Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 20-4

Chapter 20-4

* * *

The dream carried the shaman on its waves, passing by various places and events, some of which were imprinted in the realization of reality, some of which passed by, and some seemed not to exist at all. Here was a stubby man dressed in some variation of camouflage uniform, munching an army ration, sitting near a boulder covered with mosses and lichens in the middle of the wilderness. Next to him leaned not a machine gun, but rather a hand grenade launcher, only the bullets in it carried a tinge of some very unpleasant magic, unclear and thus repulsive. Ten metres away from him lay a monster, resembling a cadaver sewn together from a pile of bodies, except that there were no seams on the body, and all the parts seemed to be fused and fused like candle wax. And the man himself, despite his stubbiness and height of about a metre and sixty, and taking into account the heavy army boots, does not seem normal at all. He methodically and calmly eats his ration, and in his sightless eyes the lights of ominous and alien stars seem to dance.

A new frame shows another man, also thin and even scrawny, looking either in his forties or a deep old man, only this man is tall like a heron and reeks of something sinister. It is hard to look at his face, because it is covered with a network of black veins, pulsating and moving imperceptibly, shifting under the skin. The man is motionless and concentrated. All his attention is devoted to a small oak-tree forest located a kilometre away from the deserted road. The landscape around is very flat, not a single tree, and the spot of such a lush forest in rather cold latitudes looks alien. A couple of cars are parked beside the man, stopped at the command of the lookout. In his gaze, faded and inexpressive, it is difficult to read anything, but what is definitely not there is joy and light feelings of any kind. A man with blackness under the skin of his face, with blackness that moves like worms in his eye sockets, that has long since replaced his heart and most of his insides, is looking at the oak tree. And something seems to be looking from there too, looking back, and the oak-tree itself seems to have grown a little closer to the road in the past half-hour.

The sleeping Earthman saw a huge space station, to which a slightly less huge spaceship was parked, covered with shields, cannons, missile launchers and other weapons of all kinds, some of which were now in disrepair because of the damage received in the battle. The guy sitting in the captain's chair, hardly much older than dreaming Stepan, exhaled tiredly, gradually breaking off his contact with the ship, thanks to which he felt it better than his own body. Breathing heavily, he drinks a strengthening drink given by the stunningly beautiful bodyguard, injects into his neck a few drugs of relaxing and neural shock quenching type, and then stares tiredly at the high, as in a Gothic temple, ceiling of the captain's cabin, mentally cursing the day when he decided to take control of his new home. Who the hell would have asked him, though? They didn't ask him when they sent him for a beer in the middle of the night, as the most sober and lost three games in the fool. And they didn't ask him here, when they found the gift of the Captain's Heart in a human that had fallen out of a perfectly known in this galaxy inter-world puncture.

* * *

A string of dream-fragments, vague and devoid of a general plot, is replaced by larger fragments, and the images of the sleeping shaman's awareness also acquire a more stable form. At a certain moment he begins to realise what is going on as well as if he were looking at the opening events personally, with his own eyes. The dream carries him over the streets of a small, though rather cosy, city, smaller than Dantmark, but also on the water surface of Dantra. The town is predominantly stone, and Stepan knows from somewhere that there are several quarries of varying degrees of profitability nearby. That is why everyone, except the very poor, prefers to have stone houses strong and reliable for centuries. There is also a very good river port and a whole set of moorings in the town, to which new boats are constantly mooring or old ones leaving. Fishermen, pearl fishermen, traders, and even river mermaids, who had a whole community here, were bustling about, even at night.

The sleeper's consciousness stops for a moment, assessing the picture and the landscape of the city. Then it seems to drift downwards, towards the rich neighbourhoods, towards a two-storey mansion with a very beautiful tiled roof and statues on the roof, a little dilapidated, but only externally. Externally, Stepan realised, deliberately, so as not to be too conspicuous, so as to give a false impression, whereas inside the decoration corresponds to the notion of ‘luxury’. The image of the sleeping man passes through the roof and into one of the small servant's rooms, where he stands in front of a mirror, dressed only in a Neirat maid's skirt, a very pretty beauty with a tight ass, long legs and large breasts of at least a D size. The beauty with a completely blank stare smears some cosmetic cream-oil on her breasts, paying special attention to her pierced nipples, each of which has a silver ring threaded through it.

You don't even need to be an expert to recognise the shape of some very crude and classic mental processing for a sex toy and at the same time a maid. But the sleeping shaman does not immediately notice another detail, it is difficult to recognise in this make-up-covered face, in the two thin pigtails on the sides, in the blank stare and glued smile one of those women with whom he shared the bed completely voluntarily. Tahira had clearly been through some bad times, and continued to go through them, only now she hardly had the chance to worry about it anymore. In the mind of the sleeping shaman, some unpleasant flame is ripening, he is trying to concentrate as much strength as possible, first of all mental, trying to remember this dream, to realize it even after waking up. Without understanding why, without realising his own emotions in his present state, reduced to the role of an impassive observer, he intuitively understands that this dream will be important to him when he wakes up.

But the current of dreams already carries him further, further, fur...

* * *

A huge trading house, what one would like to call a trading centre, exotic architecture, no less exotic goods, and a huge number of buyers and sellers. Here they traded in the gifts of those lands where the white man's burden had not yet set foot, even though this burden was very much tried to bring. And not only white man and not only man, yes, but the people of Khotta, despite the chocolate-coloured skin and the characteristic appearance of the inhabitants of earthly Africa, categorically refused to repeat the fate of Africa and its inhabitants, stubbornly occupying the role of one of the regional hegemons. And this luxurious and rich trade representative office, opened in one of the most prestigious cities of the world, under the direct patronage of the ever-living elves, was a direct evidence of it.

Colourful consultants dressed in colourful clothes wandered between the rows, guiding and pointing the way for especially honoured customers. On the numerous stalls one could see the most expensive and valuable goods, sometimes worth not gold but silver in their weight, or even in volume. Spices and fabrics, sweets and materials, amulets and luxury items, massive protective totems or elaborate statues. All of these things and a hundred times more could be found in the middle of this place. For example, a very decent set of incense, including even those used by shamans for specific practices, to facilitate contact with the spirit world or to offer to the inhabitants of the higher realms. The shaman appreciated this set, and another Stepan, the one who dreamed, not the one who slept, even decided to buy a set of small things. Simply because it was more profitable to buy a purse of gold in the System shop and spend it here than to buy the same incense at system prices.

It was just a pity that he couldn't just tell the honourable owner of the shop that he was buying everything. And not because there was no money, but because they would start asking questions about how he had so much money. Of course, you can just screw with the head of the saleswoman herself, paying honestly and with a markup, and then wiping some of her memories, but as if such an approach would not make things worse. There was a lot of protection against inducing thoughts into the heads of the owners of the premises in the whole representation of Ngabo-K`hele, and it was based on wild practices familiar to the shaman so he could appreciate the elegance of some solutions, as well as the crookedness of the solutions of others. But to take the risk of trying to break the brains of one of the saleswomen, the guards who regularly passed by, the counsellors, other clients, and a bunch of spirits guarding the peace and money of the owners of the representative office.... it could easily lead him not to trouble, but to overstrain himself. It was easier to make do with a relatively modest shopping list, especially since he didn't need that much.

The service here was on the level of the best earthly traditions, and the white-toothed smile of honourable Uonga, dressed in her figure-enhancing scarlet-green robes and a whole array of spell beads and small amulets, some of which were also spirit houses, added a couple of points to the already excellent assessment of the local service. The saleswoman frozen on the lower edge of adept, was indeed an excellent professional, and the magic hidden in her jewellery, which organised a whole complex of not strong but carefully selected influences, made it extremely easy to navigate through the countless boxes, vials, powders and fragrant sticks. One sampler was replaced by another, and at some point Stepan realised he had already made a lot of purchases he had not planned to make in the first place.

And all because the black-skinned milf was actively flashed the deep neckline of her dress, smiled with a white-toothed smile, gladly accepted compliments from the handsome white-skinned young man and praised his generosity. He wanted her to keep smiling, wanted to stare at the neckline of her dress, at the black tits jutting out into it, at the chocolate skin and pleasing figure. He wanted her for himself and, being clearly a little drugged by the ever-changing samples, feeling the arousal that didn't want to go away and the dryness in his mouth, hearing and sensing with spiritual body /// the desire for black women want black body love dark skin dark-skinned beautiful passionate want her want her body beat of his blood in his veins, he couldn't stand going over to the dark side. Mentally he tried to make excuses for himself that the lady herself wouldn't mind developing their flirtation into something more if she wasn't so busy selling him another set of scented candles to ignite passion. But just as mentally, he recognized that he was just being hypocritical and wanted this black beauty so badly, wanted to take her right here, wanted to fuck her and cover her skin with his semen.

Feeling the collar and trousers becoming tight at once, he casts a witchcraft spell on her, summons individual spirits, nudges her thoughts a little, ignites her passion, inclines her in the right direction, at the same time deceiving and blocking her defences, other spirits watching and averting the eyes of possible witnesses. He doesn't even think of using tokens purely out of sporting interest and remnants of conscience, but he doesn't need them. Very soon Uonga's eyes are covered with a mist of passion, she breathes more frequently, changing samples faster and faster and offering new products, already openly pressing herself against him and breathing directly into his ears. For a moment she had definitely used some kind of aphrodisiacs cunningly due to the cumulative effect of several separate mixtures, which did not alarm the upper layer of his defences. He, however, did not stop her from playing her games, wanting her more and more and seeing no reason to show that he had figured out her little ruse.

And so they find themselves in a small room behind the counter, where she promises to show him special incense if he helps her get it from the far shelf. A moment, they just to close the doors and set up the sound defence at the same time as a couple of wood-masked resident spirits close the shop's curtains showing a sign of a break, and then they're both overwhelmed. She simply pulls her dress down, causing her breasts to bounce excitedly, exposing herself just a couple of fingers away from his face. He opens his mouth involuntarily, staring at the black tits ///beautiful black best most desirable only black love black women only black only black dark skin black tits best only black wish dream lust tits like a virgin seeing those tits for the first time. He pounced on them like a starving man in the desert, covering her chocolate skin with kisses with a tenderness that surprised him, licking her nipples and the skin in the hollow, kissing and caressing, nuzzling his face and adoring her, trying to explain aloud, losing words and speech, how beautiful she was.

Wonga only laughed, so melodious and pleasant, so happy that he made her laugh, pulling him to her, kissing him greedily and passionately, pushing him to the floor, pulling off his clothes, getting into the riding position. Almost clothed, only with her black //wish only adore black love black women wish only dark skin// tits and her dress pulled up, she rides him, and he tries to cause her as much passion, as much pleasure as possible, boosting her pleasure with magic, making her enjoy his embrace as much as he enjoys hers. They change places and positions, now Uonga, exhausted from orgasms, has her face on the floor, her arse hanging out as he fucks her with the utmost passion, kissing her back, caressing with his hands her tits pressed to the floor, adoring her, realising that he wants her, not the bloodsuckers left somewhere far away, not any other women, only her, black and passionate, the best possible beauty. Maybe also her sisters, if not by blood, then by race, yes, it is urgent to get somewhere a couple of black beautiful desirable //best only dark skin only dark tits only black arse// slaves, maids, lovers?

