>>6326936
…
You sometimes surprise yourself, with how easy things come to you now. Techniques martial, magical, and meditative which were a struggle for demogoblin cambion Cara-Zi are child’s play to Carazzi Yosef!
(And a good thing, ‘cause you still have plenty of fuck-ups to fix, and a Jimmy to save.)
You find yourself thinking about this as, thighs clamped around your airborne steed’s sides, you sail under the Shieldwall’s shadows and into the light of a brand new day. You pass over Turtledove, more bustling than ever inside and outside its walls as the humans and halflings rise and shine in great numbers. Those Paladin guys are probably heading to bed, though, going against their diurnal nature just as Zith-Zi is for the sake of war. You imagine one of them—maybe the cute blondie—looking up out of his window and seeing the silhouette of you and your gryphon…
A Green Knight of House Yosef. A miracle, they’d called you!
The way they’d looked at you… You’ve never felt quite like that. You’ve been wanted and desired—sometimes more naturally and sometimes SUPERnaturally—but never RESPECTED before. Not like that, anyway. Those humies thought you were, like, a HERO!
When you close your eyes, slow your breathing as you were taught, and slip half-way into the collective unconscious: the Dreamscape.
“How peculiar… I never would have thought I would see the day.”
Though nestled within your own unconscious mind rather than risking the attention of angels or other agents of light, you are startled to hear an unfamiliar voice. You fear you’ve been discovered somehow, and scramble to explain your presence and nature in this place, but as a form half-shapes itself from the foggy haze of daylight on the inside of your third eye’s hidden lid, you recognize the shape, and then the voice.
“Heey, yer that, uhh… Knight guy!”
“Indeed,” speaks the tinny voice from within the memory of a full-face helm, “I am he.”
He, in this case, is the same ghostly ancestor—but not a ghost! He was very insistent on that point—who you last saw on a mud-splattered, tear-stained night, beneath a footbridge near Sunset Lake. It had been after your abortive attempt at an amorous encounter with a certain thick-brogued, thick-thighed dwarven boat-captain. You’d lost control of your unholy urges and made a mess of things, before retreating to a place suitable for the monster you knew yourself to be.
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>>6275862
Your eyes snap back to your prey—or partner?—to be. The Naked Emperor has manifested many more eyes, of myriad makes and models: a slit-pupiled eye akin to a cobra or a cat; a bleary, waxy-cuticle thing which might well suit a fish or frog; an eerily humanoid one rimmed with luscious lashes, blinking and twitching to take you in inch by inch.
“Y-ya do?”
The hundun bobs and lurches forward, then backwards, in a whole-body nod. It’s an absurd affectation, but the comedy disarms you. You find yourself sniggering at the silliness of this thing.
“It reminds me of when we danced,” says the Emperor. “That was truly something special… Something unique! Never before had I encountered someone who could dance like that… Limb by limb, across shapes and forms.”
Your giggling turns to a bashful blush, and your self-consciousness shifts shape into something else.
“It was stupendous. Spectacular! Splendid! Another thing beginning with a similar sound!”
This isn’t like Martyn, complimenting his ‘mermaid’. It cuts to the core of you—the you born of a ritual a few scant years ago, the you who owes its existence to a succubus called Irinnile and her hybrid host. You shift from foot to foot, as misgivings take shape.
“Ya can’t really, like… Mean that?”
“Of course,” huffs the hundun. “Lying would be wrong. Or right? Either way, rather outside my aptitudes. Like me, my words simply… Are. They may change, or contort, or become something else, but they are always mine, and always exactly what they are in that moment. They can be nothing else.”
The Emperor’s unexpected flattery—or, well, its/his truthfully-eccentric assessment—stuns you. You shift a little under its intense gaze, and find yourself wishing you could see yourself like that.
“Oh, is that all? That can be arranged!”
“Huh?!”
You jump as one by one, the eyeballs emerging rom the hundun’s maty mass are sucked back inside, and then pop out anew. Each is reformed into an oversized imitation of your own: reptilian of pupil with a deep black iris, rimmed by a golden-yellow sclera, and framed by a rim of rugose, green scales. Normally, the sight might instinctively repulse you, as your appearance seems to repulse all others…
But a succubus, a demon, is a reflection of others. A shadow, an echo, a negotiation with mortal perception. The Naked Emperor, though is no mortal, and it feels no revulsion or horror—only curiosity, and a sort of unearthly and detached desire which is utterly unlike the kind you inspire in others.
Your eyes snap back to your prey—or partner?—to be. The Naked Emperor has manifested many more eyes, of myriad makes and models: a slit-pupiled eye akin to a cobra or a cat; a bleary, waxy-cuticle thing which might well suit a fish or frog; an eerily humanoid one rimmed with luscious lashes, blinking and twitching to take you in inch by inch.
“Y-ya do?”
The hundun bobs and lurches forward, then backwards, in a whole-body nod. It’s an absurd affectation, but the comedy disarms you. You find yourself sniggering at the silliness of this thing.
“It reminds me of when we danced,” says the Emperor. “That was truly something special… Something unique! Never before had I encountered someone who could dance like that… Limb by limb, across shapes and forms.”
Your giggling turns to a bashful blush, and your self-consciousness shifts shape into something else.
“It was stupendous. Spectacular! Splendid! Another thing beginning with a similar sound!”
This isn’t like Martyn, complimenting his ‘mermaid’. It cuts to the core of you—the you born of a ritual a few scant years ago, the you who owes its existence to a succubus called Irinnile and her hybrid host. You shift from foot to foot, as misgivings take shape.
“Ya can’t really, like… Mean that?”
“Of course,” huffs the hundun. “Lying would be wrong. Or right? Either way, rather outside my aptitudes. Like me, my words simply… Are. They may change, or contort, or become something else, but they are always mine, and always exactly what they are in that moment. They can be nothing else.”
The Emperor’s unexpected flattery—or, well, its/his truthfully-eccentric assessment—stuns you. You shift a little under its intense gaze, and find yourself wishing you could see yourself like that.
“Oh, is that all? That can be arranged!”
“Huh?!”
You jump as one by one, the eyeballs emerging rom the hundun’s maty mass are sucked back inside, and then pop out anew. Each is reformed into an oversized imitation of your own: reptilian of pupil with a deep black iris, rimmed by a golden-yellow sclera, and framed by a rim of rugose, green scales. Normally, the sight might instinctively repulse you, as your appearance seems to repulse all others…
But a succubus, a demon, is a reflection of others. A shadow, an echo, a negotiation with mortal perception. The Naked Emperor, though is no mortal, and it feels no revulsion or horror—only curiosity, and a sort of unearthly and detached desire which is utterly unlike the kind you inspire in others.