Deep in the Laurel Mountain Republic, beneath the shade of one of the dull, ponderous peaks that gave the land its name, sat the city of Emery’s Grove. Its buildings were broad and pastel colored, illuminated by numerous lanterns strung between them. Carts and carriages flocked to the mayor’s manor, the largest and brightest structure in the city. They disgorged handsome men and women of class, bedecked in fashions hailing from as far as Gardenia to the most isolated corners of the Laurel Mountain Republic. All of them, no matter their dress, mode of transport or homeland saw their distorted reflections in a massive, woman-shaped mirror that had been erected in the front lawn, a symbol of the land’s recent conversion to the worship of Inimel. 

It had been years since the first missionaries arrived from Gardenia, but through displays of her healing magic, through the induction of the rich and powerful into the Circles of Her worship, the faith of the land had changed. Even now, certain men and women were traveling, some willing, some not, almost none knowing the nature of their destination, to The Cradle, the great heart of the cult where foreign magics were used to create divinity. So massive and horrid was the scope of The Cradle that it was built below ground, away from prying eyes and meddling hands, beneath the private lands of the Betenos family, the richest and most powerful dynasty of Gardenia. They had been some of the first converts to Her faith, and much of the cult’s wealth was drawn from their seemingly endless vaults.

Odette Betenos keenly observed the latest pair-an elderly man helped from his vehicle by two younger women, likely his second or third wife and a daughter or cousin. The pale purple doublets and flowery ruffs popular among the land’s rich gave away all Odette needed to know about them; wealth, status, homeland. She gave no outward reaction, but felt a smug sense of pride knowing how much better she looked than the Laurelans-or was it Laurelese? She didn’t have the time to learn too many of the specifics of the local culture, most of her time leading to this gala had been spent perfecting her appearance. It had been difficult to pull off, but the Baroness put extra attention-some said obsession-into having a totally unique look, one that would make her the most identifiable guest at the ball. It was an obsession that spread to all aspects of her life, a drive for uniqueness that had led her to Franklin, and to Inimel. Through the goddess’ magic, Odette believed, she could preserve her matchless identity for eternity, never worrying about death, never worrying that her special nature would be forgotten and ignored. 

And, she noticed as she peeked over her fan, she was not being ignored, far from it. Many pairs of eyes lingered on her pale, thin figure, on the large amount of skin she left exposed. A slinky purple dress wound its way up from her left foot around her body, encircling her like a constricting snake. 

Of course, that had easy to procure, the real challenge was what she had done with her body. It had cost a small amount of The Power to create, a use that the prudish Franklin wouldn’t have ever approved. A series of eight thin, retractable talons grew from her left hand’s knuckles, webbed with a semi-transparent membrane that made it look as though a fan were growing out of her own hand. She went barefoot; having grown a four-inch spike from her heels and calcified her toes and sole, making a natural pair of stilettos. Like the whiskers of a housecat or the antennae of some great insect, a set of four thin, long spines grew from around each eye socket. It had taken a bit of work fleshcrafting in the mirror, but her appearance was completed by her hair, slick and a deep blue so dark it was almost black, that seemed to glitter with miniscule diamonds in every strand. 

A nudge broke Odette’s self-congratulatory trance as a tall, broad figure appeared at her side. A young, cherubic face with long golden curls sat on a wide set of shoulders, with arms like tree trunks and a hearty chest that told of years felling lumber or building ships. The comely giant was clothed in a nearly transparent white satin robe that hinted at the man’s sculpted-yes, sculpted was the perfect word, Odette thought-physique, sequins glittering in the bright fabric. Without parting his painted lips, the upper one a fiery orange and the lower a calming cerulean, he pressed a glass into the Baroness’ hand, filled to the brim with a fine white wine. His hand lingered around her’s, surrounding it with his warm palm, his strong fingers holding her fast for just a moment longer than was normal before letting go as sudden as they had taken hold. 

