Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Бубен_2_Пролог

Prologue

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Summary: For months now, you have been struggling to survive in a foreign world, a foreign society, while being a victim of someone else's adventure. The world is still as unwelcoming as ever, the people and non-humans around you constantly try to treat you according to the ancient traditions of Oglaph, and thoughts of home visit you less and less often. You have a magical gift, a completely cheat-like system that allows you to develop and use it as effectively as possible, very good living conditions, and even some prospects for finding loyal allies and comrades-in-arms. And everything seems to be fine, and one could say everything is wonderful, but the web of events continues to entangle you in a dense cocoon.

Only one thing is clear: you need to watch the bells.

From the author: After trying for some time to fill in the text for a couple of dormant projects, I decided not to put the second part of the shamanic adventures on hold for too long. As a last resort, I will try to alternate this text with another one that is still in draft form – a chapter here, a chapter there.

Warnings: This hentai was written with brainwashing and elves, and in some places, two of the three conditions were added – the elves are not yet available to the hero. The warnings are exactly the same as for the first part: the hero is dull, the meaning is zero, the plot is flat, and beautiful girls are brainwashed for erotic purposes. And beautiful girls do the same to the hero. In general, it is better not to read this trash, but if you have already opened it, then know: you have been warned.

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Prologue
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This place was so unremarkable that its unremarkableness could itself have become a distinctive feature, were it not so remarkably unremarkable. It was simply a clearing in the middle of the forest, partially overgrown with bushes, left over from a long-ago fire, with no trace of it to be found here now. In the middle of the clearing lay a moss-covered boulder, almost completely buried in the damp earth. Birds sang, gradually preparing for winter, the autumn sun still warming the soil with its rays, and it would take almost a day to reach the walls of the glorious free city of Morgrave on foot along the road. But there are no roads here, so it will take a lot of time just to get out of this thicket to the nearest country road, trying not to break your legs in the windbreaks.

In the middle of this clearing, the only notable feature was a small fire burning. Nearby, sitting on a boulder that did not look comfortable, was someone wrapped in heavy, loose clothing, very reminiscent of a vagrant looking for a safe place to spend the night. A torn cloak, hands wrapped in rags, a bandana covering the lower part of the face, while the upper part is hidden by the tattered hood of the cloak. The figure roasts mushrooms gathered here on the fire, skewering them on freshly cut raw sticks, and stares at a single point, seemingly asleep. Asleep and unaware of the already almost invisible silhouettes of spirits hiding in the gusts of wind, piercing the clearing and the surrounding forest with a frequent sieve, feeling and groping for any hidden detail, be it a trap, an ambush, a cunning curse, or two dozen explosive amulets under the buttocks of the person sitting there.

These silhouettes come in several layers, unceremoniously and not particularly concealing themselves. Even if some of them are clearly hiding behind the groups on display, they find only emptiness and a lone traveller who continues to fry mushrooms and seems to pay no attention to anything. Of course, the place is remote for lone wanderers, who could easily become food for forest animals or get lost and die of hunger. But you can't help but believe this person is indeed a wanderer. And if they wandered here, then maybe they really did get lost. Following the invisible spirits, who are on the verge of incarnation, come the very material guests. They comb through and scan the surrounding glade with a fine-toothed comb, and a keen ear can hear crunching and rustling, even though many of the seekers are quite skilled at moving unnoticed through forests and other wild areas.

The flash of a combat staff marks the snake that found its final resting place in the hot flames, having very unfortunately under the foot of a nervous fighter. Quiet curses are heard, but nothing more. The main negotiations take place exclusively through amulets, transmitting thoughts rather than voices, or whispers rather than loud cries; there is no need to speak aloud. The culmination of the incomprehensible movements is the emergence of four men onto the clearing, all of them very formidable and openly dangerous, dangerous even in themselves. And being drunk with combat potions to the point of intoxication, with protective and offensive amulets, they are downright deadly. A curious eye might notice that the equipment of all four combined classic wands and amulets of high artifact craftsmanship, with bracelets and talismans of wild magic that looked strange in such a neighborhood. Each of them had several feathers in their hair, sticking out from under their helmets, and on their wide, rune-covered belts hung rabbit tails and ropes woven from herbs. Instead of plaques and coats of arms on their armor, they had fangs and claws tied with rough thread or even sinew.

But the same curious eye could see that the most expensive and deadly part of their equipment was the wild and ridiculous-looking trinkets. Yes, the wands and amulets were expensive, high-quality, and represented the best that money could buy, and not only money. For example, the ridiculous fox tail hanging from the very rear, directly from under the iron skirt, was an anchor for summoning an entity that could fight the entire quartet in their equipment and win. And they had more than one such anchor, each of the four of them. They survey the clearing, feeling the eyes of those who hide themselves in their amulets looking through their eyes, the eyes of the one who equipped them and to whom they remain loyal, even if only as the wife of their master and employer. But they see the same emptiness and even a sleeping vagrant who does not pay any attention to them. With the aura and state of the life forces of an ordinary person, with the spiritual reflection of such a person, with authentic clothing and equipment. Exchanging glances with each other, the four exchange looks, and then the commander signals with his eyes to a subordinate standing nearby to go and check. The latter reveals the sacramental “Why me?” with a single glance, to which he receives a logical answer through a glance: “Because I said so, damn it!” with which he had to silently agree.

"Hey, don't sleep, you'll get robbed! Or you'll shit yourself." He speaks bluntly but without exaggeration, ready at any moment to strike back at a disguised enemy. "What are you doing here? And anyway, get out of here, like, forever."

"I'm not asleep." He answers in a very young voice, by the way, not at all surprised, and his behavior is such that there is less and less doubt that he is not a vagrant at all, just that the scanning amulets of all four turned out to be crap. “Check everything and call the guests, and anyway, move away, you're getting in the way of the cooking process.”

Rerik, nicknamed Crumbs by his friends for that long-ago incident in which he was thrown by the blast wave straight into a pottery shop, smashing its contents to smithereens, was a simple man, yet competent and even professionally savvy. Realizing that his scan was crap and that he had walked a very thin rope stretched across a bottomless abyss, he just silently clenched his buns and, at the same time, checked the bonfire with mushrooms, just in case they weren't mushrooms, but some kind of explosives or bottles with a toxic cloud. After that, he apologized politely in a slightly squeaky voice, stepped back, and showed the commander with his eyes how grateful he was. About ten minutes later, after another wave of scanning magic, this time the classic kind, using amulets and artifacts instead of spirits, the sound of footsteps was heard. These were the footsteps of three individuals who were not very accustomed to walking through the thicket, who were not even trying to hide or disguise their arrival in any way.

"Well, you've really gone into the middle of nowhere!" The youngest of the three spoke first, brushing cobwebs out of her hair and glaring accusingly at the man sitting and roasting mushrooms. "Why are you dressed in rags? Why did you even want to talk here?"

"I am also pleased to see you, Singha." Calmly and without reacting to the blatant violation of etiquette and negotiation rules, the loner responds before the speaker's father can take a deep breath. "Likewise, honourable Urvag and Maega. I have heard much about you, though I have not met you personally."

All three guests involuntarily stare blankly for a few seconds, simply because they cannot comprehend either the appearance of their interlocutor or the fact that they are talking to an ordinary, unremarkable person, a young man even. Whereas they had certainly not come to meet him, which forces the one named Maego to flare up with power, letting a mighty spirit into her body. Her eyes take on vertical pupils and shine with gold, but the best of her invisible servants, who can see through her eyes, see exactly the same thing she does. The original plan for the conversation was somehow imperceptibly and very quickly disrupted, and in the shaman's heart and mind, a quite understandable anger, as she sees it, is brewing.

"I don't see that joy." In your deeds. She squeezes it out very quietly, without shouting or anger, but Urvag, her husband, immediately begins to prepare to hold his wife's hands, knowing full well how deceptive such calmness is and how much more dangerous it is than screaming rage. “You called us. To talk. We came. To this thicket. To talk to you, khao-seran! To you! Not a puppet!”

"Huh? What?" The individual who invited them here asks, sounding somewhat lost and certainly not frightened, and then makes a sound resembling a stifled laugh, which almost infuriates the woman even more, although it would seem that she could hardly be more angry. “Ah, I see. No, I'm not speaking through a resonator, although I was tempted to, I won't hide it. It's just a disguise for my aura, but I'm so used to it that I hardly ever leave the house without it. And sometimes I forget to take it off at home.”

Maega believed him immediately, not because of his heartfelt and disarming audacity, but because he had removed his disguise and revealed his true spirit and will. Maega acknowledged that, in terms of pure aura, she was still slightly stronger, but she was plagued by doubts that she had now been shown everything. These doubts did not prevent her from staring intently at her interlocutor, searching for familiar features, echoes, and images, but finding only emptiness. Whoever her interlocutor was, she did not know him, nor did she know his father or mother; such features cannot be hidden so reliably.

"Well, since we have already demonstrated each other's magical abilities, I suggest we move on to introductions, my dear sir." Urvag, who had been silent until now, interjects, doing so appropriately and gracefully, as befits a negotiator of his level and experience. "I confess that your manner of conducting meetings is somewhat confusing, but I simply cannot resist the desire to thank my daughter's savior in person for a little longer. There is no ambush here, as we have all seen, but conversation is still impossible until we seal our silence about its details with an oath."

Dressed in rags, the savior silently points his finger at the four, who are not going anywhere, conveying the whole question with a single gesture. Urvag just smiled his most sincere smile, behind which hides the steel-strong grin of someone used to expecting meanness and betrayal from anyone at any moment. He spreads his arms as if apologizing, without changing the tone of his smile or allowing even the slightest hint of distrust to creep into his voice.

"Oh, believe me, all four of my companions are personally bound to me by a blood oath, and they have already sworn additional pledges that they will voluntarily deprive themselves of any memory of every second of this meeting and the details of our conversation." He does not add that all four agreed to this not for free, nor does he specify the obvious fact that he will not agree to send them away first, no matter what promises are made.

"All right, then." The loner simply nods, removing twigs with mushrooms from the fire, and then dripping several scarlet drops into the flames, having managed to cut himself at some unknown point. "I will summon the spirits we agreed upon in advance, only them and no one else. We will conclude a pact of silence, and then, then we will talk."

Urvag is tense to the limit, expecting treachery or deceit from any side, any direction. His faithful and beloved wife is also like a taut string, waiting and preparing to respond. But what is most unsettling is the anticipatory and almost triumphant expression on his daughter's face, because Singh seems to be struggling to keep himself from laughing out loud. Urvag de Lomer, the second man in his entire Trading House, who did not become its head mainly because he was not sure whether he could handle such responsibility, never considered himself a man with a working and effective premonition of the future. All his guesses and insights were the result of personal attentiveness, vast experience, and the ability to piece together various small details. But right now, for perhaps the first time in his life, he understood, with stunning clarity, what was to come.

Judging by the satisfied smile on his beloved daughter's face, all the theories and versions that he and Maega had prepared for themselves, all the templates and options, turned out to be worthless. In general, these plans and theories could have been written down on soft, expensive paper and then used to wipe one's ass. And judging by the barely noticeable smile, carefully suppressed, someone who was not Urvag might have missed this hint of expression, discernible even under a rag mask, from the savior of his daughter, who had invited them to talk, but he did not doubt it.

"Well, I begin the invocation, walking in reverse pulsating smoothness and resonating with this very fire." Next came several minutes of descriptions of purely shamanic terms, which Maega understood perfectly, but Urvag did not. “And yes, when we confirm our mutual obligations, I will take the liberty of checking the quality of the memory erasure of your retinue. Not through personal involvement, but through practical advice from a slightly experienced amateur.”

Urvag was not pleased with this clarification, nor was Maega, but they both understood perfectly well that their interlocutor had the right doubt. They doubted him no less. A barely audible throat chant sounded, and the protective spirits of his beloved came at his call, openly shielding them from possible betrayal. The stranger's call also brought spirits, cutting off, freezing, and blocking the area around the clearing. Not being a magician himself, Urvag was equipped with the best amulets, including a sensory tiara-hoop, so he could appreciate the skill on display. This shaman did not simply blur the picture; he blocked the background at some primitive level, confining all the turmoil of magic to the clearing itself, as if turning the usual flow of energy inside out. Urvag, who had already managed to set in motion several intrigues that would help explain things to Duke August's people when they began to look for the reasons and traces of such a large-scale ritual, suddenly realized that he might not have to explain anything at all. Simply because no one would ask, no one would notice anything.

A whole herd of cold drops ran down her back, barely noticeable to anyone except her loving husband, who knew his wife perfectly well, and Maega shuddered. The skill demonstrated was in itself a broad gesture, the broadest even. There have always been very few specialists in such a sensitive subject as concealing large-scale magical rituals. Such knowledge was never advertised, and those who possessed it were extremely reluctant to demonstrate their knowledge in front of strangers. Morion de Mont Ros, head of Duke Augustus' secret guard and his distant relative, would have given a great deal for a description and detailed instructions on creating such a protective circle, which covered a large part of the forest and all secondary ritual activities from possible observation. You can't help but realize that their partner is also taking a risk and betting a lot on this meeting... and you also realize that his secrets may prove to be truly insurmountable even for such big fish as the venerable de Lomer.

