>>5620804>>5620810>>5620846>>5620909>>5620983“Yess, alright,” you decide.
You will oblige the Secondborn Prince.
It’s an odd request, but you have no reason not to talk to Rufos, and maybe you can still complain about the rude appointment of these guards… And maybe touch him with some ectoplasm or something? Before you leave with the guards, you decide it wise to ask Irinnile about your options in that regard.
“Oh, so now you trust me?” the succubus-infested-knight pouts.
“You’ve given me reassson not to,” you acknowledge bluntly, “but I will hear what you have to sssay.”
Irinnile winces, but in the end their sheepish reply is simply:
“M-maybe? I mean, I think it’s gonna’ have ta’ be more involved than, like, ‘‘haaaack, here’s a glob of ectoplasm, plop, go slap ‘im with I’’, ya’ know?”
You think you understand. The exaggerated pantomime of Yosef hocking up a wad of demonic spectral-essence (which draws raised eyebrows and mutterings from your guards) is rather vivid, at least.
“The proccesss iss more involved,” you acknowledge. “I am on my own.”
You glower at Irinnile, wanting the succubus to feel yoru displeasure, and add: “Maybe I alwysss wass, yesss?”
You turn your back to the demon-knight, leaving Irinnile to stammer and stew in your disappointment.
“Let’ss go.”
The guards guide you to yet-another heretofore unseen chamber stocked with minimalist furnishings and small shelves. The shelves are stocked with books on religion, philosophy, trade—well, the titles on the spines suggest such, anyway, from ‘Ye Economies of ye Easte and Weste Compared and Contrasted’ and ‘Meditations Upon Ye One Hundred Known Godes and Godes’ Children, OR Which to Worshippe?’. In actuality, you note layers of dust and a firmness of structure which indicate they have rarely been removed or opened—they are here for show. The prince, too, sits in a chair higher, more ornate, and more comfortable than the admittedly well-crafted one which you claim for yourself. He looks down upon you—deliberate posture of dominance. You recall meetings with dark eleven princes, with the Chaplain. You don’t like it, but you understand and (to a point) can respect it.
“…Sit down, please,” Prince Rufos says dryly, as if you had already done so without permission.
You smile. He narrows his eyes.
“Stop that,” he says. “Easterlings do not smile so much.”
