Rolled 49 (1d100)

>>6106470
>Save her and demand she help you as payment. A swordswoman could be useful in your quest.
Cast a fog illusion and kick them into the sea

Rolled 49 (1d100)

>>6106470
>Save her and demand she help you as payment. A swordswoman could be useful in your quest.

>>6106481
>>6106480
Damn.

Rolled 84 (1d100)

>>6106470
>Save her and demand she help you as payment. A swordswoman could be useful in your quest.
Let's ask politely.

Rolled 59 (1d100)

>>6106470
>Save her
We don't have time for payment but we can't let evil run amok either.

>>6106489
>ESL
No, the last option means we request that the woman help us in our quest, at least a portion of it, as compensation for helping her.

>>6106492
We are trying to avoid getting caught, the more we linger around orcs, or potentially drag around a swordswoman the more likely we are to get caught.

>>6106503
Counterpoint, the orcs and whoever's in their employ will be looking for a lone girl or bluebird. Traveling as a duo will divert suspicion.

>>6106506
A lone bluebird might not even be noticed, and there could be other non-magical bluebirds around that they could end up chasing instead. If we travel with the swordswoman then we won't be as fast or as indiscrete.

>>6106503
That won't be a problem if said orcs are dead, unconscious, or stupid.

>>6106507
This isn't a problem either unless the woman is targeted by another party herself. Even so, we can drop her in that case.

>>6106518
I'll concede to these points.

>>6106492
How are they ESL? Are you dumb, stupid, or dumb?

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>>6106480
>>6106481
>Matching Rolls, adding 20 to best of 3.
>84+20=104. Critical Success

Well, you never intended on traveling alone in the first place. A bluebird is liable to get eaten by a crow or worse if she's caught too far away from her flock, after all. Even crows that have grown big and strong prefer to fly in pairs when able. The dead orcs that litter the docks tell that this woman must be a mighty hawk, with talons sharp and a hunters eyes.

She deserves better than to become a nest for cuckoo's eggs.

Of course, a such a hawkish woman might eat you on your journey just as surely as the ravenous swine would eat you here and now if you let them. Father warned about all manner of predators that might come after a pretty bluebird. You will cross that bridge when you have time later. For now, you need to save your hawk and slaughter pigs.

Your favorite talon slips from its place in your boot. How convenient it is to take the shape of your father's daughter. Though you cannot fly, flutter, and dart, you have two strong arms with hands and thumbs that grasp things far better than your talons. Your favorite talon is fourteen inches of steel woven with a pact of shadows, a dark and silent claw with an edge to cut and a point to pierce through armor.

With the twitch of your fingers, threads of mana spin into a weave of invisibility, covering your body in a veil of nothingness that hides you away from all sight. Step by step you approach the struggling hawk and her captors, ignoring the porcine squeals of excitement as the orcs rip away her bodice.

"Enjoy this view while you can, savages," the humiliated guardswoman growls. The one behind her gropes at the flesh their efforts revealed, causing her pupils to dilate in rage and disgust. "I'll have your lives for this humiliation."

"Allow me."

You cannot help but break your silence just as you drive your steely talon into the femoral artery of the orc holding the hawkish woman back. It unleashes a squeal of pain as its lifesblood runs down its thigh. You dance back and away from the beast as it falls, with no desire to get crushed beneath a swine.

The delicate weave of your invisibility unravels, but it matters little. With her arms free the hawkish woman slams her gauntlet-covered fist into the snout of the orc before her. Its face breaks and shatters beneath a flurry of blows, and when the beast collapses to the ground she mercilessly crushes its windpipe with her sabatons.

"Thanks for the rescue, miss," the hawkish woman says. Her smile is warm, but you can see the flickering hunger father warned you of beneath it. "May I know the name of my savior?"

"Sialia," you tell her the name your father gave you. The one mother gave you can only be spoken in your true form. "And you?"

>>6107052
"Astur," she tells you, retrieving her halberd and red cloak. Her golden eyes look back to the city with the fires of determination reflected within them. Either that or the burning buildings, anyways. "Sialia, you should find yourself a boat and sail as far as you can. The orcs will soon return to these docks, and that's unsafe for a young woman, however brave she may be. I cannot stay to protect you, I have a duty-"

"To allow the orcs to fill your belly with orclings?" You cut her off with a cruel fact.

She wants to glare at you for that, but she can only wince. Both you and the prideful hawk before you know what would have happened had you not intervened. Before she can say anything foolish about misplaced honor, you mercilessly drive the point home. "That's all that awaits you there. However many orcs you kill, they'll force you to birth no matter how hard you struggle. In fact, you'll beg for it in the end. Amber Hawkins wrote on all the substances an orc's body produces to drive women into a lustful mad-"

"Enough," she says, slamming the butt of her halberd into the ground. Her yellow eyes speak of a wise fear, but her mouth sings of foolish and pointless things, "I appreciate your concern, Nialia, but I swore an oath of service to the Marquis Aurelian. It is my sworn duty to protect the citizenry from all invaders, no matter how hopeless the fight may seem."

"Then protect this citizen before you," you demand of Astur. Her gaze softens, and as if you saw a tasty grub in soft wood, you slam your beak home and dig at the point. "After all, that is your oath, is it not? There may be citizens there, yes, or the orcs may have turned them into meat for breeding and eating."

Astur lets out a sigh and tries to speak, "The needs of the many-"

"Do not outweigh the import of what I carry," you tell her. Her face twists with intrigue, but your own oaths keep you from revealing the nature of the tome in your sack. As much as you do not like to pull out this card, needs must. "Nor does it outweigh what you owe me. Your freedom and sanity have surely earned me the favor of your sword."

Astur narrows her eyes. "I could save two or three dozen children if I went back to aid my fellow guardsmen."

You puff yourself up to your full... and rather unimpressive... height. "A thousand times that and more will be saved if you can bring me safely to the Conclave."

Her eyebrow quirks, an eye drifting to your haversack. Slowly, she nods, asking, "You swear this is no lie?"

With a nod, you make the most solemn oath you can. "Upon my dear father's memory."

Roll a d100 and...
>Take a small a light boat, to hug the shore and sail quickly, in sight of land.
>Take a little dinghy, the smallest ocean worthy craft, to sail the deeper waters.
>Take the largest boat that two of you can manage, slow but laden with supplies and weapons
>Take no boat and walk in the shade of the cliffs, until you reach the road
>+Burn the docks to deny the orcs access to ships

Rolled 2 (1d100)

>>6107054
>Take a little dingy, the smallest ocean worth craft, to sail the deeper waters.
I worry about being tracked, so we should pick the choice that gives us the maximum number of options, and maximizes the area the enemy must search. Let's stay near the shore if possible though.

>+Burn the docks to deny the orcs access to ships
The foe that could take down our father, a ring holder, in his own home is sure to be powerful. We should do everything we can to slow down any pursuit they might be capable of.

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>6107054
>Take a little dinghy, the smallest ocean worthy craft, to sail the deeper waters.
What the other anon said about sticking to the shores.
>+Burn the docks to deny the orcs access to ships

>>6107054
>Take a little dinghy, the smallest ocean worthy craft, to sail the deeper waters.
>+Burn the docks to deny the orcs access to ships

>>6107101
Agreed.

>>6106702
He misunderstood a very explicit prompt, not that I'm trying to insult him or anything.

Rolled 45 (1d100)

>>6107220
Forgot to roll.

File: Nialia says NO.png (1.51 MB, 1024x1024)

1.51 MB PNG

"Then we should flee the city, Miss Nialia," Astur tells you, her eyes already scanning the docks. "Whatever it is you carry will be lost to the orcs if we tarry much longer. They would have heard their brother's cry, and I've heard tell of how effective their..."