And spirits howled, the air seethed, and magic poured from the mouths and bodies of those who spoke with the spirits. Several times, they almost broke down, attacking each other, the tension was so high that it could have been strung on a lute instead of strings. If it weren't for Singha, who seemed to know not only her parents but also her savior very well, sometimes predicting disaster well in advance, the deal would have fallen through. Urvag even felt a pang of fatherly pride that his daughter had not only immersed herself in the affairs and science of the future khao-seahar, but had also learned his craft, at least superficially. She managed to smooth over the conflict situation in the front-line negotiations, despite the high level of mutual distrust, as if following the textbook of the venerable Emeret de Forisande, in an exemplary and demonstrative manner.

And, after several very long hours, the agreement was concluded, oaths were sworn, and the insanely powerful fear-mongering entity summoned by their new partner was successfully invoked, nearly breaking through the blockade suppressing magical disturbances and causing Maegu to become extremely nervous. Judging by what Urvag could understand, even Singhф's most detailed descriptions could not fully convey the depth of the strangeness, power, and danger of that spirit, or khao, which this individual had managed to summon with such ease, as if he did something like this every moon. On the other hand, considering the rumors gathered in Dantmark, his mocking assumption may turn out to be quite true. Who else but someone capable of fending off several higher demons at once would summon such creatures?

But no matter how much his nerves and endurance were strained in the hours before the solemn oath was taken, to which all the invisible servants summoned by Maega added their strength. Although Urvag did not understand why his partner did not want to reinforce the general oath with the small altar-relic of Damokar. The true limit of that endurance had to be demonstrated later. When the oaths were taken, his daughter's savior confirmed aloud the lifting of the ban on Singha's disclosure of information. To be honest, Urvag expected a lot, almost anything, but he was still extremely surprised and even shocked.

And who wouldn't be?

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"Ah-ha-ha-ha! U-u-u-u-h, you big-eared pest! You are so beautiful, you forest bitch, so beautiful!" Urvag burst out laughing again against his will, prompted not only by genuine merriment but also by a bottle and a half of very strong island rum, drunk almost in one go, ignoring the threat of either intoxication or simply a wildly painful hangover. “And she didn't lie, not a single word, not a single syllable, oh, so hilarious! So beautifully, oh, so beautifully she fooled everyone, huh? Simply magnificent, simply my sincere, ha-ha-ha, respect!"

Maega, in response to another bout of merriment from her husband, who was gradually and imperceptibly becoming intoxicated, merely glanced at him irritably, repeatedly suppressing her own smile. She was not a merchant by nature or upbringing, but even so, she appreciated Les's intrigue and the outstanding play of words and innuendo in their performance. After all, trade, high diplomacy, and shamanic rituals have a lot in common because both are essentially attempts to get as much as possible while paying as little as possible, and ideally, to get paid extra on top of that.

However, her husband's cheerfulness did not prevent her from communicating with her daughter in detail and very intensely, constantly breaking into another cry, but each time pulling herself together. Well, yes, it's hard not to break down when the oath she had taken opened up the possibility of sharing even more examples of how her daughter could have died in a particularly horrible way. Or, even worse, not die.

The thread of their conversation, which was constantly interrupted by a series of joint meditations and exchanges of images, Urvag lost sight of after about the first glass and could not find it. Although he understood certain moments, of course, and was also impressed, albeit more restrainedly. His daughter had become not just stronger, but so much stronger that it was somehow uncomfortable, because she was now just a step away from the title of another master, or chao-seahar, and the prospects were such that he had every chance of becoming the father of a full-fledged magister of steppe shamanism in the very near future. Or the husband of an archmage. Turned out to be not at all who they thought he was, Pann agreed in principle to share his Tablet not only with his daughter but with her mother too. The question of payment remained, and, of course, trust, because they still had to check once again whether the divided Tablet of the Soul would affect the will of his own daughter.

Meanwhile, while Maega once again argues with her daughter about which two of the listed terrifyingly powerful khaos should become their family contract due to the expenditure of a certain “drop of talent,” as well as which of the available specializations Singh will bring to a level comparable to her mastery of working with the steppe winds, all he could do was drink. And, of course, laugh. Because success. Even though it was a risk to his daughter's life and soul, she managed to get out of it, even though she got into terrible trouble herself. And not just get out of it! Such an acquaintance and such a chance... Urvag knew perfectly well that sometimes the most amazing and profitable trade contracts, which determined the House's path for many decades, could be concluded under the most unexpected conditions.

The great-great-great-grandfather of the current head managed to break into the high-quality steel trade solely because he met his future partner in a gay brothel! Neither of the two acquaintances was homosexual and ended up there purely by accident. He himself would not have believed it, but they later swore before their wives at the altar that they had really entered the wrong door and were not looking for forbidden pleasures. Or the story of his aunt's distant relative, who saved a random merchant from being robbed, and he died in her guard's arms, only asking her to deliver a box to an address. She did so, knowing that the address was the location of one of the Duke's secret guard nests. The result was several extremely lucrative contracts from the family of August de Mont Ros. And a mandatory check by their family mentalist, under oath, that he would not look at anything unnecessary and would not leave anything of his own in the mind of the person being checked, of course. The duke's wolves were very afraid that a relative might have looked at the contents of the box.

"Dear! Urvag! I understand everything, I find it funny too! Very funny. And I laughed with you! The first few times!" Maega's sharp and broken tone spoke better than anything else about how tense and agitated she was, because in normal circumstances, the wife knew how to express herself in a way that would be the envy of many rhetoricians... Another thing was that she herself was almost always very emotional and saw no reason to change her manner of speech. “Stop distracting me, or at least cover yourself with silence! We're talking about something important! Really important!”

"I understand everything, dear? It's just... it's just complete erkmonteshagel!" He couldn't resist using strong language, earning himself an even more severe look from Maega, who had already made concessions to him, trying from time to time to briefly explain in “the language of the ungifted” everything they had discussed, and even questioning his daughter here, in the secret negotiations room, rather than in his “white house,” where he is not allowed to go. “Well, she's really good, that big-eared bitch! Ugh! We should bring her to our Negotiations Wing...”

"Whom?" She asks, slightly puzzled and even with a hint of amusement, while he realizes the significance of his inadvertent remark. "I doubt there is anything that could buy the skill of Sivila. Furthermore, you are intoxicated, my husband."

The soft, warm, enveloping breeze seemed to cool his heated mind, calming him and restoring clarity of thought even through the protective amulets. They deliberately left each other a loophole in case they had to cover for each other — a classic combat unit pairing, but for only two people, because after careful consideration, they decided not to include Singha in the chain. Distrust was poisonous and simply painful for a loving father, but Urvag was used to enduring even greater moral torment. Fortunately, none of his fears were confirmed, although the checks would now go through a new cycle, but it was better to be a fussy, overcautious person than a calm and confident corpse. Or a brainless puppet dancing to its master's tune.

"Thank you, dear, I really did go too far. Emotions, you know, I couldn't help myself." Nodding and bowing his head slightly, without getting up from his chair, he received the same nod in response, for both were too emotionally drained to argue and make up, too much had fallen on them. "I'll leave you to discuss your secret matters, or move to your yurt if that's more convenient. But I want a brief summary... of everything. Including the possibility of extending this Tablet to you. They don't offer something like this for free or for good relations. And what the venerable one has already offered us, so that... only good things would follow him, Pann, they don't offer that for free, and they won't offer it for money, even a lot of money. Let me believe, it would be very difficult to lie to him under such oaths, that he rewarded Singha for her help in a battle worse than death. Let him. But for the same gift to you, my beloved, he will demand three, six, ten skins from us, and still sell us short. So that he sells us short, and we don't overpay... well, let's discuss it together, shall we?"

His wife's smile was truly sincere and loving. She understood everything that was left unsaid, understood that her husband was ready to bargain down to the last penny for her sake and for what Skrizhal could give her, and, if necessary, get himself into debt up to his ears again, as he had done when he paid her relatives an enormous and impossibly arrogant dowry. He sincerely surprised both of them and her by overcoming any greed and considering their relationship far more valuable than anything he could get for the “gifts” he had spent. Yes, that's right. She wanted the same thing she had received, and now she boasted about it to her beloved daughter and heiress. She wanted it, but she understood that in many ways her desire depended on her husband's consent. It was unlikely that Pann, the mighty chao-seran, already practically a chao-seyarat, would take the debt only from her, but not from her husband and everything he could take from the House of Commerce de Lomer. And the thought that her husband and beloved immediately and unconditionally supported her warmed her heart like a warm hearth in the middle of the cold steppe wind.

But Singha struggled to hold back another doomed sigh, catching the unspoken hints and exchanges of glances between her parents. Knowing them both well, and having gotten to know her companion quite well, whom she would very much like to call a friend and, perhaps, something more... She was very pleased with her quick wit. Because she had to literally force Pann to agree, convincing him time and time again not to even think about hinting at giving away the gift of the Tablets for nothing. Well, not quite for free, but what Pann had originally planned to receive would have been given to him anyway, simply for saving her life, as well as for the cloak stored next to the hearth of the White Yurt, which had been given to her as a gift. It's not that she was against sharing the burden and dignity of the Tablets with her mother, no, of course not! She would have been only too happy to do so!

But if Pann had made his original offer right away, her mother would have attacked him on the spot. There are no such offers; such gifts are not given so easily, which means there must be some kind of trickery, some kind of terrible catch. At best, her mother's suspicion could have been kept at bay, but then they would have parted ways, and she would have had to spend a long time trying to melt the ice of mutual distrust between all the participants in that conversation in the clearing, lost in the forest. At moments like these, when Pann showed himself to be such an unreasonable fool, she wanted to scream. She would have explained, but he simply couldn't understand how much he was actually offering, how valuable his Tablet was, and how priceless the gifts of his ilash-лhao-tar were.

Well, now Pann will have Singha. She will prompt and explain.

So that her savior and her parents don’t kill each other, like in the bad story.

Maybe.

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Death can come for you in many different ways; no one disputes that fact. And it can come in many different ways. Some wait for death for months, chewing on gruel in the death row cell, others beg for it from the executioners who stretch their veins on the rack, and others bring it upon themselves, gnawing through their veins so as not to end up in the ore mines, where life is such that a quick death is much preferable. But most often, death comes to those who live on the streets of Dantmark and walk under the thumb of Lortan, fucking suddenly and extremely quickly. For example, you're still walking, smiling, scaring all kinds of people and groping girls when you get the chance, satisfied and so fucking awesome that you're simply the terror of the alleys. Everything is fine with you, everything is great, you don't owe anyone any money, you successfully picked up a prostitute and fucked her for free, skipping out on the payment, and you just had a good day.

And then, at the next step through the familiar alley, which you know inside out, where there is simply nowhere to hide from the thugs of a rival gang, where there is nowhere even to stumble... you take a wrong step. It's as if the world is flashing, as if you've snorted powder from special cones or chewed black grass in a thick lump for too long. You were walking through one alley, and now you're standing in the middle of another, also familiar, but definitely not the one you were walking through. Its a very quiet and very smelly alley, where they pour out the slop in the evenings, not giving a damn about city regulations, it's a slum, for fuck's sake, not a posh neighborhood. And it would be fine if you just wandered where you weren't supposed to go, but you really chewed the grass, night brother, and sometimes you had enough silver for powder if the season was good. But here, standing with you in this deaf alley, a little to the side so as not to get your boots dirty with shit, is a vaguely familiar girl.

"What the fuck? You, what's your name, Yula, or something, from the grass fry, huh?" There's no fear, just because you still have to think of it to be scared, and the situation doesn't encourage fear. It's not the first time he's caught a high on the move, and it's not a small and sickly girl he's afraid of, with a knife he's always like an extension of his hand, and now he's already bared the blade and won't let any punks near him. "They already buried you, weed, and you, that means, went on the run, huh? Stupid whore, and you'll be thrown into the four corners for such words..."

"Your boots, you asshole, are a little worn out." She interrupts him in a tired and detached tone, an unpleasant tone. A trash shouldn't talk to her older brother like that, she just shouldn't, if she wants to live. “Four years now, and you haven't changed them. They're good stuff, almost no repairs needed. Do you even remember who you took them from?”

Cork, nicknamed Bagrom for his ability to deftly grab a passing delivery girl by her most intimate parts and pull her onto his lap without asking permission, just cracked his neck, turning it left and right. It was a threatening gesture and, as those who were friends with him knew, it foreshadowed a bloody mess and corpses with their guts spilling out. Not too tall, thin and wiry, with no bulging muscles, Cork was a better knife fighter than most, having put more than one talkative scoundrel in the ground even before he came to Dantmark. And in Dantmark, he didn't put talkative people in the ground, but in the river, well, according to city tradition. He himself didn't give a damn whose boots he had taken, vaguely remembering some youngster who was not very old, but whose feet were almost exactly the same size as his. Bagor was as happy as a little child — with his feet, he could only buy men's shoes to order, and wearing women's shoes was a no-no!

