>>6143184>>6143236>>6143368>>6143482<span class="mu-g">You</span> shake your head at your own silyl notion. You’re a RESPONSIBLE demogoblin-cambion-elf-whateverthefuck, after all! You’ll buy some fancy clothes AFTER defeating the Monster of Sunset lake and earning your reward. Then, and only THEN, will you get yourself all dolled-up… Maybe something with some garters? Ooo, maybe something all colourful and frilly with a big hat, like Tips’ dad, Rudolfo?
“Come on, we’re going!”
That’s ZZ, issuing marching orders, and so you march. As you and the others follow her to your next destination, you catch your pinker-half looking at your hands a few times. Resisting the urge to pull them up into your oversized sleeves, you instead ask her what’s up.
“You can still make those all big ‘n grabby, right?”
“H-huh?”
By that point, you’re at a shop that seems to specialize in marine—uh, or whatever the freshwater lake equivalent is—equipment, mostly fishing and boating stuff. What Zith-Zi is eyeing up, however, is a pronged, pitchfork-looking thing, about eight feet long and ending in three wickedly-barbed spikes. You eye it up, and laugh a little.
“Isn’t a demon with a pitchfork a little, ya’ know…”
“Shh!” ZZ hisses.
You shut your gob-hole as she glances round nervously, checking to see that nobody heard you.
“Can you do it, or what?” she demands.
You squeeze your eyes shut thinking hard about your big gross hairy, jagged-nailed demogoblin hands-the hands you’ve had since ‘partition’ from your ‘sister’, every day until yesterday. Just thinking about those meathooks makes you feel all weird and sad and gross, and so you stop—even though you know it’s what ZZ wants, and instead just start picturing hands more like Svanhilda’s—strong, and thick-fingered, and capable, but still sort of femme and pretty in spite of the callouses. No, their beautiful BECAUSE of the callouses. You remember how those hands felt on your face, on your body…
<span class="mu-g"><WANT: 10></span>
When you open your eyes, ZZ’s face is contorted, and her eyes are staring down—not at your hands, but lower.
“Hey, uh, yer packin’ half-chub.”
You gulp and cross your legs, tucking the embarrassing implement of your incomplete and spoiled femininity away. Zith-Zi grimaces and provides some cover while you do so. When she looks back, you hold up bigger, more spear-ready hands.
“Good,” ZZ says, though she still looks faintly disturbed. “That’s great. Good shit.”
<span class="mu-b">You have <span class="mu-s">25 unspent points</span> left.</span>
