You lose an entire week plotting out the deep reaches of magic in the confines of your mind. At times, your mind feels more real than the body.
When you don't see people, the thoughts of hurting lessen. After a month they only crop up once or twice a day. Maybe they can stop. That would be novel. That would be nice.
(link-reveal: "Silence is total.")[=
Sometimes you speak with the dragons, but they don't count.
Ixi likes discussing nature, and sometimes history if your questions are clever enough. Others visit Torre. Some are names ripped from legend, others you've never heard of before. All accept you. All let you be.
Naturally you left everyone else behind.
Eskar is close. You could go to her. She probably thinks you died or absconded back to the Academy. Oreija and Maera and Klipp and Buzi, less so. Ishiyk, technically, is a thought away, but it feels like more than that.
Surprising how those bonds can fade. Always was hard keeping so many people in your head. Knowing the things to say, the things you couldn't say, when sex was and wasn't appropriate. Simpler to do without.
You'll die alone.
The fact comes with no urgency or emotional weight. Likely nobody will ever even find your bones, tucked away in a mountain cave in a backwater province.
A mouse, you decide. A mouse or rat or other rodent. They'll find your bones and gnaw on them, gain sustenance to live a day longer. That will be your last contribution to the world.
[[You can be happy with that.->Credits]]{
(metadata: "color", "gold")
(set: _passages to (a:
(dm: "name", "Oreija", "ok", (visited: "Dinner with Oreija")),
(dm: "name", "Eskar", "ok", (visited: "Escapades")),
(dm: "name", "Maera", "ok", (visited: "Hard Questions")),
(dm: "name", "Ishiyk", "ok", (visited: "Ending the Contract")),
))
(set: _any to (some-pass: _b where _b's ok is true, ..._passages))
}\
You exit The Kettle. The curse is gone; no conviction holds you here. Freedom is floating in a pool where your feet never touch the bottom.
[[Return to the Academy. (End game.)->Homeward-bound]]
[[Leave them all behind. (End game.)->Ending (Hermitry)]]
_any[People exist in the world and you met some while undoing the curse. If you want, you can go find them.
(for: _character where its ok is true, ..._passages)[\
(set: _name to _character's name)\
(link-goto:, "Visit _name", "After the End: _name")
]]The awareness comes slowly, like an old flame's name or memories lost in trauma. For a week you suppress it, continuing the comfortable routines of mending clothes and surveying the wilderness. You buy a nicer-than-usual whiskey at The Kettle.
You're done.
The corruption-curse is wide-ranging and complex. But piece by piece, you've turned the stones and seen the sand beneath. Every wolf or horse or woman changed by the curse was changed differently, but following a self-same logic you now appreciate.
You, alone amongst all the learned scholars of Eiyren, have a real chance to undo the curse. Kamal probably didn't understand his creation as well as you do. The fire of the whiskey is invigorating, not distracting.
**This is the point of no return.**
[[Make your preparations for the purifying charm, which will dispel the corruption-curse.->The Purifying Charm]]
[[Hold off for now—you have other things to do first.->Watercreek]]Hark!
Lo and behold to all things, for now is the time of revelation, now is all that is done undone. It is time, after your thousand trials, to conduct the purifying ritual, reverse the corruption-curse and save Eiyren.
Practically, that entails lying on your bed in The Kettle, sweating the little details.
Your notes are fine. Whenever you got back from fucking a monster, you wrote down the experience in as much detail as possible. Recalling the feelings of those moments, the qualia of corruption, is easy.
Unfortunately, magic is only mostly the wishy-washy stuff about what you feel and believe. The last 10% is getting the words right and, worst of all, the order of the words.
Call it a straight day. You don't count the hours. The innkeeper leaves a meal outside your room at noon, but you're ten frames down a recursive anti-curse chain and barely remembering to breathe.
Is it hard? Yes. But you live for it.
Dawn aches to break. You stretch out across the bed, naked because clothes were stifling your creativity, and can think of nothing else to add. It should work. The mechanisms align. Dragons know your knowledge of the corruption is strong enough.
There is no dramatic ritual. Only the choice and bloodsoaked will to continue.
Sitting cross-legged, you beat out a rhythm on the bedsheets with your fist. The proper tempo matters. No rushing. All rhythms once begun presuppose their end, and so too with the charm. Once you start, you cannot go back.
The words flow like you're not even speaking them. No living thing ever spoke the language, but it contains the true essence of all you've done in Watercreek. It sings an endless inverted spiral that hooks into the perfect ring of the corruption-curse and whirls it off into nothingness.
It is the purifying charm, and it is real.
A critical juncture of the spell approaches, a joint you must set to keep the skeleton hanging together. No problem; you know the rhythm.
(if: $Willpower < 10)[ \
Except.
A dire thought comes unbidden. Your spiral can send the corruption-curse down, shrinking it into nothingness. If you *invert the inversion*, would the curse strengthen?
All you've seen has shown its actual weakness. People can resist the curse. Only some of the natural wildlife is even affected! Kamal, a second-rate scholar to his dying gasp, never had what it takes to cause real terror. You can do better.
Would it even be a loss?
You've seen things here people wouldn't believe. It's been exciting. It's been *fun*. Playing on the knife's edge gives the thrill of cutting yourself.
And, oh yes, wouldn't it show them all at the Academy? Where will their scorn be when lust is all that matters?
[[Strengthen the curse.->Everything Evil]]]
[[Take a deep breath and finish the incantation.->Charmed]]{
(set: $MaxWillpower to 200)
} \
A vicious hissing rises to pitch, slamming against the walls of your words. But you are no middling talent. Images flash through your mind: wolves, horses, a multitude of vile insects, Eskar and Oreija and Klipp and Ishiyk and all the others. The anonymous carriage-driver who brought you here so long ago. You can do this for them.
Raw force and subtlety and willing deed, oh, lifetimes, bloodlines, corruption and circumstance, here $purificationColour[BUCKLE!]
($grantWillpower: 20)
($grantWillpower: 20)
($grantWillpower: 20)
($grantWillpower: 20)
($grantWillpower: 20)
The curse dies screaming.
A vortex emerges, inescapable, and the wreaked logic of the curse is sucked down ever-spiralling like water down the sinkhole, cast to the plane of non-existence. A weight lifts from your mind and body.
The world changes for you alone.
You look out the bedroom window. A harried conveyor sees dusk setting in, swears, and finishes hitching his horses. A guard leaning against a piss-stained wall eats an apple. Animal smells and flecks of rain muddy the air.
Killing the corruption-curse will not purge its creations from the world. Direwolves and bloatlings still camp in the forests and the swamps, but they sit neutered and infertile. A dead stop to the cruel lineage.
They burnt what was physical of Kamal to cold ashes. In time, his legacy will be much the same.
---
Maera finds you at midnight, horns poking up the hatch in the tower floor.
"$trueName, finally. I should've thought to look here."
You lean on the balustrade of Kamal's tower, looking out at Watercreek. Every star in the sky is bright; no clouds bar them. "You felt it."
"I have monitors." Maera comes to your side. A hood, gloves and long sleeves cover her skin. "I'm gathering the willpower to get out of bed when, out of nowhere, all activity for the curse disappears. The waves went flat. I thought my tracker spell had died." (if: $foundDemonIcon)[
You roll Kamal's demon icon around in your fingers and drop it off the tower. It falls in dense undergrowth, where nobody will think to look. The history can stay yours.]
"I wish you'd told me," Maera says. "I could have helped. But I know why you didn't."
"Mhm."
"Who knows?"
You wave a dismissive hand. "I don't want to say anything. It'd make people think there's no danger now. Better to let it fade naturally."
Maera pulls her cloak tight and chatters her teeth. You don't feel the cold. "How's it feel?"
Like scrubbing off the spots of grime and cold fat off a kitchen-top after cooking. Like the renunciation of power. Like cutting the strings of a dancing doll.
"Exhausting," you say.
Maera insists on walking you back to The Kettle, though frankly you'd sleep in the tower if it had a bed.
She leaves with a strong handshake, her most vigorous ever, and departs for the coven, not wanting to be in town during day. That's fine. Everything feels fine and equal to you like an unbroken and infinite plane of water.
[[You sleep for a thousand years.->True Timelessness]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
Watercreek is well-fortified, for a minor town. Being the stronghold of a paranoid dark sorcerer will do that: the safer Kamal was, the more walls and gates and barricades he put up. When fate finally came calling, his murderers forded the undefended river behind his tower and cut him down in twenty brutal minutes.
You tour those walls. It kickstarts the circulation, and the guards are friendly to faces from the capital because they think you mean money flowing into town. They give you useful leads on nearby corruption-beasts and adequate sex.
There is one guard you've yet to meet.
The harpy perches on Watercreek's outermost watchtower, a cathedral grotesque, eyes scanning the highland plains. Your foot brushes a stone and their head snaps to you instantly.
"Yes?" they call down surprised but not reproachful.
You cup hands around your mouth. "It's not urgent! Sorry, didn't meant to distract you!"
Seeing you struggle, the harpy descends to the ground in one fell leap. A woman, by plumage. Her wings beat out a heavy gust of air once, twice, as she slows her descent. She wields the requisite obsidian-tipped spear; she twirls it ceremonially and falls into military rest.
"Eskar of the first Watercreek division, Avian scout and local chief of command." Softer: "Don't worry, land's been dead all morning."
Eskar. Harpies always have weird names.
([[Examine her in more detail?->Examine the Avian]])
"$givenName. I'm a researcher from the capital," you begin, leaving out ($exposition: "the juicy details", 1).
[Your cover story with guards is an approximation of the truth; instead of curing the curse, you're gathering statistics. Population growth of corrupted beasts, attack rates, etcetera. Perfectly anodyne and useless.
](exposition|Eskar's heard of you. "Anyone about this curse business, count them as a sister-in-arms. People downplay it, but Eiyren's choked. Lose men here half-again what we did in Tehraum." She scrapes her talons in the dirt. "Good men."
Let that story unravel on its own time.
People want to give away nothing so much as their secrets.
"I can't help but notice you're the only harpy here."
"Used to be more. So close to a nest, you know." She puffs out her chest, feathers rustling and gestures towards Mt. Torre looming in the horizon. "But the world didn't end overnight, so higher command called them away to some stupid border skirmish up north."
Eskar breaks off.
"No, nevermind. Can't help you find any beasts. Our strategy's defensive, diverting them from population centers."
You shrug. "Worth a shot."
She chirps, full of music. "Pleasure, $givenName. Catch me at The Kettle sometime for a drink. Stories, if you're lucky."
In a plume of dust and a single stray feather, Eskar leaps back into the air, hovering momentarily before a final push of her wings propels her to ($thought: "the top of the watchtower", 1).
[An interesting type. She has potential.
](thought|Alright, breaktime over. Its mention made you thirsty, so ($endSequence: "you repair to the inn", "Watercreek").{
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "The Avian") and (visited: "The Signboard"))
}\
Screams.
You're binding notes in The Kettle when they come, loud and sharp enough to shatter glass. Close. The street over. First instinct? Hunker down, rationalise. Guards will swarm it, could be anything, no point in getting involved, you'll get in the way.
You, the person trying to save this land.
Amazing how quickly you fly down the stairs and out the door.
The chaos is easy to find. Around the corner from The Kettle a small crowd stand horrified around an alley's mouth. Two women, a man, no guards yet. Where are the guards? Within the alley, the sultry smell of blood.
A direwolf is *here*, the middle of Watercreek, jaw soaked in gore.
It stands flagrant on an eviscerated corpse, a man, you recognise him, a baker you've passed on the street, the type too stubborn to leave his birthplace. The wolf's underfed, mange-ridden, snarling. A straining cock ($thought: "smeared with blood", 1) leers beneath the coat.
[Never let widows see the corpses. Everybody knows but nobody can handle seeing it.
](thought|And you're back to the killing fields, wading through sticky marshes, legions of flies and carrion pointing the way. Years of studying massacres. You autopsied corpse-piles till it became routine. Anything for an edge on the curse.
All the signs are here. There will be more wolves.
($reveal: "There will be more bodies.", "payload")
|payload)[=The bystanders are stuck still with shock. No, it never feels real. Only experience and hard practice lets you break the spell and shove your way to the front. You shout something. The direwolf stares you down, mind snapped by hunger and bestial lust.
You have to act **now**, or innocents will die.
Real bad fucking time to forget how to boil blood.
($reveal: "The wolf readies to leap.", "payload2")
|payload2)[="Ha!"
Feathers burst into the air. From a nearby rooftop leaps an unseen figure, towering and magnificent. They slam into the direwolf with meteor strength and splinter its bones with an instant rippling crack. A spear slides unhurried past the downed wolf's shattered ribcage. It spasms, spits blood and dies.
The figure turns, wings unfurling. Eskar is come as avenging icon.
"To your homes!" she yells at the civilians. One has fallen to the ground. "Go, go now!"
The others run; you remain. "$givenName? Dragonfire, get to safety!"
Oh so tempting to run back to The Kettle. But you can't let anyone else get hurt. You ($thought: "can't", 2). [Before you were always too late. Right here, right now, you can do something. Even if it means risking your life.](thought|
You march up and salute as best you can with watery arms. "I'm no good in a fight, but I know healing magic."
She caws, pushing past you to scan for more wolves. "Don't be stupid, need to—know what? Take what I can get. [[Keep up->Glory]]."Combat on the sidelines is a lucid dream.
Everything you see is clearly unreal. [[Eskar->Examine the Avian]] dances through Watercreek, leaping onto rooftops for vantage points, swooping into streets for brutally efficient violence. There are dozens of wolves, a migrating pack driven to desperation by starvation. Each falls to a single strike of the spear; Eskar's red plumage grows to cover her entire body.
Flurrying motion hides her face. But a single moment freezes as if in amber. Her eyes are wide and frenzied. With every kill, her body shakes. ($thought: "Horror", 1).
[Or lust.
](thought|And yet in this unreal scene you retain control. Following in Eskar's wake, you find victims, civilians, guards with limbs only held together by their cuirass. As she fights, you heal. Small charms, anaesthetics, euthanasics for the far-gone. No time for sentimentality, only triage. Move your hands, say the words.
Skin knits. The wounded fall into dreamless sleep as the killing continues.
Then it drains off. The main barracks are alerted and a swarm of steel-helmed guardsmen stomp outward with swords, bells and curse-incense too expensive to use pre-emptively. A line forms. Wolves turn tail and flee. Other healers take over; one sees the viscera and assumes you're maimed too.
Ringing in your ears. Buzzing in your head, different than usual. Eskar finds you staggering blind and heaves you away to [[a relief-camp set up outside The Kettle->Relief]].Healers centralise their efforts in the relief-camp: the smell of death is masked by sage, fennel, aniseed by the barrel.
People scribble purifying charms on the sheets used to cover corpses. Men pile wood for a pyre. Someone sits you on a bench and pushes a mug of hot tea into your slippery hands. Oh, it's Eskar. Thanks, Eskar. The bird-woman is literally dripping blood. ($corruptionText: 70, "Lap it off the ground crawling.")
She clicks her claws in front of your face. "Focus."
You know this. Done it yourself in similar camps. You whip your head around drunkenly and wrench back to the waking world. Sound and vision floods; the ($thought: "urge to vomit", 1) is vast.
[Means the shock is gone, at least.
](thought|"Is it over?" you say.
Eskar wipes clean the obsidian head of her spear and scans the relief-site. A guard comes up dragging a partially disembowelled girl; she points them to the nearest free healer. He salutes Eskar.
"Yeah. Few stragglers, but the party's over. Four deaths, two more projected. Good ratio for the attack strength."
"Good. That's good," you say. The tea is pleasant and tasteless.
Eskar sticks her spear into the ground and kneels in front of you. What is that smell on her?
"Did good, today, for an Academy researcher. ($thought: "Kept your head", 2). Saved lives. Consider yourself an honorary member of the Watercreek guard, $givenName."
[Watching people die takes only a little practice.
](thought|"Thanks. S'why I came here. Saving lives."
She cocks her head. "Thought you were gathering statistics."
Yes, this close you definitely ($thought: "smell something on Eskar", 3). [Those eyes, during the violence.](thought|
"Here's a secret," you say. Tongue is heavy. "I don't just know healing-magic. Curse-magic, too. Other kinds. Important kinds."
Eskar's eyes narrow. "You're trying to... no. Nevermind. Talk later; need to oversee my men."
She rises, but you grab her wrist and pull in close. Take a big old whiff of her feathers. Yes. That's it. Oh, that is very, very interesting. Eskar rips her hand free and glares at you, beak agape. She looks like she wants to say something, or slap you, but instead strides away to oversee the relief effort.
You let her go; you got everything you needed. Below the blood and the gore, below the tinge of harpy-stone, you smelt it. The dark, bitter, oily aroma of corruption.
Eskar has potential indeed.
($endSequence: "They burn direwolf bodies all evening.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1
and (visited: "Violence and Misery")
and (visited: "The Tower")
and $Gold > 20
)
(urgency: 2)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The first time Eskar showed you her wild side, standing over you in a dusty bedroom with bloodshed on her mind.",
"showcaseText", "The noble captain of the city guard, a feathered harpy, shows you her dark side."
)
}\
Today's a Watercreek-day, where you prowl the town looking for leads on corruption-beasts. Like most Watercreek-days, it's a bust. If you're being honest, they're how you relax after a week trekking up mountain trails or ruining boots in the local assortment of rancid bogs.
Noon has come and gone, so you've ($thought: "earned a drink", 1). [Oh, how the Academy would despair to see a researcher destroy their mind with chemicals rather than magic.](thought| The Kettle is empty, save the inn-keep and one familiar face nursing a tall glass of something cheap.
You take the next stool. You've been waiting for this.
"Eskar."
The harpy-soldier looks up from her thoughts. "The researcher. $givenName. Hope you're well, after that attack. Any luck with your work?"
The inn-keep wordlessly pours you a glass of grain-alcohol, the stuff that keeps goat-farmers wired overnight, then heads to the far back of The Kettle where your conversation won't reach. A dependable man.
($deductGold: 20)
"You know how it goes."
"Yeah."
($thought: "Sips pass in silence", 2). [You always were the ice-breaker.](thought|
"I remember you promising stories?"
She snorts. "Thought that was serious? Nothing happens around here."
"Except people getting ripped apart and raped by corrupted beasts."
"Not the kind of story for civilians."
Another drink; this one makes you wince. Good stuff for something brewed without magic.
"I can go first," you say. "I visited the tower by the river."
When Eskar shudders, her wings join in. "Awful place. Had to check it wouldn't collapse and dam the water, screw over downstream villages. Whole time, something inside of me died. Evil place. Feel it in your bones."
"Oh? I ($exposition: "didn't feel anything", 1)."
[Places have no internal spirit or genius loci. That's the only really fundamental proof theoreticians produced in the last century. But psychologically, heading to the source of the curse? More than enough.
](exposition|"Newcomer like you probably hasn't—" The harpy cuts off. "Nevermind."
A long silence. Eskar keeps looking down her glass. It has one good sip left. (seq-link: "Will she say it?", "Cold grey bathtub. Now the moment. The end of the world.", "Will she say it?") Her claws drum on the leather of her guard-leggings. She opens her break—then closes it.
Fine. Speak with casual confidence.
"I know your secret, by the way. I smelt it on you. I know [[you're corrupted->Temptation]]."Her eyes might well pop out of her head. Jackpot.
"Fuck are you talking about?" she barks. "For that matter, the fuck was that at the relief-site, sniffing me? Something wrong with your head?"
You drink sedately. Harpy voices are so high-pitched it's difficult to be intimidated: a mistake you've made before. Stick to the plan and keep your calm.
"I'm not going to expose you. I have no reason to."
"Isn't jackshit to expose. Should martial you for slander."
"Alright. If you're not corrupted, I guess you've been staring at my tits since I came in for no reason besides prurient interest."
Eskar rocks back on the stool.
"That's not true. That's not true and it means nothing anyway."
You have to laugh. She's a woman and thought you wouldn't notice? "Hey, I can't judge. But indulge me a moment. Since you're uncorrupted, you'll have no problem looking away when I pull my shirt down, will you?"
"Wait—"
Too late. No bra today, so a quick tug and a tit pops into open air. Eskar flurries to cover her eyes and look away at the same time.
Does the inn-keep, sweeping floors at the back, know what's happening? Probably.
Do you care? No. You'd strip for laughs if he asked.
She breaks. Eskar hides it at first, peeking through her fingers, but soon abandons that for unabashed ogling. You cup your tit and squeeze, watching her reaction: ($thought: "eyes wide, unthinking, beak hanging open", 1). A clawed foot scrapes the inn floor.
[All the classic symptoms. Reflexive. Pathological. Uninhibited.
](thought|Shirt back up, tit gone. Eskar blinks, waking from stupor, and lets out a shaky breath. When you catch her eye, she shrinks into the stool, wings a covering shield.
"Oh." Quiet voice. "[[No point pretending->Grain]], then."You raid the bar for more alcohol; it suits the occasion. Hard stuff all night; your tab's a legal fiction. Eskar slumps over the bar-top, claws flicking the feathers of her forehead.
"Barely remember it now. Year after that fucking curse hit, I'm bit by some critter passing through the forest. Centipede, except it walked upright."
"That's a common type," you say. Cryptops, a ($thought: "silent killer", 1). [You developed experimental pesticides with Maera. No success. Cure worse than the disease.](thought|
"Ever since, felt this wrongness in me. A dark grain. Didn't want to admit it at first. Bad, bad dreams. Urges like I've never known. Scared I'll lose it and stick civilians with my spear. Or worse." She grimaces.
"You've held it off for this long," you say. "That takes strength."
"Sometimes think it's grown, gotten worse over time. Can't remember how it felt at the start. Don't know—anything." Eskar grabs the glass, downs it, downs yours. Turns, fists clenched, wings taut. "Can you cure it? That's why you're here. Isn't it?"
"Not directly."
Her head falls to the bar. Five years lost at sea, and the first ship sails past.
"I'm here to counter the curse, yes. The statistics thing was a lie. But reversing it can't be piecemeal. I need to understand everything, set all of it together in my mind. Then I'll wipe the slate clean."
"Shit. Fine. Least you're here, in the middle of it all. Better chance than pencil-pushers back at the capital."
Head down, she snares you with a piercing avian eye.
"Think you can do it? Really break the curse?"
Do you, do you. At the Academy you sure did. On the carriage to Watercreek, doubt slipped in. Then a common direwolf dragged you below the earth and made you its bitch. Only dragons know how much more you'll have to go through, or if your charm will even work.
There is only one honest answer.
($reveal: "\"I will die trying.\"", "payload")
|payload)[="That so. That so."
Eskar snaps bone-bolt straight, kicks back her stool, slams her glass, flings it away. Her arm cracks into a perfect salute.
"Eskar of the first Watercreek division," she yells, "Avian scout and chief of command! My duty, bestowed by parliament, backed by the tribes, is to safeguard this town specifically and Eiyren generally. That means helping you, $givenName, is my top priority. So congratulations, you're promoted. Give me your orders—marshal."
The inn-keep's wide-eyed and looking for where in the fuck that glass went.
Wow. Always nice when a plan works out better than expected.
Military life never appealed, but you can't deny an alluring title. Marshal rolls around the tongue like a fine meringue melting in the mouth. Thoughts spring to mind: Eskar can trap beasts, funnel you information, offer transport. If you're being honest, though?
[["Show me the corruption inside you."->An Unvisited Place]]"Here we go," Eskar mumbles, fumbling at her belt for the key. "Here we go, go, go."
You're on the deserted rim of Watercreek, where homes were abandoned before Kamal even died. Full-on night, no moon. The hour when demons pry most closely into mortal affairs. Eskar has brought you to a two-storey wattle-and-daub hovel. Somewhere to sit and think, she explained, away from civilians. For when the visions spin out of control.
She finds the key and lets you in.
Wordlessly you pass upstairs and shoulder open a bedroom door.
The guest room. Old lace doilies adorn hardtop counters, from back when people thought this place had a future. Dust everywhere. You summon sparks for a flame-holster, illuminating the room, and drop your satchel of research notes on a dresser. Quill, ink.
Eskar looms in the doorway like a bloodsucker from the stories meant to scare kids. Is she actually trembling? Dragons. ($exposition: "Things were going well before", 1).
[At the bar, you laid out the gory details of your plan. The sex-magic, the necessity of direct experience, everything. Eskar took it well, relatively. Another four drinks transmuted embarrassment into swaying, stumbling confidence.
](exposition|"Take your time," you say, checking the ink-pot's seal. Years of field interviews with curse-victims inculcates a certain tone of voice. The delicate skill of convincing people they're not monsters. "This happens as slow as you need."
Eskar's in full military get-up. Claws clump hard on thin carpet as she sits on the bed. Takes her head in her hands. "Can't believe this. Actually considering it. Such a *kreuia* I am."
Trembling and breathing hard. Poor girl. Not like ($thought: "you can blame her", 1).
[She's resisted the corruption for half a decade, and over an hour you convinced her to let it run free. Potential...
](thought|"It's fine," you say. "I'm a professional; think of it like visiting a healer. Let that corruption in you speak. See what it says."
"Trying to. Really trying, here, want to help you cure this fucking curse. But it's... never..."
You face the dresser. Can something in your past notes help? You've fucked a lot of people and helped a lot of curse-victims, but you've never helped a curse-victim by fucking them before. Behind you, Eskar's breathing grows even shakier.
Alright, this is untenable. She needs more work.
"We don't have to do this today. You can take time to prepare. Next week—"
[[Eskar slams you full-force into the wall.->Rough and Tumble]]Thick gut-punching pain. Your head cracks the wall; the dresser rocks and tips in a spiral of papers. Everything blurs and swings.
"The fuck!"
Eskar pants wild and pins you to the wall with the long flat of her arm. Soldier muscles Her eyes are frenzied, lustful and thirsting for blood.
You break into a ragged grin. "Yes! Yes, yes, like this!"
Your excitement breaks into a shrill yell of pain when Eskar digs her talons hard into your shoulder. The corruption-curse affects everyone differently, and she's way off in the aggressive range of the spectrum.
You shift your body weight, breaking Eskar's grip and push her away. No use, she's freakish strong. A vicious peck from her razor-sharp beak: you block but it shreds your tunic, slices a nasty gash right down your forearm.
($thought: "Pain builds on pain", 1). [Pass out and you'll waste this opportunity.](thought|
A sharp back-hand crumples you against the dresser. Blood spurts from that arm wound. ($corruptionText: 80, "Lick it? ")Shaking with violent energy, Eskar turns her talons on herself and gouges a long tear in her pants. Eskar grabs her cunt and masturbates furiously. She's soaking wet; so are you.
Before you can pull yourself up, she lets out a demonic moan of frustration: it's not enough.Beady eyes turn back to you. More blood in your mouth. Swallow. ($corruptionText: 90, "Delicious.")
Eskar grabs you under the arms and heaves you onto the bed like a sack of sugar. Whatever fight you had is gone; Eskar grabs the headboard, holds you still with a hand on your scalp and grinds her cunt onto your face. She's tight and hot and sopping. Her full feral weight is on you, suffocating, and every part of your face is soaked in her juices.
"Mhhm! Mhnnn!"
As if she cares. All (cycling-link: "Eskar", "the curse") wants is to cum. Given you'd rather not choke on her cunt, you'd better help.
You start frantically, tongue slapping every which way. No. Stay in control. Work it properly. Most attention on her clit, but not all. Tease her, even as vision goes dark around the edges. Is it even working? Go harder.
Oh, she tastes divine. Sweet and sharp, lemon zest scent before muscle spasms.
Eskar moans through gritted teeth.
Her thighs clench your skull so hard it will surely pop like eggshell. Your own cunt burns. Eskar beats a fist against the headboard and cums shrieking, ears going to bleed her pitch is so high, hunched over, tongue lolling out a gaping beak. Her wings extend full their full tip-straining span.
Finally she slumps off sideways, leg over your neck. The sweetest breath of air you ever took.
"Fuck me!" you say. "You were holding all that back?"
Eskar ($thought: "pants hard", 2). |thought)[Feathers only dispel so much heat.] As the orgasm settles, she regains composure. A glimmer of the spear-wielding soldier surfaces. Phew. Suffice to say, that was more than enough for the purifying charm. Getting that down into notes will take most of the evening.
Eskar slaps you so hard you see double.
Your writhe in soft bedcovers. Is your jaw dislocated? Oh, that hurts bad. Eskar leers, whispering, beak chattering. Barely make it out.
"Got you now fucking *got you* hold you bleed you do what I want with you..."
Ah.
[[Not done yet.->Muscle Burn]]{
(set: _red to (text-colour: "red"))
(set: number-type _owCount to 0)
}\
Eskar grabs your cunt, butcher-hook claws, and fingerfucks you.
{(live: 0.3s)[
(if: _owCount > 20)[(stop:)]
(set: _owCount to it + 1)
(set: _tail to (str-repeated: _owCount, " ow"))
(print: "Ow" + _tail + "!")
]}
Those claws can scratch bone and now they're slicing up your inner walls. Blood bubbles over your teeth and stains your chin as you scream. She's butchering you, kick! Fight!
No, not so easy.
Eskar honed her body with years of killing. She could kill you. She could do it by accident. Every moment you've experienced, every silly little thought in that skull of yours, is hers to snuff out. _red[Let her do it.] Let her _red[kill] and by _red[killing] cum, curse-fried mind exploding in every rainbow colour while you choke and _red[die]. Slit your throat, pull out your heart and eat it, _red[rip] out your entire cunt with those _red[fucking claws], oh dragonfire, oh, _red[yes yes yes].
You cum in seconds.
($deductWillpower: 15)
($grantKnowledge:)
Eskar doesn't notice. She's still whispering, low and fast, but it's hard to focus when your wounds are singing in demonic chorus. Arm-wound bleeds fast. Indulge. You lick long up the cut and flood your mouth with ($thought: "the old iron tang", 1). [Fuck, that's sex.](thought|
Her entire hand is in your mutilated cunt. But why would that be enough? Eskar bares the talons on her free hand. Lays them on your tunic, between your breasts, and stares with a raving grin. Yes! Yes!
"*More!*" she hisses.
She scrapes down, ripping you chest to groin. You buck and writhe pointlessly against the bed. Four red stripes mark you.
You cum again, cum choking, screaming breathless as fingernails scrape slivers from bedposts. In a brutal jerk your knee clocks Eskar right in the chin and she falls back like a sack of bricks. Sounds come out your mouth you don't control. Your body can't hold this much energy, so limbs strain and buckle against themselves.
Can't even bring a hand to your forehead to wipe away the sweat and tears.
What even was that. You're spinning and the room's spinning in reverse.
And there was? Wasn't there a? By? Pure cold panic. That was a bad kick. Did you kill her? Dragonfire [[is Eskar alright->Homeland]]?Yes, she's fine.
Eskar is weeping: big, heaving tears of joy. A delirious smile paints her face. Blood is just about fucking everywhere. You can't help but break out laughing. She looks over, eyes glassy. Harpy faces are strange, but cute.
"Feels good," she croaks. "Better than I thought."
"Good," you say, hand ($thought: "idly rubbing", 1) the inside of your thigh.
[You should stop the bleeding. But not yet.
](thought|"Letting go makes it easier to hold back. You know. That make sense?"
"Yes." Yes, a little longer in this bed. A little longer like this.
($grantWillpower: 20)
"Nobody else knows." Eskar dazes up at the ceiling, the words falling out. "Family's on Mt. Torre, so close. But not visited since it happened. My duties, the men, always a reason. But really I was afraid they'd see it in me. You know?"
You do.
You also do not think about home or about family. Slow grey waves lapping at the dregs of the base of a beach. Sitting in the bathtub when the water's long gone cold. Thinking, this is the moment I'll say something. I'll say what I need to say right this moment. But the moment (link-reveal: "never quite.")[= ($reveal: "Never just quite.", "payload")
|payload)[=Eskar crawls up the bed and collapses by you.
A squeeze of support to her thigh, a kiss on the shoulderblade. Feathers are so glossy against your cheek. People are so soft. Hard to believe they can break.
"Sorry," she says. "For nearly killing you."
"I hope you don't treat all new recruits this way."
Laughing, laughing. You lost a tooth at some point. That will take a day of charms and hard liquor to regrow. Your cunt? Don't think about it, or you'll vomit. The pain's far away.
"What's it like?" you say. "The mountain. I've never been to a harpy nest."
Eskar is slow to respond. "Nice. Little ones fly in currents while their mothers watch. *Kekaref* always baking. Music in the air. The dragons talk to us. And..."
But she trails off, fallen into the sleep of total expenditure. The way her chest rises is mesmerising. [[You watch it until you fall asleep, too.->The Morning After]]"So," you say, "what was it like losing your virginity?"
Eskar winces. "That obvious, huh."
"Your wings spread out when you came. Harpy girl I once knew said that makes them ache like demonspit the morning after."
"Shit." Eskar rubs her back and pulls up the bedcovers. A cold morning, for summer. "Got that to look forward to, then. Not how I expected my first time to go."
($thought: "The clothes came off", 1) last night. [Dragonfire, she has nice tits.](thought| Beneath the feathers her skin is darkish blueish grey. You ache all over and it hurts when you rotate your ankle. Hasty triage charms before Eskar woke up should get you through.
"The curse fucked up a lot of people's first times," you say.
"Not even that. The mouth stuff!" What? Oh, right. "Never would have made you eat me out without the curse, not in a hundred years. Always so strange, how humans find tongues intimate." Clacks her beak, as if the point wasn't obvious.
"Minor question: how d'you know humans do tongue stuff if you're a virgin?"
Now Eskar covers her face with the flush of her wings. "Um. In the barracks, others leave these books lying around—there's pictures, and..."
All you can do is laugh and put your arm around her. You will have to hook up with Eskar again. Less violence next time, maybe. Neither of you want to get out of the bed.
Not on a cold morning.
"I was wondering," you say. "Why did you leave Mt. Torre in the first place?"
She shrugs, but with wings, not arms. "Don't consider myself Eiyren, even if the borders mean I live there. Respect it, though. Brought together people in a way that worked. Joined the military as an example to others in the nest."
The obvious thing now is for Eskar to ask about your past.
Why come here alone? Why did you like it when I hurt you? Where's home for *you*?
She doesn't say a word. You like that.
Eventually it's time to exist in the real world again. Spend too long like this, you'll start wanting to cuddle cute girls instead of spreading your legs for filthy, slavering monsters.
"Would you like to go?" Eskar asks quietly as you lace up your boots. Her chest's ($thought: "still exposed", 2). [Phrase it right and you could get her to slap you again.](thought|
"Mt. Torre? Absolutely."
She nods. A gesture learned by living with humans.
"Alright. Not today, I'm on call. But I'll take you."
($endSequence: "\"You know where to find me.\"", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Escapades"))
}\
Eskar takes you to the other mountains in the Torre chain.
None hold permanent populations, but a few have outposts—weather-watchers, magicians who don't want to try new spells in population centers.
One mountain at the end of the chain is small enough that Eskar can safely bring you down on the peak. Or, well, a plateau some fifteen feet down; the actual peak is too jagged to sit on. But you can see it, and that's what counts.
A night and a day passes. You feed each other *kekaref* pulled from Eskar's satchel and sleep in each other's arms, ($endSequence: "counting the stars.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Escapades"))
}\
"By the way, I've been lying to you all this time."
"Oh?" Eskar pecks chunks of roasted meat covered in thick sauce off a skewer. You're sitting at an open-air fire with a dozen other Torrean harpies. The fire is circled by raised stone that you sit on and eat off of.
"My name," you say. "I introduced myself as $givenName. But my real name is $trueName."
Eskar cocks her head, but doesn't look angry. "Codename, right? I get it. For your mission." She knows not to go into too much detail when others are around. "Like one of the royal spies."
"No, not like that. I'm not here on Academy license. Call it a a habit when meeting new people."
She shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. 'Eskar' isn't my name, either. Just as close as you can pronounce it. Anyone else know?"
"My name? Yes, everyone back at the Academy. But you're the first person who knows both."
Eskar stops eating and blinks slowly. Have you said something bad again? Time to burn all ties and move to a different country. But she wraps an arm around and pulls you in tight.
"You're still $givenName to me. If that's alright. What I'm used to."
It is alright.
Eskar pulls something green and fragrant off the spindle in the middle of the eating-ring and offers it to you. Turns out harpies delight in eating peppers so hot you're scraping your tongue clean a half-hour later.
($endSequence: "She finds it hilarious.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies")Harpies all smell of stone.
Feathers too, obviously, and Eskar's military getup is fine black leather. But always the undercurrent of mountain-dust, limestone, chalk, unworked iron, basalt. The combination recalls undergrad alchemy.
Physically she's typical harpy.
A foot taller than you, though that doesn't take much. Her feathers are dense and dark, save a brilliant bloodshot splatter of red covering her chest. She has the large, curling beak of a parrot, (link-reveal: "top larger than the bottom")[. A local. Capital harpies are closer to ravens].
Eskar faces you in profile, dark eye scanning with the calm veneer of military discipline. At rest, she keeps her hands on opposing shoulders, criss-crossed. A habit from a culture without pockets.
Guards in Watercreek wear padded fabrics under a studded leather cuirass. She has extra openings along the back for (link-show: "her wings", ?wings), which stretch out twice her height. Her gear is spotless: the armour sheens, the leather clean. No boots, the claws wouldn't fit.
[\
{
(set: $examinedEskarWing to true)
}\
One wing falters, extends jerkily. Did she break it?
](wings|(unless: $Willpower < 95)[(text-color: "blue")[(< 95 willpower required: failed.)] ~~Check out her ass?~~]\
(else:)[(link: "Check out her ass?")[\
Of course you check her out. An opportune glance treats you to an absolutely demonic ass. The military trousers cut tight, showing off firm, fat muscle, the kind you never managed after a whole year of squats. Running jumps for take-off must be brutal on the legs.
Dragonfire, that curve could start wars.
Don't get caught staring. How about elsewhere?
Speaking academically, Eskar's fine as hell. Her thighs are thick, good for high verticals and windpipe crushing. The sleek muscle of daily training hones her arms. No definition to the breasts, but the cuirass hides a lot.
Yeah, you'd do unspeakable things to her.]]
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "An Unvisited Place"))
}\
You're enjoying a light lunch in The Kettle when Eskar finds you. She's out of usual uniform: thin layers of tight-fit fabric, nothing that constrains the limbs or wings. Glass-set goggles hang around her neck.
"Today's the day," she says, holding the door open. "If you still want to go?"
Fifteen minutes later you're outside the Watercreek walls, hands in your pockets because you didn't have time to grab gloves and it's cold as a dragon's tit.
"Get this on," Eskar says, "and pull the belts tight. Don't want anything coming undone two hundred feet up."
Eiyren's avian units have special harnesses for transporting humans by air made of leather and a truly concerning number of notched belts. The design holds your arms flat against your chest, making it difficult to thread the last loops. Eventually you manage something halfway-decent, and it's time for a quick take-off before any storms roll in.
"Ready? Not many humans experience this." Eskar wraps around from behind, arms slipping neatly into the harness folds. The smell of mist-wet feathers takes you.
"Mmm."
"My advice, don't pass out."
Something explodes in a loud *bang*, a stray spark in a distillery. But no: it's the mighty woosh of Eskar's wings cleaving the air with thunderclap force. Another bang and you're light-headed; one more and with a stomach-churning lurch (link-reveal:"the ground falls away.")[=
"Oh! Ohhhhhhh!!"
You scream. What else can you do? Wind beats you like hammers, water and grit chokes you, and you don't care about any of it because you're (link-reveal: "*flying*")[. In the Academy, just before you left, people fawned over new forms of astral projection that gave a bird's-eye view of the world. It's nothing on this].
Watercreek spirals away, away, away.
"Well?" Eskar yells. Words barely carry through the wind.
"Hahahaha! Oh, wow!" Your mission is forgotten. Degradation is for the ground: as you soar up and up, you're one with the wind and with Eskar. The great mountain that's shadowed your every landscape for weeks is now bigger than the world. The peak punctures the sky to touch the void itself.
"Is that—is that Mt. Torre?"
Your speed is unbelievable. Travel by air sure beats muddying boots on unmaintained roads.
"No!" Eskar shouting again. "Torre's third in the chain!"
Seconds left, then, at this draconic speed.
"Hold on!" but before you prepare Eskar dives sharp; your stomach wraps itself into a knot. She was trying to avoid a cloud, but with your added weight she misjudges. You hit the tail, and pails of water douse you. Between that and the cold you're shivering like death hilarious. Couldn't they put some padding in this jacket?
Watercreek's gone. Eskar above is deeply silent, her face twitching as she plots micro-adjustments to account for stray currents. Ten lifetimes can't teach that.
Flying never gets boring, what with the radical perspective on all things terrestrial and utter conquest over unconquerable gravity. But up in cloud cuckoo land, the scenery is all swirling grey mist; below is a whole, whole lot of featureless green. From how slowly the mountains shift on parallax, the journey is barely started.
You nestle into Eskar and [[enjoy the rest of the flight.->Landing in Torre]]"*Tanei am!*" yells Eskar. You can guess the meaning: land spotted.
Through a final cloud-bank emerges a miles-wide plateau on the side of Mt. Torre: the harpy nest.
The view's jaw-dropping.
Rather than a single flat plain, the town is built on successive layers, each taking up less space than the one below. Some hold artificial lakes, irrigation systems for crops, while others contain teeming masses of homes that spiral crazily in on themselves. The buildings are well-worked mountain rock, sturdy constructions for high altitude winds.
Above, dozens of harpies take off and descend, zip back and forth, do loops to entertain themselves, soar, dive, fly in concert with friends, lovers, compatriots.
"I was born here," Eskar says.
($grantWillpower: 10)
The descent is smooth; Eskar's wings grant incredible control. The buildings and people settle into higher resolution, and Mt. Torre grows ever more imposing. The world splits evenly between stark rock wall and the endless open air.
Harpies have a void all to themselves.
Eskar alights in a designated port for (link: "air travel")[air travel (an air-port?)]. Long red streaming ribbons knot around gargantuan wooden poles that bend and sway in bristling wind. She unclasps your flight-jacket deftly. Wind-chill doesn't affect her fingers.
"*Terkos*", she says perfunctorily. "Enjoy the flight?"
"I want to throw up and then die."
A grin. "Yeah. Off the side, please. Don't fall."
Given how dizzy you feel? "I'll hold it down."
You glance around Torre. By the dragons, it's busier than you expected. Hundreds of harpies walk the streets, glide from rooftop to rooftop, cast into brief bursts of flight to reach a higher plateau. Above the sky swirls with harpies, stars visible during the day.
"Did you want to show me anything in particular?" you say. "You mentioned your family."
"Nah, you don't want to meet my family. Love them, but they've never lived with humans. Think I'm strange for wearing clothes indoors. And the language's a barrier."
"You going to see them?"
She shrugs, sharpens her claws against each other. "Not yet. Don't know what to say. Once you cure this curse shit."
"Fair enough. I'll look around and find some trouble to get into."
Eskar salutes. "Mention my name if anyone gives you grief. Going to stretch my wings, but keep watch on the *oile*. Use the signal-posts and I'll take you back to human-land."
($endSequence: "You step into the world of your precursors.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The second time with Eskar, watching her kneel at your feet."
)
}\
Follow the right paths and you end up at a sub-plateau beneath Torre proper. Rock stretches above and below, a mountainous cleft jaw. A few scattered houses on this lower layer, what Eskar in passing calls holiday homes for dragon pilgrims.
"Everybody wants to see Ixi in Laughing Week. Anyway, there's fine." She points at a single-floor shack up against the inner mountain wall. "Nobody will bother us. You go and do what you need to get prepared."
"By myself?"
"Need to pee." She cocks her head at the mountain's edge.
($checkCorruption: 90, "\"Oh. Let me watch?\"", "Watching Eskar Pee")
[["Sure."->Enclosure]]"Huh?" The bird gawks, beak open.
"I've not seen you pee. Can I?"
"Dragon's fire, $givenName, isn't that a bit, you know?" Eskar brings a wing up to cover her face.
"I've already seen your cunt," you say. The shock on her face makes you flinch. "I mean, your pussy? It's not a big deal."
This always happens. Was it the tone or the question itself? Bad timing? Sometimes, yes, you overstep common decency. That's part of the fun. But how is pissing private when a girl's bared her bleeding, clawing self to you?
Dealing with people never gets easier. At least animals don't talk.
"Well, if, if you want to. I guess. Sure."
Good, you at least didn't break things this time. You squat on a nearby rock, attentive. Everybody pisses differently, and nobody can hide it.
Eskar pulls her trousers (link-reveal: "all the way down to piss")[. Unconfident]. Her smalls are nondescript cotton, not the sexy stuff (link-reveal: "coming out of the fashionable parts of Eiyren")[. Utilitarian]. Though it takes her a while she sighs in satisfaction as (link-reveal: "clear urine streams over the edge")[. Shy, hydrated].
Short of cutting open the chest there's no better way to examine someone in the raw.
Mhm. She must taste delicious. Harpies are sugary, almost diabetic. An ex-ex-ex boyfriend once watched disbelieving as you chugged an entire glass; probably never saw humans the same after. Ask later. The stream falters, trails off into drips and Eskar dabs herself dry with her underwear. Those must smell like something, oh yes.
"Satisfied?" She decides on the disaffected military voice.
"That was good," you say. "Thanks for letting me watch."
"Um. No problem. Want to head in now?"