"Hey, you fucking coughing bitch, you want to ask about the fucker?" Memory, like the rusty rim of a long-unused well, gradually adds colour to the picture, allowing him to remember not only the pockmarked face of the little fucker, but also that some little girl was fluttering around the broken boy. This one, probably. And the stupid bitch decided that before running away, without fulfilling her debt to Boss, she needed to pay off her debts. She should have stabbed him in the liver while Cork was drugged, not seeing where he was going, but no, the fool decided to talk, to explain the debt. Well, he'll explain how to properly cut up all kinds of faggots. She's clean, her clothes are in good condition, her face is healthy, she can be fucked before the kill, if only he could find a clean corner in this alley so as not to smear his bare ass in the slop. "So go ahead, ask, I'll listen. Well, while you can still talk, because later I'll find something to do with your tongue, pull it out..."

The girl couldn't keep her face. She grimaced with rage. Bagor loves this business, he respects it, he really likes it when all kinds of scum look at him like that, but he likes it even more when he sees their faces covered in tears, bloody snot and blue, foam-covered lips when he cuts their throats. The girl reached for her belt, for her knife, but who would let her? Cork moves like that mechanism. Every movement is measured and precise; he is good in battle and has never been shy about showing it. A step, a lunge, and a jab with the blade at the face, then immediately stepping back to avoid an accidental blow. He was very surprised not only that by some miracle he had not reached the bitch's face, but also that she had struck herself — and hit him! From a small scratch on his shoulder, damn, he was more concerned about his shirt than his skin, began to feel an unpleasant chill.

Poison! You filthy scum, you worthless whore! He immediately lost the desire to play, remembering that he had a small bottle in my belt specifically for such situations, which should help, at least enough to get to a doctor. But first, he had to deal with the whore, and Bagor began to finish the job. A step, a swing, a lunge, a full-body strike, a retreat! Some might even call this style beautiful, but it was neither a style nor beautiful, no. It was just pure experience of slaughter in the back alleys, which one of Grass's trusted elders and personal cutthroat had plenty of. He would have killed the girl, he would have killed a healthy man. He had emerged victorious in battle against experienced bastards more than once, even when it was one against two. Only the girl was no ordinary whore, no, with growing horror, Cork realised that he was fighting a fucking witch! A fucking witch!

Each of her steps was somehow wider than two or even three of his! The bitch managed to get close, scratch his body and step away from the dagger strike in one step, and there was simply no way to block it. No, Cork didn't give up; he spat on his pride and pulled out a knife and a full-fledged short cleaver, the kind they only take out during real fighting. He tried to catch her off guard, once even forcing the bitch to jump on his knife with her liver. But he still couldn't keep up, couldn't reach her, and his reliable and deadly blow to the liver seemed to slide along her body, somehow sticking into the iron cuff of the nimble bitch! It was as if the distance to the cuff was closer than to the bitch's guts, although that simply couldn't be the case.

And the bitch kept scratching him, not deeply and almost gently, but each scratch sent a chill through him, slowing him down, stealing his strength, killing his agility and dexterity, which his small and sharp brother of the night was rightly proud of. With a cry of unhidden horror, he screams, calls for help, shouts for help, so that at least someone will come running, since his voice is familiar, and his people must be nearby too. Only the girl is silent and does not even grimace, only blood drips from her left nostril, and her pupils are dilated as if she, not Cork, had been chewing grass. Bagor wheezes, no longer even screaming, but to his credit, he never asked for mercy — not out of pride, but simply because he understood, seeing it in their eyes, that it was useless to ask anything of those who looked at him that way. Fear and horror replaced his enthusiasm, and he lacked the will to drive them away, and he lacked the strength too — falling onto the vomit-covered, garbage-strewn mud, all he could do was wheeze, barely breathing.

"His name was Chamg, you rotten bastard." Indifferently and very wearily, breathing like a pickpocket hunted down by cops, wondering which hand would be chopped off next, the witchy bitch spoke, looking straight into Kork Bagor's eyes, bulging with horror. "He was three years older than me, he was the only one I trusted, you piece of shit, he bought us, the grass kids, a fucking strawberry pie for Wheat Festival with his last pennies, and we wanted to give him a new belt for the Ice Festival. The old one was completely worn out, and his trousers were falling down. I tried sugar strawberries for the first time with him, do you hear me, you bastard!? He should have lived, lived, and lived! And you killed him, broke his legs and arms for fucking boots!!! He burned up with fever afterwards!!! He burned up right before my eyes, you bitch!!! He didn't live four nights until the Ice Festival, so I could take him to a real doctor!!! Four nights!!! You always had coins, like... like a rich man! You always had enough silver! You just wanted to show off, you fucking bitch, you fucking bitch, you fucking bitch!"

Her indifference vanished, her words became slurred, choked with long-held tears that dripped onto the limp, twitching Cork, and then Yula calmed down a little. She leaned over her victim, straining her whole body, unexpectedly and unladylike strong, and turned the night brother onto his stomach. Slowly, with effort, she dragged him into the deepest puddle of vomit and dipped his whole body into it. Cork almost choked on his own vomit from the stench, twitching with all his remaining strength, but only diving deeper into the filth. Into the garbage shit that clogged his eyes, nostrils, and throat, preventing him from breathing, preventing him from pushing out his vomit. The stench, the disgusting suffocation, the strength that would not return to his limbs, which twitched and jerked but could not help him get out, only allowing him to breathe for a moment and cough up the filth that had filled his mouth.

It did not subside quickly; the sun, still at its zenith, had almost reached the sunset phase, threatening the arrival of those who would drag the slop here. But even then, when Сork Bagor's last breath had left him, Yula continued to stare at his corpse, which had been defiled posthumously, choking on her tears and anger. Only the approaching deadline forced her to move — to remove the amulets stuck to the walls of the alley, which blocked out any cries, wipe away the remains of the magical pattern, and crush the burnt artifact into dust, which had helped drag the bull going about his business right here, enhancing her ability to “control positioning” without straining herself in the process. The steel bracelets chilled her hands, digging into her flesh like tiny needles and reaching all the way to her bones. The strange and terrifying iron in them drew divine malice from her blood, removing the heat of the curse, but taking a toll in the form of intense pain.

Who cares, it's not worth being stingy! She would have paid more for this day, for this hour, but to her pain, having lived her whole life as if with salt and dirt in her veins, she would not have to get used to the naked flesh sprinkled inside her. The main thing is to endure. The alchemical potions given to her, at a price that still made her heart race slightly at the thought of it, helped a lot, but they had to be taken according to a strict skhedule. That is, a schedule. A schedule, that is. The schedule is designed so that she can treat herself with potions immediately after training, but there is no reserve for this debauchery. And it's not even that there is no reserve, because there is, her teacher bought a large supply just to be on the safe side, it's just that she cannot take that much. It would be harmful, like overdosing on herbs, and not a pleasant haze, but a harsh snuff powder, from which all kinds of assholes die now and then.

Having somehow covered up the traces of the ritual and hopelessly stained her boots and clothes, she would have to wash them herself, not give them to the servants, because they would certainly would clean everything up, but they served not her, but the bloodsucker, and she served the mentor, who knew nothing of her disgrace. She leaned against the wall, struggling to keep from sliding down it. Before her eyes, or rather, under her eyes, as if from inside her head, letters and symbols flashed, but she drove them away. Not here, or she would definitely fall. Fatigue and emptiness in the reserve of magic, along with the excruciating pain of the curse, which was compounded by the even greater pain of the bracelets that consumed that curse. She can barely stand. If she lets up, she'll collapse right there, next to the degenerate choking on his vomit. It would be a shame to die like this, but she would only have herself to blame. She shouldn't have waited for her mentor Pann to leave for Morgrave to settle her accounts.

She felt most stupid when she realised the simple truth – if she had said a word, just asked, her mentor Kork, nicknamed Bagor by his friends, would have turned him inside out, literally, leaving him alive, breathing, and fully conscious! She had managed to study him, to understand, albeit only a little, how he thought and acted. He wouldn't have refused her, not because it was a trifle for him, but simply because it was bullshit. But she didn't ask, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Things like that... you have to do them yourself, settle old debts yourself, otherwise she would have lost respect for herself. Somehow peeling herself off the wall, she slowly made her way to the exit of the alley, a piece of expensive fabric, which was a fucking waste to use as a handkerchief, wiping the most noticeable stains and smears of slop from her clothes and boots.

Then she splashed herself with a colourless liquid from another bottle, removing most of the smell, and, wrapping herself in a battered raincoat, hiding her decent clothes underneath it, she trudged away. She was staggering, and had to force herself not to stumble, otherwise it would be truly shameful if she were to fall prey to some robber or even slave traders. No, she walked steadily, slowly, and purposefully, as if she had every right to be there. In fact, she had really screwed up in front of her elders by running off into the sunset without even saying goodbye. Formally, she had no debts, and she didn't let them hang that on her, even though they tried to convince her that her brothers had paid for her healing. But it's one thing not to have any formal debts, and another to simply disappear without warning, and then suddenly turn up in the same city and neighbourhood. Questions will be asked, and they will be asked in such an unpleasant tone that you'd better fucking answer them.

She reached the Dantra piers late in the evening, arriving at the boat piers rather than the ship piers. There were no fishing boats here, only old, blackened planks and logs. This little pier was often called the funeral pier, because it had a deep whirlpool and a very strong current that carried away the bodies of those who had committed offences or simply died during not-so-legal activities of tramps, poor townspeople, and, of course, night brothers. In cases where no one wants to answer questions about why this particular idiot died, and who is responsible for it. Therefore, no one is particularly surprised that here, at times, there are silent and gloomy figures, or whole groups of silent and unsociable individuals. One small figure in a worn raincoat, sitting on a crooked pier and throwing pebbles into the water, surprised no one. When the day ended and night fell, even these random passers-by disappeared.

The place wasn't exactly holy or sacred, but it was considered a no-go zone, where it was dangerous to rob or even ask for directions to a particular neighbourhood, workshop, or street from those who sat there. Even in the middle of the night. No, sometimes people who sat there were cut down and thrown into the same pit, but that was almost lawlessness and was very frowned upon. When she goes back, there will be problems, because the sharp-eyed assholes who noticed her have probably already whispered to someone, but she has two amulets with her to ward off evil eyes, and they are high-quality amulets that are beyond her means. And another amulet for the most extreme case would help her find the door to the underground shelter in any alley, if there was no sunlight there. But that was only for the most extreme case. She didn't want to bother her mentor and show him that she had some problems here. She was already tired, overworked, and tomorrow's training would start with her feeling sick, sleep-deprived, tired, and a little unhappy.

She sincerely did not want to disturb her mentor, Pann, but unfortunately, he disturbed himself. At the last moment, she noticed a figure wrapped in an almost identical tattered cloak sitting next to her on the pier. When necessary, Pann knew how to move as quietly as a cat without using magic, and now, shivering and lost in thought, she could have failed to notice a marching guard unit, let alone a single visitor. Yula didn't even flinch. She was too tired and cold, and she was weighed down by a gloomy mood, thoughts of the past, memories of her elder brother Chamg, who had sailed from this very pier on his final journey. He could have been buried simply; there was no money, not even a coin, but she would have borrowed or even sold herself. They would have lent her that amount, it wasn't money for a doctor... but Chamg loved to swim, he loved Dantra, even in winter, sometimes diving into the icy water. It seemed right to her, to all of them, the grass sorter, to send the elder on his final journey in this way.

"I didn't think you'd be back so soon, mentor." She used to flinch every time she spoke to Panno like that, almost as if he were her equal, but she gradually got used to it, and Panno himself didn't give a damn about manners as long as you spoke respectfully and without arrogance. "I am ready to accept any punishment."

Her voice did not waver, although she was tempted to ask him not to punish her too severely... but she would ask the boss or the elder she had offended, whereas Pann was her mentor, not just a boss. She wanted to believe that he felt the same way; she wanted to believe it. Pann was silent, throwing small pebbles into the water in that special froggy way that children entertain themselves with, creating pancakes on the water. Late autumn, cold and frosty, had not yet covered the river with ice, so the ‘frogs’ turned out long, about ten circles each time.

"What's there to wait for? It took a long time to deliver the beacons, but travelling to them, talking, and returning was much quicker." Calmly and without threat, more with weary interest, asks the one who changed her life before and after. "I struggled longer with the disguise, but Lady de Fel seems to be offended at me for something, and now there's nowhere in the city to arrange a spatial breakthrough without getting caught in the surveillance field. Even from my favourite hideout, it's impossible to break through... or rather, impossible to break through without being detected. I even had to spend a point from my contract with the higher spirit on a specialist in invisible movement... Do you know why I'm angry with you?"

"For not saying anything." She really felt ashamed, but more because she didn't regret what she had done, because Yula clearly understood and realised the simple truth that she should have done everything herself, with her own hands. "For not asking permission."

A sad and slightly weary smile, full of a different kind of fatigue, not like hers, but also melancholic and incredibly unpleasant. It's a bummer, but what else can you say? What's the point of justifying herself to someone who, in his own words, reads her like a book without even trying to get inside her head? Or an obscene inscription on the wall, to be more precise. She expected anything, but instead of quite specific accusations of quite specific and unfounded mistakes, Pann just shakes his head with slight disappointment, not even condemnation.

"Oh my God, everyone has their quirks and their debts, which need to be paid off whenever possible." He's not exactly having fun, but rather looks like he's remembering something of his own that isn't particularly pleasant. "I'm angry because you messed up cleaning up the traces."

She was honestly prepared for a lot, but not for this, so she widened her eyes and was genuinely amazed, just like a little child when you show them a trick with pulling off a finger. Seeing her confusion, Pann just nodded to himself and then continued as if nothing had happened.

