>>5146101>>5146270>>5146500>>5146846You decide that the best course of action is some demonic delegation… But, perhaps, not while you’re still at the Johan household. Likewise, while Felman may prove invaluable in better understanding the magical glasses you stole from him, and in tracking or monitoring Sir Chase, you can’t exactly summon an Inquisitor to this place without creating unnecessary drama—which, after Edwin, is the last thing you need.
You make a show of stretching as you step out of the room where you had your alleged nap. This provokes a flush and a quick turn of the head from Uncle Oxford, which serves to make you feel a little better. You almost-but-not-quite thank Agatha, and she nods and smiles in response.
“Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need anything,” she tells you, and you can tell she means it. And without ulterior motive! What a strange little creature…
You set out for the Incubus’ lair once more—a walk that takes you until the late afternoon. However, when you arrive, you find that tattooed girl leaning outside. She looks more haggard than you recall her looking when you first encountered her, and has too much of an actual face to be actively playing host to The Incubus; still, you are wary. You know that you can spy through your new ectoplasmic puppets’ eyes—surely this ‘greater demon’ can do likewise.
“Have you brought the master’s legions?” she asks, taking a draw on some sort of pipe. You can tell by her tone that she doesn’t think it likely.
“It iss a work in progresss,” you say. Then, in lower tones: “The Paladinss have become involved.”
“We know,” the tattooed waif says, exhaling a small plume of fragrant, herbal-smelling smoke. “Everyone knows. The paladin running around town isn’t subtle. We heard he cut one of them down.”
“Not quite,” you correct her, provoking the rise of her shaved, tattooed brow.
You explain what happened with Siz-Gamid, and your plans moving forward,a nd request the use of this place as a base of operations.
“Summoning an Inquisitor here?” she says skeptically. “I don’t know…”
The burly woman—man, maybe? Neuter, hermaphrodite? You’re still not sure—who played lackey to the incubus last time leans out of the window of a tenement above, adding their two cents:
“Lower your voice and get in here, or that’ll be the least of our worries!”
You and the tattooed one exchange a glance, and oblige the request. It’s as good an invitation as any.