Next she was already lying on her side. He was pressed against her from the back, squeezing her breasts with one palm, which had been enlarged by a Token for some unknown time, and with the other he was gently stroking her ribs, her neck, her collarbones and her hair, unhurriedly and gently, caressingly even bringing her to another orgasm, casting spell after spell, so that she would love him as he had fallen in love with her, fallen in love almost at first sight, realising that he wanted her by his side. The rational part of him realises that these feelings only seem natural, the self-invested reassurances and protections appreciate the damage done, but that doesn't change the fact that he lusts for her and can't even think of not wanting her black //best most beautiful most desirable dark skinned body// tits and ass black and desirable body. And since it just so happens that she's got him mesmerised by something particularly punchy, he just has to make sure that her power over him isn't used to his detriment. There is no doubt that he will easily fulfil any of her whims, and there can be no doubt about it. As a carrier of the system and at a high level, he can give her much more than she would take from life. She is rich and successful, but still just a merchant. He just didn't want to remove himself from her influence, the compulsion to desire her black body, even as he realised that that was the power of her spell. He would free himself, but not now, a little later.

* * *

Some not too shabby rookery. A place for storing stolen goods, or for waiting out the raid of the guards, where honest workers of the knife and axe, accustomed to the freedom of the roads and forests rather than the cramped streets of the city, spend long days and nights. This time the atmosphere was quite different from what these walls were accustomed to seeing, and it was not the visit of the guards of the honorable Herbert de Dantrel that was to blame. There were no gendarmes in armor. Nor were the unholy signs on the walls, which an experienced cultist would recognize as signs that cut off and blocked energy leaks. However, for some time, these signs, as well as some other also unholy sights on the walls, were just hidden. It was being painted invisible paint and worked extremely imperceptibly. Now there was no such thing as stealth for those inside, but no one cared about these signs and all the problems they could bring.

Nearly two dozen bandits, mostly rank-and-file roadies, but there were a couple of older ones, two pickpockets, a trio of wave-cuters, and two non-criminally connected fence-sitters and messengers. All of them are too busy to realize their problems. Slightly less than half of them were in the midst of fucking a very beautiful, lush-breasted, slender and feminine colleague of their hard work. Short-cropped, with tanned skin, tight holes and unreal skill in lovemaking, she took two cocks in her pussy, two more in her arse, swallowed a fifth, and pleasured the sixth and seventh with her hands, relying entirely on the hands of her partners, trusting that they would not drop her. Her legs, bent at the knees, wiggled playfully, bending at the knees and straightening, giving the youngest present a beguiling sight. The fact that not so long ago he had been attracted, like most other people, mainly by ‘tits and slits,’ and not by a woman's feet, did not occur to him. He's desperately masturbating.

Like the others who weren't busy with Senior, sitting against the wall and rubbing their younger friend, though not everyone liked feet. Everyone had their fetish, their newfound craving, and they were willing to do anything to satisfy it. There was a stifling, suffocating atmosphere of orgy and vice, the stench of semen poured copiously from all the participants into the Senior and onto the floor and walls, allowing the passion to feed the symbols and what they carried. The girl sitting in the far corner, beautiful yet strikingly innocent, aside from the horns on her head and the thin tail behind her back, seemed oblivious to the debauchery. She bent over the only bandit not yet engaged in the orgy, shoving her graceful hands into his abdomen, strangely without damaging the skin or letting the blood out, fixing and remodelling something in the victim's body.

The victim obviously did not consider himself a victim, drooling and grinning a gnarled smile full of pleasure. He didn't cum on the girl, who had only recently emerged from adolescence into womanhood, only because he had forgotten that orgasm and the process of eruption existed as a concept. For him, the whole of eternity has merged into one continuous and unbroken line of pleasure, pleasure both bodily, mental, and psychic. He remains in this state until the moment when the demoness removes her hands from him, which again have not a drop of blood on them, only some incomprehensible mucus, immediately wiped away with a piece of clean cloth. Obedient to a mere inaudible command and the pointing gesture of her tail, the big man, bursting with muscles and with the marks of numerous fights on his broken face and battered fists, jumped up sharply and ran to the common pile, starting to splash wherever he could, but neither he nor those on whom his passion had fallen did not care.

The place of the one who had left, who had returned to the circle of pleasure, was immediately taken by a new man, this time thin and not having washed for a long time. Despite the order for everyone to wash themselves in a barrel of water, it is difficult to get rid of a month's layer of dirt instantly. The demoness wrinkles her face, not at the smell, but at the state of his overly worn body, which will not hold up to all she would like to put into it, and gets to work. And then again, already on the next target. And again. And again. The last one was the same young brat who had licked, doused, and cleaned the Senior's soiled feet with his mouth several times in a row. He fell down with a sack of grits beside the demoness, and she looked at him for a while with her strange cross pupil eyes, as if thinking about something, but still carrying out the same procedure as with the others.

The orgy is winding down, and the participants start to fall asleep, who quickly rinse themselves off and start cleaning, who go off on their very important business, forgetting about the previous night even faster than the door slams shut behind them. The demoness, having poked her leg into the naked and incredibly satisfied Senior, achieves from her only a lazy moan and the same lazy orgasm, leaving her alone, realizing that she still has time to have fun with her. When she goes up to the second floor of the cache, she finds a half-empty warehouse of all sorts of little-needed goods, most of which will never be realized, and on a vacant patch of space, a married couple is making love. Fjeld and Gelda, the ones who have become her mommy and daddy for the time of her stay in her new body, in company with her little sister lying below. Their passion and the power pulsing through their bodies was the basis of the charge for the cloaking field, and the filter through which the lust that her new and too fresh body could not take without consequences.

After putting them both to sleep and cleaning the room, the demoness clucks her pink tongue, casually licking her lips. Mщmmy is fine, but Daddy is absorbing too much power. It's already a bit suspicious that his muscular frame has grown, and if someone looked into his trousers, he would definitely suspect some magic to enlarge his dick. So far she hides the most obvious traces, expressed in energy and subtle bodies, but a month more in this mode and Daddy will have to be changed, replaced by someone fresher before he brings her more harm than good. And the role of a vice filter is undermining his health. Daddy has already given up drinking, pretending that his wife scolds him so hard that it is easier not to take a drop of extra in his mouth. His liver and kidneys are about to begin to fail, or involuntarily draw demonic power to recover, and it would give away her presence. Soon degradation will reach the stomach - and then what? Pretend that his wife prohibits him from eating something besides her cooking? Or say that he is sick in the stomach? So in the latter case, the head of the pottery company will give money for a healer himself, from his purse, but Daddy can't go to a healer, he can't let them scan his energy!

With another cluck of her tongue, nervously walking from side to side, the girl admits that she was a little hasty in giving Daddy one of the lights that kept the potter's wisdom. Yes, he showed only a crumb of that gift, and only the work with clay and the creation of dishes, not enchanting them, covering them with special patterns and enameling compositions. Daddy is already showing the limits of what can be mastered by just a peasant without a gift, and so one of his colleagues has already started to squint at him, having seen by chance how Fjeld fixed almost spoiled workpiece with a drop of magic. Luckily mommy was just around to bring dinner to Daddy and at the same time let the too curious colleague play with her titties, so he forgot about his suspicions as well as about what he had seen. But no, there was too much at stake, too important not to let the priests or enquirers suspect her presence.

All for the sake of the main goal, the goal that had almost fallen into her hands. But it is not possible to take the boy. No. He must be ready to accept her and give himself to her. He, who carries the greatest gift in his essence, must be brought to this thought smoothly and gradually. It would not be difficult to take his radiance for himself. It would not be difficult at all, though a little risky, but it would be of no use to one soul, albeit such a bright one, if it could not look deeper. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, she needs to join the gift, not take it away, and for that she needs to prepare a negotiating position. She can't just take it and shackle the will, she can't force a treaty or scorch the will and mind with passionate ecstasy. She can't risk awakening the octopus of the magical seal of a contract with an incredibly powerful greedy bitch frozen on her back! Yes, this boy is not at all what the contract she curses is chasing her for, but the Mistress would not be herself without leaving her a way to track, monitor, account for, and take away what is honestly deserved. She would no doubt be willing to agree to anything and accept any terms, but as is the custom of her tribe, any bargain must be made to one's advantage, if there is an opportunity for it. By the time she was done with him, it would be profitable and loyal for him to kiss the ground her new body walked on.

And not only the earth.

And not just kissing.

One trouble, one problem, one lingering worry confused the ancient mind in the young vessel. The goal of her endeavors, for which she had taken the terrible risk of the seal of promise on her back, the risk of upsetting the one who had all possible power over her, that goal was already nearly a week and a half late in arriving. Yes, in that conversation, conducted through her mommy's eyes and ears, mouth and touch, she had ferreted out many things. Including the fact that strong leaps in the development of a gift-bearer temporarily rendered him incapable. Not capable of doing much at all. But still the demoness was anxious, feverishly eager to do something. It had been a long time, thousands of years, since she had been so impatient to wait for her prey. She felt as if she had just received her first name as an inferior, barely aware of herself and her vice, so exciting were these events, how much was at stake. A once-in-an-evening chance. A chance for which she was willing to risk everything.

A difficult target for her, though a very pleasant one. Deceptively simple, careful but not careful enough, strong but pointless, skillful but unable to show her strengths. The difficulty was neither strength nor caution. She'd taken stronger ones, certainly far more cautious and aware that she was coming for them. She'd taken them alone or in a group. She'd taken the whole group after the one she'd taken, but she'd never had a target that could get stronger just by falling off her radar for a couple of weeks. To find a target stronger after those weeks or days, not for days and weeks, but for many decades of persistent development. It was too strange, too out of step with everything she knew, that she had practiced and honed. Because of this, a drop of not pretend but sincere worry erupted in her, experienced by all fires at once of longing and excitement. The target is entangled with her, she has learned much from the target, the target himself has helped her peasant mother in many ways to select the best actions, giving out the presence of very interesting knowledge... but it had been a week and a half since her boy was to go out for another walk in Dantmark, to enter another alley, to see a familiar and unfamiliar peasant with huge tits.

He had to, he was obliged to.

But he didn't come.

She'd taken precautions. She left a few surprises in case her shroud was partially or completely breached. She had managed to limit and redirect her target's explosive amplification ability so that the amplification would not harm her. Very, very much so. But now, as she recharged her prepared measures for the worst and most unpleasant outcome of events, she thought back over and over again to those distant years and centuries when she had been wrong with far greater frequency, and at far greater cost. She had managed to escape from the captivity of the solar freaks with minimal losses, but not without them at all. Nor was her companionship with the lovely Sivila, whom she had already wished with all her sweetness and passion, simply in gratitude for her actions, without loss. She was now on the verge of absolute triumph or utter failure. If she succeeds in catching the departing stagecoach, if she succeeds in partially taking the target and making it her protector and key to her power, she will be on the crest of a wave of world-shattering events. If she fails, if she delays and waits for Her appearance, she will know the penalties that will empty her entire stock of her cherished golden sparkling grapes, empty the whole bunch at once, if there is any of the bunch and herself left at all.

"Come on, my dear brother, come on, Stepanushka, I've been waiting for you so much..."

* * *

Again, the dream carries the shaman somewhere far away, again the sleeper sees a new series of
merged images, images not just old, but almost ancient. Again, he perceives himself clearly enough to understand what is happening. In this dream he sees a dark elf, majestic and powerful, with an aura at the level of a novice master, and maybe even stronger, although not a magister, no, not yet a master. This elf is dressed in such a way that it would be more correct to say “undressed”, very artistically and beautifully undressed, and those pieces of the most delicate fabric that hide, very reluctantly, her nakedness, imbued with such a powerful magic that even takes a shudder. How did she fit so much into these rags? And then there's this drow has large breasts, and that's an understatement. Anyone interested knows that in the matriarchal society of the dark ones, the size of the breasts also determines the question of status, the question of one's importance, so the more important, stronger, more influential, more skillful the matron is, the more dignity she has. But this particular drow had clearly gone far, far too far even for the society she was accustomed to, for her boobs were well past a DDD size, just on the verge of looking cartoonish. However, she never crossed that line, remaining within the limits of beauty and desirability.