"So your punishment will be training in espionage skills, if the system does not reward you for closing the gestalt, and Sylvia will be your trainer." Seeing her fierce reluctance to train in the company of the most important bloodsucking bitch, he just laughs, clearly enjoying the effect. "Seriously, though, the situation itself wouldn't be particularly dangerous. Except that your blood enemy was killed in a strange way. Not with a stab to the liver, not with a lethal dose of poison, or even his favourite vice, but strangely. And everything strange in the city is under special control these days, and not just by the duke's secret guard. The ritual circle is only partially concealed, the corpse of the murdered man has not been treated with anti-necromantic agents to prevent interrogation, and you didn't have enough consumables for the battle. You barely crawled out of there, and now you'll be tormented by your bracelets until morning."

Then they began to methodically and systematically criticise her, and she couldn't even feel annoyed. The mentor didn't mention her right to revenge at all and didn't demand any apologies, as if such a huge mistake on her part was normal for him. But he kept pouring shit bucket after bucket on how badly Yula had handled the whole thing, how many ways even simple guards could have caught her, how easily she could have framed herself, her mentor, and even that bitch Malter, how, how, how... In the end, she wanted to dive into the river out of shame, and there was nothing she could say in her defence. She had decided to return the blood herself, so she had to clean up her own mess. Otherwise, she, the fool who had gotten carried away, reached the sixth level, and thought herself a fucking sorceress, managed to kick her long-time and hated enemy in the teeth. And cleaning up after herself... judging by her explanations, her attempts to do everything quietly and unnoticed only drew more attention to her revenge.

"Lemira was watching you. She wasn't doing it on my orders. You were just being so discreet in your preparations that she immediately suspected something was wrong and almost thought you had switched sides and betrayed us all." At these words, she found the audacity to be indignant and glare back, but immediately backed down, realising that from her perspective, that's exactly how her preparations looked. "First of all, you didn't get enough supplies. Yes, you don't have a system store yet, but you have full access to Malter's resources. You could and should have just gone and taken them; they would have armed you and said nothing. Second, cleaning up the traces... we raised this issue too fragmentarily, and your knowledge does not really touch on this topic. Yes, yes, you didn't use strong active magic, and the hook-teleport was tied to a set of amulets, which absorbed most of the traces themselves, but still..."

The scolding does not extend beyond her ears; she observes the fluctuating veils of spirits and conspiracies, which simply block out everything that is said and seem to consume these words as soon as they are heard. However, she, who sees caution even in such trivial matters, feels even more ashamed of her attempts to be inconspicuous. She thought, she believed that she had managed to pull it off unnoticed! She asked her mentor for some specific teaching aids, since she was really working with these amulets, which had been lying around in a bloodsucker's closet for half a century, quietly left the Malter estate, waited until she was fully occupied, prepared the battlefield, since she knows and remembers the area very well, and then covered her tracks. She was ashamed to the point of madness and wanted to kick her past self in the ass! She was even more ashamed because her plans were obviously known in advance, but no one interfered, only hearing her say once: ‘This is mine, mentor, for me alone.’

She fell asleep, transported directly from the pier by magic, completely exhausted, both mentally and physically. Her mentor may have restored her somewhat with his potions, but she had overexerted herself. Now she would have two days to reflect on her behaviour while studying boring and even non-magical books, as she would be unable to perform magic. Well, if she didn't want to whine again about the salt and dirt rubbed into her skin, afraid to fall asleep because she might not wake up. She knew she already understood that frequent use of alchemy was dangerous and could cause serious damage to her insides. But she wasn't aware of how intense her training regime was. Even straying slightly from that regime, she had caused herself so much harm that it cost a small fortune to treat her. Yula roughly calculated, based on the limited knowledge she had in her head at the time, the cost of her blunder in coins, and she almost died again, this time from greed.

All she could do was blush, lower her eyes like a young bitch from a shopkeeper or craftsman's family who had brought a child of unknown parentage in her skirt, and silently swallow another portion of body-cleansing shit. To be honest, that's exactly what it tasted like. And if it had been a form of punishment, she would have smoked it and answered for it, but no, they had already stuffed so many useful things into that alchemy that there was no room left in the stable formula for flavour suppressants. Pann looked at her, pale green like a half-goblin, with a sympathetic gaze, but could only help with a kind word. At least the scolding was over, and only because she was already too stupid to think straight, remembering only the last sentence: ‘Shaking up the regime is an important and noble cause, but not when it comes to the regime of taking medication. There was clearly some kind of joke behind this, but she passed out before she could bring herself to ask for an explanation of what was so funny.

And yet she fell asleep, green, hungry, unable to eat, vomiting anyway, trembling from the heat wave... she fell asleep, though not happily, no. But she slept a little more peacefully than before, as if she had thrown off the burden she had been carrying on her shoulders for so long. A burden as heavy as the body of her dead friend and brother, who had replaced her absent father, diving for the last time into the very river he loved so much.

Yula felt bad. It was really shitty, but she never regretted what she had done, sincerely grateful that she was not forced to repent, even verbally. Because there are debts that can only be repaid with your own hands. There are burdens that only you can carry and throw into the murky waters of the Dantra pier.

* * *

In any job, you need to be able to find the right people for the role, to find the line for each of them where they are still competent but cannot do more, keeping them on that line, not letting them get lazy or break under the strain, or make annoying mistakes and blunders. Rivarsil always used this approach, no matter what kind of work he was doing. Although when he was working outside the Forest, he called himself Rustle even in his mind, because that nickname was way closer to him than his real name in many ways. Agent tasks simply depended on this limit of competence more than others. Each cell of the network being created had to be in its own and only its own place. Some were suitable for providing information about criminal activities, while others had to be regularly hampered when they tried too actively to dig into the dirty laundry of the official Trading Houses. Others still need to be prodded with a stiletto in the back, threatening to stab them in the back with that stiletto, so that they actually do their job and don't squander the allowance given to them for operational expenses.

Everyone has their place, their lot, and their purpose – this is the basis, the axiom of planning, without which the creation of stable agent networks becomes simply impossible, especially if the structure has to be built from scratch. This is particularly true when there is a shortage of not only funds and resources, but also simple time. For the entire Heather group in general, and Rustle in particular, it was never a problem to spend five years just creating the basis of the network, a solid foundation for further work. Little by little, figures arrived in the district who were not connected to each other in any way. Merchants, whom everyone always suspects, because they are almost officially agents of information gathering, but they are suspected moderately and strictly of what is necessary. Hiding in their shadows are inconspicuous craftsmen, greedy thieves, and slum dwellers who blend in with the crowd. The new recruits who have joined the guard are not the kind who will shoot the dawn from the sky, but simply efficient and competent, gradually rising through the ranks.

And suddenly it turns out that, unnoticed, there is not a single place, faction, or guild in the Free City that the Forest does not know more about than the ruler of the Free City himself. Of course, such skill and success are not achieved in five years, or even twenty; sometimes he had to work until a new generation of short-lived ones grew up, but Rustle was in no hurry. He was never in a hurry, even in the most intense battles, which, unsurprisingly, occurred sometimes in his life, given his profession. Slowly, gradually, carefully, not hesitating to retreat, to abandon an agent or even a whole chain of them, to shed the lizard's tail and cover his tracks, starting over. Again and again. That was how he liked to work, that was how their whole team preferred to work. Yes, it took a long time, yes, without reckless adventures, such as kidnapping the head of a large House right out of his carriage or a combat operation in the capital of the Theocracy.

But their approach worked just as well – Normgrave, Endoras, Wortmark, even Morgrave, albeit with reservations! It was they who wove those nets, gathered those leaves, and cultivated the grass for their brothers to walk on, whose path led through the clang of swords and the ringing of battle spells. To each his work, to each his path. A petty pickpocket with abnormally keen hearing would not be sent to spy on his own gang, nor would he do so; he would rather tell on him to the Elder — not out of loyalty, but out of cowardice before a cruel bandit. But he would not mind listening to the conversations of the river workers, as he is friends with a couple of them and often spends time near the docks. And he would not mind retelling a couple of such conversations, not even for money, but just for a mug of ale, which he would be treated to by a certain mercenary who had settled in the city after successfully completing a contract. This same mercenary will introduce the pickpocket to a couple of acquaintances, helping him to better understand the nature of his hearing, just like that, as a friend, in exchange for some easy and safe favours in the future.

And so it went, time after time, for each of the characters in their amusing and deadly dangerous game. Bring this one with that one, help that one pay off his debt, and saddle that one with a bigger debt so that he would come for help, finding nowhere else to turn. Lift someone up, hinder someone else, find a warmer place for someone, and strangle someone else with a noose. The fisherman was smart, even though he was an illiterate one-day wonder, but he was naturally intelligent and had an extremely sick imagination. He couldn't guess, had no reason to guess, but immediately suspected that his random drinking companion was either a trampler or a thief. And he couldn't think of anything smarter than to say so directly, and even threaten to shout if he didn't pay him right there. He had to clean it up, marveling at how the ability to successfully notice small details coexists in humans with a complete lack of brains and utter fearlessness.

This is how Heather worked, this is how Rustle worked, and Thread, and Leaf, and Plavunets, and all of them together.

Rustle did not like short-lived beings. He generally considered them useless and too noisy, unnecessary to the Forest or to the world in general. How could one live side by side with those who lived so quickly, burned out so rapidly, striving to leave behind the brightest possible flash? Not noticing, not understanding, or worse, simply not caring how many people would be burned by his last fleeting flame, how many would be hurt by his actions and deeds. He did not hide the rustle of his gaze, nor did he hide the fact that it was formed largely because he understood more than others about short-lived beings Part of his work was always focused on the short-lived beings; he saw them, heard them, and knew them much more deeply and better than they understood themselves. That is why he was successful. He saw and understood. That is why he was able to choose future development projects so successfully and assemble the pieces into a complex system.

Selecting a place for each and every one according to rank and strength.

Sometimes you find real gems in the most unexpected places, and these gems are small, insignificant, and simply strange. For example, a minor clerk always liked working with papers and noticing inconsistencies in them. Now this clerk, still in the same position, receives a substantial bonus from, as he is sure, one of the major grain traders. At the same time, he himself believes that those shadow purchases of certain alchemy and magical amulets were made by the same traders, without even realizing that he accidentally found and uncovered the distribution channel for the operational consumables of the Secret Guard of the Duke de Dantrel himself. Someone is definitely going to get a scolding of truly legendary proportions! How lazy must one be to make purchases so brazenly! Yes, in the name of the First Tree, they hid the false purchase-bait for enemy agents better. Let the unknown fool make such a mistake only once, but the cook noticed it, and Rustle found a useful short-lived one. It's much easier to search further because you already know where exactly and what specifically you are looking for.

Some managed to notice extra numbers in purchases, others were perfectly capable of delivering notes around the city, combining this with their official work as a street seller's assistant, without even hiding from the guards, who themselves gave the boy those notes to carry. Others were simply attentive guards who liked to gossip, not even realizing that they knew and noticed many things that were definitely not their business. Unfortunately, this had to be discarded and removed from the network being formed. If not today, then in a decade, Rustle's human colleagues will eventually catch up with him, either silencing him forever or very clearly explaining where and how he can open his mouth, and what is better to forget right away. Well, or they will recruit him into the secret service, as he is indeed a very attentive individual, a natural agent-detective. This often happens with short-lived ones. If they lack intelligence or talent in one area, they make up for it in another, since only the eternally living can achieve complete perfection in all areas. And even among them, only a few take advantage of this opportunity, while some, and here he is referring to specific individuals, manage to do things that make a short-lived one seem like the pinnacle of professionalism in comparison.

This is the kind of professionalism Rustle is accustomed to seeking in weak and short-lived bodies, squeezing every last drop of potential from that brief spark of eternity allotted to them. So today, calmly and openly, albeit under a false identity, he walks down a busy city street toward one such phenomenon. Noticed and used at the right time. Sunset is approaching, the sun no longer blinds the eyes, the weather was downright magnificent, and the mood of the Secret Forest Guard operative was also good. The work is being done, the acceleration of all tasks, of course, caused inconvenience, but it was within expectations, and the lack of results was a result. Not fast, not immediately, but the places and people with which the unknown gifted wild variety covers his activities will gradually fall into the still rather wide cells of the slowly forming network. And now he is not just taking a walk, but is engaged in the aforementioned formation.

An Eastern Imperial invention, a special type of bell hung above the doors of shops that had been granted their separate premises, rang out with a barely audible and even somewhat pleasant melody. This melody was heard, and from the warehouse came a rustling sound and barely audible curses with a characteristic accent. Some short-lived beings are simply born for a certain task, and the peasant woman who found her way into the city almost by accident was one of them. Gelda, a recently widowed woman who was not too saddened by the loss of her husband and daughter in the battle with the demons, turned out to be uniquely talented at gathering all sorts of rumors from the townspeople, shopkeepers, and other commoners. If Rustle had to swear on the altar of the First Temple of Damokar, he would have done so with a light heart, and the Keeper of Oaths would have accepted his words and found no falsehood in them.

Having successfully settled within the city walls, the peasant woman turned out to be not just a village woman who pampered herself with cosmetics and, obviously, Gaia's blessing, from among the not-so-small ones. She was not only beautiful by the standards of short-lived oneы, especially those who were not of noble birth and came from the plow, but also a beauty among beauties, but also skilled at using her head. The woman's sharp memory, which she simply had no opportunity to develop in her village, seemed to contain a whole abyss of information. Кгыеду knew experienced and proven operatives from among the employees of the Fores who did not possess even half of such intelligence! She was extremely grateful to the owner of the shop, who took her in, who did not chase away the old woman who had lost her breadwinner husband, but she simply did not understand that he was really happy with her ability to conduct business, which brought him considerable profit. The agent was even surprised that the old man did not try to get under Helda's dress, but apparently, he was too old to chase after such even beautiful skirts.

"Oh? Oh, so it's you, Rus, I thought you weren't coming today!" To her, he was of course not an agent or a strange man who paid for rumors, but just another regular customer and a good acquaintance who had helped her a lot and had come in today for herbs for his chronically sore throat, and she shared the rumors on a charitable basis, so to speak. “You won't believe what I found out recently! Did you hear how the knives fell on Copper Boulevard?”

He had heard, and knew from several sources, which artels were fighting there, and he knew the reason for the fight, but Gelda had already managed to find out, in some mysterious way, many small details about the knife fight, which miraculously ended without any deaths. It might seem like a minor detail, but now, knowing the names of the instigators, among whom was one of the sons of the head of the cooperage, it would be possible to put pressure on that head or even on the youngster. Their barrels are delivered to a wide variety of houses, and the group has been unable to deliver the listening amulets to the de Faler representative office for several days now. Or rather, they can, but on their own, not through the newly created network, which is unprofessional, because a normal network of agents should work on its own, only receiving commands, without requiring the presence of the firstborn operatives. But none of Rustle's informants heard or saw how exactly Chperkh Maloy got the knife first!

And the evening was just getting started. Even Shorokh's snobbery couldn't deny that the idea of personally going to Helda for rumors, even if only occasionally, paid off. It would be necessary to discreetly pass on her contact information to someone else from the second row of recruited short-lived ones who were curators of a small operational group. The only question was who, because although the peasant woman did not seem very intelligent, her attentiveness would allow her to see through a second-rate operative in no time. She is only open with the “kind Rus,” since he saved her from a couple of bullies who were harassing her, simply by threatening them with his riverboat captain's hat and a quickly drawn knife. Well, she didn't know that he had sprinkled the bulls' collars with an alchemical mixture that increased aggression, and used a mental targeting amulet to direct the aggression towards the passing Gelda.

But with him, the short-lived one was extremely honest and frank, practically glowing. The classic recruitment through rescue was not just successful, but a resounding success of critical importance! However, he certainly did not expect to fall in love; just an attempt to jump on a handsome man, a candidate for a breadwinner. He moved away from this topic with a few well-chosen phrases and the precise use of the same amulets and alchemy, turning their communication into friendship with a hint of vulgar desire. And Gelda, sharing the secret that one of the incorruptible sergeants of the ducal guard was sleeping with his deputy in a homosexual romance, accidentally walked into that alley and realized in time to get out; otherwise, she would have been killed there for seeing too much, never tired of hinting at her desire.

Leaning on the wooden counter, she almost spilled her plump peasant melons onto it, seemingly unaware that Rustle could already see the edges of her nipples, which were about to fall out into the light of the lamp that had been lit just in time. The door to the shop was already closed, there were no customers, and the bottle of poor-quality wine was almost empty. Rustle had only taken a sip. Geld's drunken laughter grew louder, her rumors more explicit and less meaningful. Mentally acknowledging that he had not gone to his favorite low-level agent in vain, he winked conspiratorially at her, smiling and taking a small, inexpensive-looking box out of his belt bag. This was the fourth time he had taken it out, but Gelda had simply forgotten the previous times. She was useful, very intelligent, and quite perceptive. In a different situation, Rustle would have preferred to do without mental suggestion, nurturing her into a normal agent and assigning her an entire section of the new network. She would never have become someone like the late Sladushka, not from the same stock, but she would have been the perfect informant and collector for her position.

Alas, they are all in a hurry. He have to sacrifice individual gems, not wasting energy on a long search for approaches to a law-abiding woman who would certainly not venture into the thicket of dirty intelligence affairs herself, even if the “kind Rus” asked her to do so, telling her that he is not really a cabotage operator, but, say, works for the Duke de Dantrel or even the much more influential Duke de Mont Ros. She would not betray him, but she would be frightened, nervous, and certainly unable to maintain her disarming carefreeness, with which she managed to talk and bring out the truth from, it seemed, just about anyone. For Rustle, who was accustomed to pure recruitment, any use of mental magic or other means of influencing the target's consciousness was not only a risk of exposure during a random check but also a banal display of unprofessionalism, demonstrating that he, as a specialist, had failed in his task. Alas, Gelda's character and personality traits simply left him no choice.

"And what do you want to show me?" With curiosity sparkling in her eyes, Gelda leaned over the box, and when it opened, she stopped playfully biting her plump lips and opened her mouth in admiration. "Wow... So I get this?"

"Of course, sweetheart!" Rustle says casually, without breaking the river folk's manner of speech, taking out a small and very beautiful pendant in the shape of a small pike fish and waving it in front of her face. "Look how it shines, eh? It's from Morgrave itself! Look how the light plays on it! They say that this stone, though inexpensive, like any other gem, can catch a hundred rays of sunlight, each one different! Try to count them, Gelka! See? Look, look, look how my gift to you sparkles!"

Whether it was the result of head injuries sustained in childhood, or whether Gelda had once been subjected to a love spell or hypnosis, given her appearance and status as a black-footed peasant girl, there was no need to guess why, but each time she fell into a trance quickly and without resistance. However, trust in “Rus” also played a role, as did the wine she drank with a drop of harmless alchemical additive. Rustlw had already assigned Thread the task of checking Gelda for other forms of suggestion, despite the fact that he had used a full set of amulets on her, including those used to detect the “puppets” of a certain Master. Still, it is never worth it to weave even a very talented agent into the network without checking, especially if it turns out that she has already been processed by someone else.

"It shines..." That's all that the plump, kind village slut says in her enchanted voice, leaning heavily on the counter and exposing her already ample boobs to the only spectator. "Thank you... And I, well, wanted you... you..."

In her trance, her rural accent became even more pronounced, making her the very embodiment of what the refined firstborn despised in the short-lived ones — a commoner, a peasant, not stupid, but strikingly narrow-minded, lustful, and ready to sleep with the first man who offered her even the slightest help. Rustle was surprised at himself for staring at these plump village melons, groping and feeling the unresisting woman. But she just laughed a little, moaned, groaned, and seemed ready to finish right in his arms, even though he was just checking her body for hidden tattoos and brands. Actually, he should have done this earlier, but he somehow forgot, and he certainly didn't forget how he had fondled her plump peasant melons more than once.

"Oh! O-o-o-oh! Oh, Sho-o-o-or! Push, push me all the way!" Rustles's moans do not distract him at all as he tries to find the hidden bookmarks in her body with his rod, which, alas, he had to shove into a nasty milking cow with two plump, kind peasant melons. "Yes-yes-yes-yes-oh! Rub me and my peasant milking melons!"

It was truly pleasant to look at the shaking melons of the village fool, just as it was pleasant to slowly rub them with a special oil taken from a bottle hidden under the counter in the same shop. His puppet came loudly and passionately, and if it weren't for the muffling field he had originally applied, they would have woken up half the neighbourhood. But he was in no hurry to spill his seed into the womb of a short-lived, preferring to simply conduct an agentural conversation, since she asked interesting questions, well, when she wasn't moaning like a bad whore. It was easy to answer her questions, as if he had again fallen into the hands of Third, who scrupulously begged for details, so he, not wanting to think about reports at such a moment, completely forgot about her stupid village questions, preferring to drip the never-ending fragrant oil again and again onto his interlocutor's plump village melons, rubbing and rubbing the oil into the trembling object of these manipulations.

Somehow, he found himself lying on his back, listening to her primitive babbling of a stupid short-lived one, then he put her on all fours, taking the woman from behind while she played with his supply of amulets and read correspondence through a communications notebook... By the way, why did he even bring it with him today? It doesn't matter! What was important was that she was lying on her back and Rustle, with a contemptuous grimace, no longer hiding his attitude towards the enchanted Gelda, jerked off with dignity with two plump peasant melons of a good milking cow, until he spilled his elven seed on the stupid face of short-lived one, who was not even worthy of licking his seed up. Okay, he allowed her that, but, not wanting to grant the human rabble such an honor as to quench the fire in her firstborn loins, he began to lazily and slowly bring her to another peak with just his lips and tongue.

The foolish peasant did not understand his kindness, immediately sitting on his face with her very lush, soft, juicy and delicious buttocks, and slowly and even playfully stroking his penis, apparently with her toes. However, this was clearly just his imagination, as he couldn't see anything while he was busy kissing the human womb, because such a thing couldn't be possible! How could he, the firstborn elf, allow a nasty, plump, village slut to play with him in the spirit of ‘young grass,’ only in the role of that very grass? That couldn't be, and therefore it wasn't! With this thought, without covering his partner's feet with streams of unnaturally quickly spilled semen, Rustle seemed to fall asleep. Well, or he plunged into a deep trance, opening his consciousness for correction and modification, but his plump village slut couldn't even pronounce such words, let alone embody them, so he had nothing to fear.

He left the shop only at nightfall, mentally listing everything he had learned from Gelda, finally deciding to promote her to a higher level. Yes, definitely. But something had to be done about her imprinting and fixation on Rustle himself, because she would only gather rumors for him, and no one else. The easiest thing would be to simply change the image of Rustle in her head to the image of whoever says the right key phrase, and then anyone from their group could gather rumors by going to this shop that smelled of herbs, mint, and cherries. Perhaps at the next meeting, he will ask Thread to visit Gelda and properly process the peasant slut according to the specified plan.

She'll manage. For a proven, albeit recent, master of mental magic, it's a job for one session, two or three at most, if the suggestion is carried out as discreetly as possible. And then it will be possible to introduce the rest of the group to this milking fool, let them also look at her talents, understand, and see how easy it really is to jerk off with two milking, plump, kind, stupid peasant melons. Rustle was absolutely and not in the least bit suspiciously confident that it would not hurt any of them to get to know Gelda, see her, and lick her oiled, plump, peasant tits.

To all and everyone.

* * *

The room was bright and cheerful, and it was large, tastefully furnished and yet subtly cosy. After all, the owner of this place tried to provide this cosiness for herself, because who else would love her if not herself? Ursula learned this truth in early childhood and tried to follow it throughout her life. You are not needed by anyone but yourself, and you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. Take care of yourself, protect yourself, keep yourself afloat, and take the blows of fate yourself. Not the most cheerful position, but it prepares you for the realities of life. Judging by what Ursula had managed to achieve, her philosophy was, at the very least, worthy of consideration and had a right to exist. She would not have missed the opportunity to boast about it even now, but, alas, she was too busy, both physically and mentally, to stoop to debates on morality and selfishness.

What was this successful and prosperous cosmetics alchemist, who was close to becoming comparable to small and, of course, non-heraldic Trading Houses, doing? Well, first and foremost, she was squeezing her huge, milky breasts. Just two weeks after giving birth to a charming half-elf boy with a pronounced half-elf bloodline, she increased her already very, very ample breasts by another size, or even one and a half sizes. And so, these milk-filled breasts, udders, tits, watermelons, barrels, rolls, as well as other epithets, she diligently kneaded, shook and tossed them in her palms, watching her actions in the full-length mirror and trying with all her might not to cover her large dark pink nipples for a single second. It was as if there were no other thoughts in her head except ‘shake tits’ and ‘look at nipples,’ as if those two thoughts had simply pushed out all the others, leaving only themselves. One thought for each tit.

The situation was, of course, far from natural, but she was unable to notice it, completely immersed in herself and paying no attention to anything else. She did not notice the quietly sniffling boy named Danir, named after his not entirely willing father, nor the young nurse quietly cooing over him, who herself paid no attention to anything but the child and could not pay attention to anything else, nor the father himself, a pure-blooded elf in a magical collar that was by no means decorative, who was in that collar against his will, having just as involuntarily impregnated the nursing mother of the half-blood child. All because there was another figure next to Ursula, a guest in this house, who had come uninvited, but had come in such a way that it was impossible to object to her in any way. This guest was a young woman, no longer a girl, but noticeably younger than Ursula herself — considering her obviously well-groomed body and skin, she could have been given twenty-seven years old, no more. Very much mistaken in his assumption, of course.

Outwardly, the guest was perfection – snow-white skin, pleasing features, a supple body, a pretty face, and an overall beauty that combined touches of touching innocence with a deep, passionate wickedness. This dichotomy, this combination of innocence and depravity that shone through her appearance, should have alerted a knowledgeable individual. But even more alarming were such insignificant details as the pretty, neat horns on her head, her thin, flexible, hairless tail with a heart-shaped thickening at the end, and her eyes. Her inhumanly mesmerising eyes with cross-shaped pupils, which constantly darted from side to side, as if scanning time and reality around her, sifting through hundreds and hundreds of spectra at once. Eyes that looked with curiosity, excitement, mockery, and passionate desire at something unbearably ancient, terrifying, and not belonging to this world.