Of course you do. [[You have plans.->Enclosure]]"I'm going to give you your first time."
"$givenName?"
You're in the 'bedroom' of the mountain shack, where the only other room is an unfurnished closet. A token rug covers not-enough bare rock floor: great for harpy claws, not so much human feet. Stone is also a piss-poor insulator against mountain winds, so your naked skin is flush with bumps. The bed is big enough for two, which is all that matters, and the mattress is soft as sin. Plenty of feathers to go around.
"That thing back at Watercreek was (link-show: "research", ?research)," you say. [Research you really, really enjoyed. Hot liquid iron in your mouth, so sweet. ](research|"And you said the curse took away your first time."
"Doesn't mean you have to... !" Eskar cringes in the corner of the room, failing to hide her stares at your naked body. "Some stupid thing I said, after I almost killed you? No, you don't—"
You hold up a single silencing finger. "I want to. You've been good for Watercreek, and you deserve this. I will give it to you. Now take off your clothes."
That cuts through the sputtering. Eskar pouts, quivering, and after a deep breath unbuttons her soldier's tabard. You lie back and enjoy the show. Blunt works on her. Good. Note that down for later.
[[When she's naked, you pat the empty stretch of bed.->Easing]]Eskar perches rigid beside you.
Her body's easier to properly appreciate when she isn't beating your head against a wall. The wings are huge, but fold away neatly. Beneath her chest's bright red plumage hide small, inviting breasts. Want those nipples between your teeth. Her physique reminds you of one of the ancient Pre-Keysian war goddesses, fat muscular legs and sinewy arms. Those thighs could crack (seq-link: "walnuts", "hearts", "skulls").
"Don't know how this part goes," she says.
"That's fine. Have you ever had someone touch you before?"
Her eye darts away and she wraps her arms round her waist. "No. Mother at bath-time."
Excellent. Starting from zero is always fun. Remember to take it slow: ease her open, then pressure. Too much too fast and they scatter. You lean a naked shoulder against Eskar and calmly rub a hand up and down her fuzzy, knobbled knee.
"Do you like it when I touch you here?"
Eskar breathes out. "Yeah."
"And here?" You curve inside of her thigh.
She jumps. "Ah! Not usually so sensitive there."
"It happens. You get used to the touch of your own hands. You masturbate much?"
"Not much. Sometimes. Yes."
She suffers (link-reveal: "cutely")[. Cuteness is the same as vulnerability. A fact with utility]. You never set out planning to crack someone, not consciously. This really was a gift for Eskar; a first time. But when chemistry and chance bring soft girls to your feet, there is only one path to take. Keep easing.
(link-reveal: "\"Any part of me you want to touch?\"")[=
"Dragonfire. Don't make me say it."
You stay quiet. (link-show: "Let her stew", ?stew). [People think power is an iron hand on the neck. That's fun, but inefficient. Give someone rope and they'll always hang themselves for you.](stew|
"Your behind?" Voice a quiet squeak. "Um, your butt?"
An unexpected choice; most want tits first. You stretch onto your side and flex, pushing out your stomach. Firm up the buttocks for her. Boys always get grabby-hands right away, but Eskar trills, long and soft.
"Wow. Wow. Back since Watercreek, that first time, was always thinking, wow, she's got a great butt. You do. $givenName. Was thinking about that a lot."
"Go ahead and touch, if you want. But!" Her hand pauses. "Tell me this first. Have you ever masturbated thinking about me?"
Lawyers only ask questions they know the answer to. Eskar smoulders in silence. Adorable, adorable. Perfect kind of girl to make squirm. But don't apply pressure yet.
"I'm being mean. Go ahead."
Eskar strokes your ass hesitantly. You remember that feeling. Fumbling adolescent fear your hand will go straight through and reveal the tenderness is an illusion. No dreams here, girl. You put a hand over hers, fingers in feathers, wordlessly guiding.
Yes, with reassurance she's happy to explore both cheeks, even grope tentatively. Her claws rake lightly. Others use their faces, have to kiss and lick and sniff, but touching is enough for Eskar. She squeezes tighter, rubs her palms over the pocks and (link-reveal: "ridged scars")[. Years on years. Trees gain rings with age]. The walls could cave in and she wouldn't notice.
"Don't start daydreaming," you say. "Time for that later. Anywhere else you want to touch?"
"Hm. One thing. But it's not sex."
You shrug. "Sex is exploring someone's body." A white lie for beginners. Often it's the least important part. (cycling-link: "The body is a blade.", "The body is divine.", "The body wastes your time.")
"Alright. Sure. Always found human mouths interesting."
Of course. Harpy sex-workers get people rubbing their beaks all the time. You sit up and open dentist-chair wide, tongue out. Eskar requires no guiding hand; she's an eager child prodding at the puzzle-box.
A claw hooks your lip down, testing their elasticity. Long knuckled fingers snake around your gums and under your tongue. Mmmm. This is new, but you like it. Eskar's rapt and breathing slow, staring down your throat so close her breath buffets your face. Herbs and meat. Tempting to bite down—no, not now. Tempting to kiss her.
(link-reveal: "Enough easing; time for pressure. Crack her open.")[=
"You like what this mouth can do, don't you? Ah, ah. Don't go quiet when I ask you a question. You do, don't you?"
"Yes," Eskar says.
"Yes what?"
She freezes, blinks slow, fingers still in your mouth. This is the sweetest part of a kill. Undercurrents surface and Eskar has to deal with the fact that you actually said that. How will she respond? If you judged right, laid the strings right, she'll buckle and break through. She'll see the truth.
"Yes, marshal."
Success. Beautiful success. The moment is so delicious you wish you could keep it in amber. Usually you get 'miss' or 'mistress', but marshal works. It works excellently.
"*Good* girl."
Eskar shivers. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."
($grantWillpower: 15)
Ah! Ah! That's why you get out of bed in the morning. She won't understand what she's feeling, but she'll know it's deep and powerful. A stranger nature, one you don't want tamed. You grin. Is this how succubi feel?
"I'm thinking I'll make you cum now, esteemed chief Avian of Watercreek. That sound good?"
"Yes, marshal. Yes please."
[["Correct answer."->Don't Fight It]]Beneath a thin fuzz of fur, not too hard to find, is Eskar's cunt. She's radiating heat and shakes when you brush her clit.
Your other hand goes not on her breasts, but between them, index finger crooked out and scratching, a gentle scrape against skin. Your finger on her cunt and the finger on her chest go at different intervals, rhythms against the grain, and it drives her fucking crazy.
"Oh, mercy..."
"Don't fight it," you whisper. "Enjoy it for what it is."
Eskar's back arches and she presses against your finger. But you pull back, keep the touch gentle. Circle, circle, scratch, scratch. People says boys are easy, but so are (link-show: "girls", ?girl) when you know the tricks. [Even if the girl is a bird.](girl|
You're wet as well, feel it on your thigh, nipples hard as anything too. But you stay observant, focusing on Eskar and her body. The initial breakthrough matters most, but this is still important. Reward good behaviour. Make it real.
Scratch-circle-circle-scratch, always (link-show: "unpredictable", ?science).
[You could write papers on fingering girls. Staying aperiodic is tricky; you've developed techniques to revolutionise the art. The only problem is finding funding. And a publisher.
](science|"Where's your spear, soldier?" you whisper in her ear. "Where's your cuirass, little bird?"
She squirms. Scratch-scratch-scratch.
The ending is all timing. Eskar crows under her breath when ready to cum, it's unusual but a tell is a tell. The wings are more obvious. You hit her clit harder and cup her chin. Kissing a beak is awkward, so you settle for her cheek.
When Eskar cums it's full-body shakes and a long croaking moan. Either she didn't expect the strength or she never hid an orgasm before.
You stroke her into afterglow and fall back to the bed. Better to let them sweat and recover by themselves. Eskar's too glazed-eyes to offer help when you start on your own clit, which is fine. You do it better than anyone else.
Yes.
That was pretty good.
Eskar is fun. She bends well. Will you tell her your real name? That makes it serious, scary. Harder yes harder. Stiff finger. Eskar showed you flight. Eskar's safe. She's. A thought, unbidden, when you cum: corruption is an unfurling.
[[There we go.->Afterglow]]"Every dragon alive," Eskar says. Her wings tremble and she keeps running her hands over her face. "Insane. You're insane. Where did you even *learn* that?"
You suck the juices off your hand. That was a good orgasm. This part afterwards's improvisation; harder, softer, depends. She could take harder.
"Psh. I was doing that when I was fourteen."
She looks over. "What?" Soft and confused.
(link-reveal: "Ah, shit.")[= (link-reveal: "Said too much.")[= (link-reveal: "Can you pull it back?")[= (link-reveal: "This always fucking happens.")[= Practice makes the disguise good, you can wear it for a while, long enough for sex and sometimes more. Two months was your best. But eventually you always fuck up and they see the wrong raw part underneath. And now she'll go, like all the others.
At least it wasn't the drawings.
(link-reveal: "Eskar's asking you questions.")[=
"$givenName? What's wrong?" Shaking your shoulder. "Say something, please. $givenName? Marshal?"
But you're back in that cold bathtub, thinking the same thing after all these years: this is the moment I'll tell them, this is the moment I'll say what I have to. As the water gets colder and colder, the moment stretching on longer than anything ever could. All the world around you grey and dead, (link-reveal: "the dead grey sunken cunt of the world.")[=
"Need me gone, that's fine, someone else can take you back down, but marshal, $givenName, say something to let me know you're—"
But is it the same? (if: $askedEskarAboutWing is true)[
*The bone knits back stronger.*]
Every time before you ran away. Ran to a new lover or a new name. But this time all of Watercreek was your runaway. You're in a dirty shack on a mountain at the edge of Eiyren. A curse is killing the land. A girl you actually like is here. Can this be enough?
[[Take the gambling way.->Ancient History]]You tell Eskar everything.
She listens cross-legged, hands on her cheeks.
"Oh, no. It was rape?" The word said quietly, as if that makes it softer.
"It wasn't one thing or another," you say. "In the dorms it just happened and you didn't really even think about whether you wanted it or not. Everybody did it most nights and I did it too. The adults knew but didn't care so long as our spells were right. When it started I didn't think about what was happening or what I was doing until it was done. Or the next day, in lessons."
Eskar isn't sure what to say. You're not making this easy.
"So anyway I guess that's how I ended up doing this kind of thing. Having sex with people. Lots of people. Finding different ways, new ways, stranger ways to do it. I liked it. Liked learning it. Other kids quit the Academy but I think it made me stronger. It helped me see things other people didn't, now it's helping me deal with this curse thing, it's all the same. Nobody else could handle the monsters out there like I am."
And? You might as well keep going. She can only leave once.
"Probably I've fucked a few hundred people at this point, sometimes because I like them, other times because I have to, otherwise my head hurts, and when I meet someone for the first time that's what I think of, fucking them. I wake up and I think about it. I didn't have to fuck you down in Watercreek to fight the curse, I just wanted to. You're one of the ones I liked. And that's everything. If you want to go that's fine."
Well, there it is. You sit back against the bed. Have you ever spoken like that? Maera alone knows, but even her not all the gory details. Saying it felt good.
Eskar's statue-silent, slowly rocking back and forth as she processes all that. Internally you assign probabilities. Screams and anger, or a wordless exit out the door?
Neither. (link-reveal: "Eskar crawls up beside you.")[=
She cuddles you. You're bones and shoulders, uninviting, but her wings wrap round and cocoon you. In a black feather capsule she cuddles you. Not close, but next to you.
"Thank you for telling me," Eskar says eventually.
She doesn't leave. Instead she hugs you and goes back to not speaking. Your back is rigid. At some point you dug fingernails into your thigh so hard it left marks. Her body is warm. It melts you and you sink into the bed, sink into her.
Words, words, words. People take so many fucking words.
There will be more words.
Eskar will ask questions, explain things, and if she's anything like Maera, rationalise. This hard core inside you resists words, but they're all either of you have. Grind out history into words to make sense of the senseless. You didn't even mention the break.
But the words won't matter. Eyes closed, you grin deliriously into Eskar's enveloping feathers. What matters is [[she won't leave->Chain of Command]]."And, no word of a lie, I couldn't get the cum out for a month after."
"Dragons' blood fill the ocean."
You've been regaling a wide-eyed Eskar with lurid tales for the past hour. She's cradled in your lap, legs locking in complex diagrams, her tits pleasingly close to your face. You take turns suckling her and letting her (link-reveal: "poke around your mouth")[.
Only gagged once, when she hit the tonsils by accident].
"Anyway," you say. "That's all the lightweight stories. The others are weirder and I've never thought how to tell them. You want to do something else? I still don't know Torre well."
Eskar chirps. "No chance. We're staying here all day. Tomorrow, too. Get food sent down."
"That so? What about your duties at Watercreek?"
She preens, rearing into magisterial grace and authority, and does a 'dealing with humans' voice. "You may be marshal, but I am commander. By my authority, I say this: fuck my duties. You're going to show me all these things you've learned. Everything."
Oh, sweet girl. She can't handle everything, not by a long shot.
But today and tomorrow is enough for the essentials.
Meeting Eskar's gaze, you place a hand around her neck. "Order received, captain. One minor request. When you send for food, make sure they bring knives as well."
She trills softly. Against your thigh, she's wet again. "Yes, marshal."
"Very good. Now kneel on the floor for me."
($endSequence: "All day never went so quickly.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies")A wave on a red-ribboned poles and Eskar descends from an anonymous speck in the sky to a ruffle of feathers standing tall before you. Her Eiyren uniform flaps and billows in the wind. Other harpy soldiers salute when they see her.
"*Terkos*", she says, natural as breathing. "Heading back?"
"Not yet. I wanted to ask you something."
[[Examine Eskar.->Examine the Avian]]
(link: "\"What's that word? Terkos?\"")[\
---
"What's that word? Terkos?"
She croaks, long and slow. "Oh. It means 'landing'. Learn to fly, they beat the call-signs into your head hard. Miss one and the teacher grounds you for a week. Plenty reason to make them second nature."
"It's a safety thing."
"Safety, communication, habit for habit's sake. No wings can challenge the achievements of the wind-forces. Don't keep strict and you make mistakes."
"You'll have to teach me them, sometime."
Eskar crosses her arms and glares at the sky. Won't find any help there, cutie.
---
]
(link:"\"How long has this place been here?\"")[\
---
"How long has this place been here?"
"The nest? Far back as anyone remembers. Once read a report by your Academy, saying we migrated to the continent a thousand years ago."
"They push the date back every few years when new graves get found. Archaeology never runs out of funding."
"Doesn't matter, anyway." Eskar checks her boots for dirt. "That long a time, have a right to say we've always been here."
---
]
(link:"\"Do a lot of harpies join the Eiyren military?\"")[\
---
"Do a lot of harpies join the Eiyren military?"
"Around here they do. Ixi talks well of you; rubs off on the chicks."
"It always felt crazy to me that you live so close to the dragons. It's like living on the surface of the sun."
Eskar, ever the taciturn, (link-reveal: "caws loudly.")[ A laugh?] "They're not so bad. You learn what questions they answer."
"Do the dragons come down often?"
"Every few years. Deaths, births, first flights. Seen Ixi three times, Oro once. Ker came but I missed them, completely grounded with flu."
You take in the colossal immensity of Mt. Torre. "They always seem so far off."
"Funny. Feel the distance when I'm away. Back of the head, a little thing, but it's there."
Both dragon-born, both from the same creators. Yet so different.
---
](if: $examinedEskarWing is true)[
(link: "\"Did you ever break your wing?\"")[\
---
"Did you ever break your wing?"
Eskar blinks and steps back, startled. "How'd you notice that?"
"I did a stint as a healer during postgrad. Saw the way your wing jerks during full extension a dozen times."
"Good eye. Yeah, it's no secret. Back in younger, stupider times I picked a fight with a tree during a nasty squall. Tree won, grounded me a couple months. Not a mistake you make twice. All good now, though."
She flexes the wing out as demonstration. You could comfortably lie in its span. No wonder early humans worshipped harpies as demigods, true scions to the dragons.
"I always wondered," you say. "Doesn't it impair your flying, an injury like that?"
"Not at all. The bone knits back stronger; every chick knows that. Bodies adapt to stress and fracture, within reason. Otherwise you'd keel over at the first feather you lost."
Now you're the one startled.
You studied anatomy, but only as a means to an end. Never did this law reveal itself to you. Can it be true? Walking taller on shattered legs?
What bones have you broken?
(set: $askedEskarAboutWing to true)\
---
]]
(if: not (visited: "Escapades"))[(link:"\"Want to fuck?\"")[\
---
"Want to fuck?"
Harpy eyes don't bulge out when they're shocked. Even so, Eskar is not hard to read. She crosses her arms and shuffles on the spot.
"Hadn't spent so much time in Watercreek, would wonder if all humans were so direct." She opens her beak, then closes it. "Know what? Got time to kill. Got a place—[[easier if I show you...->Escapades]]"
---
]](else:)[(link: "Grab her ass.")[\
---
Eskar goes rigid but doesn't fight it. Harpies are streaming all around, some probably stop and stare; you can't say you care.
"And how is my commander doing?" Very deliberately not a whisper. Normal speaking voice. This is normal.
"Good, marshal."
"She doesn't mind that I'm groping her in public?"
"No. No, marshal."
"Good."
You pull back and blow her a kiss. Got to keep 'em on edge.
"Dragonfire," Eskar says. "How do you do that so quickly? Turn like that?"
"Don't have to," you say with a shrug. "We can have rules. I only do things when we're in private, certain days, whatever. I once had a boy wear a necklace to show when it was alright to grab him. There (link-show: "have to be rules", ?rules)."
[Because otherwise it's the Academy dorms all over again. The past is never past, but you can fight, always fight.
](rules|For the first time ever, Eskar sways dizzy on her feet. Yeah, a new world of opportunities and implications shipwrecking into your head will do that.
"Can keep on like this," she squeaks out. "Marshal. If that's good."
Oh, it's more than good. Eskar's had her introduction, but you have plenty to teach.
---
]]
[["Nevermind, just thought of something."->Torre, Nest of Harpies]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The horse, standing proud and dominant in desolate forest ruins.",
"showcaseText", "A personification of the curse compels you to 'serve' his vile horse."
)
}\
The Watercreek woods are small, nothing compared to the expanse that swallows Eiyren's southern enclave. A good chunk of what was there got swallowed up by the frontiersmen who built Watercreek; bird-flight spans the breadth in an hour.
Despite that, you get lost easily. Call it a quirk of the curse, or your inexperience in the wild. But the right path is hard to keep, easy to lose, and once lost never regained. The ground bends to shallows and great hills, blocking all lines to the horizon. Without landmarks you orient by dead reckoning, a sea-captain doggedly following the dismal sightless star.
Losing the beaten path is exactly what you want. Monsters hide in shadow.
The soles of your boots are thin when the call comes. The scent is barely perceptible at first, a hint on stagnant forest air. But as you approach it develops to something (link-show: "pungent and earthy", ?smell). Freshly-tilled soil, or a bowl full of mushrooms and moss. ($corruptionText: 80, "It's enrapturing.")
[Of course you know the smell.
Everyone at the Academy working on the curse exposed themselves to controlled doses. Not for immunity, because that was impossible. For awareness: when you smelt it in the wild, you knew ran for your life and warned everyone in the province.
](smell|You crawl past shrubs, brave sticking brambles and climb fingers-in-dirt for that scent. The leaves are crisp beneath your feet. At last you reach a clearing in the deepest reach of the woods. The ruins of a village outside history stand here, overtaken by vines and overgrowth: tumbled stone, small huts, a place for desperate living and not much of it.
In the middle of the village a horse forages for food in a bush.
The animal is brown-haired, with auburn trims. But what always strikes you about this cursed breed is the size. The fucker's massive, easily six foot tall and built like a bridge to boot. A war-horse from the stories of old.
On it rides [[a cloaked figure->The Rider]]."Hello, $givenName."
Tall, black, hooded. You catch glimpses of human skin, gaunt and drained of energy. This is a puppet. Wind blowing through an unattended harp. Neither the rider nor the horse move, but the source of the voice is clear. Magic—the taste of liquid silver in your mouth. Never able to spit it out.
You forgo subtlety and stride into the clearing.
"Hello, curse. Does your pet have a name?"
"No. Animals don't need names." The rider holds a whip, the long and slender kind used to catch runaway criminals. No variance or rhythm to that voice. One flat line stringing along words.
"I meant the rider."
"So did I."
The rider takes the reins and faces you. The horse's eyes are grim and slanted, streaked black-yellow. Spit slathers from its jaws. This is no newbreed, not by half. Corruption has festered in this creature for years. Is this a first-breed?
Oh, mercy, that smell.
You've never been this close to a corrupted horse before. Even a few feet away, it's the dizzying stink of a man's used briefs tight around your face. The overpowering stink of earth, body musk, dry urine. Without Maera's charm you'd already be gibbering, masturbating wildly with glassy eyes. ($corruptionText: 80, "The thought is tempting.")
($deductWillpower: 3)
"Won't you come say hello, $givenName?" The whip cracks against a tree, breaks a branch clean off. "That is your new quest, isn't it? Serving all my wonderful creations?"
"One smell of your horse is all I need for my charm, curse. With it I'll uproot you from this world and cast you to the seven winds. And stop using my name."
The whip snaps again, (link-reveal: "this time toward you.")[= Duck, dodge—but a curse is not easily outran. The light rawhide coils around the thick of your arm with burning force and you fall off-balance deeper into the clearing. The horse's corruption-musk grows even stronger.
Struggling's not the play, that's what it expects. Keep calm. Five breaths, three seconds each.
"Such grand and intoxicating words. How does it feel, $givenName? To speak with your enemy, face-to-face? Or is kneeling your preferred posture?"
"Like nothing at all. You aren't my enemy and you're not anyone. A bundle of magical rules and energy that powers them. I'm only talking back because it's convenient."
The curse-rider laughs and jerks the whip, wrenching you to your knees. The ground is wet and soft, weighed down sodden by the dank weight of the horse's musk. The ruined buildings look more like mausoleums up close.
What's the plan? Hard to say when you can barely string two thoughts together. The curse is capricious and vain, like its creator. Playing along might get this over with quicker than fighting. With Maera's charm you can survive a full blast of the horse's corruption. ($corruptionText: 90, "Maybe.")
There's slack to the whip.
($checkWillpower: 70, "Break free.", "Cast Aside")
[[Submit.->Service]]With a free hand you hold aloft Maera's pendant.
(text-color: "yellow")["Be undone, curse!"]
The pendant glows bright in your grasp and emits a single-toned screech. The cloying damp hanging over all feeds the counter-charm and the grove's shadows disintegrate instantly into scorching white light.
The cloaked rider, well, he dies on the spot.
The body falls limp and silently tumbles to the ground. The horse itself roars, deep and guttural, and bucks wildly. It rears back from the pendant and dashes into the forest, casting branch and brush asunder. The stench of corruption fades to a bad memory.
The pendant gradually dims to warm ambience. The rider's corpse lies awkward in mud, trampled by hooves, devoid of any magic presence. The strings are cut.
($grantWillpower: 5)
($grantKnowledge:)
Dragonfire, were you really going to serve it?
Direct experience of the curse matters, yes, but the charm does not require you to suck a horse's dirty cock. ($corruptionText: 90, "Or something worse. ")That it took effort to resist does not fill you with confidence. When you next see Maera, you'll thank her on your knees for the pendant.
($endSequence: "Who knows what you might have been driven to do.", "Watercreek"){
(set:
_balls to (visited: "Tricks"),
_cock to (visited: "Expertise"),
_ass to (visited: "Hole")
)
(set: _canWorshipAss to $Willpower < 70)
(set: _requirement to _balls and _cock)
(if: _canWorshipAss)[(set: _requirement to _balls and _cock and _ass)]
}\
With strength you could cast aside the curse-rider's whip and destroy this empty puppet.
But the horse musk makes defiance hard to even visualise. Every time you try, it's replaced with the overwhelming urge to serve. To submit. Fine.
Familiar ground.
A crooked grin creeps from the rider's hood as you pull your knees together and bow. You touch your forehead to the soft moss covering the forest floor. If you're going to do this, you'll do it your way.
"I will do as you say, curse, to prove that you has (link-show: "no power over me", ?power). This I know."
[Nevermind the wet spot on your underwear.
](power|Moved by the same impulse, horse and rider snort simultaneously in satisfaction. "Very good," the rider says. "This vessel is uninteresting; tend to the steed, $givenName. Show us your eagerness to embrace my gift. For the sake of knowledge, of course."
The whip slackens and limply retracts. With a heavy breath, you approach the horse.
Up close the musk is like the hot buffeting winds of summer. The beast leers, eyes completely black, waiting for your next move. No way the curse will be satisfied by half-measures. You're going to have to worship every part of this horse you can stomach.
Where do you start?
[[Worship the horse's balls.->Tricks]]
[[Worship the horse's cock.->Expertise]]
($checkCorruption: 70, "Worship the horse's ass.", "Hole")
_requirement[[[The rider seems satisfied.->Trailing Back]]]Balls are simple. Balls never surprise, even on a (seq-link: "harpy", "minotaur", "imp", "dog", "horse").
You kneel at the horse's rear, carefully keeping your nose as far from the asshole as you can. The earthy odour of grass-clods on its hooves mixes with the bitter tang of dry urine coating its flank. The rider peers down at you, face still shadowed by the hood.
Its balls are a fat tight sack at the base of the cock, none of the stretch or sag you find in a man. Black, leathery and twice the size of a normal stallion's.
Intimidating's not a poor choice of word.
Time for old tricks.
The horse's balls are so big you cup one in each hand. Their weight requires actual effort to support, and they exude heat. Not enough to fry an egg, but warm. The curse's simplest trick is vastly increased cum production. Each nut is a factory of churning, broiling semen, magically enhanced for viscosity and (link-reveal: "potency")[.
Due, presumably, to a fuck-up in the curse, corrupted horses can't impregnate humans or other dragonkin. Unlike bloatlings(visited: "Fire, Walk With Me")[, as you know all too well]. ($corruptionText: 80, "Try anyway. Jam a slick handful up your cunt and let it fester.")].
You lean forward and kiss the sack.
($deductWillpower: 5)
The skin's tough and warm, the sole of someone's foot after walking all day. Staying there, you press your nose into the crook and take a deep whiff. A familiar smell. The seedy, chewy texture of (link-show: "testosterone and sperm", ?sperm), always orange-brown in your mind. [Takes you back to late nights in Academy dormrooms, seeing how many first-year virgins you could bag in a week. Kisses there drove them wild.](sperm|
That's enough. Balls are a useful tool for hurting boys, but in terms of worship your options are limited. ($corruptionText: 75, "Put them on your face. Smother yourself in them.")
[[The curse yet demands service elsewhere.->Service]]Service means a lot of things, but it always includes sucking cock. Tyrants wanted blowjobs back when Prior-Keysians scratched out homes from dirt ten thousand years ago. Probably will in another ten thousand.
The difficulty with horse cocks specifically is there's not enough throat to go around.
"Proceed whichever way you prefer," says the curse-rider. "We defer to your expertise."
The purifying charm will be incredibly satisfying.
You shuffle under the horse's belly, head unbowed. The cock is parodically massive, a pyroclastic cannon pointed directly at your skull. Fire away, fire away.
It swings like a windsock full of water. The colour always struck you: the vitiligo switch from the base's dark black to pinkish Tehraum skin, then black again for the flared head. Halfway down it bulges in a perfect circle, a hoop fed up the urethra.
Can you even take the tip?
Only one way to find out. You take the shaft and stretch to kiss the flared head. Salt and urine, as usual, but also semen. He's (link-show: "mated", ?mated) recently.
["They were eager, after a time," says the rider. Little surprise your thoughts are under surveillance. "The corpse we left a mile back."
A sneering amusement behind the curse's cold monotone.
](mated|Another lick, dipping your tongue into the winking urethra. The stallion whinnies and stamps a foot, hopefully a good sign. One wrong move and a hoof to the head isn't impossible.
[[Jaw warmed up, you take the horse's cock in your mouth.->Flares]]Stuffing a fist past your teeth is easier.
The thumb trick lets you handle the first few inches, but anything after that is not worth considering. You settle for scouring the cockhead with your tongue while stroking the shaft with both hands. The end is thin enough to wrap your hands around and actually stroke, not just squeeze and twist.
Your tongue picks up all the natural flecks of grime and smegma natural to wild beasts and exacerbated by the curse. It tastes like sucking on fingernail clippings found on the floor of a public library.
($deductWillpower: 5)
The horse doesn't begrudge sloppy technique. His cock grows rigid, and grinds its teeth in slack rhythm, click-clack-clock. You're on the right track. You reach up to pat his belly. Want to keep this animal calm while in head-stomping range. ($corruptionText: 40, "Lie down and ask nicely.")
Could you fuck it?
Ridiculous question, half the length would split your spine. And yet. All the stuff you've done with animals, you've never taken a horse. There are charms for loosening muscles, some you invented. What would it be like? ($corruptionText: 60, "Let it carry you, strapped to its belly. Prance you around to all the villages it corrupts, slopping your cunt full all the while.")
A sharp pebble digs into your leg, ow. Cold grass dew. Don't get distracted, it makes it last longer.
The horse cums (link-reveal: "without ceremony or forewarning")[. The curse prioritises breeding potential, not endurance].
A thick shot of corruption-laden sperm paints the back of your throat, thick and oily like settled egg-whites. Extremely hard to swallow. Can't spit it out with your mouth blocked either. Air goes quickly.
Suffocating on an animal cumshot is not (link-reveal: "how you plan to die")[. That's wine, knives and music]. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath. Panic is there, unkillable, but you won't let it choke you. The cum seeps from a air-blocking wad to a slick drip coating the walls of your throat.
($deductWillpower: 10)
Your mouth is cunt-slick, so the cock slides out with a wet pop. A thick dangling trail of cum stretches from the horse's cock to your outstretched tongue; tension wins and the line snaps, (link-reveal: "splatting sperm over your front")[. More clothes to burn, sigh]. Another load pulses unattended onto the grass.
After a solid minute of swallowing, your throat's clear enough to breathe unencumbered.
"Satisfied?" you mutter.
"You've found your calling, $givenName," says the curse-rider.
Thanks.
[[You need to worship the horse in other ways.->Service]]For the sake of knowledge, indeed. Maera would be so proud of you.
"My pet rarely gets the service he needs," says the curse-rider. "Treat him well, won't you?"
Keeping up the game of replying is no longer worth it.
You come to the horse's rear. Flies swarm the horse's flank, fat black sweltering ones no doubt plagued with corruption themselves. His tail is damp and constantly moving, flecking you with sweat. Its movement reveals glimpses of the dark hole beneath.
That summer on the farm, when you believed in using your hands to change the world, you examined horses.
What struck you were the wrinkles on the anus: so similar to a human's, even as the skin puffed up into a fat ring. The corrupted horse's asshole is dark, but sheens with an oily coating of the curse.
(link-reveal: "A void to swallow you whole.")[=
You steel yourself and stick your nose to the horse's puckered asshole.
Braised meat. That's what strikes you first. Walking into a room where a belly cut's roasted low all day, sauce rendering into a thick, stupefying glaze. But a bitter roast: acrid smoke. ($corruptionText: 50, "Call it what it is: the stink of shit. ") Something burnt and hazardous wrapped in a velvet-smooth package of fat soft enough to suck through your teeth.
Dragonfire, it's moist. The sweat stings your eyes.
The horse's buttocks are tight, a vice keeping you in place. Quivering, you poke your tongue around the outer rim. The skin is tough, wiry, unwashed, with a lingering salty-old-boot texture. You gag, mired in shame and arousal.
Nothing is visible. The horse's asshole is total consuming blackness, its own sensory universe.
You came to Watercreek in a frenzy of pride and determination. Two weeks tracking beasts and you'd smash the curse with a trivial charm, saving lives and winning adoration back home. And what did your bravado lead to? Bowing to the enemy and burying your face deep in its filthy stinking hole. No, no worse, there is none: no more degrading worship.
You can fail.
All your big ideas can come to nothing. A hundred other people, other researchers like you even, lost their minds to the fat, delicious, intoxicating assholes of corrupted horses. Joining them would be easy. You could give it all up, spurn your clothes and life and trail after this depraved omen with a tongue ever-ready to clean its most vile parts until you starve and die.
Losing is so easy.
($deductWillpower: 15)
Bad thoughts. You recognise the pattern. The curse-rider will not tell you to stop. You have to pull back yourself.
[[Service the horse in other ways.->Service]]
($checkCorruption: 50, "Keep going.", "Never Enough")When the victims of corrupted horses are lucid enough to talk, they report hating the experience but not wanting to stop. One, a rural merchant starved after three days of worship, likened it to picking a scab until the arm bled dry.
You understand them now.
The longer you spend crushed between the horse's ass-cheeks, the more vile its scent and taste become. But as bitter skin-sweat makes you recoil, your cunt drips wet. You want to be below this animal. You always have, and this is the best way to show it. Other people were distant islands, titans, and you thought yourself among them?
No. This taste fits your true self, the parts nobody, nobody ever, has seen.
Not enough. Once more with feeling.
You eat out the horse, long and sloppy licks, romantic lover's kisses. Spit makes the asshole sheen. Corruption seeps feverishly down your throat. No, not enough by half. You press deeper, against the innermost point. The horse, sensing your intention, relaxes. Your tongue worms inside and, chill shiver through your limbs, you lick the beast's inner walls.
Shame is beautiful and pure.
It cuts through your clever layered lies with the simplicity of a sword.
And the truth shame reveals is this: the clown comics at the Academy were right. Everyone who laughed at the jumped-up animal-fucker playing scholar knew the score. Your only wish is they were here so you could kneel and apologise. The knowledge you seek is beyond you and always will be.
If you were stronger, you'd have already broken free. But the moment an opportunity to debase yourself rolls up, why, bring on the stinking animals. Make it worse. Always worse. Invent new animals who smell even fouler, new exposing and humiliating poses, more awful things to eat or drink, more morals to betray. Anything to grind you further into fine dust.
($deductWillpower: 15)
Eventually victims lose lucidity. You wait for (link-reveal: "the tranquillity of mindlessness.")[=
It doesn't come. Or at least not before your jaw aches so hard you physically can't continue. You fall away from the horse in an undignified heap, gasping, nose clogged with sweat. A hand moves dumbly to your sodden crotch.
"Very admirable show, $givenName. Above and beyond the call of duty." The rider looks on in amusement.
Shut the fuck up, you're busy fingering yourself. You're not going to cum, your fingers are ruddy and uncooperative. But every time the horse's tail flickers the urge to abuse your clit flares.
Why didn't you fall through? ($corruptionText: 50, "You wanted to. ")Maera's charm? Inner reserves of draconic strength?
The answer you settle on in coming weeks is more prosaic. Spite. Hot-blooded fuck-you spite. Utter refusal to everyone who saw this in your future, yourself included. Not the best guiding star, but it got you through. Better than dead reckoning.
What a mess. Not how you thought today would go.
[[The curse yet demands service.->Service]]Wiping your mouth, you settle into a servile kneel before the horse. Your head is pounding. How long have you been here? Hours.
From this angle you see more of the rider's face. A swollen tongue licks pale lips with evident satisfaction.
"Fulfilling, is it not? To kneel before me and accept my gift."
You don't reply. There's no point.
"Soon, everyone will know this pleasure," the rider continues. "In all of Eiyren, in all the lands of the world. Carry on with your attempts to displace me, if you wish. Either way, this future will arrive. Sweet dreams, $givenName."
($grantKnowledge:)
He cracks the reins and the horse trots out of the ruined village with a casual saunter. You're alone, shivering and whimpering as trace remnants of the beast's stink fade from your nostrils. Night falls before you make a halting, dazed way back to Watercreek.
Your dreams that night are dark, confusing and ($endSequence: "last on your tongue well into morning.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1
and (visited: "Taken")
and $Gold > 50
)
}\
The forest is quiet today. A buck stares you down across a drinking-pool, but that's it.You're ready to call it a day and head back to The Kettle when you hear a quiet, plaintive cry.
Not human. Not any kind of person. That much is obvious.
The cry is a high-pitched whine, a babe's wail, from off the beaten path. Wading through overgrowth, you push back a bed of thorns with a padded shoulder to reach the hollow trunk of a fallen tree.
Inside is a puppy.
The thing is young and barely able to move with stumbling over itself. But it's too large. The fur is already a dark black. When it sees you, the pup doesn't keel over in fear. It yips, bone-thin and shaking with cold, attempting to scare you off.
(link-reveal: "A direwolf pup.")[=
Now that's an unusual find.
Most direwolves are normal, fully-grown wolves twisted by the corruption-curse. Infants only come from females, rare by themselves, settling with a mate of her own kind.
It won't survive. They rarely do. Grown direwolves are fearsome hunters, but even mammals born of the curse are initially dependent on others. Without food and warmth, its bones will fertilise the forest soil.
Why are you even considering this?
That incident at the cave paints the inner walls of your mind. Getting pumped full of direwolf cum in the depths of the earth doesn't endear you to this whelp(if: (visited: "Violence and Misery"))[, nor the strays at Watercreek Eskar and her men put down].
Still. It's a pup. (link-show: "Defenceless", ?innocent). [Innocent?](innocent|
Your researcher-mind jumps onboard. Nobody's ever actually *studied* newborn direwolves. Nobody's ever actually *seen* if, plucked from nature's cruelty and scarcity, they'll grow into normal canines. Your ultimate goal is ending the curse for good. But any improvement, any measure of neutralisation, will shift the calculus.
Any measure of kindness can save a life.
[[Take the pup.->Adoption]]
[[Leave it.->Rejection]]You toss a bag of gold on the bar-top. The Kettle's inn-keep considers your existence with a modicum of passing interest.
"There's an old kennel out back behind here," you say.
"Used to be hunting-hounds in Watercreek. Not anymore."
"Yes anymore." You slide the bag closer. "This is enough for five months of good meat. I want you to buy steak from over the way and throw it daily into that kennel. Don't look inside of it, don't worry about it, don't think about it. Throw the meat in. Walk away. Understand?"
The inn-keeper smacks his lips. He yawns. He takes the bag.
($deductGold: 50)
---
You put the pup in the kennel before even talking to the inn-keep.
Nobody comes around the back of The Kettle—it's a grimy alley filled with disused wood, no trash worth stealing—but there's a side-door you can use to get to your room unnoticed.
The pup slept all the way back to Watercreek, chest burring. It devoured the scraps of dried meat you had in your room, nibbling your fingers when every last speck was gone.
You think you like it. Don't forget to write the reports.
Your theory is that keeping the wolf well-fed and entertained will stem the violent urges of the corruption-curse. The purifying charm will stop the flow of new direwolves, but it won't kill those already alive. A way to pacify them, no matter how expensive, will be valuable.
Aggression, of course, is only one thing. Despite being a pup, you can see a bright-red cock poking out from the direwolf's sheath. They have a natural desire to rut and dominate, same as eating or sleeping; it humped your hand as you pulled it from the branch. To prove your theory, you will also have to keep its lust sated.
At least you have experience tending to direwolf cocks. Sigh.
Only one question remains: what do you call it?
After a lot of thinking, you settle on a name from history class at the Academy. The name of a dragon from another land, a herald of war and conquest.
($endSequence: "Axas, the direwolf pup, sleeps soundly. His life is in your hands.", "Watercreek")Nature is raw. Humans want to make it soft, see themselves in every screaming fawn trapped in the burning forest. Pets they can make their own. You've seen too much for that.
Bodies fucked so hard by direwolves you couldn't tell if they were human or harpy or what the fuck. In areas of threadbare governance you were the one who told husbands or wives why they were widows. And who came for you when you were in that cave? (visited: "The Hunt")[Who came when the leader ripped through your ankle?]
($endSequence: "You never see the direwolf pup again.", "Watercreek")Axas is sleeping when you peer into his kennel, but your scent wakes him up. The pup barks in excitement and nips at your fingers; no, sorry, boy, you've already been fed today.
[[Head back inside.->The Kettle]]
[[Examine Axas.->Examining Axas]]
[[Pet Axas.->Petting Axas]]
[[Play with Axas.->Playing with Axas]]
When Axas saw you, his cock grew hard. The poor little curse-bred fuckbeast needs assistance getting off. Will you (link-storylet: "satisfy his desires?", where its tags contains 'axas', "You're done playing with Axas for now.")Axas has grown substantially since you found him in that hollow tree. The corruption-curse has many powers, accelerated growth among them.
The pup, laid out, stretches from the tips of your fingers to the depth of your shoulderblade. He's lean, despite an honestly exorbitant supply of meat, and bounds with inexhaustible energy.
His coat is dark, glossy and slightly greasy to the touch. Sharp blue eyes track you with curiosity as you check his body. No obvious wounds or deformities from his time in the wild. All teeth intact. The typical direwolf canines.
And yes, of course, there's Axas' cock, flaccid in his sheath but a mean few inches by any measurement. He is no sexual juvenile. Even in his well-tended and expensive innocence, he knows beyond the ken of any normal wolf what sex is, and means, and how it can hurt people.
Kamal was one sick fuck.
You scritch Axas under the chin. "Who's a good boy? Who is?" It's him: the answer is him. Never was there ever a gooder boy.
[[The wolf-pup wags his tail happily.->The Pup]]You gave Axas a pat on the head. He peers at you, puzzled, and gnaws on your finger.
[[You think he appreciates the gesture.->The Pup]]Axas prefers hunting and killing, but you divert the energy into playing fetch. Snap dry lumber from one of Watercreek's uninhabited houses, charge it with a smidgen of magical energy and it'll fly for a mile, no problem.
You take him out onto the plains, far from people or livestock. Axas doesn't mind. Chasing after sticks, legs pumping post-horse fast, tongue lolling stupidly in the breeze, suits him perfectly.
When he's tired, Axas rolls over on his belly for you.
He wants you to rub his cock, of course, he's always eager, but belly-rubs are also accepted tender. Stinking dog-drool slathers over your hand; you wipe it clean on meadow-grass.
"Good boy. Good good boy. Who wants a second steak when we get back? Is it you?" Yes, oh yes please, how did you know? Humans must be mind-readers.
If only people were as easy to talk to.
After a few hours Axas is tuckered out, third eyelid twitching as he trills through sweet dreams.
($endSequence: "You carry him back on your shoulder.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when true)
}\
Lactation charms are easy when you know the tricks. Figuring them out was your first real accomplishment as a licensed Academy magic-worker: midwives and new mothers still send you thankful letters.
The charm usually nourishes infants of your own species.
You're on your bed in The Kettle, weaving the last strands of the spell as Axas whines impatiently and nibbles your pillow. Your breasts are heavy and sagging, nipples firm. There. That should be enough.
Technically, he can get by without this. He gets nutrients from other sources, and direwolves are a hard-scrabble species anyway. But to study his growth scientifically, you need to mimic the natural habitat, and that includes suckling.
Taking Axas by the scruff of his neck, you bring the pup to your left tit. He needs no encouragement. In fact, he (link-reveal: "latches on with an energetic chomp.")[=
"Axas!" You lightly smack the top of his head.
He doesn't care. The pup suckles violently, pulling and tugging at your nipple as beads of milk permeate the skin. His teeth aren't fully-developed, but they *are* sharp.
When you try to pull him away—he should be taught this isn't acceptable—he only tightens his grip, digging tiny claws into your belly and chest. Ow, ow, ow. You're seriously worried that if you drag him off, he'll take your nipple with him.
Axas growls in blind animal desperation and sucks down all you have to give.
All you can do is sit and wince through the pain as this little beast drains your body for sustenance. The sound of wet lips smacking and slurping fill the bedroom. His hunger is insatiable. The lactation charm is good, but it's meant for newborn, not corruption-hounds. An aching gnaw sets in as your stocks of milk deplete.
When Axas finally detaches, unable to squeeze more blood from the stone, tears wet your eyes. Your entire areola is sore, red and distended, covered in tiny bite-marks.
"...fucking thing..." you gasp.
($deductWillpower: 10)
The pup looks up with wide, unassuming eyes, and burps. Dragonfire. You can't stay mad at him. To tell the truth, the pain was a turn-on. A new and interesting way for your body to get used.
When Axas stretches expectantly for your other tit, you resolve to improve the lactation charm's yield.
($endSequence: "He'll need a lot more before he weans.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when true)
}\
Direwolves fuck. Their nature demands it. The corruption-curse is a lust curse, and if direwolves don't rut they lose energy, refuse food, even become susceptible to disease.
In other words, you simply have no choice but to let Axas mount you.
You've been reticent. The bestiality taboo isn't *that* meaningful to you, especially after your previous encounters, but doing it with a pup you personally rescued felt uncouth. Axas, in turn, was insistent. Every time you visit his kennel, his cock drips with arousal, eager to be used. Your hand is fine for everyday maintenance, but it's not the real thing.
Direwolves need to breed. They have to pin someone down and *take* it.
[[Who are you to stand in the face of academic necessity?->More Rutting]]Bedroom door tightly locked, towel stuffed under the frame to catch noise, you undress.
Axas watches curiously from the bed. His tail wags. Canines have an uncanny sense for your intentions. When he sees your cunt, his focus thins to a needle-point. He stands (link-show: "rapt and drooling", ?pounce), back hunched.
["You can't suppress their instincts," Maera once said.
"I know. We can't even stop our own. The answer is where you direct them."
](pounce|You lie strangely awkward on the bed, a blushing schoolgirl who says *secret place* instead of cunt. Playing with animals in the muck and the mire is a much more suitable locale.