“Thank you,” she muttered, taking a casual sip of the wine. With a wave of her claw-fan she and her companion worked through the crowd, leisurely bouncing from one merchant, dignitary or holyman to another. Odette paid compliments to the governess of the Jasmine Cape, laughed at the awful jokes of a newly ordained minister, shared an aperitif with the mayor’s wife. She had practiced her routine many times, perfected her reactions and expressions so they did not appear false, every movement of her facial muscles carefully controlled to seem genuine. But as good a charade it was, the Baroness showed no real reaction, no true expression of her inner thoughts and feelings, to those she spoke with. Though she left every ruffed nobleman and posturing priestess thinking they had gotten to know the obscenely rich backer of The Faith, the personality they spoke to was a construct as meticulously crafted as the woman’s appearance.

“And so I’m reeling in what must’ve been a twenty, nay twenty five pounder and my wife says to me,” continued the mayor of Emery’s Grove, a scrawny beanpole of a man in his late fifties with a scraggily beard. He was the latest socialite Odette was mingling with, sitting cross-legged beside him with her bare shoulder ever so slightly touching his arm, her close proximity, near nudity and alien appearance having a visible effect on his composure.

“ ‘Dearest, my mother is home!’ she says, and I’m pulling it in, and don’t’cha know it, the line snaps just as I’m about to call back to her!”

Odette smiled and nodded, fluttering her fan in false admiration. Her golden-tressed companion stood over them in silence, his broad frame looming above the scrawnier mayor. Between the sultry Baroness and her intimidating date, the man of office had developed a mild sweat, his brow beaded with droplets of perspiration and his eyes flicking from the exotic beauty and the hulking brawn. 

“What a charmed life you must live, sir, for such an unfortunate conundrum to befall you. I trust your day to day life is just as exciting? My homelands are quaint, but oh it would be wonderful to live in such a beautiful hamlet as this.”

“Oh, er, it’s plenty interesting madam, we’ve been dealing with some odd foreigners and vagrants mostly, that and people violating hunting permits. I must say the whole Goddess thing transitioned rather pleasantly, seems the common folk really love her, and I must say that Navah lady is a sight to behold. If only we were all like her, the world would be a very different place, would‘t it?”

“Oh you don’t know Judith like I do,” purred Odette, fluttering her eyelashes and spiny antennae. “I tell you one thing, we’d all certainly get along better, that woman wouldn’t hurt a fly!” 

She stretched, extending her talon-less hand to the mayor’s far shoulder and resting her mutated one on his lap. The man’s sweat was as heavy as rain now, his wide eyes blinking to get the stinging salt out of them.

“You know, you and your people really have an opportunity to do something great through Inimel. You really could all be like her, like Judith, if you follow her example, if you show faith in Her. Peace, fraternity, love, beauty, those things could be second nature even to the lowliest beggar. You’ve yourself to thank sir, our goddess will bring a sense of unity, of togetherness, you could never before dream of.”

“Oh, er, well many thanks madam, it does feel good to do the right thing for my people. I may only be in the First Circle, but I can tell that making Her Faith the state religion was the right choice. You said something about living around here,” he said as Odette’s date sat down beside her, folding his trunk-like legs over each other.

As the mayor and the baroness conversed, the radiant hulk‘s hip spasmed, a centimeter of  skin and muscle contorting and warping itself. Nobody seemed to acknowledge the thin,  long tendril of muscular tissue that extended from his waist, and as the two nobles discussed taxes and tithes the appendage slithered it’s way behind Odette’s back.

“And a yearly tax of no less than one tenth of the town’s gross,” continued Odette, “I trust that isn’t unreasonable?”

The mayor nodded respectfully, a mix of fear and respect twisting his face into a frown. Behind Odette’s back, her date’s tiny new appendage finally made contact with her, gently stroking the lower quarter of her spine with its fine tip.