She shudders in disgust as the words leave her lips. "Persuasion can be upon womenfolk."

You stare at her like an unblinking owl for a moment, wondering if she's more a candle than a torch. Did you not just say as much? Or mayhaps hawkish Astur is the sort who repeats back what she hears, to let the speaker know she heard it. With a sigh, you simply say, "Indeed. Find us a seaworthy boat and supplies enough for the journey. I shall ensure the pigs cannot follow us across the water."

Astur looks at you in askance, doubt upon her face, "And how do you mean to do tha-"

She just said you had little time, yet wants to play a game of questions? A matchstick! You've met an honorable, unlit matchstick that's been soaking in sea water, that is whom you've saved! At least her sword arm seems strong enough to make up for it.

You answer her with action, flitting into your true form and flutter off across the docks. That leaves an amusing look upon her face, like the ferret your mother tricked with an illusion of an egg. Slack jawed and confused, she takes a moment before shaking her head and spitting, "Wizards."

Why did that sound like a curse?

No matter. You know many things about the pigs ransacking your home. If Astur is a dim matchstick in a damp cave, then most swine cannot be lit in the first place. The leaders have the brutal cunning of a bear, but a bluebird is canny as a fox. Their rapacious lust can infect the women whose nests they fill with cuckoo eggs, leaving them maddened and craving things they should not. Their monstrous strength makes a mockery of armor. But above all else...

Pigs do not like to swim. Nor do they care for fire.

You flit from ship to ship and spill the oil for their lanterns, setting it ablaze with a common cantrip. What boats remain in Port Aurelian begin to burn like tinder, the flames spreading even to the docks. The swine come along to watch the blaze from the shore, but none of them are brave as the bluebird fluttering between the ships. They dare not approach the fire and smoke lest they burn and choke and turn to bacon.

Once every ship is set aflame, you flitter onto Astur's dinghy, that she wisely set to the wind. Though smoke shields you from the shore, you cast an illusion about it. Too large for a bubble of invisibility, you can at least make the orcs see a sail ablaze and a dinghy adrift on the waters.

As you flutter down and return to the shape of your father's daughter, a look of unfiltered admiration crosses Astur's face.

Her face flushes, her lips part, her breathing becomes irregular. Watery yellow eyes drink in your poise and unchanging stern expression, and remind you of something very important.

>>6107620
You need to get ahead of that or else this hawk will eat you alive on the voyage.

Someday you may want to get eaten up, and surely that day will come sooner rather than later. You already lay eggs in the morning. The time for finding yourself a young man who knows that bright colors are manlier than drab feathers meant to hide will be on you before you know it. But right now, you've no desire to get eaten by a red tailed hawk, nor any desire to lay with a woman.

Your father taught you how to turn down unwanted suitors. Many hawks, owls, and ever-so-devious foxes would surely see a pretty bluebird as something scrumptious, and your father told you that pecking them in the eye for trying was no good. So you do as he instructed and fall into a solid stance and raise your arms into the shape of an X.

"I do not consent to being eaten," you tell her plainly.

"Wha..." your words shock Astur out of her trance. Her expression puzzles over what you meant, so you decide to elaborate.

"I do not consent to being eaten to satiate your carnal hunger pangs," you do not mince your words, telling her exactly how it shall be. Her face turns a bright cherry red, and it looks like she's about to stammer some explanation out of her mouth, but you do not give her the opportunity. "I am not a homosexual. I prefer manly men who wear brightly colored outfits and like to hunt. I will pray on your behalf to the Nine that you can find love, and will happily be your wing bird in finding companionship. But I do not consent to and have no interest in being a companion in that way."

Astur casts her eyes down to the bottom of the boat, running one of her fingers along the wood. "But I hadn't even done anything..."

"You were thinking it though," you say, and she does not deny it. With a sigh, you tell her, "That's why I had to get ahead of it nice and plainly, or else you were gonna try a bunch of little things that would have driven a wedge between us. We cannot afford that on our quest."

"On the plus side, I recovered many shinies from the other boats before I set them alight," you tell her, pulling out the small chests that you pilfered from each ship before tipping over the oil and setting them ablaze. Astur gives you a dubious look for your theft that you wave away. "We have need of the coin, and the owners..."

Looking back at the city, you frown. "The owners do not."

Roll 6d100 and...
>Make for the Island of Storms, where your father's dearest friend lives.
>Make for Whitecrest Bay, where the Conclave has an outpost
>Make for the Stepping Isles, which guard the safest route north.
>Make for the Sunset Islands, where the divine winds guard the land from Orcs and other monsters.
>Make for the Forever Blue, and seek the protection of the Deep Ones.

(First 3 for coin. 4th for your item. 5th for Astur's item. 6th for the event)

Rolled 4, 99, 7, 41, 75, 68 = 294 (6d100)

>>6107622
>Make for the Island of Storms, where your father's dearest friend lives.

Rolled 73, 55, 83, 23, 22, 54 = 310 (6d100)

>>6107622
>Island of storms sounds good

Rolled 69, 53, 10, 43, 42, 29 = 246 (6d100)

>>6107622
>Whitecrest Bay
Father's friend may already be under attack assuming their relationship is known, so we should head straight on our way to the Conclave.

>>6107622
>Make for the Island of Storms, where your father's dearest friend lives.
UNCLE!
>but girl I'm not your
UNCLLLLLLLLE!!!!

File: Hand Drawn Nialia.jpg (163 KB, 2250x1500)

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Working on replacing the AIslop OP with a hand drawn image using it as a reference. As it turns out, I'm, uh, really bad at feet, and my love of booba has increased Nialia's cup size.

>>6107694
Learning that would be valuable information in and of itself. How much did the enemy know before they made their move, and how good at planning are they?

>>6107864
Looks good to me mang!

Nialia's a pretty good protag so far; a defined goal, a subdued but forceful personality, and a unique mindset due to not being human. looking forward to reading more of this

and the romcom sequel where Nialia tries to find Astur a girlfriend

Rolled 21, 96, 78, 65, 4, 63 = 327 (6d100)

>Island of Storms
Hilarious dialogue QM

>>6108060
Astur's wingman shall have actual wings.

>>6107864
I'm not talking shit. It's better than anything I can draw.

>>6107620
ROFL. The Japanese "no" X.

File: Astur's New Sword.png (1.26 MB, 1024x1024)

1.26 MB PNG

>Best of 3 Coin Rolls
69 = 1000 + 99 + 83 = 1,182 Đ
>Best of 3 for your item
43
>Best of 3 for Astur's item
75
>Best of 3 for event roll
68

"Be that as it may, it feels like you pilfered the purse of every ship you burnt," Astur says, eying the chest's you've laid out the bench with uncertainty. Just over a dozen little lockboxes, none of them much larger than the fresh baked loaves of bread father crumbled up and scattered about your nesting hall when you were young. Each of them lacquered and decorated with filigrees of brass, silver, or gold around the iron locking mechanism. "How do you even plan on getting these open? It's not like we have the keys..."

You flash Astur a sly grin as you fish through your haversack with one hand. A sparkle lights in your eye as her face slowly transforms into a mask of dread.

"No..." she whispers into the evening air. "Don't tell me you mean to smash them all apart...?"

"Do I look like a witless gull to you?" you say with a snort of derision. With a twirl of silver about your many fingers, you show her just what you retrieved from your haversack: a pair of pins shaped just so, to latch onto the inner mechanisms of a lock and make pretend you have the key. Father taught you in their use. "I'll open them right up with my most delicate talons. I've no want to see the shinies scatter from their home after a long drop and a sudden stop."