Axas looks downright funny as he prowls up your spread legs. His own legs tremble with infant uncertainty. Ah, but his eyes. His eyes are rapt and predatory, filled with blunt need.
"Come on, boy. Come on."
Axas pounces.
His cock is slick with pre-cum and slides into you with a slick squelch. He's short, only a few inches, but markedly thick. Instead of the overwhelming pressure when the grown direwolves took you, this is close to what you look for in a standard human one-nighter.
Axas is feral. His eyes have rolled back, the newfound pleasure of sex rocking his mind, and his hips buck frantically. The upper bumps of his cock drag against your clit with every retraction, a saw cutting wood, in the wonderful way you never manage with your hand.
Dragonfire if he isn't going hard. You clutch onto the mattress with both hands, head pushed into the pillows with each of his desperate thrusts.
Axas whines and snarls, digging his claws into the fat of your thigh. The pain is a sharp edge that pricks the sensation of the fuck, a sharp shock that tightens the muscles in your thighs.
It works. It's good, very very good.
You gasp in surprised relief. Can this be something you look forward to, not a humiliating chore? The other stuff is good—degradation, inhumanity, gore and split sinew—but a simple raw fuck is baseline. The bedsheets are drenched with sweat.
(link-reveal: "There, there, there...")[= (link-reveal: "yes.")[= (link-reveal: "Yes!")[=
Axas's knot is small enough it pops in and out of your cunt easily. His ferocity must be frustration at failing to plug his bitch and ensure impregnation.
"Sorry," you coo, dizzy, getting not-enough air. "When you get bigger."
His lack of experience also means he cums quickly.
Axas wants to prolong the pleasure, full-growns can go for hours, but he loses the balance and tips into a shaking burst of energy. He rears back into a full-throated howl and grinds his cock in as deep as he can, trying to spear your womb and claim you forever.
You howl too. Axa's knot is jammed against your clit and there's no relief from the burning charge it sends through you.
"Breed me!" you yell. "Put a litter in me, make me yours!"
As he cums you cum too, writhing but stuck in place, fast hiccuping gasps, soaking the bedsheets.
He already has; no need to shout. Axas falls out of you and stumbles, concussed, onto his side. His cock weakly spurts a few final jets. Your cunt is completely soaked. You wipe it with your hand and lick: thick globs of dog cum, salty and laced with the latent bitterness of corruption.
Direwolves can't get humans pregnant, no doubt to Kamal's chagrin. But Axas's sperm floods your cunt regardless, a festering wave of vitality flooding the pack's newest bitch.
You have fucked a dog willingly.
From now on, that will always be a true fact of your life. In this sense, corruption is permanent and eternal. The pure have to stay strong and win every battle; the curse only has to win once. Then its memory is with you forever. History can be outweighed and rightfully disregarded, but never overwritten. Never undone.
($deductWillpower: 10)
($grantKnowledge:)
[[You cum again.->Whispering]]Once Axas is sleeping peacefully in his kennel and you're cleaned up, you head down to the bar for a night-cap. The inn-keep, who usually at least grants you a stately nod, studiously avoids your gaze.
The other regulars are similarly distant. You've fucked some of these people before. Some have even bought you drinks. What gives?
You're on your second beer when realisation dawns.
Yes, you put that towel beneath the bedroom door, but you *were* screaming pretty loud. No way of knowing what they actually heard, but if it included 'litter' or 'pups'...
The glass goes down in a gulp.
Well. Who are they? You're a researcher from the capital, from the Academy no less, and you're out here doing serious academic work. Saving Eiyren, no less, by yourself, alone, as if these backwater yokels cared.
And if they aren't going to bring it up, neither are you.
That night, you dream of Axas leading you through Watercreek on a leash, ($endSequence: "proudly displaying his bitch to all and sundry.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when true)
(set: _invitation to "Eat Axas's ass.")
(set: _accept to (link-show: _invitation, ?ass))
(set: _refuse to [[[No, not ready for that idea yet.->Watercreek]]]<choice|)
}\
Axas wants to breed again, but your cunt is sore from a Watercreek guard that morning, so you jerk him off instead. The direwolf pup is disappointed and humps your clothed crotch, but eventually accepts it.
You need your thumb and middle finger to form a ring around his (link-show: "fat red cock", ?tag). Grabbing the scruff of his neck to keep him still, you work the circle up and down, dragging it slow under the head. Axas huffs and puffs, torn between pleasure and frustration he's not pinning you down instead. Sorry, boy. Try tomorrow.
[Dog cocks are spongier than humans. Most similar to a harpy's, weirdly enough. One of the breeds that cocks, anyway.
](tag|Handjobs aren't your favourite. Making someone beg for their lives with a finger feels good, but once you have the technique down, it's boring. To keep it interesting, you usually have to...
You look at Axas's ass. Hm. Hmm. Naughty, naughty.
He's clean, down there. You wash him regularly. His asshole winks at you from under his tail, a tight plump asterisk.
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
Still stroking his cock, you put your face to the pup's ass, pressing your nose directly against his hole and sniffing as hard as you can.
Ugh, fuck.
Everyone's ass-scent hits different, and this is a good one. Visceral and physical, like gnawing on beef. The air sags dank with sweat, hot, moist, the product of powerful muscles exerting will. The corruption gave Axas a body for killing and fucking; you savour its vitality, want it to crush you.
Another deep sniff and you see stars. Axas squirms in your hands. Not anxious or scared, no. This isn't in his curse-given instincts, but he knows that right now, you're serving him. Growling, he grinds his ass up and down your face.
He wants you to go further. He doesn't know what that entails, but you do.
Do you dare?
Yes: yes: you stick your tongue out and lick his asshole. The taste is plain old skin, might as well be a sweaty elbow, but you moan all the same. Axas loves it, yipping triumphantly.
Dragonfire.
His barks take you back to that night in the cave. You were so horrified when the leader of the pack cocked his leg, threatened to mark you with his piss. Now you rapturously clean the dirty hole of his kin. Some representative for humanity you are. (visited: "Presenting")[Next time you visit the pack, you will have to serve them in the same way.
It is only right.]
Your tongue breaks through and laps the inner walls of Axas's ass, warm and pliant. You press in so deep you can't see anything else; there's nothing to the world but this. Let his ass swallow you whole, let it bury you, wipe you away, let it...
($deductWillpower: 10)
(link: "Mmhph.")[=You only realise Axas has cum because (link-show: "something hot spills over your hand", ?cum). Feeling sheepish, you pull away, face caked in sweat and musk. The smell comes with you.
[Naturally you lick his cum off your hand.
](cum|Axas rolls onto his side and looks up with the smug satisfied glee that direwolves feel after dominating someone. Will he remember this? Hard to tell. Nobody has tried to make the curse absorb new depravities before.
You should say something. If people deserve politeness, animals certainly do.
"Thank you," you murmur, sloshing your tongue around your mouth. Even after a thorough wash, you're going to smell like direwolf ass for the rest of the day.
($endSequence: "He'd better not come to expect this.", "Watercreek")](ass|{
(storylet: when true)
(set: _debased to (visited: "Debaser"))
(set: _requirement to (cond: _debased, 70, 50))
} \
Axas's cock is thick and twitching again, so when you open the kennel gate (link-show: "you expect him to hump your thigh", ?thigh). Instead, he ambles out to a patch of grass behind The Kettle and cocks a leg.
[Easy to make mistakes when you have sex on the mind. Good way to lose friends.
](thigh|The direwolf usually does his business without fuss, but today he stands there, leg up, looking at you. What? His expression is like he expects something. Your mind spools back to that (visited: "Presenting")[first] night in the direwolf cave, what the leader (cond: _debased, "did", "tried to do") to you.
Animals like to mark their territory.
"Axas!" you sigh.
Well? Do you do it?
You're studying how direwolves mature when their needs are met: food, water, shelter. But domination is just as natural a need to them, and there's no other way to fulfil it. If it's you, it's at least consensual. The question is whether or not to nurture this.
Arguments against: humiliating, taboo, vile taste, unsanitary. A bad precedent.
Arguments for: scientific rigour, obsessive curiosity, corruption-impaired judgement, lust. _debased[Having done it before.]
[[Science can wait for another day.->Watercreek]]
($checkCorruption: _requirement, "Let Axas piss on you.", "Sugar")"Fine. But don't think you can do this with anyone else."
Axas whines, desperate to relieve himself, but otherwise waits patiently as you undress and lay on the grass beside him. From down here, his cock is massive: a bulging balloon, bobbing malignantly as he positions himself above you.
Please be quick. You close your eyes and pinch your nose.
Piss hits with a splash. Your entire face is immediately unclean, and, dragon's blood, it's the darkest yellow imaginable. Are you not giving him enough water, or is the curse playing another of its little jokes on you?
The smell is a foul blast of ammonia, the old classic. You know it, spent hours sucking in the stale air of (link-show: "men's bathrooms in the Eiyren capital night-district", ?bathroom). You still gag.
[Spent several nights in those bathrooms, actually, even after the studies. Your record was twenty in a week, and you were sore for a month after.
](bathroom|Axas isn't done, jerking the jet of piss up and down so it coats every last bit of you. His curse-rotted instincts no doubt had him saving this up since yesterday.
The one problem is that you need to breathe. If you're quick, you can unpinch your nose quick enough to get by.
(text-color: "red")[Willpower too low!]
Oh, fuck it. You open your mouth.
Axas must hear the difference when his piss hits the back of your throat, because once it does, his aim is steady as a telescopic marksman's. A constant stream splashes your teeth and flows, miserably, down your gullet.
Surprisingly sugary.
You couldn't drink a straight glass, like harpy urine, but is Axas diabetic? That, or his diet is better than direwolves in the wild. A quirk the curse didn't expect. Who expected this to deliver actual research?
Axas yowls magnificently, a howl that tells the other denizens of the forest who to present their necks to.
You are his, willingly and unquestioningly. At great expense, you serve this animal's every material need. In return he debases you, uses you as (visited: "Satisfying Axas, 3")[an ass-wipe and ]a toilet, and sings proudly about his victory. You will always go back for more.
($deductWillpower: 10)
The piss-stream trickles off.
Axas shakes back and forth, obligingly dislodging a final few drops into your waiting mouth. His dominating urge temporarily satisfied, he stretches his legs and stalks away, leaving you looking up at the sky with a wet face and an awful taste in your throat.
Naturally you don't have a cloth or rag in your pocket to wipe yourself with.
If you'd foreseen this, you'd have left that curse-ridden pup where you found him. At least he's not walking you around on a leash.
($endSequence: "Three beers don't wash out the taste.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The direwolf, prowling out of a hidden cave.",
"showcaseText", "Hunting direwolves, you get more than you bargained for."
)
}\
Some weeks back the forest-tender collective stuck a message-board down by the gates out of Watercreek. The usual fare—pleas for more mushroom-harvesters or cartographers hiring bodyguards. One note catches your eye.
*Direwolf sightings in the lower basin up over the past month. Likely new pack. Particularly predatory. Caution to all.*
Direwolves are the corruption-curse's (link-reveal: "most common gift to Eiyren")[. When a wayward villager's raped and left for dead, nine times on ten a direwolf on the prowl is the culprit]. Thus, they will be the bread-and-butter of your counter-curse. Setting course, (link-reveal: "you stride dutifully into the woods.")[=
The trail requires no keen tracker.
Direwolf fur hangs on trees and bushes in distinctive curling clumps, and you soon acquire a set of fresh, well-patterned prints. The paw-prints, deep and singular, lead way out past where forest fades into bogland before fading. Direwolves excel at violence, not subtlety.
This was once a lake, before generations-dead minotaur diverted the Living River. Now you're making a controlled tumble down an incline of soft chalky earth, gnats buzzing in your ears. Dry summer wind carries the musty stink of decaying leaves and (link-reveal: "peat")[. Calls up the taste of whiskey].
The basin floor is wide, flat and undeveloped. Trees barely a century old dot the grass plains. You descended at a shallow spot: the incline arcs around into harder earth, then limestone. Cautious but confident, you follow the curve. One mile down, you spot it.
[[Jackpot.->Hunting]]A cave entrance cuts a thin scar into exposed rockface, the angle so sharp it's invisible if you come from the wrong side. Scraps of yellow wispy grass cling to cracks in the stone. Long before Kamal, Watercreek made money mining coal. High chance this cave is the same system. Now you're betting it's home to a migrant pack of direwolves.
An old fallen bough makes excellent cover as you crouch and scout out your quarry. Worm-rotten bark flakes off against your palms as you breathe deeply. The easy part is over. Now you need to catch a wolf and examine the effects of the curse up-close, preferably keeping your throat intact.
Do you walk in and say hello?
(link-reveal: "Physical harm's little worry")[, thanks to (link-reveal: "Maera's charm")[. Mostly]]. But even then, walking into a den of bloodthirsty, hypersexual wolves is scarcely wise. No. Better to get one by itself—wait for one to go out on the hunt, then you can trail from a distance and...
(link-reveal:"A low growl from behind drips with danger.")[=
The direwolf leers down from a hunk of rock lodged in the basin hillside, black coat rustling in the breeze. Oh, those are some (link-show: "big fucking teeth", ?teeth).
[Canines the size of your thumb out straight, bone-piercers, and flecks of dry old blood on the molars. Direwolves are large. Much larger than your reports implied. Back arched, it easily meets your waist. The legs bulge with muscle. You stand no chance of outrunning it on open ground.
](teeth|You shuffle back, stupidly, and hit against the bough.
The wolf growls louder, jaws dripping spit in long strands, and jumps down. It approaches with paws thudding heavy into the soil. A chance glance as it prowls sideways reveals a thick red cock hanging malignant beneath its coat, quivering with frustration from a fruitless hunt.
Deep breaths aren't enough, so you gulp hard and consider swearing. No, that's the wrong attitude. Field-work is never easy, but you're no shrinking violet. You will make this work.
You can't practice unbuttoning trousers as a snarling beast bears down, but you perform admirably. Kicking them into the mud, you spread your shaking legs and show the wolf everything between.
At least you got one on its own. Time to put up or shut up.
[["Here, boy..." you whisper.->Taken]]Canines don't waste time fucking.
Humans do foreplay, buy flowers and sometimes even ask your name. The direwolf, warped by the corruption-curse, pounces the instant it sees your cunt. You barely manage a shocked yelp before the wolf forces itself on you, frothing yellow slather. With one violent thrust he rams his cock inside and ruts.
Broom-handles are gentler. Muscular legs slam the wolf's weight into you five times a second. You clutch at the ground, slammed against the bough as (link-show: "his knot slaps against your cunt", ?knot). Clumps of grass and soil come away in your hands.
[No wonder this traumatises regular peasantry. The wolf's body blocks your sight, and all you can hear is his manic panting and the squalid plap-plap-plap of his cock churning up your insides. He reeks of animal musk and piss, his coat matted and scraggly with the old blood of past victims.
](knot|Dragonfire, it's hard to play the genteel Academy researcher when this beast is a sack of potatoes crushing your chest. The claws digging into the shoulders of your tunic don't help. Nor does—
(link-reveal: "The wolf *thrusts* once more. The knot bursts in. You scream.")[=
The size isn't an issue, you've been fisted before, but he went in dry. Wetness bursts down your leg. Sure hope that's not blood. "Ohhhhh," you gasp into the wolf's chest. "That fucking hurts."
Knowing what's coming, you weakly batter the wolf's sides. He is unmoving; the knot brooks no argument. There is no escape from breeding.
Wolf cum pulses into your knot-plugged cunt. Your legs tremble and pull in, every muscle below the waist screaming. Sweat drips off you freely. The beast snarls, digging its claws into your shoulders, rocks into you once more, and shudders into stillness. From encounter to orgasm, the entire encounter lasted (link-show: "under a minute.", ?blood)
($grantKnowledge:)
[That *was* blood. Ugh.
](blood|[[Panting, you flop limp onto the ground.->Abduction]]If only the dean could see you now.
This didn't go how you planned, but you got a a first-hand view of the corruption-curse all the same. When the knot deflates, you'll slink back to Watercreek, rub one out, wash his stink off and write up the experience. This is plenty of material for the purifying charm.
The wolf, flagging but active, rears up. He twists away from you in the awkward canine fashion. You stifle a laugh. Despite the curse, dogs are dogs; he's going nowhere until that knot deflates.
(link-reveal: "Or so you think.")[=
With a determined shift, the wolf heaves forward and you go with him, ass sliding in dirt made smooth by vigorous sex.
"Augh! Stop, stop, you stupid fucking dog!"
The wolf's knot is so strong he can drag you by the cunt, like carrying a wine-bottle by the cork. Surely, with this next jerk, it'll pop out? It never does. You grab at the bough, anything, but it disintegrates in your fingers. The wolf pulls you out from behind the dead tree and onto the open plain. The mouth of the cave approaches with horrifying inevitability.
He's taking you to the others.
A block of ice forms in your skull. Your breathing goes fast and fluttery. Grab at something? There's no rocks, nothing you wouldn't uproot. Kick at the wolf, break free? No chance you're strong enough. Shit. Shit. Scream again? Too late. All too late.
...and behind the veneer of fear lies that old friend, hot-blooded arousal. Oh, yes, now your cunt goes slick. Take me. Mark me. Drag me to the darkest depths, never to return. Rip me *apart...*
($deductWillpower: 10)
The cave looms, a place no light enters and from which no life returns. The wolf, at last bearing the fruit of successful hunt, [[drags you inside->The Den]].The stink of bestial masculinity falls on you like a burial-shroud. Dozens must be here. Sleeping, gnawing, rutting. This is a place people stop being people.
Because the cave opens onto a drained basin, plantlife covers the rock. Moss cushions your back as the wolf weaves around stalactites and tight corners, winding deeper into the earth. (link-show: "Ambient light falls off quickly", ?mercy). [Smallest of all mercies, the Academy gives every graduate a low-level night-vision charm.](mercy|
The fear's so strong you barely feel his knot ripping at your cunt. Adrenaline is a friend for bad places.
(link: "Arousal too.")[=Down, down, down. The direwolf pulls you in halting jerks, scraping your back and elbows raw against the stone. How is that knot still inflated? Oh how you'd murder for (link-reveal: "a dagger")[. Today had to be the day you left it at The Kettle]. The cave winds through paths too impossibly branching to remember, a spiderweb descent into coal-veined darkness.
You're brought into a wide opening the shape of a squashed oval. A cut in the ceiling permits a slice of outside light. Shadows shift to reveal the lamplight stares of sharp yellow eyes. Five, eight, eleven—they move amongst themselves and you lose count. Predators line the walls.
Pop. Your abductor's knot is finally small enough to bulge out of your cunt, completely slick with animal cum, your own juices and a smear of blood. Not being filled up by wolf cock feels like missing a tooth.
The temptation to stroke yourself. Leave it for when you're safe.
He doesn't look back as he dismounts; you're not going anywhere. Instead, he defers to a raised hunk of rock on the other side of the clearing. Atop, (link-reveal: "a final beast awakens.")[=
On the high stone a truly great direwolf rises, shaking thick fur streaked with grey. Scars cross its face. One eye is gone, a dark hole staring through you. The pride of the pack is old but flush with the grim killing vigour of a grizzled minotaur who sacks cities for fun.
The wolf who brought you here bows his head before the (link-show: "leader", ?leader), flattens his ears, and skulks into the hidden mass of his brothers.[ Corruption twists the pack-dynamics of normal wolves into a hierarchy of blood and violence.](leader| You are offered up.
The leader leaps down with the careless strength of a butcher hacking through bone. The others stay shy, keeping a wide berth around the walls.
You would really rather not deal with this shit. Anything you need for the purifying charm, you've gotten. But your legs are water, you don't remember the way out, and you're horny enough to make (seq-link: "bad", "reckless", "dangerous", "exciting") decisions.
The best thing you can do is [[play along->Subject of Authority]].The leader takes his time with you.
The younger male took you out of the animal urge to breed, and nothing mattered beyond that. But the leader, steeped in the curse since its wretched inception, takes pleasure in sadism.
The others watch him fuck you brutally, jaws clamped around your neck. One wrong move and those teeth will (link-show:"rip through your skin", ?injury) like wet paper. [Maera's charm can cure injuries like that, but it's not pretty. She called it a gentle introduction to never being the same again.](injury|
The sex is one slow, grinding thrust after another. The leader bashes his fat, club-like knot against your clit with every push, making you light-headed and dizzy. His mangy belly rubs dirt and stale sweat over you; the scent will stick for days.
A marking. Your body as tribute.
($deductWillpower: 15)
Tracking time is impossible. Your entire life is getting rammed by this filthy hound. Purifying the curse? (link-show: "The Academy?", ?maera)[ Maera?](maera| All a fanciful dream from another life. You cry from pain and exhaustion, maybe black out momentarily. You're not sure.
You cum at least twice, clenching your legs around him, gurgling out *please-please-please* as he abuses your cunt, holding his head in your hands, praying for those teeth to clamp down.
(link-reveal: "He never knots you.")[=
When the leader cums, he detaches carelessly, seed dripping slowly down your thigh. No need to bind a bitch when she's too weak to even roll over.
The other wolves are gone by now, out on the hunt or deeper into the cave for sleep. The leader pads around your shivering wreck of a body, coming to your face. The curse grants animals the gift of cruelty, and he bears a particularly malicious sneer.
The leader cocks a leg. His cock twitches and stiffens.
Please, no. You can handle a lot, and if this had been the start you might be fine. But hours of canine rape have left you shattered and weak. This will be too much.
($checkWillpower: 60, "Roll out of the way and escape.", "The Hunt")
[[Let him piss on you.->Debaser]]{
(if: $Willpower > 60)[(set: $choseDirewolfDebasement to true)]
}\
Life goes slow. Pressure builds in the leader's bulging cock, and he sprays your face with a violent jet of hot piss.
You gag *immediately*.
His piss is dark yellow and stinks of ammonia. The taste is burning acid, rotten lemons and fish guts. The corruption makes this (link-reveal: "much worse than normal canine urine")[. Nevermind how you know what that's like].
Spit it out! Spit it out! But even as you sputter and gasp, more streams down your throat. You gulp down a mouthful, vision spinning, and only an empty stomach stops you from vomiting.
Almost out of breath. The leader doesn't stop.
Piss splashes over your face and chest indiscriminately. More goes down your throat. You choke out a quiet sob.
Humiliation is no stranger, but somewhere deep down, you're still human. Or were. Who's to say being a rutting-bitch for bloodthirsty wolves isn't your life's calling? The Academy didn't treat you much better.
($deductWillpower: 10)
(link-reveal: "The leader finishes.")[= The last drops sprinkle onto your grimacing face, and his cock finally deflates. His lips pull back into a jackal-grin: *I'm done with you, but don't be a stranger. Come back whenever you need putting in your place.*
Maybe the voice is real. The corruption-curse can mimic speech, same as parrot. Maybe the stress is getting to you. Entirely unconcerned with your existence, the leader ambles off into some deeper recess of the cave. You are alone.
You lie there, gagging, hand glued to your cunt. Beads of piss rest on your skin and, forgive-me-Maera, you lick them up.
After three or four orgasms, hunger pangs. You're apparently a human being with a physical body. The way out of the cave is miserably complex, but you're too tired for mapping, so brute force suffices. By the time you stagger out into the open, (link-reveal: "dusk is falling.")[=
Your sense of direction is fucked, so you crawl back up the basin and set down the first road you find.
The night air's chill is meaningless to your numb skin. A caravan passes by, and after seeing the state you're in they offer you a ride immediately. With shredded clothes, cum dripping down your leg and the stink of piss hanging over you like a spectre, it's pretty obvious what's happened.
The driver—a petty merchant, like most people heading through Watercreek—keeps his eyes locked on the road, too polite to say anything. He probably thinks you were fighting for your life.
The joys of field-research. This fucking curse.
($endSequence: "On the ride back, you see yellow eyes lurking behind every tree.", "Watercreek")Fuck this.
Calling on the dragons, you summon hidden strength and roll to the side. The leader's piss sprays where your face was a moment prior.
Not that depraved. Not yet. (link-show: "Maera's pendant", ?pendant) is in your hand: warmth and truth fill you, images of—not home, there is no home—but places better than this. The leader watches, unconcerned, as you rise, standing on shaky legs.
[The pendant is meant to pull you back out to safety. You guess this doesn't count as mortal danger. Whatever. You'll take any help it can provide.
](pendant|The route to the surface is twisted and obscure, but you will step rightly. The leader's face twists into a jackal's grin. *Oh, still some fight left? Go ahead, human. You'll love what comes next.*
Maybe the voice is real. The corruption-curse can mimic speech, same as a parrot. Maybe the stress is getting to you. Equally likely.
You run.
Your feet slip and shift on the moist moss of the cave-floor, but you don't fall. Push past the leader into the crevice you came in—so dark, nothing but shapes, passages—curl past jutting rocks, duck beneath overhangs.
(link-reveal: "A howl comes from behind. The grace period is over.")[=
Getting through a cave quick is difficult. More than once you nearly faceplant manoeuvring past some awkward bit of stone. Fury-filled barks are good motivators, though.
*Coming for you. You're never going home.*
Up and up. Dragonfire, how long were you on that mutt's knot? Must be close to the surface. There—the way out is so slight you almost miss it and run back down into the cave. Light! Dim dusk-light, but light!
A cry of joy. One that quickly turns to pain when sharp jaws clamp around your ankle.
You collapse against the cave-wall. The leader came by preternatural speed and with a final leap made its claim. Those monstrous canines pierce through the thin tendon of your heel like butter. Bloody red murder screams through your head.
*Got you. Got you, bitch.*
(link-reveal:"\"Fucking dog!\"")[=
The leader rips at the exposed muscle, trying to sever the tendon entirely. (link-reveal: "Blood's spurting.")[= (link-reveal: "Think fast.")[= (link-reveal: "Give up now and")[= (link-reveal: "he'll drag you back down")[= (link-reveal: "by the neck.")[=
You scrabble and pry a loose stone from the wall and slam the pointed end into the direwolf's head.
Fucker yelps and lets go immediately, staggering on the spot. You got his ear, left it dangling by a tiny thread of skin. Good. But that was luck; you're no fighter. You cast down the stone and limp out of the cave.
Fresh air never felt so good. Your ankle is a nightmare, but you can walk if you keep your weight light. Just. A monstrous howl sounds from the cave, the clarion-call of a vengeful demon.
(link-reveal:"*You'll birth our pups! You'll forget what the sun looks like!*")[=
Every moment, you expect the delicious tang of pain as fangs puncture your veins. A series of frozen images ensue: clambering up the basin side, darting past trees, hiding in bushes, vomiting, knees in cold mud, too afraid to move. Eventually there's a road. You don't know where you're headed.
The fangs never come.
With the voice of the leader silent, you wonder how glancing that hit really was. The curse doesn't find it fun when the prey fights back.
The night air's chill is meaningless to your numb skin. A caravan passes by, and after seeing the state you're in they offer you a ride immediately. For the first time in hours, you envision how fucked-up you look to the outside world: bitten, scratched, bleeding, dirty, crazed, cum seeping down your leg. At least you don't stink of piss.
($grantWillpower: 5)
The driver—a petty merchant, like most people heading through Watercreek—keeps his eyes locked on the road, too polite to say anything.
Healing your ankle will be agonising. It doesn't matter. It doesn't. You made it out. Bathing at The Kettle will feel better than you can even imagine.
($grantWillpower: 5)
The joys of field-research. This fucking curse.
($endSequence: "On the ride back, you see yellow eyes lurking behind every tree.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when $choseDirewolfDebasement is true)
}\
As you hike through the forest, all you can think of is how you're making a mistake. You keep moving.
The way to the direwolf cave is clear. You encounter no resistance as you slip into the fissure and delve into the cave, already soaking wet. When you get to the clearing, the leader is waiting, surrounded by his pack.
They watch with mute curiosity as you enter their midst, breathing ragged, and toss your clothes into a pile by the walls. You don't need them.
You kneel, the moss of the cave-floor soft and spongy beneath your knees, and bow deeply, bringing your forehead to the ground. "Please use this bitch as you desire."
*Very good.*
You shiver.
---
The leader takes you first, as is his right, pumping you with thick, sticky canine sperm. But once again, he (link-show: "declines", ?knot) to knot you[, no matter how much you beg](knot|.
Instead, you're passed around the pack.
Your cunt is always filled with wolf-cock, but some prefer your ass or mouth, legs straining as they shoot cum down your throat. There is no urination. Why would there be? You're already marked. You know your place.
($deductWillpower: 5)
These direwolves hunt humans. They've killed dozens, including people from Watercreek, no doubt people you've met and spoken to. Offering your body to them is treachery so deep it runs nameless. But in the moment, you are shameless. It's not your body to offer.
Direwolf cum is thick and salty. You lick up any specks that land on the floor, under the approving sight of the leader.
When the pack is done, you're quaking on your elbows and knees, tongue hanging out mindlessly. A wolf keeps your head pinned to the floor with a paw while another jerks their knot out of your ass with a pop.
Your holes are raw and distended. Scratches and bitemarks pockmark your body. Tonight, your muscles will scream. Bleak, incoherent shame will bludgeon you, and you'll promise to never come here again.
($endSequence: "You will. The pack has claimed you.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)(exclusivity: 1)
}\
Watercreek's built on the plains around Mt. Torre, but there's a lot of plain to go around. So when those first frontiersmen from the capital staked the ground, they picked the best spot they could: right between a river and a forest.
The forests don't have a name.
They're how people get wood for homes and kindling for fires. Twenty minutes from Watercreek's south gate and you're in a dense line of trees, any gradual build-up of shrubs and saplings long since stomped down.
This is real woodland, dense and untended. Insects buzz in the air. Birds call from a great distance, scattered and few. No telling how many are uncorrupted.
The land's bumpy, and gnarled tree-roots snaking everywhere make the ground a hell of a trip-hazard. A ceiling of leaves filter and fragment the sunlight so you can't tell (link-reveal: "if it's dawn or dusk")[. Night can never be mistaken].
People once lived here. You find isolated huts in desperately remote corners, choked by centuries of knotting plantlife. They cluster around dragon-shrines worn incoherent by rain and time. Nobody you've asked knows who they were. Humans? Imps? Minotaur, even?
[[A question for your creators, one day.->Watercreek]]{
(storylet: when visits < 3 and $Gold < 200)
}\
An uneventful hour trekking through the forest brings you to the lip of a sharp incline. *Very* sharp—you almost step clean off the edge before pulling back.
Leaning over, you glimpse someone who made the same mistake.
Grasping onto a thick vine, you absail a dozen feet down the uncompromising incline to the body of some unlucky adventurer, (link-reveal: "dressed in simple leathers")[. That really hurt your hands]. Carrion has plucked most of the meat from the body. A thick bed of nettles lies underfoot.
When you get back, you'll report this to a guard. Assuming there's any next-of-kin, and assuming they want a burial, someone specialised can recover the corpse. For now, you kneel and rifle through their pockets. In a recess of their shift your hand closes around something small, cold and hard.
The alchemist's vial glimmers in the midday sun. When you twirl it in your fingers, a muddy yellow liquid the viscosity of mercury flows against the cork. The alchemical symbols (link-reveal: "etched into the glass")[, work too precise to be local,] vaguely evoke strength or vitality. Too long since you last did flashcards.
Ingesting strange potions is a good way to learn the convenience of suicide. But you're sure a conveyer back at Watercreek will hand over gold for it, if you concoct a tall enough tale.
($grantGold: 25)
Money won't cure the curse, but ($endSequence: "it won't hurt either.", "Watercreek")This game contains scenes of sexual depravity, violence, dark fantasies and immoral desires.
The author condones most of it.
Specific topics depicted or mentioned include:
* Corruption
* Xenophilia
* Violence
* Bestiality
* Dubious consent
* Watersports
* Vore (twice)
* Brainwashing
* Intoxication
* Musk/scent play
* Rimming
* Suffocation
* Non-human impregnation and birth
* Feminization
* Traditional BDSM (whips, floggings)
* Allusions to trauma
Player death is not present and there are no 'true' game overs. There is never a need to save-scum (though you're welcome to if you want). Some content is missable, either as a result of player choice or because your stats lock you out of it.
This game follows the Olivia Hill rule:
*If you're a fascist, you're not welcome to play this game. It's against the rules.*
[[Return to title->The Corrupting Curse]]The Corrupting Curse
Made by Becquerel, 2023
Spiritual guidance by Neverside
Made with Twine + Harlowe
Dedicated to everyone
[[Return to title->The Corrupting Curse]][[Click here to start the game->Introduction]]
The Corrupting Curse is playable from start to finish but still in active development. Some things are missing.
Play with these things in mind:
* Gold is not very important.
* Some areas feel empty because their encounters and scenes aren't finished.
* You cannot (currently) lock yourself out of any endings.
* You currently need to see all main encounters to unlock the endgame.{
(set: $inShowcase to false)
(set: _showcases to (passages: where it contains "showcaseText"))
} \
These are most of the sex scenes currently in the game, presented with lead-up.
Because of my braindead coding, playing these scenes will set progression flags that might break normal progression. Consider reopening the game to get a blank slate if you decide to play properly.
(for: each _p, ..._showcases)[\
(link-reveal-goto: (_p)'s showcaseText, (_p)'s name)[(set: $inShowcase to true)]
]\
[[Back->The Corrupting Curse]]The dark sorcerer's dead by a spear to the throat, but his curse still plagues the land.
You, you alone, have a chance to stop it.
Acquire 'carnal knowledge' of the foul beasts warped by corruption to save Eiyren from slow collapse. But be wary the corruption does not take hold of you in turn...
[[Start game->Preamble]]
(if: (saved-games: ) contains "A")[(link: "Load game")[(load-game:"A")]
]\
[[Content warnings->Content Warnings]]
[[Version history->Version History]]
[[Credits]]v1.0—initial release
[[Return to title->The Corrupting Curse]]{
(change: ?Passage, (color: #EEEEEE))
(enchant: ?Link, (t8n-time:0.6s)+(t8n-arrive: "blur"))
(enchant: (hooks-named: "thought"), (text-colour: #999966))
(enchant: (hooks-named: "exposition"), (text-colour: #468499))
(append:?sidebar)[(icon-restart: )]
(after-error: )[(debug:)]
(set: const-type _passage to (passage: ))
(set: const-type _title to _passage's name)
(set: string-type _color to ($getOrString: _passage, "color", "white"))
(set: _stats to "Gold: $Gold | Willpower: $Willpower / ($getMaxWillpower:)")
(if: _passage's tags contains "no-hud")[(set: _stats to "")]
(set: _statsStyle to (text-style: "none"))
(if: _passage's tags contains "city-of-demons" and not (visited: "Ending the Contract"))[
(set: _stats to "Under Contract")
(set: _statsStyle to (text-color: "red"))
]
(if: _passage's tags contains "frontmatter")[
(set: _stats to "")
]
(color: _color)[**_title** $inFlashback[**(memory)**]] (css: "float: right;")[_statsStyle[_stats]]
}\
---{
(set: $GameVersion to 0)
(set: int-type $HP to 50, num-type $Gold to 100)
(set: int-type $Willpower to 100, int-type $MaxWillpower to 100)
(set: int-type $Days to 0)
(set: int-type $Knowledge to 0)
(set: int-type $encounters to 0)
(set: const-type $maxEncounters to (passages: where its tags contains "encounter")'s length)
(set: str-type $lastHub to "Watercreek")
(set: str-type $nextBuziPassage to "")
(set: str-type $ishiykState to "unstarted")
(set: str-type $maeraFirstIshiyk to "")
(set: bool-type $warnedMaeraBeforeVisitingCity to false)
(set: bool-type $canVisitDungeon to false)
(set: str-type $lastWatercreekFlavour to "")
(set: str-type $lastCityFlavour to "")
(set: num-type $timesSubmittedToCurse to 0)
(set: num-type $saeriTribute to 0)
(set: bool-type $foundDemonIcon to false)
(set: bool-type $knowAboutMatingPost to false)
(set: bool-type $examinedEskarWing to false)
(set: bool-type $askedEskarAboutWing to false)
(set: bool-type $choseDirewolfDebasement to false)
(set: bool-type $inFlashback to false)
(set: bool-type $inShowcase to false)
(set: const-type $badColour to (text-colour: "red"))
(set: const-type $goodColour to (text-colour: "blue"))
(set: const-type $purificationColour to (text-color: "gold"))
(set: const-type $sequenceEndSymbol to "§")
}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: $GameVersion to 1)
]
}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: $getWatercreekFlavour to (macro: [
(set: _flavor to (a:
"A conveyor hitches his horse to a cart of wheat and barley and passes through the town gates behind you.",
"A guardsman sees you, tips his head and moves on.",
"Summer heat dries the muddy ground into cracked whorls of dirt.",
"Frogs croak and cicadas call from the nearby river.",
"Cling, cling, clang. Watercreek's lone blacksmith works through the day for the guards.",
"A bone-thin cat darts across the street, chasing a rat engorged with corruption.",
"Two young boys, oblivious to the world, play dragontooth with a handful of smooth pebbles.",
"A guard, some acne-faced kid, pries up dry animal dung from the streets with a shovel.",
"Drunken cheers and yells echo from The Kettle.",
"A local man, more wrinkled than anyone should ever get, carries planks to a joinery."
))
(if: (visited: "The Avian"))[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Guards usher conveyors through the town gates, Eskar watching from a parapet.",
"Eskar steps out of a guard-depot, carefully checking her tabard for any hints of dirt."))
]
(if: (visited: "Adoption"))[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Axas barks from behind The Kettle, baying for his daily steak."))
]
(if: (visited: "Satisfying Axas, 2"))[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Axas's watery cum drips down your thigh."))
]
(if: (visited: "Changes"))[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Buzi waves dazedly from one of the Kettle's windows. His face's damp with your juices."))
]
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitNightProwler)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"People stare at your revealing outfit. Some try to hide it."))
]
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitFrenziedRags)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"People notice your corruption-laced rags and cross the street to avoid you."))
]
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitDemonBindings)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Jutting pain from Ishiyk's thorns accompanies every step."))
]
(if: $playerOutfit is $outfitAnticurseWeave)[
(set: _flavor to (a: ..._flavor,
"Maera's mystic weave dampens the sounds and smells of the outside world."))
]
(set: _flavor to (shuffled: ..._flavor))
(set: _displayedFlavour to _flavor's 1st)
(if: _displayedFlavour is $lastWatercreekFlavour)[
(set: _displayedFlavour to _flavor's 2nd)
]
(set: $lastWatercreekFlavour to _displayedFlavour)
(output-data: _displayedFlavour)
]))
]
}{(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: const-type $thought to (macro: string-type _text, int-type _idx, [
(output:)[(link-show: _text, _idx of ?thought)]
]))
(set: const-type $exposition to (macro: string-type _text, int-type _idx, [
(output:)[(link-show: _text, _idx of ?exposition)]
]))
(set: const-type $reveal to (macro: string-type _text, str-type _min, [
(output:)[(t8n: "blur")(link-show: _text, (hooks-named: _min))]
]))
(set: const-type $clamp to (macro: number-type _value, number-type _min, number-type _max, [
(if: _value > _max)[(set: _value to _max)]
(else-if: _value < _min)[(set: _value to _min)]
(output-data: _value)
]))
(set: const-type $getOrString to (macro:
datamap-type _dm,
string-type _name,
string-type _default, [
(set: _value to _default)
(if: _dm contains _name)[(set: _value to _name of _dm)]
(output-data: _value)
]))
]}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: const-type $grantOutfit to (macro: dm-type _outfit, string-type _description, [
(set: _canChange to ($canChangeStats:))
// Add the new outfit.
_canChange[(set: $availableOutfits to $availableOutfits + (a: _outfit))]
// Style and set user output.
(set: _style to (cond: _canChange, (text-style: "none"), (text-style: "strike")))
(set: _text to "(You have gained a new outfit: _description.)")
(output:)[_style+$goodColour[_text]]
]))
]
}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: const-type $hubStatFailures to (macro: [(output: )
[{
(set: _transition to (t8n-arrive: "pulse"))
(if: $Willpower < 1)[_transition(goto: "Frenzy")]
(if: $Gold < 1)[_transition(goto: "Selling Bodies")]
}]]
))
(set: const-type $hubOptions to (macro: [(output: )
[($anchor: "Examine your notes", "Notes")
($anchor: "Examine your bestiary", "Bestiary")
($anchor: "Examine yourself", "Herself")(if: ($finishedEncounters:) > 0)[
[[Reminisce->Memories]]]]]
))
(set: const-type $finishedEncounters to (macro:[
(set: _passages to (history: where its tags contains "encounter"))
(output-data: _passages's length)
]))
(set: const-type $canPurify to (macro: [
(output-data: $Knowledge >= 10)
]))
(set: const-type $anchor to (macro: string-type _text, string-type _link, [
(output: )[(link-reveal-goto: _text, _link)[(set: $lastHub to (passage:)'s name)]]
]))
(set: const-type $getExit to (macro: string-type _normalExit, [
(output-data: (cond: $inShowcase, "Showcase", $inFlashback, "Memories", _normalExit) )
]))
(set: const-type $checkDailyEffects to (macro: [
(output:)[{
(if: $playerOutfit contains "dailyWillpowerChange")
[
($alterWillpower: $playerOutfit's dailyWillpowerChange)
]
}]
]))
(set: const-type $endSequence to (macro: string-type _text, string-type _normalExit, [
($checkDailyEffects:)
(set: _appendedText to _text + " $sequenceEndSymbol")
(set: _exit to ($getExit: _normalExit))
(output: )[{
(link-reveal-goto: _appendedText, _exit)[
(if: $inFlashback is false and $inShowcase is false)[
(set: $Days to it + 1)
]]}]
]))
(set: const-type $flashbackExit to (macro: string-type _text, string-type _normalExit, [
(output: )[(link-goto: _text, ($getExit: _normalExit))]]))
]
}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: const-type $canChangeStats to (macro: [
// We want some passages to grant gold/willpower multiple times,
// e.g. storylets where you find treasure.
(set: _repeatable to (passage:)'s tags contains "repeatable")
// If a repeatable passage, we bypass the later logic.
(set: _result to _repeatable)
// If it's not a repeatable passage we fall back to normal logic.
// No changes allowed during a flashback.
// No changes allowed if you're on the passage for the second time
// (possible in, e.g., Wolf Like Me)
(if: _result is false)[(set: _result to
visits < 2 and
$inFlashback is false and
$inShowcase is false)]
(output-data: _result)
]))
(set: const-type $grantKnowledge to (macro: [
(set: _canChange to ($canChangeStats:))
(set: _style to (cond: _canChange, (text-style: "none"), (text-style: "strike")))
(if: _canChange)
[
(set: $Knowledge to it + 1)
]
(output: )[_style+$purificationColour[(You have gained a deeper understanding of the curse.)]]
]))
(set: const-type $grantGold to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(output: )[{
(if: ($canChangeStats:))
[
(set: $Gold to ($clamp: it + _amount, 0, 999))
$goodColour[(You have gained _amount gold.)]
]}]
]))
(set: const-type $deductGold to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(output: )[{
(if: ($canChangeStats:))
[
(set: $Gold to it - _amount)
$badColour[(You have lost _amount gold.)]
]}]
]))
(set: const-type $multiplyGold to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(output: )[(if: ($canChangeStats:))[(set:$Gold to (round: it * _amount))]]]))
]
}{
(unless: $GameVersion is 1)[
(set: const-type $checkWillpower to (macro:
number-type _required,
string-type _text,
string-type _passage, [
(output: )[{
(set: _baseRequirement to _required)
(set: _mod to 0)
(if: $playerOutfit contains "willpowerCheckMod")
[
(set: _mod to $playerOutfit's willpowerCheckMod)
(set: _required to ($clamp: _required + _mod, 0, 200))
]
(if: $Willpower > _required)
[
(set: _explanationLink to (link-show: "success", ?explanation))
(link-goto: _text, _passage) (colour: "green")[(_required willpower required: _explanationLink.)]
]
(else:)
[
(set: _explanationLink to (link-show: "failed", ?explanation))
~~(link-goto: _text, "nowhere")~~ $badColour[(_required willpower required: _explanationLink.)]
]
[ *Base: _baseRequirement. Outfit: _mod.*](explanation|
}]]))
(set: const-type $checkCorruption to (macro:
number-type _required,
string-type _text,
string-type _passage, [
(output: )[{
(set: _baseRequirement to _required)
(set: _mod to 0)
(if: $playerOutfit contains "corruptionCheckMod")
[
(set: _mod to $playerOutfit's corruptionCheckMod)
(set: _required to ($clamp: _required + _mod, 0, 200))
]
(if: $Willpower < _required)
[
(link-goto: _text, _passage) $badColour[(< _required willpower required: success.)]
]
(else:)
[
~~(link-goto: _text, "nowhere")~~ $goodColour[(< _required willpower required: failed.)]