“Splendid, my lord mayor. Some of my retainers will bring you the proper documentation and seals tomorrow. And let me express my gratitude,” she said breathily, fluttering her eyes and exposing more of her cleavage. The tendril slithered down to her tailbone, tickling and teasing the sensitive area of her back, but Odette did not appear to notice; no change in tone or expression did the flexible mutation elicit. 

“Not only for the riveting conversation, but for helping to insure The Faith’s continued prosperity. I’m sure your wife is very happy live with such a man.” She put extra emphasis on the ‘very‘, causing the torrent of sweat that drenched the mayor to grow worse. Odette stood, craning her back to accentuate her rear and slowly stretching a single leg out, then another, before leaving the mayor speechless and wide eyed as she disappeared into the crowd. As quickly as it had extended, the golden-haired giant’s tentacle withdrew, and he rose to follow the fleshcrafted noblewoman.

The enormous, angelic man walked ponderously through the crowd, his gaze distant and unfocused. Odette did not see him approach, a conversation with an almost as extravagantly dressed woman demanding all her attention. Her opposite was clearly from Gardenia, and wore the womanly mirror that marked one of the third circle of Inimel. She wore a black headdress that connected to a set of tight straps of the same color that encircled her body via a series of golden chains and her face was heavy with makeup. Two more women looked on at the exchange; an equally scantily clad priestess of Inimel, her body also fleshcrafted for the occasion with rosy pink patterns and a more conservatively garbed local. 

“Credit where credit is due Baron, I say I do love what you’ve done with yourself.” Said the Gardenian. “Your face looks marvelous I say, especially with those spines. I’d heard you could stare daggers at a man, but those really give it meaning I say!”

Odette smiled and nodded, sipping her third glass of wine. Her expression was nothing but serene, calm and collected, her eyes never leaving her opposite’s even as her date lumbered to her side. She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and responded, handing off her glass to the beautiful Adonis.

“A compliment from you is rare, Deirdre, I’ll treasure that one more than all the antiques you paid as tithes. Do you miss them?”

“Inimel teaches us to let go of the material, doesn’t she?” Responded Deirdre, dismissively waving a hand. “What’s truly valuable is one’s beauty, inner and outer, as a pure body reflects a pure soul, I say. I’m sure you’d remember that, you’re the one that invited me to the gathering all those years ago.”

Like a statue, Odette’s composure did not change, though the thinly veiled insults elicited a nervous gasp from the on looking priestess. One would think that the baroness took it as a compliment for how she reacted, or didn’t react, with nothing but serene grace and composure, patiently remaining silent as Deirdre continued.

“Oh who am I kidding, of course you of all people would know Her teachings, I say, you damn well built Her faith of course! I’m sure all in your company can see The Goddess in your beauty, I say, and how could they not with that dress! Magnificent, it does wonders with your figure I say, you must let me know who your tailor is!”

Odette smiled and shook her head, betraying no emotion nor reaction to the string of compliments and insults.

“Well I’m sure I can guess it myself eventually, I think I saw something similar in red this one time.”

“If you did I’d have the tailor arrested,” Odette responded, “I was assured, guaranteed, that it’s one of a kind. Its been marvelous seeing you again Deirdre, you never fail to charm me.”

The exchange of formalities continued for several minutes, both women nothing but polite and courteous. As they disengaged and Odette linked arms with her companion, she made a mental note to have Deirdre’s carriage home diverted to The Cradle. The baroness’ almost expressionless visage betrayed no hint of the indignant rage she felt towards the other woman. She had been outraged when Deirdre insinuated that her appearance was not unique, that she wasn’t completely original. The other insults she could let by, but that was inexcusable. At least her rival would contribute to The Faith as raw fodder for Isaiah’s work.

“Come Rhywiol,” she said to her companion, leading him by the arm. “I haven’t need of you yet, but you make far better company than social parasites like that.”

The silent figure nodded, his painted lips never parting. As she led him by the arm, making idle chat here and passing on compliments there, the crook of his elbow where they touched buckled and warped. Several thin tentacles emerged from his skin, winding their way up the baroness’ arm to her shoulder. If any onlookers noticed they gave no impression of it; Rhywiol’s tendrils had adopted the same color as Odette’s gown, and one could be forgiven for thinking their motion a trick of the fabric. Even as the alien noblewoman batted her spiny eyes at a blushing young boy-the son of a wealthy tradesmen-Rhywiol’s new limbs rubbed and massaged her shoulder, their slender lengths caressing her smooth skin and the curve of her upper back. Their intimate attention aroused Odette; the skin around his dainty appendages prickling with goose bumps. Rhywiol could even smell the faintest of scents that emanated from the baroness’ nethers; the strange salty scent of her sex wetting itself, making itself ready to accept the things Odette had grown familiar with.

But still, despite her stimulation, despite the gorgeous Rhywiol’s attentions, Odette gave no reaction, no visible response to her companion. Her tone did not change, and not even the tiniest of twitches played upon her face. It was as though her body and her mind belonged to separate entities, that only shared information when beneficial to the baroness.

After making the rounds, Rhywiol left Odette at a mostly empty table and went to fetch her more drinks. Seated beside her was a tall, dark skinned man, his hair white and receding. He wore the uniform of a Laurelian general, his face showing he was tipsy from a few drinks.

“Ronnie,” cooed Odette, her voice seductive and sweet. The old man’s face lit up, his wrinkly grin spreading from ear to ear. The general’s unfocused eyes focused on the bizarre beauty beside him, and clapped her on the back.

“You’re the only one who still calls me Ronnie,” he slurred, “haven’t heard that name since I was a lieutenant. Now it’s all Ronald P. Lorelle, Generale Lorelle, Mister General Sir hrumph!” 

“Well you’ll always be Ronnie to me, that same blushing cadet who jumped to salute at every pair of boots that walked his way.”

“My, has it really been that long? I can see one of us aged much more gracefully,” he chuckled, sipping at his wine, “sorry Odette, the years’ve got to you.”

Odette feigned a chuckle and planted a kiss on the general’s cheek. If his remark bothered her she didn’t let it show.

“It’s to do with this new Inimel thing, isn’t it? Sorry if it’s the drink talking, I’m only Second Circle. But your just as gorgeous as the day I met you. Spikes and claws and all that aside.”

“Yes, it’s to do with Her. Ronnie, we’re friends, so Ill let you off with a warning. Were you anyone else you’d be knocked down to first circle and I’d tell your priest about those bags under your eyes. Take some pride in your appearance, an attractive soul demands an attractive body.”

“Is that all this is about Odette? A peck on a cheek for that blushing young cadet and you’re acting like my mother? I‘m afraid im married and old now, not up for the old horizontal bop.”

Stretching like a cat, Odette laid out across the table, popping her rear and pressing her breasts against the tablecloth. The talons of her claw-fan caught on the tablecloth in an uncharacteristic lack of grace, but they popped free in a moment. She then leaned against Ronnie’s shoulder, her pinky finger playing with his earlobe and the sensitive skin behind it. The stern old man took a sharp intake of breath as the bizarre woman tickled the sensitive spot she’d found so many years ago.

“I’m afraid it’s business. I wish I had the time for pleasure, but some important things have happened.” 

“’Important things’ Odette? Did you want to be the vaguest lady at the party this year?”

“Foreigners crossing your country’s borders,” continued the baroness in an even tone. “We think they’ve been coming in and making trouble for years, but we haven’t been able to do anything about it.”

“Foreigners? Who? And from where?” The General’s face, already rosy from wine, blushed as Odette toyed with him, stimulating parts of him even his wife couldn’t reach. It had been a lifetime since they first met, and still in this strange, ageless state the Gardenian nobility had entered she knew how to play him like a fiddle.

Odette chuckled and fanned herself, sighing melodramatically. “Im surprised you didn’t ask why you were kept in the dark about this.”

“And the reason for that is?”

“My friend Tanager’s been working to contain knowledge of them, as well as their influence. They’re called the Mardik, a tribe of savage nomads from the east. Father Franklin and the Master of Rites, Isaiah King, lived among them before founding The Faith.”

“So they introduced them to Inimel? The Mardik worship her?”

“The answer to half of that is Sixth Circle information, Ronnie, you wont see me spilling secrets so easily, but no, they have their own savage faith. They worship a pantheon of gods, an omnipotent Allmaker who created them from the better parts of beasts and monsters and taught them magic. There’s also a great Wolf spirit who tried to eat the Allmaker, but was domesticated by their creator. Isaiah’s study of the Mardik says the Wolf became Allmaker’s servant and hunted  down Allmaker’s foes, protected his children and taught the Mardik how to tame and breed animals. There’s one or two more they pay homage to, the children of Allmaker and so on.”

“Sounds like you know all about them,” said Ronnie, staring into his drink, frowning at the wrinkles and imperfections in his weary face. “How in detail does Isaiah get?”

Odette sighed, rolling her eyes before continuing. “He and Franklin wrote a book about them before founding the faith. It also describes the horrors the Mardik are capable of,” she said matter-of-factly.

“They have bred and warped animals into monsters, terrible things they use as tools and steeds. Beasts whose stingers are used like swords and headless horses that grow their own saddles. Make no mistake, they are an awful, destructive, warlike mob of unwashed ruffians, the kind of people Inimel opposes most.”

On the other side of the ballroom, Rhywiol slid through the crowd, gently pushing people out of his way. The giant with the painted lips and transparent garb drew the many women’s eyes, even those married or otherwise accompanied. His eyes flitted from face to face like an animal, scanning for threats and interpreting the body language of those around him. 

He saw how the drink waitress’ face became flush when he approached her, hints of arousal, surprise and fear decorating her visage. If he was a lion, she was a gazelle, paralyzed by his mere presence, hoping that she could hide in her immobility. Her body was frozen, but her eyes followed his hands-so big and strong, yet so perfect and flawless-as they reached for her tray and took two flutes of white wine. As he turned away her heart raced, and Rhywiol’s sensitive smell detected both relief and disappointment.

Then he was walking away, as soon as he had come. The swooning waitress couldn’t turn her head from that muscular, broad back, and it held her gaze even as she turned to walk in the opposite direction.

Then she tripped. The waitress wobbled for a moment, struggling against gravity, before she fell to one side, crashing into Rhywiol and spilling her tray all over herself and the handsome Adonis. Rhywiol froze, his immaculate, transparent shawl damp with wine and clinging slightly to his skin.

“I’m so sorry sir,” stammered the flustered waitress, scrambling to her feet and smoothing out her dress, “I’m so incredibly sorry, I-I don’t know what-I’m really sorry, let me-”

Her eyes went wide when those hands she had just been so enamored by seized her, one pressing a thumb and forefinger into her mouth, the other seizing her by the throat and hefting her off the ground. With a terrified shriek, she thrashed her legs and tried to free herself from his arms, but the man was built like a mountain, and her resistance was useless.

Those around the altercation formed a circle, calling for the girl’s release. None ventured too close to Rhwiol out of fear of what he might do, his cherub-like face expressionless, disturbingly placid. The waitress’ hands pulled at those angelic, leonine curls, but nothing she did would move the iron monster of a man. Her screams were muffled as the fingers he had stuffed into her mouth warped and changed, fusing unnaturally into a single, thick appendage, the nail vanishing and the texture becoming bizarrely smooth, like some strange deep sea creature. Now flailing in utter terror, she gagged and wheezed as the strange tendril extended, forcing its way through her mouth and down her throat.

A man in uniform had just unsheathed his saber and moved to strike at the colossus when Odette’s voice rang out over the crowd, for the first time conveying a loss of composure.

“You will unhand her now Rhywiol, or I am throwing you back into The Cradle the moment we return to Gardenia!” She pushed her way through the crowd, her spined brow furrowed in rage, her fists balled in anger.