"Josh and Sophie, I've thrown my lot in with a thieving scoundrel," Astur complains with the lightest of all blasphemies. You wince at how she shortened the names of the Lord's own children. Father never approved of such, and always stole away your stash of hoarded honeyed almonds from your nesting hall as a punishment for the blasphemy. Even after Brother Tully repeatedly assured him that the Anointed cared little for such things. "For your father's sake, I pray you're not a liar."

You show her a flat expression before getting back to tinkering with the locks. "I'm neither liar nor thief, and I'll thank you not to call me such."

"Then how do you know how to... well, that?" Astur asks as the first lockbox pops open. A disappointing number of shinies, and a slip of fancy paper for money from a bank that's now most certainly burnt to ash. Her yellow eyes narrow as you pull the coins out to count them with a smile on your face. "Most people can't open a lock with a pair of metal sticks, you know."

"Father says most people have less curiosity than an oak has leaves in winter," you explain. Astur's eyes glaze over as she tries to process the metaphor, which makes you sigh. The second box pops open before you continue, "I, on the other hand, am a curious little bluebird who wants to know more about the world and its mechanisms. A witless gull will smash the mussel open and nibble on sand covered innards. A clever bluebird knows where to prod with her talons to make it open, and feasts upon fresh meat."

>>6108362
Astur looks entirely nonplussed for a moment, before her eyes narrow and she asks, "Why do I feel like you're making fun of me?"

"Because you're learning," you tell her. Though she scoffs at your words, you mean them well. "I thought I might have picked a brainless hen in a watchman's uniform, but you've at least a few wrinkles in your noggin. Which means this thing here is better in your hands than sold for coin."

Before Astur can complain about how you phrased things, you retrieve a long, thin bundle of oilcloth from your haversack and toss it at her. She catches it without so much as a fumble, the faintest spark of curiosity flickering in the darkest recesses of her blank, yellow eyes. Unwrapping the bundle slowly reveals the prize hidden within, a mastercrafted arming sword whose beauty makes her jaw drop in wonder.

Patterns of black and silver flicker in the flat of the blade like fire in a hearth, the whole thing giving off a warmth that reminds you of a torch. Its guard resembles Joshua's Cross, as it is traditionally depicted by the church. Engraved upon the tang with blood red tracery is a passage from the Good Book:

Lucas 3:16 The prophet answered them, “I baptize you here with the water of repentance. But two shall come who are far more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. One shall baptize the land in the Holy Spirit, whilst the other shall cleanse its people in fire."

Astur swallows dryly, staring at it in wonder. "This must have been meant for the Marquis' son. He was to squire soon to one of the castle's knights. I can think of no other who could afford such a sword. Nialia, I'm not worthy to touch such a weapon, let alone wield it."

"A sword is a sword," you tell her, fiddling with the protective brooch you found for yourself in the same hold. Of course, Astur looks like she still holds some foolish hangups, so you peck at her with more words from your soft beak. "Better the sword in your hands than at the bottom of Blackwater Bay. Or mayhaps a foolish hawk would prefer to see it in the hands of pigs who have no respect for the teachings of the Good Book? I'm sure whatever Orc Lord invaded would have loved to replace his cleaver with such a weapon. At least, until it snapped from how poorly he treats it."

It's Astur's turn to sigh... right as the last lockbox pops open and reveals the greatest bounty of them all. It would, it came from the same hold as your new brooch and Astur's new sword. "Very well, I understand your point. I'll do my best to make good use of it."

"That's the spirit!" you tell her. Waving at the coins, you then say, "Now come and help me count all of our shinies!"

"But I don't know how to count past a few dozen..." Astur complains, much to your horror.

>>6108363
"That's all the more reason for you to help!" you say, all but pushing her towards the lockboxes. With a swift spell to conjure an unseen servant to steer the boat, you force a notebook into her hands and say, "You need to learn your numbers. No stopping until you can count to ten thousand!"

Astur tries to resist, but you have none of it. Only a witless gull can't count, and hawks like her should be clever hunters who know their numbers! You taught father's younger students their numbers before, so getting her to the level of a half-wit duck by dusk should be easy. Even if she asks foolish questions like "What even is a thousand!?"

"Ten groups of ten groups of ten," you explain, though the explanation soars so far over her head that it must have been migrating south for the winter. Clapping her on the shoulder, you tell her that, "We'll get there, for now we'll start with the Daturan notation..."

And so a song of confusion and frustration sung by Astur rings out over the sound of lapping waves upon the Sunset Blue, as you teach her things like the meaning of zero, and how numbers are really just sequences of smaller things she can count out with her hand that represent different scales of ten. As it turns out, the total number of shinies in your possession now amounts to 1,182 Denarii. Enough coin to eat your fill of honeyed almonds every day for five years with some coin left over, or to purchase the service of a reputable mercenary company for a month.

Your heading points towards the Isle of Storms, where lives your Uncle Robar, father's dearest friend. His tower should be safe enough, with the eternal storm that surrounds the island and wards away ships great and small that should not be there.

Of course, there's the matter of getting through the storm. How were you meant to do that again?

Roll 1d100 and...
>Follow the hidden route through the shoals where the winds and waters should remain calm,
>Cast a spell about your dinghy to keep it stable in the rough seas.
>Signal the tower of your arrival, with the pattern of dancing lights to ensure Robar knows your his niece.
>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.
>Shoot. You forgot like some witless gull. Um... make for the docks!!!

>>6108365
>Follow the hidden route
I can only assume he would expect us to be smart and capable enough to get in on our own, so let's not embarrass ourselves

Rolled 63 (1d100)

>>6108365
>Shoot. You forgot like some witless gull. Um... make for the docks!!!
Can't be perfect all the time
If that option doesn't win my next choice is
>Signal the tower of your arrival, with the pattern of dancing lights to ensure Robar knows you're his niece

>>6108365
>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.
Secret Tunnel is always and forever shall be the best option.

Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>6108450
4got roll

>>6108365
>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.

Rolled 46 (1d100)

>>6108416
forgot my roll like an idiot and didn't realize until now

Rolled 66 (1d100)

>>6108365
>>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>>6108365
>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.

File: Boat in the Storm.png (1.57 MB, 1024x1024)

1.57 MB PNG

>Drop anchor at precise coordinates. There, you should find entrance to the hidden tunnel to the island, just below the waves.
>Best of three: 71 is Overruled by 66. High Risk, High Reward, thanks Sheev

Dark and clouded over, the storm leaves navigation by sun and stars an impossibility. Normally a bluebird on a boat could wait for the seas to calm themselves and the skys to clear, but in the storm that surrounds your uncle's island that's not a possibility. The spell has churned for a thousand years unending in a weave of mana so monstrously complex that even the full might of the Conclave would be hard pressed to unravel it. The might of the Nine Ring could pierce it through, but you've only one in your hands, one thought to be the weakest at that. Dreams and illusions can make many wonders, but the storm is a cold reality that you cannot easily overwrite.

Lucky then that father packed a wayfinder in amongst your emergency things.

With one hand on the dinghy's rudder, the other holds your wayfinder close. In the wind and the rain, beneath the dark clouds blotting out the light, the images and numbers it projects into the air are all you have to guide you. Speed and bearing, and your coordinates upon the global map, they tell you more reliably how to get where you are going than your eyes alone ever could. As you stare at them to guide the vessel, Astur braves the rigging, holding rope for the sails and giving slack enough to keep the canvas from ripping.

You find your destination in a brief of calm. The skies still dark with rain and thunder, the water churning violently around you, but the wind stills and the waves lie flat compared to the hills and mountains you had to brave to reach this place.

"Drop the sails and lay the anchor!" you shout a command to Astur over the crack of thunder.

"The seas will get rough again once the eye passes!" Astur says, her yellow eyes flickering with the light of the dinghy's only lantern. "We need to sail out of the storm for calmer seas, 'lest the boat be shaken apart."

