Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 4.2

* * *
Having finished acquiring knowledge—albeit minor ones—the shaman turned his attention to the tokens and was initially quite pleased, for all three of the system’s “normal” gifts turned out to be just that: gifts. The first was called “Minor Meta-Skill Renewal” and applied only to an individual meta-skill, rather than to all of them at once like its older sibling, “Significant Meta-Skill Renewal,” but it had twenty-five charges instead of ten. It was almost too tiresome to list all the times a similar trick had already saved him, and all the possible futures in which this token might come to Stepan’s rescue.

The second of the normal tokens was called “Call for a Neutral Complex Group System Assignment. It had five charges and, upon activation, issued that assignment—one that was complex relative to Stepan’s status at the time of activation. He would gladly kiss each of the ten charges on this token—the tasks are always neutral, unlike those from the Patroness. This is truly a gem among all the rewards he’s received, because it’s the only way for him, Yula, Singha, and Sylvia to level up!

And most importantly—the ability to choose for yourself the best time to start working on assignments, rather than worrying about being assigned one when you’re already busy. Well, just like that, a surprisingly ill-timed assignment to subdue Malter’s nest, because of which he lost such a convenient and reliable chance to subdue a certain lovely and beautiful demoness before she landed on Stepan’s face and neck simultaneously.

The last token bore the somewhat ironic name “Rushing to the Rescue”; it had five charges and allowed the token’s owner to be transported to any member of their group, regardless of distance—as long as they were within the same world—and through any form of protection. The only exceptions were rifts into demonic dimensions or something comparable. Otherwise, not even the highest-level spatial fold or lacuna could provide protection. The catch was that the token didn’t transport the user directly to the target in need of rescue, but rather to any safe and unobservable location within a five-kilometer radius. If no such location existed within that radius, it would transport them to the nearest available one.

The teleportation isn’t instantaneous; like the “Dot on the Map,” it requires a few minutes of inactivity and the absence of active shield spells. First, teleport; then, look around, take your time preparing for battle, and emerge in a blaze of glory—like cavalry appearing from behind a hill to rescue your companion. It’s much more situational than the previous two tokens, but simply invaluable when needed.

And then Stepan, inspired by the awards he’d received, smoothly moved on to the auto-milf tokens, already anticipating all sorts of swear words he’d use in his mental monologue. She didn’t let him down! Oh, she didn’t let him down at all—she lived up to every expectation Stepan had in this regard! To be honest, he understood why Singh had asked him not to tell her about these little gifts, so as not to tempt her too much.

The first token was called “Anal Pump”; it had three charges and was automatically applied to Stepan upon first activation, significantly increasing the amount of semen produced. It was somewhat similar to how that demonic crap worked back then in the tavern and afterward, but the increase wasn’t quite as significant. But the catch is that every woman in Stepan’s group, as soon as she receives a dose of anal sex, gains three attribute points—one for each of her three least-developed attributes. Stepan himself receives one point for every woman he fucks. The stat point will go to the attribute that is most developed in a woman. If, however, he engages in anal sex with someone outside the group, she will receive only two points, but also in her least developed attributes.

Stepan's reward will not change.

The token’s next two activations can be applied to other targets as well, but they must always be male. The ability—common to all tokens—to make changes to the body’s performance and increase its attributes without the subject’s awareness remains intact. All in all, given the presence of Sylvia and her nest, using such a token is entirely possible... and this thought only made Stepan’s anger grow. He felt that he wasn’t just being bought—he’d already almost been bought, almost lured to the dark side—and all he could do was grind his teeth.

The second gift turned out to be just as good—or rather, “just as good”—with a charge of five and the name “Fast Bender.” For a month, it would change the gender of a chosen man (!), alive and healthy, to female, while also making that woman very beautiful on the outside. It also greatly increased the likelihood of being screwed over—first mentally, and then in the classic sense. A special bonus was the ability to make the effect partially conscious—the victim would realize that some crazy shit had happened, but the rest of the world wouldn’t. Even more than that: the victim’s screams will simply be ignored, dismissed as nonsense, or the poor girl will be considered to have had a mental breakdown—no one will take her seriously; they’ll brush it off as if it were a mosquito’s buzz.

One to three attribute points over the course of a month—the token’s validity period—are hardly any consolation, nor is the fact that reverting might make what happened seem as if it were a strange dream—and not one you were part of. For the system’s host, of course, it worked, and his reward ranged from two to four attribute points. No, thanks—a shaman can level up just fine without bonuses like that. He hasn’t given up that much yet.

