Or communing with ancient powers?

You awaken laying your head on something supremely soft and comfortable.

You turn your head and rub your face in it. It’s definitely skin, soft, warm, and supple to the touch. You breathe in and smell the subtle sweetness of sweat and breathe out easily.

You shuffle closer to this distinctly feminine warmth. You feel an inhumanly soft and warm hand as it gently strokes your cheek, the fingers are small and dainty as they touch you and by God does it feel good. You feel at ease, feeling like you are melting into this flesh.

Finally you open your eyes.

The woman from your dream is there again and you are resting your head on her lap. You look around without raising your head and find that you are still in your room, the streetlights and moon outside your window casting their irregular shadows on the walls. You look up and see her impressive bosom hanging naked over you in the moonlight, her breasts shockingly perky for their size. You lay there a long time, just drinking in the affection as her hand strokes your face and ruffles your hair.

“Am I dreaming?” You after a long time, closing your eyes again.

“Y͇̗̖̥̼͋̽ȅ͕͙̦ͭͬ̿͋s̤̠͓̭̮̰̹͋ͫ́̋ ̙͌̅̐̅̏ͦ̉ͅa͋͋ͮͩͦ̎ṉ̇̂d̹̱̯͎̾ ̥̟̪͋ͩn͙͔͍͔̪̰ͦ͐̉o̬̙̝͖ͮ,” coos a chorus of accented feminine voices in your head.

“Oh,” You say, shocked that you understood the voices garbled as they are, feeling splendid where you lay. Another long moment of silence passes, her hand gently patting your head.

“B̫̘̖͕̘͈ͅu̟̙͉t̻͎̗̞̣ ͙̠̇̑͒y͛o̤̱̘̘̲ͩͨ̑̓̈͋̉u̗͕̇̋͛̿ͫͤ ͙̤̭̣͎̱͔̄ͥ͑ͤͩm̘͓̳͙̰̩̓̈́͐̉̅ṵ̗̭͓̝̜̪ṡ̪̙̦̂̅t̊͛ͫ̾̈́̆̓ ͈͕̰͓͎̟͕ͨ͆ͤ͐̋g̤̞̳͇ͦ͒̇̄ͣͮe̳ͅt̹ ͬ̓̆̾͛ͬ̂ȕ͚̘̙̲͚̭ͩ͗̊͐̇̐p̻̔̌ ̭̒ͯͧ͒̅̉n͔͉̞̗̥͊̇ͣ̂̓ͣ́o͍̟͎̻̭̒̽̓̐͐ͅw͕̞̟̺̤̮̲̋̀͋̀̏̚,” the voices sing in your head, “ŵ̤̠͐͗ͣe̖̳̟̅ͫ͗ͣ̒ ̟̗h̜͚̜̗̬ͮ̊̂ͯͯ̾̚ȃ̺̟̗̼̬͓v̤͔̪̥͎͈̻̅͌ͥ̑ͬͮe̜͎̺̮͌͛ ̺͎̼̖͔̣m͎͕̜ͨͤͭ̉ͮu̟̥̟͗ć͍͙̟͇͉̓ͭ̽ͯh͕͔̙͓̭̺͖͑ ̗̤̘̞͚̙ͥͥ͌tọ̖͈͚̠̱̘̒͐̇ ̪̓͒̍ͣdͥͯͤ͊̅ͦ̚i̥͙͐s̓ͬ̈̇̆̓ͯc̙̭u͗̽͐ͣ̈́s͇̭̫̤̑̿ͮ͂ͅs͙̞ͪ̂̆ͩͮͣ.”

“Sure,” you reply, nuzzling her leg with your chin, too sore and tired to move.

You feel the strange woman shift under you, leaning back and allowing you to sit up.

You sigh and find your body heavy and immovable from her warmth. Your eyes are heavy, fighting sleep.

“Y̱̌͆ͥ̆̄o̎̈̃̔ṵ͇ͬ͂̓ͤ̇ͭ ͖͙͓̤͚c̼̰̜̗̼͕͂́͗a̬̦̫̬̹̹̗ͭn̼͑̒ͥͮn̜͔̙o͓͍̺͈̰t̫̱̰͈̘ͥ͒̏ͪ͑̔̚ ͋̂̀̃ͣd̼̦̻̯͕̟̻͑ô ̂ͦ̈́̆͐ṋ͎̠͒̏ͤ̔a̺̮̟̠̓̑u̯̩͖͙̘̩̒͐̈́ͤg̙͉̣̟͒ͧ̅h͍̳̯̠̫͓̳ͨ̊t̀͊͗̓̄͑̏y͕̓͊͊ͅ ͇̪̟̯̜͋ͅͅt͚̭͓͈͔̮̊h̯̣̪̠̟͖̱ì͔̼̓̎̓͂͐n̞̲͓̖̦̪̪̓͋ͬ͊g͈̯̜̺͛̒̔ŝ̠͐ͦ͊ ̦͚̯̍͒̾̍̅̎̂w̜̤̪̲̳̥͗̂͐̽ͩͨ̅î̲̲̯̯̗ͥͭ̈͌̚t̳̟͈̩̰̠͆͐ͦ̂̀̒ͮĥ̺ ͍̫͓̯̠ͭ̆͒͐̄ȕ̬s͙͋ͥͮ̓̒ ̻̗̺ͣï̪̝̹̼͇͖̔̔̒ͫ̍f̫̮͚̿̽ͦͦͦ̍ ͓̻̦̙̓̓̽ͭͥ͗̽ͅy̤o̤͈͙̍̅ͦ̔͆u͊ͫ̍ ̜̻̟ͨͫ̐ͫͮ̎̅aͪͫ̓ͫ̅r͙͓̖͙ͤ͋̾̆e̗̹̺̱̗͑ ͈̞̖̟͙͉͒ͪͫǎ̪̤̲̯̹͇̩̓̄͊s̗̤̼̳̦̮͂ͥl̗͖̇͋̑̀ͣͬ̿e̼͆͑͛̍e̺͈͖͍ͤ́p͍̖̜͎̺͕̻̆ͨ” the voices giggle. Many images of the woman; under you, riding you, sucking

you, licking you, kissing you, howling your name as you pound her sex flash across your mind.

Your eyes snap open as you sit bolt upright. You come eye to eye with the woman from the dream. You stare, searching her big brown eyes for a long time, not sure what to make of this predicament.

“So, uh,” you say, suddenly feeling painfully awkward about this introduction, “I’m John.”

The woman studies you for a moment, tilting her head to the side.

“What’s your name?” you ask, glancing down at her body and meeting her eyes again. She’s sitting cross legged and stark naked on your bed as if it is the most comfortable thing. There’s a long, pregnant pause between you as she studies you and you study her. You feel a tickle in the back of your head.

“W̮͙̤̭͊́̃e̤̪̎ͤͯ ͇̰͉͚̒͛ͮ͊̍h̭̗̠̗̊̆̅̈́͊͌ͅa̤̼̩͕͖͓͍v̺͂́̈̍ͫ̉ͭė̞͂͋ͣ̌ ̖͙̗̣͎̘̆ͯm̟̳͖ͭa̳̪͌̃n͈̤̼̫̹͌̋ͪ͑y̳̓ ̣n̻̩͚̞͂́̄ͯ̍͆a͓̮͋̀ͭ̃̅̐ͩm̤̞̘̔̃e̱͓̙͋̄ͣ̽̏̓̇s̙͔̙̘͚ͨͬ̊̉̑̇̂ͅ ̬̙̠͍͌̂ḇ̪̗͌͑̒͒̽̓̊ͅŭ̙ͦ̍ͫ͊̏ͬt̥̬͔ͨ̓̔̓̅ ̂̑͊ͪy̰͛͂̇́o̰̰̲͉͕ͦ̓u̫̠̰̓ ̂͛̓ͫ̋̒̚kn̟̯͖͉o͓͚̙̻̦̮͎w̗̦̮̭̚ ̤̘́̉̚n̦̦ͯ͗ͦͧͩȍ̆ͩ̿̄n̼͖̘͕̪͈͐̆ͅḙ͙͓ͣ̾͐̈́͐ o̘̲̬̱̞̳̮ͨf̦͎͓͚ͧ̾ ̗̞͇̖̟̯́ͤt͎̤́̐ͪ̿ͩ̓̚ḥ̱̘̰̗̰̂ͩ̈̃͛ͥe̺̥͖̭̠ͬ́̑ͯͭ́͋m͙̙͇ͯ̊͒̑ͨ͂,” the voices speak in you. Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head again.

“Oh,” you say, “so what should I call you?”

She’s silent for a moment and you feel another tickle in the back of your head. An image of the archives, the wooden box, the figurine, the tag flash across your mind.