]
[ *Base: _baseRequirement. Outfit: _mod.*](explanation|
}]]))
(set: const-type $getMaxWillpower to (macro: [
(set: _raw to $MaxWillpower)
(set: _mod to 0)
(if: $playerOutfit contains "maxWillpowerMod")
[
(set: _raw to it + $playerOutfit's maxWillpowerMod)
]
(output-data: _raw)
]))
(set: const-type $alterWillpower to (macro: num-type _amount, [
(output:)[(set:$Willpower to ($clamp: it + _amount, 0, ($getMaxWillpower:)))]
]))
(set: const-type $getWillpowerChange to (macro: num-type _amount, [
(set: num-type _base to _amount)
(set: _modifyCorruption to _base < 0 and $playerOutfit contains "corruptionChangeMod")
(if: _modifyCorruption)[
(set: _mod to $playerOutfit's corruptionChangeMod)
(set: _amount to ($clamp: it + _mod, -100, -1))
]
(set: _modifyWillpower to _base > 0 and $playerOutfit contains "willpowerChangeMod")
(if: _modifyWillpower)
[
(set: _mod to $playerOutfit's willpowerChangeMod)
(set: _amount to ($clamp: it + _mod, 1, 100))
]
(output-data: _amount)
]))
(set: const-type $grantWillpower to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(output: )[($writeWillpowerChange: _amount)]
]))
(set: const-type $increaseMaxWillpower to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(set: _value to $MaxWillpower)
(set: _canChange to ($canChangeStats:))
(if: _canChange)[(set: _value to $MaxWillpower + _amount)]
(set: $MaxWillpower to _value)
(set: _style to (cond: _canChange, (text-style: "none"), (text-style: "strike")))
(set: _color to $goodColour)
(set: _text to "(You have gained _amount maximum willpower.)")
(output: )[_style+_color[_text]]
]))
(set: const-type $deductMaxWillpower to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(set: _value to $MaxWillpower)
(set: _canChange to ($canChangeStats:))
(if: _canChange)
[
(set: _value to $MaxWillpower - _amount)
(set: $Willpower to ($clamp: $Willpower, 0, _value))
]
(set: $MaxWillpower to _value)
(set: _style to (cond: _canChange, (text-style: "none"), (text-style: "strike")))
(set: _color to $badColour)
(set: _text to "(You have lost _amount maximum willpower.)")
(output: )[_style+_color[_text]]
]))
(set: const-type $deductWillpower to (macro: number-type _amount, [
(output: )[($writeWillpowerChange: 0 - _amount)]
]))
(set: const-type $corruptionText to (macro: num-type _requirement, string-type _text, [
(output:)[(if: $Willpower < _requirement)[(text-style: "fidget")+$badColour[_text]]]
]))
(set: const-type $writeWillpowerChange to (macro: number-type _amount, [
// If it's negative we are gaining corruption
// and should enable appropriate aesthetic effects (red text).
(set: _healing to _amount > 0)
(set: _word to (cond: _healing, "gained", "lost"))
// Use ABS because otherwise we write 'lost -4 willpower'.
(set: _amountDescriptor to (abs: _amount))
(set: _canChange to ($canChangeStats:))
// If we can't change stats, keep text to preserve linebreaks
// but strikethrough the text to make clear it's not 'real'
(set: _style to (cond: _canChange, (text-style: "none"), (text-style: "strike")))
(set: _color to (cond: _healing, $goodColour, $badColour))
(set: _text to "(You have _word _amountDescriptor willpower.)")
// Actually change willpower.
(if: _canChange)[($alterWillpower: _amount)]
(output:)[_style+_color[_text]]
]))
]
}{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "Hearing the pilgrim's tale and finding Oreija, the bestial, the beautiful.",
"showcaseText", "An abandoned church houses a woman transformed into something huge, horrible and hairy."
)
}\
You're waiting out a storm in the Watercreek inn when a man in pilgrim's garb staggers in, water streaming off his vestments. He slumps onto a stool and orders a glass of the hard stuff, face like a death in the family.
After some prodding, the story comes out.
"A church up in the mountains?" you ask.
"We never called it a *church*," he replies, "but yes, close enough. The harpies built it, but over time my village joined them in worship."
(link-reveal:'"Humans and harpies share gods?"')[=
He sniffs. "My secular side will tell you that's what happens two groups of people live together. The other says gods can look anyway they please to whoever's looking."
The pilgrim sighs and runs a finger around the lip of his glass. Outside, a peal of thunder booms.
"I was named there, you see. The *oeiros*. I have to head back every year, but since this curse came upon us, it's the same story every time. At the valley pass I lose my nerves—legs turn to water. Then I crawl back here to..."
He gulps down half his glass, face straining from the burn. "My mother would die of shame all over again."
(link-reveal:"\"What stops you?\"")[=
"You're not local, I'm guessing. Everyone knows the stories. Inhuman howls come at night. Farmers find butchered animals, stomachs cut up by clawmarks big as lumbermill saws. It's a mighty dark thing, cursed by nine corners, that took up the *oeiros*."
"Truly."
The pilgrim agrees to give you directions after paying for his drink. You have a new corruption-beast to investigate.
[[You depart the next morning.->Into the Mountain Pass]]You're no mountaineer.
Maera's talisman keeps you hardy for the trek out of Watercreek, but the mountain base is treacherously steep. By the valley pass you're sweating ugly and got a stitch up your side the size of dragonclaws.
Mt. Torre stands impartial as harpies far above, barely dots, circle their home in the encroaching dusk. They dart through clouds to clean themselves, ignoring you and all things terrestrial.
The valley runs parallel to Mt. Torre. A narrow strip of thin topsoil gives way to slate and shale, and it sits in the deep stillness known to all places from before man walked the world. No breeze disturbs the tufted hairgrass, no scurrying life; whitebark aspens grow so tall their gold-red leaves adorn the tops of the walls. Last night's lightning hangs in the air. The odour of chemistry and chance.
As you step forward, a guttural scream from far away rips through the air. Animals gnawing their legs to escape a trap sound less desperate.
Hairs on the back of your neck tingling, you squat in the brush and keep low. No wonder the pilgrim ran. (link-reveal: "That was nothing close to human.")[=
You advance slowly, slapping away hoverflies. The hairgrass is sodden from the storm and bends before you silently. The valley floor rises, and you shuffle up the hill on your belly to stay hidden.
Halfway up your hand grabs something hard and leathered. A goat is lying in the grass with its torso gone. The chest explodes into a hollow and organless cavity of splintered bones, their marrow sucked dry. A legion of gnats coat the dry red interior of the dead animal's stomach.
You push on and crest the hill. Before you, in a recessed pool of shadow, lies a church.
It's an abattoir.
[[You take refuge by the church wall.->Outside the Church]]The pilgrim was right to dispute the word 'church'. Ritual harpy construction is like nothing you've seen before—a field day for the Academy aviologists. The walls are unworked chunks of black rock twice your height, obsidian, and the pillars of bare stacked stones support no roof.
Something breathes within.
The airflow's heavy and slow, pushing out wisps of dirt across your feet. Big, you judge, ear pressed to the wall. A dozen feet tall, for lungs like that. There are other sounds—infrequent, gentle scraping against stone—but nothing distinct. No more screams since you crept through the underbrush.
Mismatched curves of the rock wall form a window to the left. Keeping low, (link-reveal:"you peek inside.")[=
Your breath catches.
Oh, dragonfire. You didn't think the corruption-curse could do (link-reveal: "this.")[=
You underestimated. The creature is fifteen feet on its haunches, head clearing the church walls when it rears up to sniff the air. The face, in profile, extends to a long canine snout. The jaw is predatory, overflowing with canines like boot-knives. Its head sports two twisting antlers that terminate in sharp juts.
The fur is dirty white, patchy, fallen out in clumps. Beneath, the creature's skin is moonlight pale. But this is no wretch on the verge of death. The arms and legs bulge with the muscle of a monstrous hunter. And, yet, the arms taper to thin, slight paws.
No, not paws. Look closer. The creature has fingers, long and feminine and curled, bearing claws that could shred iron. That's not fur coiling up its arms, either.
They're *bandages*.
You recoil. This is more than you bargained for; time to fall back and count your options. Naturally, as you turn from the church, you trip on a rock and smack flat to the ground. By reflex you hold still and silent, but you know it's pointless.
[[The corruption-beast has already heard you.->First Encounter]]In great bursting force the beast leaps over the church wall, claws cutting the rock. It snarls, putrid black-yellow spit dripping in long strands that catch moonlight.
You're frozen; nothing is real. The beast unwraps and extends, comes closer, on all fours, serpentine, a snapping trap winding tension. The eyes are bandaged too, you notice dumbly.
It's blind?
Not that it matters. Its jaw cracks open and you look into the dark pit of its throat, the tongue's black, and you guess you had better prepare to be torn apart. Maera's charm will return you to a safe place, yes, but she never promised it would be in one piece.
The creature speaks. A woman's voice.
(link-reveal:"\"Have you come to kill me? I've been waiting.\"")[=
---
Later, you're sitting on one of the smoothed rock plinths in the church. Harpies must have once used them for worship. Turns out, it's the perfect size for you. The cold is only slightly unbearable.
The corruption-beast is scraping around the other side of the church for something. (seq-link: "It", "She", "It", "She") turns around, head drooped.
"No, sorry. Someone brought votives once when I was away, bread. But they're gone now. I don't keep food for normal people, anymore."
You wave a hand, *it's fine*. Only ten hours since you ate. A real mountaineer would have supplies. Oh well.
The beast ambles forward. It's a simian gait, not canine, pulling herself forward with strong arms. (seq-link: "It", "She") lies on (seq-link: "its", "her") side before you, long snout pointing down.
"I imagine you have questions, $givenName." Her voice is husky, like talking through an infection of the lungs.
[[This will be a long night.->Questioning Oreija]]"Let's start at the beginning," you say. "You weren't always like this."
The beast shies away. "No. No. I've been a maiden of the *oeiros* since I came of age, brethren to the harpies and servant of the mountain's gods. I kept the place."
"And when the corruption-curse came?"
She clasps her hands together; the knuckles bulge. "I felt it in my bones, coming to sully this sacred place. I was never a spell-caster, but I had to do something."
"Oh, no. You tried to reflect the curse? By yourself?"
The beast-woman shrugs, a sight to behold with shoulders like oak-trees. Fur rustles.
"When I stood against the curse, I was a rock holding back the river. It forced its way inside of me, rendering this grotesque form." A defiant toss of the mane. "But my duty has not changed. I tend to the *oeiros*, as best I can."
"What's your name?"
"I was Oreija." A rustic feel: *oh-rey-ya*. "But it scarcely fits, now."
(link:"\"How do you get by up here?\"")[\
---
"How do you get by up here?"
"As best I can. I pray. The gods of the mountain are watching, and I hope they are proud of me."
You size her up. Oreija is five times the size of a normal person, and the mountain valley wasn't overflowing with produce. The goat.
"I've heard of animals around here being ripped apart," you say carefully.
Her ears flatten. You don't think she does it consciously. "You wouldn't believe the food this body requires. Sometimes pilgrims leave offerings at the entrance to the valley, but it's not enough. I don't know what they think I am."
One of those mountain gods, say. From the books, they're not above slaughter.
---
]
(link:"\"What's it like?\"")[\
---
"What's it like? If that isn't too crude a question."
She bristles. "When I realised what I'd become, it was hard." Hard. Time behind that word. "I've grown used to some of what this body offers."
"Only some?"
Oreija closes her eyes. "I won't go into specifics. But it is a corruption-curse. This body makes me *feel* things, gives me *urges* I must fight. It is exhausting."
Ah. Something for when you get to the purpose of your visit.
---
]
(link:"\"Why stay here?\"")[\
---
"Why stay here?"
"The *oeiros* is where I belong." As if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Where would I go?"
"I come from the Academy, in the capital. People there can house you, see your needs are met, manage your curse. We've made progress."
But not enough, not enough by half. Your work with Maera was promising but abortive, prohibitively expensive. Even a direwolf bite will never fully heal. Thoughts stick with you. Personalities change.
Sometimes you do things magic can't take back.
To her credit, Oreija considers it seriously. A pause stretches languidly into the chill night air.
"No." She puts both mammoth hands on her forehead. "I could not impose on others. When the curse hit me, I felt its breadth. Others must be suffering worse than myself. I will hold fast here."
You recall Maera once telling you that integrity was shame riding by a braver name.
---
]
(link:"Examine the church.")[\
---
Harpy churches resemble natural geological structure more than something built with hands: the walls, black like shale, are rooted by solely by their own weight.
No artistry adorns the stones, nor sculptures, nor pulpit for sermonry. The only ordered construction are a dozen large plinths circling the church's center. Perching-rocks: a place to croon and sharpen your talons between bouts of flight.
The roofless design makes everything airy, transient. Worshippers flew in and out directly, joining the sky as an act of prayer. The door, presumably, came latter. Solidarity with the human believers.
Despite all this, the '*oeiros*' (unusual word, must be regional) isn't primitive. It's the quiet air of ritual space, one not meant for outside eyes. Deep history spools from this rock.
No doubt in you that this site is (link-reveal: "older than humanity.")[ Of a world made gone by your coming. And some scant hundred generations past your influence weeds through every domain known by language.
Did the dragons know?] (visited: "The Avian")[
You should ask Eskar about this place, when you get a chance.]
---
]
[[It looks like she has a question for you. (Continue)->Protesting]]Oreija exhales evenly. "You did not answer me before, $givenName, when I asked if you came to end my life. That was a kindness. But not one required." Oreija lays her head on a rock-plinth and closes her eyes. "I answer to any authority. If my life is burdensome, or, by lack of mercy, disgraceful to the *oeiros*, I offer it up freely. I will not struggle under the blade."
Alright. Sure. Tonight is sending you reeling.
All touched by the corruption-curse are outside the law. So sayeth the seneschal superior. You don't even have to dig a grave, it's just polite. As (link-reveal: "an official member of the Academy")[, for now], your verdict is unquestionable.
But is that why you came?
"Look at me," you say. You spread out your hands. "I only have a dagger on my belt, and it's for rope, not bone."
Oreija can frown. She keeps her head on the plinth, mouth barely moving. "I see. Why, then, did you come? Not to pray."
Oh, this has gone on long enough already. Be blunt.
(link-reveal: "\"I came to explore your body carnally.\"")[=
---
After explaining your studies at the Academy and investigations into the corruption-curse, Oreija gets the gist. That doesn't mean she likes it.
"Even in this new form, I'm a maiden of the *oeiros*!" she says, voice strained. "This is sanctified ground, and, besides, I... I've never... laid with anyone. I would not know where to begin."
This you can handle. You place a hand on her paw, so small in comparison, and make sure to catch her eyes. "Hey, hey, that's fine. We all had a first time. It's not a big deal."
A common conversation with crying friends and new lovers confused why they can't get hard. Even Maera, after a fashion. You didn't think consoling a slavering beast-woman five times your size on her virginity would be your first stable ground tonight. [[You don't even *remember* your first time.->Virgin]]
"You truly believe this necessary?" Oreija asks.
You pace around the church, hand trailing the raised stones. "I've never seen the curse affect anyone like it has you. To purify it, I need to understand how it works. In magic, nothing beats direct experience." You quickly add, "I can't cure you. Not yet. But this will be a necessary step."
"So be it," Oreija growls. [["My body is yours."->Wolf Like Me]]More accurately, you can't decide who came first.
There was him, the second him, in the empty Academy classroom. You were both so scared of getting caught, still innocent of the dormrooms. Afterwards he bought you meringues from Twenty-Ten's.
You met him in your third quartet, of that you're sure—you have (link-reveal: "the letters")[. *Kisses, kisses, kisses*]. But when did you fuck? Because that was also when Looni showed you things under the bedcovers at night.
It doesn't matter. Both are gone now. Him to the war in Tehraum, her to a nameless unreal far-away home.
[[Others came after.->Protesting]]"How does this usually begin?" she asks.
Dragonfire, how should you know? You've fucked humans, harpies, succubi, even a minotaur in the truly wild years before the break. Beasts like Oreija are outside your experience, and everyone else's for that matter.
No point (link-reveal: "blushing about it")[. You examined hundreds of patients with Maera in the first years of the curse. Whatever sense of modesty you yet had died quick].
"Let's see what we're working with." Like appraising a carriage's wooden frame or judging how much oil a lantern needs to last the night. "Show me your belly and spread your legs."
Oreija says something in the harpy language, either a prayer or a bloodline-curse, and complies.
[[Look at her face.->Wolf Like Me - Face]]
[[Look at her belly.->Wolf Like Me - Belly]]
[[Look at her ass.->Wolf Like Me - Ass]]
[[Look at her genitals.->Wolf Like Me - Genitalia]]
(if:
(visited: "Wolf Like Me - Face") and
(visited: "Wolf Like Me - Belly") and
(visited: "Wolf Like Me - Ass") and
(visited: "Wolf Like Me - Genitalia")
)[[[Alright, that's enough.->Wolf Like Me - End]]]You lay a hand on Oreija's snout. Her fur is dirty and lustreless, tick bites and red sores dotting her face. But the bandages concern you most. "Your eyes. They're hurt?"
"Mhn. They are too sensitive. Sunlight hurts, and with these ears I don't need them to get around. The blindfold is easier."
A raw deal, but at least she's mobile. The curse was Kamal's tour de force, but he was never known for sanding down rough edges. (link-reveal: "Bandages on the arms too")[. They're older. Do not mention them. Play doctor all you want, but don't go there. Those first desperate hours].
"Mouth, please."
Oreija doesn't have the corruption-musk typical to the curse, but her breath is rancid regardless. When she exhales, flecks of spit stick to your face. Ugh. Sticking your head in her mouth would be a superb way to lose your appetite for the next month.
Her teeth are standard canine fare. They're yellow from wear-and-tear and a (link-reveal: "lack of maintenance")[. No toothbrushes up here]. They're in good shape; not much sugar in a diet of wild fowl and deer. Some plaque. Requires deeper examination later.
The tongue is black. You run a finger over flesh: rough, textured. Getting eaten out by Oreija is a novel idea for torture.
[[You still want to try it.->Wolf Like Me]]{
(set: _accept to (link-show: "Hm. Can you help?", ?suckle))
(set: _refuse to [[[That can wait for later.->Wolf Like Me]]]<choice|)
}\
Oreija stays on her side as you crouch by her belly. Two rows of fat plump canine teats poke out from the fur. The nipples are small hard nubs, flatter than a human's but with larger, dark black areola.
You take one in your hand. Soft, but firm. You squeeze gently.
Oreija whimpers. "Is that strictly necessary, $givenName?"
"Everything matters." You are only slightly lying. Hard to be clinical while groping a wolf-girl-beast, but it's easier for her if you pretend. "Do these produce milk?"
Oreija looks ashamed, flat ears and all. You force yourself to understand why. "Sometimes. They get tight, like I need to relieve myself. But with with my hands like this..."
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
"Let me see what I can do?"
She can't bring herself to reply. With a tender skull-crushing hand she pulls back the fur, fully exposing her belly.
Your main duty that summer on the farm was milking the cows, so the technique comes naturally. Thumb and forefinger ring around the base and squeeze gently, pulling down to the nipple. Oreija moans, eyes closed, as an initial drip strips from the engorged teat.
The milk is black like squid-ink, same as her nipples. (link-reveal: "Corruption at work")[. Now that would add a kick to your morning gruel alright].
You cup the teat and milk her firmly. The nipple permeates moisture and grows slippery between your fingers. Milk flows out in a gentle stream, splashing on the floor.
(link-reveal: "How backed up has she been here, all alone?")[=
For the sake of knowledge, always knowledge, you take the teat in your lips, running the sharp of your teeth across the nipple. Oreija is panting hard, now, a colossal leg kicking helplessly against the church floor. She chokes a howl down into a deep, full-throated whine that lasts forever.
The milk isn't poison. Goatlike, except backed by the heat of peppers. The taste of corruption grows familiar.
($deductWillpower: 5)
You swallow a final gulp and shift to a lighter grip as the teat deflates. Without a cloth, you use your shirt-sleeve to wipe your mouth and her tit clean. A dozen others need attention, but the night is already aching long.
"Thank you," Oreija murmurs, [[looking up at the sky->Wolf Like Me]].](suckle|{
(set: _accept to (link-show: "Go in for a sniff?", ?sniff))
(set: _refuse to [[[A visual inspection will suffice.->Wolf Like Me]]]<choice|)
}\
Oreija's hackles rise as you step over her long houndlike ankles to crouch by her ass.
Got the tight and muscular definition you'd expect for an athletic body. A night's prowling for Oreija will be better exercise than a year in the gymnasium for you. Nothing of specific medical concern.
(link-show: "No tail", ?tail). [A strange deviation, but not unthinkable. The curse works by heuristic, not rule. Who knows what mechanism fired when Oreija stood against its immensity?](tail|
Her ass has the same light-grey fur as elsewhere, but sparser, so you catch (link-reveal: "glimpses of skin")[. Flea-bitten and sore like an abandoned horse. Six years without tenderness]. With both hands you spread her cheeks and look at the anus. The dark ring matches your fist in circumference.
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
A light hint of the corruption-curse's trademark musk. More like bitter licorice than the charcoal, ashes, cinders of stronger (link-reveal: "specimens")[. No. 'Specimens' don't talk]. You sniff again. Mostly flesh and sweat after the initial hit, but you won't complain.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Oreija hides behind her elbows. "$givenName?"
"I need data. Physical experience of the curse is paramount." Bravely you soldier on.
Tasting forms the final test. A quick dart of the tongue in case of obvious poison, and when you don't retch you go back for more. Oreija's hole is firm and warm like a well-made boot left out in the sun. Fur tickles your nose as you dig in, pressing lips around the circle and sucking.
This (cycling-link: "woman", "beast") is the size of three oxen and denser to boot. If she sat up she would crush you without appeal and without even realising it. This ass would be total and final. You know lots of ways to die, made catalogues, but this is an old favourite.
Anyway, the flavour is little different than rimming a human, besides a tingle of corruption.
($deductWillpower: 5)
You circle back round Oreija's front, clapping her flank for a job well done.
"Your examinations are very thorough," she settles on. "I must surely be the first maiden of an *oeiros* to ever undergo such treatment."
"And the first to become as you are." She balks at that. Good job. Always the social star of any conversation. "I mean the corruption manifests in surprising ways. You're fine down there, but I had to check."
And you can't say [[you didn't enjoy it->Wolf Like Me]].](sniff|{
(set: _accept to (link-show: "Always need to find out.", ?press))
(set: _refuse to [[[No, she's been through enough tonight.->Wolf Like Me]]]<choice|)
}\
Oreija whimpers like she's stuck by a sword when you kneel by her crotch. "$givenName, your mission is noble. I ask only that you preserve my modesty as best you are able."
The sanctity with which people treat their cunts baffles you endlessly. Do they not realise the hole they piss from is in the middle of it all? For all you know Oreija never looked at herself once in a mirror, even as a human.
Stay professional during an inspection, $trueName. Yes, Maera.
"Sorry. I'll be quick."
A thin curtain of fur hides her cunt. Grope around a bit, a little grab and squeeze never hurt anyone. There. Stereotypically canid set of fat, puffy lips the shape of a squashed oval. You press down gently, keeping an eye on Oreija. She shivers and tenses, pointedly looking up at the stars. Sensation is present.
"Any trouble urinating? Burning?" you ask.
Emphatic shake of the head. Her antlers slice the air.
Alright. Secondary concerns are vaginismus and lubricatory atrophy. You don't need to (link-reveal: "make Oreija cum tonight")[, as much as the idea appeals], but some wetness would clearly sign everything's in order.
Ah, there's the clit. Even working blind and with a different species, experience is a guiding star. Oreija clearly feels your finger, covering her face with her paws. If you went harder?
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
Oreija sucks in air sharply, lips snarling to reveal teeth. "What is that?"
As you suspected. Dragons above, has this girl ever came? "A natural part of your body," you say. You attempt to slide a finger inside, but Oreija's cunt is tighter than a lockbox. "Try to relax."
"This is not something I am used to," she says, pleading but resilient. With a measured breath, she lays her head on the floor.
Oreija's idea of relaxation is barely enough to worm your pinky in. Still, that's enough to confirm she's not abnormally dry. Any tightness is due to nerves.
($deductWillpower: 3)
[[Now you're done.->Wolf Like Me]]](press|"I'm done," you say, wiping your brow. Sixteen hours on your feet and feeling just fine. "Enough to undo your part of the curse, when it's time."
($grantKnowledge:)
Oreija splays out on the floor, belly facing the stars. The rugs made from bear pelts in low Tehraum come to mind. Her throat is exposed, too. You guess most people trust someone when you've groped around their cunt.
"Oh. I thought you were going to, well."
"Going to what?"
"Um. Go further."
Nice, very suave. "I don't need anything more."
But religious girls were always fun to educate. Oreija's body is an attracting playground, a map with *here-be-not-dragons* scribbled in the corners. You want to milk those teats, feel her warmth on a cliffside as morning rolls over. Think of other and darker things. Those teeth.
"That said, I am happy to help you explore yourself further."
Oreija's ears flick to attention. "Thank you, $givenName. This curse-wrought form grants me shame and shameful desire in equal share. May I ask you something?"
Less the curse and more the cursed. "Of course."
"Will you visit me, when the curse is lifted?"
You worm your hand into (link-reveal: "her gargantuan paw")[, a paw that (link-reveal: "rips animals in twain")[, the paw of a demon creature from annals in dead languages]], and squeeze hard. You have to.
Otherwise, why even try?
"You'll see me."
The trek back down the mountain to Watercreek is long and lonely. ($endSequence: "Morning comes slow.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Wolf Like Me"))
} \
Oreija has a beastly tongue.
When she licks her paws or grooms her fur, you sit mesmerised on *oeiros* plinths. Her tongue is black, prehensile and longer than any tongue ought to be. What does it feel like? Is it smooth, slippery? How would it make you feel?
There is only one sensible, morally pure way to find out.
(link-reveal: "\"Would you eat me out?\" you ask.")[=
Oreija is bashful, naturally. Lots of protestations about the proper stations of a maiden to the *oeiros* and such. Appealing to her own desires was the key.
"You wanted me to go further, when I examined you. Well, here's our chance. After this I'll repay you in kind."
Oreija clamps pointless paws over her bandaged eyes.
"You are a bad influence on me, $givenName."
Oh, [[you don't know the half of it->Sanding]].You set up on a raised portion of the *oeiros* so Oreija doesn't have to stoop. No underwear today, as luck has it. She stares at your cunt for a bafflingly long time. Only later do you realise she may have never seen another person's before.
"And," she says, "how does one do this? Precisely?"
"Whatever feels natural. Show me your desires."
"Very well."
With an impetuous shake of her mane, Oreija eats you out. It is extremely painful.
Her tongue is wood-shaping sandpaper: rough and scratchy and coarse to the touch. Tiny abrasive bumps scrape against your cunt, bringing pain so direct and immediate you skitter away by sheer reflex.
Oreija stays still, tongue hanging out the side of her jaw. "Oh, no. Did I hurt you?"
"Yes! Yes," you pant. Pain, you remember, is an illusion. Pain exists only in the mind and is its inferior. Can't get rid of it, usually don't want to, but you can control it. Three sharp breaths, each held to the count of five. You're ready.
(link-reveal: "\"Keep going.\"")[=
Beneath the bandages, you imagine eyes of confusion and concern. Oreija can crush you under a single paw, yet she's got the demeanour of a scared house-cat. Actually, that gives you an idea.
"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. If I want you to stop, I'll say. And—hold me down."
"I profess freely that I do not understand. And yet, I am in your debt."
Yes you are, so hurry up and deliver more of that sweet, sweet pain. Otherwise the thrill will leave and it'll hurt in the bad way.
When Oreija approaches, your body senses danger and commands your muscles to flee. But, always obedient, she firmly plants a paw on your chest, (link-reveal: "pinning you in place")[. That's crushing your tits, ow].
Her tongue is worse the second time because you're expecting it.
She works hesitantly, quick laps that fear to make contact. You envision hacksaws at your tendons, but it's honestly a mercy. The scraping hiss of pain from each individual lick comes too fast to register. Everything merges into a hazy wave whose dips and rolls you can anticipate and ride. Controlling the pain is so blissfully and totally demanding that all other images and sensations become unreal.
Oreija's mouth drips with spots of red, blood, your blood, your own wounded bloody body. Here at last is the evil huntress, jaw full with prey. (visited: "Dentistry")[Well, there was that time she ate you. Ha, ha, ha. ]You tip your head onto the hard rock floor and giggle breathlessly.
(link-reveal: "Oreija breaks off.")[=
The absence of pain familiar rips the ground from your feet. You roll onto your side and heave as the impact of the final lashes cascade. Only an empty stomach preserves your spotless modesty.
"You truly enjoy this," Oreija says. Not a question. Her ears twitch violently, sucking up every clue they can with unbridled curiosity.
"Getting hurt makes me wet," you say, breathing like a night-demon. "I hope that's plain enough language."
"I never knew of this. I never considered."
Oreija shakes away half-formed thoughts and sits back straight. The open *oeiros* roof casts her against the entire sky, and of the two she is larger.
"Let me try once more, $givenName. To better repay my debt."
Warning bells sound in your addled mind, but [[it's too late->Scouring]].Oreija steps on your chest with deliberate heft. The air squeezes out like juice from a grape.
She returns to your cunt, but her light, hesitant laps are slow, agonizingly slow. Before you were sanded; now you're ripped apart. Oreija even sticks to the same spots, heaving her tongue back up and down in place, amplifying friction and giving no time to recover.
Blood drips down your thigh. Dragonfire, you'll need medical charms, a solid week patching up your cunt, easy. You batter at Oreija's tree-trunk arm and scream your throat raw. She keeps hitting the same. Damn. Spot.
"If you wish me to cease," murmurs perfect maiden Oreija, "you need but ask."
"Oh, fuck you!" You break into mad, jagged laughter.
So, this is what it's like on the other side of that trick. How disarming.
Oreija continues the torture. She lavishes particular focus on your clit, which makes your neck and jaw strain. You've broken bones before and not realised, but this is far worse.
A spiteful respect grows in you. When you've taught people to hurt you before, no matter how many blank cards you gave, they always held back. Everyone pulled the punch you didn't want pulled. Oreija, though, is ruthless. Your blood does not faze her. Impressive, but also, what the fuck, you're dying here. How far is she going to push this?
Oh.
Oh no. (link-reveal: "Oh no no no.")[=
Oreija isn't pushing you as far as she wants. She's going until she thinks *you're* satisfied.
"Stop stop stop stop please stop!" Getting air with that paw on your chest is hard by itself. The last words are no more than a wheeze.
Oreija jerks back immediately, every part tense. "Oh no. Did I do it wrong?"
Yes, sorry, too busy retching to answer right this moment. Go bad enough and you'll hack up stomach lining, empty belly or no. Your crotch is a nightmare zone, and if you think about it directly you'll pass out. So you don't. Clawing your way back to normal takes years, but Oreija, to her credit, does not intervene.
"You did superbly," you eventually manage.
Oreija frowns, ears flat. "But, I thought... I was attempting to..."
"Make me cum, I know, I know." You laugh, pulling yourself against a plinth for support. "Sometimes it's alright if there isn't an orgasm, alright? Especially for things like that. It's not your fault, I should have told you."
You need to invent a name for this shit. Communication would be much easier.
Oreija lowers her head, sighs. "I always understood that to be the point."
No chance of sitting up. Your thighs fail to report sensation when you jam in a sharp fingernail. This is legitimately bad, a medical situation. But more important is Oreija. You beckon her closer and take her long snout in your hand.
"The point is having fun," you say. Except when it isn't. "And that was extremely enjoyable, considering you're a beginner."
Processing that takes Oreija a moment. Not most people's idea of entertainment. Then she rears up in full splendour, mountain hunter of whispered legend, and bows her black nose to the ground.
"Anything for the woman so valiantly fighting the curse upon these lands."
So dramatic.
"Very much appreciated," you say. "Now, how would you like to learn some basic medicinal charms? My pulse is weak and I can't feel my arms, so I'm probably going into shock."
($endSequence: "Oreija, thankfully, is a quick learner.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Wolf Like Me"))
} \
"I want to look at your teeth."
"$givenName, you must be well-steeped in wisdom," says Oreija, "for I often understand nothing at all of your designs."
The gargantuan wolf-girl lounges on the floor of the mountain-church, combing her mane with the biggest hairbrush for sale in Watercreek. She casually bares her belly and (link-reveal: "spreads her legs before you")[.
She did that when you first met, too, but this time she's casual about it. Progress].
"Your teeth stood out when I first examined your body. You don't clean them, do you?"
"No, I suppose not. Truthfully, it never passed my mind."
The wolf-beast does clueless well.
You produce a satchel from your pack containing the tools of any self-respecting dentist: salt, a sturdy dowser, liquorice, parsley, scraps of calendula and a tincture of lavender oil.
"Good news, then. Open wide."
---
Oreija lays flat on her belly, hind quarters bunched up, chin resting on one of the dark perching plinths that dot the church. Her nose, the black wet spot ending a dirty-white snout, (link-reveal: "twitches")[.
Feeling daring, you give it a kiss. It makes her snort and snuffle away a sneeze].
Oreija's mouth opens way wide, like the alligators in far-off locales without Eiyren names. The inside walls are a dark dappled red, hard ridges meeting soft flesh. Her tongue is long, black and calloused. (visited: "Sanding")[Oh, you've got things to say about that tongue.]
And the teeth? Not as bad as you feared. Some gentle scrubbing and the plaque you saw all that time ago falls away; a low-sugar diet means little structural damage.
The worst part is the smell.
Every few seconds, Oreija's open mouth blasts you with hot, moist breath full of digested meat and stomach-acid. Besides the cloying tinge of corruption, the smell reminds you of that summer down on the farm.
($deductWillpower: 2)
"I did not realise this was among your skills," mumbles Oreija as you vigorously brush her canines.
"Study sex magic, you get familiar with mouths."
And Oreija's is not one you'll forget. When she stretches out her jaw, you could stand in there without hitting your head. Actually, you know what?
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"I need to get your molars too."
Oreija gulps in surprise as you kick off your shoes and clamber into her mouth, but otherwise stays extremely, determinedly still. Actually balancing on your feet would be troublesome, so you crawl up her tongue on hands and knees. The abrasive surface scrapes at your palms. Lying flat on your belly, your feet hang out over her lower jaw as you work on the grinders.
"Please be careful."
[["Don't swallow unless I ask you to."->Spelunking]]{
(set: _eaten to (visited: "Dinnertime"))
} \
Light drops off quick inside Oreija's mouth. Her tonsils dangle ahead like church bells. The smell is much stronger back here. You could cover your nose with your sleeve, but you don't.
Dragons above those are some teeth. Want to see what they can do one day.
The dowser, soaked in lavender oil, makes short work of Oreija's gums. Little more than upkeep is required. Pretty soon you're satisfied and start crawling backwards. With the extreme grace and precision that only accompany accidents, you drop the dowser.
It clunks directly against her tonsils.
Oreija gags, an involuntary reflex, but nothing keeps you rooted. With a convulsing jerk you slip down her tongue and to the back of her throat. Mercy, you're going to choke her. No: she's more than capable of swallowing you whole. _eaten[Here we go again.]
(link-reveal: "\"Shit!\"")[=
Can you grab onto something, anything, a tooth? Wedge yourself in place? No, her tongue's bucking too strong. You slide right down her throat, a delicious morsel full of protein and fear.
Oreija's gullet is tight, but slick like a greased hose. You jerk about in space wildly as she no doubt shakes around, trying to dislodge you, but these shifts only aid gravity.
You slide down, down, down. All is dark.
The tight walls of the esophagus widens as you approach the stomach.
It is surprisingly difficult to care. Maera's charm hangs around your neck. Either it will spirit you away back to Watercreek before Oreija's stomach acid burns a hole through your brain, or it won't, and you'll be dead.
You'd rather the acid kill you than come out the other end.
The esophagus gives way entirely and your upper half dangles freely in the pitch-black cavern of Oreija's stomach. The acid bubbles audibly and smells of ripe fruit rot. You pull at Maera's charm; any signs of life? Growing warm, but only slightly. Not a good sign. Oh. _eaten[Guess you only get lucky once.]
When, by rights, you should fall into the burning lake, the fleshy walls around you rumble once more. Warms your heart Oreija's still trying, but—
(link-reveal: "Acid splashes your face, searing hot.")[=
You grunt and cough, confused, and more sprays up before you can wipe yourself clean. What is happening? The acid bubbles faster and rises as the stomach-walls churn horribly.
The deluge comes. A plume of vile acid and half-digested food jet up, carrying you back through Oreija's throat. Searing heat gnaws at your fingers, your ears, every patch of exposed skin. You flip around, lose sense of direction completely, and pitch through burning darkness forever.
Oreija vomits you onto the *oeiros* floor.
You splash around blind in an undignified puddle of spit and stomach contents too disgusting to merit mention. It's in your *throat*. Oh, this will be a bitch and a half to wash out.
Your consumer stands over you, hands squeezing her horns in panic.
"Thank the gods!" she cries. "My deepest, deepest apologies I took so long. I have never needed to induce vomiting before. It required some improvisation."
"No problem," you say, swaying on the spot. Vision's going blurry. Few moments left. "No problem at all. How was I?"
"$givenName?"
"You've not eaten a human before, have you? I hope I tasted good."
Oreija pulls back, cocks her head, ears going up and down all day long.
In a small sheepish voice: "You were delicious."
"Wonderful. Your examination is complete," you mumble before passing out.
($endSequence: "Cleaning up takes the rest of the day.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1
and (visited: "Sanding")
and (visited: "Dentistry")
)
}\
Figuring the blood-soaked guts of rabbits, fowl and deer must grow tiring, you're bringing Oreija a basket filled with cheeses, bread and (link-reveal: "sharp strawberry jam")[. The cured sausage didn't make it out of Watercreek].
When you get to the *oeiros*, though, she's nowhere to be found.
Settling on a perching-rocks, you lay out a spread for when she returns. You should have made the sugared lemon-tarts popular in the capital; rural sorts like her love it. Hm. Did her tastebuds also change?
Dull thudding booms beat the air. Giant steps. Oreija appears on the valley walls surrounding the church, legs flexing from the leap, and peers down into its open belly. Clamped in her jaws is a sheep, coat sodden red. It's alive and screaming like a woman. When she marks your presence, nose twitching, Oreija freezes.
She bolts.
---
By evening you track the prints to a secluded nook beneath one of Mt. Torre's hidden waterfalls. You abseil down with a coil of rope you've learned to keep in your pack, boots scraping clumps of moss from the streaked rock.
Oreija sits under the waterfall with long bandages arms around her knees. She doesn't look up as you disembark. The sheep is gone.
"You'll have to give me a ride back," you say, sitting where the water-flow is gentler.
"$givenName. I must apologise, $givenName. A maiden should, must, must not, abandon her *oeiros*. And yet. I did not expect you to see what you saw. To see me like that."
"It's fine."
"Resorting to such awful things, I know, degraces my station. The thought breathes down my neck. But I have no other way, no way at all, to feed myself. And as I once realised it would be an even greater shame to starve myself out of shame or fear and in the doing of such shirk my duties to the gods." She pauses to breathe. "I will understand if you do not wish to visit me in the future."
"I just said it's fine, Oreija. You do what the curse puts to you. No shame in it."
Water flutes down her snout as she gazes down at you, destroying mile-long jaw quivering, and shakes her head. No, that wasn't the right thing to say. What do you try next? You want to have sex with her again. Tying it to the religion could work, cast the wildlife as sacrifices to the gods.
Or you could be honest.
"I envy you," you say.
"What?" Voice husky and low.
"I've always wanted to—to know what it's *like*." You clench your hands into balls. "Sprinting after something, leaping, the final bite. Get your chest pounding so fucking hard you can't hear anything or even think. Biting down as hard as you can, just once, full force, just for a few seconds. Seeing how deep your fingers can really go. I (link-show: "always", ?always) wanted to know."
[Yes, even before the break.
](always|Oreija doesn't believe you. Can't believe a person like you could exist. That's fine: you're persistent.
[["I want to do it with you."->Prowling]]The median slopes of Mt. Torre curve and roll but remain shallow enough for a good sprint. Waterflow from the mountain breeds fertile land. Fat oily trout swim through meandering, downward streams that bring vegetation and watering-holes to the edge of the barren plains. Local legends call it the hunting ground of the mountain-gods.
Tonight is dark: clouds obscure all stars. The wind is still and all the world is motionless save your mount, as if everything below the sky was dead before your coming. Only by the old Academy spell taught to children do you see anything at all. Your feet are bare and you wear no coat.
You knew you needed to travel light.
Oreija bounds through the lowlands in loping leaps, bearing you on her back. Her hind legs shake the earth with explosive force every time she clears a hill or latent crevice in the ground, rattling your spine and skull in concert.
"You have no difficulty at this speed?" Oreija asks, focused yet genial.
You loosen grip of her mane to wave in approval. She is a superb mount. Your legs wrap snugly around the base of her neck, and her fur, dense and matted, means you don't get sore. Compared to mares, she's a dream.
"We can still return," Oreija says. "I fear that if you see all of this, you will not be able to unsee it."
Please, you're shivering with excitement. With a stabler mount, a hand would be firmly down your trousers. "I've seen worse. After the curse hit, I spent months in the fields. Even there you can—"
Your stomach jerks. Oreija stops hard and changes, hunches way down, belly dragging ground, ears flat, nose all crazy. You swivel around and hold your breath.
(link-reveal: "\"Where?\" you whisper.")[=
She doesn't reply. Instead she tenses up. Tenses farther. In brutal bursting motion she snaps forward over hill and on over hill and yet on. Her back ripples whip-crack fast in her smooth untempered hunting sprint. By momentum alone her paws throw up dark fists of earth.
On the terminal horizon you spot a contour, the outline of a watering-pool. A dot drinks from it, unknowing.
Dragons' blood fill the oceans, nothing feels like this.(visited: "Flying to Torre")[ Even flying to Torre with Eskar was less exhilarating.]
Oreija flies, a true arrow, following the invisible scent. By the time the deer hears you, it's already over. Oreija drives her prey into a dead-end against a cliff-side and a reservoir too broad to swim. The chill of death takes its eyes like a man in the noose. There was no other way.
What happens next you don't remember too well. Next thing you know you're digging in.
The walls of its chest are tough and pliant like a drum but you don't care, Oreija's already slashed it with claws leaving gaping wounds you can hook your fingers into. It's like pulling apart magnets, growing tension until suddenly something pops, here it's the deer's muscle (link-reveal: "tissue.")[= A big sheet of skin and bone hinges off in your hands, it's hard to get a solid grip when they're soaked in blood but your nails can dig in deep after all. Inside the deer it's dark red meat, you see guts and its stomach, the kidney, reach in and grab something, pull and wrench on it, the animal's still just about miserably alive, there's screaming either from it or you but with a *schlick* sound the organ tears free of its (link-reveal: "housing.")[= You pull out the lump of indistinct flesh, covered in a grime and blood and without thinking bite into it, hard for your teeth to find purchase but you give it a few full-bodied chomps fierce enough to cut clean through your tongue if you aren't careful, the membrane breaks and hot body juices flood into your mouth and down your (link-reveal: "chin.")[= Blood's everywhere, you're stuffing your mouth which gaping gnaws of the organ-thing. Oreija's beside you now sticking her snout in the hole you ripped open, looking for something good, you shuffle over so she can get a better angle as you keep chewing. You swallow a first mouthful of the organ, it's the most dense and savoury thing you've ever experienced, thin sinews of it clumping up around your teeth, it's almost (link-reveal: "inedible.")[= The deer now dead but still twitching, Oreija has her face in the carcass biting and tearing and slurping up blood which forms a puddle of matted grass under the deer. You toss the half-eaten organ to the side and lick up a dripping stream of blood going down the deer's hind leg, it's hot and (link-reveal: "delicious.")[= Oreija pulls out one of the lungs, bite, bite, chew, swallow, gone. You're so fucking horny you're gonna cum just sitting here. The revelry continues, Oreija eating most of the deer, especially the fatty and chewy bits but she shares the heart and a lot of the leg meat with you, there's no talking but she pares the flesh for you with her (link-reveal: "claws.")[= When the two of you are done the deer's completely wrecked, barely recognisable as a thing that could have ever been alive, skull smashed in with remnants of sucked-up brain leaking out, chest nearly hollow with only a few pieces left like the fat squidgy bladder which even Oreija deigns to leave (link-reveal: "untouched.")[= When the two of you are done you're completely delirious from over-eating, barely able to move or sit up straight, Oreija takes the back of the neck of your shirt in her mouth and hoists you up with her two front arms like a child and sits you away from the corpse in a soft grassy (link-reveal: "dip.")[= There she lays down and curls up around you and you rest your head in the softness and warmness of her stomach, hearing her heart beat so hard through the skin, blood smearing on her belly as you suck greedily on her teats, sweet black milk washing down the last morsels of (link-reveal: "deer-meat.")[= Eventually the two of you fall asleep embracing, gloriously sated and above the sky is [[nothing but stars->After the Hunt]].Oreija's still asleep when you wake up the next morning.
In earliest dawn her body wraps you. Her fur is crusted with blood, not from the killing, but your lust-drunk suckling after. You understand why wolves wrap around each other so tightly: her body's a fireplace, thudding heartbeats coursing hot blood through every vein.
She dreams. The third eyelid twitches as back leg gently kicks against the ground.
Tenderly, you untangle yourself and head to a nearby cliff's edge to piss over the side like a man. There's not really a single thought in your head. You're covered in blood, and the grainy deer residue stuck in your mouth tastes absolutely foul. It doesn't bother you much.
When you're done pissing you stay on the cliff for a while, looking over Eiyren.
You can't see the capital, there's another mountain in the way. But you know the direction and where the Academy would be. Floating pristine and motionless, the unearthed plateau of towers and fields that (link-reveal: "is your life.")[ (link-reveal: "Was?")[= No. You don't feel alien to the woman who came from there, who wrote papers and sometimes attended debate halls. You're one with her, here.]