The name of the token brought an involuntary smile to his face. It took him a moment to recall the reference from which the token’s design had inspired the name. He even felt like rewatching *Futurama*. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he couldn’t watch it without the right equipment and the DVD. And paying the store SUCH a price the toad will strangle him..Not just strangle, but it would have felt like good old Scrooge himself had come to life, cackling menacingly and brandishing a golden plunger.

Shaking the strange image from his mind, Stepan turned to the last of the tokens, “Forgetting Underwear.” This gift had exactly ten charges and permanently implanted in the mind of a pretty female victim a suggestion that made her forget to put on underwear, while significantly normalizing that suggestion. The victim would realize that she was flashing her private parts at all of high (or low) society; she would feel ashamed, but she wouldn’t suspect that for years now she had been forgetting to put on her underwear every morning—nothing out of the ordinary. Just like anyone else, even if it were a professional mentalist conducting a thorough mental scan for surprises.

As a reward, the victim receives one random powerful aura property, preferably of a lewd nature, but it could be anything at all. Stepan thought to himself with no small amount of cynicism that the lion’s share of the women in this world wouldn’t suffer at all from this token due to a lack of money for underwear, which is often a status symbol, especially if it’s beautiful and elegant. Not to mention some cultural traditions. Black-skinned women of the savannas and jungles, just like green-skinned orc women, hardly ever wear lace panties. And the steppe women of the human tribe, too, don’t always—it’s hard to overlook this fact given his perception.

And in the case of those Dark Elves—the token might not work on them at all, given their wardrobes. Their outfits either don’t include underwear, or, compared to them, such underwear would seem like an extremely conservative, modest outfit straight out of a remote Muslim village. Different cultural values, you see!

Having mentally decided not to tell Singhe about this token—in accordance with her earlier request—the shaman moved on to the final sections of the updated status. Neither the new Deals nor the new status sub-section weighed on him in the slightest; he took them in calmly through the help section. To be honest, he didn’t even want to open the Deals section—long and firmly forgotten, and practically covered in virtual dust. But he opened it anyway—perhaps hoping for a miracle and the presence of a normal Deal, not some twisted variant, or perhaps simply out of a strange desire to once again fathom the depths of the abyss. That very desire that compels a person not to turn off the monitor while watching a GIF of a goose and a dog.

Taking a deep breath, as if before a dive, he finally stepped into this maelstrom, taking in the details of both new Deals. Well, to put it mildly, his expectations weren’t exactly met. The first of the perverted leveling options that appeared was called “The Coming of NoNutNovember,” but it wasn’t tied to the calendar. Simply put, under the effect of this Deal, for an entire month there’s no chance of climaxing. Any woman—whether a hired prostitute or a fully submissive Malter—will, for some reason, do nothing but tease, arouse, and caress, but never bring him to the peak. If he tries to take matters into his own hands more forcefully, every woman near Stepan will suddenly display the skills of an experienced seductress, a heartbreaker, a hypnotist—and all of these at once.

Yes, there will undoubtedly be intimacy; Stepan will satisfy his partner—or partners—in every way possible, and there will even be sex as such, but he won’t be getting any release. You’ll fall asleep, get exhausted, and zone out just as she reaches her climax; you’ll moan into your gag until morning while, bound as you are, you’re caressed, kissed, stroked, and tickled—held right on the edge, but you won’t come. And even if you decide to relieve the tension yourself, events will strangely unfold in such a way that a member of the opposite sex will appear nearby, preventing you from climaxing. For dessert, Bearer of the Tablet, you’ll receive an extraordinary surge in seductiveness and a willingness to flirt and tease you—even from girls and women you know very well—and to top it all off, you’ll forget all about the deal itself.

Without that last point, to be honest, Stepan could have taken a chance by simply devoting a month to meditation and self-control—it would have been tough, but the text of the Deal explicitly states that they won’t hypnotize or cast a spell on him, but will only seduce and tease him. Well, that is, until he decides to be more persistent or simply decides to use hands. That’s when they’ll start. In theory, it’s entirely possible to hold out without losing control or breaking the terms… if you know about the Deal. But the moment the month-long distortion of reality kicks in, he’ll immediately forget the very fact of that choice, just like with all the other Deals.

In general, even four stats and seven talent points are not worth this future humiliation.

Probably.

Incidentally, the rewards for past Deals had also been gradually changing, growing, and increasing, as if adjusting to his rising level and expanding capabilities. It wasn’t as if he had ever seriously considered accepting any of the offers, but he did take note of the fact itself. Nothing truly incredible—nothing that would make him risk his self-awareness or self-respect—was on offer there anyway.

The second of the proposed options was called “The Choice of the Mistress,” differing somewhat from previous Deal mechanics as such. Upon activating this shit, Stepan would receive a list of several names—anywhere from three to nine—from which he would have to choose one option for a period of six months. The list contains only beautiful women—and only those whom Stepan knows at least in passing, even if only through a very fleeting personal or quasi-personal encounter. In other words, the Elven Queen, whom he’d only heard about and admired in engravings—thanks to you, Sylvia and Rowena—will never appear on this list. But Lady de Fell or Magister Clementina—whom he has at least seen through Sylvia’s memories and with whom he has interacted in roundabout ways—might very well be on it.

Once a choice is made—and if no choice is made, one will be selected automatically, but for double the duration—that woman will gain control over a certain humble shaman. This is not a meta-effect, but something on the level of the doll that subjugated Sylvia—also magical, theoretically detectable, yet in practice utterly definitive. The method and type of control, again, depend on the woman chosen. The lady herself will not be the least bit surprised that this control has fallen into her hands; she will very quickly realize exactly what she has gained and begin to make use of the shaman who has forgotten about the Deal. Of course, she’ll use him in the most vulgar sense—but not only in that sense. It won’t even occur to her to do anything that would reveal her control over the bearer of the Tablet of the Soul, nor will she share this secret.

But using all of Stepan’s skills to her own advantage—absolutely, in all sorts of ways, including some rather vulgar ones. However, there were certain safeguards in place: with Stepan now under his command, they wouldn’t do anything truly despicable or dangerous to his life, health, or magical gift, and it wouldn’t even occur to either him or the “lady” to harm Stepan’s loved ones and friends. In other words, Yula, Taira, the two mares, and other allies, friends, and comrades—should they appear in his presence—are out of danger. Unlike Malter, for example, who, under the terms of this deal, is apparently considered Stepan’s property and will come under new management.

Well, if this management is not handed over to her by Stepan himself.

The reward is divided into two parts—seven mandatory skill points and three attributes, as well as a unique bonus reward that depends on whom you grant your freedom to. And no, even if he completely loses his mind, deciding to use this junk and handing over six months of control over himself to that same Singh, who has already proven her superior moral character, it won’t help. Singha will betray him immediately, because on a meta-level, she’ll want to possess him in every sense—even if they discuss everything in advance. In the end, Stepan just gave a wry smile, closing the “Deals” section and moving on to the latest status update.

Towards possible Feats.

This subsection became available after reaching level 5 of the meta-skill for accepting quests and allowed players to select so-called “uber-quests”—quests with no deadline but offering a massive reward. A total of five such quests are available; one of them can be swapped for a different, random quest one month after reaching level 5 of the meta-skill. However, a quest that has been put on hold can return if it hasn’t been completed. The rewards are also divided into two parts—the first, much more modest, is awarded immediately, in advance. The second—absolutely mind-blowing—is awarded only after completion.

Alas, you can’t collect the rewards from all the “Feat Quests” at once. If you take an advance payment, you automatically lock out all the others until the task is completed. Given the nature of those assignments, you might as well consider them permanently locked out, because Stepan hasn’t quite lost his mind enough to voluntarily get involved in such nonsense. Five assignments, each of which wasn’t even a quest—albeit a “difficult” one—but a true Feat, could easily have ended in death or something worse, and with far greater likelihood than ending in success.

“City of the Dead,” “Sinister Web,” “Queen of Worms,” “Hunt for the Beast,” “Web of the Depths”: these were the five quests—feats—that had been offered to him indefinitely. His gaze involuntarily lingered on a familiar term—the very one he himself had used to describe a certain creature hidden in the jungle—and-and-and-and-and… he, of course, guessed correctly. The assignment actually required him to return to that very same cursed jungle—under his own power, with no portal transport provided, unless you count the “Dot on the Map”—and then successfully slay a creature of the level of a very powerful archmage, one that had taken root in its land through incredibly ancient sorcery.

It’s a five-minute job—go in, go out—any idiot could handle it! He’d definitely be an idiot if he tried to get mixed up in this shit again, having barely managed to escape last time. Escape from a life a hundred times worse than death—a life that death has maimed and trampled underfoot. He scanned the mission description with his mind’s eye, let out a slightly hysterical laugh, and then skimmed even more quickly through the remaining four feats.

Destroy and completely clear out one of the four cities of the Dead Cross—the four largest and most terrifying necropolises of the Dead North. And you must not allow the elite of this brutal undead community to escape. Yeah, right—no one has done this yet simply because no one has even tried; otherwise, all the loot would’ve been collected long ago, sure. Especially the Solar Theocrats—they couldn’t care less about the undead right under the nose of their holy theocracy—or rather, Theocracy—and haven’t even considered a permanent solution to the undead problem.

How could they track down and capture the ancient—probably the very oldest of all existing vampires—utterly insane and just as utterly deadly, who regularly reincarnates in new and new bodies, the bodies of young bloodsuckers who have lost their minds to thirst, if yet another of the legendary Beast’s bodies had been destroyed? Stepan had heard plenty of stories about him from Sylvia—most of which he’d coaxed out of her through the doll, since the seasoned and powerful bloodsucker was genuinely afraid to even mention Him. This was definitely a challenge on par with “catching your neighbor’s runaway pug”—nothing less! People have been hunting and killing it for many centuries now—not just across the North, but literally all over the world—but to no avail—it always comes back.

At times, it can lay waste to nearly an entire region if the Beast is allowed to regain even a fraction of its original power. For the local population, such resurrections have long been classified as natural disasters. And need we even mention that right now, the Beast of Beasts—mighty and ancient—is almost certainly resurrected or in the process of being resurrected? That somewhere beneath the night sky, a young and foolish bloodsucker—who has already lost his mind to thirst—is going mad, as foreign thoughts, foreign memories, a foreign will, and a foreign essence take hold of his mind?

Perhaps, if circumstances allow, he might take part in a drive hunt—but certainly not alone; rather, as is always the case with the Beast, he would do so together with the rest of the world. In the Confederation itself, there are protocols—confirmed by the priests of Daromar and sealed with oaths—in place for the arrival of a new incarnation of the Beast of Beasts. The problem is that if he decides to join in this game of chase, everyone might forget all about the Beast and start hunting Stepan instead.

Perhaps a good option would be to dive to the bottom of the local ocean—which, in many places, has no bottom at all, only the Abyss and the Depths? And not just dive, but steal one of the local ancient and primordial deity’s favorite toys? Because anyone who has studied the matter knows that the Lord of the Depths loves to lay out entire mosaics of sunken ships on the seabed. And theologians around the world unanimously consider the ships of the Invincible Armada—which sank by His will—to be the jewels of His collection. The very ones built around the core of the felled Tree of Life, one for each of the sunken vessels.

Breaking into the main treasury of Undermountain, giving King-Under-the-Mountain’s Bravlin a little pinch on the cheek, and then stealing their entire treasury right under their noses somehow sounds safer and easier than the suicide mission described in the quest. Not by orders of magnitude, but very, very noticeably easier—and the reward, the largest of them all, three times greater than any other, confirmed that growing impression. How on earth could one steal a natural magical dreadnought—albeit a sunken one—from a divine domain?

The last of the assignments was also the most unusual, but only because it required not only venturing into the Underworld—to a certain shattered city called Diyarten—to capture or destroy some unknown spider-like creature there, but also because the description included a very strange addition. He was required to “form a temporary alliance, verified by the system, with another group of individuals opposing the Mistress of the Web,” which Stepan, of course, had no intention of doing. This detail just seemed strange—no other quest or feat prohibited forming alliances, hiring assistants, setting up allies, or employing other methods of social engineering. But only in this case did the system promise to establish—albeit a temporary one—a full-fledged alliance between Stepan and those who were currently trying to capture that creature.

Some part of the shaman sensed something was off here. He subconsciously understood that if he applied enough mental effort, he would solve the riddle—the answer to which was on the tip of his tongue, hidden somewhere in his memory; he was sure he’d heard something, somehow, sometime, from someone. Under different circumstances, he might have had a chance to catch that thought, but not now, not after the surge of system power he’d just experienced. All he wanted to do was cosplay as a jellyfish and nothing else, so he set this riddle aside for a while.

And with complete humility in the face of the inevitable, he opened a new tab in the “Feats” subsection. The very one that the will of the All-Merciful had further expanded, expanded, and developed—may all her forms be blessed. All in all, the feelings were roughly the same as when he’d looked at the previous section, only now there was also a huge dose of secondary shame. It’s worth acknowledging that the Auto-Goddess didn’t skimp on the reward, but at the same time, he had to admit that her assignments weren’t exactly much easier than combat missions.

Five quests: “The Puppet Queen,” “Mother and Magdalene,” “Dark Elven Tango,” “Life-Loving Asses,” and “Five Hundred Obscenities”—as if they were distorted reflections of normal quests in a twisted mirror. Likewise, he had no intention of completing a single one of these quests. He had no intention of turning the Forest Queen into a plaything for his pleasure, nor of doing exactly the same to the nine most notorious Dark Elf Matriarchs, nor of brainwashing a genuine angel and the equally genuine daughter of God among the local Sun Communists, and he certainly wasn’t going to meddle with the cult of the Life-Giver. In the latter case, not only because it’s difficult and fraught with the wrath of what is possibly the world’s most powerful goddess, but also because that goddess was practically the only example of a normal deity.