“W̘͓̻̜̟ë̜͚̠͍̯̐͆̽ͦ͂̂ ̺̟̻̘̻̩ͥ̒̇̈́̆s̬ͣ͒h͕͍͓̺̋ͪͫͪa̘͖̼̯̓͊͋͗ͨ̋̓l͉̫̜̮̲̝̝̓ͨ͑l̝͓ b̹̖̩͍̥̩̖̌̓e̳̓̈́̐̊͂̐ ͈̲ͧč͔͉̤͇̭̩̳ͭ̀̅a̩̟̠ͨͤ̅̚l͚̤̼̤ͦ́̔́̚l̋̊̆ͩ̽̃e̦̩̺̪͈̗͊ͧ̽̿̉ͮd̯̺̪̣̜ͫ́ͅ ̍̂̓ͥ͗V̜̭̫̔̈͗̓ḙ̘̞̦͐ͮ͗r̞̞͇̀ͬ́ͣň̳ỉ͙̳̯̙͚u̩͍ͅs̥̘͈͈ͨ̎̚ ̦͐͑̂̂f̺̝͚̒̄ͯ̚ŏ̖̤̘ͣͩ͋̐̓ͧr͙̻̅̌̾ ͎̲͎̥͈̗̜̔̄n̳͓͓̩̣͙̳o̖͎̬̜̺͔͗͌̈̔̈͐́w͆,” the heavenly choir finally says.

“How do you do that?” you ask, tapping your head.

“W̻̹̬ͪ̚e̞̻̠̗̊͗ ̯͎͓̼̅͑h͖̱̖͙̹̘̆̈́̑ͨ͆̓a̰̦̘̭̻͚̦v̬̙̫͇ͪͨe̹̐͊―” the voices say in unison before breaking into many,“w̮̤̃̄͂ͭͫī̹̟͎̲ͅt̠͇̗e͇͗͆̒̈̎g͙̜̺̳͌̓̏ͅaͮ͆―” “w̜̜̝̟͈̹̓̄ī̒̊̄s͉̭͍̥̟̗͂̃ͩ͒ͅi̙ͫ̆͂j̺̗͍ͪa͍̲͍͉̜͖͇̓ͪ̆̒͌̃̑n͈͍͎̟͕̣̓̈́ͯ͐͊―” “w̙̙̼̱͎͖̉ī͕͍̟̞̯̗̲͌ͤ̋s̬̻͓̭̺̪ͩͪͤ͗ͨi͎͖̐j͔͖͊ͭͣ̈́͌a͉ͦn̺͔ą̤͊ͬ̃ͥ―” “j̜͕̓ͤͩ̐a͇͔͓͕̠̮̼k̗̣̩̬̥͈͓ͮͮ̓̿̂͌i̥͍͈͚̪n͂̏ͪͨ̆́t͔̯͔̠̳̻͛ͨ͒̍̑s̠̦͕̱͎ͅu̺̣ͧ̌̍―” “ḥ̗͍̼͇͙̽a̞̗͚̙̩̣̿ͭ̽ͅk̼̓̓ͅk̞̟͖̞̦͐̏ͧ͒ͥ̈́́īm̈́ͤ͐ͬ̎͒―”

“e͖̎̉̿ͦ̐̒̓n͉̗͎̗̭͂̓̈̈̂ͥ̄ẃ̪̀̌ͪͪi̭̮sͬ̾eͫ̔̚n̞͚̿̓͑e͍͇̙͍̝̥̪d̜̜―” before harmonizing again, “y̱͂̌͑ͭ͗ͣ̈o̩̠̅̃ͧ͆̈ͧ͛u̼ ̭̙̥̟̱̟̙̔ͩͯͫͬt̹͙͖̮̝ȏ͙̇͛ ̖͙̝̋̎̽̋͒̒ͥu͙̮̯̜͑́͐̌̈́̈s.”

Meanwhile, the woman Vernius looks you in the eyes in the dark and gloom of your room.

“Oh, well, ah, thank you?” You blurt out, surprisingly anxious about this.

She smiles warmly and you feel a touch of relief, a shot of dopamine hitting your brain.

“Your voice, uh, voices are very pretty,” you say with a smile.

“T̹͕̳̠̫͖ͮ͊ͬ̅̚ẖ̚e̪̠̪̝̲̖͖y̜̠͉̬̗ ̺̝̼͒̽ͥ̄ͩ̉̚ȁ͓̭̲̣̖͗̄ͨr͖͓̤̭̯͕͇͊e͚̟̯̤̩̭ͩ̔̂ͥ ͓̠̹͉̦͖̊̃b̜͇̻͚͊̓̓̔ͧ͆ͫͅu̮̦ͮ͆̎ṭ̭̦̜̝͕̫̌ͨ̔ͬ͂̉͑ ͖̑̌̇͂m͚͓͍͔̬͓̏͋̒a͔̠̪̗̜̦̽̃ͪ̌̒ͅn̩̜͎̩̯y͙̔ͦ͂͊,” the choir in your head that is Vernius’s voices replies, apparently quite pleased with your compliment.

“Oh, cool,” you reply. You look her up and down, wondering how to approach the big question that is rolling around in your noggin since this began. “So,” you say, running a hand through your hair, “what are you?”

Vernius smiles, and you feel your senses and mind assaulted all at once.

Images flash across your mind of kings making love to holy priestesses in temples, ritual marriages of mortal men to the daughters of the sun and moon bearing children, and worshiped idols of a blonde motherly figure with a feathered cloak morphing into a robed virgin mother holding an infant. Your ears are full of the sounds of lovemaking and creaking furniture and carnal noises, babies crying, and chanting in a thousand tongues. Your nose is filled with the heady smell of sex, incense, and fresh earth. You taste sweet pussy juices, salty and goopy semen, and the tangy iron of blood on your tongue all at once. And you feel the soft warmth of flesh rubbing all over your body, of your cock balls deep inside a tight wet pussy, and of something kicking inside your stomach all at once. You feel your body out of its own depth, a mortal bucket filled to overflowing by an ocean of sensations.

“Guah‽” you shout, confused and unbalanced by the overstimulation of all your senses. You blink, and you are back in your bedroom, looking at Vernius in the eyes, your heart in your throat pounding away.

She sweetly grins at you, eyes half lidded, breasts slowly rising and falling in the dim light.

“A goddess?” you ask.

Vernius's grin breaks into a smile.

“Oh,” you say, grabbing your aching head, trying to unfrazzle your senses, “ok.”

You blink and look at Vernius again, from her face to her pendulous breasts down to her stomach and then her legs.

Synapses work overtime, pieces being put into place in your head with unseen but certainly felt divine guidance.

“Goddess of,” you say, and pause, hand you your forehead and brow furrowed in thought, “fertility?”

“Y̻e͈̮ͣ̑̓̃͊ṡ̖͕̰̆̆͛̏ͩ̄,” Vernius’s choir-like voices say in you, her soft maternal smile soothing you immensely.

“Ok,” you reply, “wow.” Is about all the surprise that you can muster, your mind still reeling.

“But,” you say, trying to put your thoughts back together, “what?” What do you want from me, you try to say, your suddenly dry lips and throat failing you.

Vernius uncrosses her legs and scoots forwards. She gently takes your hand and places it square in the middle of her chest.

“W̗̰̣̦̹͚͎̃̆ͪe̩̱̬͎̼͕ ̬̙̼̯͔ͧͦͩͦ́̌ͮn̈̀ͥͧ̆̆e̲͎̜ͧ̍̈́e͔̾̅̓d̤̗͖̥͖̞̚ ̅ͥ͐y̪̼̱̘̭̭̐̆o͚̰̠͍̙̅̈ͯ̾u̬̫̼̘̒ͧͬͬ,” her voices sing in you.

“Need me” you breathe hard, nervously, “for what?”

“O͖͔̥̘͕̞͂͋̿ͬͮ̚u̥̪̮͈͙̹̣ͨ̄̔r͓̬̟͙ͯ͆͗̓ ̜̟̥̘̓̈̽ͤ̎̌ͥp̫͚̈ͬ͗ͦ͊o͇͎̞̹̺̲̬ͥ͑̋ͮ̚w͚̜̆̎̒͂̌͗̑e͌̑ͯ̐r̰̦͎̻̻͔͓ ͕̪͉͉ͩͧ̑ͥͭ̈́hͪ̽̆a̓͗ͬ͊̎͗͛s̝̊̊ͤ ͔̈́̂ͦ̅͑ͥ̚g̗͂͋̎ṛ͔͖ͯͮͭ̆o̦̱͋̂ͮͯ̎͒w̰n͙̳̤̳̤̠ͪ̆ͦͯ ̞͎̰̻̹͉̏̏̈ͅw̤̺͕̣̤̮͇̃̊̆e̥͇̦͉̙̬̋̀̐̔a͙̗̱͍ͦ̚k̯͆̈ͯͅ ̑̽oͪ̈̉ͨv̲̦̙̻̲̖̝ͯͮ̒͛̾ͩe͙̜͙̱͉̲ͪ̓ͥ̄ͭr̪̟ ͬ̍m̪͕̰̮i̩͒͛̈̐̊̈l̹̖͉̲͉͐ͤ̄l̄ͦẹ̙̹͓̰̬̦̈ͮ̎ͦn̼̺̠͚ͦ̽ͅn̹͓̭ͩ̓͆͋̓ͭḭ̮̺̫͚͈̪̃̉̇ạ̬̮͖̜̦̞͊,” her voices whine. She gently grabs your arm and pulls you close to her, the heat pouring

off her skin.

“Millennia,” you repeat, staring into her eyes.

