>>5655854>>5655859“I cannot believe you lost the shoggoth-sword! Are you absolutely INCOMPETENT? You hair-brained, mammary-addled, distractable, dumb-headed DEGENERATE!”
“I missed you,” you calmly reply to your Beloved One.
Still, it IS a bitter loss. The shoggoth-sword had become your favoured armour AND weapon in your time in Hawksong. You know that the Novice eels its loss keenly as well—the two of you studied under the Nothic, divine spawn of the Dark God of Wisdom, to master its peculiar bio-alchemical properties to the extent that you could shape and mould the remnants of that great aberration for a variety of purposes. Now, having serve you well, the mass of tooth and gristle rolls and roils somewhere beneath the waves of Hawksong’s bay.
The Novice Fleshweaver sighs, hands on her prominent hips and tail smacking the floor of the border-property where the Succubus has hidden you away during your difficult recouperation.
“Here,” she huffs, producing a cloth-bundles package and half-throwing it with unceremonious gracelessness. You fumble to catch it, failing, and the contents roll free: the elven moon-blade which was your first favoured weapon, known to the sylvan races as the Sword of Endymion!
“Thank you,” you say, earnestly.
The Novice merely hisses and tuts.
“And just look at what you have done to YOURSELF,” she next admonishes. “YOU are my creation as well, as you have come to be. Are you intent to destroy ALL evidence of my progress in the Fleshweaver’s art?!”