Relatively normal.

Seriously! Everyone loves them. They love everyone back, they look great, they preach—and prove through their actions—the need to make love, not war, and there really isn’t much bad to say about them. Even after delving deeply into this issue—even with the help of the well-informed and extremely cynical Sylvia Malter—relatively little dirt was unearthed about Gaia’s clergy. Yes, there was some, just as there is with any large organization that wields power and influence. But then again, in comparison? Let’s put it this way—if the Life-Giver herself, in her avatar, were to run for president of this thrice-cursed world, Stepan would vote for her.

He certainly won’t start carrying out a mission that requires anything even remotely similar to what a certain Master tried to pull off in a certain sunny town. Not to subjugate the goddess and her entire clergy, but to influence them—to implant a viral, gradually unfolding structure that will literally distort the religious aspect of the Life-Giver. And in addition to their breasts, her priestesses’ buttocks will also begin to grow, and those buttocks will become more sensitive and tender. And something else will also become more sensitive and elastic; prayers and grace will begin to transform that part of the body, distorting it so that it is always clean, tight, and ready for use.

And over time—in about three or four years—the priestesses of Gaia will gradually and imperceptibly come to be known for another thing: that they take just as much pleasure in anal sex as they do in traditional sex. Given the whole array of highly distinctive fertility rituals—which can only really be described as orgies—the introduction of a new fetish common to the entire clergy may well go relatively unnoticed. All the more so because Gaia strongly disapproves of any form of pregnancy termination; therefore, for her priestesses who do not yet wish to conceive and do not know the prayers for contraception (or who do not wish to atone later for the sin of using such a prayer), entering from the other end is a fairly common practice. There’s no sin involved, and you can still enjoy yourself. The only thing is that this quest is, in essence, comparable in difficulty to “Toys of the Depths”—or perhaps even an order of magnitude more difficult to complete.

In the end, of all five assignments set by Her Milfness, only the fifth and final one remained—the one that required brainwashing, in a perverse way, not just one specific person, but five hundred beautiful women, and you could choose any of them. All you have to do is follow the step-by-step brainwashing instructions provided for each woman and ensure that the quality doesn’t slip. It would take at least a year and a half to two years of intense work—assuming the resources are available. And there’s no room for error. The reward is significantly smaller than for any other assignment, and it’s nowhere near as good as the one for “Life-Loving Asses.”

Once again suppressing the urge to yell a string of curses up at the stone-sealed heavens, declaring that he wouldn't take part in this farce, Stepan zoned out.

* * *

This time I did have dreams after all—a sort of hazy, indistinct blur that coalesced into separate images or even little scenes, which faded from my consciousness faster than new scenes could take shape there. The images took the form of either an old man with a cane walking slowly somewhere, walking a dog the size of a skyscraper, or the Woman from the Village of Fools armed with a frying pan-shooter—only for some reason dressed as the Sister of Battle—while the Man and the Sailor became a commissar and a Catachan.
Village of Fools
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MchYvdqQxw

One scene in particular stuck with me: a massive 60-meter combat robot shaped like a mechanical swan battling some otherworldly entity in the skies above a city frozen beneath multiple layers of shields. In the center of the city, a massive stone block—devoid of windows or doors, with only a single archway leading inside—glows with the power channeled into it, sustaining the city’s defenses—the only surviving place for hundreds of kilometers around. If you look closely, you can see two barely discernible figures on the mechanical swan’s shoulders, appearing minuscule against the backdrop of the unfolding events.

One figure is larger and completely bald, while the other is smaller and more slender, but armed with a smoothly polished, curved staff. Both figures rush forward faster than thought, riding on the wings of a mechanical swan, straight toward the creature’s center. A mass of maws, eyes, tentacles, and other unimaginable organs oozes pure chaos—so concentrated that a single drop of it could turn a large city into a nest of monsters—but the two figures couldn’t care less about this chaos. Even though beneath their feet, the copper and bronze of the mechanical marvel are rusting and crumbling into rotten slime. The figures are deceptively slow, yet they reach the creature almost instantly, landing a single, precise blow on each of the two most vulnerable spots on the enormous body—hundreds of meters long—of the creature that embodies primordial chaos.

Their blows are insignificant, but along with them, it is as if the world itself is striking, rising behind their backs like a gigantic figure from earth to sky.