“T́ͬ̒̿̉̏hͬͤ̓̿̑e͛ͮͬ̂̌̿ř̻̣̙͊̑ͦ̅̍ͦė̟̳̝̻̫͛̐̌̑̀ͫ ̈ͮ̐̒ar͚̖̯͇̞̗̼ȇ͒̂̑ͣ ̞͎̖̝̱̠̞̂͂ͤn̰͔̰͋̃ô̞̙̘͉ͮ̇ͣ̂n̝͎̗͎͚͙͌̃̒e͎͓ͨ̽̇ ̅ͥ̑͌̌̈́̑l͈̥̦̃̓ͮͩ͗ͯ̃ͅef̘̘̺̘̺̞͌͌̆̃ͥt͉͎͎̗̱̝͍̎̀̇̾̈̓ ͙͉̪̘̖̪ͩ͒ͫ̋̄̀̔w̩̝̲̞h͙̠̦͉̾̎̊ͤ̌ͣo̬̣͈͂ͨ̽ͬ͑ͮ̀ ̞͖̏͐̄͒̔w̻̥͛̆̀͂͌͋́o̰̊̓̅͑r̙̰̐͗̈̓͒̍s͊͒̊ͬ̇ͯ̔h̦͓̣͐̊̓ͅi̝ͧ̽̅̽͑ͥp̰͚ͭ̂͐͐ ̃u͎̟͎͓͑̏ͅŝ͕̇͌ ̲̹͒͋̍̈̚ō̭̦̦ͨͣ̍͌̿r̲̩̭͙̄ͭ ̯͔͆̑ͬ̽͂b̜̳̳͕ͬ̈͋ͥ̉l̻ͦͮͨͨe̲̗̰̲̺̥̗ͣ̌sͨͧͥs̫̻̥͉͎̙̏̈̏͗ͦͤ̆ ̲͌͆̾ͭt̞ͪ̄h̺̼̥̤͉̓ě̻̼͚ͩ͑̀̓i̻̝̣̩̤͂ͧ͊̅r̩̳ͬ͑͒͑ ̱̹̳̙̭͍̾̔̽̈͑c̼̞̓̾̿̉̎ḥ̲̿̓̓͂̏̒i̹͎̞̻̺̝͇͆̒̍́̆͐l̞̜̖̝̊̒ͥ̾̂ͅd̝̳̘͈͕̎ͬͧr̲͇̪̦͔͖̤͑ͪẻ͚͎̲̥͌ͤ̌ͪ̚ṅ͓͔̠̞ͬ́ ́̑͒̈́̉̎̄ạ̟̖̠ͭń͈͕͍̪̫dͫͮ̒̿̍ ͙̝͂ͬ̔c͎̫͕̳r͉̤̜͋̀ͮ̔ͮ̎o̯̱ͧp̮͇̒̌̍ͯ͋s̖̹̜̞̳̩̻ͩ̓ͨ̅ ǐ̞͖̦͍̹̿ͧnͭ͗̄ ͖̠͇̮̣̅̊ͮ̿̾ͥ̆o̻͖̪̭̩̞ͥ̈́ụ̠̠̱̊ͫ̚r̖̙̤͂̎̔ͩ̏ͮ͊ ̱͇͓̹̯̻͖͒̇̈͌n̩͔̹̪̞̫͂ͯͤa̘͔̺̘̹̣̻ͣ̄̃̿m̱͔̠͔̮͚ͨ͗͛͛͊̇̒e͍̠ͧ̔̋ͬ̈̑̓š͈͕̜͗̾̈́.̗̥̟̍̎̏ͅ ̥̟̿̏̒̽̇̿͋I͈̞̘̤̟͛̿͒̓t̲͓͍ ̖ͪ̏̑l͇̹̥͊͐̎ͬͦe̺͎̔͆ͮa̟̮̯̠ṿ̦̪̭̠̤̘̿̀̔e͈̦̭̙̲ͮs̝̤͇̯̲̘̱̆͊̅ ̩̹ͬ̓̏̊u̪̘̗͗s̫̪̟ͫ̿̐ͯͣ ̃f̟̲̗͎̮͒ͣ̐ͣͧ͂ḛ̦̙͓̑ͤͤ̓͐͌͗e̝̟͇̯̿̋ͣͅͅl͒̒̃̊͌̊ḭ͕̹̯̼͔͐̂̚n̼͔̥̯̍͒ͯg̦̯͖̰̜ͅ―” her voices sing in you.

She searches for the word, her eyes flicking down and to the side. You feel suddenly a gnawing pit in your stomach. You feel famished. Starving.

“Guh‽” you cry out and double over in pain, grabbing your stomach with your free hand. And then the pain is gone.

”H̯̯ͧ̈ͬ͌ͬ̓͆ũ̳̮͙̠͖̹̄̈͒̆n̗͕̞͈̥ͮ̚g͚̙̲ṟ͋ͅy,” her voices growl together, “y̆ͮe̥̪̓ͣ͋s̱̣ͭ͗,̲̗̝̻͐̌ ̿̐ͮͪ͒h͉̱͍̏u̜̬͓̣͖n̳̮͓̰̟̊͒ͬͭ͑ͅg͍̹͇̻r̥͓͙̗̖ͫ̌̒ŷ͉̰ͦ̑́ͬ.͈̱̞̰̺̜̆ ̹̣͖̥ͤͫ̆H̘̘̟͊̆̑͊ͬͤṳ͍̖̲͇͇͚n̲̟͇ͯ̃̿̂̀̐ͯg̍ͫ̈́̋͆r͔̰̠͙͎ẏ͐̒.̘̤̗͓̞̟͌ ̠̭̳̱͇̊͒̎̎͒H͍̹ͪ̍ͯ͂̉ͮū͑̔ͯͦͯn͚̪̞̝͈ͯ̔̇̇g̝̎ͫͮ̍̅ͯr̼̦̝͇y.̋͋ͮ́̇ ̮̩̾̂H̬̤̹̝̫͖̉ͅù̪̯͙̝̣̤̊̈̇̿̋n̘̳̻͓͖͎̜͋́͛͛ͫg̜̰͊͋ͫͅͅr͈̞͗̐̔y̳.”

“How,” you say, looking her in the eyes again, seeing hunger and fire in them, “how do I feed you?”

Vernius’s eyes narrow in a predatory smile. You blink, feeling an overwhelming surge of heat and power emanating from where your hand meets Vernius’s flesh. You feel your hairs stand up on end, tensing, and every sense on alert.

Her voices cry out needily all at once, overlapping with each other in your head, “S̉͗͐̀ͦ͊p͎͈̗̑ͤ͋͂̽͌̄a͎̮̮ͦ̃͛͗̆r̥̟̺̩̆͑ͪ͋ͥͨk͙͎̗̣̤ͅ!̙̲ ͍̟̱͕̼̾L̗͙͇͉̣̥̟͗ͨ̿͛̏̄iͬ̊ͧ̏̾̑̈́g̎ͨ̐h̹̐ͫt̗̖ͣ!͙͖͚̹̝̭̄͌̌ͨ̾̀ ̙ͨBǐ̂̇̔r̯̖̯̖̃̏͌̾t͉͓̗h͇̙̫̎̌͂!͉̠̦̤͙͔͙̔ͬ̏ ͕̱̪͉͙͉̖̆͐́ͮWͫ̑̍̎ͬͨo̼͎̺͍͕͙̹ͩ͊̀̿r͇̣͍̗͚s̟͔̟̤̎͗ẖ̭̯́ͩ͌ͨͣ̈́̉i̲͉̝̠͚̐p̥̞̲!͔̬̪ͭ̽̏̄͆ ̪̬̩̹̰ͮͯ̃̔̅S͍̩ͥ͐̍ô͖͙̘ͩ̄͋ͅu͛ͧ́ͬ̃ͦ͒l͚͚̬̯̬̮̓̽ͥ̒!̟̯̣̳̺ͬ͂͛̚ ̙͔L͕̖͚̰̞͂ͪ͗ͅĩ͓́̒̓̚f̥̻͎̖͔̻ͧͬ̓̌ͅe̪̞͇̻̠̐̃͛ͯ͌!͉̝̥ͭ̃̃͐̅͗̚ ̙̹̅̏̚P̭͓̝̪̼̟ͯo͎͔̞͔̼̻͆ͩͫͮ̾w͚̬̪̝̓̑͋͑ͬ́ë̻̹͙̝̻́̇ͯr͈̾ͮ!

ͮ͒̋́̽D͎̰̞̃ͭ̈́ͪ̑e͎͂ͫͦͫ̈͛̚v̼͍̀̓ͦo͕̱͕̟̔t̰ͫi͖͔̫̝̤̭̼ͮ̈̓͆͐ͯ̚o̱̼̻͈̎̆͌̓͋n̘͍ͨͤ̌̅̽̅̿!̞̪̟̝̺̳̟ͬͬ͆ͥͤ ̮͖̈́͌̂S͕̬̠̍̾ͯt͎͖̹̭ͬͤ͛̚ͅr̳̻e̯ͬn͕g̥̗̖̻͓̊̂ͨ̽͐ͧt̬̬̬̟̤̝h̼͚̘̼ͧͤͥ̉ͨ͛ͅ!̣͈̜͈̣̬̻̊̊”

“What?” you gasp, unable to pull your hand away from her skin, her heat, her power.

“G̹̺͖̣͒͂i͗͊v̟̱̆e̥̱̫̼̖͍͕͊̀͑̇ ͓͈̟̠͋ûͦ͌̀̒ŝ̳ ͒̒ͩͩ̂̓s̮̥͕͐͆́ͧ͑̽ͣp̻̤̪͔̘̋a̠̺̺ͦ̄̍ͩr̳͇ͩͧ̌k̺͒̀̂ș͎̱̜̖̫,” you hear her voices groan in unison, each one dripping with sexual energy.

