Rolled 13, 6, 12, 5, 18 = 54 (5d20)
>>5580894It's actually your dream choice last thread that offered that low threshold>>5580901If you'd failed, the diadem would have helped protect your mind against her retaliation>>5580902“Lissspy,” she whispers. “You’re… You’re her kid, ain’t ya’?”
You are a little befuddled at the term but, reflecting on your own accent, you think Irinnile the Succubus refers to your mother. You nod.
“Your, ah… Nephew? Of sorts?”
After all, that was what this hell-creature called you in your dream, and your corrected account of your origins included demoniac assistance in shaping the soul of you and your fellow (truer, younger) Dragonborn siblings. At the very least, the answer seems to be the correct one, for the she-devil smiles, tears coming to her arms. She presses her naked body to yours, a gesture almost maternal until her leg curls up to wrap around your waist and she buries her face in your neck. She takes a deep inhale of you and moans softly, raising a burning fire which enflames your spiritual condition… But you endure it, even as the ‘blessing’ of the Divine Mother churns unsettlingly in your gut in response to your aroused <appetite>.
“You smell like her,” the succubus giggles gracelessly, as if drunk, and finally releases you.
You… Aren’t entirely sure how to respond, so you simply bow your head slightly in acknowledgement of what you ASSUME is a compliment.
“My nephew… Ha! Imagine me, Hot Aunty Iri… Wish your MILFy mommy could see me now…”
As she speaks the words, you sense the trance-time accelerating, the mystic connection fading and crumbling. You know the time is short. You open your mouth, wishing you could ask this strange shadow-spirit questions… But no, now is not the time.
You are still at war.
When you open your eyes to the world of blood-and-steel once more, the Green Knight is staring, dumbfounded. While you were engaged in your meeting-of-spirits, he wasn’t wasting the opportunity, he was positioning for a killing thrust, to stab you through throat and chin and to impale your brain from below. The last thing he expected—or so you assume by his dumbfounded and outraged expression—was for you to clasp his own Kinslayer blade, and to use it to deflect the blow at the last minute.
“No,” he gasps.
“Yessss,” you reply in his own tongue, grinning your wide and predatory false-smile.
He takes a step back, adjusts his stance, and thrusts again, perhaps in denial. You sidestep it as if this were merely another elven ballroom dance, twirl the Green Knight’s stolen succubus-sword with a flourish, and retaliate with a strike of your own…
