>>5130637>>5130587>>5130535>>5131542>>5130663You need to know what is going on in the Tower meeting—what state Henzler is in, what they know what they think they know—and Lithobathius and his familiar are perfect to acquire this info. But first, there is one other function he can serve: test subject.
“Come here,” you instruct and, of course, he does. Lithobathius is your thrall, your puppet, your creature.
He is also one proper, thorough magical scan away from his liberation and your exposure. No longer! You cup his face and, as The Incubus showed you—as you did on its behalf to Hawksong’s dilettante prince—you kiss him and delivery a payload of brackish, demonic essence from your gut—from the dark recesses of your metaphysical innards, where Irinnile dwells.
‘Ugh, oh fffuck, I don’t like THAT at all.’
You can’t say you do, either, feeling the sympathetic reverberations of Irinnile’s discomfort through your soulbond. It is like the opposite of feeding—like vomiting, purging, forcibly emptying yourself. Your mouth and throat are raw. You feel… Emptier. Hungrier.
‘Hornier but… In a bad way?’
Irnnile hits the nail on the head. You feel your dark passenger’s need to feel intently, but without excitement or desire, like a starving woman needs food without thinking of flavour.
“Do you have a mana potion?” you ask Lithobathius.
At first, dry-heaving on the ground, he is of little help. He is rolling his body and gagging as if trying to eject the foreign presence. His familiar, clinging to the wall, twitches and writhes, then falls down upon its back…
And then, Lithobathius slumps, and forces himself to his feet… And roduces a potion.
“Good boy,” you mutter, your sexually-charged banter half-hearted at best as you swig it. It calms the churning emptiness inside, but doesn’t wholly fill it.
<WANT: 18>
Now, though, Lithobathius is within your control, by a means more complex, les detectable, and altogether more diabolical… And through him, his ‘bespider’ also.
“Go, ssew ssome discord and doubt. Make sure nobody ssuspectss that it wass NOT Ssouthern Demonologisstss. Invent ssome evidence if you musst. Lie about what you have ssseen.”
Lithobathius blinks a few times, but nods.
“Of course,” he says. “Was it not? You know you can’t trust their mages. They speak t the dead, worship devils. Thank you for the tip.”
He accepts your assertion not as one mindlessly puppeteered, but as if the assertion came from a trusted source, or from within—his own intuition. He geos forth to do you bidding, and is glad fo it.
‘Almost makes the hunger-pains worth it,’ Irinnile gripes sarcastically.
