>>5337622>>5337608>>5337598>>5337587>>5337461>>5337452>>5337343>>5337338>>5337337>>5337331>>5337330>>5337310“It’s just… One thing after another, you know?”
“What?” she asks. “Did the diplomatic effort go poorly, then?”
“Huh? What? No, no it went great! But it’s just been such a pain. First the ungrateful kobolds, then these… Blustering bugbears… And the elves, even the elves are so, so… Did you know the camp leader, Jazkarmel, is a princess?”
“…The daughter of the Elf Queen?” the Novice asks with interest. “Are you certain?”
“Well, I dunno’, probably? The Ranger-Captain male… He said she was a ‘Princess’. I didn’t ask for specifics… But it changes things, right?”
The Novice scoffs in annoyed amusement.
“Oh, let me guess: as with the bug ‘princess’, you’re going to use this as a pretense for why you MUST mate with her? You heat-addled, monkey-brained...”
You stare at the Novice as she goes on and on, not really listening to the words—just enjoying the sound of her voice, watching her tail sway back and forth with irritated lashes… Watching her thighs shift.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” you interrupt her. “Elves aren’t like you… Like your Amulet of Disguise version was, I mean. Even their ‘Princess’…”
“What are you on about now?” The Novice sighs.
“Your ass,” you specify, “and you tail. Thick. Got some… Jiggle to it. THAT’S what they all lack.”
The Novice’s eyes widen, in shock or outrage. She opens her mouth to rip you asunder with a fresh torrent of insults, but instead emits a small squeak at you stumble forward and very nearly topple over onto her.
“Wait… This smell… You’re INTOXICATED. You buffoon, mammalian intoxicants have unpredictable effects on our race!”
“Ah, but I’m a… A… What’s it you’re always calling me… ‘Degenerateborn’. I shouldn’t be so…. Intolerant? Is that the word? I should have more tolerance, for… For alcohol. I think there’s something else in mushroom-wine, if I’m being quite honest.”
The Novice hisses with annoyance, but helps support your much greater weight as she guide you to the ground.
“I will do an alchemical analysis of what we still have, check your blood toxicity levels, and immediately concoct an antidote to—”
“Hey,” you interrupt her again, “could you… Hold me?”
“…What?!” she asks, with alarm and confusion, more than anger.
“I think you’d make a nice pillow, with all that ‘squish’, and…”
Shamefully, a swell on inexplicable sadness and base sentimentality washes over you, welling up from somewhere deep.
“I think I’d like to be help. Just until my head is clear again.”
The Novice says nothing, and you feel consciousness fading. Your vision goes hazy, then black. Your limbs go numb, feel distant from you.
