>>5159221>>5158849>>5158626>>5158607“I think I may jusst take you up on that,” you say, a bit sheepishly.
It isn’t just a false deference—you’re genuinely a bit embarrassed to be relying on an adversary. It improves you mood a little to mentally frame it as further exploitation and intelligence-gathering, at least.
‘Yeah!’ Irinnile chimes in. ‘Maybe we can, I dunno’, slip him some shirin, or hock an ecto-loogie in his drink?’
‘The direct delivering of the ectoplasm is vital,’ you remind the succubus. ‘It is part and parcel to the ritual, until we are strong enough that a fragment of you ay survive without a host, or a more involved ritual.’
‘Yeah, alright, alright,’ she says. ‘I guess it bein’ all inky-blank is gonna’ be a bit of a giveaway anyhow, huh? Still, maybe the shirin…’
Still, it isn’t all wasted opportunity. As Callaghan and some other, more feminine staff under his preview ready your accommodations, you and your human pre-progenitor strike up conversation. It is most awkward and idle chit-chat, with Yosef inquiring after your health, and you explaining away your exhaustion as having been poring over readings and theories all through the night, working out the ‘truth’ behind the Gala Attack.
“Ha, yes,” he says with a wry half-smile. “I’ve had such nights. The truth is damned evasive thing. I never would have thought of the entire attack as a diversion—I daresay the Archmage never would have either. You may just have that man in your debt, if your ideas are proven right by his new investigation.”
“Who iss he to you, anyway?” you ask.
It’s been a matter of some curiosity. Does the Archmage himself have Yosef blood in him? The thought that you might have to slay the Archmage himself to complete your divine mission is a daunting prospect, especially when you are already overwhelmed and staving off exhaustion.
“Just a friend,” Lord Yosef says. “an old friend, actually. We studied together, as younger men.”
You narrow your eyes. You’d never suspected Lord Yosef might be a mage. It makes you second-guess your strategies. When you ask, though, he just laughs.
“Oh, no! No no no. Young Lord Alfonse Sylvestre was not ALWAYS a mage! We shared etiquette and equestrian classes for young men of high birth. And something of a crush on MY Rebecca, I would wager.”
Yosef looks both wistful and smug, reflecting on his late wife—your human grandmother, who you have been said to resemble.
“Ssoundss as if you won that exxxchange,” you tease.
“Sylvestre thinks it was because he joined the Tower,” Yosef says, with a wicked little twinkle in his eyes, “but what he doesn’t know is that we’d been sneaking off to study, and to read poetry, for weeks by the time he’d discovered his aptitude for the mystic arts.”
The shared remembrance makes your heart hurt a little, reminding you of how you met Edwin.
