>>5605315She begins to object, but you stifle the objection with another kiss—harder, more aggressive. She struggles in your grasp, but she is no match for your strength. You grasp her hips, her rear, and push her back to a tree of this private garden of hers. With fumbling gauntlets, you hike up her dress, the delicate fabric shredding under your indelicate attentions. She yelps and cries out into the kiss, but you do not relent. You grind against her, and her struggling intensifies. She bites your lip, your tongue-you return the favour, embroiled in the heat of her, the smell of her, the feel of her softness against your hardness. You are brutish, direct, but such has always worked for you before—Glowie never objected, certainly, nor did Davora.
Princess Ekaterine slaps you.
It isn’t a hard slap—well, for HER it probably is, but you have fought men and monsters to put her pitiful strength to shame. It breaks your reverie, though. You see tears in her eyes, hear fear and fury in her voice.
“STOP, damn you!” Her voice cracks. “Stop it! This… Is not… This isn’t what I want.”
You fear she may cry out, alert the guards, bring Paladins down upon you… But she doesn’t. Instead, she troubles herself with her dress, trying to force it down, and to squirm away from you—her efforts weak, futile if you but force the issue.
Unbidden, a memory from long ago—almost two years ago—comes to your mind, of another Princess. Princess Jazkarmel, of the Wevenore Drow, watching the sunset with you in the afterglow of your first dwarven conquest. She was drunk, vulnerable but intense from her peopelès fungus-liquor. She had asked you…
>“Do you think that what we do here is good? Not like… Gods of good, but really GOOD?”At the time, you’d told her that, no, it was not. It was necessary, though, for our future, and for the future of the world. That you were moving with purpose. That you couldn’t stop. You were acting out of love, then—love for your people, your friends and family and community, your lost and defeated Master Race. Love greater than any individual love, even that you held for…
>“And her memory’s, like… Alive in you, right? She succeeded in her mission, and you’re doing what she would’ve wanted you to do or whatever?”…These were the words which, two days prior, Irinnile had spoken, as you reflected on loves lost-for you, the Dwarven herbalist; for the succubus, your mother. You… You thought so. You think so. You are the Prince of Love, bringing it back to cold and empty hearts, and making a better world for those forlorn outcasts neglected in darkness, forsaken and forgotten by the light.
Are you still?
