>>5708454'Irinnile ben Yosef' steps daintily up the staircase to a familiar office—that of the last lord Yosef, whom she’d once had a hand in assassinating, alongside her last lover—a half-human Reptilian Infiltrator and, ironically, descendant of the Yosefs. Much of the furnishings have been packed away, but she still takes a moment to admire the beautifully-made stained glass window at the back of the dead nobleman’s dusty one-time base -of-operations. It depicts in grandiose detail a war wages between armies of man, elf, and dwarf against the Great Green Dragon and his forces. It’s the war which, by helping to finance and fight, made the House of Yosef a noble household in Hawksong for centuries thereafter.
“Hey, lookie there,” Irinnile says, “it matches our armour, babe, with all the dead dragon carvings an’ shit! The perfect little love-nest for the Green Knight and his Emerald Enchantress, amirite?~”
By Irinnile’s will, Yosef’s hand drifts down towards stiffening member.
“Why don’t we pop off this codpiece and give our new bedroom its inaugural bang? Summon one of our little fuckpuppets, huh? I mean, we ain’t got no bed yet, but no reason you can’t plow ‘em on the floor—frankly, it’s kinda’ hotter if ya’ do!”
Against his will, almost without his knowledge, the Green Knight and Lord of the House of Yosef begins to stroke his hellishly-engorged manhood in the office of his long-dead predecessor. It is an obscene desecration, of his ancestors, of his body, and of his mission. Both Lords Yosef were enemies of evil, of demons and of their Reptilian collaborators, and yet it is by demonic manipulation and under Reptilian stewardship that they have been destroyed and restored. Before a mural of their conquest of a dragon, a dragon’s agent now makes sport of Lord Yosef’s body and soul.
“Ooo, those were some poetic laments, babe!” Irinnile coos at the flickering embers of outrage which erupt from the suppressed spirit of Heinrich Yosef. “Say, you like the blonde cultist, right? With the tight little…”
Before the succubus can finish the thought—or bring her unwilling ‘husband’ to further twisted pleasure—she is interrupted. In reaching out across her network of ectoplasm-infected stooges and supplicants, she senses a grave and troubling disturbance.
“Wait, what’s goin’ on over there?” she mutters, removing Yosef’s hand from his shaft and hastily replacing his codpiece as she directs her dispersed intelligence to focus upon one distant packet of her essence. “Who is that, and why can’t I feel ‘em properly no more?”