“How―” you say as Vernius advances on you, pressing her voluptuous body against you.

“And how do I do that?” you ask, your hands starting to roam all over her of their own volition, the sensation of her warm and soft skin suddenly magnetic, irresistible.

She flashes you a seductive smile, running her hands up and down your body before cupping your face. You feel an ethereal power coursing through her and into you.

“B͉̗̜͉̪̑̈́ͧͤ͂̆͛r̺̼̱͕ì͔̻͓̥̰̫ͅn̼̠̠̦̎͆ͥͦ͌̄́g̲̦̞̯̝̻̬̃͒ͭͩ͒ ̠̒͊f̝̣͖ͮ̉̑͊̉̿̚o̳͍̾ͩ͆r̔͒̆̇̌̐t͚ͭ̉̽h̹̞͍ͮ̐̇͒ͪͣ͂ ͔̳̲̘͚̜̌̾͛͊́n̳̘̠̙ͫ͋̐ẻ͓̮̮͙͈͐w̞ ̣͖̦͙̥̠͛͛̇̓ͮ̃l̙͗ͯ̄͌i̼̻̻͒ͬ́f̺̉̆e̞̅ͨ̄ͥ͆,” her voices sing as she brings her lips to meet yours.

You gasp, your senses suddenly telling you that you are falling through nothing.

Then you are on top of a nubile priestess in a temple bed lit by candle light, pinning her down as you release your seed deep inside her with a powerful grunt. You feel a tickle in the back of your head and look down, the priestess’s face and body seeming to flash between many different women all at once. Strangers at first, then childhood crushes and girls from school, and then you blink and it’s Marcy and then Alice under you, milking your cock, their faces contorted in ecstasy as your semen fills their womb again and again―

“B̥͈̪͔̜̹̤̑̄r̖̻͔͈̐ỉ̑̃̈́͛͐̂n͈̭̦̘̖͔͕͌͛ͥ͑ͤͬ̚ǧ̜̆̂̎ͯ ̽̚f̩̦͕ͮͫ͛̎͌ͬ̂o͉̤̅̋ͥrͦ͑͒̐̉t͔̖͊h̦̟ͧ̓̓ͣ̿ ̘̞̫̼̪̞ͭ̒̒ͬͭn̘͓̙̯̂ͥ̆̑ͅḛ̙̥̇̋ͮ̐ͮ̈w͎̞̜ͅ ̰̮l̯̬̋i̩̠̙̯̙̺͆̉fͤ̄̾̏̂̉e̬̙͉̘̱̱̠̊̆͗ͨͥͨ,̰͔͈̖͔̏̈ ̬ͦͩͦ͒̔͐̓n̮̻̿͊͐͛͒e͆͗ͨ̒̍̂̐w̮ ̼̝̯̊̏̓̏ͭͧ̄s̹̗̬͈͙̞̹p̱ạ̝͉̬͓͔͈ͣṙ̑ͪk͚̠͇̮̖̀̄ͨͤͅs̿̍̈ͦ̔̋̇,̯̲͈̮̼ͬ͂̔ͬ͋ͫ̑ ̟̳͆̽ͬ͆ͯǐ̝̯̳ͬ͛ͫ̆n̹͚̱̫̣̻ͪ̎̀ͮ͋ͧ̐t̙̅͌̄̿͛ͣ͑ȍ̳̔ͫ̅̍ͬ̚ ̮͍̭̓ͦͨ͛ṭ͉̪̼̩͇h̹̋̀̓í̟͖̳̠̲̊̐͛s̑̌̃̾ ̩̣̣̾w͓̲̱̩̲̥oͥ̉ͦ̚̚r̅l̰̺̭̤̐ͣd͌ͫ̑̀̿” Vernius’s choir sings in your ears, “a̭͚̻̜̯ͯ̑͋̍̍n̮ͣ̆̑͂d̲̞̲̈ ̰̖̺̱̖͍ͫ̈ͧ̐wͭe̯̱̘̻͓ͩ͌̏̆ ͙͉̞̬̪̋ͫẉͨ́͂i͇̖̟̫͙̯l̙̳̼̣̦̻̅̊̃̔̂̚̚l̠̜ ̩͉̜͓̬̏̄ͧ̃ͩͧs̯̟ͣ̋ͬ͛e͉͍̱̬̠͓͊͛͛̈́̒͋̈́ẻ̗̇̚ ̺̜͚͉t͕h̦͚͓̙͔̱͐ͩ̈̌ͯa̰̩̙̖͗̂̆ͩ̊͌t̯͙̪̞̳̋̂̅ ̏͂a̠̅͑ͩ̄̆l̪͇̹l̗̤͙̪̲ͧ̽̈́ ̺͔̖̪̏̿̿ͨ̄͋̊ṫ̬͇̜͆͗ͧ́̑h̻ͧͯ̓̏̈̚o̗̾ͤ̇s̜̃͑̒͆͐ͨ͑ͅȇ̟̱̥̬ͮͦ̇͒ͭ ̘̖̼̝w̦ͅhͩo̓̅ͨ ͉̯̞̲̞̻̬ͥͦb̜͑̋̎ͫe̺̳̝͐a̲̻̿̐͛ͅr̗̙͇͇̪͙̈́̿ ̰̩͎̮̟͎ͪ̒͑̉ͩ̅ṭ͚̳͉͔̙͛ḧ͈̎̀ͣe̪͇̬̝͋ͦ̋

̈s͇̺͑ͭ̑͊̓ͨ̃p͖͈̻ͦ̅̈͌̐a͍̰̣̼̤̍̍̽́͆͗r͚̣̻̣̳͛̇ͧ͛̄͋ͦk̺͔̜͖̝̼̅͐̊s̭̬̪̣̗͋͒ͫ ̼̼͈̝̔̀͑̓͒̔a̻̩͙̝̩̲̬̔ͯ͒r̙͉̆̔͐̏͂ͥ͑e̯̼̮̫͎̦̒̉ ͈̓͑̋s̱͍̗̲̐ͨ̈̓a͚̮̒f̗͑̿̍e̘̘̥̾͑̓ͭ̏͋ ̥͇͇̹̺̬͉f̞̰͉ͬ͐ͅr̗̱̭̹͍̞ͥͧ̐̂ͪͤ̊o̩̝̳ͪ͌͂ͪͤm̳̦̝̘̎͒̍ͪ ͊͗h̯͍̠̤ͨ̈̈ā̯̮̝̺̲̻̬̂̓r̓̾ͣͯ͒m͌͛ͪ̄́̒̚,͎͎̟̣̝͈̊͊ ̩̻̤̳d̬̲̫̲̠͍̓i̍s̙e̦̳͌ͥ͊a͓̓̏͛̌͛s͍̖͉̤̼̣ͩͮ͆͛ͥͅȅ̯͓͚̜̑͗ͪ,̫̝̺̼ͦ̒͒ ̦͉̺̼̙̬̦͐̑̒͋̀̈̏o͎̣ȑ͎̜̯͖̠̻̪̒ ͈̰̻͔͙͎̯̇̀̈́p̭͈̟̳a̪̣̠̳i̭̠ͧṉ̟̹̼͙͎̙̑͛ͥ ̪̗̙̞a̱̍̉ͮn̼͎͈̟̳͕d͍̼̤ͫ͑͌̔ͫ ̻̳̟̼͓̲̍ͧ̊ͬw̖̦̍̌ͮ̚ͅi͍̪̲̠̗ͪ͒̄̆ḷ͉̪̭͓̤͛́̓͐ͪͅl̀͒̍͐ͥ̾ ͎̦͇̖͉͕̃̌̈́ͅk̄̇͊ͬͥ̆n̝̯̱̱̹͂̆̋ͯ̚ͅö͉̱͇̫̺̗́͐̔̚ͅw̖̫͎̺̣̻̰ ̩ͬͩͮ̿́p̳͎̥̞̖ͦ̓l̳̉̐̄̚e͓̬͎̠̳͕ͥ̊ȁ̜̯̖̗̓ͮs̲͍͓ͦͤ̈́͛ͮu̱̠̗̬̟̒́̒r͉̝͔e͉͉̳̊͂̿ͮ́ͅ ͍̘̘̗̝̦̯̉͛̏fͫo̬̰͖ͫ̐r̬͈͕̭̲͖̆̐ ̬͙̥̹̺̽͂t̖̠̺̮͕̯ͥͥ͐ͯ̓̿h̫͔͊ͫ̿̉e̥͉͆̂̽ͣ̚ì̜̝͙̪̔r̪̳̼̼̼̟ ͖̦ͫạ̥̗͇͗͗̋s̻̟̟͈̻̖͓͊̈́̽̃͒̓sͤ͛̂ͥͬ̓́i͍͈̲ͬ͊s͇̹̘̝̼t̠͓̯̝͇̀a̺͎̦͇̪̗ͮ̈̂̏̿ͦ̑n͎ͦͮͮ̆̊c̗̤͎͒̒ͪ̍ͅḛ̖̤̒͂͑.”

You tense and suddenly you feel like you’re falling again before catching yourself.

