>>5641946These mammals cannot be allowed to join the fight against your people, nor to undermine your position here by freeing the dwarf called Deepvein, who already suspects you of being one of ‘them’ that they fight. You are on the precipice of absolute victory, it’s true, but that’s all the more reason not to leave such a potentially disastrous variable unaccounted for.
You cannot trust Rufos with this, or Henzler, or any other human who might still have reason tow ant you gone. No, you will handle this alone… or, perhaps, with an ally who ahs as much to lose from this as you do.
With Halle’s guidance, you find Irinnile the Succubus in the manor-house of the wealthiest member of her fellowship, where the demon has began holding her strange court. In her menagerie of dull-eyed and hollow-cheeked followers, you see familiar faces from your investigations into the Incubus Cult, and many new ones. Irinnile does not mingle among them, though, as did the incubus she supplanted. She does not adopt a new form, but accentuates her old. The being which appears before you, once her minions fetch her, is in fact MORE herself than you have ever seen her—Irinnile the Greater, where you had only beheld her in pale imitation before. Buoyed upon a litter by servants, she is a giantess by the standards of humanity—perhaps seven feet tall, or more—and resplendent.
The demoness is red in tooth, and claw, and in inhuman hide, with winding green serpents swallowing up men or beings wallowed BY men swirling about her form. Her quasi-knightly armour plating has enmeshed itself into her swelling, sublime flesh, forming little more than inset accent jewelry, sparkling darkly against a skin which seems perpetually oiled. Her every orifice—includinga rather large male human sexual organ, you cannot help but notice— are all visible, and drip with blood, and ichor, and other fluids better not considered. She is surrounded by offerings—glasses and goblets of frothing admixture, by treasures to match her unsettling beauty. You find yourself holding your breath in terrible anticipation as she descends, your mind saved from the mad reverence with which her flock watched her only by your <Diadem of Clarity>. When you finally breathe in, take in her scent of perfume and debauchery and sweetness and blood, you wish you hadn’t. Your stomach and loins are squeezes and twisted by the mana of the god-child within, such that you grip your gut and nearly fall over.
Irinnile catches you.
“Eeeeasy, babycakes,” she coos.