The finger-tentacle in the waitress’ mouth retracted and split in a fraction of a second, and the expressionless monster dropped its prey to the ground. The waitress collapsed in a slump, gasping and coughing up spittle, holding her neck in pain. All eyes were on the Baroness now, many afraid, many more demanding explanation.

The Baroness’ expression became pouty, and she unfurled her fan, tapping her foot impatiently. Things had not gone the way she had hoped. While Ronnie had agreed to increase patrols on the borders and to call for teams to search for the Mardik, Rywiol was not supposed to behave like this, at least not until they were in private. It annoyed her more than anything; she was the only one here with a companion of his nature, and now nobody would remember it fondly! Waving her fan and humming, she focused her thoughts inwards, feeling for that cord of power that connected her to The Cradle, to Inimel.

When she found it, it felt like she had opened her eyes to the midday sun after an eternity of sleep. The Goddess’ nascent powers had grown significantly since the Laurel Mountain Republic converted to Her worship, and what had been a stream of power had become a river. Reaching her consciousness through that cord, she could feel the immensity of Inimel on the other side, the composite if innumerable souls and bodies, enhanced by the magics of Isaiah had stolen from those savages. It was blinding, overwhelming in its majesty, its beauty, its terror. Thousands of half-dead souls, confused and malformed, not knowing their nature or purpose, bound by strands of divine power, all twisted and shaped into the form of a beautiful woman. It was a mindless, awful amalgam of spiritual horror, the dreaded secret of The Faith. 

Her body was still waving her fan and tapping her shoe, but her mind was ablaze with activity. For a moment, Inimel and Odette Betenos were not unique, individual beings, but were one, their powers, desires, fears and needs the same. Inimel was still mostly mindless, and would remain so until the very last step of the grand scheme. To become one with her, even for a moment, demanded Odette wipe her mind clean of everything that comprised her personality, to forfeit her uniqueness, to become a part of that mindless woman-shaped abomination of the divine. 

It felt like a million tiny, hot hands, each one like a minute sun, clutching at her psyche, dragging her halfway in, her own will and experience keeping her from sinking in to that terrible mass of souls. A lesser mind would have failed there, been drawn into Inimel like so many had been, but years upon years of experience with Her growing consciousness spared Odette that fate. 

And for a moment, Odette was Inimel, was divine, had access to The Power, could reshape the world as she wished. It did not bother her, as it would Franklin or Isaiah, to use The Power like this, to cover up her own faux pas. They would see it as a waste, an abuse of what they had accomplished. Odette sent The Power deep into the minds of all those present at the gala, redefining their perceptions, rewriting their memories like an author with a manuscript. This was what it meant to be supreme, to be divine. To be able to rewrite and change reality with a whim, to have the power to change and control everything and everyone. 

Then they were separate again. Odette continued tapping her foot and fanning her fan, but her mind felt the spiritual recoil of disengaging from Inimel. It was getting worse; She was growing stronger and closer to completion, and it was harder and harder to pull away from that spiritual grasp. One day, Inimel would overwhelm her, draw her into her mass consciousness, and Odette could only hope that on that day the rest of the inner circle would also join with Inimel. It terrified her to forever lose her individuality, her uniqueness, kept her up at night, left her in sweats. 

It was nearly as terrifying as the specter of death; the prospect of her identity being subsumed by that horror she had helped create, her one of a kind personality being absorbed by The Goddess. But the alternative; death, the total erasure of consciousness and spirit, the termination, the finality, the slow decay of mind, body and spirit, was worse. It was to defeat that awful, terminal fate she would risk Inimel, would hope that her mind and soul were strong enough to take control of that monstrous, writhing gestalt, that her mind would survive unlike all others.

