>>6011412It is Zith-Zi who interjects next—the pink-skinned little woman who, before your magical meddling, was once a goblin of these very wastelands. You all look over at her, as she chews upon a chunk of meat.
“This is how things are,” she says bluntly, as you recall her own admission to having been involved in banditry, slavery, and even prostitution, as both perpetrator and victim. “They wouldn’t be mourning you, and with the trolls ‘specially, they prob’ly wouldn’t even mourn each other. They’re cannibals, ya’ know.”
Your eyes settle on the meat she’s eating, and your stomach knots itself. Zith-Zi seems confused for a moment, then glares at you.
“It’s that horse-meat you cloned us with your magic!” she exclaims. “Whaddaya’ TAKE me for?!”
>20You take the words of your loved ones to heart, though, rejoining those whom you freed and protected. You can’t stomach any food yourself—not here, not near this bloody battlefield—but you do not let despair drag you down. Rather, you take solace in the peace and security you can bring—HAVE brought—others. Not only solace: you take PRIDE. Some battles MUST be fought, you resolve, and if you can preserve the lives and innocence of others by your own actions… Well, so be it.
Carazzi, the demon-souled goblin girl, is sitting in your lap, humming happily as you stroke her hair and praise her own good work in saving the day. Her rather voluptuous form makes this a little awkward, but she assures you that physical contact is useful in providing the psychic sustenance which she needs to help abate her succubus’ appetite. It is in this innocent-yet-unseemly state that the Ashurati find you.
“What in the Heavens’ name is THIS?” balks Khankhe, the young man of the Neme-Ashurati who you freed, as with the other captives.
You stand up quickly, Carazzi yelping as she tumbles from your lap. And onto the ground. You start to stammer an explanation, but quickly realize that he is not asking about you and Carazzi, but rather is surveying last night’s grisly aftermath. He is not alone, either, but ahs rather returned with two older members of his race: an elfman and elfwoman of the Neme. Like him they are lithely muscular, taller than your mother’s Sylvan race, with eyes so pale that they are almost white, no hair on any of their brownish skin, their pointed ears close to their heads, and partly-webbed fingers for swimming through loose soil.
“Ah, well…” you begin.
“You did all this?” the female asks, regarding you with hairless brows raised.
“Well, the others helped,” you say, without shame, “but yes.”
“You really have grown stronger, then, Ezreal Mious.”
You blink a couple times in confusion, then squint, and finally you recognize her.
“Nemenmo?”
Nemenmo—the female Neme who taught you to summon <Daylight> even in dead of night, when last you visited the wastes—graces you with a small smile and a slight nod.