Nine and ninety times out of a hundred, your new friend would be absolutely right. In the storm surrounding your uncles island, however, is that last part in one hundred where she is wrong. "Nay, the eye won't move! Not from this place. If it did, no one could ever come visit mine uncle."

"If you're sure...!" She says.

The anchor drops into the stormy shallows, hooking into coral and sand. When the sails drop, the boat is left adrift for only a moment, before it gently bumps into something soft. Checking at your wayfinder once more, you nod to yourself before returning to your true form and fluttering off the starboard bow. When you skim the surface of the water and shift back, Astur looks ready to jump in after you... only to see that where you stand, the water reaches up to your ankles.

>>6108954
Astur squints her eyes, and must have noticed what your wayfinder tells you. Beneath the dark waters lay a shelf of stone and sand, one that seems to travel all the way to the shore. Her face turns a little pale, and you catch her muttering beneath the wind. "Don't tell me we're to walk all the way to the island in the middle of this storm..."

"Walk we shall," you tell her, words she answers with a groan. "But not like ducks atop the waters. No, mine uncle is not so rude as to leave his guests without a place to dry themselves. We shall be walking below the waves, beneath a ceiling of glass and stone."

With a gesture, you conjure a staff from within your father's ring, and slam it down upon the stone. Silver light pours out from hidden carvings in the stone, revealing the shape of an intricately decorated door. The image of marble pillars covered in sprawling vines, between which sits a set of doors carved with the twinned crosses of Joshua and Sophia, as well the likeness of sun and moon. In an archway overhead, words taken from the Good Book in the tongue of wolf and eagle:

[Remians 15:7] Wherefore receive ye one another, as the Annointed also received us to the glory of the LORD.

The stone rises from the water and slides open, revealing a set of steps that disappears beneath the waves. You beckon Astur to you side. With her halberd in her hands and her new sword hanging from her hips, she follows you into the darkness. Your staff sheds light like a torch, but beneath such gloomy waters such a light can only go so far. Especially once you reach the halls of glass, where the light is allowed to scatter into the sea.

Many times have you traveled through this hall beneath the waters, yet it never lost its splendor. Many handsome and brightly colored fish flock overhead, swimming as you once flew with brother, sister, and cousin upon your migrations south and north. Where you followed the seasons, they follow the flowing currents of temperate waters as hot and cold push them away in the shape of a whorling ring. As your flock lost one or two to the predations of hawk and owl, so too do they lose numbers to shark and squid.

"How do we know the ceiling won't crack?" Astur asks. She looks uneasy, but not for the beasts.

"Because it has stood for a thousand years without breaking yet, and will surely stand for a thousand more," you chirp. Your lips curl into a smile as you spot a shambling figure moving your way through the hall. "What's more, mine uncle's servants come along to repair any cracks they find on a regular basis. Look, there's an Alfred right now!"

>>6108956
The servant shambles into the light, looking just how you remember your uncle's servants to look. Well, his doublet is not as neatly pressed as it should have been, and his pants look like they've been stained from hard work. Plus he could use a good scrubbing to get rid of the crimson fungus growing out between his bones. It's not even a tasty looking red fungus, no, it looks like a growth of mold. But other than needing to tidy up, there's no mistaking him for anything other than one of uncle's many Alfreds.

"Undead!" Astur seethes. She takes up a position between you and the Alfred with her halberd at the ready. You pinch her nose at how she mistakes the Alfred for a wild undead born of grudges rather than sorcery, as she tells you to, "Stay behind me, Nialia. I'll see to sending Alfred back to his peaceful rest...!"

"Astur, no, that's expected," you start to explain. "Mine uncle is a necro-"

As you speak, the Alfred does something rather unexpected.

Like a wild, mindless undead, it charges straight for the two of you with a screech in its bones.

"-mancer..."

Roll 1d100 and...
>Stand your ground here and weigh your options carefully.
>Charge forward with illusion, sword, and halberd to break through to the Island's surface.
>Cast an illusion of silence and slay this Alfred carefully. Move with stealth to the Island's surface and find your uncle's tower.
>Retreat backwards to your boat, and make for the island another way.
>Retreat backwards to your boat, and depart. If Alfreds are infected, the island must be lost.
>+Take a sample of that strange crimson fungus. It might be the culprit of this aberrant behavior...

Rolled 78 (1d100)

>>6108958
>Castan illusion of silence and slay this Alfred carefully. Move with stealth to the Island's surface and find your uncle's tower.
We're in a tunnel with someone wielding a halberd in front of us. Shouldn't be too dangerous.

Is our uncle one of the other ringbearers, again? Or is he just quite powerful?

If so it seems like they've all been targeted. If not, the enemy wanted Father's ring real bad.

Gonna vote against the crimson fungus for now. Been playing Mothership lately so I'm terribly suspicious of such things.

Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>6108958
>Charge forward with illusion, sword, and halberd to break through to the Island's surface.
>Cast an illusion of silence and slay this Alfred carefully. Move with stealth to the Island's surface and find your uncle's tower.
>+Take a sample of that strange crimson fungus. It might be the culprit of this aberrant behavior...
Both of those are important, so they both get my vote.

>>6109082
Ignore the first quote. New phone doing dumb shit.

Rolled 87 (1d100)

>>6108958
>>Cast an illusion of silence and slay this Alfred carefully. Move with stealth to the Island's surface and find your uncle's tower.
Yeah if that red gunk made our uncles minions attack us, it's gotta be no good. Let's avoid it for now and sneak.

Rolled 79 (1d100)

>>6108958
>Stand your ground here and weigh your options carefully.
>+Take a sample of that strange crimson fungus. It might be the culprit of this aberrant behavior...

Rolled 81 (1d100)

>>6108958
>>Charge forward with illusion, sword, and halberd to break through to the Island's surface.

File: Alfred.png (1.69 MB, 1024x1024)

1.69 MB PNG

"Astur, handle it!" you caw.

"Already doing it!" she tells you as her halberd crashes against the Alfred's steely bones.

Even with the many enchantments that your uncle wove into his servants to keep them from falling apart, the axe head bites through polished white and creeping tendrils of red to splinter the skeleton's shoulder. Magic can only do so much do defend against the brute force of steel and iron, after all. Not when it must also keep the bones in motion with the vague semblance of intelligence all so-called "mindless" undead possess.

Robbed of its right arm, the Alfred staggers from the blow and nearly loses its balance. Astur gives it no time to recover itself, smoothly recovering the momentum of her slash with a crescent sweep that leaves her weapon's spearhead pointed straight for the stumbling skeleton's ribs. Holding it straight as a rod of iron, she rushes forward with a thrust in perfect form, taking three steps in the blink of an eye and piercing the Alfred straight through.

The spike at the halberd's head catches nothing but air... just as planned.

The crescent of its axe-head hooks just beneath a rib, while its thorn prevents the thrust from slipping uselessly between the ribs. Rather than her weapon being locked inside of its ribcage where it could do nothing, it instead holds the skeleton's body at a distance from Astur, well beyond the reach of its bony arms and claws. She and it dance for leverage and control for a moment, but dry bones and creeping mold are a feather compared to the mass of a guardswoman who stands proud at a well muscled six-foot-three.

Once Astur has control, her feet snap to a new position, her stance shifting into a wide and solid foundation. Using one hand as a fulcrum for the other, she lifts the skeleton into the air in a wide arc by its ribcage, bringing the Alfred crashing down onto the floor as if she were driving a stake through granite with a heavy mallet. All the while, a wordless battlecry erupts from her throat.

"Haaaaaaaaah!" she roars. A sound loud enough to fill the tunnel... had you not been about your own work.