However, it was not a funny sight. It was not possible to laugh at the aura of dominating and overwhelming power, sincere greatness and readiness to defend and prove it to the dismay of the doubting elf. Elf, which aura was in full balance, letting through the power, while the magician, strong and experienced, was in working mode, creating another example of her art. On the workbench in front of her lay deceptively ordinary wooden balls, made of some very rare wood, strong and imbued with magic. This magic in the wood does not become more, and structuring is not added to it. The craftswoman gently caresses each ball with the tip of her brush, leaving a trace of paint that is invisible and indistinguishable to the eye or even to the magical gaze. This is not the creation of an amulet as such, no, the magic on these marks is weak, barely visible, yet non-existent, operating only in the complete completion of the whole set. Forty-nine balls, forty-nine blanks, each worked in its way, each not read or seen to be exactly an amulet or anything magical at all. The magician looks at the work of her hands with an expression of satisfied triumph, she admits to herself that this time she has surpassed herself, that this gift to those who will be able, perhaps, to step over her the way she has stepped over those who were before her, this gift they, or rather, she.... she would receive it, experience it to the full.

A new frame and the Drow stood in the middle of her bedroom, furnished in an incredibly rich, opulent, almost screamingly expensive, but at the same time stylish and even a little cosy. An elven woman with skin the colour of obsidian, with long dark hair braided into an elaborate hairstyle that only remotely resembles a tight bundle, dressed not in a luxurious dress but in another version of a work robe, stares at her bed. It was huge, capable of accommodating a dozen lovers and mistresses, leaving room for everyone, made of heavy and scarce wood, covered with the finest sheets, the softest mattresses, enchanted with hundreds of duplicate household and protective charms. It was, without exaggeration, a masterpiece of artefacting. In this masterpiece, she had already hidden several traps for anyone who would dare to occupy this place without her permission - a mind-tangling embroidery pattern on a part of the pillows, several peas of solid alchemical potion in the mattresses everywhere but in one place, and the peas, obeying the household charms, changed their place every night, a needle driven into the mattress from below with a curse weakening the ability to conclude the knowledge gained.... little things that a real Matriarch would never fall for.

But these will reassure her. It shows her that she has found all the surprises. It was so demonstrative, so pleasant not only to occupy her rooms, her office and laboratory, not only to sit on her throne, but also to sleep in her bed. For her dear and avowed friends and relatives she spared no prepared gifts, whether they be in her throne room, in her laboratory, in her study, in her private chambers, or, here, in her bed. Nor has she spared, nor will she. She would not restrain her desires to be sure that the one who could step over her would lose everything, including herself, lose her position, lose her mind, will, strength, knowledge, lose everything, becoming a dumb and obedient toy for anyone who wanted to play with her.

A stroke of a magic brush, combining the features of an artistic tool, a battle wand and a concentrating channeler, and all forty-nine balls of wood, made not just of wood, but of the very wood that was used for the material for the huge bed, fly upwards, and then plunge inside the material. There are no traces, no grooves or scratches on the surface of the furniture, not even any magical background, and those crumbs, which will still be there, will be easily lost in the general background of domestic magic. They will be lost, but they will not disappear, and every single ball from this day will slowly and constantly influence the one who sleeps in this bed long enough - to make the effect start to work, it is necessary to sleep on these beds not less than nine nights in a row. If at least once, even if only for a couple of hours, to nap, say, in the chair, resetting the setting of artefacts-balls, this timer will roll back to the beginning. And she wouldn't forget to take a nap somewhere else.

But the one who will take her place.... this effect is gradual and insidious, it is tuned to the personality structure that prefers in bed to always lead, own, dominate, as it should be the one who will become the Matriarch. Any sentient being who fits the appropriate parameters, holy curls of Mother-in-Darkness, she didn't even deny the possibility that one of the men would try to take her place, ridiculous though it may be, carelessly sleeping in this bed would begin to gradually become interested in the flip side of love power. At first only as an experiment, a kind of game, giving her toys and love interests more freedom, then more and more, then it will become more interesting for the victim to obey rather than to dominate, than behind a closed door with the future Matriarch her own bed slaves will do the most obscene things, and in the end there will be less and less desire to hide, to hide their shameful fantasies, in the end the whole House, the whole Diyarten, the whole Dungeon will know about them....

Well, isn't it wonderful?

Indeed, a great idea. She did it perfectly, she proved to herself, time after time, that only she was worthy to rule the House, only she and no one else! Perhaps she even can think....

//the rustle of the dear sister's ridiculously variegated dress, the pattern of which is folded into an unreadable jumble of colours

...yes, she had proven her power again. It was necessary, even vital, to maintain her status, and if she did not demonstrate that willingness, her position...

//the gleam of a ruby in a ring of dull metal on her aunt's thumb, which gave a fleeting sharpness in her eyes, which passed her notice

...that's right, she does have status after all, the kind of status that needs to be shown, demonstrated to all comers, after all she deserved, yes, she beat all those bitches....

//a fleeting conversation with an old rival about important resources, about positions and status, the tart-sweet, bitterly cloying scent of an unfamiliar perfume, bits of words echoing in strange sounds

With a satisfied smile, the Drow looked at her monumental breasts, giving in to the urge to squeeze and shake them a little, proudly thinking that she had triumphed once again, and had to rub those stupid, lustful bitches' noses in it by enlarging her tits a little more, even if just a little. Nodding at these thoughts and finding nothing strange or disturbing, the Matriarch left the bedroom, threw off her work clothes, and began to pick up her new course of special alchemy.

* * *

Waking up was hard, his head was just as hard as waking up, and Sylvia seemed to have successfully internalized the knowledge before he did, going off to do her own thing. Moreover, the shaman couldn't swear to it, but it seemed to him that the vampiress not only woke up earlier, but also took a little advantage of it. A check through the doll proved him right and confused him a bit. When Sylvia woke up from the aura modification, her knowledge-driven mind was even faster than Stepan's, the first thing she noticed was that the catatonic and deep sleep phase shaman was holding a hot and hard battle wand against her stomach. After seeing her pet's masculinity pulsing with blood flow and appreciating a few spots on his skin, which were the result of the body's reflex reaction to the spiritual body's reorganization when the new property of that body changed, the vampiress decided to help her pet.

It helped her not once or twice, but three times at once. She swallowed so much that it became clear why Stepan was so thirsty, but the clever and prudent bloodsucker compensated this liberty with breakfast in bed. It was only when he smelled the aromas of multiple meat pies, fresh meat broth, fried sausages, and fruit assortment in sweet cream, all this richness standing on the bedside table, covered with cook's covers enchanted to maintain temperature, that he realized just how fucking hungry he was and set himself up for a munching marathon. Ah, wait, no. Shower first, then eat.

The food was habitually delicious, and the young man had to consciously control himself to avoid stomach problems. Almost two days in a complete blackout, and then immediately gorge himself.... well, that's not healthy. Of course, he could easily fix it either by himself or with the help of spirits, even a neglected peritonitis would not condemn him to death, but why would he need such an extreme? And only after finishing his meal, stretching his body and working a little with his aura, he created several witchcraft spells, including a tricky spell on a copper, a sensual bomb, which caused gradually increasing pleasure, up to death from orgasm, literally until the heart stopped. Then he spent almost an hour unraveling what he had done, and the thing turned out to be really powerful and murderous. He didn't expect it. In the end he wanted to just break the coin, melt it down, and throw the remains into the break to the spheres, but unraveling his creation became a matter of principle for the shaman.

Definitely, where classic mages have elegant weaving, warlocks have knots, tied one on top of the other, and created not from pure ether and magical reserve, but from subordinate, distorted flows of natural forces. Sometimes it's really easier to burn a piece of energy background and reality to hell than to seriously try to deactivate such shit. Even if you created it. Especially if you created it in a fit of inspiration and caught a very good moment. But everything ends, his torment ended, even the copper coin was saved. Yes, it just got a little wrinkled, bent, looked like it was chewed and the color changed from copper to dark purple. The spiritual reflection began to resemble a miniature dump of toxic waste. Otherwise, it was just an ordinary copper coin so he could buy a cherry pie right now!

In general, Stepan threw the coin into the Spheres, using his minor knowledge of “ banishment from reality”, but that was just because he could, not because he wanted to get rid of the thing that had become not only dangerous, but also unpredictable, like an unstable mine. And then, having calmed down and stopped cursing his own crooked hands growing out of the ass, he began to meditate, not checking the work of the aura, but restoring his dreams. It didn't work very well, but the results were, thankfully, without the unknown threat of an obscure demonic entity. The usual delusional dreams. He managed to catch an image of a hot-heated army ration of a clearly earthly type, a much more sinister picture of a dense oak forest, a landscape of the emptiness of space and some kind of space station, and also a view from above of a luxurious multi-person bed-trachodrome with such expensive and enchanted linens that one could imagine sleeping on a mountain of money, only soft and comfortable.

And there was also a surprisingly memorable dream about almost forgotten Tahira, who was the adopted daughter of Gulash the Smuggler, a river captain and not very law-abiding individual. He dreamed about her not only with enlarged breasts, but also with piercings in her nipples, grown hair braided into two pigtails, in a maid's dress and traces of mental type processing, except without a collar. For a few seconds Stepan even smiled at this dream, it was pleasant to look at the big and juicy tits of the former flat girl, but then he realized that this dream was too wrong, as if it were not a dream at all. He'd had exactly one prophetic vision so far, when he'd dreamt of Dantmark's magical tower a few minutes before the stone snot burst. All in all, a very good reason to take such visions more seriously. Not that he gave a damn about Tahira. She certainly didn't need his help and they'd parted ways without mutual debts and obligations, but if she was really in trouble, or more specifically, being an involuntary sex slave... well, he might help out for old times' sake. Especially if she hadn't earned her position, and as he already knew, the smuggler had no particular sins, except for tax evasion. But tax evasion was such a crime that a lot of people would consider it a mitigating circumstance, honestly.

Well, it looked like he'd found something to do just to test his new, increased abilities. He didn't have any of the girl's blood left, but he had a piece of hair that had been halved after he'd made a test doll, and he remembered her auric image pretty well. He'd be able to target her. If he had known, he wouldn't have disassembled and deactivated the doll, but would have saved it for just such an occasion, yes. The System, characteristically, the quest to save the maiden in distress did not give out, and Her Milfness remained silent, although he was tempted to comment on it. But he had already commented recently, so fuck it, new claims to make. Shaman doubted that the sudden and instantaneous expansion of the knowledge list by eight points was a direct influence of Great Milf betting on another script embedded in the System, but let someone else check this theory empirically, not him. Of course, he was tempted to walk around the city some more, stroll the streets, eat pies, look at the local beauties, meeting a humble pretty peasant girl he didn't know and had never seen before, with huge greased juicy sweet slippery tits... but, shit, don't leave the girl you shared a bed with in trouble if you can, really can, help.

"It would be funny if my dream turned out to be a delusion, or just a possible future scenario, and Tahira was there, floating down the Dantra." He grumbled as he changed into his weekend set and headed for Sylvia's office. "If this turns out to be the case, it'll be funny. I'm all fucking white knighted, ready to mount a rescue mission, and no one gives a shit about my chivalry."

