Pyn's Grotto.

Despite the bright, warm, natural light, the creeping ivy over the walls, soft pipe music, and the ever-flowing fountain of wine, Pyn's Grotto is one of the worst places to exist in all the planes. Damned females of all races and species, subjected to even the most cruelest of tortures, count their blessings that they did not get sent to serve here. The gates creak open and you are immediately greeted by a feminine shriek, followed by masculine hooting laughter and clattering hooves, running after her. Such is the fate of anyone unfortunate enough to be cursed to serve at this satyr's den.

Your brow narrows and you silently offer that girl your sympathies, while Kiv smacks your leg on his way past you, urging you forwards, still grinning that horrid grin. Hiding your sneer, you follow behind him, just in time to hear him ask the girl working the desk if his friends are in, and to inform him when one of the good rooms are available. The girl, between wincing and gasping from being assaulted by a pair of frantically humping satyrs behind her, tells him that his friends are at their usual corner and that she'll send someone over when it's been cleaned. "But why, oh why, oh why? It's just going to get dirty again anyway." He smirks, jutting his horns over to you and winking. One of the satyrs stops for a moment, pokes his head around and seeing you, holds his hand out to him, and says that he's a lucky son-of-a-bitch, to be bringing a succubus here. Laughing, Kiv high-fives him, and keeps walking.

As you walk past, you meet the gaze of the poor receptionist girl. She's a lesser demon, with patches of blueish-greenish skin showing through layers of fur, wine, and satyr jizz. Her eyes seem to scream exhaustion, despair and resignation, without even the barest glimmer of hope. You get the sense that since the moment she stepped foot past the gate, that she has been raped and abused like this, non-stop. Even for you, a personification of sex and lust, that is just wrong. She should at least be enjoying it. But there is something else in her eyes. Something desperate.

It's fear.

But not of you.

For you.

Your blood begins to boil and your breathing becomes hard, but then you cool just as quickly. You understand her concern. But she needn't worry. You are Selas of Lusandar. If these half-goat fuckers think they can hold you here, you'd like to see them do it while being crushed underneath rubble. Straightening your back, you nod to her and walk away, ideas forming in your mind.