Then you feel thin silk robes upon you, surrounded by a crowd of faceless people in revelry dancing and eating. You look and see the daughters of the sun and moon sitting to either side of you looking up to you as their new brother-husband in imitation of the gods, ready for your marriage to be consummated once the sun has set. You blink again and suddenly it is the faces of Kathrine and Louise looking up to you, the contours of their bodies hardly hidden by their thin robes of gossamer and silk and a unmistakable hunger in their eyes, looking up at you as their new―

“H̻a̩v̯͚ͪ̃ë͓̖́ ̘̟̜̩ͯ̏̍̔̉̈́n̮ͤͥ̓͆͂̔o̜̗̦̰͉̐̽ ͙̼̫̊̑̇f͒͑e͇̼̟͓͆̏̇̽̆ä̖̬̺͔͓́r̻̣͇͔͈͙ͫͨ̀ͮ̈́̎̅,̰̝̹̰̟̼̳͒͛̐̑̂̚ ̳̪̘̀ẏ̪͓̫o͎̮̗͈̔̑͂͌̂ȕ̗̥͙̬͈̫̤̀r̓̄ͥ ͍ͯͣk̦͖̝ͮ͑̋͑ì̝͎̿͌n͙̮̗̔͌ ̙̌̂ͩw̪̯ͣͭ̾̉i̮̼̟̠̞͊̂ͪ́͂͐ͨl͓̜̺̟̘̘͒̂̄̋̀̍l̺ͯ̌ͥ̌̊ͦ ͎͈̣ͅä̮̇̒l̦͔̜̹̄ͧ̒̊̋ͦl̗͚̱̘̣̂ͪ̈ͥ̐̅ ̲̮̬ͪ̓̃͊͊ͯb͚̬͈̼̩ͬ̋̊e̹̤̯̱̻̒̓̊ ͓̬̮̗͇̮͑̾̉ͫ͑f̲͈̱͓ͦ̎͐ͦė͙͉͗̈͊̔ṙ͍̔t̖̳͈̟̎̈́̑ͯ͐͊i͈̋ͯͨḷ̬̹̯̜͐é̌ͥ̈́ͩ͌,” her choir moans in unison, “ŝ̮̳͈̮̺͂ͬͮ̏o͉̝̼̜̓̄͂ ̩̺̘͎̣̥̉̔tĥ̩̗͚̲̖̿ͩ͋̊̽a̤͎̦̭͕ṯ͕̩̖͌ͥ ̹̝͒́͂t̺̣̘͎̰͇̒̓ͥ̾́̊ͅh́̏ͨ̓ͮe̞͍̭̟̘ͬ̽̃̂͊̋ẏ̖̲̖̭̳͙͊̑̂ͬ̈́̏ ̩̗͋̄̎ͬ̐ͦt͚̲͓̘̱̔͑ͥo̦̽ͭo ̠̺͕̘̰̟͊w̌͆͗̔̊̾i͒͆̒̇͒l̊͂͑l̰̦̏̉ͧ ̺͙̯̳͗͐ͧͯ̀̓m̯̫̜̏̀a͓̫̥̟͎͙ͫ̄̃͗͂̓k͔ͬe̳̹̭̖̝̤ͩ͆͋͗ ̣̘̞͎͇̲̔ͦ̔ͭ̍ḟ̩̮̠̜̹͓̜ȍͣ̆͋́̋ͭṛ͙̙̥̘͉̖͋ ͉͕̦͙͖̠̰ū̐ͮͫͫ̏s͇̭̗̝͎̮ͩ̾͆ͯ ͈͓͚͆̋̇s͎̫͇̹̩p̼̙͙̗̊͗̇̊̏ͨͪa̭̰͍̪̲͚̬̔̔̇ͫr͖̯͗ͫ͋̅ͣ̈k̤̻̟̜̠s͙̻̍̊̚ͅ,̺̜̣̲͉͕̓͋̋̚ ̗͎̊t͚͉̊ͨ̂o ̱ͥ̿̅̆̃̇b̻̟͕̞͈̟̫̓͂ͫ́͌̃ͬe̖̖̩͔̪̲̦̋ͦͫ̈́ͪͫ̅ ̠̝̖̞ͤ͆̌f͇̟̞̖͑͑͆̾rͨ͌̅͛ͯͥu̼̙̼̫͇̲̼ͯ̽͛ȋ̪̟t͔̯͓̤̒̾̂̔ͩ͊̚fͨṷ͕̆ḽ̃̅́ͅ ̜̪͕̗͙̩͒a̖̘͛͗͆n̘͇͉̣̱̞̣̑ͤ̓̽d̜̗̟̹̪̺̥ͦͫ̏̓

̜͔̼͖̰̩ͫͧ̆͐̈́͛̇m͖͚̻͓ͭ̍ͧ͋̈́ͯũ͐̈̾ͪl̟̦̦̬̰̘ͧͥ͂̑̎t͙̳̜̳̎͆̋̽͌̃ȋ̖̱̳̓̇̄p̳̭̲̤̱͊̑ͭl̮̗͊̑ͥ͋̐y͕̗̟͓͖̹͋ͨͨ́̽̋̚.͍̎̅ͣ ͖̣̺̪ͨͪ̓ͮ̓̀Y̟̫͍̓ỏ̿ͭ̃͂̚u̘͎͖̝̽̉̄̚̚ṛ̙̻̬͎̹̩ͦ̍ ̺̬̺̽̏̍̃b̮̳̙̖͕̟̏o͕̠͍͎͕̥̯̅̃d̥̹̞̦̬̈́̃̈́̔̋̐̄y̦ͮ̆̿̓͂ͩ ͚̖̩̩̝͇͍s̩͚̲͓̩͖̞ͮͮͯͧ͑̋ḧ̬̬̥͚͉́ͨ̾ͮͭ̓a̼̙̞̫̞͉̼̓ͨͨḻ̜̙̭̣̍́̋̄ͪ̌ͅĺ̪̣̝̗͎ ̙̹͍͆ͫb̻̹͍̩̫̞̋̔e̯̟̘͖ͭͨͥ̂̑̅̇ ̖̟̗̅ͤ̀m̼̯͌͒a̝̲̭̗̲̼̎̋̀͋̀d̪͈͓̮̏ͣͯe̻̹̿̓́ ̮͙͖̫͕̦͗o̞̹̟ͬ̌͋̉̓͗̋ů͈̖̂̉ͣ̌r̦̱̈́ͩ ̱̯̗̰̪̟̱ͤ͋̆̐̒͑̇t͉͉͓̘̬̱̞e͉͓̎m̺̘͈̗̥͚̿͐̂ͅp̳̥̥̮͙̫̆̓̄̃ͮͩl̠̼͙ͩͧ̚̚e͐̄,͈̪̣̹͚͍̣̅́̉͆ ̮̜̔ͫ͆̿ͥ͐y͖͚̩̩̏̅̈́̓̔ͨͅo͈͒̀͂̚uͥ̒́ͯ̿͑̀r̟͑̔̎ ͔͇̲̖̟̻̟̅ͫ̍ŝͨ͒ͯe̹͕̺̭ͪ̆͗ͣͦ̑ͮḙ̙̈d̫͎̳̮͍̝̤̾ ̓͂̓ͧm̔̋ͥ̀̒ȁ̯̫̯̬̜̜̊̈͊d̫̯̥̰̪ͤ̎ͦͦ̈̚e̪͌͆̾͛̏ͮ͛ ̗̙͗̿̌ǎ̬̏m̭̯̜͓͈ͤ̒̐̍̀ͧḇ̬̗̯̜̈̿r̫̬̲͕̲̥ͤͭ͋͋̍ͥ̐o̭̞̣ͧ̀ͪ̽̉̅s̳̻ͥͪ̎́̑i̓́͂̉̈́̈͑a̼̭͖̘̖͈ͩͮ̓̏ͭ̌l̼͙̟̬͖͎̂̀͐ͨͭ ̱̦̗͙̤ͬ̈a̩̭̳͔̲̝̞͛̄͆̏̓n̳̾̋ͩ͆̋̍̚ď̳͍͍ͭ̋ ̦̬̦̱̜̪̉ͮ̏̃̽̈́ͅv̱͍ͨ́ȋ͓͉̫̬̘̦̩͌͊r͓̞͎̣̱̼̈̉̽̌ï͈̻̼̈́ͨ̂l̫̖ͧͯ͌̂e̩̗̩̤͓͍͕̎ͯ͒, ̟̯͕̲̼̫͂̍ͣ̊ỳ̗̔̾̽̚o͓̞͓̦̽͂̊̑u̥̒ͧ͌ͯ̍̋͂r̯̪͆ͮ͛̌̊ ̣̂̅͆m̰̜̫̠̺ͧ͂͋̅u͕̟͉͗ͪ̑̓͐s̓ͨk̲̑͐̽̓̅̈͋ ̹̦̗͔͊a̩̭ͬ͐̾͊͛n̮̬̱͓̜̋̓̓ͅ ̙̘͕̲̳̬̼a̩̎͗̒̎ͩp͔̟̌ͭͨh͈͕̏̒͂̏ͪ͆͆r̼̗̩͓̯͓̤̿͊͑ö͉͖̦́̇͛̿̿̂ͯd̖̖̳̲̼͌͛̐̽͌ͪ͋ȋ̪͈̘͎͙sͨ̐ͨͫ͊i͇͎̱̗̹͍̰̿ͤͩͬ̚aͥ̑̃c̃̒͆ ͆̓̽̓̂t̥̲̭͚̩ͪ̐̑̆o̱̣̥̳͔̖̳ ̥͓̭ͭt͖̣̺̳̦̞̻͒h̹͗͒ͫͣe͙ͨͬ́͊̂ ̥̲̲̹̝ͩ͑͗ṗ̺̪͖͈͛ͣͥͣͮu̝̪̬̘͆̽ͤͦ̚r͍̯͔ẹ̰ͥͨͪ̐̈ͭ,̩͎̮̥͆ ͕̹̹͈̙͈̻͛ä̺͔̮̳̝̼͉ͣ̓͌̀n̖̰̱̹̗̘ͣͦͪ̍͊͆d͎