Sylvia took his desire to escape to his dungeon calmly. She couldn't have done otherwise. She only offered her help, and when she found out that she didn't need it, she obeyed the recent bookmark and offered to jerk off with her big, pale, juicy, slippery, lubricated tits. He had almost agreed. The mere sight of her breasts dumped out in one motion on the table almost made him cum. If Sylvia had not helped him by the fact that she had sucked some poisonous passion out of him, he would have fucked the bloodsucker on the same table. Still, at the last moment he went into meditation and calmed down the reaction of his body. His spirit prevailed over his body. After letting him know what would be for dinner, if anything, Stepan used the closet and moved through it to his hiding place.

"Goodbye, my pet, I'll be waiting for your return with my juicy lubed sweet pale tits naked and with massage oil." The Earthman chuckles every time, reveling in his superiority when he hears these or similar embedded words from Sylvia, who considers it to be the norm and doesn't even notice how she repeats it over and over again in a completely unnatural form. "If you need help, don't hesitate to ask for it, I won't refuse my favorite pet, just ask for my favor on your knees, preferably beforehand pleasing me with your tongue, Pann."

“I will, my imperious mistress, I will certainly take advantage of both your generous offers.” He says, even pausing for a moment and looking into the completely serious eyes of Sylvia, who thus shows her care, just unable to change herself and show it normally, not in the usual manner. “I just love to cum on juicy lubed slippery tits, don't I!”

The dungeon greeted him with a lot of work and unfinished business, which at first made it hard to even approach Tahira's case. So much to deal with. He took advantage of the “regular system resource inflow III” for once, summoning all the wealth accumulated in the queue. He didn't make any special requests, just clarified the relatively equal distribution of materials and resources between shamanism and witchcraft, and envolting was habitually put on the back burner. He looked at several heavy boxes of herbs, wood samples, stones and ore, a box of uncut gems and a similar box of amber, and with a heavy sigh he began to sort through the wealth. Separately he set aside the rapidly deteriorating heart of some rare beast with fire magic in its blood, deciding to sacrifice it to his totems this very day, or it would go rotten. Also of special attention was a billet for a thought-stealing amulet - it was not assembled or spelled with proper witchcraft, but if finished, it could literally steal thoughts from the mind. The victim will fall into a stupor and will not be able to remember what she was thinking, and the owner of the amulet will be able to read these thoughts, parse them and look for answers to their questions in them. The option to change these thoughts, to add a suggestion and then return back, is also available, but here one amulet will not do, there will need to cast a separate spell or call the appropriate spirit.

It took another seven hours or so to deal with the totems, thanking the defenders and feeding the weaknesses. He also sent a crowd of searchers after those spirits who had betrayed him in the worm kingdom and decided not to come to the call. Some of them, by the way, came back themselves, apologizing and preparing to make amends. Another part pretended that nothing had happened and simply returned as if nothing had happened. He ordered them to torture and eat them with especial cynicism, especially the strong fighter with the skill in kinetic shock waves, who also gave out a claim-images that for such calls and the risk he had endured, almost appearing to fight in the Queen's domain, the shaman should pay more or he would not appear at all. Another proof that no matter how alien humans and spirits were to each other, the concept of greed and stupidity that united them was immortal and eternal. What he was relying on is completely incomprehensible, but very interesting. Those wiser creatures preferred to get away, and not all of them could be found in these hours, quite a few of the groups of bloodhounds would have to wait for the next week.

Those spirits who offered to toughen their contracts he spared fettering them with nets of varying degrees of servitude. Those who again behaved insolently or stupidly, he tore up, sometimes with his own spiritual hands, burying the pieces under the central totem. He tormented the battle-suggestor-confusionist, who tried to inspire the shaman with the unwillingness to punish him and the desire to reward him for the fact that he had come with guilt and readiness to atone for it, with a special kind of fierceness. As he remembered his feelings when the entourage scattered and the already paid and certified contracts didn't come, he immediately became vile and wanted to do something bad. Having finished with the first cycle of punishment and rewards, there was a lot of spirits to reward, many of them had shown themselves selflessly and deserved a return gift, like Trio or Lizard, many of them had given more than their contract demanded, he ate a quick meal of meat stew from the vampire servants, meditated for an hour and a half instead of sleeping, and went back underground.

The reports from the totem keepers and the Revealer showed a sluggish and not particularly serious search, not even for him, but for illegal shamans in general. As Rowena said, Sylvia and Lemira confirmed, no one could be sure they hadn't seen that flash on the signal charms. And no one could guarantee that it wasn't the work of Maega, who'd decided to look for her daughter in ways that weren't quite legal. Miller, according to the rumors that Sylvia had heard, had strained all his free students and archivists, even contacted Neirat and asked for help from their library, trying to figure out if he thought the worm barrier wasn't that strong, or Maega had another higher spirit on call, who had already managed to pull her daughter out of the trap. He, too, had managed to catch the edge of the locked zone with his purely ritualistic, not shamanic, scanning. He caught it and was impressed, mentally burying the little brat and his reputation, because her mother would have to be killed before she summoned another shit for him. He didn't hide it, because he and Maega told each other about it to each other's face, and only the possibility of saving the damn mare kept them from trying to kill each other.

Only in the morning, yawning constantly and having to meditate a little more, having stopped calling for fear of doing something stupid because of fatigue, Stepan decided to look at what the System had done with his Braniac Stockings. Or rather, first he looked at another super-lot, which was a special goblet made of a strange clay, which neutralized any poison placed in it, and any liquid turned into something positive. Alchemy, for example, increased the positive effects and almost completely removed the negative effects. He looked and found no reason to buy it, its main defense against poisoning was that it doesn't eat where it can be poisoned, and no one knows he even exists so they can start slipping stuff into his goblet. Then again, he was perfectly happy with his methods of defense and poison detection. He would have thought that if this artifact had not only looked plain but also felt that way, but this thing was so powerful that even a hedgehog would realize how unusual this goblet was. However, its main use was not to drink from it every day, but to infuse very serious potions in it, strengthening them even more, as well as removing side effects or reducing them.

You can create, for example, a kamikaze cocktail to fry in battle like a kebab-maker Ahmet, almost jumping up to full rank, but then get sick and die or get terrible auric injuries and complete disability. Then, after paying off the alchemist or just patting yourself on the head if you brewed it yourself, you pour the resulting potion into a goblet and wait for ten or twenty years. In this goblet, the potion, even if initially it exists only for a few hours and then disintegrates, can not spoil, only improve. And, having drunk the deadly stuff in those twenty years, you'll fry already one and a half ranks up, well, on pure power, not skills, and from the negative effects only three weeks of severe diarrhea, the inability to turn to the gift for six months and a lifetime ban on eating peaches on pain of repeated diarrhea. The post-effects themselves and the degree to which they are reduced can also be regulated by directly controlling the goblet. And it is also possible to score a life-saving order to increase the acceleration rather than decrease the rollback. In this case, the suicidal magister has a good chance to kick the divine Avatar in the balls before he dies, and at least break the Incarnation's nose.

It's a good thing. If he had the opportunity to use the full potential of the goblet, he would be happy. But no. Right now, it was not worth the system currency that the System demanded for the goblet. In short, he dropped the goblet option without looking at it for too long, but he froze on the stockings. A glance at them showed that the very structure of the artifact had changed. By the way, the insulating case had become even better, and it was considered a very expensive artifact and a saboteur's dream, because it would be a pleasure to carry bombs through any scanning fields, not a hard task. Though at first the shaman couldn't figure out how. After looking at the stockings for half an hour with tear-stained eyes, in which the number of pupils and the intensity of the lens luminescence changed while the young man switched from one spirit to another, he managed to understand what confused him so much. The artifact was originally a creation of high magic, literally consisting of many ethereal threads brought into materiality, which were perfectly disguised as expensive fabric, simply enchanted with household magic. Now this structure was supplemented by wild magic. It was as if the systemic enhancement had imposed a multi-component and very imperceptible witch's blessing over these stockings even better concealing the true essence of the artifact. If the artifact had not been in superposition now, not yet bound to a user so the disguise did not hide its essence, and if it had not been for the system help hint, he might not have understood anything, even knowing exactly what the stockings were.

The essence of witchcraft was very simple. The wearer of these stockings could not be suspected of anything bad, and if she did something bad or out of the norm, the audience and the guards would simply not perceive this information, not paying attention to it. This passive and not causing a response of mental defense influence could be noticed only by a magister of mentalistics who knew exactly where to look at minimum, and some archimagister of a wide profile without deepening in work with the mind in one way or another, would miss it at all. The general protective blessing was also strengthened, which covered the seductress wearing stockings and those around her with an activated field. Under such a shield it would be quite possible to hold the blows of a couple of masters or one Miller long enough to try to escape. Well, the special abilities of the stockings have also become stronger and more insidious. Even the most sophisticated amulets in paranoid mode won't cover against the feelings of submissiveness and pliability induced by touching this fabric. And the ability to induce willpower-suppressing ecstasy on command can now be activated even from a considerable distance, if the victim has been under the artifact's touch at least once.

Combined with the aura of unsuspiciousness, one could now simply ask to touch this lovely fabric and the victim would likely find no reason to refuse. No shit! You can treat the victim and bring him to the state of drooling and other fluids spewing slave even in a crowded hall, put the necessary bookmarks, clean clothes, wipe the memory, asking to forget or just not to think about what happened, and then quietly leave. However, peacefully and amicably take the target to a dark corner and process it there would be much smarter and safer, and would not strain the field of unsuspiciousness, threatening to break the aura of innocence. This suggested both logic and agent knowledge. The only thing that absolutely must not be done with these stockings was to kill under their effect. It would temporarily overload innocence, disabling it for a week to a month, and everyone around them would realize they had been tricked. However, having such an artifact, using it to kill is not even a sign of stupidity, but clinical retardation.

Shaking his head at the thought of giving this artifact to Sylvia, or to the same queen of elves to send it to her in a parcel signed “from an anonymous benefactor”, because an isekai should do something isekai stily, shouldn't he, or to the first attractive peasant girl with juicy sweet slippery greased peasant tits, he suppressed this thought and went to sleep right on the mattress brought into the dungeon. He slept dreamlessly, more in a trance than in a dream, and woke up seven hours later fully replenished his moral strength and his reserve, which was down to a third. He had already done the most important things. Ahead of him was the operation to find and rescue Tahira, if she needed help. There was a much higher chance that he was just dreaming a crazy dream. For one prophetic episode of the dream with the tower of mages, there were hundreds and hundreds of delusional visions, which left no trace in his memory.

Despite his very reasonable doubts about the necessity of further action, Stepan prepared for the operation to save the next damsel in distress with all his might. Two protective circles, three more camouflage calls, which would tell the spirits to dispel his impulse-search if someone tried to trace it. A normal masking witch's incantation, relying on the already taken earth and totems, and, simultaneously with the first one, a second one superimposed on top of it, which would strengthen the very ability to be guided by a familiar aura. After that, summoning the guardians, preparing the battle horde, the second to replace the first, polishing it with a contracted spirit ready for summoning, adding some healers and specialists in cleansing the mind, if Tahira's brains and body had indeed been remade. And then, when all the preparations were done, the shaman settled into a protective circle, warned Sylvia of the long absence, and then left the body.

The call-impulse goes to the right spirits, a piece of the river smuggler's hair burns with a smokeless flame, images of her aura, appearance, spiritual imprint, involuntarily memorized by him during those nights, are sent to the spirits. The shaman, just outside the body, begins to methodically cast a search spell, arming the seekers with these spells, enhancing their own aspects with witchcraft techniques tailored just for them. In a way, it can be considered as a separate school - the infusion of a spell into the essence of a willing spirit, practically chimerology from the world of spirits, or rather, something quite close to it. The closest analogy that came to Stepan's mind was the use of all sorts of tattooing, ritual drawings and runic scripts on golems, but here instead of bodies - pseudo-matter of spiritual flesh, and instead of tattoos and runes - charmed knots of witchcraft.