As Astur deals with the red-crusted Alfred, you draw your favorite talon from its place upon your hip. Its fourteen inches of steel cannot do much of anything against a skeleton; it's rather useless against a foe not made of flesh. Instead you hold it in a reversed grip, raising up its brass hilt. Shaped in the likeness of a bluebird's leg, its talons grip tightly upon a sky-blue orb that swirls with cloudy mists.

Through it, you can weave spells more complex than the many simple cantrips your father taught you. Sewing together threads of dream and shadow, you gently chirp the magic words that finish the spell and it life beyond your grasp: "Mihi kardi'i tawa jafif muharan na'nud, Riman Anuead: [Af h'Kiila Taea Aquf]"

>>6109605
As Astur lets loose her battlecry, a membrane of black and silver grows around you in a bubble some twenty feet wide and centered upon the pommel of your dagger. No sight or sound can escape its shroud, and all who try to enter it will remain outside, as though it were a silken curtain whose touch none could feel. The bones of the red-crusted Alfred scatter within it, but cannot pull themselves back together before the magic that once bound them fades.

Breathing heavily, Astur leans upon the butt of her halberd and looks at you in askance, her yellow eyes questioning and concerned. "What sorcery is this?"

"Father named it 'Af h'Kiila Taea Aquf' in honor of those who first pioneered creating shrouds that guard against the senses," you explain with a chipper chirp. Astur looks at you with wide eyes that speaks volumes about how little she understands what you say. While she's clearly not a witless gull, you suppose that she must not know the Tongue of Golden Sands. "Ah, in our tongue, it would be 'Bubble of Concealment'. Most spells are named in-"

"No, I meant the skeleton," she tells you. Now it's your turn to look nonplussed as she explains, "A simple bag of bones should have crumpled under my first blow, or fallen apart when I lifted it up by the ribs. Even accounting for the metal plating and enchantments, that thing was way too durable."

"Oh," you say.

An awkward silence flutters through the air like a persistent and irritating hummingbird until you finally tell her, "I haven't the foggiest clue. Perhaps uncle will know."

"And who exactly is this uncle of yours?" Astur asks. She hoists her halberd over one should and follows you down the tunnel after you wordlessly pass her by. Her hawkish gaze never leaves your head, giving you the sense that she's contemplating the need to scoop you from your nest and drop you on the ground. "Necromancers tend to be a little prone to..."

"Squawking like an excited pigeon and spreading their feathers like a dullard peacock, yes," you phrase things in a way that Astur needs to process for a moment. With a wave, you brush away her concerns, saying, "Uncle is no peacock. He keeps his feathers almost girlishly dull, so you've no need to worry about maniacal laughter or villainous monologues."

"Right," Astur says, her suspicion shifting from you towards the darkness. "This concealment bubble thing gonna keep the Alberts from spotting us?"

"Afreds," you correct, to the roll of her eyes. "And yes, as long as we do not fight them, they shall not fight us. Attack them, however, and you will lose the bubble's protection."

"I'll keep that in mind..."

>>6109608
The two of you pass by a handful of shambling Alfreds as you make you way through the tunnel and towards the surface, all of them encrusted with that same red mold. While some of them come uncomfortably close to you, none of them break out into a screeching sprint like the first. They meander without care nor purpose through the tunnel, oft bumping up against the wall and failing to turn. Astur thankfully follows you advice, and does not lash out against any of them.

When you reach the surface, the sun has already begun to set. The sky here remains as clear as ever, the storm sticking to the distance on all sides. The rumbling of thunder can be heard from the sea, but the winds are calm and no rain is scheduled to fall today.

To the north, off in the distance, you can see your uncles tower looming on the horizon. To the west should be a fishing village where live his vassals, and you can see the smoke pouring off the hearths there. To the east, you know there's an inn on the Island's only farm, which will trade the most delicious food and a cozy sleeping nest for only a pittance of shinies. To the south is the port town, the busiest place upon the island, where - if you're honest - your uncle spends most of his time.

Roll 1d100 and...
>Head to to the port town.
>Head to the fishing village.
>Head to the inn for the night.
>Head to the tower without stopping.

>>6109610
>Inn for the night.
Let's not make bones about it, we know something's wrong here and that those probably aren't just the hearths of the houses putting up those smoke plumes. The tower could very well be besieged, so I think hitting the inn and hoping to find someone we can mine for info is our best bet.

Rolled 80 (1d100)

>>6109610
>>Head to the inn for the night.

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>>6109636
Forgot my dice

>>6109610
>Head to the inn for the night.

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>>6109605
>>6109608
It's nice to have a scene like this where we get to see Astur in her element as a warrior
>>6109610
>Head to the port town.

>>6109610
>>Head to to the port town.
The inn's boring. Let's head to the Port Town and see what's there. Worst case there's a zombie apocalypse ongoing to complement the horde of hentai Orcs that attacked our hometown.

File: Nat100 on a Find the Inn Check.jpg (3.63 MB, 5616x3744)

3.63 MB JPG

>Matching Rolls, adding 20 to best of 3
>80+20=100, Critical Success

Things seem peaceful on the surface of the island. You cannot hear the skeleton shrieking of Alfreds running rampant, and your little fleshy beak does not pick up the distinctive smell of burning village. The road east meanders through the grazing fields of goat and cattle, paved with cut slabs of stone by the work of the friendly undead. The grass gives way to rolling waves of golden grain after a few miles as the borders of the ranches blend with the island's only farm.

You pass an Alfred on your way. Hard at work repairing a crack in the stone, he tips his hat at the both of you as you pass. You hike your tartan skirt up in a polite curtsey as he gets back to it, while Astur's eyes stay glued upon him until you've passed the bend.

Her halberd quivers in her hands. In a low whisper, she asks, "Nialia, you sure it's safe to let that thing wander about?"

You give her a side eye, a knowing smirk crossing your face as Astur behaves like an all-too-eager duckling. It's a good thing she has a wise bluebird like you to keep her head on straight. You tell her, "Alfreds are good roosters that like to keep a tidy coop. The ones we saw shambling underground must be sick, as they're normally docile and diligent. Fret not, and leave them to their work."

"If you're sure..." Astur says, still holding tight to her halberd. "It just don't seem natural to me. Bones should remain bones, they shouldn't get up and walk about like they're alive again."

With a shake of your head, you tell her, "Like I said, mine uncle is a good necromancer, whose bone boys are all helpful."

"Right..." Astur says, though its clear from her tone she mistrusts them.

You don't run into many more before you reach the inn. It sprawls along the lakeshore, with its back to the fields of grain, a long and winding building sitting in the shadow of the mountain - a long dead volcano that gave birth to the island. Its oldest hall sits in the center, and you can see the subtle shifts in color and design as the generations added onto it. Bare stone masonry gives way to brick and plaster, bright colors on the outer wings surrounding a regal hall that once might have been a castle. With five sections following the curve of the lake, each rising three stories tall, a thousand noble guests can be housed there during its peak season of Mournivale.

The dock to the lake harbors ferries to the mountain paths and pleasure boats for those who wish to sail for sport. Its other amenities sprawl right out to the borders of ranch and farm, where wagons can be ridden aimlessly through the wheat, and horses can be rented by men and women who want to play as ranchers. A bathhouse draws water in from the lake and keeps it warm even in winter, and a theater on the water will host players from town and abroad.

Astur's slack jaw at the sight brings an amused smile to your face.

>>6110218
"This place sits in the middle of an endless storm, or so you say," Astur babbles on about things you already know as her mind tries to put the pieces together. "How in Josh and Sophie's blessed names do they manage to fill an inn like this? Don't tell me that everyone comes through that secret tunnel! The secret would be out, and all their boats would crash into one another trying to lay anchor!"

"It only really fills up during the week of Mournivale," you chirp an explanation. "Father tells me that Uncle gives out special tickets while he's in court, invitations to people who impress him... or whom he feels the need to impression. The tickets bring them here for the festival, and the Alfreds put on quite the show. Otherwise, it's only people who come to visit and their retinues, whether they want to meet with him, or just get away from their lives."

Astur eyes you suspiciously, "And you didn't have a special ticket that could have just teleported us here?"

"Mournivale's not for a another month!" you tweet, throwing your hands up. You avoid calling her a witless gull, even if she deserves it. "And Father would usually cast a spell of translocation when we'd visit, but..."

You take a deep breath. No tears flow from your eyes, because you know Father would not want you to cry. That doesn't stop your heart from aching in your chest, or that pain from spreading to your face.

Astur falls silent for a moment, with a bashful look that refuses to meet your eyes. She gazes to the bathhouse, and says, "Well, either way, I'm looking forward to taking a bath. Near a fortnight on stormy seas, I'm surprised we don't smell like fish..."

"I'm sure we just haven't noticed it yet," you tell her. A thin smile cracks on your face, breaking your dour mood. "I could eat a hundred fish right now, you know. Especially tasty mackerels, they're far better than grains and grubs."

Astur snorts, giving you a sly smile. Oh LORD, what trap have you walked into?

"You can eat me any day," she says something heavy with a curse.

Immediately you throw your arms up in an X and remind her, "No means no! I am not a homosexual!"

"Yeah, I know," she waves you off as if your complaints were nothing more than the incessant song of a flitting hummingbird. "It's just, you're cute when your flustered."

Roll 1d100 as you check into the Inn, and...
>Visit their library.
>Take a bath. You desperately need one.
>Grab a bite to eat. You're ravenous enough to eat a hundred mackerels.
>Crash immediately.
>Write a letter to the Conclave informing them of your plans, and the safety of the forbidden tome.
>(Write in)
>+Buy Astur a prostitute because it's clear that she needs female companionship of that sort. Otherwise, she'll try eating you in your sleep!

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>6110220
>Take a bath. You desperately need one.

Rolled 48 (1d100)

>>6110220
>Take a bath. You desperately need one.
>+Buy Astur a prostitute because it's clear that she needs female companionship of that sort. Otherwise, she'll try eating you in your sleep!

Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>6110220
>>Take a bath. You desperately need one.
>>+Buy Astur a prostitute because it's clear that she needs female companionship of that sort. Otherwise, she'll try eating you in your sleep!

>>6110220
>Take a bath. You desperately need one.

I feel like getting Astur a companion for bed because of some small teasing is a bit too far and could make things awkward later on. If she wants one, she buy it herself.

>>6110569
Astur's cute when she's flustered though.

>>6110586
Vote!
>>6110569
Roll!

Also I think we should send a girl her way, because we're her wing gal and we need to cut her off from any dumb ideas. Plus I'm kinda curious what kind of girls this inn would have.

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>Write a letter to the Conclave informing them of your plans, and the safety of the forbidden tome.
>+Buy Astur a prostitute because it's clear that she needs female companionship of that sort. Otherwise, she'll try eating you in your sleep!

File: Kind of like this, but wi(...).png (1.67 MB, 1024x1024)

1.67 MB PNG

The last time you visited the Lakeshore Inn its entryhall buzzed with the activity of bluebloods from all across the world, and their retinues of more common folk to take care of the little things. Castellans checked with the grandmother at the service desk while the nobility discussed matters of trade, logistics, and war whilst waiting for their rooms. One particularly onery madame drew steel at another's insult to her husband, only for the Alfreds to escort both parties out to a proper dueling hall.

Today is far less busy.

The hall sits nearly empty, save for a scattered few. An Alfred dusts the rafters and cleans the bright banners hanging from the beams. A young man lounges by the fire with his nose deep in the Good Book, a drink at his side that smells of lime and mint and bitter alcohol. The grandmother who would treat with castellans and lower nobility is entirely absent, replaced by a bored looking girl behind the desk. She barely notices you before you walk straight up and give the little bell upon the counter a ring.

"Wha- oh, hello," she says through a stifled yawn. She eyes your traveling clothes - and the sword on Astur's hip - with a wary smile. "Sorry, wasn't expecting any visitors today. Name's Gerty, I'll be taking care of you today. Now, I didn't see any new reservations on the schedule, but we can fit you in this time of year nice and easy. Infact, there's a lovely room in Hummingbird Hall we oft rent out to adventuring types when there's work in the mountains. Very friendly on the budget."

"That sounds lovely, we-" Astur forgets herself and tries to answer for you, before you cut her off.

"That won't be necessary," you say, taking the chain that holds your father's ring off of your neck. Astur looks like she's about to say something regarding expenses, but before she can get a word out, you tell the woman behind the counter that, "My father has an account with a standing reservation for the Robin's Nest. Please have it prepared as if he were staying there, and have an Alfred sent to the master of the island with word that Martin's little bluebird needs to speak with him."

Astur stares at you in confusion for a moment, an expression shared by the young lady behind the counter. Both of them slowly lose color in their faces as they put two and two together, their eyes zeroing in on the ring before widening in horror.

Right, you never told Astur who your father was beyond his importance to the Marcher's court, and the import of what you carried.

"Forgive the presumption, milady!" the young woman stammers out in a panic. Her tone slips into a folksy, common accent from the more refined tone that she must have been forcing. "I'll have the Robin's Nest ready for you in an hour, please feel free to enjoy our full hospitality to heart's content. Oh Josh and Sophie, mother's going to flog me for not recognizing you..."

>>6110855
"Relax," you say with a wave of your hand. "I rarely travel without father, and his presence is far more distinct than my own..."

She barely registers your words, fluttering about like a panicked mockingbird and giving directions to some of the idle Alfreds who quickly snap to work. You think you catch her muttering something about how she almost sent you to Hummingbird Hall to have you sleeping with the servants. Whatever insult she thinks she paid you doesn't matter. You simply yearned for the familiarity of the Robin's Nest, and the memories you have of the times your father brought you with him to that suite.

Though... since she offered the inn's full hospitality, you figure that you might just order something from the Red Menu that Astur would enjoy. Before you took the shape of his daughter, father would enjoy dining from that menu, and Astur most certainly shares your father's tastes.

Now, how did he order the twins with the large chests...? Ah, yes, "Oh! If you could arrange for some room service for my friend, I'm sure she'd enjoy the double cheeseburger from the Red Menu, if you still serve it."

With a surprised squeak, Gerty says, "Yes, we do. I'll send them up."

Color returns to Astur's face at the prospect of... right, she probably doesn't know that it's not food you ordered. She gives you a slight pout, though, at the meal you ordered for her. "Nia, don't get me wrong, I like a good burger... but shouldn't we get something a bit more refined at a place like this? Maybe filet mignon, or chicken chasseur..."

You let out a sigh, and keep your voice low when you tell her, "A bluebird would not order from the Red Menu if she wanted food. I ordered you something that Father found very tasty, and I'm quite certain it would be to your tastes as well."

The gears of Astur's mind spin visibly as she tries to catch your meaning. Then her face turns pale again.

"Anointed bloody Joshua, Martin Caspar's daughter just ordered me a prostitute," she says with a voice and gaze that must be off in the next town over.

"Two prostitutes," you correct her. "I believe they are twin, with bosoms as large as they are soft."

"Oh, that makes it so much better," Astur says the obvious, which is becoming a bad habit of hers. When you were but a little bluebird, father oft confided in you that a woman's bosom heals the soul better than any medicine, and that the bigger they were the more they could heal. Astur's voice turns into a hissing complaint, "Why didn't you tell me the father who's memory you swore on was Martin Caspar? You know, Marquis Aurelian's court wizard, known by the courtesy name Kaleidoscope? The illusionist whose trickery turned back the Iron Horde and laid the foundations of the Treaty of Olanna? That Martin Caspar?"

