>>5244610“Thiss iss your ssecond chanccce,” you tell her, stepping forward and squeezing her shoulder, before sliding your hand down her body.
Her body remembers your touch, even if many of the messier and sexier memories of your escapades were buried for their potential to incriminate you. A small, sensual gasp escapes her lips before she can bottle it up, provoking a small blush from your prim-and-proper student and a wide smirk from the succubus within.
>15 for politesse/seductionYou have her.
<Greater Demon Progress: 95%>
And, to satisfy Irinnile and your own sadistic, vengeful impulses, you test her willingness to ‘serve’ right then and there.
<WANT: 4>
After you are done with Paula, you leave her to recover on her own, and carry on with other matters. Specifically, you attend to some damage control, visiting The Grey Press publishing house and its credulous, scoop-hungry staff.
“Look, we’re closing up shop for the day, so…”
The bycoket-wearing newsman you encounter—Anton, you think it was?—looks up at you from the papers he is organizing, and stares, stopping short fo his rehearsed dismissal.
“You! Uh, um… Romanov!”
“That’ss right,” you smile easily. “I know it’ss late… But do you fanccy another sstory. It’ss been… And interessting few weekss.”
“For us all,” he agrees. “The King has been on us like sin on a sanctimonious saint.”
“So invassively, intimately, and in great abundancce?”
“You know it,” he agrees. “The ‘powers that be’ like to vet every single one of our stories now, and demand to know our sources.”
You frown.
“N-not that we’d ever, you know, reveal a source!” he hastens to amend. “We haven’t said anything about you…”
“…Exxccept to the Tower,” you correct him.
The Grey Press reporter casts his eyes down at that.
“It wasn’t… My call,” he says. “After everything that happened with The Tower, and around town, Siddug felt he had to tell the Inquisition…”
He refers to his employer, Siddug Underhead, the publishing house’s owner and editor.
“Well then,” you say, “perhaps we’ll keep where you got THISS sstory under your hat?”
Anton hesitates, saying: “The Archmage is dead, you know.”
“Everyone knowss,” you say, truthfully. The news has cast a pall over the city, as if there hadn’t already been one present before. “But wouldn’t you like to know WHY he died? Wouldn’t you like to tell the ccity—the WORLD—what it wass that brought a great man to devilry, and ruin?”