The first practical experience, of course, was not too difficult, taking into account all the factors the shaman would have managed without this reinforcement. But still, the success was a bit encouraging. The whole retinue could be strengthened in this way, both temporarily and permanently, either by preparing in advance or by giving them blessings or corrective curses right in battle. Yes, yes, curses. By predicting death by the paws of a sphere-dwelling predator with a curse, thus increasing vulnerability to those predators, you can remove their vulnerability to enchanted or silver-tipped blades, for example. On your own close retinue it is better not to use such maneuvers without a very dire need, but random summons for one or two fights can be quite powerful against a specific target. Cursing is always easier than blessing, especially when you consider the nature of most of the lower-level curses, which are more likely to be wrongly, or correctly, cast boons. From such a curse and amplification in the opposite direction is much easier to beat out - doomed to drown, fire, common at least, can be feared to a much lesser extent.

The signal was picked up relatively quickly, in about two hours. Stepan said thank you very much for his “temporal awareness”, thanks to which he could not lose the sense of time outside his body. He sensed Tahira somewhere not too far from Dantmark, upstream of Dantra. Certainly closer than Morgrave, which he had once swum to along the spiritual reflection of the river and nearly carried himself into the sea. This time his favorite Fugitive Butterfly is not available, it was stolen by the fucking horse thieves, but it is not Fugitive alone that his retinue is strong, there are other spirits already summoned and ready to draw the shaman's spirit to his body. And he can do it. Such a totem array, which he has in the dungeon, and even with a cultivated area, he will feel on the other side of the continent, not that in the same region.

A moment of concentration, and the spirit body takes on the features of a mixture of crocodile, fish, and kraken - an elongated, torpedo-like body, large jaws, and eight pincer arms with tentacles for combat or delicate work. His current reflection is far stronger than it was during his first normal trip, and not just stronger, but more aware. He navigates the Spheres easily, fights and defends better, and doesn't lose the thread of reason by turning into a spirit too much. The knowledge he had gained and mastered after that story, which began with an unfortunate encounter and ended with a textbook massacre with a swarm of evil spirits.

//“It was high time to do something like this because I'm a shaman, but almost do not use the most important skill for a shaman. This is the basis of development. That is how shamans and pump the characteristic of the Spirit. If I didn't have a System, I would also have to develop in this way, and not get stats for free. - Thoughts in the absent head flow lazily and calmly, without interruptions or threats of slowing down too much, emotional swings controlled by will and high spirit attribute, complete focus on the goal entangles the fettered emotional swings. - “Witches and Warlocks usually affinity themselves with the territory and thus raise the Spirit, becoming part of the spiritual world, Monks temper themselves with the energy flows of the Spheres, absorbing some of the properties of the spiritual world, acquiring them in Reality. And Shamans swim”.

Thinking about the peculiarities of class magical development along with the repetition of well-known facts helps to bear the dancing emotions more easily. The consciousness not constrained by hormones and flesh now obeys the changing nature of the Ыpheres, making the shaman a bit like the local inhabitants, and they all have a very alternative worldview. Actually, the shamans do too, which is not surprising. Spending a lot of time here, it is difficult to stay normal, especially if there are no academic methods and knowledge of brain-friendly development, as well as self-control, but enthusiasm is enough. So negligent students or just illiterate savage shamans, too much excess with exits from the body, and go crazy not at the level of minor quirks, and real schizophrenia with split personality and disintegration of thinking. Often after that, a gifted person either mutates into a monster when the body begins to corrode after the spirit, or dies and lets someone else into his body. It doesn't make much difference to anyone who happens to be around. The result is almost always bloody and unpleasant for those nearby.

The Earthman does not let go of control and keeps himself not in mittens, but in armored knight's armor, figuratively speaking, and his knowledge is as complete as possible. Even in the distorted state of his body, having changed more than some a shapeshifter, he is still himself, Stepan, Pann, an isekai, a shaman and just not the shittiest, as he hopes, guy. Near and far away at the same time, lurking in his spiritual shadow, float two familiar jellyfish, covering their shaman from all manner of dangers. A number of more contracts, including one elder, are on short call and they will arrive literally within ten heartbeats. This time he's much better prepared, this time he's not going to get in the shit because of an unfortunate accident or random annoyance.

Again he swims along the river, albeit against the current of its spiritual reflection, which is carried by the stream of ether down to the sea, again he has to sometimes fight off all kinds of small and not so small shit. In most cases he rescues himself, opening the ghostly flesh of the next crap by himself. Some predatory mixture of leech and ram, not quite predatory, just a vicious thing with a lot of short tentacles, tree-like ambush predator, luring the shaman with images of sweet fruit-particles, giving strength. All of them did not survive the meeting with the shaman or survived only to be torn apart by Turquoise and Aquamarine. Another place-perception that looked like a small fruit tree on the bank of a river that seemed to sprout roots downward, deep into the darker layers of the Spheres, they all passed in a wide arc. Also spirit, vegetative, and predator, but also very old, very strong, on the edge between Strong and Senior. In conjunction with the jellyfish, the young isekai could have successfully dealt with this shit, and even more confidently if he had called for help, but why get into an unnecessary fight?

It is useless to sweep the spiritual space over large areas. It is limitless. Even its shallow, upper layers, reflecting the real world, still occupy places-consciousness-areas many times more than reality, and the depths.... Sisyphean labor, where one crap will immediately be replaced by another. Cleanup makes sense only near their own fortifications, totems and altars, and a little bit of the surrounding area, so that every time coming out of the body do not bother with all sorts of crap, but no more. In fact, he didn't even participate in the cleanup of the surroundings of his underground kamlal room personally, he just hired very specific spirits for a contract, sent them to scout all the dangers, and then sent out battle packs. That way of thinking about it, one would have to try it out on occasion. Combat and movement in the reflections of the subsoil is not very different from the same reflection of the river, sky, forests or other biomes, but the peculiarities are still there, you need to let yourself experience them and get used to them.

He found the city quickly, for it was on the river. Stepan, who had accelerated and taken even more torpedo-like form was travelling along the river as if he had mistaken himself for a torpedo, a motorboat, or a low-flying aeroplane. He flew around the city, diving deeper into the spheres, wrapping himself in masking conspiracies and casting a spell on the spheres around him to keep the background out, and then surfacing again, even closer to reality, before heading for the point indicated by the search conspiracy and the beacons of the individual spirit-seeking groups. The few spells on the wall didn't stop him. Nor could they. He came in from the river, not about to take any chances, even if he was sure the torn and tattered net would be easy to bypass. After circling the stone streets, where even the average houses were stone-built, and no stone was spared for the paving stones, he woke up a drunkard sleeping in a ditch before he drowned in a puddle, and also treated a woman who was coughing and suffering from heart failure and poor eyesight, who was weaving baskets by the light of a torch and was obviously sleep-deprived and malnourished.

At the same time he treated her children, who were suffering from the consequences of exhaustion and malnutrition, sleeping sweetly on the bed, although they had nothing chronic unlike their mother. He thought that since he had started, he should finish it. So he ducked under the floor, which was wooden, not just trampled earth, but very old and rotten in places, threw some of the dirt and earth into the depths of the Spheres, feeding this offering to one suitable spirit with the aspects of desolation and withering, and then turned to the System, went to the store and spent a crumb of currency on the most common old purse, as well as two dozen silver thalers of old coinage. The price was as much as one reagent offering for a small or weak spirit, no more than that; he spent many times that amount in a twenty-four-hour period. Then he thought some more, summoned a suitable spirit, having aged these coins a little, so that they did not seem to have been cast only yesterday. At the end he carefully put a single mother to sleep, having learned from her memory that her father and husband had recently been crushed to death on the wharf when unloading a barrel of tar, and that they had obviously never heard of compensation for the loss of breadwinner; it was also considered a mercy that the woman had not been fined for spoiling a barrel of good goods, but that was more because the merchant had taken the fine from the purse and a good knife with a carved handle of her late husband. Afterwards he sent her a dream-inspiration.

In a dream her not very much loved, but used to and not angry for nothing husband came to her complained about the fact that in the other world again have to carry barrels of angelic ambrosia, complained about the heavenly bosses who do not give booze, and also told about the stash hidden for the rainy day, still from his father's inheritance. The stash, of course, was hiding behind the very floorboard where the shaman had left it. Otherwise what good would his treatment be if this family would soon die of exhaustion? One should finish any business, any kind of business, and not abandon it halfway through, really! If they had enough for food, but for medical treatment, clothes, and a normal healthy diet, not. With two kids of five and one kid of seven years of age, being not the most beautiful representative of humanity, which immediately knocked out the most obvious option to earn money, and not having useful and highly paid skills.... well, he'd wager that the mother would survive one or two winters at most, but more likely one, and then she'd be gone for good. The kids would be on the streets at best.

Stepan lingered a little longer, ensuring that the compulsion to dig up the floor and check her husband's stash had worked properly, and sailed on with his original business. He hadn't just wasted time, no, during that time his spirits, reinforced by spells that strengthened the disguise, had managed to analyze the protection on the house he needed and even got inside a little. And yes, he hadn't sent those spirits for nothing. The house was only outwardly neglected, as if its owners didn't have the finances to maintain it properly anymore. The protection on the house was even a little higher than the price and social segment of the house, and the individual rooms were protected even better, suspiciously better. The spirits of the vegetation sphere had taken possession of the ivy braiding the walls, which was not quite simple but part of the signaling system, taking control of the signals and allowing another group of spirits to take possession of the same ivy, crawling through it into the small crevices where the plant had stuck its tendrils.

Slipping through the masonry and around the alarm nets, the spirits reached the basement and the first floor of the mansion, which was clearly inhabited and furnished in a manner not befitting the dwelling of an impoverished aristocratic family. The spirits moved up the stairs, checking the individual rooms along the way, scrutinizing the well-stocked torture room in a deep recess of the basement, finding two moderately disguised secret passages, one worse, one better, and a secret room, apparently unknown even to the owners. That was because the corpse of some well-equipped spy in the clothes of a classical specialist in silent operations was lying there, dried up to the state of a mummy forty years ago. While the shaman was looking through the spirits at the dead man of unclear origin, while he was absorbing the aura of blood and pain in the torture room, listening to the echoes of the stories that the drops of blood embedded in the material could tell him, the spirits found Tahira.

Tahira was healthy, fed, satisfied, happy, and definitely processed by the mentalist, at this very moment cleaning the special room for important guests, from which all the important guests had successfully left. Her face is smeared with a lot of makeup, and on both buttocks there are scarlet marks of big palms, which were used to spank her buttocks to the great pleasure of a bad titty river whore, which Tahira sincerely considers herself to be. The shaman analyzing her bookmarks and processing wrinkles involuntarily. It seemed not only a spiritual body, which from indignation goes in waves, but also a real body. And not from the immorality of such actions, for he did not feel any surprise. Against Valdis' background, the owner of Tahïra was still strikingly adequate. No, what pissed him off and disappointed him was the clumsiness and outright shoddiness of the treatment - crude, wrong strategically, and even tied to the use of alchemy that softened the consciousness, which was then not properly derived and thus damaged the kidneys of the victim of the treatment and the auric nodes responsible for those kidneys.

In general, it's disgusting to be such slobs!

