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Though she sleeps within the folds of your cloak, you can feel Shamhat's heart sing for the joys of a battle well fought. Not the sort of torment and play that she forced you to endure when she made her judgement as to whether you were worthy of inheriting Helen Flame-Kissed's will, but rather the banquet of slaughter for which she was forged. Her creators shaped her into an instrument of war just as they shaped her twenty six brothers and sisters. The Divine Smiths sung the very concept of Lust into existence through the ever-vibrant Song of Creation, shaping abstraction and theory of thought into material reality from the finest materials they could bring together.
Is it any wonder, then, that sexual desire is not the only form of lust over which Shamhat holds dominion?
Bloodlust. You feel tremendous bloodlust roiling within Shamhat's dreams as she slumbers in the folds of space that you have woven into your cloak. You have not called her name, for their is no reason to wake her from her slumber for men such as these, but she can sense the hostility in the air - and in return, her dreams roil with a violent and bloody joy. It makes the mana flowing beneath your feet in the roots of Yggdrasil feel thick and bubbly, like a heavy sauce that's gone just a bit past simmering and has begun to boil and pop. Dawn shudders at the feeling, more sensitive even than you to dreams and memories and the emotions running through them, and retreats into the flower that crowns your head without a buzz about honey or the temperatures required to make it boil and bubble.
Even the men before you can feel Shamhat's unconscious glee at an opportunity to slake the bloodlust that has been building up inside of her over the course of two thousand years. They hesitate. Uncertainty fills their eyes, and none of them seem too eager to be the first one to take the first step forward, even if none of them know why. The primal wisdom of a Hume's instincts saves their lives, at least for now. You have no intention of going against Shamhat's desires - anyone fool enough to challenge you will meet their end upon her broad, leaf-shaped head.
"What are you waiting for!?" the woman in red barks like the dog she is, lacking her men's survival instincts. Some of the men give her an uncertain look, weighing her reprimands against the nausea inducing wave of bloodlust they felt from Shamhat. "Are the Hundred Talons <span class="mu-i">cowards</span>, shrinking in fear a <span class="mu-i">little girl</span>? When moth-"
"No," you interrupt her. She snaps her head towards you with a glare so quickly that her black curls have a more satisfying bounce than her irredeemably average chest. She lacks the bounce of a pair of proper udders, or the sinful temptations of an unripe fruit that your delicious flat chest confers. "They are wise... and you are foolish."
The curly-haired woman's face turns red as her dress, and reddest of all was her beak-like nose. "A hundred knapps to whoever brings me that whore's head on a pike."