"$givenName?" Oreija has lumbered up silently from behind.
Your pants are still undone. You pull them up. (link-reveal: "\"G'morning.\"")[=
"Did you sleep well?" Her ears are way down. She sits stiff upright, front paws touching.
"I've not slept so well in years." Your pants are still undone. Pull them up? No, the breeze is nice. Oreija can suffer the sight of your bare ass.
She speaks in measured tones. "I have wondered, $trueName, why you first visited a beast like myself. And even more did I wonder why you returned. At first I thought you were like the pilgrims who left offerings, not knowing my shame. But, that is not so." A pause only the well-mannered can produce. "If you do not mind my saying, you are not quite a normal person."
Laughter rarely comes easily, but you crease over, hiccuping and gulping for air. Oh, that's a good one, alright. Oreija gives a concerned whine, so, still wheezing, you point out at the mountain which hides the Academy.
"I came from there. Behind. A beast like yourself understands me far better than (link-show: "anyone there ever did", ?maera)." [Maera as the one exception.](maera|
She doesn't get it, you can tell by how she cocks her head, as if another angle will figure you out. That makes you laugh more, eventually sinking down to sit on the cliff-edge with your legs hanging off. You motion, and Oreija comes beside you. You take her snout in your hands, rubbing her chin.
"You call yourself a beast," you say, giggles dying down. "But that's not a shameful thing. I've met a lot of people more shameful than you."
"And yet I am ashamed." Her hot breath coats your thighs.
"But not because of why you think. You think you hate your body."
"You cannot tell me I do not."
"I won't. But you can hate your body and also not hate it. Can't you?"
Oreija tries to pull back, but you refuse, gripping her snout. She could, easily, break free. But after a moment's struggle she falls still. "You... ?"
"Not in the same way. But close enough."
Oreija is quiet for a long moment, resting her head on your legs. Slowly, she wheezes in a way that's peculiar until you realise she's laughing through wolf lungs. Her smile is broad and shaggy. "Certainly," she says, "the strangest person I have ever known. And yet I would not wish for any other to fight this curse."
($grantWillpower: 20)
When you ride her back to the church, Oreija steps in bounding leaps, her muscles a conduit for exact and precise grace. She finds the effortless curve past every rock and crevice. You, clutching her mane, stand upright on her back and scream echoing into the mountain hills from the thrill of being alive.
($endSequence: "You spend the day by her side.", "Watercreek"){
(set: _bestiaryPassages to (passages: where its tags contains "bestiary"))
} \
The manuscript is a hundred loose sheets of poor foolscap bound by twine. It began as pages torn out from encyclopedias and natural histories; over time you added your own notes, synthesised from survivor's reports and autopsies. Now it is your living testimony of the corruption-curse.
You hope it will not survive you.
(for: each _passage, ..._bestiaryPassages)[(link-goto: _passage's name)
]\
(link-goto: "Put your notes away.", $lastHub)Bloatlings are insectoids morphed by the corruption-curse. These enlarged vespiforms are easily recognised by the large, distorted sack of sperm hanging from their underside.
Eiyren's swamps and bogs house many insect species which serve a critical function in the land's ecosystem. Bloatlings, however, are pure parasites, with poisonous blood that even carrion cannot harvest.
Bloatlings cannot reproduce with their own kind. However, the dark logic of the corruption-curse allows them to impregnate other species. This includes humans, harpies, dogs, pigs and even (reportedly) lamia.
To this end, bloatlings spend their lives generating incredibly potent semen which accumulates in a large sack of flesh sags beneath the body. When full, rabid instinct drives them to breed. Despite lacking the physical prowess of other predators, bloatling stingers drip with a hallucinogenic paralytic which can quell even the strongest prey.
A typical attack pumps litres of virile breeding-material into the helpless victim, often visibly distending the belly.
Once satisfied, they depart in search of food and begin the process again.
Pregnancy occurs within hours of insemination, and bloatlings are born ready to reproduce. Victims are often impregnated again by the next litter's spawn in a dire cycle.
Becoming the breeding-stock for these insects is surely one of the corruption-curse's worst fates.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Kamal's curse does not directly affect dragonkin, like humans or harpies. Instead, corruption spreads amongst our race by the attacks of lower beasts.
Aiding this is the curse's extraordinary transmission rate.
A single bite or scratch from an afflicted animal invariably evokes symptoms in human hosts. Statistical analysis shows that direwolves are the most common transmission vector, but by no means the only one. In humid climates, even everyday mosquitos have spread the curse to many.
Even more treacherously, the corruption is also air-borne. Many animals secrete curse-laden pheromones that passively infect all nearby. The musk of a corrupted equine, for instance, can completely corrupt all those in a mile-square radius with little effort.
All humans affected by corruption exhibit similar behaviour.
Base instincts like lust and anger take supremacy over reason and forethought. Affected dragonkin lose the need for food, drink or sleep. Left unattended, they will wander aimlessly, looking to spread the curse ever further.
Thankfully, those bereft of reason are poor stewards of their strength. Individual afflicted are easy to outmanoeuvre and easily dispatched by conventional weapons. Their true danger lies in the loss of social cohesion and labour that deprives Eiyren's economy year on year.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Direwolves are ordinary wolves made monstrous by the corruption-curse. Akin to mountain lions, they are larger and stronger than their uncorrupted kin. This newfound form leads to increased appetites, sexual drives and predatory behaviour.
The change in pack dynamics is particularly startling. Typical wolf packs operate communally, but direwolves follow a strict hierarchy. A leader commands a king's share of prey—and mates.
Nine-tenths of direwolves are male.
On transformation, the curse will change the sex of its victims to enforce this ratio. As a result, males often hunt mates from other species, especially dragonkin. Powerful muscles, vast reserves of stamina and an innate skill for stealth make them fearsome hunters.
Once prey is caught, a wolf's knotted penis immobilises victims for hours at a time. This bind is even strong enough for the direwolf to drag their spoils back to whatever nearby squalid hole the pack has made their own.
Unlike equines, direwolves do not develop a corruption-musk.
Instead, their semen becomes a powerful aphrodisiac that transcends species barriers. Mating-prey often remain in the depths of direwolf lairs for days, even when their captors are absent, out of refusal to leave.
*Note to self: want to work in the reports of people voluntarily returning to direwolf dens, but the reports are too fragmentary. And nobody back home would believe me, anyway.*
[[Return->Bestiary]]Dragons are large, winged reptilians of unknown origin who created mankind and sundry other races.
While new dragons are sometimes born, most are ahistorical features of the natural world. When Atu, one such 'primordial dragon', was asked for his age, he replied
*Memory runneth not to the contrary.*
Dragons created humanity between 20,000 and 50,000 years ago(text-style:"superscript")[1]. A collaborative process, many extant dragons claim partial credit for our creation. Common themes in these accounts include moulding clay, distilling sea-water and capturing starlight.
Dragons also created [[harpies->Bestiary: Harpies]], imps and several non-sapient ungulates, collectively termed *dragonkin*. The creation of these other races is much murkier. Date estimates range from after the advent of human history to much prior^^2^^.
In contrast, all dragons decline creating succubi and most inhabitants of the sea. On others their answers are cryptic and ambiguous. Archaeological evidence and written records indicate [[at least two races created by dragons->Encyclopedia: Pre-Human Societies]] since perished from the world.
Academic indexes list two hundred dragons known in history and folklore. However, dragons often sport many names and change appearance over time, making all counts speculative.
As a rule, dragons stay aloof from the affairs of other living beings.
A rare few enter into prolonged relationships with individuals or institutions. Harpy tribes, for instance, have made pilgrimage to the mount of storm-beater Aoe since time immemorial. More recently, the venerable Ixi has often shared wisdom with the Academy of Eiyren (both Old and new).
(1) Rocher v31X, Tel-el Asan, v25X, King Noron the 3rd, v18X, personal attestations of Uxim the ocean-bearer.
(2) A well-argued, much-debated, figure by the Association of Keys places the creation of harpies at 200,000 years ago.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Horses, alongside other equines like zebras and mules, are common sights across the Eiyren. Kamal's curse has changed many into larger, solitary beasts known for sexual depravity and omens of corruption.
Altered equines possess the most potent corruption-musk of any beasts currently studied.
Emanating from the anus and genitalia, this musk is markedly potent. In clinical trials, fifteen seconds of exposure from a dozen meters away made subjects report light-headedness, drunkenness and extreme lust. Direct exposure has completely corrupted people in seconds.
The musk is also addictive to dragonkin.
Even trace hints of the scent will instil a strong desire to hunt down the source. This desire, like all addictions, only grows when satisfied: victims forgo food, drink and family to press their nose pressed against an equine's anus.
Combined, these facts make corrupted horses extremely dangerous transmitters of the corruption-curse. A single beast roaming the countryside can remotely corrupt entire villages. For this reason, horses have become symbols of despair and fear amongst rural communities, sometimes even leading to attacks against conveyors.
*Note to self: wish I could say asshole in formal documents. Everyone reading is thinking it anyway.*
[[Return->Bestiary]]Harpies are avian humanoids that populate mountains and high-altitude areas.
Like their non-sapient cousins, harpies use wings to take to the air, where they have uncontested authority. This has made them famed as warriors since antiquity, and harpies oft provide a vital aerial advantage to militaries.
In spite of this, most harpies live in peaceful communities far from other species, some never seeing humans in their life.
Like humans, harpies were created by [[dragons->Bestiary: Dragons]]. However, they have traditionally had a closer relationship with their creators than us; their natural mountainous habitat puts them in closer proximity.
As dragonkin, harpies are not directly affected by the curse but susceptible to indirect corruption via lesser beasts.
Notoriously aggressive, corrupted harpies relish clawing and scratching the skin of their victims. They retain the ability to fly, making them dangerous transmission vectors. Many speculate that a harpy soaring over the border originally introduced the corruption curse to Tehraum.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Imps are caven-borne dragonkin of smaller stature but longer life than humans.
Geneaologists estimate that dragons created imps roughly 100,000 years ago, before humans but after harpies. For much of human history they have been hazy, quasi-mythological figures. Solitary in nature, imps rarely emerge from underground warrens or secluded forest settlements.
Their long lives and complex social structures (so assume researchers) leads to a propensity among imps for mischief, pranks and practical jokes.
Common interactions when humans do collide with imps include freshly-cooked meals going missing, tripping into mud, or trousers coming undone in public.
While vexing, imps rarely pose a serious threat to humans. In fact, they are sometimes hired to direct their talents at one's enemies. Imp spies have won at least one battle by sabotaging the magical supplies of the opposing force.
Like all dragonkin, imps are not directly susceptible to the corruption-curse.
Under its influence, however, mischief becomes outright sadism. Corrupted imps dominate their victims, especially sexually; nuns have been made to renounce their faith and urinate on religious symbols.
Although smaller than humans, imps are no weaklings and can pin a full-grown man to the ground with ease. One should tread carefully around imps that show signs of corruption.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Lamia are snake-like reptilians, distinguished by their size and 'hair'. A distant cousin to [[succubi->Bestiary: Succubi]], lamia reside in high-lying regions, particularly mountains.
Lamia sport a bed of smaller independent snakes atop their heads, termed hair. This is, in fact, a unique form of parasitism. The host provides the snakes with nutrition, and receive 'eyes in the back of their head', even when asleep.
Lamia historically live apart from the common kin of the lands. Their serpentine tongues are ill-suited for the languages of humans, harpies or succubi. Only in recent years have pidgin sign languages engendered proper communication.
Additionally, lamia are ravenous eaters and adept hunters. This endears them to solitary, migratory lifestyles tracking seasonal prey. Omnivorous in diet, many feel no qualms about eating humans.
Despite this, some lamia have become noted members of Eiyren society.
Fifty-Four^^1^^ served as Parliamentary Advisor before retiring to a life of letters; anyone familiar with Tollingway street lovingly remembers the pastries of Twenty-Ten.
1) Lamia lack formal naming traditions. In Eiyren society, most adopt a moniker reflecting the snakes in their hair.
[[Return->Bestiary]]Succubi are a race of reptilian humanoids native to Eiyren, known for their proficiency in seduction and lovemaking.
Their distinctive features include horns, tails and forked tongues. Succubi scales vary in colour and formation according to geography: in distant climates, like the Meri clan of far-west Tehraum, some even sport a mix of skin and scales.
Intermittently persecuted by ruling-classes for their presumed influence on social stability, succubi historically integrate well with dragonkin communities. In many rural human communities, they serve as experts in midwifery and animal husbandry.
The corruption-curse complicated matters.
Though no evidence links succubi to Kamal's work, nobles across Eiyren seized the opportunity to expel succubi from their communities. Their unexplained immunity to the curse only heightened suspicion against them.
Despite the stereotype, succubi are not uniformly sexual. A small percentage are asexual and dedicate themselves to intellectual and artistic pastimes, like natural philosophy or botany.
In contrast, some revel in their sexuality.
These succubi feed on unsuspecting humans, enthralling them with love-magic. Many missing rural farmers have been discovered years later as the 'willing' captive of a renegade succubi.
[[Return->Bestiary]]You settle into a quiet spot with your notes. Somewhere in the knowledge of the world, Maera always said, there was a perfect cure to the corruption-curse.
You have the words. Can you find your way with them?
(set: _passages to (passages: where its tags contains "encyclopedia"))\
(for: each _passage, ..._passages)[(link-goto: _passage's name)
]\
(link-goto: "Put your notes away.", $lastHub)The City of Demons is a foreign plane of existence spoken of in all societies since the earliest written records.
Known from its earliest mention as a place of 'darkness bare and foul'^^1^^, folklore has long spoken of the nameless City as a realm of torment and suffering. The traditional formula is simple:
1. A human (usually, parallel traditions exist) is unsatisfied with their lot.
2. A demon appears, offering succour in exchange for service.
3. The human agrees and suffers degradation in the City, recounted in great detail.
4. Given a chance to escape, the human declines, rejecting the mortal world.
As reports of the City across cultures and epochs agree on key details, scholars have accepted its existence for thousands of years. The last skeptics were silenced in v11X, when the first physical evidence of the City came to our realm: a single black-iron buckle^^2^^.
Scientific demonology has produced further evidence of the City, including eyewitness testimony.
Current thinking posits the City as another plane of existence, entirely inaccessible by conventional means. While demons reside in the City, and claim to originate from it, they are not bound there as we are to our realm.
The scant few who return from the City invariably spend short times there. This confirms the folkloric traditions that the City has an alluring power over mortals that grows with duration.
For this reason alone, all demons should be treated with utmost caution.
—X, Third Key of Longe's March.
(1) *Testimony of State*, p.48. Own translation.
(2) The story of Yimon of Keys needs no introduction, but it is worth noting that the artifact can still be seen (with prior appointment) at the Academy reliquary.
*Note to self: Who built the city?*
[[Return->Notes]]Eiyren is a small parliamentary monarchy on the western landmass of the world, formed roughly one hundred and sixty years ago out of minor regional power structures.
Much has been written about Eiyren's creation^^1^^, but all historians agree it began as a temporary alliance of convenience against outside factors (plague, rogue magic use, political influence of the Old Academy).
Many thinkers see its growth into a stable, prosperous nation as proof of the superiority of mixed-representation, where power is traded between bloodline monarchs and an elected parliament every dozen years^^2^^.
As host to the Academy, it has also enjoyed tremendous advances in natural and magical sciences. Agricultural spells in particular make Eiyren a chief exporter of grains to neighbouring regions.
Born from tumultuous beginnings, Eiyren has oft had rocky relations with its neighbours, such as the anarchic southern folkdom of Terhaum. Tensions broke into conflict at the turn of the last decade, when erosions in the banks of the Living River ceded territory in Eiyren's favour. Some speculate more personal motives ^^3^^.
Recent Eiyren history has, like its origins, been [[burdened by plague->Encyclopedia: The Corruption-Curse]] ...
—Tierry "The Joyful", Eiyren Capital.
(1) See particularly Yetter's monumental *Three Roads, Five Meetings and an Oak-Wood Sword*.
(2) For a genealogy of the royal bloodline, see the author's previous work. For an overview of the parliamentary system, see Roher's *Of Public Things*.
(3) Lecture of the Raised Chair, v40X
*Note to self: should take better care of its fucking spellcasters if it doesn't want to dissolve into half a duchy and some squabbling petty barons in thirty years. Assuming the curse doesn't wipe us all out.*
[[Return->Notes]]Kamal was the most feared dark sorcerer in living memory.
He is known for the scouring of Watercreek, popularising psychological magic to torture opponents and the corruption-curse that currently plagues Eiyren.
From a petty-aristocratic background, Kamal studied in the Old Academy. Of middling talent but deep determination, he was the first to decipher the old Allytic script found on copper tablets dredged from riverbeds in outer Cithir ^^1^^.
These texts, of which he only ever published small excerpts, forged a path for Kamal outside that traditionally laid for Old Academy sorcerers.
Seeking power, he conquered a string of rural villages through displays of might and a trademark corruption spell that eroded one's sensibilities. Citizen militias eventually reversed these attempts, but Kamal escaped justice and began a spree of itinerant magical terror lasting decades.
Six years ago, Eiyren's treaty of peace with neighbouring Terhaum ^^2^^ freed up the political resources and willpower to deal with Kamal once and for all.
Soldiers and self-armed peasantry descended on Kamal's stronghold in the once-populous Watercreek. After a brief battle, an unknown attacker eventually killed the sorcerer with a simple spear to the throat.
Alas, it soon became clear that death was not the end of Kamal's [[crimes against the land->Encyclopedia: The Corruption-Curse]].
—Krecher, Magis of Birch-By-Wend.
(1) Similar relics located in the Midsaern antiquary were proven via incantational microscopy to be early-modern forgeries.
(2) See Michem y. Asen's *Conclusions of the Year of Nettles* for an overview of the politics. Yureheim's 'Tortoiseshell' manuscript provides an insightful Terhaum perspective, but is still difficult to come by without crossing the border.
*Note to self: fucking asshole, should have topped himself five years earlier and spared us all this. And never knew shit outside of hexes anyway.*
[[Return->Notes]]Mt. Torre is the only named peak in the Upper Limmic region, roughly three thousand miles from the Eiyren capital.
Ancient by mortal reckoning, mountains represent relatively recent geological activity. Geomancers estimate the Torrean range formed from tectonic contact two hundred million years ago.
Isolated by distance from human societies for most of history, the range was only formally discovered in v05X. Despite this, it has been inhabited continuously by harpies for tens of thousands of years.
*Torre* is a degenerate form of the harpy *tarei*, simply meaning 'mountain'.
Far from centers of power, no organised expeditions have mapped the mountain ranges. No communities on Mt. Torre outside the harpy town on the lower planes are known.
—Tierry "The Joyful", Eiyren Capital.
[[Return->Notes]]The Academy is a historic institution of magic and natural study currently located over the Eiyren capital.
Records attesting its existence date to over a thousand years ago. Initially an informal coalition of powerful sorcerers, time morphed the Academy into an educational house for all students with magical experience.
Due to its high concentration of magical power, the Academy quickly became a major political player, at one point even commanding a standing army. This, as with so many things, ended with the Grace of v11X, the traditional boundary made by historians between the 'Old Academy' and the new.
Despite licensing its right-to-power to Eiyren, the Academy retains substantial independence, especially in commercial ventures.
—Tierry "The Joyful", Eiyren Capital.
[[Return->Notes]]Written sources and archaeological evidence confirm the existence of at least two species created by [[dragons->Bestiary: Dragons]] prior to humanity since perished from the world.
They are termed, respectively, the Mellenians (80,000-60,000 years go) and the Prior Keysians (150,000—100,000 years ago).
---
**Mellenians**
Pre-human archaeology began with the excavation of the monumental Telluric grain silos in the western delta of Tehraum in v14X.
Initially named the 'Keysians', since the dig was organised by the Association of Keys, later translations of the culture's writings provided the name *Meu-ii-oea*. 'Mellenian' is a logoprojective reconstruction of the original pronunciation.
Physically, Mellenians resembled modern humans, albeit taller and less prone to body hair^^1^^.
Evocative fragments of religious artwork from the later Mellenian era depict the use of magic. No written sources mention its development; the early human prejudice against mixing the written word with magic may originate with the Mellenians.
All archaeological Mellenian activity abruptly stops 60,000 years ago. The last writings from this era present no obvious causes for their disappearance.
---
**Prior-Keysian**
Confusing evidence emerged as digs in Tehraum continued. Material artifacts in close proximity differed greatly in construction techniques, artistic styles and apparent usage.
Old Academy spectral ageing solved this mystery by revealing a thousand more: these artifacts were, in fact, the remnants of an even older culture built over by the Mellenians. No self-identification from this culture survives, hence the enduring moniker of the 'Prior-Keysian'.
No samples of literature from this culture are extant.
Prior-Keysian architecture and material culture is utilitarian compared to the Mellenians, though sparse examples of artistic works (primarily religious) exist. Only two of these potentially represent the Prior-Keysian form, and are highly symbolic. How their anatomy differed from modern humans remains deeply controversial.
Nobody has ever found traces of Prior-Keysian magic use. Archaeological evidence trails off 100,000 years ago, with signs of widespread famine caused by poor agricultural techniques.
---
**Concluding remarks**
Even before the discovery of Prior-Keysians, scholars conjectured races created by dragons spanning back through history, the so-called 'unending chain of creation'.
Laws of decay make finding physical evidence of these pre-Keysian cultures (if any do exist) impossible. Thaumaturgic chronology is a promising advancement, but the willpower and amber required to see back such distances seem currently unattainable.
Dragons have shared tantalising insights about Mellenian culture and history^^2^^, but are much more guarded on the Prior-Keysian. On any yet-unknown precursors, they are entirely silent.
—Su Boehme, Fourth Key of Longe's March.
(1) Some attribute this to Mellenian symbolism. Contemporary artwork of harpies (which greatly outnumber Mellenian depictions of their own race) also diverges from the anatomy of modern individuals.
(2) At the festival celebrating the Old Academy's hundredth anniversary, Ixi, the earth-mover, revealed that a king of the middle Mellenian era once rode upon his back.
*Note to self: the numbers are wrong.*
[[Return->Notes]]Six years ago, on a moonless night at the end of drought-season, a loose coalition of adventurers and mercenaries slew the dark sorcerer Kamal, ending his decade-long reign of terror across the province.
Unfortunately, Kamal orchestrated a latent curse to take effect when he died. Over the coming days, the curse wrought dogs, horses, birds, sea-creatures and sundry other natural species into new and monstrous forms.
As it predominately made affected species base, territorial and violent, it quickly became known as the corruption-curse^^1^^.
State thaumaturgists diligently slowed the curse so it only affects roughly 15% of a species' natural population. The loss of labour-animals and increased danger posed by wildlife has still caused dramatic social upheaval.
No counter-spell has yet been formulated for the corruption-curse. Theoretical workings by logicians suggest one must exist.
Prevailing opinion holds that any purifying charm would require extensive first-hand research of every corrupted species to identify the intricacies of their metamorphosis.
Due to the inherent risk of exposure to corrupted beasts, this research is unlikely to take place.
—Krecher, Magis of Birch-By-Wend.
(1) Coinage attributed to an internal Academy gazette leaked into public circulation.
*Note to self: Kamal's only good work. So powerful for something so simple. A self-feeding circle. Brute force won't counter it. You need something subtle. Experience, real experience.
There's only one way.
Dragons save me.*
[[Return->Notes]]The void is the expanse of empty space beyond the sky.
Once thought infinite, the telescopic revolution persuaded most natural philosophers that the void obeys the same natural laws as our own world, despite its obvious differences.
Harpies recognise an altitude above which none may fly, due to increasing chill and thinness of air, named the *ieri ala*^^1^^. Some report dragons ascending above this limit, and possibly into the void itself. No draconic sources available to the author are willing to confirm or deny this^^2^^.
The void's inaccessibility makes experimental research rare.
Spell-searchers have made unmanned excursions into the void by altering the inner mass of a balloon to lessen its dependency on gravity. These confirmed assumptions of an entirely frigid and airless environment, unlike any on our world.
Despite this, life must exist in the void.
Asteroids have impacted our world since time immemorial. Their deposits of rare minerals oft prove a crucial resource for pre-magical societies. Analyses of such deposits show trace amounts of water and biological residue inside many asteroid cores.
One can only wonder at the stark, cruel form life must take to survive in such a barren locality.
—Krecher, Magis of Birch-By-Wend.
(1) Roughly, 'wingless place'. Harpy folklore on the topic has been recently compiled by Kelle, of the Academy, and his assistant Tura.
(2) Ixi, I implore you to return my letters.
*Note to self: no air to deliver heat. Thus no friction. A propulsive form of travel, to other worlds, given heat and food for the journey? But how to break through?*
[[Return->Notes]]{
(set: $inFlashback to false)
(set: _visited to (history: where it contains "flashbackText"))
} \
The curse has its little tricks and jokes, its curving intricacies that slip the mind in the heat of the moment. Understanding it fully will take time and reflection. Cast your mind into the foreign past.
(for: each _passageName, ..._visited)[\
(set: _p to (passage: _passageName))\
(link-reveal-goto: (_p)'s flashbackText, (_p)'s name)[(set: $inFlashback to true)]
]\
[[Memories never saved the world.->Watercreek]]You're bored and horny, unsure if you want wild dogs to rip you to pieces or breed you.
Perhaps both.
The ride out from the capital is uneventful. The carriage passes people: merchants, itinerants, pilgrims. Farmers work fields, reaping thick harvests, and up above harpy-scouts dart through the air.
Most people look at this and think things are fine. You don't.
When the corruption-curse first came, experts called it the end of the world—a real plague, the kind that cripples nations. When commerce, justice and faith were still going a year later, the powers that be quietly stopped caring.
($reveal: "Not you.", "payload")
|payload)[=The farmers bring in harvests, but their beasts of burden are missing. Wheat rots in the fields for lack of transport. Pilgrims walk the roads because they have no villages to return to. The harpies recede, drawing back to their mountain-nests. Things unravel. Day by day, more corruption-beasts slither into the world. The land's choking, and nobody is even trying to stop it.
The carriage jerks to a stop and a knock comes from (link-show: "the driver", ?thought). A crossroads.
[He might be dead in a month, body left to rot on the side of the road. You're thinking of that.
](thought|"Which way here, miss?"
"Left."
The driver pauses. "To Watercreek? You're sure?"
[["Yes."->To Watercreek]]Sunlight fades into wet, humid dusk as the carriage trundles on. The road follows the curving spine of ($thought: "a nameless river", 1). |thought)[People will eat clay from its banks when famine hits. ]It flows from a mountain chain that dominates the horizon: Torre, ancestral harpy home, a world you can scarce imagine.
Home.
You're two weeks from the capital, two weeks from your colleagues and your career. All letters will go unopened, unanswered.
Those at the Academy always denigrated your research—tutelage under a succubi!—but it's why you, only you, can fix things. The capital spellbinders slowed the decline, but they don't see the true working. The corruption-curse which rocked Eiyren six years ago was no ordinary spell.
It's a *lust* curse.
When dark sorcerer Kamal got a spear to the neck, his death-curse twisted the beasts of the land beyond recognition. Reports from the hinterlands spoke of violence and bloodshed.
You went beyond reports. Far beyond. Years of interviews and autopsies in blood-clogged fields. You saw direwolves gangrape a farm-maid after ripping out her husband's throat. You saw bloatlings pump a nun so full of fetid eggs her belly nearly split. Instead of disease, this plague spreads sadistic pleasure.
Why can you alone fix things? Because you alone studied sex magic. You *invented* it. With its power, you will devise a purifying charm to lift the yoke from Eiyren.
The only issue is knowledge.
Unwinding a spell and curing an illness both require knowing the damage done. It was a cold night in the study when what that meant sunk in, lone candle by your side sputtering out.
Your duty is gaining *carnal knowledge*, as the Academy dean called your work, of every beast, monster and creature turned wild by the curse. Only then will you know where to stick the scalpel.
Fuck and be fucked, in other words. There are [[worse ways to save the world->Arrival]].The carriage slows once more.
Outside, a humid dusk has fallen. In its gloom stands a fading town, built on the banks of the Torrean mountain-river. Walls and watchtowers girdle ramshackle houses, nearly all abandoned. The roads are hard weed-strewn dirt.
Unshaven ($thought: "conveyors", 1), their carriages laden with goods from across the border, camp outside the gates. Post-war trade with Tehraum is the only thing keeping Watercreek on the map.
[For all the wonders of the Academy, Eiyren's economy still depends on horses and recklessly entrepreneurial merchants to cart goods around. Teleportation is trivial, but only when the subject has blood.
](thought|No locals on the street. They know to stay in at night.
($reveal: "\"We've arrived, Miss, ah...\"", "payload")
|payload)[=
---
(Enter the name you'll use in Watercreek.)
(input-box:bind $givenName,"X====",1, "Macella")
(Enter your actual name.)
(input-box:bind $trueName,"X====",1, "Mezalyn")
---
"And thank you."
You collect your belongings. Journeying clothes, books, standard glassware for magic. Oh, and the hefty sum of money you stole from ($thought:"under the Academy treasurer's nose", 2). [Not like you plan to return.](thought| As you descend from the carriage, fine leather boots sinking into rural mud, the driver motions for a final word.
"Be careful here, miss. Most in the capital don't know it, but things are getting bad out here. For someone like you, anyways."
The worry on his face is sincere. If you pull this off, you'll be saving Eiyren for people like him. Can that be enough?
[["I will. Goodbye."->Settling In]]An hour later you're unpacked. Your room is on the upper floor of Watercreek's only lodging-house, The Kettle. It doesn't need more; nobody visits Watercreek.
Being the stronghold of a dark sorcerer for a decade is bad for tourism.
When ($thought:"Kamal was vanquished", 1), |thought)[*and yea the dogs of the streets did lap at his blood*,] this village became the epicentre of his mad curse. That's why you came: may as well be efficient and build your body-count where corrupted beasts are most common.
As you pack clothes into the storage space beneath the bed, something small and hard tumbles to the floor. Ah, there it is. The old friend.
A small, unadorned pendant, the chain so thin and familiar you no longer feel it around your neck. [[The last gift your mentor gave you->Maera's Gift]] before the Academy exiled her and her kind. As long as you have this, nothing can stop you but your own pride.
So much for all that.
It's late; you splay out on the bed, shoes still on. Tomorrow, your self-imposed mission begins in earnest. Noble words for spreading your legs in front of whatever slavering monsters you can find. Dragonfire... your research notes from this are *never* getting published.
($endSequence: "Can't say you're not excited.", "Watercreek")"This thing has power," you said, twirling it in your fingers. The design was unremarkable, featureless burnished brass. But magic hums, and will not be silenced; the pendant warmed the blood in your fingertips.
Maera, her fishscale skin the flush red of north-coven succubi, put a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Let's say I made this for someone I never ended up meeting. And now it's yours."
Even then, half-crazed and relearning basic conversation, you knew better than to ask. The chain tightened to fit your snugly around your neck.
"Spell of return," Maera said. "When you're in mortal peril, it'll pull you back to where you last rested. Standard caveats apply."
"Takes time to charge, instant death's still a danger, don't be stupid. Same as every shiny gem they're hawking down in Teckridge. If I get beheaded, I promise on the dragons I won't sue."
She flashed the wry grin that ($thought: "attracted you to her in the first place", 1). |thought)[Seven years at the Academy and you were her first, only, student.
People were more comfortable seeing scales on the streets outside.]
"One more thing. I wove in a couple dozen latticed purity charms. Nothing groundbreaking, but you'll keep a certain presence of mind where others go insane."
"Hm." Not like Maera to be speculative.
[[Who would ever need a purity charm?->Settling In]]{
(set: _hubs to (a:
(dm:
"name", "Watercreek",
"link", "Return to Watercreek",
"ok", true),
(dm:
"name", "Torre, Nest of Harpies",
"link", "Visit the harpy town in the mountains",
"ok", (visited: "Torre, Nest of Harpies")),
(dm:
"name", "The Coven",
"link", "Visit Maera's coven in the swamps",
"ok", (visited: "The Coven")),
(dm:
"name", "City of Demons",
"link", "Focus on Ishiyk's sigil and visit the city of demons",
"ok", (visited: "Ending the Contract")),
(dm:
"name", "The Dungeon",
"link", "Go to the pre-human dungeon ruins in the plains",
"ok", $canVisitDungeon),
))
(set: _visitable to (find: _hub where (_hub)'s ok is true and (_hub)'s name is not $lastHub, ..._hubs))
} \
(for: each _hub, ..._visitable)\
[\
(link-goto: (_hub)'s link, (_hub)'s name)
]\
Nevermind, (link-goto: "you're fine here", $lastHub).There's nothing you can do here currently.
(link-goto: "Go back to where you once were", $lastHub){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
You're way out in the plains, on the long winding road that eventually leads to the capital. Before you is a massacre.
The wagon is on its side, the lower half of its skeleton smashed by the weight of the fall. Two horses lie in front, awash with flies and eyes missing from the sockets. Animals get spooked, the cart tips and the weight of its own cargo sends it over. Then you're immobilised and good as dead.
Far too common a story.
The conveyor's entrails are splayed over the seat. He (link: "is")[was] a middle-aged man, wearing a tight tidy beard and spectacles with a fine copper frame. Somewhat fat, in the comfortable phase of his career. Judging by the eyes, dazed and glassy, it happened quickly.
(link-reveal: "Were there others?")[
Yes, a boy. The conveyor's apprentice.
Not as lucky as his master: he died with wide eyes, locked in fear, staring forever dumb at the sky. His neck is savaged, most of the windpipe completely missing.]
You don't need to look at the bites to say direwolf. After a hundred field-autopsies, gather evidence on the curse, you get an intuition. Direwolves are less common outside the forests, but a low percentage is plenty deadly with bad dice.
The bodies are cold and past rigid. The corruption-curse exacts its charge on the land.
They were ripped apart, and the blood slowly congealed. An enjoyable scene. You would touch yourself, but the smell of corpses kills the mood, so instead you rifle through the wreckage for loot.
The conveyor has a nice ring you pilfer and a bundle of letters in his coat-pocket which you ignore. The merchandise is raw materials—flax, wool, untanned hide—that's too cumbersome to lug to Watercreek.
When you get back you'll report everything at the guard-house. Some unlucky sod will cart the bodies back to civilisation. If there's next-of-kin, they will get a proper burial; otherwise curse-dead are burnt as a precaution.
All told you'll garner maybe thirty gold from these people's deaths.
($grantGold: 30)
($endSequence: "Return to town.", "Watercreek"){
(set: _accept to (link-show: "Check inside.", ?enter))
(set: _refuse to (link-show: "Leave.", ?leave))
}\
The plains are so empty that everything takes you by surprise.
The bare, weather-worn signpost a mile away sneaks up on you quicker than rent payments; by the time you realise you've reached that hill on the horizon you're halfway to the next one. When every landmark is separated by ($thought: "a solid hour of walking", 1), little surprise your wits go hazy during the interim. |thought)[A new and exciting form of teleportation for the shrivelled dickless fucks studying atomics back home.]
All this is to say that the ruins come out of nowhere. One minute you're trailing through moderately muddy lowlands, the next you're tripping over a fallen pillar of ancient stone hidden under knots of yellowy switchgrass.
The fuck? There's whole structures of stone here.
This is a little dip in the plains, shadowed from normal view by ($thought: "a trick of the light", 2) that hides the change in elevation. |thought)[In your reverie, you stomped right through. Good thing it wasn't a five-hundred foot drop.] A squat, angular building ((cycling-link: "shrine?", "outpost?", "temple?", "orgy-house?")) stands here, made from grey stone worn entirely smooth by rain. All four walls remain intact; you can't see inside. A doorway beckons.
|choice>[ \
_accept
_refuse
] \
[{
(hide: ?choice)
(set: $canVisitDungeon to true)
}\
Age has a smell you've never pinned down. Some combination of mould, dry bones and still air. The ruin interior is small—the walls are weirdly thick, swallowing up sound from the outside world—and bare. The floor is polished smooth, and a neat square cut is missing from its center. Stairs lead down below the earth. You can't see the bottom.
Wow. You'd heard stories, excited glee from the Academy archeologists, but never thought you'd see one yourself. An actual, honest, swear-by-the-dragons dungeon. A quick flick of your thumb catches a stray atom of dust, kicked up by your presence... you read its history... spooling, winding back the thread...
Old. Very old. That can't be right. Surely? The synesthetic figure in your mind works out to over a hundred and twenty thousand years ago. That puts this site firmly in pre-Mellenian territory, the fourth such site ever discovered and easily the largest.
Your throat goes dry.
Dragons talk about the Mellenians, albeit guardedly: their most recent precursor to humans, moulded from willow-bark instead of seawater. But they never, ever speak about those who came before or what happened to them. Ixi broke off contact with the Academy for decades when someone put the question to him pointedly.
You beat a hasty retreat and take deep breaths back out in the sunlit plains. Taking on the corruption-curse is one thing, but you've got limits, and they stop a ways before 'raiding mysterious, forgotten dungeons several times older than your entire species'. Even if there's no horrifying beasts down there, who knows what dormant diseases lie in that stagnant air? Maera's charm won't save you from that. Not to mention the risk of rockfall.
And yet...
There's nothing here for you—currently. Maybe when you get a new set of nerves, or learn a spell to ensure some measure of safety.
($endSequence: "You return to Watercreek", "Watercreek"), making detailed notes on how to get back here later.
](enter| \
[{
(hide: ?choice)
}\
Speaking frankly, you have enough to deal with right now and a random ruin in the back-end of nowhere is unlikely to furnish anything useful on the corruption-curse. You leave this place, ($endSequence: "never to return again", "Watercreek").](leave|{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "Stumbling on the weird little imp guy named Klipp, and the things he subjected you to.",
"showcaseText", "A weird little imp guy makes you suck his cock and lick cum off his dirty boot."
)
}\
Those are definitely socks.
You've chased the distinctive scent of corruption-musk up the bend of a small stream for the past half hour. It led you into the way-out plains you normally ignore—it's poor soil, so no crops, so no hungry beasts looking for an easy meal.
But you're looking at a makeshift laundry line made of hand-sawn logs standing streamside, and there's a dozen thick wool socks pegged to it, and you'll be damned by dragons if they're not wreathed with corruption-musk. By the line stands a ramshackle hut made of fine pale ashwood, barely the height of your head.
All this sits in a depression made by three hills that block off much of the horizon. The stream, winding down from some rain-reserve in Mt. Torre, snakes around one of the hills and continues out of sight.
Not a spot that invites casual company.
You sidestrafe the laundry-line and approach. (link-show: "An imp half your height", ?klipp) sits on a handmade cottonwood stool by the river's edge, fishing. A bucket by his side teems with slimy mackerel; another, worms. Scentless smoke curls from a tiny pipe hanging out his mouth like a toothpick. He lazily casts a lure into the river.
[Imps are wiry at the best of times, but this guy's mottled green skin wraps his bones like dodder vine. The veins and wrinkles of his face resemble the rootlike maps of the rivers running through Eiyren. He's hairless, save light translucent wisps up his arms and legs.
Shirtless, simple trousers held tight with cord, and dragons above those are some feet. Corruption-musk in spades. Plain metal earrings, three. Shoulderblade scar. Sharp cut.
](klipp|"Mornin', stranger. Name's Klipp."
(link-reveal: "\"$givenName.\"")[=
"Don't get too many folks out here. By design, I might add."
"I'm a researcher," you say, "from the capital." That much is no lie. Any more truth can wait until you figure out how bad the curse has got this guy. "We're doing a survey of how the corruption-curse has affected Watercreek and environs. Notice anything lately? Encounter any unusually aggressive wildlife?"
Klipp's line goes taut, but his tug is half-hearted. "Aye, now you mention it. Some months back I got bit by a wolf with a real motherless look about it. Put me through an awful spell, and I'll say that for no charge at all. Few weeks not sleeping, scarce eating."
"Sounds like it passed."
"Right you are." Another tug, anything, no, nevermind. "Done me a world of good, to tell the dragon's truth. Feel half my age, I'm so lively." He slips a lecherous grin. "In alllllll the right ways."
Always that moment where you're not sure what you heard. Surely they didn't, I must be imagining. It's a test, of course, they do it to slap you. But you know better than to bite.
"And how old are you? If you don't mind me asking."
"Me?" His face scrunches up into crinkled paper, all folds and edges. "Well, I was thirty when the last Chief headed the Round, and that was back before people called this place Airen. Need my journals for a proper reckoning, but I'd say..."
You're quicker. "You're over two hundred years old?"
Klipp hacks out a laugh, pipe bobbing wildly. "There abouts! Put you humans to shame, don't we? And I'm frisky as twenty, believe you me."
Actual tripe. You interviewed and autopsied hundreds of curse-victims and it 'passed' for none of them, let alone left them more virile. Granted, you never examined any imps stricken by corruption. But a simple glance at Klipp's crotch will handily disprove any stupid notion that—
His cock is eye-wateringly large.
The bulge slithers down his trouser-leg like a tropical snake that swallows its victims whole. Shit. That changes matters. The purifying charm, by nature, admits no gaps. To counter the corruption-curse, you need to experience all the dark gifts it's given Eiyren. Even if they're attached to a lecherous old imp five times your age.
Ugh. Couldn't it have been a bloodthirsty beast?
You close your eyes and breathe out. "I said I was researching the corruption-curse. [[Let me explain what that means.->First Base]]"Sex shops in the capital make jokes about imps. Half-size, half-price. Make her moan no matter the size of your pecker. Easy to laugh, even when you knew you shouldn't.
Now one has free reign over your body and is thoroughly enjoying it.
"Heheheh."
Klipp has his face to the nape of your neck, sniffing your hair, as you kneel arms-out against his hut. His hand is up your shirt, grabbing, searching. His voice is a low pipe-smoke snarl. "Always wanted a human, you know? Fucked my fair share of imps, 'course, goblins when the clans meet. Even a lovely harpy lass over in that Tehraum."
You wince. He gropes you eagerly, like a schoolboy learning for the first time that girls are real, mashing the sensitive skin of your tits between dirty, ruddy fingers. More bruises for the collection.
No surprise your nipples are bleeding hard, then, or that you're soaking wet.
($deductWillpower: 2)
"But never a human." (link-reveal: "Tehraum")[. (link-reveal: "The shoulderblade scar")[. A (cycling-link: "soldier", "mercenary")]].
"When I came out here, I thought I was past all that. Made my peace with it." A hard squeeze sets your spine rigid. "Guess you never know when life will give you a lass with fat tits practically begging for the whole business, eh?"
You guess fat tits is a compliment, if an exaggeration.
"Don't think this is anything but business." A sterling lie given credence by the unsubtle moan as Klipp tweaks your nipple.
"Aye, aye, corruption and all that, purifying charms, very noble. Should've come here before, I say. Got corruption coming out my ears...'
Something wet and slopping from behind. What the fuck, is he licking your hair? You look back. Klipp's grinning dumbly, cat that got the cream, jagged yellow triangle teeth chattering with pleasure.
"Funny," he chuckles, looking off past you. "You're actually the first girl I did squat with since..." He clacks his tongue, spits onto the ground and pulls his hands away from your sore tits. Your shirt sits rumpled around your belly. "Nevermind. Next up, let's see that butt of yours. Chop chop."
"I'm no mannequin," you say, crossing your arms. Sure, being treated like one has your clit quivering, but the smug entitlement raises your hackles. At least hold a knife to your throat first.
Klipp shrugs and idly massages the monster lurking at his crotch.
"Do what you like, girly. Head back the way you came for all I mind. But if you want to see what the curse gave me, the real deal, it seems [[I'm calling the shots->Second Base]], aren't I?"What an asshole. Your trousers come down.
Stripping entirely is easier, but Klipp stops you, saying to 'do things proper'. He is befuddled by today's panties, new makes from the capital that come in pink. When you stand, your cunt drips thick strands down your leg, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, Klipp grabs your ass with both hands, and squeezes firmly. "Now that's a good feeling." He blows hot air onto your lower back. Next comes a slap: not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you jump.
Another comes, and another.
You grit your teeth and choke back moans as the pain builds into a slow raw burn. In Eiyren capital you took worse, went longer, but tomorrow you'll still sit down, gasp and have to think of this corruption-tinged pervert. When you glance back, Klipp is innocently gleeful, as if your ass jiggling is (link-reveal: "better than all the stories and songs in the world")[.
In that, a kindred spirit. If only he wasn't being such a prick about it].
He licks dry, wizened lips. "Mhmm, that's good. You've got a great body, you hear?"
"Yeah, thanks," you say to the hut wall.
One more startling slap and he switches tack, shoves a hand between your legs and grabs your cunt.
($deductWillpower: 5)
(link-reveal: "\"Oh, you fucking...!\"")[=
Stupidly, you weren't expecting it. He sticks three fingers in, long and knobbly, thick enough they plug you up good. He swirls them around, exploring you, stretching to pry your cunt open. With deft masculine precision he avoids your clit entirely, but you're still tingling wet.
All you can smell as he digs his fingers into you, it's not even finger-fucking, a rough invasive object digging in, is Klipp's dirty smoke-tinged breath. How many girls has he done this to? Grabbed and twisted his favourite body-parts like hunks of meat on the butcher's table.
You resolve very hard to not cum with his fingers in you.
"Very fine body," he whispers, as if in stupor. "Very fine. In fact, you've gotten me all excited. Next stop."