///‘All right, all right, guys, I'll tell you now for all the good things, but don't go anywhere’. - Stepan, a little affected by everything he had seen in this house, thought, lifting his spiritual body higher, a couple or three kilometres up, where spirits were frolicking almost alone, occasionally flying up to the shaman, but retreating from his ambassadorial images, which said that he didn't want to play, but he wouldn't interfere with them either. - I'll show you bitches how to carry out complex cleaning of slags, I'll explain to you scum the principles of non-conjugation of thought bases, I'll show you faggots the method of traumatic insertion of acoustic activators of hard-directive type! I'll show you so much that you won't be able to carry it away.

And he started.

To show.

* * *

She woke up hard, as if she'd had sheep felt stuffed in her head, warm and soft but still stiflingly hot. The heat haunted her in her dreams, making Tahira toss and turn in her bed, nearly falling off it but never waking up. Opening her eyes, she stares for a few seconds at the low ceiling of her back room, where she used to sleep and shorten her days when there were no duties and no lords in need of her services and passion. Her light brown eyes blinked slowly, looking at the familiar and at the same time unfamiliar surroundings. Her body was strangely uncomfortable, and her memory felt as if it had been flooded with a bucket of ice water from the winter Dantra. She can't quite make sense of anything. For a few minutes she just stares, trying to remember the last hours, days, weeks, months, and then her memory begins to return.

Memory...

The memory of how she, irritated and a little drunk, had been cleverly kidnapped on the street by two unremarkable men, who had shoved a rag soaked in alchemical stuff in her face, having apparently distracted a patrol of guards with some ‘accidental’ fight. Then there was some dark room, a disobedient body additionally tied to some strange mixture of a chair and a torture-chair that she had once seen when visiting the patrons of their small and not particularly friendly team. There was a light coming from some strange crystal, blinding but not blinding, strangely mesmerising, and someone's voice, a voice speaking and asking and then ordering, to which she only answered and agreed, obeyed and forgot. Then there was a hangover and a buzzing in her head, another voyage during which she led the ++Little Lesch through the channels and backwaters, but in their backwaters there was an ambush, two boats full of vicious breakwaters. Old man Schirm orders to break the ambush net, the breakwaters definitely have mages, but not watermen, and she can make ++Malyutka very fast, even if not for long.

Instead of obeying the order of Gulash yelling at her, she stares at her foster father, as if trying to understand something very important, but nothing comes out. Instead of the usual charms, she suddenly remembers that she has enormous tits, which for some reason grew out of the flatness of the deck boards about a month ago. She perplexedly touches the tits under her shirt, smiles contentedly, and at the same time experiences an agonizing attack of migraine and dizziness and weakness throughout her body, falls to the deck unconscious, rolling her eyes as she sees the ++Little One being boarded and a fight breaking out, the first blow of the enchanted sulleen piercing through the back of Schirm still trying to wake her. And then only a cozy and dark emptiness in which there is no more excruciating headache, no more screams of the killed and shouts of the victorious wavebreakers.

Then the strange room again. The smell of some pungently bitter and acidic stuff being shoved under her nose. Potions being poured down her throat, the light of the same crystal in her face, and someone's voice. A man's, she knows for sure, and the figure is vaguely recognizable, but she can't see anything behind the light. The stunned body couldn't even turn its head, the whole body being secured in the strange chair by straps. The voice speaks, asks, listens to her answers and, of course, explains, explains patiently, like a silly girl, in a measured and understandable way. She nods and agrees with what is said. Not with everything, not at once, not from the first words, but gradually she is persuaded that only the truth is told to her, and she accepts it. Word after word, statement after statement, order after order, because it is orders that she perceives most easily, because orders do not need to be thought about and challenged, only accepted and executed, always executed.

They explain to her that she is just a stupid and ever-wet river whore, who has grown big tits and only those tits are fit to serve the good masters. They explain that she is completely alien to all these raids, rivers, decks and hiding places under it, that she does not need to remember the past days and years, that it is better for her here, in this lovely dress, with these kind masters who touch her body so pleasantly, that it is much easier and safer just to clean the floors and walls, furniture and dishes, helping to quench their passion when needed, and just to clean a good master with her mouth, why not. She likes everything, everything suits her, she is completely satisfied and doesn't think about the fact that it can be somehow different. And she agrees, forgets the old and accepts the new, ceasing even to remember the past, living one day and in one day, leaving in her memory only a few constant truths - what she likes, what she should do, how to clean and wash the house properly, how to please the masters properly and pleasantly, what a bad river slut girl she is, that she should be spanked on the ass, that, that, that...

The only thing left of that old Tahira Zanoza was an ineradicable desire to swear. Especially in the most passionate moments. Especially when she had to swear at herself. This, she realizes, was left to her deliberately, literally squeezing everything else out of her head, so that she could only listen silently to orders, which she would immediately execute, or answer one-word answers to the questions asked, or pour in sophisticated river, rafting and mooring swearing, mostly vulgar and mostly about herself. For some reason, her master, the one in charge, whose orders are more important than all others, likes to listen to her at these moments, and she even understands why. The damn Reed, who had been fucked into this world with the stinking shit of his cunt mother, had not forgiven her refusal, her words and her contempt. She, however, had also spoken out of turn. She had opened her mouth at one of the river's elder uncles, but she had been in her right then, and Vihras had almost sent her to the other world in his name. And the son-of-a-bitch Reed paid, kept silent and stayed out of the bottom maelstrom, and waited, getting rid of Little Lesch's crew and Schirm Gulash only a little later.

"Damn." She exhaled quietly, feeling her almost forgotten ability to think anything other than the primitive four-link chain of “clean-fucking-washing-sleeping” return to her head. "Fucking hell! Cough, cough!"

Coughing and nausea almost made her vomit, sobbing hysterically with hatred for herself and for Mark the Reed, but it was as if ice water had been poured into her head again, and she calmed down sharply. Her thoughts become unusually clear, sharp and quick, and the remnants of the crap that kept her in the state of a submissive whore, happy to give her slit to anyone who knows her fuck-word are gone. The gifted one, who understands something in magic, now weakened by the fact that her ship seems to be very far away and not hers anymore, realizes somehow distantly that one does not regain consciousness after such a fucking treatment, not abruptly and not with a fully thinking head. If she were still on the deck of her ship. If she had been forgotten there for a couple of months, then fuck knows, it might have washed the evil magic off her, but even so, it was hardly likely, she was very securely rewound like a ship's rigging. She can hardly feel her ship now, realizing with bitterness and hatred that most of her magic has long since been eradicated from the boards, or reassigned and bound to the new owner. All she can say is that it's out there somewhere, downstream of Dantra, even below Dantmark...

She shook her head and slid to the floor, trying to find some clothes other than the shameful slutty rags she usually wore. She was used to sleeping naked, unless Reed or one of the guests asked otherwise. She remember that there was a freak with a burn halfway down his face, with a very obvious nickname of Burnt, who loved to fuck her while she slept. He would order her to sleep, and then she would wake up with cum flowing out of her asshole. The disgust didn't make her sick, but it made her shudder, and Tahira wondered again how she was even thinking right now, and why her mind had come back to her now. The answer to this truly important question came almost immediately, and the answer came with a quiet voice, quieter than a whisper, but at the same time loud and distinct and almost deafening, somehow seeming vaguely familiar:

"By my will..." The answer to the unspoken question, only in her mind, made her body goosebumps, and her hair stood up, seemingly even on her pubes, the part of her pubes that hadn't been shaved bare by the fucking motherfuckers. "And with my help."

In a normal situation, such communication would have scared the shit out of her pants, but now she was unnaturally calm and collected, her mind simply taking the facts as they were and fitting them into her plans. The voice of something vaguely familiar and creepy speaking right in her head was taken almost normally by Tahira. She just sat down, exhaled, picked at her ear and, cursing foully on reflex, asked a logical and obvious question:

"Who the fuck are thou? I mean, honorable, who the fuck are you, I mean, ah, well, don't bring it all the fuck back, it's fucked up, I'll be fucked...." Still, even absolutely calm nerves could not cancel the fact that she habitually insulted some person or entity, which saved her mind and, obviously, which in fact was much more powerful than an uneducated river magician with a crippled and almost extinguished gift. "I mean, thank you very fucking much, but I'm just fucking nervous and tongue-tied. I apologize from the bottom of my fucking heart."

Some small part of her was still watching the situation, and she tried to speak quietly, almost whispering, making up for the lack of volume with the swath of emotion that filled that whisper. Her savior's voice hummed softly, and she rather felt its amusement, realized in her very gut that her savior held no grudges, and that in itself almost makes her asshole relax in relief. She picks up new questions, feeling that her habit of talking dirty during her shameful captivity has not only not disappeared, but only worsened. Before, even in her emotions, she had been mindful of who she was speaking in front of. But the way she was forced, like a dog at the dock, to speak more profanely, has not been erased even now. Alas, she doesn't have time to ask questions, because they are again answered in advance, clearly reading the thoughts that have just appeared in her head.

"You want to run away from here, and you also don't mind revenge, you desire it and dream about it. It's understandable and normal, as it is for what was done to you." In this tone, in the very manner of speech, she hears again despite the bone-chilling sound of the words, something familiar, simple, but mannered and pretentious, calculated, as if a scientist were speaking. "I will be glad when everyone in this house, both your master and his guests, everyone who is here, not counting slave girls like you, ceases to live. And I also. I wouldn't want to be here personally. Do you understand? Are you ready to participate?"

The thought was not only clear, but crystal clear, and Tahira, even in her state of complete calm, unnatural and also frightening, felt on her face the evil and cruel smile of the river magician, who had decorated the deck of the Little Malyutka with more than one set of giblets during her not especially long life. She realised that she did not believe in fairy tales, did not believe that she would be left alive after she had killed all the scum gathered here with her hands. No witnesses, no proof. She was a gifted slave, she was not watched, she went mad, and cut a lot of good and honest people, let's commemorate honourable Reed, he was a comrade and friend to all of us. She understood it. But she also understood that it was better that way, better on her own and in battle or after it, than later, when she would become bored or old, when she would cease to be an attractive set of holes and her path would lead to a cheap brothel, or an illegal sacrificial altar.

"Am I fucking ready to participate, honourable?" She asks, almost hissing like an angry cat, clenching her fists and piercing the skin of her palms with her overgrown fingernails. "You ask?"

"Heh, such enthusiasm, my dear, such hatred..." The savior liked her mood and words, and the following speeches gave her hatred a thin, false ray of hope, which she wanted to believe in, simply because there was nothing else to believe in. She was ready to cling even to a straw, realizing the futility of such faith. "Think of it as an exam. If you do it clean enough, I'll find a use for you alive. A use for the real you, not a brainwashed slave."

Tahira only swallowed, not trusting her throat and feeling her breath catch. Wanting to live was only slightly less vengeful, it was so sweet to breathe again and think normal thoughts instead of mocking herself, at the snap of her fingers or the trigger begging for “fuck her fucked up cunt until it foams from the dumb mouth of a dockside cheap whore.” Tasting life again, tasting the flavor of hope, she didn't want to die at all, she wanted to keep living, keep breathing and thinking her thoughts. Swallowing again, she looked around, praying to all the gods that the house was asleep, so that only a couple of awake sentries would need to be slaughtered, and the rest could be cut open in their sleep. Magic keeps Reed's house safe, but she's the only one who's reliable, obedient, and completely harmless, and she remembers that she was allowed to go everywhere, if only to scrub the floors and sweep away the dust.

" Right, that'll make your case easier." The invisible helper whispers, instilling a little more mad faith and hope, just a little more, just a tiny crumb. "I'll reward you for your spirit a little more. I'll make it a little easier for you."