* * *

The scene shifts to a new one—this time even sharper, but now much more small-scale, depicting a single lavishly furnished room and two figures conversing within it. A half-elf who is vaguely recognizable, as if seen before—one who seems neither an elf nor a half-elf—and a full-blooded elf with surprisingly strange, snow-white eyes, blind yet all-seeing. And yet another eye—a third one—as if painted with faintly glowing paint right on her forehead, sparkling like a thousand suns, yet not glowing at all, as if it were truly just a drawing and nothing more.

The elf smiled like a cat that had gorged itself on sour cream. She stood up from her knees, leaving the half-elf—who was breathing heavily—slumped in the chair, panting and smiling even more contentedly than the elf herself. With a handkerchief made of the rarest and most incredibly expensive silk, she wiped a drop of something thick and white from her cheek, checking to see if there were any other stains. But no, there were none left. She had wiped everything away, and then began to urge her guest on, albeit very good-naturedly. Because they had already been secluded in this room for a suspiciously long time, and this was no longer the isolated room for clairvoyance where they had communicated in this manner before. Both his and her guards had surely already begun to get nervous. And after three hundred seventy-eight heartbeats, their commander will finally decide that he’s gotten nervous enough to burst in here without ceremony.

After quickly pulling themselves together and magically erasing any incriminating traces, they both realize that in the minutes remaining, they won’t have time—nor will they be able—to hide all the evidence. From a cursory scan—especially one performed by a guest skilled in the art of illusion? Undoubtedly, yes. But those who devote themselves entirely to others’ safety simply cannot afford to limit themselves to superficial checks. After all, those many days—compressed into a few short hours by the power of his Patroness—had made them far too complacent; during that time, they had grown accustomed to having no one interfere with their time together.

They both understand this, but they still say a warm goodbye, even though the half-blood—even after everything they’ve been through and all her thanks—is still embarrassed by what happened here. He’s embarrassed too and says he would have done what he did without any thanks at all. Simply because he’s genuinely happy that she’s regained her sight—and that’s all he needs. With a very warm smile—the kind that rarely graced her face, usually contorted by the habitual grimace of a capricious and extremely spoiled diva—the elf impulsively embraced her guest, asking him to look into her eyes.

Or rather, into the eye drawn on the forehead.

Her eyes flashed, and the guest felt a slight dizziness; surprised, he ran an aura scan over his body but found nothing out of the ordinary. The woman, smiling slightly guiltily, explained that she had no right to do that—to thank him in such an exquisite and slightly indecent way outside the protection of her sanctuary, where the secret would have remained a secret. And so she made sure that the sticklers from the Secret Guard wouldn’t pester her more than necessary. Moreover, she herself had avoided repercussions when they would have deemed her to have exceeded her incredibly broad authority by attempting to vulgarly latch onto—crude, but there’s no better word for it—her guest’s power. After three weeks of the curators’ annoying nagging, her allowance would have been cut by a third, and she would have been forced to listen to a lecture from some “gray-haired grandpa.”

She had never seen the latter, she couldn’t see him at all, which is why she was terrified to the point of trembling.

So before she began to thank him for the very last time—almost publicly—she slightly distorted the lines of the past, making sure her gratitude was meant only for her. And the guest would leave her chambers with his head spinning slightly, and afterward would remember only a perfectly normal conversation, without any hint of impropriety. The real story—or rather, the one that was real for the elf—would become a fleeting image, a sort of fantasy, an echo of past occasions when she had thanked him. A fantasy that he would cast aside so as not to feel even more embarrassed in her presence. She hadn’t been able to do this before—or rather, she had, but only very rarely, once every couple of decades, and even then with no guarantee. To pick up a cup from the table, but leave it on the table, and then choose the version in which what she wanted had happened.

An ability as powerful as it was useless.
Now it's much stronger, much clearer.

And her guest… he’s too much of a good boy. And what’s even more frustrating—he’s sincere in his decisions and desires, not misinterpreting her gratitude or taking it as an excessive display of possessiveness. And now she’ll feel ungrateful and mean if she treats him the way she’d planned, leaving her gratitude confined to what never happened. Because the desire to test a new facet of her gift on someone who has done her nothing but good—that is unworthy. And so she turned her little prank into yet another lesson—the last one for today and for this meeting—from teacher to student.

She looked at him. Her eyes flashed with that blinding light once more, and then they were sitting in their chairs again, their clothes neat once more; the elf’s aura around her face and mouth bore no trace of the half-elf’s characteristic marks, and no one would even suspect that something… inappropriate had taken place here. The half-уда, whose mind now held two sets of memories, flinched involuntarily while the elf, her painted-yet-real eye still sparkling, helped him hold onto the memory of what hadn’t happened—to not forget it, not lose it, and not believe that it had never happened.