The one who was once a demon whistled cheerfully to some catchy tune, kneading Ursula's shoulders and back with a happy smile. Her massage not only gave strength to tired muscles, but also had a stimulating effect on the aura and the whole body at once. A small thing, but a useful one, considering everything the guest had already done to the owner of the premises. Until she gave birth to her half-breed, the precious demoness could not approach her normally. No, nothing was stopping her, but the conditions of the task given by HER, promising another reward, required that the child's life, health, and energy be kept as intact as possible. The promised reward already seemed mundane, but no less desirable for that. The demoness remembered how she would have been willing to turn herself inside out for a tenth of what she would now receive for completing a single task.

So she had to wait, settling in this house and taking on the role of one of the maids, whom she had so successfully managed to hire, until the previous one had successfully married a promising hook-maker from among the cooks, who had recently been cured of an unpleasant curse and had begun to look for a new wife. The work was not burdensome, especially since, after looking into her lovely eyes, anyone was ready to do it on any terms. Even Ursula herself, enthusiastically washing the floors in her bedroom, standing on all fours and dragging not only a rag but also her milky breasts and swollen belly across the wet boards, feeling the rolling ecstasy from each clean board, as if several cocks were pounding each of her holes at once. However, she only did the latter with the ‘mistress’ once. She had to maintain a cocoon of healing magic on her womb throughout the ‘joyful cleaning’ so as not to harm her child.

But as soon as the fat, okay, let's be honest, not fat and not even overweight, just large, pig gave birth, the demoness got to work. Large-scale and complete modification of the aura, body, and mind was nothing new for her, even before she gained recognition from HER, and even more so afterwards. Only here, the modification had to be not only extensive, but also secretive, as inconspicuous as possible, and it had to bear no traces of demonic filth and not disintegrate upon contact with grace. For a demon, even one as powerful as hers, this was an impossible task under normal circumstances, but not for one who had earned a modicum of HER favour. The horned one worked day and night, sometimes bringing Ursula to near full consciousness, sometimes distorting it in various ways, sometimes allowing her to beg for mercy, sometimes forcing her to threaten to hypnotise her with her hypnotic breasts if she was not released.

The latter, incidentally, she is quite capable of accomplishing, and, as the demoness acknowledged, even with herself, if she were to suddenly lose her caution. However, she will not lose it. She is too well aware of what she has done to her victim, what she has transformed her into with her own hands... Well, figuratively speaking, it was obviously not just her hands that were involved. The demoness managed to transform her entire body, aura, and even soul into a single mechanism of aggressive and extremely inconspicuous seduction. She even loaded her mind with numerous separate blocks of knowledge on practical persuasion — an old, dangerous and significant trick for demons, who could bestow the abilities of individual souls in their cluster on those upon whom their evil fell. But this was by no means a symbolic ‘touch of the cluster’; no, she used a new method, previously unknown to her and incomparably more powerful than that of demons. A method that could not be applied without a whole range of modifications to the essence, inaccessible a priori to ordinary, even very powerful, demons.

And she, the one and only, had access to them!

And she used exactly what she used!

The method was called ‘advanced skills of accentuated non-contact transfer of soul matrices,’ allowing the cluster of souls to be used like a huge lantern, and the necessary knowledge of a particular soul to be likened to a pattern cut out of thin paper and superimposed on that lantern. There was no direct contact between the cluster of demons and the aura with the spiritual body of the recipient, only that very light that allowed the necessary contours to appear directly on top of the receiving soul. There were practically no traces. The demoness, well versed in priestly and inquisitorial matters, found it difficult to imagine how such an effect could be detected by scanning prayers against demons, even if one knew about it from the outset. Here, one needs to possess a cluster of demonic knowledge... or take a very creative approach to shamanism, linking it with wild witchcraft, yes.

Her mood soured slightly, then immediately improved: she pulled her sweet Piggy Sula, the offensive tease, out of the merchant's memory, and created the complete behavioural matrix of the ‘Lustful Piggy’ in a fit of inspiration that came rushing in under the pressure of Lust. Now she was capable of turning the aforementioned shaman-spellcaster into a masturbation obssessed boy, which is what he should become, preferably forever. Alas, not forever, but definitely for a couple of months. She carefully studied the terms of their deal, knew what she was doing, what she was allowed to do, and what was strictly forbidden. Yes, Sula-Ursula was good, one of her best creations, even in some respects better than her mother Gelda, who remained in Dantmark, since she was now extremely busy with an opportunity that had presented itself. Because of this opportunity, she had to occupy her body from time to time, solving tasks that were beyond Gelda's capabilities. Nothing mattered except HER wishes and exaltation, except the path to the very top of the endless Staircase.

The demoness looked over her creation once more as it continued to knead and toss its breasts, mesmerising itself with them. The field of will suppression, the skills of seduction, the effects of an ethereal-mental nature tied to her breasts and nipples, thanks to which she could, without even showing her nipples, force the master of magic under standard protection to cum in his pants without realising it, and with their exposure... The unbearable boy, whom she, alas, could no longer call her brother, would surely be impressed to the point of wet and sticky trousers. Alas, she herself had practically no direct control over Sula. The task did not allow it, and the horned one certainly did not want to violate its conditions. There was a certain charm in this too: knowing that day after day, week after week, Ursula would occasionally be tempted to use her seemingly natural tricks, knowledge, and skills. To use them on a cute boy or girl, a man or woman, just for fun.

No benefits, no cunning plans or imposed trade contracts, no, just a ‘joke’, just punishment for sluggishness, for a lewd look, for an insufficiently respectful expression on the face. Or a reward. For that same look, full of desire, for respect and deference shown. Many, many young men in Morgrave, without realising it, will soon become addicted to large-breasted women, as well as to masturbation, spontaneous orgasms, games with stolen women's underwear, eating out pussies, or all of the above. Even the demon herself no longer controls, cannot control, cannot know how and on whom the structure embedded in Ursula, who has become a living artefact, will work. But she originally set it up so that someone would fit the characteristics of those with whom the modest cosmetics alchemist would suddenly want to play.

If the boy is caught... oh, the reward for this is promised to be especially sweet, as well as dangerous. It is important not to go too far, not to let the boy seriously desire to break their contract. However, he will not risk it. He has already believed in her game too much and convinced himself of it; he will not have enough determination, he did not have enough last time, and now even less so. The Horned One did not know when and how Ursula would meet Stepan, whether he would call himself Panno or something else, but she understood roughly that he would move closer to Morgraf. The city was larger here, and he wasn't being sought as eagerly as in Dantmark, where they had both left their mark. What's more, there was an interesting family living here. A mother and daughter, with whom Stepan, if he wasn't completely stupid, would have to make contact. And then, in a month or two years, he would fall into one of her traps, giving her a chance to laugh, enjoy her victory and, of course, another of HER favours.

Patting Ursula on her trembling breast, feeling, even through all her defences and multitasking, the cluster of souls, how she suddenly wanted to continue touching this breast and watching her, the demoness moved away from her creation. Critically assessing the mechanisms she had put in place, she let her consciousness return to a stable state and moved on to the elf wearing a collar. He met her with a look that was both frightened and furious, looking very funny in the Ursula panties worn on his face, while his only movable limb viciously jerked off his stocking-wrapped cock, which had been unable to discharge for an hour now. Of course, there was no pain or chafing, for the horned one had carefully wrapped the poor thing in appropriate healing spells.

Daindrel himself, or Dani, as the woman who had bought the elf from the slave traders called him, was fully aware of the danger and nature of the creature that had captivated him and his ‘mistress,’ but he was firmly convinced that he could shake off his paralysis and fight her if he could bring himself to orgasm and spray his long-suffering stockings with the seed of his firstborn. And when she approached him, the ecstasy that had been blocked until then was released, and the elf came with a triumphant growl, spilling himself for at least a minute into the fabric covering his rod. Then, with a sharp movement, he broke free from his kneeling position, picked up the horned woman, who squealed in feigned playful fear, dropped her onto the luxurious bed, and began to eat her out furiously.

The boy with the big ears, not even four hundred years old, still wet behind the ears, it's no surprise that he fell so foolishly into the hands of the slave traders. She also did a great job, albeit not as thoroughly as with Ursula. There was no specific task, and the secondary part of HER assignment did not require more than what had already been done. The boy was already a slave in name only. He had long since learned to remove his shackles. He put Ursula to sleep with his caresses, collected her correspondence, and sent reports home to the Forest using amulets hidden in a secret compartment. And he was also gradually bewitching his Piggy. There were a couple more secret compartments in this bedroom with some very unusual alchemical preparations. The kind that are rubbed directly into the skin, in this case, into huge breasts, creating a bond that is weak at first and impossible to trace. Combined with special hand movements on the target part of the body, it was very effective. Five years of such massage and Ursula would begin to drift off into a trance from the specific touches to her breasts, in a strict rhythm, strength, and frequency of pressure and squeezing.

She intensified this effect, by the way, so that Dani could now easily subjugate his mistress, though he had not yet realized or remembered how to do so, by fondling her breasts properly, her huge fat cow tits, the mark of a whore, a human sow, a lustful slut, as he mentally called them. The elf, who found himself in the role of a pet, deprived of access to any other kind of caress, constantly under attack from a woman who desired him, regularly pumped full of arousing alchemy. Mmm! How lovely! He himself was gradually getting turned on by her body; his preferences were gradually shifting, and he was increasingly enjoying the mixture of contempt for the voluptuous human woman and desire for her. She ignited this mixture of passions even more strongly in the elf, who was smugly and triumphantly licking her pussy.

He will not be surprised by his power over women, considering it a consequence of the methods he uses, nothing strange will leak into his reports to his supervisors, but his preferences... He will definitely fall in love with his mistress, sincerely and purely, that is a fact, but he will never admit it to himself, continuing to verbally humiliate her and passionately fuck her as if she were a piece of meat. Given her modifications and high-quality cosmetic alchemy, Ursula will live for a couple of hundred years, maintaining her current appearance and desirability. This, of course, will arouse suspicion, especially after she reaches her fifties or sixties, but that is a problem for the future Ursula, who will be quite capable of taking care of herself, forcing the overly curious to fuck her boots or lick them.

With a sigh, she pushed the elf away from her body, gently put the elf to sleep, checked on the child and his condition, and sent a smiling Ursula to breastfeed him. For a moment, she wondered how quickly this child would develop what local scientists called the Eriop Complex, but that interest quickly faded. She had finished her work here, and it was time to move on to her new task, but first, she had to thoroughly erase all traces of her presence here from the memories of the people and the place itself, its walls and stones. Even before she had mastered such tricks, the horned one could consider herself a nightmare for any clairvoyant now, except for the most powerful ones. Not only would she hide, not only would she conceal herself, she would also step towards strangers' visions herself, reaching out to those who tried to see her. It was time to look for approaches to a new goal... and also to a secondary, but most difficult one. She was afraid to approach those steppe shamans so openly. She was afraid not of the steppe sluts themselves, who would have long since given themselves away for a string of beads at her will, but of Stepan's reaction and the contract that enveloped her. She didn't want to strain these invisible chains, testing their strength, not even a little.

But her actions will not be even small.

It would be insignificant as a speck of sand.

Well, at most, a piece of gravel.

Caught right between the fragile mechanical gears.

* * *

Any job, no matter what it is, has to be done by someone. Any product, regardless of its nature, has to be manufactured and delivered to the place of purchase by someone. Any task, great or small, requires someone to take it on. Riviera de Feniot had long since resolved all issues of conscience or pity for herself. If not her, then others. If not her, then someone else would have to do exactly the same thing. Consumer demand, as they say in trading houses, shapes supply and creates a whole stratum of those who will offer it. Everyone sometimes needs something that will not be approved by the public, the clergy, or even other noble people, which means there will always be those who will provide it at a relatively shameless price.

Rivira remembered perfectly well how many hypocrites and ostentatiously clean individuals turned to her when things got tough. When the usual healing by a magician from a specialised school no longer works or requires much greater investment, when a chronic illness enters its active phase, when old age approaches you with slow and calm but inevitable steps. They always, always came, yesterday still clean, and today looking for cheaper dirt, completely forgetting all their paper principles, which had been soaked in the rain from the mud. The trade of youth and health in its darkest form could not be stopped or eradicated simply because there are always those who simply need such goods, there are always those who can not only provide them, but also take them away.

All kinds of rituals for stealing youth, drinking away health, transferring diseases or curses onto specially prepared victims were probably found in the library of every self-respecting and respected magician. Such knowledge is simply too easy to obtain; any competent healer can drain prana from a victim and transfer it to themselves, as can any ritualist or malefic, artefact maker, or even elementalist, although the latter will need to approach the matter creatively. Rivira was not a great magician, only a solid adept, reaching the peak of her rank through practice and a well-equipped workshop, but she had not yet attained mastery. In fifteen to twenty years, or better yet, thirty to forty, then it would be possible to think about it, since she always had those years to take, take away, and keep for herself.

