Still on the Dejah train to MoonFall domination, I go back to the brothel, for a brief talk with this guy:
I humor Commissioner Bell and her questions anent the Courtesans’ Guild’s inner turmoils; and I slap a patron straight across his uncouth face after he dares call me ‘sugar tits’, but that bears no relation with the plot at large.
In the Blood Pit, the girls and I battle colonel Hachik and his very best troops. Very early into the brawl a constable in full riot gear closes in on Diana and, mighty-thewed as he evidently is, bashes her with his shield:
Ow. Ow ow ow. From full health to almost dead in one, double-hitting crit.
They are chunky boys and girls, these constabularies, with health pools far deeper than even that of Zafra—which gives me a perfect opportunity to try a few of my new Skill toys. Conjured under my empery over matter, Stone Teeth brutally erupt from the ground as if the lower maw of a core-dwelling devil. Zafra—whose Chem Rager skill tree is partially completed—brushes blows and bullets away with frightening ease, the while darting and leaping bodily about the room, unhindered by notions of restraint. Isutyr even dominates a female constabulary! Alas, no riding crop nor lip-biting threats of twisting certain parts are involved in this, Isutyr being merely content to break the woman’s mind with her own, so that the constable is rendered aghast beyond resistance, and shifts this way and that, unable to do aught but gawk.
Lastly, I find judge Denton freshly out of a Private Booth, serviced to beyond his satisfaction, his vim exhausted to the last drop. Politely accepting his congratulations anent the overall quality of my brothel, then answering a couple of his questions, I ultimately leave him white in the face after explaining to him that some of the booths are manned by men. #somethingforeveryking
This done, I come back to the meeting room wherein Grejora is waiting for me:
Grejora then establishes an encrypted connection to Dejah; and my girl is pleased. “Everything is in place for Operation Broken Chain,” she says. The next few weeks will be capital, but won’t require my further involvement; and in fact Dejah recommends I try and stay inside as much I can.
So now the bacchanal is over. The air in Le Lupanar is dense—nearly cloying—with odoraments of the carnal kind. Whores are at their sinks, one leg raised. I hail Windress, flirt a bit with her for the fun of it, and we go to the bar to unwind.
“Hidden heart,” she replies, and taken from an old Zimalayan myth. About a one-armed girl (Baiken?) who, riding a greatfox, hunts after a serpent goddess having swallowed the sun.
Ensues an almost obligatory, classic, very vaguely cringy—but aware that it’s vaguely cringy—conversation about me suspecting Windress has some hidden depth, and her denying it in full.
Um… no, I’m really not. I’ll walk tirelessly as long as big naturals are on my horizon, and that’s pretty much it.
Oh, Windress. How sweet.
A glow? Lord, am I pregnant? Wait… Amy Seagreave! I knew that white stuff she insisted we use wasn’t just regular lube.
Later that day I wake from a restless sleep, a vague somnolence in whose shadows shifted succubi with multi-color hair and fox tails buttplugs. I wonder why…
But what’s this laid on the counter?
A surprise, yay!
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