̈ͮ̍ͮ̋ͧ̚y̹͔̻̪̣̬͋ͦ͌o̙̻̪͚u̳̩̼̻̯̤̇̐͛̅͊̂̿r̺͙͎̜ ̞͉̠̙̅ͩͦͨ̉c̬̭̰̙̈̎̓͆̓ͫ̂o͍ͫ̿ͫm̭̻͉̗̉ͩ͊̓ͧm̙͇̱͕̤̜̮ͪ̑ạ͍̯͕̖̻̑͑̉̈́̿̍ͨn̥̻̞̈ͨͯds̮͛̉ ̬̭̖͎͇̄̓t̮̙̼͎hͪ̀͌̿e̯̲ͦ͒̄́̇ͫͯi̹̲̎ͅr̥̍͌̇ͫͫͪͧ ̣̼̫̄ͥ͌̈́l̪̙̼̟̖͛̽̀̐͆̓ả̱̭̤̯̱̲̯͂̓̏̔̐̚w̺̞ͥ.͍͍̠́ͤ̑́̑”

You feel yourself recoiling in shock, and you are falling again.

Then you are at the head of a long table, head heavy with a crown, and looking down over a feasting hall made of stone and wood, a young woman under each arm with several more serving food and drink to what you gather is your guests. You look at each woman in turn and feel a tickle in the back of your head. You know that every one of them has spent nights under you, loving you and being loved in return. You look to the other end of the table and another woman, a tall and beautiful warrior queen, meets your gaze with a knowing smirk, triggering another tickle in your mind. Then they are suddenly all the familiar and unfamiliar women that you see in your daily life flickering in front of you.

“Ď̬͓̟̟ͅo͓̻̣̮̬ͦ̽̌̐ ̥ͥ͌ͥ͆͆̾̚t̘̬̗ͪͣh͎̠̪̬͙̮̑̽͗̍̾̚is̝͓̙̣͔͚ͭ̅͋͊ͩ̾̐ ̥̼͖ͣ̈́̄ͣ̎̉ͪa̰̦̣̥ͧ̿̊̍̍ͩs̪̮͗ͯ̓̈̌ͭͅ ̬̒ͤͣ̐ś͇͉̖ͨo͚͎̭͙̠̭͓o̜̟͊ͥn͙͉͒̾͋ͩ̓ͮ ̻̪̳̳̓ả̦̖̮̣̾̆n̰̤ͬ̈͂ͪ̀ͯ̚d͎̦͓̱ͭ͛ͣ ̬̘͍̝̬͂̔ͩf͈̪̲̜̿͐̿͗ͫř͙̯̬̜̓̈̈̇̅e̞ͣq̻͈͓͇̦͍̞̆̓ͤu̬͕̜̺͍̯͍ͤͪ̔̎ͧ̋e̲̓ͨ͗̃ͮ̔n͋͊͑ͯ̋ͯ͂t̲͕̭͚̑͑̋̐ͥ̋ͅl͙̔̈́͛̅y̲͎͈̜̙͂ͪ͐͒̑̇ ̗̯̣͉̟̌̔͑ǎ̻̥̫̗̼̞̊ͫ̃ͯ͌͛s̘͕ͦ̌ͪ̂̔̉ ͇ͩ͛̔̇ͣ͋ͩy̾̐̀ͥ̇ͩoͨ̈̑͗̊u̟̰͙͒̾ͧ̉ͧ̑̇ ͍̞́͆ͦ̇͂͆ć̖̯̯͕͇̊̄ͅa̗̺̒n͇̣̼̗͗̒͆͌̈́ͤ ̱f̞͖̉ͥ̇o͒r͇ͪͪ̃ͨ ̜̜̘͓̲͚͙̑ͮ͗̍͌̓̍w̳̰̝̘̱̭͗̈̇͗̄ͦͫe̘̰͔ ̙̻̬̝͛̑̍͐ͅȁ̏ͭͮ͒͌r͎̾ͭͥͣͮ̎ȇ͕̹̬̌́ͯ̉̍̅ ̲͎͍̹̏t̗̉̓ͥͭͭͨr͙̟̯̖̾̀̃ũ̄ͪl͔̅̃y̗̠ͦ̀̔ͯ̇ ͎̻̰̱̀ͤ͋ͩ̈́f̂ͮ͗ͩạ̭͉̦̰ͧ͒̿ṁ͚̖̠̙͑ͧͯͨì̙͔͚͕̦̺s̬̟̲ĥ͙̫ͫ̆̂̉ͥe̝̱̦̒ͬ͊̾̆d̲̓̊̿ͬ,” Vernius’s choir moans in unison as you look around, disoriented

by their many pleading faces, “a͎̞̲͙͚̣ň̺̳̱͕̱ͦͤ̈͂̚d͚̪̻͙̳̗̪ͥ̆̄ ̭͋ͧ̉̿k̞̪̹̤̖͖̇̒̋͊̄n̰͚̦̤̖͖̮ͪo͖͈̝͆͆̍ͩ̂ẁ͋́̈́ͫ ̻̫t͎͈͓ͮ͆ͅh̳̠̲̹̪̦ͨ̔̀̽͗͆ḁ̊ͥ̾t̼̹ͣ̇ͅ ̼͍̝̋ͣ̾̍̄̋̌i͎͔̼͉̖͛̽̀ͭ̌̅̄t͓̬̺̲̪͓̫̉͊ͭ̆ͧ ͉͚̱̞͙͔̝̇̍w̬̼͔̣̱̩i̍͛lḷ̙̖̙ b̹̺̥̮ͤ̈̌̄̾̍ͭḙ̎͆̌͐̑̍ ͩ͊ͦ̓aͨͧn̟͕͉̰ ̖̰̉ͮ̌̃̿̐̓h͓͔̼ͪo̤̤͐ͬͭ͑̌n͚̹̹̞̤̟̣͛ͯ̓̊̎ó͗̅̓r̰̞̤̬̂̽͑ͨ̓ͨ ͓̃͂̽͋f̖̲͕̋ͨ͛̓̑ͪŏ̭̺̤̳ͣͪr͈̻͍͈̤ͤ͒̚ ̰ͭ̑̆͗ť͓̹̗̦̬̦͙̓ͪ͂h̠̮̼̱ͤ͂̽̇̀e̹̗̭̦̝̮̫̾i̍͂ͥr̹̣͉̺̝̯͐ͩͥ̇̓̚ ̱̞́̄͋̄̿ͅw̲͓͉͈͕̞ͫ͆̉͗ͥ̉ͅo̲̤̗͇͍͇͒͂m̜̪̺̪ͯ̓̈́b̦̥̱̙̳̟̍s͈̙͍͓̫͋͂ͥ̂̑̀̀ ̦̙͌t̙ͬ̔̃̽͛̈̚ŏ̋̃̏́ ͔̪̪͙̲͒̈́̽̿ͮb͇͍̗̮͗̈́̎̿ͣͪ̍ͅë́̀̿a̖̥͈͎͙̳̫̋͗r̳̗͍͇ f͓̹̰̙͚̦́́rͭ͆ͮ͆u̒ͩͨ̋͒̑ͩi͓͙̍ͨ͐ͥt̹̻͈͇̾͋̎ͤͤ͊ f͚̹̑̿ͪ͂ȯ̳̪̍̋ͣ͊r͔͈̖͔̓ ̖̯̞̻́̑ͤͅu͓͎̲̩̇̐s̺̟͇͇̥̳̤ ̖ͭͦ̏̔͗̑̂a͇̰̭ͭs̎̾̈͂̔̎ ̞ͯͯ̔͂̏̓t͍͓̩ͣͩ͆͆ͪ̌h͍̼̼͎̮͇͚ͮ͑ͫ̇́ȅ̦̏͐ͨ͊̇ͤi̹͔̯ͥ͊̋̂̇̍̿r̖̹̔̋̇͑ͦ͒ͧ ͓̻̘̖̼̺̩͊͒å͚̰̪͇̯̒̆ͤͪn̞̯̜̙͇̲̯ͤ̇̚c̲̝̝̦͕̎͋e̤̫̲͖̻̔s̿̿͑ͧṯő͇̙̝̰̹̞̀̈r̰̞̬͚͓̹̀̉̌͑̈́ͪ̊ͅs̞̭̺̞͖̣͐ͅ ̞̤̳͔͇̥͌͌͗̓̂on͍̫̿ć̪̪̺͉̗̣̮ͦe̳̪̗̠̟͔̹ͬ̃ͯ̉ ̗̼̠̰͉͙ͩ̈́̈̂d̖̩̞̻͉̳̤͛ḭ͍̞͔̫ͯ͂̓͛̌̿d̩̹ͯ.͆̀ͥ̆ͦ̔̈ ̓̊̌̂̿A̯̬͙̘͊̈́̓́̓nͭͣ̓ḍ̯̼̦̲̫͖̾ ̳̭ͨ̔̎̄