By the end, the young man’s pants were clearly too tight. He was literally on the verge of embarrassment, but he had already regained his composure. And he had mastered his aura well enough not to lose control of himself. The elf, meanwhile, covered her blind eyes—even closing her one good eye—as she wearily wiped her forehead with the same handkerchief. She smiles, like a little girl, at the sight of her student lost in thought, reading lines visible only to him. The final lesson—a controlled immersion into the dance between the lines of probability—had rewarded him most generously.

The guest, however, had no mind for lines or gifts. He blushed involuntarily, remembering exactly how she hadn’t used that handkerchief, while the lady of the house smiled again—but this time playfully, even cheerfully. She smiled and said that now they both remembered what was meant specifically for them, but not for everyone else. That now he had an anchor memory, a tool of the highest quality that would allow him to do some of the exercises on his own. The main thing, she said, was not to skip his workouts and not to overdo them.

It would be very sad if he were to repeat her mistakes—the very ones that, in large part, led her to see the world through a painted eye. Sometimes, the pursuit of knowledge, truth, and understanding can lead you not quite where you want to go. Even if the entire Forest and its hierarchy will jump out of their clothes(literally and figuratively) to please you and keep you from falling into despair over a decision you once made—a decision that plunged the elf into eternal darkness, where she had long since given up any hope of ever seeing anything at all.

With her own eyes.

Then again, there’s no need to tell anyone else about this just yet. Otherwise, her supervisors will really give her a hard time later, begging and pleading with her to use her newly acquired and freshly tested skill for the sake of their ambitions. But, oh well—if the invisible gray-haired man asks, it’s better to just tell him; it’ll be quicker and easier that way. Just let her pray to the Patroness that she doesn’t have to meet him. He’s terrifying.

In the end, she was very pleasantly impressed by their meeting. His new insights had enriched her own understanding, and both her and his mentors would undoubtedly be pleased with the results of their joint effort to gain new perspectives. And so, if he ever wishes to visit her here again—whether alone or with his not-so-jealous young girlfriend—yes, for the mistress of the chambers, the girl waiting behind the doors is just that: a girl, still very much a child—she will welcome him and invite him into the secluded chambers they had recently left. Private, reserved solely for her, and therefore allowing her to do so very, very much there.

And then the whole world around them will certainly not happen nearly as many expressions of gratitude from her as the two of them will.

* * *

Another shift in images, like the shimmering trill of molten glass with a hint of burnt sugar amber, and then the images reveal to Stepan a vaguely familiar, very busty elf with violet eyes and long, almost pure-white hair. Dressed in a form-fitting battle suit befitting a mage or a secret guard operative, wearing high boots and equipped with a full set of protective amulets, she brazenly puts her trio of students through their paces on a vast and meticulously enchanted training ground. One is a strange half-elf, another is a red-haired shapeshifting cat-person, and the third is an endearingly beautiful blonde from the human race.

By the end of the class, all three of them looked like they could be wrung out like rags. The tasks that day required them to use abilities and skills that had previously been either underdeveloped or completely absent. The young man, who was staggering slightly, took the brunt of it; it seemed he’d been spending his reserves too recklessly, which was why he was now swaying like a lone pine tree in the middle of the steppe. Still, he had to master the skills of close-range hexing—when a mage confronts another mage at an extremely short distance—without resorting to classic fencing with enchanted steel or hand-to-hand combat.

The distance is less than two meters, with fractions of a second to react and a great deal of attention devoted to shuffling through shields and barriers of various types and subtypes. It’s impossible to completely block or dodge an attack at this distance, so you have to choose the type of defense that will absorb the blow with the greatest effectiveness and the least cost. This combat tactic is actively used by sorcerers from the distant islands, who themselves traditionally excel at enhancing their perception and reaction speed—qualities so crucial for this type of combat.

It’s not that ordinary elves are incapable of such things, but they try to avoid letting battles escalate into such specific types of duels: the excessive risk and high probability of trading their own lives for an enemy’s have always been the most unacceptable tactics for the eternally living and eternally youthful children of the Forest. But such training isn’t just an opportunity to easily harvest a bit of the essence of exaltation—it’s also a reason to inscribe a few lines in the Tablet, so the young man had to quickly master at least the basics.

That young man, yes. Right now, literally crawling away from the training ground to the shower, he does not hide his aura. And within it, one can clearly discern not only the power of a highly skilled master—with signatures characteristic of several schools of magic—but also youth. An incredible, even unprecedented youth for someone possessing such powers. If a casual observer were here, he’d be so blown away by this combination that he’d miss the student’s gaze—at once anticipatory and slightly bashful—as he looked at his magnificent mentor. And the way he exchanged glances with his maids, who were also pleased but felt somewhat awkward.

