Pin the blame on the adventurers.

“Helen!” you hiss a whisper and drop to one knee, clutching the imaginary wound on your stomach. The rogue blinks, rubbing her eyes with another yawn before turning. She opens her mouth to shriek, but you lunge at her, cupping a blood-stained hand over her mouth. “Shh!” you scold, darting a furtive glance toward the main entrance and the rhythmic clinking of Elizabeth’s armor and imminent arrival. “These cultists snuck up on me,” you lie, pointing your unclasped hand toward the dead priest and then toward the approaching footsteps. Her eyes well with tears and she can’t seem to tear her eyes off of the twitching, pulsating globe that hangs like an overripe fruit from Rosaria’s body.

“I need you to wake up Beatrice right now, before the other one returns,” you whisper into her ear with a calm, assertive voice. The rogue sniffles, mouth still smothered by your clamped palm. Your arm relaxes. Now you hope she takes the bait.

“By the gods…” Helen mutters softly after you pull your hand away from her mouth. Without a word, she rushes over and begins shaking Beatrice awake. Excellent, you think to yourself. All according to plan. You return to your stooped posture of feigned pain and hold your hand to your middle once more. “Bea!” the redhead whispers with a shaky voice, “Wake up! We’re in big trouble!” Helen adds, tears falling from her cheeks onto the muscled amazon’s broad shoulder. After a few good shakes, the brutish woman yawns and opens her eyes with a sleepy smile. But the moment she sees the shattered visage of utter terror on Helen’s face, she swipes up her axe and leaps to her feet. Good, good.

“What the fuck happened?!” Beatrice growls, glancing her fierce gaze between the priest’s corpse and Rosaria’s immense, trembling fecundity. A sickening gurgle and more wobbling movement within the taut, scarred belly offers a discomforting answer. You see that the inky veins wrapping around the bandit’s drum-tight caramel tummy have plumped up larger, only adding to her malignant, grotesque transfiguration. Poor Rosaria looks fit to burst with her piscine spawn, but you have bigger fish to fry at the moment.

“They tied me up and that maniac killed himself,” you say with false fear laced into each word. Pointing your free hand at the dead priest, you clench your jaw and mimic an expression of disgust. “That’s when Rosaria started changing, but if we get out of this accursed place, I can help her!” you execute the deception with precision and inwardly pat yourself on the back. However, you barely need to bluff your sense of desperation. It is quite obvious that if they stop and speak with Elizabeth, then your entire web of lies comes crashing down. They would kill you for the cultist you are in an instant. **** but to go all in. “But the woman out there is dangerous. You must not let her warp your mind!” you advise the restless barbarian. If Beatrice wore anything with sleeves, you are most certain she would be rolling them up right about now. Bloodshot eyes belie the fury quaking just below the surface. She tenses her rippling arms, each breath heaving her gleaming, sweaty breasts in the small top. Your mind recalls the lovely areola you glimpsed not too long ago.

“Bastards… I’ll kill them all!” Beatrice roars, and you hear the clacking footsteps pick up pace. You all turn toward the door when Elizabeth returns, longsword in hand. With her target in sight and a whole heap of pent-up aggression, Beatrice charges head on without hesitation. “Die, you damn fanatic!” the muscled brute howls and leaps into the air, axe held aloft.

“What!” Elizabeth balks, raising her longsword at the last moment to parry the attack, lodging the greataxe in the fractured stone floor. You see in that moment that the violet flicker of your Charm spell has since faded from the adventurer’s gaze. To your fortune the pair of armed blondes square off, eyes narrowed in silent fury. Thank the dark mother that Elizabeth doesn’t appear to be the talkative type. Almost missing it entirely, you barely catch sight of Helen emerging from behind a pillar, daggers drawn and a vengeful focus clouding the usual glint in her eye. But again, Elizabeth defends herself, rolling to the side at the last moment. You have to give her credit, the dead priest’s lackey is remarkably skilled.

“I’ll strike you brigands down myself!” Elizabeth shouts, vengeance boiling in her eyes. The slur is spot-on. Clearly they were all eating out of your palm. This time Elizabeth seizes the offensive and feints a slash before thrusting toward Beatrice. Your eyes widen as the blonde barbarian actually uses her forearm to deflect the blow, spraying a jet of bright blood across the stone floor. You watch the crimson life fluids mix with the priest’s blood at Rosaria’s feet. Part of your mind wonders if more blood on the brunette bandit’s inhuman belly would only serve to worsen her condition. Yet that train of thought falls by the wayside when Helen tries to stab the swordswoman in the back. Alas, skill wins out again. Elizabeth pivots on one armored heel and plants a spinning elbow into the side of Helen’s skull, tossing the young, nubile redhead aside like a ragdoll.

“Die, you evil bitch!” Beatrice fumes. Veins bulge across her forehead and arms. You have yet to see her so furious, and it genuinely frightens you for a moment. Of course, having cavorted with demons for most of your life, you quickly regain your composure and enjoy the sight of your companion’s power. And yet, you have no idea what you would do if Beatrice somehow lost the fight. How could you possibly explain any of this to Elizabeth?