Klipp pulls out, steps back. You choke down a mouthful of spit, breathing nowhere near normal and probably a humiliating red on your cheeks. What comes next had better be what you're actually after.
He doesn't disappoint. "Look here," he says, tongue tripping over his teeth as he pulls the cord keeping his pants up. "Time for you to clean up the mess you done made." Klipp's pants drop to his ankles.
For fuck's sake. (link-reveal: "His cock is *filthy*.")[=
It flops half-rigid against his leg, sprouting from a bed of dense black pubic hair matted with dried sperm. The entire cockhead is crusted with yellow flakes of dry, smushy smegma. Even sex-collectives make you clean up before anyone touches you. Klipp's smug grin says he won't bequeath that luxury.
"Really?" Eiyren, you decide, should fall to the curse.
"You're wanting a real taste of that corruption, hey. Got it right here for ye."
Fine. [[Anything for the sake of knowledge.->Third Base]]Klipp's cock has real weight and heft. It reeks, and only some of that is corruption-musk. Grime covers all the folds under his cockhead, a fine coating of dead skin. You take it between two fingers, like food fallen on the floor, and bring your lips to the tip. A tentative lick confirms it's salty and bitter.
"Tastes good, don't it?" he says.
Looking up, you give a pained grin. "Mhmm." Murder.
($deductWillpower: 5)
The start is worst, because your tongue can't help but find smegma. Boys rarely wash well without ultimatums, or direct threats, so the taste of spoiled cheese at the back of your throat isn't novel. The sheer quantity and pungency still makes you want to gag.
When your lips firmly wrap around his cock, smegma is joined by the undeniable flavours of corruption, rotten fruit and oily vomit. No, this requires lungs of fresh air. You pull back for a breath. Klipp clamps a wiry hand to the back of your head and pulls you in further.
(link-reveal: "\"Don't go getting cold feet now, missy.\"")[=
Dragonfire, his cock is huge.
You've taken longer, beasts that hit your tonsils, but the girth makes your jaw ache. Your tongue is pinned under his cockhead, licking at the sensitive rim usually hidden by foreskin. The more you take, the more his stiff pubic hairs force Klipp's particular brand of body-musk up your nose.
You're silently grateful for all those sleepless nights practising in the Academy dormitories.
Klipp, when you look up, is lost in reveries. For all his big talk, simple tongue work around the tip has him gasping so hard you think the old fuck'll go blue. Either you still have the old magic, or he's not gotten head in years.
Speaking of, there's the telltale contraction in his nuts. Klipp digs his fingers into your hair and pulls hard, ow, as he cums.
Fuck.
His sperm is as putrid as the smegma, thick as the whites of an undercooked egg and solid enough to bite through in clumps. Is this an imp thing, a corruption thing, or what? Doesn't matter, you need to suck down this sticky, viscous shit before you choke on it.
($deductWillpower: 8)
(link-reveal: "Inevitably you gag.")[=
Spoonfuls of rancid smegma in your stomach, stray pubes over your face and a throat of semen the consistency of warm yoghurt are, together, too much. Klipp pulls out as you retch, spitting his waste over your shirt and the grass.
You fall to your hands, body instinctively trying to vomit. You won't; you're too good. But fighting the urge makes it worse, so all you can do is ride it out. Patience. The wave goes in, goes back out again. Alright.
As you draw your first breath of clear air in ten lifetimes, Klipp rubs his boot in the cum you spat back up. He presents it to you.
"Missed a bit."
You would prefer not to. But there it is again, hot wetness at your cunt. So tempting to rub yourself, but letting him see that entails (link-reveal: "death by shame.")[=
The glob of cum on Klipp's boot glistens in the sunlight. You lick it up with a scoop of the tongue, leaving a wet smear, and swallow. This time you suppress the gag.
"Show me?" grunts Klipp.
Really is a schoolboy. You tilt your head up, open your mouth and stick your tongue out so he sees you've swallowed.
"Now say thank you."
"Thank you."
He looks around, feigning confusion. "Huh? Sorry, what are you thanking me for?"
Come on. A clot of cum at the back of your throat coats every grating word. "Thank you for letting me suck your cock. Thank you very much."
($grantKnowledge:)
"Well aren't you polite." A grin to break a horse's legs. The smug bastard pats you on the head, wipes his hands on his thighs, sniffs, and holds out a hand.
Party's over.
"C'mon, enough of that. [[Let's get you inside and warmed up.->Back in Time]]""Nettle tea, I'm afraid," Klipp says, walking sideways to fit between your chair and the sink. He plants a hot mug in your hands. "Sorry if it's not to your delicate human tastes."
A chronologist might as well have spun you back twenty years.
"Nettle tea? I used to drink this all the time."
The inside of Klipp's hut is cramped, but cozy. Shelves overflow with jars of jam, jars of oil, spools of twine, boxes of nails, coloured rocks, birdfeed, fish-hooks, soap, lard, scraps of metal and dragons-only-know what else.
"No shit?" A little impressed, mostly curious.
"Me and the other girls would skip out on the Academy, head to this pokey tea-house hidden away in the capital's minor quarters. There was an imp, a, a Miss Brem who made us nettle tea. Always kept us awake till the next morning. The exam season lifesaver."
He is suddenly very serious.
"Thick rimmed glasses, this Brem?"
"Yes."
"Liked poetry?"
"That too."
"A shake in her left hand sometimes?"
"Hit the nail on the head."
He places both hands palm-down on the table and stares at you. "I once knew that Miss Brem," he says gravely. "She gave the best head of any girl I ever knew."
"Bullshit!" You're actually scandalised. "That sweet old lady? We never heard her swear once. She even had these little knitted dogs she gave out—I still have one somewhere."
Klipp nods, imparting deep truths of the universe. "Met her every time my contractin' work took me to the capital. She sucked me drier than the deserts in Tehraum. Dragons' own truth."
"Wow. You never really know someone."
He leans back, nursing his tea. The satisfaction of a well-steered conversation fits on his features naturally. "What's she up to, nowadays? Do you have any idea?"
"I... she died, actually, a few years ago. A heart attack. The healers didn't get there in time."
"Ah." He looks into his cup and takes a long sip. "Always gets us, in the end."
The tea is just lovely. Klipp asks to see your tits one more time, and you let him. As you're leaving, he runs out of the hut and presses a mackerel-and-watercress sandwich into your hands.
($endSequence: "The trek back to Watercreek takes all day.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)(exclusivity: 1)
}\
The sightlines of Watercreek are dominated by the Torre mountain range to the north. For miles around their base, rain washes sediment downhill, forming fan-shaped alluvial plains.
The plains are emptier than any place you ever knew.
There's scant arable land; this frontierland earth's a poor fit for Eiyren's staple crops. Watercreek's few farms were founded on soil donated from more fertile ground, transplanted by magical botany. Tillage claims more territory than warfare.
Livestock have plenty of grass and berries and herb-bushes to eat, yes. Wild horses roam these expanses. But why rear sheep or cows here when the capital will now subsidise you for meat grown closer to the capital—farther from enemy borders?
Kamal took Watercreek for a reason. Find a place with people but not enough natural resources to truly matter. Parliament only reaches so far.
Ancient dirt paths pass through the plains, outlined with white chalk. On rolling hills, prehistoric harpies used that same chalk to draw monumental images of themselves and the dragons that made them.
[[Flowers are on the air. You walk without shade.->Watercreek]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The bloatling, making you the unwilling carrier of its vile progeny.",
"showcaseText", "A curse-stricken insect turns you into a dumping-ground for its eggs."
)
}\
On murky days, sparkflies burst in the wrong spot and ignite clouds of accumulated marsh-gas. Locals, taking a trick from harpies, call it Aoe's fire.
Your rotten luck means you're deep in bogland when a whole cluster of flies *fwoosh* the sky into a blistering furnace. Throwing yourself to the ground, you roll into a pool to squash the flames dancing over your shoulders.
Not good. Curtains of fire hang in the air for hours at a time, and air gets perilously thin. Bereft of choice, you crawl soldier-style through muck and mire towards safety.
Two hours later, smoke is finally out of your nose. The good news is that Aoe's fire rarely spreads far, so you won't burn or choke to death($corruptionText: 90, " today"). The bad news is you're profoundly lost.
This is where the worst parts of bog and forest collide.
The sun's down. Gnarled, leafless tees leer out of oppressive fog, making the straightforward path impossible. You walk with the thorns, and are rent by the thorns. Pooling water is deeper than any stick you test it with. The brush is thick and uncompromising.
Orienting yourself is slow. Watercreek must be this way. No, this way. Maybe the stars will help. The second dragon's tail always leads home.
[[When you look up, your heart stops.->The Cocoon]]A fat spool of yellow-white wax hangs from the tree above. It's a metre-long blood-gorged boil, distended towards the bottom. Normally this would not disturb you. Move quietly, and you have little to worry about.
What sets your teeth on edge is the buzzing.
Low, droning and insistent. That only happens in the hours before hatching. Look close, and you'll see the wax is dry and flaking, invisible cracks arcing the interior as the shell readies to open.
This copse is a dead-end. Getting out means wading knee-deep through water seasoned with rotting plantlife or belly-crawling under a particularly nasty tangle of thorns.
The thorns win.
---
Your legs are almost free of the thorns when the cocoon opens with the languorous groan of a dying man. Sheaths of shell splash into the water. The buzzing grows loud and insistent.
Not good. Gaining experience for the purifying charm matters, yes, but after getting your eyebrows singed and your trousers ruined by bog-grime, you are really not in the mood for what's ripping and gnawing its way into the world.
Stay quiet. They're blind for the first few minutes after birth.
Arms forward, fingers into the muck, slowly drag yourself forward. Buzz, buzz, the ringing in your ears after a bad spell fucks up the room's pressure. Slide the groin forward, knees up, then the feet. Almost there. Almost.
Just as you pull free, an unseen thorn cleanly slices the length of your leg. Blood gluts out, seeps into the water. You try to swallow the scream, but only reduce it to a miserable yelp of pain.
That's all it takes. The buzzing becomes a violent rattle.
You roll onto your side, watching in horror. The insectoid beast claws off the final fragments of its birthing-shell. Furred legs disentangle from the husk as antlion jaws strain with the hunger of the newborn. And below? A huge, pulsating sac of festering corruption.
[[The many-eyed bloatling is upon you.->The Bloatling]]You get the fuck up and run.
Bloatlings are fast, but not inescapable. If you're clever and lucky you can lose the trail.
The rattle echoes around, a war-drum meant to (link-reveal: "instil fear")[. Don't let it]. You thread your feet past knotted tree-roots and slipping planes of mud as fast as you can, but it's gaining. Take a sharp turn, double back on yourself, anything for a misdirect. There—is that the open air?
Too late. Something sharp nicks the back of your neck. A clear shot.
The reports you've read don't make it any easier. As the bloatling approaches, your limbs turn nightmare-slow. Dizziness comes quick, and one bad step sends you crumbling to the marshland ground. When you put a hand to your face, an after-image sticks in the air, blurs into the scenery.
The bloatling approaches leisurely.
Its tiny wings flit so fast you can't even make out movement. The carapace, a dark green-blue, sits like armour around the fleshy core. Don't give in. Get up again. The legs are long and double-jointed, a water-skimmer's. Get up, $trueName.
And that horrible bulging sack dangling below, half its body-weight, gurgling potent in the cocoon for months.
(link-reveal: "$trueName doesn't get up. You can barely move your limbs.")[=
The bloatling lands on your spread legs. You wanted to catch one after it was spent, when it was tired and weak. Not like this. The corrupted insect rubs its forelegs, probosci twitching, and bares its jaws.
The fabric around your cunt falls away with precise snips. Beneath, you're sweating from swamp humidity. Flat honeycomb eyes jitter at the sight of flesh. A fertile hole.
The soporific is really taking hold now.
$trueName moves so slowly. You're sending messages to another person on how their body should work, and she's not a good listener. Arm up, arm down again. The bloatling fumbles with wiry legs to extract its cock from behind its shell.
The girl lying on the swamp-mud can't do anything; her brain is clouded water and fog. Drools dumb out the corner of her mouth.
The bloatling's cock is a nightmare of fish-hook barbs. Piercing black hairs coat the twitching glans to snare the victim. Drips with the same soporific that sent $givenName away.
($deductWillpower: 10)
(link-reveal: "No, she moans, maybe out loud, please don't.")[=
The probosci leave damp spots when they trail over her body and face. The bloatling crawls up the $givenName's ---- and hitches on. Pain is somewhere, floating up above. The curse shaped its cock for humanoids. The girl's ---- stretches wider than it should ever have to as she takes it all, knifelike point to bulging base.
The bloatling's corruption-sac bubbles, froths, overjoyed to fulfil its purpose so quickly.
Once mounted the insect drains its sac into the girl in big, slorping pumps. Spare legs keep her entrance held open for easy access. Others pin her ---- and ----. The sac holds a litre or so of sperm. Far more than the girl can take: she overflows, ----- and ------ awash in sticky, honey-thick waste.
The bloatling holds its blank, expressionless face to hers, whiskerlike probosci brushing and tickling as she stares out. She doesn't blink much.
($deductWillpower: 10)
With a prolonged shake, the bloatling finishes depositing sperm. The empty sac is the size of a crushed grape. On the way out, the rigid penile hairs pull back and rip the girl's ----.
The bloatling doesn't stick around. Why would it? The girl's ---- flows thick with sperm. Impregnation is guaranteed. Slowly, rising from a lazy sleep, it bobs away into the air.
Girl gets farther and farther away, floating into sunrises and sunsets. Soon, yes, one day soon, They will come. And that is all. [[Everything will be swept away, all questions concluded.->Generations]]When the soporific's weak enough to remember ideas like 'personal identity', you're already coming up on Watercreek. How you escaped the swamp is (link-reveal: "a void")[.
And thank the dragons for that. You don't want to remember what must have happened after the bloatling left].
Your trousers have fallen away, so you walk through the night-time streets baring all to the world. It's not a big deal. Your cunt drips insectoid cum. The streets aren't empty, but they're quiet. Guards see you. One nods with a resigned air. What can you do, right? Ha, ha. Happens all the time.
The Kettle is nearby. The inn-keep's face will never have filled you with such relief. A real good brandy and a warm bath will go a long way to erasing this day.
There. One more turn and you'll be back somewhere safe and comforting. You just have to...
(link-reveal: "Something kicks inside of you. Hard.")[=
Oh no. Oh no no no. This should happen when (link-show: "the soporific had you", ?charm).[ Could it be Maera's charm? A strength you wish you didn't have.](charm| That's the point of it, that's the entire *point*—
Bulging, squeezing things write inside you. They tear you with meat-hooks. You tumble gasping to the ground once more, mind a blur. The reports said this happened. They didn't say how to handle it. What do you do? What do you actually do?
The writhing is in your stomach, but it's moving.
Down, pulling with tiny legs and jaws, striving desperately for your cunt. Hold it shut? Keep them in? Anything to not let them be real. But the kicking is too strong, and you're flat on your back screaming in the pain of corrupted childbirth.
The bloatling-spawn crawl out like worms.
They're fist-sized, fleshy monsters slathered in amniotic slime. Two squeeze through your cunt at once, forcing the lips apart and heaving out by sheer force.
($deductWillpower: 15)
(link-reveal: "You give birth.")[=
The first bloatling lands with a wet plap on the road, staggering on its feet and already buzzing. Without a look at its mother, it darts through the air to environs unknown.
Dozens come. Bloatling sperm is fertile beyond compare, limited only by the human body. Some flit around, wondering if they can breed you again, before more spawn scare them off.
Their corruption-sacs are small and wrinkled. They fly to form their own cocoons, to grow and fester in the potency of their inborn curse. The thirty-some bloatlings you birth will hunt down a hundred humans. Each will be subject to the same debasement.
And so come a thousand filthy generations into the curse-ridden world.
($grantKnowledge:)
When it's over, your guts are scooped out and your spine shattered. You ran out of energy long ago. The last bloatlings disappear into the dark.
You heave onto your side and see someone watching you. A guard, the one who nodded earlier, a woman a year or two your younger. She crouches behind a crate of provisions. Her eyes are wide and the spear in her hand trembles.
She carries you the final feet back to The Kettle. She doesn't speak.
($endSequence: "Recovery takes a fortnight.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)(exclusivity: 1)
}\
The river by Watercreek once fed a great lake north of the forest; now it reaches the ocean by a less direct route. Over centuries that basin drained into marshland.
Clumps of reeds and mud form islands in still pools of brackish water. Workers once cut out the peat in giant blocks of history and burnt it for warmth, used it for cooking. The residue of plants dead a thousand years before the creation of your species used for boiling potatoes.
Residual heat from the peat draws a low bed of mist over the ground, blurring the horizon into white shadow. At times you walk blind, nothing but the sun to guide you.
No birds fly. Instead croaking frogs and ever-hungry gnats dominate the land.
Sometimes they find bodies in the bogs. Succubi in cloth wraps, stuffed with flowers and herbs, so well-preserved they still look like people with names. The bodies always come in threes. One to remember the world they left, one to find the next, one to keep them from the City of Demons.
You clench your hand around Maera's charm. [[Guide the way, tutor.->Watercreek]]{
(storylet: when visits < 3)
}\
You're barely twenty minutes into the swamp when you step into a puddle that's deeper than it looks. With a horrible squelch, your leg sinks to the knee and won't come back out.
After strenuously pulling on nearby reeds, you escape at the cost of your boot. It stares back mournfully like a sinking ship.
Another casualty to the corruption-curse. Alack and alas.
($deductWillpower: 2)
($endSequence: "You hop back to Watercreek, feeling rather silly.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The mountain lamia, a measureless, devouring eater, making known her domain.",
"showcaseText", "A mountain lamia kindly shows you the interior of her stomach."
)
}\
Harpies have many words for 'danger'.
So the legend goes, it was how the first philologists broached the language gap. Learn 'death by lightning', 'death by suffocation', 'death by starvation' and you have a good bedrock for your prospective vocabulary. The moral of the story is that living 15,000 feet above sea-level makes such categorisation worthwhile.
That's why you stop to translate the sign posted on a mountain trail winding up from a secluded Torrean neighbourhood.
Your crib-notes are blunt: "*Kunaiete.* Death by unnatural forces." Daunting, but it adds little to the skull-and-crossbones drawn below. Some symbols are universal.
Onwards, intrepid Academy researcher. The world yet holds challenges for you.
---
Several streams descend from Mt. Torre; the nameless river Watercreek was founded by is only the most major. All this water comes from a single source high on the mountain. That much is easy to apprehend intellectually.
It's still astonishing to pass the curve of a hill and be confronted with the mountain lake.
The lake is perfectly blue and as clear as the special speckless glass the Academy makes for telescopes. It stretches out for miles, a lazy oval circumscribed by the shallow valley walls. A patchwork of trees dot the banks like the balding scalp of an old man.
You kneel and drink from a cupped hand. The water's colder than a demon tit. Shadows of fish writhe away under the surface, pike and perch. Murderously good camping spot. A pyromatic schooner would take an hour to cross to the other shore.
Well. You stand and survey the surroundings. Natural beauty is awe-inspiring and all, but where's the horrible death you were promised?
There's [[a high mound of rock->Under the Sun]] some ways off. A good vantage-point for finding monsters.The mound is a ten-foot conglomerate of layered rocks. Minerals streak through in fuzzy bands. Climbing, you count gypsum, pyrite, half a dozen other sulfates. Eventually all these bounties of the world will bleed into the lake, then flow onto the plains.
Thus shall every part of the mountains find a new home in the realm of mortals.
So spake the dragons.
No shade falls on this bare rock, nor are there any other discerning features save something like a large burial cairn in the center. Winding trails disrupt the dust on the plateau surface. Tired from the climb, you sit on a flat stone and think.
Was the sign wrong? Or outdated? Whatever it warned of probably died years ago.
The lake is still. Wind passes over the valley. Yes. That's why the dust on this mound is untouched. Though, why then are there those trails? And if you look closely, is that dust, or the discarded husk of... (link-reveal: "snake-skin?")[=
The cairn explodes and you're flung forward.
A great winding whiplike serpent tail cracks the air; stone scatters into the lake with a crash. And here you were, giving up hope. You crawl back on your elbows, sun burning your eyes, as your monster emerges from the cairn.
The lamia is a great snake, seven foot end to end, skin (link-show: "the mottled black and yellow of death", ?poison). [No normal lamia has those colours. An unmistakeable gift of the corruption-curse.](poison| The clawed, five-fingered arms of walking lizards emerge from her upper half. Her? Yes, her, the head is round and unridged.
From the lamia's crown sprouts a bed of smaller hissing snakes, arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow. They move independent of their host, snapping and dripping venom.
The snake-woman rises on her tail before you and glowers, blocking out the sun. She bares her fangs, and every snake on her head follows suit.
[[Here comes death.->Signs]]Your hands work quick: an open palm in the center of a circle drawn with your forefinger.
Please, let that be right. You learned so long ago.
The lamia sees your sign and pauses tense on her tail. Will she pounce anyway? No: a complex gesture of interlocking fingers, almost too fast to follow. Parsing it takes agonising seconds.
*Why do you disturb my rest, plains-walker?*
Your hands (link-reveal: "aren't made for this.")[
Then again, her tongue isn't made for common speech.] You try your best.
*I want not offence. I come, learning-wanting.*
*This tract holds no knowledge.*
*You are here.* Shit, what's the word? You learned it specifically. Have to flex the wrist. *Curse.*
The lamia surges forward, encircling you. Her thick, trunk-like tail wraps a tight hog-tie around your legs. You can't pull them an inch apart. The hissing snakes on her head are miserably close. Smells of body-oil and searing skin.
*Indeed, we are blessed. These years have been a gift to us. Never was finding prey so easy.*
Wait. You're not sure you got that word right. *Bless? Who bless?*
She and her snakes burst into wide, full-fanged grins. *The black dragon, human. The curse-giver. A new lord that gave us this strength.* The lamia strokes the yellow-black scales of her belly. The curse's (link-reveal: "poison")[. The literal sign for poison is 'liquid dying'].
A dragon? Oh, what the fuck. Fascinating, but you can't focus on that now. Later.
($grantKnowledge:)
*Plains-walker,* she continues, fingers a whirlwind, [[*you will make a fine repast.*->Torpor]]Being eaten doesn't appeal, so you dig your hands between her tail and your legs, squeezing out enough give to pull your upper thigh free. If you roll off this mound, you can get to the water and swim to safety. You can...
Cold heat blossoms at your side. One of the lamia's snakes retracts, fangs dripping. Two precise marks dot your skin. The heat spreads upwards.
Oh. That's that, then.
($deductWillpower: 15)
The lamia loosens her grip, smiling smugly. She signs something, but you miss it, dragging yourself across the mound. You can get away. Even though that heat has reached your limbs, chilling your muscles and joints into deep stiffness.
Rock scrapes your palms as you heave forward. The corruption-poison is potent and exhausting, heavy sand-bags ties to your ankles. Your entire lower half is numb and unresponsive. Proprioception fades; you can't tell where your legs are without looking back.
You don't want to look back.
The edge of the mound is in arm's reach, but your joints are locked rigid. The knuckles of your hands are tough and inflexible like old sodden wood. You heave forward by staking an elbow in the ground and using it as a pivot.
The toxin doesn't touch your mind. You are deeply aware that the lamia is right behind you, waiting patiently for you to stop moving. Keep trying. Your chin's over the edge of the mound. One last push and you'll tumble into sloped underbrush, roll yourself into the lake, float away.
You can't do it. Every part of your body is unresponsive to your will. The gear won't catch the other cogs, spinning in place fruitlessly.
Giving up isn't so much what you want to do as the only thing you can do.
The rattles of the lamia's hair approaches, slithering up the rock. She lies by your side, taking your chin in her hand. The most you can do is keep breathing.
*I love when they run,* she signs. *All believe they can make it. Now, [[be still->Dinnertime]].*The lamia slithers back out of sight as you scream internally. Most creatures of corruption are driven only to rape and rut. Once their foul seed is implanted, they'll leave you be in search for other prey.
Not the lamia. There's relish in her words. There are charms for renewing one's vigour, you learned them. Half-remembered snatches flit through your mind, but nothing concrete, no words. It was years ago.
A vile crack from behind. The lamia unhinges her jaw.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Despite the fear, your heart beats slowly. As hard as you will yourself to move, nothing happens. A bony hand takes your ankle, hefts it up. A better angle.
You whine quietly as the cool mouth of the lamia wraps around your boot. Drools drips from the corner of your mouth. She takes your other leg and stuffs that in too. Both are awash with the stupefying spit that coats the interior of her mouth, as if you needed more.
(link-reveal: "You are sucked into quicksand.")[=
(visited: "Dentistry")[You've been here before, but this is worse. Oreija swallowed you at once, accidentally. This is slow and tortuously deliberate.
]The lamia's hair writhes up your lower back and gnaws at your clothes as she devours your thighs. Lamia eat minotaur twice your height with ease. Still doesn't feel real how her warm wet mouth can roll up your legs and expand over your hips.
She takes her time.
You once studied with Fifteen, the studious chronomancer, and she swallowed a cow in seconds. The lamia wants this fear. It barely feels like you're making that whine coming out of your mouth. Control is a distant dream.
The lamia reaches the crook of your arms. Get up. Will she break the bones to fit them in? No, with a firm hand she twists them backwards to fit inside her maw. The hair-snakes really like your neck. Get the fuck. They nip the skin, pumping you with even more stupefactant to dull the pain in your arms. Get the fuck up and MOVE.
Your fingers rub against the slick wet leather of her tongue.
($deductWillpower: 5)
The lamia's windpipe crushes your body. She can swallow you, but why make it comfortable? Your chest is wrapped in a heavy belt, tightening notch by rib-cracking notch.
At last, she reaches your neck. Her teeth, a gentle touch throughout, drag delicate across your nape. The lamia hisses something quietly in her own language; you're none the wiser.
Then it's all over.
In a surge, she swallows your head, lips rolling up your scalp. For a moment, she's still, and you catch a final glimpse of the outside world.
The lake is calm and peaceful. The sun is setting.
[[Her jaws close and you are cast into darkness.->Inside]]Alright. Good. The toxin disembodies you, shows this (link-reveal: "happen to somebody else")[. Recalls the break]. Fear's there, but without physical expression it just kind of bounces back and forth in your head like a hare caught in a trap.
Are you actually going to die? No, that (cycling-link: "can't", "can") happen.
Can it?
Death happens to other people.
The lamia rested while she adjusted to the weight of her consumed prey. Now gravity shifts as she rears up and swallows. You slip inexorably further down her throat. At one point your boot catches awkwardly on her gullet and she swallows again, dousing you with more stupefying toxin.
There is no light, no light at all. Tight invisible space binds you, a warm hug that squeezes every inch of your body.
(link-reveal: "Then, well, you're in her stomach.")[=
Unlike mammals it's no wider than the esophagus. Instead, the invisible space changes texture to smooth and pliant drum-skin. The only sounds have been the faint pulse of the lamia's heartbeat and distant hisses of hair-snakes from outside. Now comes a quiet violent sizzling: acid.
Hydrochloric. Strong enough to melt bone. Fifteen said it dissolved anything in the world except dinners from the Academy refectory. (visited: "Dentistry")[Oreija's doesn't even compare. This dissolves bones.]
Currently it's burning through your boot. Hm. That's bad. You'll fry for several minutes before the pain sends you into unconsciousness, unless you're lucky and it gets your brain first.
That would be bad. Wouldn't it? Yes. Hm. You'll die.
The hare breaks the trap.
(link-reveal: "You're going to fucking die!")[=
Raw panic courses through you. Is there anything you can do? Bite the stomach walls, rip your way out. No—writhe hard, make her vomit. Can lamia vomit? Better hope so, because nobody will save you this time.
And you can't move a muscle.
Stomach-acid fizzes through your mountaineering overcoat, hard leather, in no time at all. The pendant around your neck swings free.
Maera's pendant!
Dragonfire, you have a chance. If this doesn't count as mortal peril, what does?
An uncanny green glow expands from the pendant, lighting up the lamia's belly. Wow, it's vile in here. The light is dim, growing slowly. Very slowly. Must need to charge up, or something, you don't fucking know, never worked with teleportation, too risky.
The first splash of acid hits bare skin, the lower length of your arm. Even through the stupefying toxin it's excruciating. Your flesh sizzles like bacon-fat.
Maera, dragonfire take you, this pendant had better fucking work sooner or later!
Turns out it's sooner.
Green light encases you. It feels exactly and precisely as if needles made invisible by their sharpness penetrated every dimple of your skin. You scream, and keep screaming, though you don't have a mouth or lungs anymore.
Then you crash into your room at The Kettle; your leg hooks on the bedframe and sprains your ankle monstrously. Your heart beats so fast it's all you can do to not throw up.
Your vision focuses slowly. One of your boots is in the ceiling. The upper half is simply not there. Your mind can't help but run the calculations. Maera's charm wasn't perfect. Another metre off, instead of a boot an arm or a leg or your neck and...
($endSequence: "This time you do vomit.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1) (exclusivity: 1)
}\
Torre is built against a mountain wall that only looks absolute. On closer inspection, the rockface is built of sharp peaks and valleys that permit a dozen twisting paths out of the harpy town.
Some lead up and some lead down. The trails are never steep enough to require hooks or rope, but they're not how natives get around. Your relentlessly wingless body makes progress slow and incremental.
The air's thin this high, making you light-headed, and the glare from the sun is brutal. Shit, you wish you'd brought a hat.
The paths break out into larger outcrops of flat land where you can catch your breath. Wildlife doesn't thrive here, but it does survive: hares, hardy goats that leap away over boulders as you approach. Vultures scan for carrion.
Caves dot the ground.
You take a wide berth around a pit, hidden beneath overgrown grass, that might drop you five feet or fifty. ($corruptionText: 60, "Go on, $trueName. Find out which. ")Sometimes you glimpse underground pools, completely still and clear, untouched for thousands of years.
And way up higher than your neck can crane lie the peaks. There sleep dragons.
[[What audience will they take?->Torre, Nest of Harpies]]{
($hubStatFailures:)
(set: _flavor to (a:
"A hundred dozen lanterns hang from maypoles, beacons awaiting night.",
"Harpies pass you, wearing feathered headdresses and worked iron jewellery.",
"Rough-hewn stone worn smooth by generations past cushions your feet.",
"The air chokes with the musky smog of swamp-water, incense and succubi pheromones.",
"Above, the sky is a buzzing mass of harpies in flight.",
"High mountain winds carry the scent of spice and bitter drinks."
))
} \
You are in Torre, the harpy-town way up where the air runs thin. You're here by Eskar's grace, but can explore the town and environs at your leisure.
The landing-ground bustles with activity. Harpies of all ages and professions prepare for flight and flex their wings here. Some are alone, like traders and hunters; others, military types, fly in scouting-pairs or combat squadrons.
(nth: visit, ..._flavor)
{(link:"Save game")[
(if:(save-game:"A"))[Game saved.
](else: )[An error occurred while saving the game.]]}
[[Examine Torre->Examining Torre]]
[[Talk to Eskar->Talking with Eskar]]
---
(link-storylet: "Explore Torre", where its tags contains 'torre', "There's nothing left to explore in Torre for now.")
(link-storylet: "Explore the mountain", where its tags contains 'mountains', "There's nothing left to explore in the mountains for now.")
[[Head somewhere specific->Places of Interest]]
---
($hubOptions:)
---
[[Return to Watercreek->Watercreek]]The air did no justice.
Torre bustles beyond belief, busier than some quarters of the capital. When you fight the mountain beak and claw for every square inch, buildings naturally stack upwards into towers, sprout overpasses over the hard-dirt streets, teeter and leer over sharp drops.
Everything is heavy rooted stone. Glassless windows perforate homes like missing segments from a mosaic, wind whistling clean through. You walk on perpetual currents.
The people of Torre pay you minor attention as you walk through the streets. Humans are unusual, not unheard of. Harpies carry baskets, spears or children on their shoulders, walking out a doorway and flying up three storeys to another. Many are naked. Some wear chains of gold, minerals, feathered headbands.
The city is itself a tower of sloped plains on top of each other. Each has a clear purpose. The lowermost are residential, others irrigate rice, shoots, potatoes. Near the top stands acres of empty space for ritual and community.
The sky buzzes with harpies. At night, they must blend into the tapestry of stars. Here, you are never alone. Nobody will ask your name.
[[Your kind of place.->Torre, Nest of Harpies]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
Your boots' soles slip and slide you down Torre's winding paths to a street-vendor's stall. Or, to be precise, their rock. The custom here is laying out (link-show: "your goods", ?goods) on the first free stone.
[Nothing for you. Twine, beak-varnish, mister, bristle brush, claw file. A gift for Eskar? No, it's probably all junk. Vendors are the same everywhere.
](goods|"Human?" he croaks, a stout sort with feather-tips greyed by age. His wings have moulted. "Been good years since last one of you. Not a new diplomat?"
"No, just a visitor. What's all this?"
Next to the rock, the vendor's got a small cooper pot hanging from a wooden tripod. A charcoal fire below makes something steam. The smell is, politely, unusual. Bitter yet intriguing. ($corruptionText: 80, "Stick your hand in the boiling pot.")
"Ha. No *kafé* in your fancy down-there cities? Here, sip. No cost."
He ladles you a saucer's worth of strange black liquid. Your first instinct is to spit it out—easily the most awful tea you've ever experienced. But once you keep it down, the tang has a pleasant edge. You're certainly warmer. More energetic.
($grantWillpower: 5)
An appropriate drink for people who live on sheer rock. The merchant watches your reaction with great amusement.
"Interesting," you say obliquely.
"Try with milk, like our chicks," he replies. "But next sip has charge, friend."
($endSequence: "\"Another time.\"", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
Nobody cares when you walk across the roofs of Torrean houses.
Traversing the streets is otherwise impossible, since the natives freely clog up side-alleys with junk, furniture and old carts. With a stiff lip you avoid looking down and hop between rooftops, step up dormers and hang white-knuckled off thick iron gutters.
Near the central district a harpy kid, a boy, hangs his legs off a roof. He's holding a fishing-rod, except the bob floats up in the air. His eyes go dinnerplates at the sight of you.
"Hello. Are you a human?" Pitch so high words are near-indistinguishable. But actual grammar, so likely the son of a soldier.
"That's right."
"Are you sick? Where are your wings?"
"Oh, they fell off because I didn't say please and thank you enough."
The kid freezes, drops his rod and slides off the roof. You peer over the edge. He sprints through the streets, flapping his wings but gaining no air.
($endSequence: "How else are you going to amuse yourself?", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
On the higher levels of Torre you find a building made out of wood.
Yes, in fairness, it's reinforced with stone foundations so the next heavy storm doesn't rip it up by the roots. But still, wood?
A sign on the door explains it: "*RENAIOS. EMBASSY.*"
You've walked past this place's sister in Eiyren capital a dozen times getting meringue from Twenty-Ten's. For some reason you'd never realised this place had to also exist. Inside, a bored harpy with bald patches up his wings is (link-reveal: "reading")[.
Harpies write on bizarre grids of coloured beads that slide along rigid strings; by a weird and unknown mechanism the combinations map onto words].
"Soldiers have to be in uniform here," he says.
"I'm not a soldier," you say.
"What?" He looks at you for the first time and frowns. "Then why are you here?"
"It was here, and I'm ($corruptionText: 50, "mostly ")human. Do you offer any services?"
If he wore glasses, the clerk would push them up his beak disapprovingly. "Mainly we organise joint exercises between our troops and the capital's. Anything else?"
No, no there isn't. You slip out, glad you have a life outside of that building.
($endSequence: "Return to Torre proper.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(storylet: when visits < 3 and $Gold < 200)
}\
The mountain-paths up from Torre don't always lead anywhere interesting. Unlike the world below, they're natural formations; wings remove the incentive to carve easy paths.
As a result, most exploration leads you to twisting loops, dead-ends and sheer drops against which your relentlessly earthbound form has no recourse. Such is life.
This time you get lucky.
A rugged outcrop riven with thistle and dandelion overlooks Torre. Nestled into a mountain crevice, hidden from airborne view, sits a small stone cairn. Pulling off the top layer reveals a drawstrung satchel that jingles with coin.
($grantGold: 40)
The secret stash of some enterprising harpy? Or a forgotten memorial?
($endSequence: "If only stone could talk.", "Torre, Nest of Harpies"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "The corrupted human, staggering through a lowlit alley.",
"showcaseText", "Prowling a wrecked city, you're assaulted by a depraved victim of the lust-curse."
)
}\
It's another day in Watercreek, dreary Watercreek, dour Watercreek, piss-on-a-wall-to-improve-the-decor Watercreek. Your good boots need new soles, so you can't head anywhere with interesting corruption-beasts to fuck.
All that's left is rummaging through whatever crumbs of degeneracy this dead town's twisting alleys have to offer.
Most in Kamal's thrall left the moment he died, six years ago. Those still here concentrate in the western market, closest to the trade roads and the barracks. That leaves vast swathes of Watercreek—like this northern edge—a series of deserted shacks.
Sunlight and starlight mix in the nascent dusk.
You go deeper. Refuse lines the streets, discarded tools, purses, a pram's shattered frame, food long past rotten, endless scraps of wood, broken glass. All is quiet save indistinct chatter from populated quarters: shouting, haggling, laughing, incoherent moaning.
Windows take you into the past. Silverware nobody has bothered to steal sits on dust-cloaked tables. Religious icons for local cults that died out three dozen years ago watch from the mantelpieces. Under bedcovers, skeletons hold hands and wait patiently for the world to end.
You're far from all people, but that doleful moaning remains. It's closer.
You're headed in the right direction.
Because nobody lives here, the guards only patrol every few hours. A gap like that, and all sorts of nasties can survive by nosing around for easy prey.
[[Sometimes they catch someone.->Standoff]]You meet the source of the moans in a derelict alley. It used to be a person.
The corrupted human staggers towards you, leg limp against the ground. Their eyes (link-show: "focus on nothing", ?eyes). A man, beneath all the grime: slack, bloated face, flabby arms. His trousers, unwearable rags, are damp with sperm and urine.
[Vision goes first. That much all Academy researchers know. The anatomy's there, eyes catch light, but understanding fades. Smell improves tenfold.
](eyes|Dragonfire, he stinks. The grainy sediment from a tallow-cake.
He moans again, hoarse and angry. You glare back with the look of a stone-cast gargoyle.
The alley is still and silent. Isolated even when Watercreek was alive, high fences cast the both of you in shadow. Washing-lines lazily bisect the air. A hinting fragrance of soap from some nearby washhouse accents the man's stink.
He leers, confused, plaque-slathered tongue hanging out his slack jaw. He staggers forward, pauses, takes another step and halts completely. Clearly the curse does not expect its prey on a silver platter.
"Yes, hello?" You roll your eyes. "Can I interest you in some defilement? All yours for the (seq-link: "taking", "raping")."
The man's neck jerks in the grip of chorea, but he remains still, swaying unsteady. The dark instincts of the curse are yet latent in him. That's fine; he remains a good study for the purifying charm.
He will just need some encouragement.
[[Show him your tits.->Enticement (Upper)]]
[[Show him your cunt.->Enticement (Lower)]]There is an art to the tit-slip, one you learned distracting boys in Academy classes without the professor noticing. One hand curls around fabric as the other props up the pair. You pull down your shirt, exposing one tit, only ever one, and the barest hint of nipple.
His eyes lock you with perfect precision and demeanour shifts from bundling rags to a lean, prowling hunter.
There we go.
The man bounds forward and rams you (link-show: "against a doorway", ?knob) with all his strength. [Doorknob in the small of your back, ow. ](knob|His unshaven, sweat-drenched face scratches your cheek as he pulls you in by the hair, tongue-fucks you, hungrily bites your lips. Corruption floods his spit: dark, bitter, aromatic.
It drips down your throat.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Yes, of course you could break away. But where's the fun in that?
Your enticing tit's still free. He grabs it wildly, squeezing so hard you yelp into his mouth. The man heaves into you, humping your leg, keeping you stuck against the door. His greasy sweat mixes with the acrid tang of urine and semen, like [[the dirty capital latrines->Hard Tile]] you once scoured for samples.
Despite the pain, everything is going according to plan. This direct experience of the curse is exactly what you need for the purifying charm. Commit this to memory with the clear, even mind of a scholar, and...
And...
(link-reveal: "Wait. You're actually turned on.")[=
The fuck? You gag in surprise. Your cunt's slick, tingling hot, and your nipples are rock-hard.
Horror dawns as you again sniff his greasy sweat. Corruption is volatile, always exuding from the host. Usually, that's as musk. But the man's sweaty hands and skin are bathed in liquid curse, a dark stimulant slathered over your body.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Oh no.
Long ago the signs of impeding orgasm became second-nature to you. Heart-rate up, cunt muscles contracting. Your traitorous body will climax on this shambling wretch's knee.
This was *not* part of the plan.
For once, once in your life, an easy target. A chance to keep your head clear while examining the curse. Luring this husk in with a flash and getting the tables turned so bad he gropes you into orgasm is like playing a child at roundhouse and getting cornered by every diamond.
Do not let this happen. Dragons in the sky, retain some dignity.
You try to push him back and break the kiss. But impetuous anger paints his face, and for the first time his grip gains real strength. Just your style to stir up the curse all too well.
Grit your teeth and control your breathing.
The curse, bitter, cloying, is in your pores and in your blood. It wants your orgasm.
($checkWillpower: 70, "Don't cum.", "Rigid")
[[Give in.->Unsure Footing]]Even at the Academy, you rarely wore underwear.
At Watercreek, you consider it part of your mission to keep your cunt as unobstructed as possible. With deft sleight-of-hand, your trousers unbutton, revealing the soft inside of your thighs and all between.
His eyes lock you with perfect precision and demeanour shifts from bundling rags to a lean, prowling hunter.
There we go.
The man bounds forward and rams you (link-show: "against a doorway", ?knob) with all his strength. [Doorknob in the small of your back, ow. ](knob|His unshaven, sweat-drenched face scratches your cheek as he pulls you in by the hair, tongue-fucks you, hungrily bites your lips. Corruption floods his spit: dark, bitter, aromatic.
It drips down your throat.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Yes, of course you could break away. But where's the fun in that?
The curse-fried sap can't even get his cock out. He fumbles his trousers, tries again, no, settles for feverishly humping your thigh and whining like a hungry dog.
That won't do.
You grab his hand, cold and ruddy, corpselike in life, and firmly stick it down your trousers. Instinct takes over.
He finds your cunt and hooks inside, dirty fingernails scraping raw. A tight grip presses his thumb hard on your clit, and soon enough you're kissing him back, eagerly drinking his spit and pressing your tits against his chest. His greasy sweat mixes with the acrid tang of urine and semen, like [[the capital latrines->Hard Tile]] you once scoured for samples.
Everything is going according to plan. This direct experience of the curse is exactly what you need for the purifying charm. Commit this to memory with the clear, even mind of a scholar, and...
And...
(link-reveal: "Wait. You're actually turned on.")[=
The fuck? You gag in surprise. Your cunt's slick, tingling hot, and your nipples are rock-hard. His technique certainly isn't enough; that can barely be called finger-fucking.
Horror dawns as you again sniff his greasy sweat. Corruption is volatile, always exuding from the host. Usually, that's as musk. But the man's sweaty hands and skin are bathed in liquid curse, a dark stimulant slathered over your body.
($deductWillpower: 5)
Oh no.
Long ago the signs of impeding orgasm became second-nature to you. Heart-rate up, cunt muscles contracting. Your traitorous body will climax on this shambling wretch's knee.
This was *not* part of the plan.
For once, once in your life, an easy target. A chance to keep your head clear while examining the curse. Luring this husk in with a hint of thigh and getting the tables turned so bad he fingers you into orgasm is like playing a child at roundhouse and getting cornered by every diamond.
Do not let this happen. Dragons in the sky, retain some dignity.
You try to push him back and break the kiss. But impetuous anger paints his face, and for the first time his grip gains real strength. Just your style to stir up the curse all too well.
Grit your teeth and control your breathing.
The curse, bitter, cloying, is in your pores and in your blood. It wants your orgasm.
($checkWillpower: 70, "Don't cum.", "Rigid")
[[Give in.->Unsure Footing]]It's not enough. It's too much.
Your knees buckle as you cum; the attempt to resist only kept you on the edge longer, strengthening the orgasm. Shuddering, mewling, you dig your nails into the man's back.
Corruption does not feel good.
It is never the reward: it's the whisper of a reward. The flare of excitement when an idea strikes past midnight and you know you can change the world; ideas threadbare and pathetic in daylight. Even in orgasm the pleasure displaces into the future. This one wasn't enough, but the next? Oh, $trueName, the next orgasm will *really* blow your mind...
($deductWillpower: 10)
($grantKnowledge:)
When the orgasm finally drains, the man is still. A warm drip on your leg explains why. Yellow-white sperm oozes through his trousers, stinking of mould and rotted plants. It smears, sticky, over your crotch.
Depraved idiot impregnation, uncaring and (link-reveal: "infertile")[.
And you the ever-grey, ever-sunken cunt of the world].
The man staggers back slathering into the street. He shakes wildly and runs hands over his chest, lost in pleasure. Every orgasm strengthens the curse, digs it in deeper. In time, your mind melting away is rapturous.
[[A spear pierces his gut.->Gone]]Through brutal draconic strength you swallow the orgasm.
Corruption does not feel good.
