His Soul Begins to Corrupt You

For a moment you linger, as if expecting someone else to take the lead. Things were clear when you were by yourself, but now your shopping adventure has taken on a peculiar twist.

The truth of the matter is... When you were by yourself, you thought it'd be easier to purchase more masculine clothing and to try, no matter how futile, to grow more accustomed to your body without Nealie's constant fussing, primping, and tidying. Now, you feel a similar emotion as when you're around Nealie. Someone is hovering over your shoulder, and you feel as though you should accommodate them... Even more so considering the nature of said persons **** enslavement!

You begin to meander through the streets aimlessly, growing ever more conscious of the pig man plodding behind you. You pass the formal attire, and the grocers. You bumble awkwardly past various art and furnishing vendors. You come to rest at a weapons stall and pick about the items aimlessly. You can feel Mochyn growing impatient, or is that just you?

"Miss." He rumbles

"Yes?" you respond a little too quickly.

"May I ask what it is you intend to purchase."

"Clothing." You state firmly, keeping a stoic face. "I need clothing that isn't so... " You gesture with frustration at your poofy attire. "delicate." You conclude.

Again, you're unsure if the smirk you detect on his face is real, or just the natural curl of his brutish features, or perhaps something else entirely. Perhaps it's something you felt?

"I know such a place." He rumbles, then gestures down a less crowded street. "Miss?"

You gulp dryly, and can't help but shake the sense that his gesture isn't a suggestion. You follow nonetheless, and come upon a proud shopfront with a ceiling ascending high into the spiring building. It's more than enough to accommodate the mountainous Mochyn, and makes you feel positively miniscule. The room is splayed with tables of folded garments, and a dozen and a half mannequins.

"Mochyn!" Declares a sharp, higher voice. "I'd not expected you back so soon. More magic garments of slain nobles to hawk?" He erupts in a cackle that sounds like the rattling of a bag of bones.

"Not this time, Prycop." He chortles. "I come in service of my lady Arvilla."

You keep looking around for the source of the voice, not realizing until a moment too late that Mochyn was in fact staring straight up.

You yelp as a shadow swiftly descends from the center of the spire, landing soundlessly before you. Mochyn wraps an arm around you, and holds you tight, you bury your face into his belly like a child. Peaking out you find yourself before a very tall and slender man. His face is haughty and tight, his hair black, shiny, and chitinous, and his skin is like bleached lavender. He looks as if he's wearing a strange wide crinoline, like what Nealie forces you into. Your heart skips a beat as you correct yourself. That's not the wired frame of a crinoline, but rather 8 shiny black spindly legs arching out from his arachnid torso. The man is a drider, you realize. You'd heard of such a creature, but now, standing before one, you find yourself paralyzed. You feel woozy, and bite your bottom lip as you lean into your beastly protector.

His eyes glance curiously from Mochyn to you. "Lady Arvilla?" He states with a faux respect. "My dear, I'm afraid I have not heard of you, are you new to the Iron City?"

You nod.

"My name it Prycop. It is my pleasure." He states curtly, and with no real sign of pleasure or respect. "I must ponder how one such as Mochyn came to be in your employ"

"Doesn't matter." Mochyn tugs you to the side, and positions himself between you and Prycop. "We are here..." The pig man DOES smirk this time. "For something less delicate for her to wear."