You give her an honest, innocent expression, saying, "It never came up."

>>6110857
For some reason, your honesty makes Astur seethe. She raises a shaky finger, pointing at you as her voice shimmers and shakes, "You... you... you absolute birdbrain!"

Of course, for all that she complains about you hiding things from her and ordering her prostitutes, her anger melts away the moment she finds herself with a luscious redhead on each arm. Gerty read the room well, and you slip her some extra shinies for how quickly she brought them over to diffuse Astur's anger. A smile of lecherous joy replaces the anger on Astur's face as the moon-eyed twins escort her off to the private baths to get her nice and clean and enjoy some skinship between young women.

You quickly find yourself lounging in the open-air baths with a floating basket of juicy mackerels and a bottle of mulberry wine. You scrubbed away the salt and brine of the sea with a lavender soap before getting in, and now you can enjoy the warmth seeping into every pore of your body. With silence but for distance birdsong and the chirping of crickets, it is - in your opinion - perfection.

So of course someone has to ruin it.

"So what brings the great illusionist's daughter to the Island of Storms?" asks a young man.

Opening your eyes, you see that it's the same fellow who had been lounging by the fire. Without his sloppily worn priest's cassock, you can see that his upper body is covered with tattoos praising the LORD and the twin saviors: Joshua and Sophia. His chest is marked with the twinned crosses, upon which they were executed by the Remians. The rest of his torso reminds you of nothing less than an illuminated manuscript - colorful and pious - written onto a flawless male physique.

You approve.

You approve very much so, especially since he has a handsome face and nice hair to go with it. Since he's showing you such a manly treat, you adjust your sitting to give him a nice view as well. It's almost disappointing that his eyes only briefly look your perky girls in the face, before coming back up to where it's more polite to look. Alas, such is life.

Roll 1d100 and...
>Be standoffish. Handsome as he is, you're not sure you can trust him.
>Be flirtatious. No rule keeps a man sworn to the Twins from having a bit of fun, and he looks like a tasty treat.
>Be honest. There is no reason to hide your purpose from a man of the cloth.
>Be deflective. You'd rather not discuss the matter of your arrival right now. Not until you've spoken with Robar.
>Be dishonest. The mission is too important. Stretch the truth a bit, do not lie but omit things you'd rather conceal and let him draw his own conclusions.

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>>6110859
>>Be flirtatious. No rule keeps a man sworn to the Twins from having a bit of fun, and he looks like a tasty treat.

Rolled 100 (1d100)

>>6110859
>Be flirtatious. No rule keeps a man sworn to the Twins from having a bit of fun, and he looks like a tasty treat.
He could be a virgin

>>6111017
Oh shit, looks like we get some action

Rolled 49 (1d100)

>>6110859
>Be dishonest. The mission is too important. Stretch the truth a bit, do not lie but omit things you'd rather conceal and let him draw his own conclusions.

Rolled 37 (1d100)

>>6110859
>Be dishonest

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>6110859
>>Be flirtatious. No rule keeps a man sworn to the Twins from having a bit of fun, and he looks like a tasty treat

>>6111017
Nice

>>6110859
>Be dishonest. The mission is too important. Stretch the truth a bit, do not lie but omit things you'd rather conceal and let him draw his own conclusions.

>>6110859
>Be flirtatious. No rule keeps a man sworn to the Twins from having a bit of fun, and he looks like a tasty treat

File: Delicious Stuffed Bird.jpg (104 KB, 1000x667)

104 KB JPG

>Natural 100: Critical Success
>Lucky Number 13

"Why, to see the views of course," you chirp bright and happily. Your eyes wander along the illuminated manuscript drawn upon his upper body, drinking in the bright colors that decorate his skin. The Remian script of the Good Book is interwoven with vines and flowers and glittering swords among the passages of scripture. "They're a fair sight better than what I'd find in Aurelian these days, that's quite certain. I've a name, by the by: it's Nialia."

You don't simply give him your name, of course. With an instinctual shift of your body, and a smokiness in your gaze, you give him an invitation.

"Charmed," he says with a chuckle, and you can see just how charmed he is beneath the steaming waters. "Brother Padraig, at your service."

"At my service, are you?" you trill happily, jutting out the two soft 'feathers' that adorn your chest. With a devious smile, you put a finger to your lips and tell him that, "I can think of several uses for a strong young man of the cloth like you. Perhaps you can help me with this and that..."

Padraig eyes dart to your left hand, and smiles when he sees no golden band... nor the indentation left from a ring removed. Closing his eyes and giving you an exaggerated sigh, he takes a tone that makes it sound like a great chore and says, "Well who am I to deny the request of a beautiful woman? The daughter of the great illusionist no less. It wouldn't be right, the good book says that we should help our neighbors when they're in need."

"I'm certainly in need right now," you tweet with great enthusiasm.

He accepts your 'need' with a light chuckle, drifting to you through the warm waters. Putting his arm around you, a strong hand massages away the road-weariness that has filled your tender flesh. With a happy sigh, you return the favor, letting one of your hands seek out his body's tension and gently rub it away. Getting spoiled by a pretty bird like you brings a lecher's grin to the young man's face, but it's not enough just yet to drive him wild and put those muscles of his to good use.

His curiosity wins out against those feelings, and while he doesn't stop your skinship, he does ask, "So is that truly all you came out here for? A pretty mountain view and a chance with men more rugged than they breed in the cities?"

Letting out a pretty sigh as his strong hand tweaks you here and there, you admit to him that, "No, I also came to seek council from the master of the island. What word have you of the goings on in Aurelian?"

He makes a curious sound as you nuzzle your face against his chest, his eyes drifting upwards as he thinks upon your words. A moment passes by where you can simply enjoy his warmth in silence, before he nods to himself with certainty. "I can think of a number of things, actually. The Marquis feuds with the Princeps, the Bishop fears censure from the Pope for blasphemies, and the Marcher's daughter..."

He gives you a wry smile.

>>6111401
"What about her?" you ask. You know Moecha Aurelian quite well, as the daughter of her father's court wizard. The marquis would sometimes ask you keep an eye on her, when she was a young girl. She is a woman grown now, and... a sour look crosses your face when you realize what the orcs must have done with her. "As long as I've known her, she's a sweet young woman with not a duplicitous bone in her body."

Padraig's smile turns into a frown, "That is not what I have heard. The whispers among the Brotherhood is that she cavorts with warlocks and demons and savage orcs, shaming her family name. What's more, there's tell that she planned a ritual for her twenty third name day, though to what end I cannot say."

Her twenty-third name day...

You don't remember her birthday. With the work your Father had for you, and her own debut into her father's court, you drifted apart over the last few years and rarely had time to meet up with her. Still, you know that it would have been close to the day that the orcs attacked Aurelian... but that is not a line of thought that you wish to pursue. Your eyes narrow and your lips curl into a frown.

"I'd have you not slander Moecha Aurelian's good name," you tell him. Slipping from his strong grasp, you stand up and show him your displeasure... and your eagerness to continue... before giving him an ultimatum: "If you wish to go any further with me, you'll cease this line of thinking, and forget you ever heard such vile rumors."

"You're right, that's far too unpleasant a topic for a bathhouse," he says, standing up as well. At five foot four, you are not a small woman, but Padraig towers over you by nearly two feet. He's easily a head taller than Astur, who is something of a giantess herself. If that wasn't enough to make your heart skip a beat, you catch a look at his mighty and powerful need. "We've a long night ahead of us, and it should be filled with more pleasant things."

Your heart pounding with excitement, you close in on him until your bosom presses against him. Looking him in the eye, you say, "Yes, it should."