y̮̾ͭ̅͆͒̓̿ọ͒ͣ͗͑u̬̟ **w͈͇̭̤͍̍͑ͭi͖̬͙̇ͣͩͯl̳͓̎̓͋̿̓̌̉l̺̺̟͈̐͑̃̿ͅͅ ͇̗̗̱͓̹̬̔̌̽͊r̬͕͈͑̉ͮͧͅe͎͓̰̬̜͆͒͐͛ͣͅc̲̳̟̬̜ͅe͉̺̻͔͍̋ͪ͒̿̒i̽v͉͍̖̱̺̊ͧ͑̽̒͗͆ͅè̩̥ͦ̈ͨ ͪy̱͉̺̜̦̦͗͗̌̓̋ͧo͖̍ur͎̱̟̠̪̮ͣͥ͑̽ͬ̚ ͉͍̣̲͋͂̐̄̍̔͗ͅĵ͇̲͋̃͐̊͆ṳs̠̗̠̰͆̔̓ͅt̺͙͐͛ ̣̳̠̳̞͂̐ͭ͌̅̓ͧr̖͇̠͖͎͒e̗̐ͩ̒ͮ͊ͪ̇ͅw͕͕ͭͫͭ̎́ǎ̹͈̭̮̙͔͉r͚͑͂̏̿͛̒d̘̘̒͒̈͐̍̓̚s̠̈́ ͚̾ͭ̊͐͌̽͂f́͑ͪͥͦ͐ͅo̞͍̙̬̣̦̖͆r̉̅̀̑ ̻̱̞̺͕͇͉̇ͩ͋̇̏͐̚a̞̲͍͖̳̰͙̋ͭͤí̦̫̻͚̗̔͆̒͑̑̊ḋ̬͚̱̜͉̹̓̈́ͧ̈́i͚̊ͧn̘͉̟̆͆g̩̝͍͙͉̖̠̈́̉͑ ͋̈̎͂̾̾͆û͎̼͛ŝ̳͂̇̿̆͛,ͧ̉̓ ̯̬̭̙̼o͕̯̫͖͇ͦ̏ͅű͔̱̮͍̙͇̃̿ͥȓ̞̝̱̪̿̃̑̿̎ ̼̮̻̠͎̙̬͂̚c͍̣͔̮̈́ͫh͚͍͇͖̘̻̺̒̔̀̌ͬ͗̊a͓̽̋͑̿m͔̲̝̾p̗̟̙̻͉̼̗ͦ͊̄̿̌ͫi͚̼͍̫͇̱ȍ͕̲̠͚̓̈́͌ͅn̥̥̯͚̰**.”

Then you are falling again before suddenly you are back on your bed, Vernius crawling into your lap, her touch is otherworldly power and human pleasure in equal measure.

“So make babies?” you gasp, involuntary grabbing Vernius around her waist for stability against that awful disorienting feeling of falling through nothing.

“Ḧ͚́ű̝̣̝̜̰̠̫̍̀͐m̲̦̰̗͍͔̈́ͬ͐ͪm͓͉̺̹̼͛ͬͩͅm̘̼̄ͮͭ,” Vernius’s choir of voices whines as she rubs herself against you lustfully, nodding in agreement. You feel her nipples harden against your chest, your member snapping to life and your whole body suddenly feeling very hot and bothered.

“B̜̘̲͖̘ͯͥ̂͊ͣͮu͕̻̦͆̃t,” her voices says as the corner of her mouth curl down into a frown, “k̦̘͖͇̒ͯ̿ͧ̉n̪̮̝ͦo̠̍̓ẘ͔͙̲̊̽͒ͨ͒ ̪̰̹̝̭̘̙̏ͨ̋͆w̳̠͎͕̟̟͂̑͛͆ͩ̚ͅē̠̟̠l̠l̟͔͎̲͑͐͐ͣͅͅ ̬̘̻͓̟͂͑̈͐t͕͔̠̟̜ͩ͑ͩ̀͛h̺̯̫a͎̰̞t̪͙͍͓̬͂͛̊ͅ ̪̰̹͈̩ͣ̾w̬̥͉̽ͬ̚e̪ͦ̅̓͋ͩ ̱ͮͥ̄ͨͫ̔̚ͅa̘̹̭̓r̞̬ͧ̿̊͐ē̻̠̘̲̭̳̰ͥ ͙͇̐ͪ̿̇ͨ͆c̱̥̟̘̞̘̙̃a͇͑ͤͬͪͦͥp̠͎̘̖ͭͮ̌̈́̎aͦ̓̇̓ͦͣͣblͯ̅ͨ͐ͬ̇̚e̍ ȍ̖̥͍͉ͯ̆̌͆ͣ̅ͅf̩̘̳̈ ̼̰͚̫ͦ͂̏̚ͅc̳̥͚̩̯̤̏̍ͭr̎ͯͬǘ̍ͤ̚e͙̥͈̠̜̯̊l̪̯̥̦͉̟̆̓t̥̭̖̹̳͛ỵ͔͉ ̲̜̃ͪͬ͐t̪͓̲̤̯̎ͩ̈́̎ͯo͂̚o̯̠̱̯̺͆͛͌ͪ͑,̗̖̹̺̺̏͐̈́̆̿ͨ͌ ͔̝͇͉̝͉͓̋ͮ͂͋̋̾̐i͇̙͓ͣ̑ͥf̱̣̙͚̤̣ ̫͓̘y̭̖̟̤̲ͬ͒̄͛ö̠́̍̊u̗͐ͩ̈͂ ̣̞͈̘͈̲ͨ͒d͇̍͒ͭ̅ͩọ̰̤̪̦̇͌̽̔͑ ̥̥͒n͐̆̔ͬō̰͙̤̗̫̠̬͂̃͗̂ͤtͩ̓̈̍̌̃̊

̖̹̐̃u̲̙̅̽̏̾̌̔̉ͅn̬͔͕̄ͪd͔̖e̓ͯ̃͛r̾̓̐sͬ͗̅̓ṭ̟̳̝͔̩͍ͮͩ̆ä́͊̃͊̔̊̿n̹̤̠̭͇̻̪̒̽͆̉d̼̭̖͚̪̺̬ͧͮ̄͒ ͎͕̖ͮ͆̓ͮͧ̐̓y͖̫͎̼͙̳̭̆ͥ̌̉͋̌ͦo̗u̳̭̲̞̙ͤ̅̒r̘̞͓̅ ̟̗ͥ͌͒̎p̣̘̲̮̉l̪̜̥͇͙̹̽ͩ͛̐a͈̻̠̯̳̳̎͐ce̗̭̒̐̇̽.”

You smell ozone again for a moment and it is gone. Even after it is gone, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, even as Vernius smiles upon you again.

“O̘͖̪̮̽̽ͤͩ̃ͩu͕̺͙̔̃̐̓ͬr͓̣̼̦̪̠̺ ̤̮̠̤̬̼t̮͚͍̐̓̀ͥ̓ị̣̦͔m̞͇̭͍̳ͫ̋͒͂̋ͬ̚ḛ͖͉̭̫̖ͨ̍́ͅ ̝̩̦ͅh̩̜̱͋͑̎̊̽̐ë̫̪͋͂ͩͩͪ͑ṛ͎͑͂̐ͥͪͅͅe͎̫ͥ̓ ̩̳̗́̒̏ͮ̚i͓̩̯͔̥̼̔ͅs͆͗ͮ̆̓̚ ̮̮͚̭̜̹ͫ͒ͧ̈̋̒̚ͅf͇̤̥͓̪̰͇͆̉l̼̝͌ͨ̆e̖ͭ͆ḙ͆ͣ͒ͧͬt̤̖͖̋̽̑͌̿i̯͒ṉ͙̇ͯͯͪͅg͎̗͔̦̅̀́̇̌ͦ̽,͔̖̤̲̑ ͈͎͕̹ͣ͐w̱̙̯̰̥͇̐͆̂̓̏e̜̱̯͓̙̎ͯ͗̓̃ ͇̯͕͙͓͛͋̊ͣm̞̱̩̂u͎ͥ̐̾͌ͅs̯͉̦̜͖̱̙̊̄ͨͤ̐̂̋t̫̙̯̭ ͇̳͋͆͛̾̓p̬̱͓̲̗̭̖e͈͓̝̦̜̮̘̽͛͒̃r̫͕̲͉͙̼ͯͦ̅ͭͣf̩̳̼͌ͨ̏̾͗̓o̗̣̫͇̫̫̲r͔͎̱̫̱̈ͅm͓̻̣̹̝̹̳͗ ͙͚̮̼̻̦̺ͬͧ̊t̤̩̻̫͈̞͊͋̓̓͒he̤̪̳ͬͣ̄̌̍ ̹̪̺̅̓͒̿̎i̫̜̠̰̇ͯ̌̍̊ͥ̍n̲̰̟͖͈͇ḭ͐t͇̖̯̬ͧ̽̑ͭ̇i͇͓͙͖̲̪̔͂͂ͪͬ̎a̱̻t͓̬͚ͨͥ͑iͨ̎̊̄ọ̪̜͙̗̈ͅn͖̹ͧ̇̿͗̚̚ͅͅ,” her voices say as she starts to kiss you again, gently at first but with