It is never the reward: it's the whisper of a reward. The flare of excitement when an idea strikes past midnight and you know you can change the world; ideas threadbare and pathetic in daylight. The only way to turn from the shipwreck is to accept that what you have here, now, is (link-reveal: "enough")[. It has to be].
($grantWillpower: 5)
($grantKnowledge:)
The frustrated edge gnaws at your brain. Down, dog. You'll find some anonymous cock later.
The man glares dumbly; his face turns to anger, betrayal. Lucid once more, you shove him back and he staggers slathering into the street.
He shakes wildly and runs hands over his chest, lost in anger. Once incited, the lust for dominance is all-encompassing. Your resistance has permanently twisted this victim of the curse into a prowling rapist of the night.
[[A spear pierces his gut.->Gone]]The man looks down at the foreign object with childlike eyes. Gingerly, he strokes the shaft.
Then he slumps to the ground.
A Watercreek guard steps into view and jerks the spear out, foot-on-chest for leverage. A deflated whimper marks the passage of (link-reveal: "the once-person")[, dragonkin much like yourself,] from the world. The guard wipes the tip clean. He's tall and sturdy, either a professional soldier or in one of the dangerous collectives.
"Miss, are you alright?"
"$givenName," you sputter. Flush cheeks are harder to notice in low light. "I'm fine. He barely touched me."
"You shouldn't wander this part of the town," the guard says. "There's not enough of us to keep out things like that."
He's cute. A face made for your cunt.
"I'm not a local," you say, as if that matters. "But you got here at just the right time, and dragons above, you must be so brave. Can you get me back to the inn?"
Big eyes, lean forward so he sees down your cleavage. Bend the knees to (link-reveal: "look smaller")[. Men love something vulnerable]. Keep him locked in your room overnight, at least; you need to rinse after this. Knife on his belt. Push your luck.
The guard straightens up. "Certainly, miss, I'll walk you back. Are you in Watercreek long?"
"As long as it takes," you murmur, taking his arm.
($endSequence: "You won't learn his name.", "Watercreek")It was your fourth year as a graduate-of-skill, the year of the own-work project. After two barren months of fruitless ideas—enhancing the potency of sperm, fully-magical condoms, tweaks to Saransz's work—the least-worst fallback was tracking how sexual diseases spread through the capital.
Maera gave you full discretion and all the weekends you needed.
The ethics board wouldn't even hear your request for paid surveys, so you girded your loins and hit the smokestained cobblestones of Loring district yourself.
Nine times out of ten, that meant evenings loitering in the public toilets outside beer-houses and sex-shops. Teckridge corner was the usual haunt, a grimy-as-sin structure of hard-tiled walls and grille floors. You befriended the urinal barkers, who hawked silphion extract and bad insurance to men emptying their bladders.
Your offer was more direct.
(link-reveal: "\"Twenty gold for your sperm, your urine and and a swab around your cockhead.\"")[=
Or 'cunt' for women, since vergewort rarely transmitted through men.
You propositioned everyone, from bearded tradesmen to rake-thin message-runners, so long as they understood common Eiyrish or the signed language. Most accepted, watching with disbelieving amusement as you bottled up their fluids and smegma in (link-reveal: "neat glass jars the size of your thumb")[.
You use the same jars today for samples taken from corruption-beasts].
No names, no paperwork, just raw data.
More than once you stayed at Teckridge into the early hours of the morning, when nobody else was up, even the inveterate and disastrous drunks, taking samples from the inner rims of urinals and toilet-seats to fill gaps in the biological record.
Did you ever, when nobody at all was looking, stick your face in those urinals and scour the cold, inviting porcelain with your tongue?
History stays silent.
After a month you exchanged pen-names with the barkers, carefully not shaking hands, and wrote the report in a dozen half pints. The Academy old-guard wailed to the rafters about the end of academia, or so you imagined, but after a black-market publisher got your work to the sex-collective, they didn't have much say in the matter.
Incidence rates dropped like a rock, saving Eiyren around two percent of the annual budget on medical care. Eight, if you only counted soldiers.
(link-goto: "You became a full member of the Academy the following summer.", (history:)'s last){
(storylet: when visits < 3 and (visited: "The Avian"))
(click-append: "harpy")[. Your old friend]
(set: _marshal to (visited: "Rough and Tumble"))
(set: _action to (cond: _marshal, "salute", "nod"))
} \
Circling the walls of Watercreek makes you glad you're not a guard. The trash heap is far away, but upwind, so the smell of dog-shit and refuse loiters outside the walls.
(link-reveal: "More guards live here than civilians")[.
Eiyren only grants this hole in the ground any resources at all for the border passage to Tehraum. But that's a margin of error in the parliamentary budget. One day the calculus could shift, rivalries thaw. And then the people here would be entirely unprotected].
As you pass the abandoned woodworking district, a trio of uniforms come around a corner to meet you: human, human, harpy. Eskar speaks at her fellow guards, giving you a curt _action in passing. "No, oil shipment's a week late. Personally confirmed it with the Birch-By-Wend representative..."
Her (link-reveal: "men")[ (well, one's a girl)] listen with rapt attention, nodding at all the right beats, and pass out of sight._marshal[
Do they suspect? No doubt plays on the faces of the guards. But in their captain burns a dark kernel of corruption, an evil seed that left its mark on you - four red ones, to be precise. The moment they did, they could never not see it in her. Would they hesitate to act on her orders?
This is why Kamal cast a corruption-curse when a spell of instant screaming death was in his power.(visited: "Escapades")[
And yet, this is the same corrupted killer who's knelt at your feet, ass red with welts, begging for mercy. The same bird who would throw herself into danger to save your life. To save a stranger's.
Kamal didn't know everything.]]
($endSequence: "You repair to The Kettle.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Escapades"))
}\
"Dragonfire, $givenName, somebody's going to find us!"
Eskar bends over one of the Watercreek barracks' hard-mattress beds, pants around her ankles, crazily swiveling her head to somehow keep both the doors and windows in sight at once. Only one view holds your attention: the deep curves of her exposed ass, flowing feathers fading to pale grey skin.
"Then they can join in. I don't mind," you say, and press your face in firmly.
Eskar croaks despairingly.
At lunch all the guards and soldiers filter into The Kettle or Watercreek's other remaining stores to gorge and drown bad thoughts, so there *shouldn't* be anyone here for another twenty minutes. Plenty of time to bond with your favourite harpy.
Though the lady doth protest, her cunt is nice and slick, thin strands of arousal sticking on your chin. You tease her: lightly dabbing her clit, fingernails swirling on ass-cheeks. Real demon-work. Her weak spots are no mystery to you.
Eskar fumes and plants her face into the bed.
"You're such an ass."
"Ah-ah. Forgetting something." Another lick. Drag this one out.
"You're such an ass, marshal."
"I'll stop when you ask me to."
Silence. Outside the barracks, sounds of voices, happy yelling, a carriage trundling through mud. Good girl Eskar. Very good. Good girls get eaten out for real. A minute of real tongue-work makes her seize up sputtering and cum on your face, fighting to restrain her wings. She's delicious, as usual, so you keep going.
"You're quick today," you say, sucking on her clit.
"Being here," she grumbles into the mattress. "Always liked the idea of it."
Aw, adorable. "One of your men walking in on you, that kind of thing?"
She shuffles uncomfortably. "One or more."
Not often you laugh into a cunt. You slap her ass playfully. "That's the spirit. Five guys at once is a real thrill."
"You've done that?" Eskar puts her hands over her head. "What am I saying. Of course you have."
"Being the center of attention feels good." And if you get tired, ask the boys to fuck each other and sit back to enjoy the show. By then they're so horny they'll do anything for you. "I'll recruit volunteers, if you're too shy."
"*$givenName!*"
Another time, then.
($endSequence: "Lick, lick, lick.", "Watercreek")Eskar's got a saunter to her walk you find increasingly irresistible.
After a night in your bed, the two of you are leisurely heading to the Watercreek barracks for her morning briefing. Her claws neatly avoid every speck of mud on the streets.
Dragons, that (link-show: "ass", ?ass). Does she actually realise how tight her uniform is there? [Eskar's firm, all tight muscle from years of patrols. Even in the air, flying works every muscle in the body.](ass|
"And the Onlu," she says as you cut through an alley, "completely unreliable. Slipshod manifests. Zero rectification procedure. Could lose an entire unit's gear playing roundhouse and the quartermasters wouldn't know. What exactly are you doing, $givenName?"
Squeezing her ass, obviously.
"Not like you're going to be late, are you."
"$givenName." A despairing look in her eyes, sweeter than any sugar.
"It's your briefing. If you don't show, the guards will sit and wait like big girls and boys." Tighten that squeeze. Dig the fingers in. "Speaking of. You forgot something, just now—what do you call me?"
Eskar shivers, rooted in place. "Marshal. Marshal $givenName."
"Very good. Here, arms out. I want to play with my very-good girl."
Eskar bows her head and stands against the alleyway wall, breathing slow and deliberate. You'll see about that. You hook an arm around her waist from behind, head on her shoulder. That beautiful smell of harpy-down.
"Tell me you want this." Hand teasing the buckle of her belt. "(link-show: "I'll stop if you don't", ?show)."
[You will. She acquitted herself excellently last night; a nasty bite on your shoulder proves it. This is not a punishment.
](show|Harpies don't swallow when they're nervous. Instead they trill, quietly, at the back of the throat. A call to the rest of the flock for aid, except Eskar's flock is far, far away.
A tune to learn by heart.
"Please, marshal. I want this."
[[Belt comes undone. Belt falls.->Against the Wall]]It hits harder the longer you stay silent.
You slip a hand down Eskar's military smalls and hook your fingers into her cunt. The motion is familiar, practised. Get them like *this* and they can't wriggle away. You could puppet her all over town, show off your new toy to the citizenry. Now wait. Wait half a minute, maybe more. Control only exists over time.
Your thumb lies on her clit, present, unmoving. For later.
"What do we have here," you whisper. Sticky arousal beads on your fingertips. "Last night you acted like this big, fearsome soldier. But one little push, and you're all unsprung."
Eskar's breathing holds up admirably. Does she practice?
"Marshal," she says, eyes closed. "My men, (link-show: "if someone sees", ?see)..."
[Out of courtesy you check the alley exits. Nobody in sight. Watercreek isn't ever bustling.
](see|"If indeed. You'd have to come clean, wouldn't you? Tell your men that their commander, so brave, so valiant, kneels for some Academy tart who's never held a spear in her life."
Eskar breaks into harried little chirps. There you go. As reward for breaking down, you rub her clit, slow spirals in and out. Her back arches, trying to push you and get space. No, you don't think so. You press Eskar against the alley wall, rubbing fast, grinding her ass like a horny dog who can't get it in.
"Marshal!"
"Marshal!" you say in mocking falsetto. "Your lieutenant should see these sounds you make. Would you like that? Yeah, you do."
Girls are fun. You lick Eskar's neck and grab her tits through her dress tabard. Extra pressure on the clit clit brings her to warbling avian moans. Her knees are knocking.
"And that's not all, is it." Go quiet, low, dangerous. Stalking mountain-cat. "Little bird's got all *sorts* of secrets, doesn't she. I'm keeping my hand in your cunt as I frogmarch you through these streets, commander, and when we get to the barracks, I'll call your men, every last one. Know what I'm going to tell them?"
"No!" Eskar's chest balloons and she shakes all over. "Please, please, no."
"I'm going to tell them their leader is *corrupted*."
Eskar's legs give and she slumps; arm at the belly you heave her back up. "Not done yet. Their leader's corrupted, sick with the same curse that's fucking up people into wild animals. Are you wild, commander? Give me permission. Give me permission to tell your men."
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..."
The edge trembles in Eskar's clit. One more touch, kill kill (text-color: "red")[kill]. You bite her neck, know the pressure to not break skin, feathers taste absolutely awful, and bark:
"Say it!"
"Tell them! Tell them everything, marshal!"
"Good girl. Now cum."
The moment you get Eskar's clit she collapses again. You let her.
---
"Shit," Eskar says, sticking a cloth down her trousers. "Hope they don't smell it on me."
"Less noticeable than you think, Essie. Trust me." She preens, wings aflutter, as you lean in for tender kisses along her beak. "Go on without me or I'll make you even later."
"You don't want any tea?"
"No, I should get back to The Kettle." You suck her juices off your fingers. "Need to write up notes and masturbate to this."
Eskar caws and studiously observes the sky. "You're one of a kind."
"Probably a good thing."
She could beg teary-eyed and you would never speak her secrets. She knows this and you know she knows. You can make people say any old thing when they cum, but the cumming matters, not the saying. Every barrier that can be wrecked must. Every lurking dread horror must be kissed, with tongue. And after the nightmare, waking into soft lover arms.
You arrange to meet later—want to demonstrate the Academy twist on an old harpy triage charm—and you're alone in the alley, watching Eskar saunter away.
($endSequence: "Have to tell her how fine her ass looks like that.", "Watercreek"){
(set: _direwolf to (visited: "The Hunt"))
(set: _ishiyk to (visited: "Branding"))
(set: _oreija to (visited: "Sanding"))
(set: _axas to (visited: "Satisfying Axas, 1"))
(set: _horse to (visited: "Flares"))
(set: _klipp to (visited: "Second Base"))
(set: _bloatling to (visited: where its tags contains "bloatling" and "encounter"))
(set: _eskar to (visited: where its tags contains "eskar" and "encounter"))
(set: _lamia to (visited: where its tags contains "lamia" and "encounter"))
(set: _human to (visited: where its tags contains "corrupted-human" and "encounter"))
(set: _frenzied to (visited: "Frenzy"))
(set: _all to (a:
_direwolf,
_ishiyk,
_oreija,
_axas,
_horse,
_klipp,
_bloatling,
_eskar,
_lamia,
_human,
_frenzied)
)
(set: _actualMarkings to (find: _b where _b is true, ..._all))
(set: _markings to (_actualMarkings)'s length)
(set: _any to _markings > 0)
(set: _currentOutfitName to $playerOutfit's name)
} \
You are (link-show: "$trueName", ?name), magical researcher of the Academy, come to Watercreek in search of the knowledge that will undo the corruption-curse. You enjoy good beer, sex, expensive meringue and thinking about yourself in the second person.
[While in Watercreek, you go by $givenName. A force of habit.
](name|You packed your best adventuring gear, which amounts to a really nice pair of boots pilfered from the experimentalist storeroom and thick, fingerless leather gloves.
You're currently wearing _currentOutfitName. ((link-goto: "details", ($playerOutfit)'s descriptionPassage))
Physically?
(cond:
_markings < 2, "You're fine. You were never in the best shape, but daily adventuring does dragonwork on your muscles. Just don't go toe-to-toe with any minotaurs.",
_markings < 5, "Time passes hard in Watercreek. Your body's scored with scrapes and scars; climbing and fleeing has made your palms and soles calloused like stone.",
_markings < 8, "This fucking curse isn't going down easy. You walk with a minor limp. Bitemarks and clawmarks tattoo your skin. Your nose is bent. Three teeth are missing.",
"Every day is pain. Your ribs are fucked and you cough bloody. Vision is distorted in one eye. More scar-tissue than skin at this point. You'll never fully heal.
Doesn't matter. You're not going to let this fucking curse win. Kamal was a highly-motivated individual, but you will beat him. You must beat him.")
(seq-link: "And how are you feeling?", "Fragile, but not like a flower or glass, like an explosive.", "Aware that you're horny by a buzzing in the back of your skull.", "Like a hole in the world in the shape of a person.", "Keeping on top of it all.")
---
**Stats**
You've been in Watercreek for (cond:
$Days < 7, "a few days",
$Days < 20, "long enough the weeks are blurring together",
"way too fucking long").
Financially, you're (cond:
$Gold < 20, "pornographically poor and considering roadside robbery",
$Gold < 60, "squeezing for every last penny and sewing up your own clothes",
$Gold < 130, "doing alright. Not in luxury's lap, but you'll survive",
"pleasingly rich. Time to eat liquid gold and hire a private harem").
Your work on the purifying charm (cond:
$Knowledge < 2, "has barely begun",
$Knowledge < 4, "progressing nicely",
$Knowledge < 6, "taking real shape. Almost there",
$Knowledge < 8, "almost, always-almost, complete",
$Knowledge > 10, "complete",
"__ERROR__ (please file a bug report)").
The corruption curse is (cond:
$Willpower > 80, "a light, distant presence. You can do this",
$Willpower > 50, "festering inside your gut like a tumour. Fuck",
$Willpower > 25, "making you shake and salivate uncontrollably. Visions of doom",
"in near-total control. Circling the drain once again").
---
**Markings**(if: _any)[
Your mission has left its marks on you. These are the ones recorded in skin and bone.
{
_frenzied[Various scrapes and scars from your times in the utter thrall of the curse.]
_direwolf[A bitemark on your ankle, from where that big direwolf fucker got you.]
_bloatling[A slightly distended belly, ever since that bloatling pumped its fetid spawn into you.]
_eskar[Four thin scars down your stomach, a gift from Watercreek's avian captain.]
_human[A tear on your lip, where a human sent lust-drunk by corruption gnawed and groped at you in some derelict alleyway.]
_axas[Small punctures around your nipples where the insatiable pup Axas latched on for mother's milk.]
_klipp[The wince of remembered pain when you sit down, ass once spanked raw by the lecherous imp hermit, Klipp.]
_lamia[Faint scorch-marks on your thighs from the stomach-acid of the mountainside lamia.]
_ishiyk[Raised welts all across your back from a branding-session with the inscrutable Ishiyk. Nobody you've asked can decipher the sigils.]
_horse[A sore throat, of all things, from swallowing too much horse-cock, the one topped by the curse's puppet.]
_oreija[Rude sores across your crotch ever since Oreija's abrasive tongue lapped at your cunt.]}](else:)[
Your time in Watercreek has yet to scar you physically, but the thought sets you shivering. Clawmarks and bitemarks and gaping wounds, oh yes...]
(link-goto: "Enough navel-gazing.", $lastHub){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and $Gold > 50 and $Knowledge > 0)
(metadata:
"flashbackText", "That dizzying first run-in with the thieving succubi.",
"showcaseText", "An enigmatic succubi takes your hard-earned money with a smile and a drink."
)
}\
You're knocking back a beer at The Kettle after a long day of finding jack-shit in the forests. Who knew getting knocked over by curse-beasts could be so hard? Getting drunk never meant much to you, but being self-destructive is a good way to relax.
"Come here often?"
The girl seems smaller than you, which is saying a lot, but the hooded cloak masks her size. You did not see her come in.
"I live here," you say. After a moment you decide that isn't what she meant. "You?"
"Just passing through." The hint of a smile from around the cloak. "Buy me a drink?"
Why not. Buying people alcohol has led you to many wonderful avenues of life. In the outskirts of Birch-By-Wend the people dance, and dance, and dance all night, until they collapse from exhaustion.
She takes the glass to her mouth, and when she puts it down there's less liquid in it, so presumably she drinks. "Thanks. I like it when people get me drinks."
Oh. This is the polite prelude to asking you upstairs. You're not in the mood for sex, but sitting on her face would work.
"Do you want to fuck?" you say. The alcohol is there but not too much.
"I was thinking you head back with me, actually. I have a place deeper into town."
[["Yes."->Precleaning]]The stars are out: each of the seven dragons (link-reveal: "dance across the sky")[. Is that the fifth's tail, or its claw? You never remember].
The night air is chill against your skin. No coat, thin shirt. Everyone, even the guards, are asleep. The only sounds are your footsteps filling the gaps hers leave.
"I love this town," the woman says. Starlight shows her skin as ruddy pink, pale red. "Nobody cares about it. Nobody pays attention to what happens here. You know what I mean?"
"I don't really care much about anything," you slur.
She gestures towards a dark alley. "I'm down here."
Alright. So somebody is going to come out and rob you and rape you. You're tired but can make that work. The hood of her cloak rests too high above her head. Are those horns? Once you're in the alley, cut off from the main streets, the woman guides you against a wall with a palm to the chest. She takes the hood down.
Yes, horns: small nubs, not at all like Maera's. A distant tribe, one that can blend in with humans.
"It was so good of you to buy me that drink," she says, closing in, breath hot on your neck. Her head comes to your chest. "So good of you to do what I asked."
"I like girls," is all you think to say.
The succubi looks up with puppy-dog eyes, iris all black. "That's so nice to hear."
She breathes on you again, and this time it's not normal. Your head goes fuzzier than alcohol permits. In a few seconds you're seriously faded and have to remember where your limbs are when not looking at them.
(link: "\"Oh,\" you say. \"Loss of motor control. That's not good.\"")["Hnnn..."]
"Now," the succubi says. "You paid for that drink very easily." Her hand goes to the gold-pouch on your belt. "Got a good bit of money there, don't you, girlie?"
(link: "\"Strange place for robberies...\"")["Mhnmn..."]
Some thoughts filter through. Succubi aromas. Mostly used for seduction, but confusion and intoxication are similar states. Classic standby of the swindler and robber. Your tongue is extremely large in your mouth.
"Such a confused girl," she says. "Out here at night, all alone, all that money. Anything could happen. Maybe I should take some. For safekeeping." A smirk. "Not all of it, of course. I wouldn't want to be *rude.* Let's say, oh, half of everything. How does that sound?"
($checkWillpower: 80, "Resist.", "Spendthrift")
(link-reveal-goto: "Hand over 1/2 of your gold.", "Rinsing")[($multiplyGold: 0.5)]
($checkCorruption: 20, "Give her everything.", "Drained")The coins are refreshingly physical in your fingers. Click, clack. Something real beyond this fuzzy haze of confusion. One coin, another, and another. The succubi keeps count and puts up her hand when half is gone.
"Please," she says. "I would never want to take more than necessary. Of course..." A predator's all-teeth grin. "If you're afraid, I'll safeguard more. Half again, say."
($checkWillpower: 60, "Resist.", "Spendthrift")
(link-reveal-goto: "Hand over 1/2 of your gold.", "Lathing")[($multiplyGold: 0.5)]
($checkCorruption: 20, "Give her everything.", "Drained")Money flows through your hands. It's water.
The succubi rubs each coin with her thumb before depositing it in places unknown. Her cleavage is deep enough to fall down it head-first.
"Very good," she murmurs. "You're more agreeable than most." The cute, playful side expression fades into something businesslike. She holds her hand out expectantly.
($checkWillpower: 40, "Resist.", "Spendthrift")
(link-reveal-goto: "Hand over 1/2 of your gold.", "Washing")[($multiplyGold: 0.5)]
($checkCorruption: 20, "Give her everything.", "Drained")The succubi lifts her chin as your gold-satchel lightens. Idly, you list things you can spend money on.
(link: "Food. Beer. A carriage out of Watercreek.")[Those things aren't important.]
Giving up money is far better than keeping it to yourself. It is simply more sensible. The succubi nods along, as if hearing your thoughts.
Her outstretched hand remains. The dragons curl and twist above.
($checkWillpower: 20, "Resist the aroma.", "Spendthrift")
[[Give her everything.->Drained]]The last of your coins glide into the succubi's hands.
($deductGold: $Gold)
She raises a cursory eyebrow. "That's all? Hm. I suppose it'll do."
Your hand falls limply to your side as she stashes away your hard-earned gold. Now you're bereft of funds, she's uninterested in your existence.
And why should she be? You've fulfilled your function. You got to feel good for a while, giving her your money, but now you're all used up.
(link-reveal: "Unless... unless you can get *more money* for her, then...")[=
The succubi snaps her fingers in front of your face.
"Here. Pay attention. I don't always get to take someone all the way, so your obedience is appreciated. Kneel and I'll give you a gift."
You chuckle to yourself.
For how powerful this succubi is, she makes rookie mistakes. Why tell you to kneel when you are, in fact, already kneeling? Looking up at her like this, a goddess backdropped by stars, it was silly to ever resist giving her what she was owed.
She takes your chin in a gentle hand.
"Remember this," she says. "You earned it."
(link-reveal: "The succubi spits on your face.")[=
A fat glob of saliva lands across your eyes and forehead. Warm and liquid, it runs down your cheeks. You whimper, helplessly. Paltry and insufficient gratitude pumps through your veins till they swell and burst.
"Thank you," you mumble. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Yeah." She's already stalking out of the alley. "See you around."
Then whatever spell she cast on you must break, because your spine snaps and you collapse. It's painless, but you can't move. Savouring her glorious spit, you fall asleep.
When you wake up it's cock-craw-early and your muscles ache to shit from sleeping on hard ground. The regret comes in waves. At first you're ashamed for handing over *everything*, then for letting it get that far. Couldn't you have stopped it sooner?
But regret is arousal with history.
It feels good to give up. To hand over, without expectation or requirement. And it has to be everything, a total commitment to losing. Anything less and you aren't free. A single coin kept for yourself, a single untarnished moral, means hanging onto deluded notions of control. Sex is obliteration.
($grantKnowledge:)
You masturbate, crouching in a dirty alley, robbed and shivering with chill. The orgasm knocks you back down into blank-mindedness. Only when the sun comes up do you stagger back to The Kettle to recover.
($endSequence: "Thank the dragons you won't see her again.", "Watercreek")With glacial effort, you push the succubi away. "Know what this is. Nhn. Don't consent."
The succubi cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. "Is that so? My, my. Well, I'm not one to take what isn't offered. At least I got that drink." She cups your chin in her hand and moves your head back and forth.
"Shame. You were a good mark. Here's a parting gift, for playing along."
She plants a kiss on your lips. The world shifts out of axis.
Instead of things moving forward in time, they move through space. Your legs quite reasonably have no idea what to do. You crumple against the alley wall, taking long, languorous breaths as the succubi sashays away.
Darkness, sweet and soft. Your real oldest friend.
When you wake up, it's cock-craw-early in the morning. Your muscles ache to shit. Pulling yourself up from the alley floor, a cursory check shows your gold-satchel is still there. A thief of her word.
($endSequence: "You've had more expensive drinks.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1)
}\
It was inevitable you'd end up here.
Kamal's tower, the base of the dark sorcerer who terrorised Eiyren for years and created the corruption-curse, is a dump. For all his grandeur, he died in a squat converted water-mill slowly collapsing into the river because his slaves died too quick to build something new.
Nobody ever accused Kamal of style.
You'll find nothing here. Kamal's murderers ransacked the tower of anything valuable, and after the corruption-curse became evident, Academy goons turned the place upside down looking for clues. There were scraps—journals, notes. You've read them all. (link-reveal: "Nothing useful")[.
A laughable idea. Kamal wasn't deep enough for secrets. He found a trick that worked and used it to hurt people. Helping is harder].
And yet you're here, looking at his wizened post-mortem middle finger to all who pass by. Never could resisting pulling back bark from a rotten tree.
A ruined (link-show: "gate", ?gate) leads inside.
[They tore the metal off with their bare hands, when they stormed the tower, Kamal raining down death-curses as fast as he could from the window. There's an obliquary for the victims—in the capital, of course. Nobody would see it in Watercreek.
](gate|[[Enter the tower.->Explorations]]Inside it's pretty normal, actually.
You've visited battlefields, curse-ritual sites and other places of atrocity. None of the oppressive antipathy to life at those sites is here. You guess ten-dozen Academy thugs stomping through will do a lot to strip away a foreboding air, even for the locus of a dark sorcerer's power.
The tower's six or seven feet wide of empty dirt floor and rickety cull wood stairs leading up. Barely enough space for one person. Kamal was always a loner. This is where he died. According to the witnesses, he came down at the very end to personally blast away the militia and got jumped from behind. Enough space for one and someone hiding under the stairs.
You head up and reach the study where the sorcerer wrought his dark arts, and presumably also ate, read books and slept.
All the furniture has been carted away or smashed up except a thick wooden desk in an old ornate style that's actually built into the wall. You scan the room regardless. Anything on (link-show: "the walls", ?walls)? [Nothing but smoke-stains. ](walls|(link-show: "The desk", ?desk)? [Wiped clean, all drawers and potential false walls removed.](desk|
You step forward and, shit, stub your toe against a curling floorboard by the desk. Give it a few years and this place will fall apart. Children can play in the rubble, if people are still having children.
Another ladder in the corner has enough rungs left to get higher if you stretch. The cover at the top is jammed with wet and mold, but a good elbow-whack lets you [[slowly peek back up into the real world.->Looking Down on Watercreek]]It's raining. The sky expands endless and grey, nothing of Watercreek visible beneath the murk. You circuit the parapet. Nothing but stone-dry rat droppings and the skeleton of a bird you brush aside with your foot.
You lean on the parapet and look over Watercreek.
So many homes here. Two dozen populated, counting barracks. People had first loves here. Round this part of Eiyren there's apple-eating contests in summer: children did that here. Now the streets are haunted by direwolves and gibbering wrecks that used to be people. All from one man's pathetic refusal to die quietly.
And you, (print: $trueName), will you save them? Fuck enough creepy-crawlies so you can do what Eiyren's top mages—the real spellcasters, your colleagues would say—couldn't in six years? Why didn't you work with them? Why didn't you leave with Maera? Or even search for her?
(link-reveal: "What a horrible night to have a curse.")[=
You're heading back through Kamal's study when you spot it.
From this angle, leaving instead of entering the room, the floorboard you stubbed your toe on raises to reveal a tiny sliver of darkness. Almost definitely nothing; mills always have padding space between floors. Some architectural thing.
Five minutes later you've smashed through the plank, thanking the dragons for your thick-heeled boots. You get on your belly and stick your arm through the hole, fingers tracing the ceiling of the floor below like a net trawling ocean floors. Nothing here. To the left? No.
Moments before you finally and fully write off coming here as a waste, your fingers catch on something. You wriggle out [[a small metal icon, painted a flaking dark green.->The Icon]]{
(set: $foundDemonIcon to true)
(if: (visited: "Blue Lights"))[
(set: $ishiykState to "ready")
](else:)[
(set: $ishiykState to "gotIcon")
]} \
You've seen the sigil once before, in a book so old the Academy has you sign forms before touching it. A circle cut by three lines: two form an acute triangle, the other runs against them horizontally.
A symbol of demons.
Kamal, you *motherfucker*!
No wonder the Academy agents never found this; Kamal probably never realised he lost it. Dragons, everything would have gone different. Everyone knew Kamal punched above his weight with the curse, but consorting with demons?
A spear to the throat was too good for him.
(visited: "Blue Lights")[You don't fail to notice that this must be the icon the crossroads demon spoke of. Your best chance to unravel things will be to take up on his offer, as sick as the thought makes you. What did he say? 'Paint dots on your wrist to see me in your sleep.'
You should return to your room at The Kettle.
]You stash the icon away and quit the tower, feeling hidden eyes on you from afar. Thinking rationally, nothing has changed. Spells are spells, no matter their origins, and the purifying charm is your best shot at a counter-curse.
Still. Better in your hands than anyone else's.
(visited: "Tea")[Maybe you can show this to Maera?
]($endSequence: "Sleep is sparse and fitful that night.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 3
and $Willpower < 90)
}\
You spend the day chatting with the conveyors passing through Watercreek.
They stop here to feed the horses, piss or top up their canteens at The Kettle. A few come with supplies for the guards or food for the remaining civilians.
More talk about where they came from than where they're going.
When you mention corruption-beasts, people go sad and quiet. Everybody knows someone who's lost someone. You get hints: people go missing in the swamps, wooded areas are infested with direwolves.
Nothing you didn't already know. It still feels good to talk with them.
($grantWillpower: 5)
($endSequence: "These are people you can save.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 3
and $Willpower < 70
and $Knowledge > 4)
}\
Dried meat is sour on your tongue. Beer is chalk. Even a quick fuck behind in an alley behind The Kettle is grating and tedious.
Put blunt, you're exhausted.
You've been here before. Back when you had to worry about qualifying for things at the Academy, before Maera, there were months where you stopped existing outside of study and practice. It got you where you wanted, but it was brutal.
The only way out is to *slow down*, despite that being the hardest thing you can imagine.
With great effort, you roll out of bed at noon, pay the inn-keep extra to fry up some bacon and a take long, cold draught of good beer.
You spend the rest of the afternoon doodling in an unused notebook, mostly lashings and beheadings. It's not satisfying, but it's centering. You head to bed aching for a trek into the wilderness.
($grantWillpower: 5)
($endSequence: "Maintenance. Always more maintenance.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 3
and $Willpower < 60
and $Knowledge > 6)
}\
Injuries trap you in your body like a horse in quicksand.
Every bite, scrape and tear makes you wish you'd studied noncorporeal forms. Greater mages infinite possibilities; the great necromancer Nereine shattered herself over the concept of discontinuous time and still gave lectures in the rectory each morning.
You, however, are doomed to sitting on beds, hand to cunt, healing damage one wound at a time.
Not to say your body isn't robust.
Given everything you throw at it, it holds up admirably well. But your vocation is fucking disease-ridden curse-monsters in dirty ditches, so skin gets raw and blood dries in places it shouldn't go. This particular spell you devised to help rape victims, a collection of old succubi techniques packaged into a new Academy format.
The magic is crackling-cold, the bumps of frost when you run your fingers over a metal gate in winter. Not unpleasant, just makes your body eerily distant. Reminds you of worse times.
There. With a hand-mirror you examine your work.
($grantWillpower: 10)
Your cunt will always look worse than most people's, but at least you won't wince spreading your legs. Other areas need attention—a gash on your arm from a bramble-bush—but regular medical attention will suffice.
Too much magic and you become dependent on it. That quickly becomes a prolonged form of suicide.
($endSequence: "Time to get back out there, fighter.", "Watercreek"){
(storylet: when visits < 1 and (visited: "Drained"))
}\
When it gets late enough, nobody stays in The Kettle, not even the inn-keep. He trusts you to only raid the bar moderately; so far you've made up for any excesses with puppy-dog eyes and impromptu corvée.
At times like this, you become an imperious Eiyren monarch of old who hoarded unimaginable wealth and were allowed swords. Two shots of whisky! No, three! A queendom for the ages.
When the door to the street opens, you're naturally curious who's even awake this late.
(link-reveal: "Your eyes bulge. It's *her*.")[=
The pale-red succubi is just as startled to see you. She's dressed the same as last time, a long dark cloak with a thick hood that covers her short, stubby horns. On her belt rest multiple bulging satchels that clink as she moves.
"Now you're not a sight I expected."
"You haven't left this ditch yet?" she says in disbelief. "And—you remember me?"
Sipping whisky, you twiddle Maera's pendant between two fingers. "Gift from a friend of mine," you say in measured tones. "Wasn't enough to counteract your charm, but it stalled the long-term effects."
"I see." She sounds guarded, and... scared? This hasn't happened before. How old is she?
"It's good work," you say. "Your charm. I don't know if it's natural or studied. But I knew what was happening and still didn't break out. That takes skill."
The succubi slowly enters the inn, walking lightly on creaking floorboards. "You don't sound angry. Tell me why."
Shrug, finish the shot. "I've done worse." You pull out another glass, pour a finger and offer it up. "What's your story?"
---
She's called Saeri. The name flows through your ears like silk.
As you guessed, she's from the northern tribes and only came down here after the curse hit. This routine is two or three years old, partly learned from a mentor, partly figured out solo. Sleeps in the disused Watercreek houses, fleeces merchants, horny guardsmen.
Hard to judge with succubi, but she talks young.
"Figure that while we've all got targets on our backs I might as well make a living." She prefers wine to grains. "When this curse ends I'll head back home."
She doesn't know about your mission in Watercreek, just that you're doing 'research'. No need to over-explain.
Saeri (link-reveal: "scratches her horns")[. Maera does the same thing]. "Been a while since I just had a conversation like this. I've been living the night-life for a while."
"I can relate." You clink her glass with yours.
"You're really not mad."
"Succubi have been fucked over since the curse came. I'm not going to sic the guards on you or whatever." A pause. Do you want to do this? Why not. "Tell the truth, part of me enjoyed it. Even besides the charm."
An even, calculating stare. "I see."
Saeri doesn't promise to always be around, but when she visits The Kettle, she'll let you see past her glamour. You're welcome to approach for chat, drinks and, well.
($endSequence: "You know what else.", "Watercreek")Saeri sits with her legs spread, arms across the back of the chair. "$givenName."
She's looking [[as distinctive as always->Examining Saeri]].
(link: "\"Get you a drink?\" (15 gold)")[\
---
"Get you a drink?"
She shrugs in a way that means yes. Her glamour's smart enough you can call over the inn-keeper for a shot of absinthe—her choice—without him perceiving her presence.
Saeri idly clicks her fingers as you hand him the gold. "Doesn't count, you know."
"I simply enjoy buying pretty girls drinks."
Besides blood-soaked violence, what greater pleasure is there in life?
($deductGold: 15)
---
]
(link: "\"How are things?\"")[\
---
"How are things?"
Saeri brushes off her shoulder nonchalantly. "Takings are good. Watercreek's still the fastest route to the capital for conveyors coming over the border, so until the curse gets untenable my thing'll keep working."
"Must be lot of guys around here out for your blood."
Her stare is withering. "Most people don't have succubi-crafted purity charms to protect their memories. If they did I'd go into other work."
The mind marvels at Saeri's other employment opportunities. Lawmaker? Knife-sharpener? Euthanist?
---
]
(link: "\"Want to have sex?\"")[\
---
"Want to have sex?"
She glares with barely-disguised irritation. "I find you interesting, but we have that kind of relationship."
You need a relationship to have sex? Whatever. You're not stung; it's just prudent to ask. You never know when people will say yes.
---
]
(visited: "The Second Spell")[(link: "\"Why do you do these things to me?\"")[\
---
"Why do you do these things to me?"
Saeri studiously clips the minute ends of her fringe with nail-scissors and an ivory hand-mirror. "Do what?"
"Hurt me. Take money from me, have me do things for you."
"Well, why does anyone hurt people? You do too, don't you?"
"I know why *I* do it, but I'm asking about you. Everyone has a different reason."
A white lie. You've got theories, impossible not to, but speaking frankly the cause is overdetermined. Was it the Academy dorms, the break, the curse? The dark urges were there before all of them, or at least their seeds. An astrologer once casually mentioned you were born under a bad star. There are harder explanations to live with.
The hand-mirror clicks shut. Saeri stands the scissor-blades into the table with a lazy finger.
"Because it's fun. It's funny. You ask people to fuck themselves over for you, and they actually do it. People like that are practically begging to be toyed with, so why not amuse myself? And I know you're one of them, so don't deny it."
"Would you still do it if I didn't?"
She frowns. "Hm. Yes, I would. But it helps that you do too."
---
]]
(visited: "The Coven")[(link: "\"There's a coven in the swamp with other succubi. You could go there.\"")[\
---
"There's a coven in the swamp with other succubi. You could go there."
She frowns. "Oh? Hiding?"
"I'll show you the way."
"No, no." She waves a hand. "I appreciate the offer, but my odds are best if I stay solo. Besides, they might not appreciate how I've been making a living."
Knowing how Maera gets about her kin, you drop the point.
---
]]
[["I was hoping to give you a gift."->Tributary]]
[["Time for me to go."->The Kettle]]Saeri's in hunter's leathers and acts the part.
Her mouth is empty, but her jaw rolls back and forth like she's grinding down seed-shells, or the bones of lesser beings. And those eyes—bright from under the faded green hood, scanning The Kettle's clientele with equal, easy arrogance.
Hours she must spend like this, selecting her marks.
Saeri's horns are small nubs. Probably not even sharp, as if she'd let you touch them. She tips her chair back, feet on the table, teetering on the legs so hard anyone else would fall.
[[She never does.->Talking with Saeri]]"Yes, about time. On your knees."
Strange how much this turns you on.
You've knelt on all kinds of floors for all kinds of people, some worse than the hard wood of The Kettle and some crueller than Saeri. But before you always gave blowjobs, or cunnilingus, or simple deference and respect.
Never have you handed over money.
"Well?" Saeri says. "I never liked to wait. Give generously and I may see fit to reward you." Smug smiles all around.
[[On second thoughts, not right now.->Talking with Saeri]]
[You've currently got $Gold gold.
You've given Saeri $saeriTribute gold in total.]<total|
(link-rerun: "Give her fifty gold.")[
(if: $Gold < 50)\
[\
You don't have enough gold to keep tributing.
]\
(else:)[=\
(set: $Gold to it - 50, $saeriTribute to it + 50)\
(rerun: ?total)]\
(event: when $saeriTribute > 100)[[[Accept Saeri's first gift.->The First Gift]]]
(event: when $saeriTribute > 200)[[[Accept Saeri's second gift.->The Second Gift]]]
(event: when $saeriTribute > 500)[[[Accept Saeri's third gift.->The Third Gift]]]
(event: when $saeriTribute > 1000)[[[Accept Saeri's last gift.->The Last Gift]]]Your heart twists in a novel fashion when you give Saeri money. The closest analogue are those times when the Academy board allocated war-fields and matériel to upstart pyroclasts instead of a single office for your own studies.
Not that you're bitter.
Saeri takes the coins with casual care, sharp tusk-yellow nails scraping the metal grooves to check hardness.
"Coinage is new around these parts," you say. "Counterfeit is a few years off."
"Money travels. Besides, old habits die hard."
Your money disappears into the dark recesses of her cloak, probably a glamoured satchel hanging by her horribly smooth and inviting thigh. She rests her head on her knuckles as she counts. Today is light, leftovers from buying thread for clothes and manuscript binding glue. Still, Saeri clicks her tongue.
"Alright. Good." A final coin vanishes. "You've surprised me, $givenName."
You shift on the wooden floor. The tavern is busy, for lunchtime, with contractors and conveyors crowding nearby tables. You'd kneel without Saeri's glamour; shame never killed anybody. But you're glad it's there.
"Not for wanting this after our first encounter," she remarks, pulling her cloak over that mouthwatering thigh. "I've known humans with the inclination. No. You're surprising for actually going through with it."
[["I always try to be surprising."->Little Miss Surprises]]With a bemused expression, Saeri purses up her lips into a kiss and puts a finger to your forehead. This is a familiar game. Your first true lesson in power was learning not to use pressure. You tip your head back, slowly.
"Seems to me," slow lush tones, "you've earned yourself a reward. Mouth."
Easy to obey when a succubi's maple-honey-treacle voice tickles your ears. Kings have fallen for less. You open up, tongue over your lower jaw. She leans over, a towering monolith, smile enigmatic and restrained. For a single moment her eyes glimmer with the fracture of purple crystal under a hammer.
Saeri spits in your mouth.
Kiss enough people and you drink plenty of saliva. But a fat glob hitting your tongue without the comforting context of warm lips is decidedly unpleasant. Saeri's spit is cold animal fat, a sticky wad that won't go down. The gag reflex you've diligently kept all these years triggers.
Saeri's gaze is constant and commanding. Her expression isn't anger, or even sadism. It's nonchalance.
Accepting her spit is the natural way of things.
(link-reveal: "You swallow.")[=
Strands of saliva stick to the roof of your mouth. The taste is sweet, sharp tart sugarwater spoons frp, countryside jam. But there's also a deeper tinge, prickly. You swallow again, getting the last traces, and place it. A certain tinge from old, secret succubi charms Maera showed you behind two locked doors. The room spins slowly around its axis.
"That too," you say. Your tongue is fat. "I never knew."
"A particular trait of my coven," Saeri says with a smirk. "An ace up our sleeves when other measures don't work."
She puts a particularly beautiful and perfect hand to your face. The rest of the world blurs, but her voice is clearer—sharper, your ears emptied of wax. Dragonfire, succubi are (cycling-link: "beautiful", "dangerous"). How could anyone think they were responsible for the curse?
"Say thank you."
"Thank you."
Saeri reclines and nudges your chest with the heel of her boot. "Keep up these payments and you might get something else. No promises, of course."
($endSequence: "Takes a while to collect yourself after that.", "Watercreek")Money isn't hard to come by when you know what you're doing.
A sorcerous eye reveals a whole lot of useful ritual materials wandering the countryside—dappled bark, bird skeletons, spectral mushrooms—that conveyors are happy to sell off in the capital. If that fails, the guards here bet big on roundhouse and are too gullible to (link-reveal: "suspect a woman of cheating")[. Thanks for the tips, Maera].
Giving that money to Saeri still hurts.
Today she has her boots up on the table, paying you only the barest attention as she toys with a richly-illustrated volvelle. One glance at her clothes, dragonfire, (link-show: "those boots", ?boots), makes it clear she doesn't need the money. Doesn't help she's probably half your age.
[You'd murder for boots like that. How much money have you frittered away sewing up new pairs because the last ones got mud-soaked in some miserable bog? And they don't feel half as comfortable as Saeri's look.
](boots|"And that's everything," you say.
Saeri glances at the piles of coin you've built for the first time in minutes, brow furrowed. "Already?"
Today's tribute was twice what you gave the entire first week of this arrangement. If her expectations keep raising, you'll need other ways to build income. Is there anything you could sell? Cast love-spells for the locals like an unlicensed travelling charmer. ($corruptionText: 90, "See how much your body brings in.")
"I'm afraid so, miss."
"Hm. Acceptable. You've earned another gift." With a sigh, Saeri folds up the volvelle and swings her legs off the table. She sticks a boot out at you. "Here."
"Miss?" you say.
She rolls her eyes. "Go on, or I'll take it away. Don't pretend you weren't looking."
[[You're a butterfly pinned to cork.->Butterfly]]Saeri's boot is black leather, a sturdy hunting shoe kept tight with two buckled loops. Another stretch of skin's sewn into the body to hold thick red ropelike laces, pulled into an elegant seamstress knot. The sole is hard and a fine spotless brown.
Her smirk says you should be grateful she's not going to look at the volvelle as you worship her. Who knows, gratitude could be the right word for the watery weakness in your chest.