The smallest thing in the performance of an unknown, but obviously powerful magician turned out to be no small thing. Tahira staggered to her feet before she could comprehend what had been said, feeling the tremendous strength pouring into her body, her muscles becoming strong and agile, her mind becoming even sharper, while inside, under the very source, now almost extinguished and crippled by the break in communication with the ship, it was as if some knot was being coiled, another's spell, strong, strong and fueling all of her, down to the last muscle and hair. She was skilled in witch tricks. She'd learned them from her grandmother. She regretted that she hadn't learned much from her. She could make herself a little stronger and more agile, especially on the deck of the ++Malyutka. But this was a whole different level, a whole different understanding. The girl realized that there was more power in this boon alone than there was in all of her even on her home deck, by a factors more, by a fucking factors more!

But her savior didn't stop at that, he didn't stop at all. Another moment and a new boon lay on top of the first one, making her faster, accelerating her and others' magic along and inside her body. Now she feels a viscous and strong cocoon enveloping her. It's not restricting her movements or hindering them, but it's very, very, damn strong. She, with all her spells or just a sword, could not penetrate such a cocoon. Even a proper battle amulet wouldn't help. Not with the first couple of blows, no matter if she was hit with fire, water, lightning or whatever. Dressed in the gifted boons, she partially understands their nature, realizes the complexity and power of them. She time after time covered with sweat at the thought that the creator of this one she swore at in ignorance. Yes, you can look for happiness in insolence, but you only find problems.... by the holiness of Calisto, the goodness of the Earthgiver, the will of Lothar, may he not be too offended. Tahira, who had seen some shit, knew all too well that a powerful witch really mad at you could make you regret she just didn't kill you.

Tahira expectedly found no clothes, only a set of lewd rags that didn't even make sense to wear. They only restricted her movements. There were no weapons in her room, either, because why would a maid need them, and the household cleaning amulets she used as a gifted woman could not hurt anyone, unless it was cockroaches or mice. Shrugging and not about to be embarrassed by her nakedness, not after what had already been done to her in this house, the girl quietly opens the door, takes the key amulet, hanging it around her neck, and then slips out the door, walking down the dark, unlit corridor unlit by the magical lights switched off for the night. Her eyes can see in the darkness, and for that she gives mental thanks to the silenced voice-saviour, who seems to have decided to just watch his employee or puppet coping with the task of bloody massacre.

She treads softly on the thick and fluffy carpet in her bare feet, knowing very well how hard it is to clean carpets, even with amulets. Even his guards are ordered by Reed to clean their shoes or change their shoes before going up to the first floor. Sensitive, all-hearing ears picked up the seemingly deafening sniffing in the alcove around the corner where the night guard had decided to take a nap. Memory, which has regained its sharpness, shows scenes of conversations between the guards and the servants, who always considered being on duty on the second, so that no intruders would come in through the windows, the sweetest and most dignified place, as opposed to the garden or both entrances, where there were also guards. One could always take a nap or play cards - the men did not hesitate to discuss such things in the presence of the always smiling and ready for anything Tahira. Men, because the only women in Reed's mansion were brainless slave girls and a couple of dogs let off their chains for the night. And all the servants, even the cooks, were recruited from the loyal boys or their relatives, and therefore, they also often received a submissive body, sometimes of Taрira's, sometimes of someone else's.

In the alcove, Ruzz, a big, muscular bastard who liked to take Tahira as roughly as possible, and his hands sometimes left bruises on her tits. He groped her just as well as melons at the market. Smiling back at the sleeping man's smile, she carefully and leisurely pressed herself against him, who had just begun to wake up, with an unnaturally strong hand clamping his mouth, suppressing his shriek, and with her other hand pulling out a long dagger from the sheath on his belt, so that in one motion she could thrust it right under his chin, piercing his brains. The cocksucking bastard only twitched, farted audibly, and settled to the floor, shitting his pants. Tahira quickly pulled off his belt and sword, pulled out her boot knife, short and carefully sharpened, and removed the dagger from his head. Tried to pull it out. She looked in surprise at the hilt with half a finger of the broken blade still in her hands. The strength in her hands was clearly no woman's now, the blade had struck bone so hard that it had broken a good thing with a single blow.

Leaving her body motionless, Tahira moved swiftly through the house, ignoring the rooms of the three slave girls like her, but checking on the servants and soldiers. She checks on everyone with a broadsword at her side. The ability to open any door except locked and bolted, how else to clean the rooms, was now playing tricks on the assholes. They didn't use deadbolts because why should they? What threatened them here in their own house, especially if the whole of Klyuchevoy and Dantra respected the honorable Reed so much? To open the door, which they had long ago stopped keeping deliberately unlubricated to wake them up in case of danger, to slip silently into the room and strike one or two blows at the sleeping assholes who didn't wake up in time. The pimply Chezhik, who always wiped his dick on her dress, the swarthy and bearded Adyr, who loved to pull Tahira's pigtails and ordered her to bleat like a sheep. He the only one who slept with a sword in his arms and almost managed to scream. The fat and young, not yet sixteen winters old, nephew of Reed, whom everyone in the house called Small Reed.

The thought arises in her mind that this could be dangerous, that the ever-suspecting pro-bloody asshole might have some kind of loop tied to the deaths within the walls of his house. It comes up, but it goes away. Because if it were, she would have been killed after the first corpse, and since even the death of the successor, who by some miracle was now sleeping alone and not in company with one of the slave maids, did not raise a fuss, nothing else would. Her thoughts were answered by a quiet laugh, full of irony and slight disapproval, as if she had missed a few grains of sand on the scales of her usefulness, which rang with bells and the rustle of river pebbles in her head.

"Such a signal thread is there for general control of the house, the inhabitant's lives and your enemy's favorite nephew." It seemed like she was going to fall through the ground from the fucking embarrassment of her fucking stupidity, but no, it was just her knees trembling from fear of disappointing the unknown magician. "Except they're both, such a weird thing, just this particular night completely discharged, the amulet-controller of the manor's master not picking up the alarm signal."

The already unkind smile on Tahira's face became even more predatory and evil. She slowly cleared the second floor without making any noise, and went downstairs to the first floor. The lights were still on, and there were people's merry conversations, now and then replaced by gleeful laughter. But barely audible, because the amulets provided silence and peace to those who slept, even though they were mostly in eternal sleep. The guard at the stairs was not even surprised to see Tahira's tits covered with dried blood, and he collapsed with his skull cracked open. But Grey, who had long been lame after a crossbow bolt had hit his knee, but had lost neither experience nor skill in battle, nearly bled Tahira. She didn't know how to fence, only the basics, and she never needed more. She could easily disperse a couple of militiamen, withstand a couple of rounds against a normal boarding party, then she had to strike with the gift, not with steel.

Gray noticed her approach; he hadn't slept. When he saw the blood and the naked weapon, he was ready to yell as the sword left its scabbard like a living snake. Tahira was the first, but not at the expense of art, but only with her strength, speed, and ability to see in the dark and the light with equal clarity, pressing the asshole into the wall with her whole weight, breaking his wrist in a steel grip, and sharply, like a murderer on a victim in a crowd of people, working with a boot knife on the liver and guts of Grey. He still managed to hit her with the sword, right on her thigh, but to no avail, for the steel slid down her skin as if it were oiled rubber, not even scratching her. And there the force with which Tahira lifted the fucker on the weight of the boot blade played a role, opening his belly and sternum like a bream, from dick to neck.

Covered in a sticky and hot, scalding mixture of blood and shit, opened intestines smelling like fruit wine, she exhaled. Then she strode leisurely and confidently to the living room. There sat the late-night Reed and his guests. There is the final notch of her task. She would slaughter them, the rest of the sleeping ones would be quietly finished off. In response to her doubts, another portion of magic flows through her body, a new conspiracy laying on top of the past two, making something unclear to her. She's not slowing down though, she's moving forward and ready to kill, ready to avenge the fuckers for everything, for every minute of her slavery. She'll charge them interest on those minutes as much as a dwarven banker and a loan shark from a halfling at the same time. This particular door opens deceptively slowly and creaks as if the goblin's balls had been pinched by the door. It was an old quirk of Reed's, dating back to the time eleven years ago when Dantra's sleeves were rearranged and he was scared shitless of a visit from a cutthroat in the middle of the night.

There were five people in the room. Reed and his guard, Zeth standing against the far wall, barely able to keep from dozing off, and a vaguely familiar man with ringed hands and a mage's aura. She somehow immediately realizes that she didn't see the bastard's face, but she remembered his fucking voice, the same voice that had broken her and remade her into a stupid river whore, fit only to scrub floors and suck dick. A moment's realization and her consciousness was overtaken by a wave of hatred so strong that she almost growled if her throat hadn't constricted from the mixture of horror at the brainiac, anger at him, shame at what had been done to her, bitterness at the deaths of everyone she knew. The mixture of emotions caused her to hesitate just long enough for the brainiac's two guards to react and turn toward her.

"Her tits so huuuuuuuge...” One of the guards said mechanically, fixing his gaze on her melons and almost drooling, while the other one drooled, and cum in his pants, and in general could not even speak, probably because his amulets were worse than those of the talkative one.

He dragged that “tiiiiiits” out until Tahira, rushing forward, swung her sword at his throat with a single swipe of the same magic that covered her body. The amulet defenses didn't even activate, as if they weren't even there. The pants-stained freak only blinked as his favorite melons disappeared from view as Tahira's leg hit him in the knee, and the force in it was enough to make his knee bend backwards. The pain had not yet caught up with the consciousness when she perceived the world with a strikingly clear and quick swing of the blade released from his throat, split the skull of the second one and hid behind it from the blow of Reed, who had somehow reacted very quickly. It was not for nothing that they said he spent time every day practicing his martial arts. The wand pulled from his belt holster struck with a lightning bolt that went into the dead man's body, causing him to twitch and smoke a little. A huge burn almost piercing through the body smells like fried meat, causing Tahira, who hadn't eaten dinner, to swallow saliva while pushing the corpse forward and stepping over it.

Facing the stream of flame from the second rod, what the fuck is Reed even carrying two, bitch, fighting wands, she barely has time to cover her eyes, but the fire doesn't burn her. The fire flows around her, slips off the naked skin of the furious girl and the girl, screaming something profane, continues her spurt, feeling the defences of the spell draining away little by little, bringing a growing heat. The heat has not grown much, because a blind blow, by memory and vague shadow of increased perception, passes through the defence of Reed's amulets as if the blade were cutting through thick and viscous sour cream, crumbling together with it the flesh that seems to be the airy cream of expensive cakes from the half-breed bakery. The fire disappears. Reed tries to cover the wound on his chest from collarbone to waist, and Tahira, turning on her toes, performs an exemplary fatality that would have made Schirm, who once taught her a blow, weep in his grave. Well, if he had a grave and not a funeral in the waters of Dantra and the jaws of the bottom catfish.

The bastard's head is just beginning to fall, the blade having removed it without resistance, as nails dig into Tahira's temples and pincers clamp down on top of them. Black dots dancing in her eyes, and her body begins to weaken and shake, even though her body is still full of strength. All the weakness and trembling are in her mind, but it doesn't get any easier. The obviously panicked bastard cocksucker, who fell out of his mother's rotten slit and into a vat of shit and slop, is already raising a wand of some kind, preparing to strike with battle charms. He's also yelling some phrase, repeating over and over again. She knows for a fact that before that phrase would have done something to her. Now it just intensified the migraine, followed by a flash of pain throughout her body as a thin and almost invisible but very powerful bolt of lightning struck from the brainiac's wand. The abomination, capable of sizzling flesh to the bone, danced across Tahira's naked breasts as if the rings in her nipples were attracted to her, but it could not break through the defenses. Not at once, but each second presses harder and harder with unpleasant stabbing sensations in her heart and twitching muscles, and Tahira realizes that if she doesn't get up now, she'll be killed.