Oh yes, she was not a master, only an experienced adept with an official diploma in ritualism and unofficially confirmed qualifications as a malefic. But her work did not require anything more; it was much more important to have a well-organised logistics chain, connections in the guard and among the temples, as well as a pile of compromising information on those who could publicly condemn her. Most of them would like to condemn her only to force her out of the part of the illegal black magic market occupied by her family. The Vine Coven, the Slave traders' guild, private practitioners of the dark branches of magic, a couple of quasi-noble families living in the neighbouring region. All of them could and did do exactly the same thing as Riviera and her daughters, but she had something that the aforementioned personalities did not have. They did not have an old and respected noble coat of arms that opened many doors and made them almost immune to secular and priestly courts, they did not have a huge network of collectors who managed to catch or buy up stray meat, sometimes gifted, without arousing unnecessary suspicion and unrest, they did not have the banal reputation of an extremely honest and straightforward person who did not require bondage contracts, reciprocal services or oaths of allegiance.

Only money, a fixed amount, and nothing else. Riviera always negotiated any services in return separately and was ready to pay for them herself. She also had a flexible pricing policy and was always willing to give a dying or suffering client a simple deferral. Some had to be cut off or even sent to their graves when they decided that since the service had been received, there was no need to pay, but the de Feniot family always punished such people with particular zeal, regardless of the cost, well, within reasonable limits. Rivira took over the reins of her household when she was still a young girl, with nothing but her meagre magical gift and her unwillingness to marry a fat merchant of no lineage who could improve the family's financial situation. Or rather, provide her venerable father with another six months of uninterrupted debauchery.

She knew how to appreciate gold, knew its value, just as she knew the value of silver and, at times, even copper. She did not consider herself greedy, like the rabid bitch de Radmar, but she could not tolerate attempts to make a fool of her. The youth or health potions, rejuvenating rituals, and other types of goods and services she provided were not unique. But they were, shall we say, standardised. There was no wild witchcraft coven magic, after which you still had to check whether something extra, added by someone else, had been stuck into the spell on your aura, but only extremely open rituals of classical high magic in conjunction with classical malefic. A minimum of dirty elements. Only the final ritual was performed with the client himself; the main extractions and gutting of the victims were carried out in advance, most often in a completely different place. Riviera did not often perform black magic on her own estate. Yes, more material was used, and the efficiency coefficient was reduced, but there was no threat to the reputation of respected customers. And, of course, the reputation for reliability. Didn't work or work poorly? Then the repeat procedure is free of charge.

At present, Baroness Riviera de Feniot has forgotten what ‘expensive’ means, and the queue of those wishing to use her services is booked up for years to come. She could have started expanding long ago, as all the prerequisites were in place, but Riviera was not a merchant, but a noble baroness who cared about her House and her descendants, not about new profits. Yes, she could increase purchases of black people and other sacrificial meat through her night brother acquaintances, she could send Rove and Ballia to other regions, and let them establish their branches of family business. It was possible. But why? She already had everything she wanted, her barony had gradually restored all the gaps left by her father and grandfather. Seriously, they had mortgaged and resold several times, it seemed, everything except the family crypt, even the family mansion, and her existing customers completely suited her. Meanwhile, her competitors were equally satisfied that Riviera had no intention of expanding, and those she had rejected for being shady, insufficiently noble, or simply on a whim would, one way or another, go to them.

Idyllic, isn't it?

She loved to ponder such thoughts on long, late evenings, having already prepared a hot bath with herbs and a few drops of her special alchemy, distilled life force and youth, so to speak. Of average height, with a face that was not particularly beautiful to begin with, too dry and elongated, and with relatively modest curves, she had made herself, if not a beauty, then at least a hot girl. One capable of arousing passion not only with the expense of her clothes, status as a rich and successful noblewoman. The right hairstyle, dark brown hair gathered into a long bob, a few cosmetic products, and clothes that emphasised her figure. Lady Riviera skilfully used what Life had given her at birth. Now, looking in the mirror and covering her face with a dark blue cream mask, she once again mentally praised herself for all she had achieved.

Her daughters will not be sold into another House for despicable gold, carrying with them as dowry only their title and the length of their family tree. They will not have to struggle to transform two old, worn-out dresses that have been out of fashion for half a century into something worthy of a young lady, at least at first glance. They will not count their annual income, wondering if they have enough money to pay for at least three servants, once again postponing the wages of the servants in the outer wing to a distant future, fearing from day to day that they will run away, taking something valuable with them. It will not happen that her girls will shed tears over a letter sent from a small school of sorcery, in which they will politely explain that it is not their rule to teach the poor nobility, who have nothing but a title, for free. Well, unless the ‘poor’ agree to sign a standard training contract, exactly the same as the one signed by numerous commoners.

No.

No!

Her daughters are still in the family home, and their husbands, noble and worthy men, came to this house of their own accord, preserving the tradition of redeeming a relative. Her daughters want for nothing and will want for nothing; their training and education will be conducted properly, and they will choose what they wish to study. Her daughters will not have to go through what she went through, they will not have to humiliate themselves, be afraid, save money, or even put poorly prepared food on the table themselves, crying in an empty and dilapidated living room, realising that they can no longer even afford a cook! This was and became her life's goal, and she achieved it and did not regret a single step she took or a single choice she made, except for the fact that she did not kill her father two years earlier, the man who ruined her mother and sold her sister into virtual slavery to a lecherous caliph, where she hanged herself without even living a year!

Smiling, forcing back the bitter tears that welled up from the depths of her memory, the pretty woman, who could hardly be said to be even thirty years old in appearance, slipped off her silk robe and stepped into the warm bath. She did not even remember those people and non-people who had breathed their last in the vast and specially enlarged cellars of her estate or in inconspicuous workshops at the far ends of her possessions, who had been laid to rest in unmarked graves or turned to ashes in special alchemical furnaces for burning dried bodies, the honourable respected and noble Riviera de Feniot did not even remember them. Simply because there was no place for the rabble in her worldview, because for her, the rabble was only a tool. Some were allowed to serve in her presence, some were destined to plough the fields, some to practise a craft, some to die on the altar, and some to help capture and discreetly deliver those who would die on the altar. After all, if it weren't for her, someone else would have killed and slaughtered the same rabble, but they would have done it worse, more expensively, and certainly not with such a noble and worthy clientele.

Warm water washes over her body, relieving the fatigue and stress of the last few days, during which she once again had to order her subordinates to lie down on the bottom and check the deposits. Otherwise, they would raise all the suspects again, search for everyone involved, and it would be best for honest dark ritualists to demonstratively become not dark, even more honest, or not ritualists at all. Riviera relaxes blissfully in the perfectly warm water, the temperature and purity of which are maintained by a recently replaced set of amulets. And somewhere far, far away from her mansion, beyond the forest line, where even poachers do not venture, a young man painted with glowing symbols rocks gently on his knees, as if listening to the world. And he, this strange young man, decided at that very moment that he had seen enough in the thoughts and memories of Riviera de Feniot, in the thoughts and memories of her daughters, their husbands, confidants, and servants of the noble house.

With a huge, motherfucking margin.

Riviera basked in the warm water, inhaling the scent of flowers with a tart alchemical note. She was completely relaxed, even when a barely noticeable tingling sensation ran through her body, as if it had become slightly warmer for a moment. And in the next moment, Riviera simply and unpretentiously came, completely unexpectedly, without any stimulation, almost falling into the bathtub with her head, her mouth wide open and unable to push even a single moan through her convulsed throat. What had happened was so sudden that she couldn't overcome the shock for the first few seconds, breathing heavily, clutching the sides of the bathtub with all her strength, biting her lip and exhaling quietly, trying to understand what had just happened to her.

Reflexively, she reached out to the amulet systems and the heart of the mansion, intending to test herself, to enlighten herself with a classic ritual scan based on the numerous circles in the walls of the house. She tried and, with even greater shock, rapidly turning to fear, realized that the house did not respond to her gift, as if her command impulses were not reaching it. A moment later, her gift also began to feel strange, not disappearing, not shutting down, and not hitting a barrier of a special collar, but as if it had separated from her mind into separate planes. Control had not disappeared, but it had become useless, and there was no way to restore it, since it had not disappeared anywhere for restoration to suddenly become possible.

The woman lifts herself out of the water, leaning on the same railings, about to scream and call for help from her loyal security guards. But she, having already taken a breath and experienced real fear, is overcome by another, even more powerful orgasm, causing her to plop back into the water, kicking her legs, flowing abundantly with love juices directly into the water and moaning softly from humiliation and pleasure in equal measure. Her hands tremble, unable to hold onto the sides, and she almost dives headfirst, immediately wetting her face and hair. Breathing deeply, as if unable to get enough air, she makes another attempt to get out of the bathtub, simply rolling over the edge, intuitively assuming that the reason for her condition is the alchemical mixture added to the water. She even achieves partial success, leaning her chest against the edge, spilling it over the edge, and then covering it with a new peak.

"Mmmmmmm!!! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." Through humiliation and ecstasy, she moans, but the moan comes out muffled and barely audible, replaced by heavy breathing, an attempt to recover for at least a moment, followed by shock and even greater surprise. "Wh-what? How... how is this... what is happening to me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!"

Her surprise was caused precisely by the breasts spilling out over the marble bathtub, which previously could not even be considered large, let alone outstanding. Now, however, they were a pair of enormous breasts, almost the size of Riviera's head, but instead of an aristocratic pallor, they were simply white, like the first snow, like the finest elven or Neirat paper, like the white paint from the Endor painters' workshops. Obeying a reflexive impulse, she removed one of her hands from the railing, touching her chest, making sure that it was really her chest, if not to call them udders or tits, because... because what the hell? How could she not have noticed when these melons grew on her? How could she not have noticed that the sun behind the large panoramic window had long since set, replaced by a dark night? How could she turn completely white, leaving only her nipples dark brown, almost black, and darkening even more before her eyes?

Her hand slides over her unexpectedly sensitive skin, and her other hand, the only one holding her back from climbing out of the bathtub, also slides. Before her eyes, the droplets of warm water covering her skin seemed to thicken, like slightly runny honey or a special cosmetic gel. Rivira raises her hand to her face, looking at her completely white skin, from which viscous drops of transparent liquid slowly drip, warm and pleasant to the touch. And then, completely lost and thrown off balance by such events, a woman who had never fought face to face in her entire life, did not have any combat reflexes, is overcome by a new, even stronger orgasm. Riviera, screaming, falls back into the bathtub filled with thick gel, quickly changing her scream to a gurgle.

The filth that had gotten into her throat and lungs did not cause suffocation, nor did it cause discomfort, but the panicking woman began to hysterically struggle, trying to get out. Only the slippery slime and the equally slippery walls of the bathtub prevented her from even lifting her face above the surface of the non-water. And then she came again, trying to scream with pleasure, coming more violently than she had ever come before. Twitching, squirting from her slit and inhaling the slime into her lungs with all her might, pushing it into her lungs, she understood very clearly that she had to get out of there. Or she would simply go mad, cumming her brain right out of her noble hole. This thought gave her strength, and she struggled even more actively, not stopping twitching even when she started to cum again, cum, cum!!!

Climbing over the edge of the bathtub, covered in gel as white as her skin, Riviera tried to stand up, but couldn't. Her legs slipped on the marble tiles, buckling from another orgasm, unaccustomed to the shift in her center of gravity. It seemed that her butt had also swollen into the seat of another girl from the Khotta people or some steppe orc who had chosen the fate of the Hearth rather than War. Rivira came, curled up on the floor, twitching in ecstasy, but got up, managed to stand, trying to shake off the filth stuck to her body. Thick, sticky splashes accompanied her steps to the bathroom door, lumps of snow-white mass stained the floor, leaving her skin completely clean, and Rivira tried not to stumble, ignoring her flat stomach, which was contracting and arching, its muscles twitching from the new orgasm.

The woman opened the door with her uncooperative, still slippery fingers, which were no longer willing to bend, hoping to see her security guard nearby, but there was no one in the dark hallway, only an empty sofa and a pair of armchairs, and clothes prepared for her.

Which still won't fit on her tits! Because her torment was not over, because she still couldn't call anyone for help, Riviera whimpered and came again, her body partially relaxing. A thick stream of absolutely pure white mass, without the slightest trace of anything that should be in the human intestines or stomach, gushed out of her orifices onto the floor. This filth seemed to have replaced all the impurities and undigested food in her with its likeness, performing a perfect and rapid cleansing of the body. For such a procedure, which greatly prolongs life or rapidly kills if even what cannot be cleaned is cleaned incorrectly, people usually pay with gold or even services, but the woman was not concerned with that at all; she just wanted to receive some kind of help.

Sliding her feet through the puddles of the ill-fated gel, Riviera manages to fall into the chair clean and unblemished, even her hair seems to have fallen into a complex hairstyle. She falls and comes again, involuntarily spreading her legs wide, and then realizes that she cannot move them. And her whole body seemed to stiffen, becoming immobile and unable to change position. And why “seemed”? That's exactly what happened! She literally froze, turning into a motionless, vulgar doll with huge tits, a lush ass, an open slit, and a hole! Instead of moaning, she uttered a kind of muffled “Y-y-y-m!”, realizing that she couldn't close her mouth, her lips opening into a perfect ring, as if inviting someone's cock into her mouth. She moans and cums, tries to move her hands, barely changing their position, and cums, looking at her fingers, folded into a ring for masturbation on her left hand and stretched forward on her right, as if to give pleasure to someone's hole.