===

Ten years.

You have not had a mate for ten long years, more or less as long as you've been able to take the form of your father's daughter. You suppose that your type must extend to humans as well, males decorated with bright and fancy colors who stand at least head and shoulders above you. The first mate you took kept a pristine coat of bright blue feathers, and towered over your small bluebird form. He gave you twelve children before he passed of old age, and they all became familiars to your father's students once they left the nest.

Padraig slots in neatly to your "type", but there's so much more that hands let him do. You knew that hands have more utility than wings on most days, that's why you spend most of your time taking the form of a human. You did not know that such utility extended to manhandling your mate in such a delightful way...

>>6111402
Suffice it to say, you never made it to the Robin's Nest last night.

Padraig had an abundance of energy, and you had an eagerness to learn things about the human body that you never explored before today. He spent the night showing you many things from the spicier chapters of the Good Book, all across the bathhouse for hours upon end. Thanks to a few divine blessings, neither of you ran out of stamina, though an Alfred did lay out snacks and beverages to ensure you ate and drank. Before you knew it, dawn had come around, but neither of you really felt like stopping.

Perched on the railing with your legs held up by Padraig's arms, you spot something that concerns you marching down the road. At first you took them for a convoy of Alfreds, but then you notice the faint red glow among them.

Roll 1d100 and...
>Let Padraig finish his work before telling him about it.
>Tell Padraig to stop, that there's something wrong with the Alfreds on the road.
>Just tell him about it while you're wrapping up this final round.
>Cast an illusion to scare them off. You have another hour or two in you at least, how dare they interrupt!
>Cast an illusion to hide the bathhouse. They can't interrupt if they can't see you.
>(Write In)

Rolled 67 (1d100)

>>6111403
>Tell Padraig to stop, that there's something wrong with the Alfreds on the road.

Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>6111403
>>Tell Padraig to stop, that there's something wrong with the Alfreds on the road.

Rolled 42 (1d100)

>>6111403
>>Cast an illusion to scare them off. You have another hour or two in you at least, how dare they interrupt!

>>6111403
>Tell Padraig to stop

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>6111882
forgot my roll

Rolled 21 (1d100)

>>6111403
>>Cast an illusion to scare them off. You have another hour or two in you at least, how dare they interrupt!

Rolled 72 (1d100)

>>6111403
>>Cast an illusion to hide the bathhouse. They can't interrupt if they can't see you.

Gyatt damn, best use of cleric healing magic (I assume, removing exhaustion or something).

Also, we have kids!?!?!?

File: When you're 5'3'' and you(...).jpg (316 KB, 827x1169)

316 KB JPG

How dare.

How absolutely dare these... you don't even know what to call the infested Alfreds, but they have no right to interrupt the absolutely wonderful time you've been having with Padraig. The last twelve hours have felt like opening the release valve on ten years worth of pressure that you didn't realize had been slowly building up. A relief, a joy, and good lecherous mutual fun where you got to learn the pleasures of the human body with the help of a phenomenal specimen of a man.

Yet these undead do not have the common decency to wait until you've finished before making their attack! Oh, you certainly finished several times throughout the night, evidence of that lays in drying pools upon the various surfaces that you and Padraig explored. All that is not enough to quench your appetite, though. The dam of ten years celibacy has broken open, and you've no intention of stopping until that number reaches one hundred at the very least.

Rolling onto your belly, you glare out at the cretins. Rage and indignity clear you mind of all sensation, dulling even the wonderful things Padraig does to your bottom as you force yourself to focus.

"Padraig, stop moving for a moment," you cluck with irritation as he places a strong hand upon your head. As much as you want to relish his displays of strength and dominance, "I need to focus. Some pests are marching down the Lakeshore Loop, and I mean to scare them off."

Padraig stops his motion in a position comfortable and snug, his hand still clutching the crown of your head. His eyes drift from your naked body to the road, where the evil Alfreds shamble in the mockery of a marching formation. "Scheisse. More of those things? I thought I had cleared the caverns where that blight was growing. Cast what you need to, I'll get my aspergillum and we'll-"

"No," you caw a command. Before he can do anything you'll regret, you hook your legs around his waist to lock him in place. "I'm going to scare them off, and if that doesn't work we can talk about fetching weapons."

Now, he demonstrated last night just how easily he can carry a bird as light and lithe as you from place to place, so nothing stops him from taking you to his chambers as you are. But it would be a rather compromising position for the both of you, wouldn't it? The look upon his face is not particularly amused by your insistence, nor how you've trapped him inside of you to prevent his escape.

"Are... are you serious, Nialia?" Padraig asks. Though you cannot see his face right now, you can only imagine the look on his face. "The Red Blight is nothing to be trifled with, you need to destroy it, not scare it off-"

"Then destroy it I shall!" You declare, your mind already running through your spells and circumstances.

"With an illusion?" he asks. "I understand some can draw on the realm of dreams to become partially real, but you've not a focus, a leyline, nor an atelier to draw the power for such a conjuration."

>>6112109
He's right. You don't have a focus. You left your favorite talon with your things, and while the ring dangling between your bosom is bar none the mightiest illusion focus, it does not answer to you. Nor do you have a leyline to draw from, as the roots of the world run deep beneath the surface and rarely breach to meet the light of the sun. As for an Atelier... a thought occurs. No, this bathhouse is not your atelier, a place of prepare power for you to use.

Yet... as distasteful as most folk find tantric rites, there is power to be found in copulation and sexual fluids. Not enough to make most rites worth breaking the social taboos surrounding the act, but...

"I am a talented sorceress. You are a channel for the blessings of the LORD, and a mighty one at that," you twitter and trill to him. Already, your hands go to work, shaping themselves from somatic sigil to somatic sigil to draw power from the bathhouse and shape the spell. Padraig's silence speaks volumes; either he understands your meaning, or he's curious enough to let you explain yourself. "For the last twelve hours, you and I... well, among other things, we engraved this place with a certain sort of power."

Padraig is silent for a moment, before he lets go of your head and says flat out, "You're joking."

"I'm not," you chirp insistently. A spark flashes in your eyes. "Honestly, if we had controlled where we did things... ninety times is a lot you know. We could have engraved a powerful ward with how enthusiastic we were... as it is, I can feel enough power in this room to unleash something big, once."

After another moment of silence and stillness, he tells you that, "If this doesn't work, I'm dragging you naked to my quarters when I fetch my aspergillum."

You respond...
>Don't tempt me with a good time.
>Don't worry, it won't fail.
>Well, that will leave Astur disappointed.
>(Write in)

Roll 1d100 and conjure the dream of...
>A field of fire
>A mighty dragon
>A host of fire elementals
>A being of shadow and flame
>A tide of holy fire
>An angel with a flaming sword
>(Write in)

Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>6112110
>Don't tempt me with a good time.
>A host of fire elementals

Rolled 44 (1d100)

>>6112110
>Don't tempt me with a good time.

>A being of shadow and flame

Giving notice that I'm traveling today, so updates are not likely.

Rolled 36 (1d100)

>>6112110
>>Don't tempt me with a good time.
>>A being of shadow and flame

Rolled 48 (1d100)

>>6112110
>Don't tempt me with a good time.
>A tide of holy fire

Rolled 60 (1d100)

>>6112110
>Don't tempt me with a good time
>A being of shadow and flame

>>6112110
>>Don't tempt me with a good time
>>A being of shadow and flame

>>6112110
>Don't tempt me with a good time.
>A tide of holy fire

Also, QM kill?

>>6125319
Yes, sadly

>>6125422
Shame. This quest seriously had potential, the worldbuilding is intriguing, and was well-written to boot.
Should I archive this?

>>6126612
There's nothing stopping you from doing that