With a snarl and an almost bestial howl, she rolls over to hide behind the snack table and then flips it over with a single tug, shielding herself from the lightning. The table immediately splinters, but she manages to throw a cleaver, a bottle of wine, a smoked ham, a silver platter, a heavy goblet, and a massive, juicy apple at the brainiac. It didn't help much, the amulets on the creature were good, and the cleaver without contact with the charmed body was just iron, albeit thrown by a very strong hand. But it distracted the scum from attacking, causing it to hesitate and step back just in time for Tahira to raise the table above her head with another snarl and throw it at his head. He shrieked, she could swear by Lothar, shrieked like a girl getting her arse pinched. But he bounced away so nimbly that she couldn't believe it, as if he were just a glossy magician.

She tries to throw something else, but a new series of nails jabbing into her head drops her to her knees, causing her to shriek. Now the pinched temples are joined by two more woodpecker beaks pecking at the back of her head. She suddenly realizes that her arms and legs are numb and unfeeling, just as she can't feel the last-second protection she's wearing. A surprisingly calm thought flashes through her mind that she's about to die without finishing her revenge. The thought flickers, but there is no strength in her weakness-covered body to even be frightened, let alone angry. Tahira, who had been hit by the brainiac, had no strength, but the one who had decided to help her had. That someone helped again, and she felt her numb arms and legs move on their own, bringing her body to its feet, staring at her with a frighteningly calm gaze. Brainiac was surprised too, and wrinkled his face some more, like a wilted potato after a year in the cellar. It was as if he'd hit a wall where he hadn't expected to find one.

Tahira, no, not her, but the one with her, raises her hand, folding her fingers in a curled figure, and then literally spits out one short word, sounding as if she and someone else were saying it: “Locking.” From the intensity of the sensation, she nearly fainted. She felt her magic and gift, her other, subtle body, as an ordinary water jug, already full, but which at once decided to pour as much more. Though a drop more would burst, burst in bloody splashes, but her savior knew exactly, to the drop, how much of the measured power she could withstand. The blow, swift and deadly, cast along her core, flying off the very tips of her fingernails, and the brainiac, whose name she didn't even remember and didn't even know, let out a soft and shrill squeak, beginning to die. His eyes glazed over and then glued together, his mouth, his lips, too, became as if they were fused, folded into slits nostrils. His shrieks became mooing.

The cocksucker's aura was trembling, too. It just wanted to freeze, as if a bunch of small blockages had formed in the way of the streams of power, right in the channels, and the blood in the body, frozen right in the vessels. But the power of the spell was not enough for instant death, and the jaws of the asshole's resisting death opened, tearing the fused lips with meat, letting out a scream of despair and pain. It was immediately silenced when the wobbling Tahira herself took a step forward, a second, and on the third she kicked with all her increased strength right in the center of his chest. The amulets that tried to absorb the momentum of the avenger's blow crunched, followed by cracked ribs and blood spurting from his throat, but it wasn't what killed the bastard, it was the aura that finally stopped. The fucking brainiac was no longer able to resist the curse eating him from the inside, and died before he could even slide down the wall. His mouth was open in a scream, seeming to fuse right behind his lips, revealing only a solid funnel of flesh.

Silence.

Only the heavy breathing of Tahira, who doesn't even try to resist, breaks this silence, and she is scared, very scared, because she doesn't want to die, not after she was miraculously freed. She realizes she's already gotten more than she could have hoped for, but she still didn't want to stop being. And the hardest of all was the total powerlessness. She clearly realized she couldn't resist the savior who could talk to her without personal presence. Their strength is not comparable, she could not even run away. The only thing left was to rely on mercy, and Tahira hated to rely on other people's mercy with all her heart, because to ask for mercy is the destiny of weaklings, and mercy itself is only a whim of the strong to the weakling. And she hated being weak instead of strong, she so hated it.

"Hmm, well, you did it." He spoke in a shrill voice that sounded thoughtful and pensive. "Not excellent, that's a fact, not even good, but I'd give you a satisfactory, I think you deserve it."

"So I'll live?" The former river mage, who has neither ship nor crew left, can't stand it. "Will I not lie here as the last witness?"

"You will, you will, if you can save your life." The answer is immediate, and it's like it rips her spine out, and she can barely keep from sitting on her ass in shame and sobbing with relief right there. "You have half an hour to find your clothes and weapons and leave this place. Take only money and necessities. You'll have to leave town unless you want to meet anyone who cared about or benefited from the people you killed."

She obviously understood the need to run away! She didn't waste time on chatter, rushing to get ready for the journey, eager to make it with time to spare, just so as not to violate the terms of her savior. She found clothes, albeit men's, but of good quality, roughly suitable for her height and proportions, as well as a sword and dagger suitable for her hand and a purse. She did not take much, she did not look for hiding places, though her greed told her that Reed had so much stashed in such hiding places that it would be enough for a small river caravan. But it was not her coins, and not her trophy, she was happy that she was allowed to take at least a little. A change of clothes, a hiking kit from the storehouse, spare boots, a few cuts of cloth for wrappers, for there was a high risk of bloody feet with unfamiliar shoes, and a heavy cloak with a hood to cover her face, too hot for summer. Food and water, a couple of amulets she could recognize, unguarded, and that was all. She was ready before her time was up.

"Move out. You'll wait in one of the buildings half a block away, where everyone is asleep and won't wake up until morning, and when they do, they won't notice you." Tahira only nodded at the fact that her interlocutor and benefactor seemed to be skilled not only in spells and conspiracies, but also in brainwashing. Though it was obvious, for no one else could bring her mind back to its former state. "Stay the night, replenish your strength, throw up all the crap you've been fed. Then, in the evening, you'll go outside the gate. I'll help you make sure you won't be recognized, even if they start looking for you."

Tahira nods, dryly and sharply, then, exhaling and overcoming the uninvited shyness and fear, asks the question she should have asked earlier. But she didn't, at first not understanding, then overwhelmed, then simply afraid to bring it up.

"But what next, honorable sir?" She's even a little proud that her voice didn't shake. "I mean, I'm fucking grateful, but I realize I can't thank you with words, that's fucking stupid. I mean, what can I do to work it off, not with my fucking pussy? I mean, it's not that I'm fucking against it, but, damn, you must have a lot of people who are better looking and more skillful than me, you didn't help me out for my tits, did you?"

"Next..." The voice seemed to be thinking, weighing something, and Tahira tried to breathe out that she had managed not to anger the interlocutor. She was not good at talking. She always swore and showed disrespect, so with important people she usually kept quiet, but Schirm spoke. "Next you can be free to go. I won't pursue you. You've worked hard enough to earn your freedom. If you're in the mood to work hard, if there's nowhere else to go, go to Dantmark. Go to the merchant Marut Puzzan and tell him you've come to him for a supply of candle wicks. He will understand and say he will pass your words on. Tell him where you're staying and wait a week, then you'll be contacted.

Tahira didn't even consider the first option, not for a second, not even for a moment. Even if they let her go, which seemed so delusional that it might as well be true, she had nowhere to go. All the rivermen in the regionhad been taken under their thumb by Reed and his friend Turbidity, and she had wacked him, which would upset not only Turbidity, but also the important scum in the River Council who were betting on Kamysh. She couldn't find peace on the river and had no one to turn to. Who would need her without half of her weak gift, without a crew and patronage? She'd be lucky if they put her in a collar or under an agreement that she'd be no different from the collar, but she might get her back. Whoever her savior was, even if he was a spy of the Duke de Dantrel, it doesn't matter when her life was on the line? A life that would be better than she could have now, when she was sailing on her own.

An hour later she was already watching the town from the window of a small craftsman's house, which was open for the night. She had closed it, of course. Everyone in it was sleeping so soundly that they hadn't heard her coming. She watched the fire blazing bright and greenish in the flames of the fire that Reed's house had become. After another hour and a half, she vomited forcefully into the latrine, feeling as if her guts were coming out of her mouth, and the vomit was grayish-black in color and with an unpleasantly scarlet foam. After another hour, she watched from the same window as the guards ran and bustled about, as someone's carriage with a coat of arms indistinguishable in the darkness drove by. The voice, which sounded not so much in her head as whispering in her ear, was no longer with her, so there was no one to ask, and she went to sleep, lying down on the empty, somewhat dusty bed in the corner, next to the snoring bortnik. Her life had taught her to sleep to the sound of a man's snoring.

The former river magician woke up at lunchtime the next day, hungry and angry. She ate some of the supplies from the cellar of the craftsmen who had gone to work, while her wife, not noticing her, was sewing some rags. She tried to walk very carefully and not to attract the bewitched woman with unnecessary movements. She waited until the second half of the day, when the sun was already slipping towards sunset, and the villagers and residents of the suburbs who had come to the market began to disperse. The alien magic came again, changing her appearance into some unremarkable man with a sparse mustache and completely mudzaki-fucking bangs, and the same voice gave the order with only one word: “Move out”.

She moved out, braiding her hair into a normal ponytail, not cutting it to its usual length, hiding her voluminous breasts under a harness, joining the crowd and listening to a lot of rumors, most of them about what had happened during the night. There were no witnesses to what had happened inside the mansion. Well. Or she hadn't heard of any in the crowd. Though she had slowed down a few times on purpose. But she did learn that the only survivors in the building were the “painted headless whores” who had been found sleeping in the garden, and that the flames had been going straight up and the garden was completely intact, just a little wilted from the sheer heat. Tahira only raised her eyebrows, not understanding at all what her rescuer was trying to accomplish by saving the slaves and at the same time framing her. It was not hard to guess that one particular painted headless whore would be missed and searched for.

Although.

Stop.

Who knew that Tahira had been taken prisoner and brainwashed? Kamysh kept her inside, wouldn't let her out. He showed her mostly to his neighbors who lived in the same house with him. And the brainiac, who made it, also disappeared together with Reed. Did there remain any survivors who knew about her fate and did not think that she had perished with the rest of the crew of++ Little Flatterer? It was not only Reed and Mutya who lived on Dantra. People might not have appreciated the impudence to take one of their own in a collar. I mean, they wouldn't have told Reed anything, they wouldn't have helped her, but they would have whispered behind his back, and Reed, the fucking bastard, didn't like any negative whispers about himself. Still, though impoverished, deprived of the honor of nobility, but an aristocrat in some generation. Anyway, no one from the upper class gave him a hand for a long time, everyone knew that he was engaged in a frankly low trade, for a nobleman is not allowed. Schirm knew this, and he told her about how Reed was trying not to spoil his fame even more, as if he hoped to return to the upper class.

The thought of Schirm and the way he'd ended made the exhilaration fade. Yes, it was likely that either no one knew about Tahira, or everyone who did know about her had simply disappeared that night. Yes, she is free. She has money and even vague prospects of working for some obscure magician of great power. But all her acquaintances and her family, including her foster father, were also gone. They were hardly even buried properly, just sent to feed the bottom catfish, according to the old river tradition. Tahira left Klyuchevoy with a disgusted mood, and to the last even a little bit hoped that someone would manage to crack her disguise and it would be possible to kill the fuck out of him. But no, the spell had been cast on her properly. It had taken away the gazes and prevented the magician's magic vision from working. She was already much calmer as she measured her steps on the plowed road under the hot sun, listening to her breathing and keeping the other travelers in sight.

Ahead lay a long road and the glorious city of Dantmark, which she had visited more than once, in which it was so dangerous to be alone and without the protection of faithful comrades.

An unknown savior was waiting ahead, who was interested in something in her, and she doubts that he just liked tits, that’s not the situation.

A lot lay ahead of her, but she was ready to face it.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/581529

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP