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Surprises come in all aspects and genders
Come in all races and stranger helpers
Chaos or Peace, pick the poison
Both present glues the persons
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Shadow of the Fogsight fort torture room covers a princess’s face instead of a monster’s.
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“Sol, where is she?” Thean asks weakly with chains extending her limbs to the side. Her back against the wall and her body split in color.
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“You dare treat a capital princess like this!?” The other left half being pale with bloody bitten lips showing a wide smile. Crimson eyes glinting red and wildly thrashing the arms and legs without care. “How dare you! How dare you! You will end up killing her! Hahaha!”
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Strangely enough, Thean does not look like she is in pain. And she does not even look at the other split with her question asking about Sol’s whereabouts.
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“Princess Sol is resting in her chambers, Princess Thean” Zera finally responds on behalf of Gordon, Hubert, Dori and Tywin who all are around a table that beds their blood drunken dry mate.
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“That is good,” Thean closes her eyes in relief, “This Dramescula really is a nuisance.”
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“Hey, hey, do you all not think this princess is strange as well?” says Dramescula’s split that bites repeatedly on the lips and trying to tear the body’s left limbs off. “She is not feeling my love for her! My, physical—” Cracking the fingers and biting off half of the tongue, sweating, “—physical love for her! Pretty princess? Does it not hurt? Feeling your own body trying to take you and ki—”
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“It doesn’t” Thean opens her eyes, breathing out with an expression that only changes and cares for one thing, “As long as Sol is alright, nothing hurts.”
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“Ugh, and here I thought we could be friends. Hey!” Calling out to the mourning, “That friend on the table there, she was delicious~”
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And Tywin disappears in a blink of an eye before Dramescula’s sight sharply struck towards right—the man punching her cheek. “Shut up”
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“GAaaaah! That actually hurts dumbass! You hurt a capital princess!” But did it? Dramescula looks at Thean’s split, cross-eyed and wondered, “What is wrong princess? Did you faint?”
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Which Thean yawns and murmurs about General Ravius’s wellbeing, asking whether that man is doing his job right and not playing around with the brothel people. Then murmurs about Giza who does not care about her at all. Before murmuring about playing cops and robbers with Sol. How she wants to play with her again and her tired eyes look cross-eyed, “But because of you, she does not even want to hug me.”
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“That is good though is it not? I would have bitten you earlier than our dear mercenaries arrived. Then, I would have made entire Kinguin into my children just like” Gasping and blushing in satisfaction “~Just like I did in the past~ With him, my love, my children’s father~ Ah~”
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Whatever this monster is talking about, her moans keep everyone uncomfortable. The chains holding her rattles in her wild thumps. Before she suddenly starts vomiting blood. “Princess~ Look at this” she says before regurgitating out a gallbladder. “I got myself a neat trick~”
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And it hurts. So much so that her right side is numb and the pain is still no better than being away with Sol. Thean closes her eye and decides to might as well take a nap if she is going to be tied to a wall for a long time.
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“Princess,” Tywin calls, great timing too when the princess is peacefully asleep. And noticing so, gives him a realization that his punches on the pale side and only Dramescula snap awake, cursing.
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“Ow ow! You really need manners! Cannot you see that we are asleep?” She says before gagging again in the pain of another punch, “You---little—”
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“Is it really, okay?” Gordon asks Tywin who has lost himself in punching the pale skin to purple bruises. Punching, and punching as if it is a punching bag
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“Hehehe” she coughs and vomits out blood and organs, but that is not a surprise anymore. “Hit me all you like; I will still come back from where you struck me dead”.
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Zera watches as Tywin's fists relentlessly pound into Dramescula's pale flesh, bruising the princess's skin with each brutal impact. The sound of knuckles against flesh echoes through the torture chamber, mingling with Dramescula's mocking laughter. Zera's brow furrows, her patience wearing thin.
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"Tywin, enough," she commands, her voice cutting through the cacophony of violence. "This is pointless. You're only harming Princess Thean's body."
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Tywin pauses, his chest heaving with rage. He turns to face Zera, his eyes blazing with a thirst for vengeance. "Dramescula killed our mate, Zera. She deserves to suffer."
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Zera meets his gaze, her own eyes filled with understanding and shared pain. "I know, Tywin. Believe me, I want revenge just as much as you do. But this isn't the way. Save your strength for when it truly matters."
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Tywin's fists clench and unclench at his sides, the internal battle raging within him visible in the tension of his muscles. Finally, with a growl of frustration, he steps back from Dramescula, allowing the princess's body to slump against the chains.
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Zera approaches the bound figure, her eyes narrowing as she studies the stark contrast between the two halves. Thean's side remains peaceful, her eyes closed in a deep slumber, while Dramescula's pale half grins maniacally, blood dripping from her bitten lips.
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"Tell me, Dramescula," Zera begins, her voice low and dangerous, "how did you manage to transfer from Princess Sol's body to Princess Thean's so quickly?"
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Dramescula tilts her head, a mocking smile playing on her bloodied lips. "Wouldn't you like to know, dear Zera? It's a little trick I picked up over the centuries. Hopping from one pretty princess to another is quite the thrill."
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Zera's jaw clenches, her patience wearing thinner by the second. "I'm not in the mood for your games, Dramescula. Answer the question."
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Dramescula's laughter fills the chamber, a grating sound that sets everyone's teeth on edge. "Oh, but games are so much more fun, don't you think? Why spoil the mystery?"
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Dori, another mate, steps forward, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you planning, Dramescula? Why target the princesses?"
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Dramescula's grin widens, her crimson eyes glinting with malice. "Plans? Me? I'm just here to have a good time, darling. And what better way to do that than by playing with the pretty little princesses of Kinguin?"
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Gordon, who has been silently observing the exchange, finally speaks up. "I have a theory," he says, his voice low and thoughtful. "Beings like Heshapes, those who can take parts of others as their own, have an easier time adapting to new hosts. They're like parasites, latching onto the strongest prey they can find."
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Dramescula's eyes flash with a mixture of amusement and irritation. "Aren't you a clever one, Gordon? But I'm no mere parasite. I'm something far, far worse."
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As the mates exchange glances, a sense of unease settles over the room. They know they're dealing with a malevolent entity, one that delights in chaos and suffering. And as Dramescula continues to taunt and provoke them, they realize that this battle is far from over.
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Meanwhile, outside the walls of Fogsight Fort, the Mægfæge festival is in full swing. The air is filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the chatter of excited villagers. However, amidst the joyous atmosphere, whispers begin to spread like wildfire.
Peasants huddle together, their faces alight with a mixture of confusion and excitement. "Did you hear?" one of them says, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Those soldiers who cleared out the monster camps and helped us in the provinces? They weren't High Princess Thean's soldiers at all. They were High Princess Giza's!"
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The news spreads quickly, passing from one peasant to another like a game of whispers. Some villagers remain skeptical, their loyalty to High Princess Thean unwavering. "That can't be right," they argue, shaking their heads. "High Princess Thean has always been the one to help us. Why would Giza's soldiers be doing her work?"
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As the debate rages on, a group of patrolling soldiers passes by, their ears pricking up at the mention of the princesses. One of the peasants, emboldened by the soldiers' presence, approaches them with a handful of coins. "You there," he calls out, his voice carrying over the din of the festival. "You can confirm it, can't you? It was High Princess Giza's soldiers who helped us, not Thean's."
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The soldiers exchange uneasy glances, their loyalty torn between the truth and the glint of gold in the peasant's hand. Finally, one of them steps forward, his voice gruff and reluctant. "Aye, it's true. Giza's soldiers were the ones who cleared out the monster camps. Thean had nothing to do with it."
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The peasant nods, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he presses the coins into the soldier's palm. "Good. Make sure you spread the word. And if anyone asks, you didn't hear it from me."
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As the soldiers move on, their pockets heavy with ill-gotten gains, a group of peasants breaks away from the festival, their faces drawn and determined. They move swiftly, darting into the deep forest that surrounds the fort, their footsteps muffled by the dense underbrush.
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Two patrolling soldiers, their suspicions aroused by the sudden departure, follow at a discreet distance. They creep through the trees, their ears straining to catch snippets of conversation carried on the breeze.
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"Why would Giza take credit for Thean's work?" one of the peasants asks, his voice laced with confusion and anger. "It doesn't make sense. Thean has always been the one to help us."
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"Something's not right," another agrees, her brow furrowed in thought. "We need to report this to Thean. She needs to know what's happening."
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The soldiers exchange a glance, their own suspicions confirmed. They step out from behind the trees, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. "Hold it right there," one of them commands, his voice ringing through the forest. "What's this about High Princess Giza taking credit for Thean's work?"
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The peasants freeze, their eyes wide with fear and surprise. For a moment, no one speaks, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Then, one of the peasants steps forward, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "We... we were just lost," he stammers, his voice trembling. "We didn't mean any harm."
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The soldiers narrow their eyes, their instincts telling them that something is amiss. "Lost, eh?" one of them says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A likely story. You're coming with us. We have some questions for you."
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But as the soldiers move to apprehend the peasants, something strange happens. The group falls silent, their bodies going rigid and still. Only one man in the center of the group moves, his arm rising slowly, a single finger pointing towards the soldiers.
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And then, without warning, the peasants attack, their bodies moving with a feral, inhuman grace. They lunge at the soldiers, their teeth bared in snarls of rage, their hands curled into claws. "For Yralla!" they chant, their voices rising in a discordant chorus as they tear into the soldiers' flesh.
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The soldiers fight back, their swords flashing in the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees. But they are outnumbered and outmatched, their enemies possessed by a strength and fury that defies reason.
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As the battle rages on, the sounds of screams and clashing metal echo through the forest, a grim counterpoint to the distant laughter and music of the festival. And all the while, the name of Yralla hangs in the air, a dark and ominous presence that threatens to engulf them all.
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