You start with the toes.
Boys at your feet always started with spit and tongue, something that struck you as a minor disrespect. That logic drives you to a series of small, polite kisses along the rim of the sole.
It tastes like nothing, really. The smell, though: stiff tinge of worked skin, the odour of Saeri's foot. Will she let you see, if you pay enough? There must be a number. Under everything is the hazy scent of succubi. Even with built-up immunity in spades you're light-headed.
Saeri tips her foot back, exposing more of the sole. The smirk is restrained. Can she tell you've been on the other side? Is that why she entertains your presence?
The hint is obvious, so you lick up the length of the sole.
Ugh. Once, during a bender in the Academy exam season, you accidentally took a bite of someone's furred hat instead of your steak, hairs sticking to your tongue for days. This is worse: up all sorts of grime and gunk from The Kettle's floor, generations of spilt beer and cigarette-ash. You scrape most off with your teeth, but some goes down your throat.
"Dragon's blood." You wipe your mouth with the back of your arm.
Saeri's amused, like an entomologist. "Want to know where I got these?"
If it means you can get a moment before going back for more. (link-reveal: "\"Yes, miss.\"")[=
"I passed through the Onlu coming here," she says. "They make wonderful goods; I knew I needed to outfit myself. In glamour, I visited the city's top leatherworkers."
"One gave you the boots as tribute." Your tongue's halfway close to clean.
"Don't interrupt!" She lightly taps your nose with the boot. Smiling still, yes, you didn't ruin things. "None met my standards. But as I left the last man on my list, his wife happened to enter the room. Know what I saw, $givenName?"
"Oh."
"Yes, these very same boots. An engagement gift to his beloved dear. A month off normal business making them, he told me, using materials far finer than regular customers ever got. Works not of craftsmanship, but love."
"How long did it take?"
"An hour." Saeri chuckles to herself. "It didn't take much pressure. The scent, to soften him, and a special kiss. He gave me the boots in a bow-wrapped box as the wife stormed out the house. I left the Onlu the next day. Good story, no?"
Measured tones. "I wouldn't expect any less, miss."
"Appreciated, $givenName. One more and you're done."
You shudder and nod. The second lick up Saeri's boot isn't any worse than the first time, but it's not better either.
($endSequence: "Thoughts of a shot of whiskey get you through.", "Watercreek")Saeri's gaze is particularly piercing today. Not from anger; you've done nothing wrong. It's curiosity, and that's far more concerning. Your gaze stays on the floor, far from her boots. A lesson learned only once.
"Do you realise," she says, the slow careful words of a woman dictating her wealthy husband's will, "how much you've given to me?"
"Just over five hundred gold," you say.
"Not the money," Saeri says. "Though I like that too. Do your knees hurt?"
"They do."
"How much?"
"More now I'm thinking of it, miss."
Saeri snorts, a hand on her chin. "And yet I know you won't get up until I'm satisfied and let you. Funny thing to let a girl do to you, don't you think?"
(link-reveal: "You're a funny girl.")[=
"I didn't mean money," she continues. "I meant all the time you've spent kneeling as I go through your purse. All the time you spent doing only-dragons-know earning that money in the first place."
"Have to spend it somewhere," you say.
Your knees hurt, but not as much as keeping your hands away from your cunt. Succubi have better noses than humans; she must smell it on you. Saeri doesn't mention it. Instead, she rises from the chair and plants a hand on your scalp.
"Miss?"
"In recompense for all you've given," she says, zero trace of the fumbling young adult, all posture and poise, "I will allow you to kiss me. Once."
You blink. "Where?"
"Oh, good question. Very good one. Anywhere below the waist. How's that?"
Murder. You dare a glance up and Saeri's grinning, actually showing teeth. Thoughts stampede, chief among them bafflement you never met a girl like this in the capital, home to all things dark and alluring.
"Your ass," you say.
"Ah! What was that? Didn't quite hear you."
"Please, miss, may I kiss your ass in recompense for my money and my labours?"
She lifts her nose, mock-serious, looking down at you a hundred miles tall. Is she going to spit on you again?
(link-reveal: "\"You may.\"")[=
Saeri doesn't move, so you awkwardly shuffle your knees around to her backside. Ever since that night in the alley, sky lit by the dragons, you've seen her ass in dreams. They all end the same way: her sauntering away, bulging coin-purse in hand, leaving you behind.
They're dreams that wake you up before sunrise.
Rising up on your knees, your face her ass head-on. Saeri's in the tight leathers of aristocrat hunters, high-quality and low-maintenance gear for weekend killers. The contours of her cheeks are pronounced like bone. You kiss her. The taste is a mouth full of stitching and dead animal skin. Even her clothing demands sacrifice.
Once second, three, four and that's all she permits. Saeri pushes you back with a finger to the forehead.
"Hope that was worth it, funny girl. Because it's not happening again, no matter how much you give me."
"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss."
"And I'm taking another fifty today. Out of principle."
"Thank you, miss."
($deductGold: 50)
($deductWillpower: 20)
The moment Saeri permits you to leave, you're charging up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you and pulling your pants down. Never happening again, oh, sweet poison in your veins.
You let out a wounded yell when you cum, on the floor halfway to the bed, trousers in sweaty knots around your ankles. The insidious squirming frustration isn't because the kiss didn't live up to your breathless midnight dreams. It did, a dozen times.
($endSequence: "It's knowing you'll see a lot more.", "Watercreek")"Well?" you say, shuffling awkwardly on your knees.
Saeri's running a file over her delicate fingernails. "Well what? Your tribute is appreciated, and such and so forth."
Big gulp. "By my count, that's a thousand gold. And you mentioned something about. A reward. Miss?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose I did. Fair enough. Close your eyes; it's a surprise."
Bad sign. Hearts shouldn't beat this fast when you're kneeling on a tavern floor. Saeri's scent comes closer in the swish of swaying clothes. Breath hits your cheek, hot and spiced.
Saeri flicks your nose.
"Ow!" When you open your eyes, she's leaning back in her chair, stifling a laugh.
"There you go. Enjoy your reward?" Back to the file.
Ruddy indignation swells in your stomach, tempered by cloying arousal. Saeri's grin is a subtle knife. The child princess who knows her whipping-boy will take the fall for muddying the linens.
It is patently, infuriatingly unfair and you wish she'd take even more.
"Thank you, miss," with an actual bow, hands on knees.
A tiny tug at the corner of her eye.
[[Payments go both ways.->Talking with Saeri]]{
(set: _metBuzi to (visited: "Sleeping with Buzi"))
(set: _pup to (visited: "The Left-Behind"))
(set: _saeri to (visited: "You?") and ((random: 1,6) > 3))
}\
The inn is spacious and empty, a remnant from when Watercreek was busier.
It has the high ceilings of a meeting-hall and little natural light. In the corner stands a graven image of the curse-sorcerer. Below, a sign encourages patrons to empty their dregs over it.
The inn-keep is here, perpetually arranging bottles, sweeping floors or clearing tables. He's rarely in the mood for conversation, but that [[doesn't have to stop you->Talking with the Inn-Keep]].
You can [[head up to your room->Your Room]].
_metBuzi[[[Buzi->Examining Buzi]] leans against the bar-top. You can (link-goto: "go say hello", $nextBuziPassage).](else:)[\
Around the bar perch members of [[the local sex-worker's collective->Three People]]. Tough outpost, this. Are they here on loan?]_pup[
You could head out back and [[check on the young direwolf pup.->The Pup]]]_saeri[
Saeri, the gold-charming succubi, holds court at a distant table. Nobody marks her presence [[except you->Talking with Saeri]].]
[[Head back outside.->Watercreek]]The inn-keeper is a short, wiry man with an ungroomed moustache who has never given you his name or asked after yours.
He's always in motion, stacking things, pulling things, wiping or upturning or arranging things. Dirt rings his shirt and ankle-sleeves. He looks up warily as you approach.
"You're still good for the room?"
"Yes." Watercreek's so starved for custom he didn't even try to get you to rent. A lump sum thrown on the bar-top your first night in Watercreek got you the room in perpetuity.
He works at a table with a washrag. "Then?"
---
(link: "\"Just wanted to say hello.\"")[\
---
"Just wanted to say hello."
His eyes dart up like a rat in a trap. "Hello."
Good talk.
---
]
(link: "\"Heard any rumours about corruption-beast attacks?\"")[\
---
"Heard any rumours about corruption-beast attacks?"
"I try to only be here or my house," he says. "If I knew where those things were, I'd go the other direction."
---
]
(link: "\"Can I get a drink?\"")[\
---
"Can I get a drink?"
He waves to the bar. "Put it on the ledger."
---
](visited: "Adoption")[\
(link: "\"And that dog out back?\"")[\
---
"And that dog out back?"
He sighs. He knows as well as you do that Axas is no ordinary dog. But it's not wise business acumen to question the only person leasing your rooms.
"I throw a steak through the bars at sun-up and sun-down. I don't look inside to see if it's alive or dead. I throw the steaks in. That's all I do."
"That's enough."
---
]]
(visited: "Another Beer")[\
(link: "\"You ever known a succubi to come in here?\"")[\
---
"You ever known a succubi to come in here?"
"Not since everything went to shit." A vague gesture at the image of Kamal. "Some of the guards say that type lurk around at night. I think they just want excuses for why they wake up without any money after a night of drinking."
---
]](visited: "The Avian")[\
(link: "\"I met the captain of the guardsmen recently.\"")[\
---
"I met the captain of the guardsmen recently."
The inn-keep grunts. "The bird."
"What do you know about her?"
"Nothing. She won't show up here for a month, then drinks me dry in a single weekend. Pays on the day and doesn't say anything." He pauses, as if what he's about to say next comes as a surprise. "I like her."
---
]]
[[Well then.->The Kettle]]{
(storylet: when visits < 1) (exclusivity: 1)
}\
Back when Eiyren was young and invincible it put a lot of conquest-money into expanding territory. Give fifty people tools, food, weapons and a token spellcrafter, then cast them like seeds to the far edges of the domain.
Wait fifty years and you get Watercreek.
The buildings near the center are squat utilitarian boxes made by people who didn't want to sleep in tents any longer. Further out stand the first steps towards actual architecture, if coned-instead-of-sloped roofs count. Past them, by the river, an ugly stone tower juts into the sky.
All those places are abandoned now.
When Kamal stormed in, everybody who could leave did. Now passing through the streets is like doing archaeology. Every avenue is dark, twisting and enclosed. Every alley's a dead end just when you don't expect it. Without upkeep, the foundations rot: in a decade these buildings will collapse under their own weight.
No wonder people stick to the inner stratum, where merchants and guards congregate. The moment The Kettle is out of sight, the hair on the back of your neck stands on edge, waiting for the prowling direwolf or sharp-knifed bandit around each corner.
Perfect for the naive little Academy researcher looking to [[get held down and debased->Watercreek]].You meditate on what you've seen so far.
When dealing with levels of raw corruption threatening to topple a nation-state, it's prudent to keep stable footing.
With the curtains shut, your room in The Kettle settles into a hazy darkness perfect for losing track of time. Maera knew the basics of meditation, but practice is the only true teacher. You once took an hour to fade out; now it happens instantly.
For a while, you stop being (print: $trueName) and experience everything being exactly as important as everything else. Stray thoughts filter past, like clouds across an oceanic sky, and you don't try to catch them.
It's refreshing.
You stop when your joints ache, not when they want you to think they're aching. A glance out the window reveals it's dusk. Deep warmth suffuses your body, like a sponge submerged in pitch. The enormity of your mission here is less daunting.
($grantWillpower: 5)
($endSequence: "You sleep dreamlessly.", "Watercreek")This is taxing: by some strange accident, you're completely fucking broke.
Guess that gold pilfered from the Academy treasury didn't (link-reveal: "go so far after all")[. Or this escapade is taking longer than it should]. Food and board are no issue, but heading into the wild inevitably decays your gear, clothes and body. Fixing those requires supplies Watercreek only gets by trade, and that means money.
Day-labour at The Kettle is too paltry. You need to kickstart your funds pronto. The old standby, of course, is sex.
Signing onto the sex-collective takes too long, so you'll go freelance, which means soliciting whatever horny drunks stagger through the streets at night.
When you were younger, old friends from the capital kindly taught you the tricks of the trade. Before night falls you're latched onto some old guy's arm, meandering to his caravan's tent outside the town gates.
($grantGold: 20)
The sex is meaningless and disordered, but he's good for his word and you slip back into The Kettle with enough money to ($endSequence: "get back to work", "Watercreek").{
(metadata: "color", "red")
(set: $Willpower to 0)
}\
Here we go again.
Corruption is like sinking into a pool of grease and fat: gentle, warm, disgusting. Your (link-reveal: "thoughts")[, barely reliable at the best of times,] are riven by sex and fucking.
The poor people of Watercreek have seen a lot, but walking through the streets in filthy rags and fingerfucking yourself still gets stares. Your feet are sore and bloody; your hair's a tangled nest of dirt. The influencing voice in your skull is booming-loud and you're glad there's no steep cliff-edges nearby.
"Fuck me," you pant breathlessly at anyone fool enough to meet your eyes. "Fuck me, knot me, tie me up and bleed me. Choke me and ruin me. Let me ruin you..."
Abstractly you remember your notes on lost causes like this. Following the classic pathology, a month will put you completely bereft of reason. One more corrupted human wandering the lands until somebody puts you to mercy.
Ah, no, you've already wet yourself. Warmth streams over your hand and down your leg as you keep masturbating. That puts the timeline closer to days.
The corruption-curse obviates the need for food, but you still get tired. After hours wandering the streets, searching for somebody to bludgeon your skull in and fuck the corpse, you shove open the door to an abandoned house and crash on the kitchen floor.
(link-reveal: "Sleep is no respite. The dreams are taunting faces and horny beasts.")[=
Soon there will be a point of no return, where momentum takes you below the surface. There's relief in that. Haven't you been fighting for so long?
As you slip into fitful sleep, Maera's pendant hums and glows.
Warmth spreads through you. Real warmth, the kind you've not felt since leaving your clothes in The Kettle last week. A life-rope. You grasp tight and take the first deep breath of air in days.
Of course Maera saves you, in the end. She always does. Watching over, making sure her best pupil doesn't destroy herself too completely. The pendant will pull you back to shore.
(link-reveal: "But it's not just the pendant, is it?")[=
The warmth comes from inside.
You've fallen before, yes. Then you got up, walked proud on shattered legs.
The moment you decided to improve the world, you were instantly and profoundly fucked. Do it anyway, $trueName. Scream back at the world until the world buckles and weeps. Spit blood, curse every dragon in the sky, then get up again. Grow frayed and raw like an exposed nerve, then keep going.
($grantWillpower: 25)
($increaseMaxWillpower: 5)(if: visits is 1)[
($grantKnowledge:)]
The (seq-link: "break", "exams", "memories", "statues", "break") couldn't stop you. This curse shit is nothing.
It takes days to break free. That's fine. When it's done, you walk into The Kettle, stark-naked, callused and sore, and demand a bottle of whisky on the house.
($grantOutfit: $outfitFrenziedRags, $outfitFrenziedRags's name)
($endSequence: "The inn-keep's smile is a rare sight.", "Watercreek")Coinage is new to Watercreek.
The idea spent years as a novelty (link-reveal: "isolated to the capital")[, and the Onlu, but the less said about there, the better]. Sadly, novelty does nothing to diminish its importance among the people who sell you soap and suture-needles. They are keen to remind you of this.
Relevant is a fact of life you've never made real peace with, namely that money means work.
Been a long, long time since you did physical labour besides holding a quill. You worry years of academia have relegated you to poverty out in the boondocks, where charity means beds of straw more than it does bowls of hot soup.
Thankfully, after a fierce interrogation The Kettle's inn-keep admits he needs someone to sweep floors and clean glasses while he procures stock out of town.
The work is tiring and unsatisfying, but it only lasts eight hours instead of the rest of your life. You head to your room with a meagre, but welcome, weight to your pockets.
($grantGold: 15)
($endSequence: "Now to lose it on something exciting.", "Watercreek"){
($hubStatFailures:)
(set: _canPurify to ($canPurify:))
(set: _hubs to (a:
(dm:
"name", "Torre, Nest of Harpies",
"link", "Visit the harpy town in the mountains",
"ok", (visited: "Torre, Nest of Harpies")),
(dm:
"name", "The Coven",
"link", "Visit Maera's coven in the swamps",
"ok", (visited: "The Coven")),
(dm:
"name", "City of Demons",
"link", "Focus on Ishiyk's sigil and visit the city of demons",
"ok", (visited: "Ending the Contract")),
))
(set: _visitable to (find: _hub where (_hub)'s ok is true, ..._hubs))
(set: _anyOtherHubs to _visitable's length > 0)
(set: _displayedFlavour to ($getWatercreekFlavour:))
} \
You exit the The Kettle with head held high. The town lies before you, a quiet and sober base for your lustful mission. It's late morning, but you have enough sun to explore one location thoroughly. (unless: _canPurify)[Monsters remain before you can conduct the purification ritual.]
_displayedFlavour
{(link:"Save game")[
(if:(save-game:"A"))[Game saved.
](else: )[An error occurred while saving the game.]]}
(link-storylet: "Explore Watercreek", where its tags contains 'town', "There's nothing left to explore in Watercreek for now.")
(link-storylet: "Explore the forest", where its tags contains 'forest', "There's nothing left to explore in the forest for now.")
(link-storylet: "Explore the swamps", where its tags contains 'swamp', "There's nothing left to explore in the swamps for now.")
(link-storylet: "Explore the plains", where its tags contains 'plains', "There's nothing left to explore in the plains for now.")
---
[[Spend the day meditating->Meditate]]
[[Spend the day earning some money->On the Grind]]
---
($hubOptions:)
---
[[Head back into The Kettle->The Kettle]]
[[Head somewhere specific->Places of Interest]]
_canPurify[\
---
[[Perform the purifying incantation->Precipice]]]You ($exposition: "never grew attached to desks", 1) like other academics did.
[Too much time spent out in the field, wind and slate on your face. After postgrad you only ever sat in a chair to bash out notes into the first draft of a paper that Maera worked into a fair-copy with the profanity removed.
](exposition|Your desk in the Kettle is still a homely, likeable thing. It has no pretensions. The design is stubbornly rectangular, corners made sharp by a measure-rule, and the designs are the most generic interweaving dragons you've ever seen. The wooden artifice blends invisibly into the corner of your room.
The perfect stage for hard thinking.
All the swords in the world won't cut the corruption-curse; it's a raw knowledge fight. At present a dozen hidebound folios cover most of the desk's surface, leaving just enough space for a single pyromatic light, a quill and two elbows. This is where untempered facts are bludgeoned into harmony and theories are born.
It is where you will craft the purifying charm to save Eiyren.
[[Review your progress on the purifying charm->Review]]
[[Do something else in your room->Your Room]]
[[Head back downstairs->The Kettle]]{
(set: _numbers to (a:
"no",
"one",
"two",
"three",
"four",
"five",
"six",
"seven",
"eight",
"nine",
"ten",
"eleven",
"twelve",
"thirteen",
"fourteen",
"fifteen"))
(set: _idx to $Knowledge + 1)
(set: _number to _idx of _numbers)
(set: _plural to (cond: $Knowledge is 1, "piece", "pieces"))
}\
Curses are, by definition, completely indestructible; otherwise they're a petty hex. Anyone with more than a passing interest in magic knows that. Once introduced, their presence stains history for all time after.
There is ($exposition: "an easy way", 1) and a hard way to negate a curse.
[The easy way is layering your own curse on top that bestows the exact opposite effects. The term of art used by the squeamish is 'benediction'. Corruption-curse plaguing the lands? Slap on a new curse that makes people chaste and docile in equal measure.
That works for trivial cases: cows with poison milk, men with wounds that never coagulate. You can tweak your subsequent curse as necessary, fudge the numbers and intensity until things are mostly back to normal and everyone's happy.
Kamal's curse is too vast and powerful for guesswork. You only have one shot, and you need to get it right.
](exposition|You are taking the hard way.
Light also cannot be destroyed; it bounces around the material world indefinitely. But it can be diminished and redirected, like shading a lamp or using mirrors to see the back of your own head. By this metaphor you plan to trap the curse and send it spiralling off into ($thought: "some far-flung dimension of existence", 1) entirely irrelevant to mortalkind. [
Maybe the void, maybe another plane. Hard to decide which is safer.](thought|
That starts with your foundation: a ten-tipped star, the schema drawn a hundred times in your notes. The number is arbitrary. Non-prime for stability, high enough to exponentiate power, low enough that holding it in your mind won't fry your brain to cinders.
Ten pieces of knowledge. That's ($exposition: "all you need", 2).
[With some caveats, naturally.
What the Eiyren capital thaumaturges failed to recognise was that a corruption-curse, being inherently lustful and sensual, cannot be understood theoretically. The knowledge must be direct, personal and private, the stuff lost in translation to words. There is no shortcut.
This is why you must experience the curse first-hand, in every way that entails.
](exposition|You currently have _number _plural.
(if: $Knowledge < 10)\
[\
Work remains. The world is wide, and the curse spawned more than enough beasts for your needs. The hard part will be keeping yourself upright through it all.
] (else:)\
[\
The work is done. You are ready to break this curse for good. Even if the idea scares the shit out of you—one wrong step and who knows what damage you'll wreak.
There is no alternative.
]\
[[Do something else in your room->Your Room]]
[[Head back downstairs->The Kettle]]{
(set: _showCurse to (visited: "Frenzy") and not (visited: "Refraction"))
(set: _link to (link-goto: "You put the mirror down.", "Your Room"))
(if: _showCurse)[(set: _link to ($reveal: "You put the mirror down.", "payload"))]
}\
On the windowsill sits a small brass-framed mirror. The design is plain and eminently functional; it's here because inn rooms require mirrors like wash-rooms require bars of soap. It's big enough for your head and shoulders. You pick it up.
Yeah, there she is.
You don't particularly like looking at yourself, but you're more comfortable with mirrors than any other point in your life. For a few months after the break they filled you with ($thought: "a deep fear", 1) that resisted names or conscious recognition.
[You moved, and the person in the mirror moved in concert. But they simply were not you.
Stars were similar.
](thought|What killed the fear? Same as everything from the break: dumb time. After a few years of pretending to be normal, the bad thoughts felt distant and alien. Now mirrors only make you slightly uneasy, rather than ruining the entire weekend.
Doing make-up blind is a useful skill, at least.
_link
|payload)[=The reflection in the mirror kisses the glass.
You tense as if stabbed in the gut and drop it to the floor; it falls face-down.
What? What was that? In an instant you jump into full pumping adrenaline, frozen in place, staring at the brass frame like it's a venomous snake. Were you ($thought: "imagining", 2) that? [Been a while since you saw things. But it's not impossible.](thought| Some kind of trick, another magician hexing you? Demon-work?
Or...
You tap the side of the mirror with your foot.
"Anyone in there, speak now or I'm smashing your vessel."
A poised silence, your muscles straining with the stress of staying still. Tightropes over waterfalls are easy by comparison. Then:
*My, more timid than I expected. Turn us around, won't you? I won't bite.*
The voice is quicksilver in your mind, slick and wet. The undeniable tinge of magic. That narrows things down.
Knowing better than to touch it with your bare hands, you flip the mirror over by using a book as a wedge between it and the floor. Your reflection reclines casually against the glass.
*Really, $givenName. You'll need more guts than that to stop me.*
That confirms it. You're talking with [[the curse itself->Refraction]].The bulkiest thing in your room is a miniature spice-grinder for bedside alchemy, an iron hunk that'd knock a minotaur out cold with a solid hit. With mechanical speed you bring it over your head and prepare to bludgeon the mirror into a thousand pieces.
*Wait! Don't you want to know what I can tell you?*
The grinder hangs frozen in its arc. "You can tell me nothing, curse, because you know nothing. You're a bag of patterns and rules held together by magic, not a thinking thing."
Your reflection bobs and weaves behind the glass. It's your exact copy: same clothes, hair the same level of untidy, same bloodshot eyes. The scenery behind it has faded into ($thought: "indistinct shadows", 1). [No point wasting magic on unnecessary details when the illusion's broken.](thought|
*Be that as it may. Patterns still hold information. Knowledge.*
This grinder is good for violence, but it's also heavy. You toss it onto the bed and crouch on the floor over the mirror.
"Let me guess. You're going to offer my tidbits about how you work as enticement for letting myself be corrupted. A standard defense mechanism weaved into Kamal's design, now that I'm here to destroy you."
*Exactly correct.* The curse-reflection's voice slowly morphs from quicksilver syllables in your head ($exposition: "into audible language", 1). [A common way for the brain to adapt to preternatural speech. Your own defense mechanism.](exposition| "So much easier for you than traipsing out into the wild and fornicating with the beneficiaries of my gift. Come, $givenName. Let's bargain."
Ugh.
It was nice having a room where you could relax and sleep without the cloying fingers of corruption. But this could be ($exposition: "legitimately useful", 2).
[Curses have absolutely no persona or mind; like a player piano, they only recite the notes given to them. The after-echo of their creator's will resides in the logic of the spell, a maker's mark, and those hints hold value. Certainly an avenue none of the state capital thaumaturges have taken.
](exposition|"Fine, curse. I'll speak with you when I'm bored, and be sure to update you with my progress on the charm that'll destroy you."
Your reflection smiles, all teeth, and stretches her arms over her head.
"How glad I am to see you're a good sport. Let the games begin."
[[You hope you haven't made a mistake.->Your Room]](if: $Knowledge > 10)[(display: "Running Scared")](else:)[=\
{
(set: _submit to
(link-goto: "Embrace corruption in exchange for information.", "Manifest"))
(if: $timesSubmittedToCurse >= 4)[
(set: _submit to "~~Embrace corruption in exchange for information.~~")
]
(set: _topics to (a:
(link-goto: "\"How do I best destroy you?\"", "Jousting"),
(link-goto: "\"How did Kamal create you?\"", "Willpower"),
(link-goto: "\"What is your goal?\"", "Destiny"),
(link-goto: "\"Can the cursed be truly cured?\"", "Impossible")
))
(set: _available to (a:))
(if: $timesSubmittedToCurse > 0)[
(set: _available to (subarray: _topics, 1, $timesSubmittedToCurse))
(set: _last to _available's last)
]
}\
The curse is examining itself in its side of the mirror when you sit down to talk.
"$givenName, always a pleasure. I have so much to tell you."
"Let's skip the bullshit."
[[Examine the curse-reflection.->Itself]]
_submit
(for: each _topic, ..._available)[
_topic
]
[[Talk, talk, talk. Enough.->Your Room]]{
(set: _accept to ($reveal: "Accept the curse's deal.", "accept"))
(set: _refuse to [[[The curse can go rot.->Talking with the Curse]]]<choice|)
}\
"Alright. What do you want from me, curse?"
Your reflection moves wrong: too animated, limbs snapping to pre-ordained positions without the momentum of natural movement. The curse's expertise is not in puppetry.
"Why, what I would want from anyone, $givenName. Accept my gift, and I will share myself with you in turn."
Parse that out into real terms and the likely upshot is a degradation to your willpower. Probably permanent, if the curse is offering this so boldly. Do you take the deal? Not an easy calculus, given you can always hunt down more monsters outside.
But when it comes to gathering knowledge, it's hard to beat going back to the source.
|choice>[ \
_refuse
_accept
][{
(hide: ?choice)
(set: $timesSubmittedToCurse to it + 1)
}\
"I accept. What do I need to do?"
Your reflection curls its hair around a slender finger. "How promising. Kiss me, $givenName. Our embrace deserves it."
Fine.
The curse-reflection comes up to its side of the glass with puckered lips and a gently smug smile. Not wanting to drag this out, you quickly kiss the mirror.
The glass sucks back.
It only lasts for a moment, but a rancid chill clutches you, like walking into a sick-room. Energy drains from you; your thoughts come loose and unordered. For a few seconds you sit on the bed in a stupor, blinking stupidly. When you come to, your hand is halfway down to your crotch.
($deductMaxWillpower: 10)
Oh, that's worse than you expected.
"A few more of those," the curse says, "and this silly crusade of yours will be done with. Won't that be so much easier?"
[[This information had better be worth it.->Talking with the Curse]]](accept|The curse stops pretending when it thinks you aren't looking.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see your body snap into a dull rigid pose like it's hanging from a butcher-hook, head sagging, arms dangling. A reminder that no matter how convincing the act, there is nothing alive behind that glass.
You initially thought the mirror beheld a true reflection. On closer examination, that isn't the case. Your curse-self gleefully bunches up her tits and presses her cleavage against the surface; they're bigger than yours. Call it ($thought: "ten percent", 1). [The size you always wanted as a girl.](thought| Her nipples bleed through clearly.
A similar pattern holds elsewhere.
The cursed reflection wears lipstick, the bright layered rouge you only see on streetwalking collective members from the Onlu. Her hair hangs down, luscious and flowing, while you usually go for a practical ponytail. And oh, don't think you don't notice that bare hint of pantyline creeping up over those barely-buttoned trousers. Noticing shit like that's third nature.
Listing all these differences is purely academic, of course. Nobody could really take the reflection to be you.
[[The eyes are far blanker than real life.->Talking with the Curse]]You go to the mirror, savouring the chance to inform the curse that its days are numbered. But when you pick up the frame, it's empty: not reflective like a normal mirror, but a simple black hole in the world.
"You there?" you say, rapping the glass with your knuckles. "Come offer me bargains, curse. I'm all ears."
The void stays silent. The curse is absent.
You break into a fat grin and almost fling the mirror out the window in vicious satisfaction.
It's scared. It's *scared*.
The curse knows, either by spying on your thoughts or instinctual dread, that you have the power to destroy it. All mockery and seduction is now futile. What can it even do? Scramble and panic, jerk spastically like a rat in a trap.
Oh so sweet in your mouth, better than any meringue.
[[Craft the purifying charm. Twist the knife.->Your Room]]{
(set: _seed to "a smouldering seed of desire")
(if: (visited: "Ecstasy"))[(set: _seed to ($thought: "a smouldering seed of desire", 1))]
}\
"How do I best destroy you?"
"You can't, of course. Curses are indestructible. Didn't you learn anything at the Academy?"
Not if you could help it.
"Don't play semantics. Tell me how I can stop you hurting people."
"I don't hurt people. I free them, $givenName. Inside everyone, there's _seed to let loose, give in, gnaw and grope whatever they can. I show people what's already inside them. They live under no rule, no ethos, entirely their own for the first time. All alone and, alone, free."
[Where have you heard that before? Oh, Kamal.
Always aping your betters.
](thought|No surprise that the curse dodged your question. But that in itself provides an answer. If your current method was a dead end, wouldn't it take ample opportunity to rub that in your face? Or encourage you to spend all your time and effort on it?
($grantKnowledge:)
The curse is stupid, but Kamal gave it enough wits to avoid flagrant self-sabotage. Good. An inverted compass points the way just as well.
This is the right path.
[[Keep fucking those monsters, girl.->Talking with the Curse]]"Why did Kamal create you?"
Your cursed reflection shrugs and plays with the lapel of its shirt, teasing a shred more skin. "One last stab at the corrupt order of Eiyren, I imagine. I don't really know."
"What? Get real. Of course he encoded you with intent, that's basic hexing. Look inside yourself and tell me the real answer."
The curse blinks and starts, as if slapped. "Inside?"
Little surprise the notion is alien. Interiority is a surefire way to confuse a dumb spectre like this. That rarely results in anything productive, but hey, who knows. Autopsies are ($thought: "a great way to learn anatomy", 1).
[Boots full of mudwater, hands so cold you can barely feel the scalpel cutting the yellow flesh of a bloatling victim. You learned quick.
](thought|"Yes. What do you feel when you look inwards?"
The curse stares intently, but not at you, off through the mirror to an invisible vanishing point. Its face twists into tripping, hesitant thought. For the first time, its step is unsteady. How delicious.
"I feel..." It chews the words. "Anger. Anger inside me, lashing out in me. I'm the rage. And, something else. What is that? I feel..."
"And?"
The curse snaps upright, locks eyes and snarls. "I will not speak of this. You got your question. I promised no answer, whore. Cunt. Filthy fucking *cunt*."
The mirror goes blank in the blink of an eye. The glass is cold as the void, so ordinary it's hard to believe your cursed double held home behind it moments prior.
Well, well. That's fine.
You got all the answer you needed. In the last seconds before it broke off, your reflection's expression was rapt in deep emotion. An expression you were plenty familiar with: mind-killing, ash-faced fear.
Kamal's primary intent when he made the curse was ($exposition: "fear", 1).
($grantKnowledge:)
[That's all.
Anger, too, but as an afterthought. The great dark sorcerer died pissing his pants, knowing he wouldn't slip away like he did all the other times. The curse was no devious masterplan, even if he'd sketched out some details prior. It was breaking down in tears when the healer tells you the disease has cure. It was bargaining with dragons in your head when the rockfall crushing your chest won't budge.
The curse is weakness.
](exposition|($endSequence: "Your mirror stays vacant for the rest of the day.", "Watercreek")"What is your goal?"
Spells don't have goals, any more than rivers or wildfires do. But you can plumb this for crumbs on short-term movements, feel out priorities.
"To spread across the world. To touch all beasts, fish and fowl, and sink the realm into distortion. To mire the cities in sewage, laden the wings of harpies with tar and put an end to history." Wow, it's really getting animated. "In short, I will show my gift to all dragonkin and other walkers of the land. And even the dragons themselves."
You laugh in the curse's face, almost dropping the mirror. Oh, that's rich.
"Kamal may have given you his ego, but let's be clear. He couldn't touch the dragons, not in his wildest dreams. Nobody can."
The curse-reflection cocks its head and smiles cold death.
"Careful what you say. Why ram down a door when the owner invites you in?"
"What? What is that meant to imply?"
"Tut, tut. I'm afraid you only get one question, $givenName, and this topic's grown dry. You'll see where my victory lies."
The mirror snaps to an instant pitch darkness. Your hands wrap tight around the frame, harder to hold than the weight warrants.
There are ($exposition: "layers to the world", 1). The curse has no way, no conceivable mechanism, to reach above its station.
[First, the most base creatures: plants, frogs, toothy things that crawl brainlessly ten miles underground. Above them stand dragonkin, succubi, all other creatures possessed of inner will. Or tool use, depending on who's doing the defining.
Go past mere mortals and you brush shoulders with the preternatural. Demons, in other words, though some more eccentric and rural gods also fit the bill. Their magic, if you can even call it that, is mysterious and powerful on exponential scales.
Dragons don't do magic.
Their strata of existence sits so high that the world moves to accommodate them, not the other way around. What's the old rhyme? *Ne'er falls a raindrop on guivre-skin*. History is a polite fiction for pretending they exist in time. If any being or force holds court above dragons, it's not one human minds can reckon.
](exposition|Does it?
($grantKnowledge:)
You stalk out of your room, blinking hard and chewing on the inner flesh of your cheek. The curse showed you insight, that's for sure. But it's not a knowledge that sits comfy in your mind.
($endSequence: "You don't return to your room for the rest of the day.", "Watercreek")"Can the cursed be truly cured?"
Your reflection leans in close and smiles smugly. "Never. Use all the spells and medicine you want. Convert every strand of muscle, drain their oil-of-the-joints, scrape the bones clean. I'll still be in their memories, $givenName. One touch and I'm there forever."
You examine your fingernails, enjoying how the hard ridges groove against the soft of your thumb. "We can wipe minds, you know. The militarymen asked for something to help the soldiers who came back from the front with shivers. With the newer techniques, we have them sleeping like babes."
"All the worse. Wipe one person's memory of me, and you spread it to everyone else in absentia. Did it happen to me, anyone can ask. Was I cursed and just don't remember? What did I do? What did I become? And then I'm right back again. Always already there. I'm unkillable."
A bitter lesson.
($grantKnowledge:)
You drop the mirror with a limp wrist, not checking if the fall makes it crack. Even if you pull this off, cure this curse, its damage will last for generations. The ($thought: "legacy of a legacy", 1). [People will live in misery a hundred years from now and not even know Kamal's name.](thought|
But no memory is final.
Let thoughts of the curse stay. You'll just drown them out in the glory of its destruction.
[[Turn to other matters.->Talking with the Curse]]{
(set: const-type $outfitResearcher to (dm:
"name", "Academy research gear",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Researcher",
"maxWillpowerMod", 0,
"willpowerChangeMod", 0,
"corruptionChangeMod", 0,
"willpowerCheckMod", -5,
"corruptionCheckMod", 0))
(set: const-type $outfitAdventurer to (dm:
"name", "leather adventuring gear",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Adventurer",
"maxWillpowerMod", 0,
"willpowerChangeMod", 0,
"corruptionChangeMod", 3,
"willpowerCheckMod", 0,
"corruptionCheckMod", -5))
(set: const-type $outfitNightProwler to (dm:
"name", "your nightprowler set",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Nightprowler",
"maxWillpowerMod", -5,
"willpowerChangeMod", 0,
"corruptionChangeMod", -5,
"willpowerCheckMod", 0,
"corruptionCheckMod", 0))
(set: const-type $outfitDemonBindings to (dm:
"name", "Ishiyk's thorn bindings",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Thornbound",
"maxWillpowerMod", 0,
"willpowerChangeMod", -10,
"corruptionChangeMod", 10,
"willpowerCheckMod", 0,
"corruptionCheckMod", 0))
(set: const-type $outfitFrenziedRags to (dm:
"name", "corruption-laced rags",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Frenzyclad",
"maxWillpowerMod", -10,
"willpowerChangeMod", -5,
"corruptionChangeMod", -5,
"willpowerCheckMod", 5,
"corruptionCheckMod", -15,
"dailyWillpowerChange", -3
))
(set: const-type $outfitAnticurseWeave to (dm:
"name", "Maera's anti-curse weave",
"descriptionPassage", "Outfit - Interweaved",
"maxWillpowerMod", 20,
"corruptionChangeMod", 10,
"corruptionCheckMod", 10
))
(set: array-type $availableOutfits to (a:
$outfitResearcher,
$outfitAdventurer,
$outfitNightProwler))
(set: dm-type $playerOutfit to $outfitResearcher)
}{
(set: _currentOutfitName to $playerOutfit's name)
(set: _switchableOutfits to $availableOutfits - (a: $playerOutfit))
}\
'Wardrobe' is a big word for a smoke-stained wood box shoved in the corner of the room, but it's yours and it'll have to do.
Your furtive exit from the Academy required a light load, but 'light' doesn't mean 'destitute'. Different situations require different outfits, and your life is nothing if not replete with situations.
You're currently wearing _currentOutfitName. ((link-goto: "details", ($playerOutfit)'s descriptionPassage))
These outfits are available:
(for: each _outfit, ..._switchableOutfits)[\
(set: _name to _outfit's name)\
(set: _description to (link-goto: "details", _outfit's descriptionPassage)) \
(set: _equip to (link-reveal-goto: "equip", "The Wardrobe"))\
* _name (_description) (_equip[\
(set: $playerOutfit to _outfit)
(set: _newMax to ($getMaxWillpower:))
(if: $Willpower > _newMax)[(set: $Willpower to _newMax)]
])
]\
[[You're done for now.->Your Room]]Standard casualwear for an Eiyren capital dandy: tight fabric shirt, cupped under the breasts, loose buttoned trousers. The Academy has no uniform for tenured professors, but decorum insists on ($thought: "white fabric", 1). [Easily, easily stained.](thought| A skullcap embroidered with dragons completes the set for formal occasions, but you resolutely left that behind.
Whether you wear smalls beneath your trousers is a coin-flip. Sometimes you want to make it easy for the monsters.
You're well-habituated to this style. It'll make it slightly easier to resist the corruption-curse and do not much else.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)You were never an outdoorswoman, but this is your best guess at what they wear.
Thick ol' skullcrusher boots, dense cowhide trousers and a jet-black jacket, topped off by fingerless gloves for safely grabbing thorns and stingers. The tradeoff is always between mobility and protection. Heavy leathers are a bitch to climb or run in, but if it stops direwolf fangs, the choice is obvious.
This set is more serious than you're used to. You'll gain corruption more slowly, but its rambunctious, get-out-there-and-fuck-em-up nature will make reckless or depraved choices easier to consider.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)This is what you wore when you lurked the streets of Eiyren capital late at night, looking for anonymous cock or cunt to silence the buzzing in your head.
The key to a really effective slutty outfit is to not overplay your hand. Keep the standard shirt and skirt, but bring the length (link-reveal: "up above the knees")[. Panties? Ha]. Use the tight uplifting half-cup bra, undo two more collar buttons than normal.
Actual make-up beyond daily maintenance. Rouge, shadow, pin-me-down lipstick. When it feels unbearably garish, you're on the right track.
This get-up always made you reckless: dozens of ill-advised one-night flings, standing screws in dirty alleys while the drunks watched clapping. No surprise it'll reduce your max willpower and make corruption accumulate quicker.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)A demonic gift and reminder of your introduction to serving Ishiyk: crawling hands-and-knees through the City of Demons, hooked at both ends, all soft and tender parts wrapped in dark sharp rosethorns.
Ishiyk granted you clothing after the parade ended, but ($thought: "the thorns remained", 1). |thought)[
*"A marvellous way to focus the mind, lambkin."*]
The servant-dress is simple but elegant silk that tightly clings to your form, coloured the darkest shade of grey that can still be called light.
The thorns run beneath, circling your joints, belly, collarbone. A particularly nasty strange pulls up under your pelvis, scratching your cunt with every step. Any outside observer would only see ruching, a pleasant series of ridges.
Yes, of course it fucking hurts. (visited: "Ending the Contract")[
And yet, you choose to wear them.]
Each step makes you grit your teeth, plan your movements to avoid the least discomfort. By demonic power the thorns never draw blood. If they did, you'd leave a red trail of biting habitual misery in your wake.
The pain commands focus. While wearing the thorn-dress, the corruption-curse feels... not distant, exactly. Paltry. Unessential. You are you are you, and nothing can change that besides your own volition. The rock stands against the sea.
Gains and losses to willpower are both decreased.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)The corruption-curse is an equaliser.
All who fall to its frenzy, be they petty royal or humble tiller, gravitate toward the same ensemble. Loose, filthy rags, the coarse and itchy texture of a burlap potato-sack. The past life, and its trappings, are left behind.
These are your rags, spit-stained and piss-stained.
Corruption laces every thread, makes the fabric damp and cloying. The watery aniseed stink of bestial, mindless fucking in the mud. Even touching them sets your head racing with thoughts of debauchery. ($corruptionText: 70, "Wear them forever. ")If anyone saw you wearing them, well, they might be polite enough not to mention it. But they would notice.
Dragons only know why you didn't burn them. A symbol of resilience? You pulled back past the point where it's possible to pull back.
Or, or, or.
Wearing these is a staggeringly bad idea; they'll reduce your maximum willpower, make it easier to lose willpower and harder to regain it. Unthinkable choices will become thinkable far quicker. The right path will be harder to follow.
If that wasn't enough, simply wearing them will gradually drain your willpower.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)Maera's anticurse weave is immaterial and textureless to the touch. Innumerable sparkling gemstones flow through the air, constrained to an invisible contour; only by mapping the movement of the lights can you approximate the cloak's overall shape.
It's pretty comfy.
The hood is baggy and sags over your fringe without judicious use of hairclips. The rest adapts to your body, making overall mobility not an issue. The interior is sewn with symbols, Maera's monad, which change with every examination. Since it provides little protection against the elements, you wear standard Academy gear beneath: (link-reveal: "buttoned shirt with frilled cuffs, dress trousers")[.
If only you had a rapier, you could pass as a mystical troubadour from legend].
The weave is a preternatural defence against curses, hexes, jinxes, maledictions and broader anathema. While wearing it, your maximum willpower is significantly boosted. In turn, your willpower drains slower and regains faster. There is no downside: it is a masterwork.
Not enough to make you immune, not by any distant dream. But it's a start.
You can work with this.
(link-goto: "(Go back.)", (history:)'s last)<>{
(set: _canSummonIshiyk to
$foundDemonIcon
and (visited: "Blue Lights")
and not (visited: "Contract"))
(set: _mirror to (link-goto: "boudoir mirror", "The Mirror"))
(if: (visited: "Refraction"))[(set: _mirror to (link-goto: "boudoir mirror", "Talking with the Curse"))]
}\
The second floor of The Kettle has four rooms for rent and yours is the second on the left. You highly suspect you could sleep in every bed and nobody would notice.
Your room is neat and orderly, mostly by ($thought: "bringing nothing to clutter it", 1). |thought)[All your real books are back at the Academy, quietly rotting or sold off for kindling.] Spending time here feels like nothing at all. When you're alone in small rooms for long enough you start forgetting you exist separate from the world.
The furniture includes your bed, [[a wardrobe->The Wardrobe]], a _mirror and [[a small desk->The Desk]] where you work on the purifying charm.
_canSummonIshiyk[If fear doesn't overwhelm, you can [[summon the demon->Travel by Sleep]] you met at the crossroads to enter his realm.
][[Masturbate->Masturbation]]
[[Head back downstairs->The Kettle]]Sure, why not.
You sit on the edge of the bed and unbutton your trousers. At the Academy you prefer toys, or the special spells that will never get published, but your hand is fine too.
Alright: you're done.
Pissing, eating, sleeping, cumming. All the mechanisms you sacrifice time for to get a body you can ignore. At least rubbing one out doesn't cost money.
[[What now?->Your Room]]