increasing need as she continues, “w̬̖͍h̦̪͙ͪe̥̥͒ͯṇ̅͑̎ͣ́̍͆ ̱͔̥͖̞ͤ̂͒ͩy͚͖̬̤̫̘͖̐̇̽̈́ͫͯ͊o̲ͧ͆ͣ͆̓͊ȗ͆̀ ̮̱̞̘̞̳̼͋͆̌̂̓a̽̉͒ẅ̜̻̲̞̳͓́̒a̱̞̣̺̋̍͂̋̆ͯk̩͎̣̟̳̼̽͛ͅe̾ͨ̒̿ͯn̝͎̿̾͗,̫͔̩̳ͭͅ ͈͈͈̘͍̩̭̓̋̅̀͌y̘̰͉͓͍̗ͦͩ̅̇̓͐o͙̦͈̩̘̤̗ͦ͑ͧͯ̾̿͋u͆ͬͬ̐ ̫̝̯͑ͬͪͤm͉̪̟̖͈͂̏̆̈́ͦa͕͈̮̙̯͂ͮͮͬ̐̏̌ẏ̭̗͖̪͉ͩͅ ̗̪̆͛͐b̹̹̟̘͔͚ͨ̋ͤe͔͈̻͓̖̍̾̃ ͚͙͐̈́͋̅d̹̞̝̙̠̗̜i̦͚̗͓̇̔s̗̖͎̟͕̖̓͐͋ͪ͐ͤ̓c͙ͭ͌̎ͧ͐ō̦̟̲̼̯̊̚m̝̰͎̻̬̥̐f̺̗ͨͥ͑̉̑ͤ̌o̗͈̳͂ṛ̥̳̙̭̖̎̎͂̿ͅṱ̩̜͎̼̱͈̿e̪̬͖͉̟͇̙ͪͫͪd̝̞̑̀ͯͦ ͇͔ͬ͂̇b̮̖̜̗̱̰̦̓y̋̿ ̙̺͔̮̪̗ͨ͛͌́͑ͩ͗t̙͓̫̝̼͕̜̽͛͆ͤ͛̀̇ḥͥe̪̪͇̩͍ͣ̉ͮ̾̾ c͌̿ͩ̾h̩͙̯̤̰͙̋ͥͤͅaͫ͗̓ͫͧͥnͥͩ̈́ͯ͛͑̊g͚̞̝̏ͨ͂ͪ͐̀ͨe͓͂̿̓̆s̯ͮ,̣͎̜͙͚̎̓̓̂̂ͭ ̰̬̯͙b̪̮͓̱̩̆̓̑̐̂̅ṷ͙͖̉̋t̅̀ͬ̔͊ ̱i̫̻͇̱̻̺ͥͫͬͩͤͩͦt̟̤̹̙̙ ̲̝͐̅͗ͮͫi̲͕̟͈̹̣ͅs̟̯̬ ̠̹̳̻͆̄͌́̿͌ͥt̬̼̺͐́̉̀̇̒̎ḧ̻́ͤ͛̀͐ͯ͊é̔̓̀͂ o̖͚͕̫̓ͅń̥̳̹̭͇̘ͅl̝͍ͬỵ̜͔͓ ͙͙̪͚̻̅ͪͬ̌̊w̲̹ͪ̽̄a̻͒̾͐͗ͥ͆y̰̱ͨ̓̇̈́ ͚̝̻͗ḟ̩̦͈̥͚o̳̯̝̝͙ͦ̍̈́͋̈r̺̣̬̒̓̒ͥ̐ ̠̥͉̭̤̃t̝̯͔̹̠̜̒͊̓̇͒h̘͎̲̺̱̦͇̋̿e̪̦͌̽ͧ͋͂ͦ ̪͎̣̼̓̀r͇̝͍͍̫̘̬̐i̤̔̎t̬̲͍̭̬ȗ̎̓ͥ͂ͬ͂ā̫̦̯̍̒̌l̩͉̹͇͖̮̪̽ͬ́̿̄ͨ̍ ̖̖͖̫̗̱ͥ̏̏̉tͪ̊ͦ͌̍ȯ̦̻͕̦͎ͬ̽̃

͎͍̭́͐ͮͥ̔̃̐b̤͉͓̟̉̎ͧͧe̝̒̈̎ͫ ͐̉̉͂̈d͖̱̥͙͕̗ͤ̈ͩ̉̋o̟̹͚ͮ͗͗̇̔ͥ̆ṉ͚͍̩̐͛̈̊ͪ̍̚e͎͚͕͔͌.͉̞̣̬̂͒͋ ̜̻̆ͬ́ͤP̩̠̞͉̺a̼͙̥̟̓i̘̹̲̟n͉̙ͦͬ ͗̽ͩ̋ḯ̳̫̤̮s̘̦̲̣̱͇̖̐ͯ̔̓͌͆̚ ̭̼̗̘̇j̻̱̜̠̺̝͒ȗ̱̖̣s͍̭͇ͤ͆ͯ́͆ͣt͖̤̖̠̦̓ ̮̻̫ͮ͌͌ͫͫ͒̄ȧ̠̺͉̯̘ͨ̂ͭš͚̪̾ͭ ͖̺͎̲̱̟̤̄̔ͥͬ̒ṃ̖̱̮̣̓̐ù͈̦͉̘̗̤͗̎̎͐̐c̞̬͉̑̾ͬ̑h͕̻̍ͪ͋͛̀̌ͩ ͚͇̼͗͑̍ͮͅa̾ ̟̓ͩͨ̉̋p̮͚̹͕ͪ̄̆ͨa͎͎̮̣͔͑́̑͆̾̊r̟̤͒͆͌ͅt̓ͣ̈̈̏͋̓ ̃̏̈́̋͌ͨͦỏ̰̹̯̫͚͚̈̽f̼ͭ̿̐ͬ̽̚ ̞th̝ͮͥͯͧ̃ͅe ̝͙̞̥̬̝͑̅̿̊̉w̼̟̯̺̭̠̥ͦ͋͗ͧ̚̚h̤̪̻̯͇̔̈́ȅͭe̤̺̳ͪ̐͋ͭ̒l͈͐̀̄̽ͧ̾͋ ̺̬̞͈͍͖̲̌̂o̤̜͎̭͓̝͉f̪̪̪ ̟̟ͯͦl͔̦̀̎i͖̩͓̠͔̩̓́ͯ̌̂f̟̺̀e͓͙͎̱͚͕ͣ̿ͭͫ̓̐ ̩̗̗̣͈͉͉̇̑a̝̥ͪŝ͔̺̪͖͓ͭ̅̋ ̝́ͩͮ̂̀p̦̱̳̗͖̣̺͐̔͆̅̚l̩̭̤̞̘̗̖̓͐̂ͧẹ̹̞͚̰̮͍̒̈́̾ͯ͋à̫͓̣̅ͫs̖̥ͥȗ͉̤̃̄ͦͨ̋r̘̟̮̮̃̀͒ê̯̹ͭ͊̓.”

“Ok,” you mumble back as she presses her lips against yours harder.

“L̻͈̱̫̪̏̋e̙̦͔̘̽͆͗ͦ͗̇̈t̹ ̳̙̭ͅu̺̱͓͓ͬš͈̙̯̟́̍̎̿ͅ ̙̬̳̎̒b̮͎̮͒͑̒ͯ̿ͣ̿e̺̳̰̿̽̅̈́͊ ̂̒̓͑͂ê̪̠͍ͪn͊ͪ̌́̿̆j̳̩̤̭͙ͦ͛͗̎ͅo̦̯ͯͥ͗̊̇ͨͩị͚̪͉̬̎͗̊͗n̤͉̰͉̋̄é̫̦̥̤̺͍͔̈̈͑̎d̟͎̠̼̒̎̒ͤ͂̆͊ ͎͉̠̳̰̿͋͛ͨ̾̍̎b̘͉̱͋ͅe͎͚̖̤̥͈̍f͍̫̹̞̂o͔͔r͈̠̖̝͇ͣ̉̏͗̆e̒́ ̯̗̪̩̀̾̊ͫͭͨ̚w̦̯̥̖ͤ̏͊ͧͥ́ͦe̤̮̟̪͎ͥ̑̓ͥ͋̄ ͈͖̋̾ͨ̾p̜̺̪̤̐̓̏̓̓a͔̝͉͚̹͙͇ͮ̀̇͌̃̉rṯ͙̥̻ͮͬͣ͆̃,ͯ͛ ̳͔̑̉̍ͣͫȏ̦̲̞͎̪̦͇ͤ̓̀̾͌ụ͔̜͚̩̟̓̃ͬͬ̉ͬ͐ͅrͨ͊ͦͯ ͔̜c̻͓͎̻̟̦̲̊̿ͣͪͨh̗̜͓͊āͥͣͯͥ̽̅m̺̞͖̗̂p̩̥ͧ̾̊̃ì̙̯͖̺̅̆o̺͔̬͚̥̻̭̽̿͗͊̎n̺̬̬̦ͥ͐́̅,” her many voices coo in your head.