Her thoughts are confused. She is сumming. She cannot stop cumming, cannot concentrate, cannot think, but she must think, she must fight, overcome this influence, if not for herself, then for her daughters. She cumming in horror because she cannot stop cumming and remember the names of her girls, only cumming, but not finish, not remember, but finish. She cums their faces, she can't cum, she's cummed their faces! She's cummed their names, cummed, cummed, why has she cummed!!? She must remember, she must cum, cum, cum and cum, to cum and not cum, but cum! Name. Cumming is a name. Cumming is called Rivi... Viry... Ri... Cum. Cum and cummed. She didn't cummed, but she cummed and that's why she finished! She finished motionless, she cummed, but she didn't become mobile, because she cummed, she cummed! She cummed! She cummed! Ila! La! She cummed. She cums. She cummed. She cums. She didn't cummed?

She cummed and cummed.

Cum.

Umumumumumum...

Yh!

O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!

Oh.

* * *

As it happened, they found the respected matriarch of the de Feniot family only in the early hours of the morning, and even then only because her personal maid and a couple of guards were fast asleep. It was hard to believe that all three of Riviera's entourage had suddenly become sleepy slackers, but then they remembered that no one had seen Riviera herself since the evening. A quick search found her, motionless, completely clean, without a drop of suspicious substance even on her hair, almost unrecognisable due to her pale skin and sagging figure, beautiful and desirable, surprisingly harmonious, extremely obedient, and very, very attractive. And yet, in an extremely calm and friendly, albeit somewhat strange tone, she offered herself and all her orifices to anyone, very, very eager to know which of those present would become her Master.

This event caused a real sensation, especially in the eyes of Riviera's two daughters, who loved her without sarcasm, unlike what often happens in noble families. The doll-woman willingly answered questions, remembered some insignificant part of what Riviera remembered, but categorically refused to consider herself to be her. She was equally adamant that she was just a doll for sexual pleasure and had no intention of being anything else. Incidentally, she did not remember her name, unable to connect it with herself and her perception of herself. Attempts to somehow bring the victim of an incomprehensible but very successful assassination attempt back to normal ended one after another in failure. The magicians who rushed to her side only shrugged their shoulders, hiding their admiration and claiming that such a large-scale change in body structure could not be achieved even by a master, but only by a magister, and even then, not every magister. Suddenly becoming humble and quite frightened, Ricard de Lorek bet his healer's diploma that there was simply no specialist of such caliber in the region.

Called in to help, a certified adept of the school of Mind confirmed what had been said, but only in relation to the victim's thinking. Using enthusiastic terms, each more abstruse than the other, he honestly said that he could not even imagine how such a thing could have been accomplished. But he could assure them that Riviera de Feniot had simply ceased to exist as a person. Of course, was, of course, paid handsomely to at least try to restore, if not the thoughts, then the decency of “this lustful doll,” but after entering her mind and trying to make the victim behave more modestly, the certified adept simply fell asleep with a happy smile, staining his clothes with copious ejaculations, and woke up only ten hours later, having experienced many, many very juicy wet dreams. Terrified and on the verge of hysteria, the mentalist rudely refused to cooperate in this and other matters, rushing off to his workshop.

They say that he spent most of his savings on testing and retesting his mind, and even went into debt for services to buy the help of those who would not work for gold. After that, even simple healers, including the one on contract to the house, became very cautious and did not delve deeply into the energy and physical structure of the altered body. The body of the venerable Riviera changed, becoming completely white and extremely erotic and sensitive. Still, the sensitivity of the upper and lower lips, as well as the nipples, sphincter, and part of the rectum, was even higher. The colour of these few parts of the body, like the hair on the head, and no hair left anywhere else, even the hair follicles below the face had disappeared, as if they had never been there, was now jet black. The flesh had strengthened, becoming noticeably more elastic and resembling something between the material of an artificial golem made of Hott rubber and the modified muscles of lizard-human mutants. No one said it out loud, but everyone understood that with such elasticity, the victim of the assassination attempt would now be able to absorb not only the aforementioned mutants but perhaps even another dragon, without any harm to herself.

The new body was also immune to bleeding and most poisons, and it became very resilient, allowing it to endure extremely long periods of intimate and not-so-intimate exertion. As Ricard de Lorek thought, without saying it, Mrs. Riviera could now satisfy even the smallest tribe of green-skinned people in one set of orifices. And the savages would be the first to tire, not the doll, which was able to feed on the seed alchemically burned inside her body and restore her reserves through the process of intimate intercourse. Wounds closed almost immediately, and blood, or rather, a kind of dark ink-like liquid in her veins, refused to leave her body at all. The insides are magically altered and enhanced, switching Rivira to a metabolism similar to that of homunculi, but more perfect. To be honest, if it weren't for the destruction of personality, the suppression of independent thought and will, and the obvious depraved purpose of these modifications, this transformation could well be called a combat ritual mutation, complex and very thorough, and therefore expensive, if not priceless.

Unfortunately, it was not possible to investigate the incident with Riviera de Lorek any further, as new guests arrived, accompanied by the priests of Damokar and led by the younger son of the Count de Oiran. Somehow, someone completely unknown delivered very carefully compiled compromising information on the entire network and structure of the ‘black rejuvenators’ built by Riviera de Feniot. Moreover, this compromising information was delivered to various locations, but strictly to those who were not only loosely connected to the structure, but also were ill-wishers of the de Feniot House, or could simply benefit greatly from its downfall. Of course, everyone knew about the baroness's occupation, as well as the fact that she had taken great care to ensure that she could not be officially caught. At least not in such a way that her patrons would not squeeze the throats of those who had already been caught. But it is one thing to know the general facts, and quite another to get your hands on the entire organisation, with all its connections, compromising information, and other juicy details.

And also to learn, alas, without direct evidence, but the method of delivery of information and its completeness gave the informant considerable credibility in this matter, that all the letters, crystal records, aura casts, and everything else that could have been used as a weapon of compromise against her detractors had successfully disappeared from the safes and hiding places of Baroness de Feniot herself. That could have been used as weapons of compromise against her detractors. In general, none of those who arrived were noble saviors and defenders of the innocent, but it was extremely advantageous for all of them to condemn the baroness, gain some reputational capital, and under this pretext, extract a number of favors, promises, part of the lands of the somewhat overgrown barony, part of the production and trade contracts, as well as some of the artifacts and amulets accumulated by the de Feniot family.

Well, as it always happens.

Of course, the daughters of the mentally ill baroness did not give up without a fight. They began to insist on mental influence, on a malicious attempt to discredit the good name of a noble woman, mentioning a certain Iyastar Sacrilegious One, who, no doubt, personally came to visit and decided, out of his malicious depravity and lustful abomination, to frame and bewitch a completely honest woman. At the same time, they disowned their entire network and contacts, and some of them even asked to be punished, as if to prove that they were not lying when they said that it was the House of Feniot that had protected them. This is a blatant lie and an attempt at slander, nothing more. The baroness's daughters managed to defend the barony and some of the financial flows and savings in the treasury or the vaults of the Bank of Undermountain, or rather, they were allowed to do so. And the baroness herself was taken to Dantmark, with the promise that she would be examined by the best specialists, without additional payment and in the presence of Bassia, who had travelled with the delegation. Because the elimination was very unusual, the alchemists who collected the remains of the mixture poured into the bath were very surprised, very... very.

Yes, this ancient pastime has existed since time immemorial and will continue to exist: disguising one's operations or settling personal scores under the guise of some well-known enemy or villain. No matter how many throats the killers of the Dark Brotherhood slit, there are still those who left their famous Black Hand on the victim's body simply to cover their tracks, as if to say that their goals were not achieved by the Brotherhood itself. But the trouble is that the method of elimination, of mental and physical alteration, was so unusual and... powerful, too powerful, carried out with too much skill. None of the enemies of the de Feniot family could have done such a thing or hired someone who could. The alchemical cocktail, which, incidentally, had almost completely decomposed into unreadable components by the time the victim was discovered, was worth almost as much as the barony itself, but there was also the effect on the mind, performed by a master, to say the least. And considering the speed of processing, it was definitely a magister or someone close to that title, unless he had been living incognito on the estate for at least a week.

Those individuals who could hire such specialists or were specialists themselves would simply not have paid any attention to Riviera, and if they had, they would have destroyed her in much simpler and cheaper ways. She would not have been worthy of their attention in her own right! All participants in the story were looking for reasons, looking for benefits, looking for ways to take more or keep more of what had not been taken. Under different circumstances, de Feniot's enemies, having gained such leverage, would simply have left nothing but bones of the young family, and would not have killed the daughters and their mother, but would have quickly married them off to their younger sons, after first introducing the little shrews to magicians loyal to their families, masters of mind control or branding. But the strangeness of this transformation into a doll, the strangeness of the attack primarily on the organisation, made them cautious, looking for a catch and even seeing a catch where there was none. Especially where there was none.

Who knows, maybe it's all just a big scam by some magister or master who wants to enter the black magic market in this region and is simply eliminating his competitors in an exotic way, using a love-transforming poison that has been lying around in the treasury for who knows how many years, the services of a very powerful mind manipulator, and general paranoia about a certain Master? It was much easier to believe this than to believe that a certain very powerful mind manipulator and owner of such a powerful poison, which, judging by its effects, must have either been fed to the victim little by little over months or been the work of an archmage of flesh alchemy, decided to ‘punish injustice’ by destroying an organisation of corrupt aristocrats who traded the youth.

However, several still living victims found in the cellars of the estate were still successfully rescued, just like that, in passing, for the sake of that same reputation.

* * *

Somewhere far away, a young man who had completed an extremely difficult system assignment with a considerable reward opened his eyes after a day and a half in a coma caused by the aftermath of such complex rituals and spells, read a pile of system messages, and said, his throat hoarse:

"Holy tits, Automilfness, what are you making me waste my life on?"

The young man's voice betrayed a mixture of weary fatalism, genuine satisfaction at a job well done, and furious irritation at the very sight of the work he had been forced to do. And without the right to question it! What infuriated him most was that one of the central goals of the assignment was specified separately: treated with a disposable consumable poured into the bathtub, issued specifically for the assignment, and then bewitched with witchcraft and spirits, the victim of his work was supposed not only to survive, but also to be discovered. No, in theory, he could have kidnapped this victim, whose doll he also had, stealing it from its new owners in about a month and a half, when the term of its stay in foreign hands would expire.

He could have simply killed her in six months, when her mandatory immunity expired. But that would have raised even more suspicion and questions than he had already raised with his godlike quest for increased publicity. In fact, he didn't care about publicity, personally arranging the exposure and destruction of an organized criminal group through third parties, since the terms of the assignment did not explicitly prohibit him from doing so. Damn it, he spent even more energy, if not strength, than on the main task to cover up the traces of how he delivered the damn letters with compromising information and intelligence! He even had to summon the senior spirit responsible for sending the letters, combining the spheres of space, path, and communication with very rare aspects and remarkable stealth.

Outside his beloved cave, in the middle of a forest clearing hastily converted into a call circle, damn!

Okay.

Okay!

He cleaned up and eradicated all energy traces, including those left by summoned spirits, such as the Memory Eater, as well as individual manifestations of witchcraft. He even collected the envolt of the bathroom of the bathing beast in human form, cleaning up everything that remained after the cleansing itself, including traces of it. And not only the bathroom, in fact, he also did the envolt of the treasury and the repository of compromising information, removing everything that interested him from there. Yes, such demonstrative work to remove traces would be noticed, but that's why it was demonstrative, wasn't it? He threw the detectives a bone, deliberately slowing down the decomposition of the junk that had been dissolved in the bath water. Not enough to preserve anything intact, but enough for the alchemists to understand what they were dealing with. Stepan's basic erudition was sufficient for this, even if he admitted that true magisters and masters of alchemy could understand more.

So let them understand. Why does he care? Consumables were not created by him; he only touched alchemy through several very specific manifestations of shamanic practice, the use of arrays and totems, ritual preparation for the work of a shaman or spellcaster. That's not so little; other alchemists in this world have earned their degrees, knowing significantly less, but still only crumbs compared to the main specialization. Let the locals search among their well-known fellow alchemists for someone who could make this composition. In this century, in the past, or even in ancient times, such high-quality alchemy was definitely kept in equally high-quality stasis so that it would not spoil and reduce its effectiveness. That's how they got used to thinking, because that's how it is. Usually, you know, such alchemical masterpieces always have a creator and a long history of being commissioned, purchased, and stored, rather than appearing out of nowhere by the will of the Autogoddess and the system she has tweaked. Let them look for an alchemist or a biomancer, let them accuse Master, the elves, or anyone else, for that matter.

The main thing is not to look for a Shaman or Witcher, considering the mental processing of a sex doll to be the work of a classic adept of High Magic, just as classic and high as the alchemy that was applied. The rest of the attempts to search using broad search rituals or the work of clairvoyants will be covered by a catch cube and banal common sense. With zero leads, no one will waste resources on large-scale searches that will not yield results anyway. As a reward, he received a one-time spirit enhancement token from senior to supreme, which must be spent within three days, as well as two free points of minor knowledge in contracts with spirits, one of which may also be supreme, and the second only senior, or any minor witchcraft knowledge. Stepan did not even want to consider the three random tokens of rare or elite type, which he was sure would definitely be from Her Milfness.

It doesn't matter.

He completed the imposed work.

And if he feels ashamed of anything, it is solely because he had to deal with all sorts of perversions instead of simply killing off all these characters in a boring and dreary manner, as if they were plague-ridden rats.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/588111

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP