The Pelagic Prophet

Generic Generator

What it does: [4C] Communicate (physical) - the creature has a very “hands on” way of communicating

How it looks: [3S] Large (mystical) - tall and imposing, it appears to be some kind of Aquatic beast, and possibly an important one

How significant: [6] Extraordinary - it’s actions may lead Morgause directly to her objective

And what does it have in store for her?

Random Event

What happens: [9C] Command (physical) - it makes its intentions plain physically

_Involving: [8S] _Knowledge (mystical) - it communicates magical knowledge to Morgause

—

A throaty gurgle announces the creature properly, as Morgause turns, taking a few steps back, relieved to find that the water around her is still only ankle deep.

Her eyes grow wide, more with wonderment than alarm, as she inspects the creature looming over her.

It’s far taller than her, perhaps brushing six and a half feet, its skin - no, its scales - purplish and shimmering, and decorated with what appears to be some kind of ceremonial stole. In one webbed hand it grips a staff adorned with the jangling bones of some ancient sea-beast; its face, when she finally looks at it, is harsh and ugly, thin parted lips revealing a hive of sharp teeth, its saucer-like eyes flat and unblinking, ear-like fins sprouting from the sides.

Fishman. Yup. Definitely a Fishman. Manfish?

It steps towards her, but Morgause stands her ground. Despite how grotesque the Fishman may be, she doesn’t see any malice in those pale eyes, or cruel intent in its motions.

Or maybe its intentions are just too inscrutable to appear threatening.

Nevertheless, Morgause feels what may be a sense of awe. This is clearly a creature of great magic, and most likely, significance amongst its kind. Despite her clashes in the past with her Coven, she’s always retained a deep respect for the magical creatures of the world.

She dips her head, the point of her hat bobbing close enough to brush the Fish-Priest’s sternum. It chatters again in its wet, throaty voice, and she feels a slick, damp hand tip her chin up to look at it.

Then it licks her.

Morgause blinks in shock, then feels her body thrum with an alien kind of energy, her face warm and flushed from where the creature has dragged its thick mottled tongue over her chin and cheek.

She suddenly understands that it’s very important she obey and comply with the Being before her, and that she’s honoured to be chosen for whatever it has planned for her.

What it has planned is quickly made apparent, as that webbed hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her firmly to her knees.

The water rises around her thighs, soaking her dress, but she doesn’t care. What she cares about is the way the creature moves, leaning on its staff with a wet sigh, and parting its loincloth to reveal a second, ribbed staff, extending between its legs as it stiffens.

In the back of her mind, Morgause considers whether fellating a ceremonially-garbed Fishman is the wisest course of action. But the thought only last for a second, before she finds her lips wrapped around the creature’s cock, head tipped back as she stares up into its broad, ugly face.

The creature is long, and she absolutely knows there’s only so far she’ll be able to take it, so she raises small pale hands to its pallid member, wrists rolling as she strokes it slowly.

Tall as it is, she’s **** to keep her head back, sucking upward as she glides her lips back and forth, cheeks sucking in and tongue feathering its underside, providing as much pleasure as she can. She knows, somehow, it’s important that she pleases the Priest.

It chatters above her, warbling with a soggy-sounding tone, gazing down at the busy Half-Elf Witch.

Morgause can feel the ribs of its member bumping over her tongue and lips, and leans up on her knees, taking it as deep as she can, passing just over halfway. Head angled as it is, she feels it enter her throat, and gags inspite of herself, a rush of salty, damp scent invading her nostrils. Her eyes begin to water, but she keeps it inside her mouth, hands still stroking and rubbing at the base, sure that the creature is on the brink of something very important.

She pumps faster with both lips and hands, her tongue stuck fast to the ridged underside of the creatures shaft. Her eyes half-close in a mix of exertion and arousal, feeling a warmth spreading out from between her legs at the position she finds herself in.

The creature certainly seems pleased as well, taking full advantage of the busty Witch’s ministrations as its member pulses and throbs against her hard-working tongue, and tight throat.

The Fishman stamps its staff, and with a rattling gasp, seizes Morgause by the hair, forcing itself a few more precious inches into her stuffed throat, shuddering as it begins to pump its pungent seed into her mouth.

For the first time, Morg lets out a muffled groan of discomfort, suddenly extremely aware that, no, this isn’t a vision or the effect of some spell: she really is on her knees in an alien landscape, with a slippery, scaly cock buried in her throat.

She swallows thickly, doing her best to control the flow of seed that pumps into her. And as she does, her vision clouds, reforming after a moment.

She sees herself sat atop an ancient stone throne, carven with waves and writhing tentacles, and the visages of impossibly old Gods of the deep. In place of her hat, she wears a diadem of twisted silver metal, within which is an arresting blue gem.

She is naked, otherwise, and surrounded by courtiers - human and inhuman alike.

As she drinks deep of the Fish-Priest’s load, swallowing it down as understanding dawns on her, the scene changes. Now she stands before the doors to the Sea Temple once more. She speaks a word she cannot hear, in a gurgling voice that is not her own, and the doors open.

The vision ends.

With a heaving gasp, Morgause bolts upright.

The endless sea is gone, as is the Priest. Instead, she is back on the hillside outside Whaler’s Cove: she can see the misty village below her. The same light rain drizzles down upon her, and she huddles under the wide-brim of her hat for a moment, disoriented and confused.

With a shiver, she touches her lips, the scent and taste of the Pelagic Priest still there.