>>5451457>>5451719>>5451726>>5451781>>5451806>>5451834"Mother is jealous." Unbeknownst to all save yourself, your lips contort into a coy smirk of satisfaction, your pride strong enough to overtake the pain for the moment. "Her new lover has been lusting after me. I simply made eyes at him, and lured him into my embrace that very evening. Before long, he shall be totally at my beck and call." You begin to cackle, but the pain quickly dissuades you from enjoying a good laugh.
Fastening the last bandage, Tatherin helps you to your feet and guides you to your long chair, upon which you rest on you belly. "What an interesting way of admitting that you provoked her," he muses in a manner so suave that it is almost infuriating. "Be grateful that it was merely a whipping. The last woman who tried to steal away her lover was boiled." You snort.
"'Provoke?' Will I have to pluck that sharp tongue from your clever mouth, dear brother? I am not to blame if Mother is no longer the comely mistress she once was. She dyes that thinning, yellowing hair of hers, always. She still has marks on her belly even now - birthing ten children will do that to a woman. She has become so complacent that her muscles become flabby. The signs of Mother's aging have become obvious, even to him. In twenty years' time, even her own sons will not be able to stomach the sight of that she-beast!"
Finding a chair, your brother elegantly seats himself and watches the door for guests or, more likely, your sisters, who would gladly take advantage of your debilitated state. "Pardon my insolence, sister. I had completely forgotten that you will not be growing old - a mistake I will be careful not to commit twice." A backhanded response that he delivers with the tact of a compliment.
"Indeed, I shall not grow old." You can envision your success already. All you need do is apply yourself, and you can ascend to the highest echelons of the Spider Queen's clergy. In a hundred years' time, you will be a high priestess, and after, who knows? Then, before you can grow old and decrepit, your finest protégé will slay you. Your skin will become a sacred garment, and your ribcage will be forged into holy armor that shall be worn by the mightiest priestesses for generations to come. By all the Hells, they might even honor you by raising your undead spirit to guard a temple! "I shall not," you repeat for emphasis.