A minute later, the reason for these emotions became clear: The elf, who hadn’t been straining her body or her gifts too much and had decided to take a bath in her own home an hour later, once she’d sent those three hapless apprentices off to rest—they’d nearly failed to complete a list of tasks that was so simple, and should have been simple for them—suddenly staggered. With no small amount of surprise, she clutched her own chest, squeezing it through the rather thick fabric of her enchanted leather armor. Feeling their weight and realizing just how huge her elven boobs were, she quickly came up with a brilliant idea. So brilliant, in fact, that—figuratively speaking—a lightbulb practically went on above her head.

A minute later, she enters the washing room—which, here at this elite training facility, is quite luxurious as well, allowing her to wash up and let off some steam when needed. The elf enters still fully clothed, but with her jacket wide open, her fencing corset unfastened, and her shirt pulled up, literally exposing her breasts for all to see. And as soon as she enters, she immediately begins scolding her students—who seem completely unfazed by her visit—for the numerous mistakes they made during the lesson. And so, their punishment will be the necessity to tend to her sweaty elven tits, which will also serve as a reward for the fact that they managed to get through the lesson, even if only just barely.

For a couple of hours, she methodically demands that her breasts be caressed, pinched—even quite painfully—and that each of her sweaty tits be spanked, which feels good. Since it’s hot and steamy in the bathhouse, and the elf didn’t even think to undress, her sweaty elf tits remain just that, even after being scrubbed repeatedly. It ended, first, with the battle mage methodically and very sternly jerking off her apprentice with her sweaty elven breasts, and then, just as sternly and swiftly, going down on both of his maids. Using tantric magic, she brought them both to climax in literally three minutes.

The sorceress punished and rewarded the student for much longer.

Just as it was coming to an end, the elf tiredly—as if all her strength had suddenly run out, even though she’d been using it only for weak thermoregulatory spells to keep herself from being a sweaty, busty elf rather than a busty elf suffering from heatstroke—she lies down on her back, and maids begin to caress the mentor’s still-protruding, still-sweaty, still-elven breasts with their bare feet, smearing the semen with their soles. With their toes, they pinch her nipples several times, pulling them upward, causing the sweaty, busty elf to climax and become very drowsy, barely staying conscious.

With a satisfied smile, she licks her student’s semen off the soles of his maids’ feet and allows them to help her get ready, so that by the time she reaches the portal, she is still incredibly sleepy but appears completely normal and has changed into a clean set of clothes. Neither the training ground’s sensor systems nor the escort team from the secret guard detected anything suspicious in her reactions or her aural imprint, and these events themselves were concealed at all times by multi-layered illusions of the highest grade.

The next morning, she wakes up in her bed, utterly satisfied—not with yesterday’s training, but with yesterday’s punishment—proudly pinching her breasts, which are no longer sweaty but still large and elven… and as she experiences yet another orgasm, she realizes exactly what she did yesterday. This final humiliation, mixed with shameful pleasure, hits her especially hard—she nearly faints from the intensity of the climax she’s reached, forcing herself to stand on her buckling legs with a real growl. And then she reads the single-line message that arrived in her Tablets, which makes her want to growl even louder.

For a moment, she considered using a well-aimed bolt of lightning to destroy something (or even someone) she didn’t particularly need, but there were no such objects (or people) in her bedroom. Quickly regaining her composure, she found the strength to offer a wry smile, acknowledging how deftly and skillfully her students had subtly influenced her throughout the entire training session. And yet they’d managed not to ruin it completely! What was that, if not proof of her mastery as a mentor? Having finished tormenting herself with anger, self-loathing, and humiliation over what had happened to her—and over just how glad she was to receive the Tablet’s words of praise—the elf left her home, dismissed her servants, and soared skyward to meet her student and his handmaidens, her loyal comrades.

Yes, she appreciated the rewards, appreciated everything she had acquired, and acknowledged the fact that she herself would have condemned all three of them if they had refused to earn such a reward.

But her student will ask for forgiveness with his lips to the flower for a ve-e-e-e-r-y long time and diligently, and she will not forgive him right away.

The lines of the Tablets flashed before her eyes—only now, instead of bestowing a gift, they offered a poisonous gift in response to the poison of her actions—and she met them with a slightly crooked smile, quite uncharacteristic of the sorceress who always maintained self-control.

Perhaps she will forgive him much faster.

Here, it would seem, she herself would have to beg for this forgiveness, also with her lips to the staff.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/597837

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP