Cult business

Over the coming months, you make an outward show of ruling with compassion and honour (or as much as you are reasonably able to exercise without losing your throne or appearing weak).

By day you confer with your allies, advisors and vassals, but by night, you commune with your family.

Arvha and Bezoriana's requests are innocuous enough. The Owl asks for a few small shipments of magical and alchemical components here and there, occasionally to be privy to some strategic secrets of your realm. As for Bezoriana, she would occasionally ask you to expend your royal influence, helping along a promising scion of the blood here, supporting a poorhouse or orphanage containing several of your distant, un-awakened cousins there.

As the weeks rolled by, and you communicated with your aunts, they both seemed to enjoy showing off their gradually swelling bellies, the product of your handiwork that wonderful night at the Devil's Throne.

Roland and Corinne, conversely, put themselves into your service. The Shark was given any mercenary contract you thought suitable, running down bandits, fugitives, putting down revolts, anything that allowed you to pay him, grow his warband and prestige, as well as avail yourself of his ferocious strength. Corinne, you employed a handful of more times, whenever one agile shadow, one deft blade, could have the greatest of effects.

As useful as they were, you were loathe to rely on them too much. You couldn't be seen by your grandfather to be taking advantage of the services your family provided, not without aiding them suitably in return.