>>5650181Lucky for Irinnile, even wearing her clunky Heirnich suit, she has a demon’s natural gift for nighttime stealth. It’s still only dusk, but in shadows and hidden places, she moves with an unmatched stealth. All that, shapeshifting abilities, empathic manipulation, ectoplasmic pueppeteering, and immunity to mundane weapons to boot! Yes, Iri’s a real catch alright. Knowing where Nenny-boy is planning to go, she resolves to creep on in there first… Up into the palatial estate, through their weird plaza of stone walls and hedge-mazes, all the way to Kit-kat’s bedroom.
“Hm, maybe we can have some fun with her? Like, as a reward? Wonder if Big Boy minds sharing…”
Irinnile’s musing is cut short by a familiar voice, and a bolt of panic.
“Ah, good, we’ve been expecting you.”
Irinnile supresses a yelp, Ricky’s heart racing in their shared chest as she swings their sword around haphazardly. The sword in question is the embodiment of Heinrich Yosef’s wrath and shame, of their eternal pact-bond and Irinnile’s love. They call it called ~Kinslayer~, ‘cause Ricky’ all poetic and broody and junk.
“Who g-goes there?!” Irinnile demands, with Heinrich Yosef’s voice. “you face the Green Knight, b-brigand! Sir Heinrich Yosef!”
“’Who goes there?’ Really? YOU came seeking ME, did you not?”
The elf, Nenaias, seems to side out of one of the hedges, passing through branches and leaves like they were beaded curtains. Fucking ELVES. And, right, shit, this PARTICUALR elf is a master of divination, ain’t he? Fuck.
“Well, it’s what you say, isn’t it?” Irinnile-as-Yosef mutters, turning to face the mystic.
“Besides,” the elf continues, ignoring the obviously quite salient retort, “shouldn’t I be asking YOU that?”
“What do you mean?” the false Yosef asks, adjusting her—their! his!—stance into something more appropriately martial. “I already said who I am… Old chum.”
“‘Old chum’? Come off it, demon. You are overcompensating. We’ve both travelled with Heinrich a long while. He doesn’t speak like that.”
“Oi,” the Sucucbus Knight tries again, “what’s all this about a demon, wot?”
“…Or like that,” the elven mystic sighs.
Irinnile frowns. Acting is hard. Technically, her entire SELF is an elaborate act, an ever-shifting shadow of the fears, desires, and inner selves of those who parasitizes and devours. Maintaining THAT consistently takes all her attention and energy. Trying to be someone else on top of that? Uuuugh, no THANK you.
“Just give it up,” the elf says, hands still calmly at his sides, no weapon visible and no protective spells immediately evident. “I know who you are. Admit it, and end this pathetic charade, you sad little imp.”
IMP?! The fuck did he just call her???? FFFuuuuuuck no! That will NOT stand!