Retaining control of her body, Odette seized her date by the wrist and strode imperiously towards the edge of the ballroom. Rhywiol followed unresistingly, leaving the crowd bewildered and stunned. To them, nothing had happened, they had forgotten why they were circling a sprawled waitress. Even the victim of Rhywiol’s attack was confused; she assumed she had tripped and spilled her wine, but the rest was a blank. Whenever she, or any of those observing the altercation, tried to recall what had happen in those moments, all they could see was the icon of Inimel, a feminine mirror. When they tried to focus on the memory, they could make out the reflection of Odette Betenos in that curvy pane of glass.

“I’m deeply ashamed,” groaned Odette as she led Rhywiol out of the room, through a door and into one of the side passages of the mansion, “that kind of behavior, its what I expect from those brutes Judith shapes, not a companion made for me.”

Rhywiol made no sound, but his fingers began to extend like so many little snakes, turning flexible and boneless. 

“No,” said Odette, snapping her fan at the giant, “you’ve been impatient all night. Don’t think ill forget what you did to that nobody back on the dance floor.”

They had finally entered a room far enough from the main ballroom, a small dining room, the furniture all stacked in a corner and an old green rug covering the floor. A cheap landscape painting occupied one wall and a long window covered by blinds the other. 

“You are reserved for MY use, nobody else’s’, understand?” Continued Odette, locking the door behind her.

“What’s the point of being the only one in the world with a shaped lover like you if you’ll go to town on every no-name waif that bumps into you? You are for MY use and MINE alone, do I make myself clear?”

Rhywiol stood stock still, his gaze fixed on Odette, his hands frozen by his sides.

“Of course I do you dumb buffoon, now strip me.”

Finally reacting to her tirade, Rhywiol raised his hands and pointed his fingers, his skin rippling and warping as though it were clay. Again, his fingers extended like so many little ropes, their lengths reaching under and behind Odette’s dress.

“You’ve been teasing me all night, I can barely stand it anymore. You can go all the way tonight, forget we’re away from home.” Said Odette, folding her arms behind her back and shutting her eyes as Rhywiol’s tendrils enveloped her, slowly peeling off her dress. Unlike before, when he was so eager to touch her, he kept his fingers from her skin, gently undoing her dress, causing her to gasp whenever he brushed against her. The dress fell to the floor in a thin ring of purple around her clawed feet, and Odette shut her eyes and threw her head back, using The Power to retract her fan and spines into her body. Her pert, firm breasts were exposed to the stuffy air of the mansion, long, statuesque legs and tight behind, all slim and slinky, all ready to be touched. Rhywiol stepped closer, shrugging off his wine-soaked satin robe, his muscular chest pressing against her.

The Baroness opened her eyes slightly, just a crack, and gazed at the irresistible male body in front of her, those broad pecs, powerful shoulders, chiseled abs. All for her, nobody else, the only one like it in existence. Those extended, snakelike fingers encircled her then, two coiling around each thigh, one around her neck like a collar, two more surrounding each of her upper arms. The final tentacle traced its way from between her breasts, slowly making its way over her belly and down to her nethers. It found its destination, and orbited her sex, causing her to shiver with anticipation as he touched the outside of her entrance. 

“More,” whispered the petite woman, her dark blue hair spilling over her shoulders. The tendril around her neck tightened, and she opened her mouth in a mixture of surprise and pain as it constricted her airways. Rhywiol buckled and warped as he teased her, his many tendrils squeezing and writhing on her body, their many warm, long lengths such pleasurable sensations against her skin. His legs began to fuse, shifting closer and closer together, first the skin of his thighs connecting his limbs, then his knees merging and becoming one. 

Again and again that tendril orbited Odette’s entrance, each time causing her hips to buck, trying to bring that teasing appendage into her body. Growing frustrated, Odette summoned The Power, and sent a wave of hot, burning energy through her torso. Her body changed, her crotch shooting forward several inches as her abdomen extended. As her sex enveloped Rhywiol’s questing finger Odette grinned in satisfaction, biting her lower lip and looking mischievously at her mutating partner. His face still serene and immobile, the tree of a man quickly accommodated to her new positioning. The tentacle inside began to spin in tight circles, rubbing all of the Baroness’ inner walls, searching for sensitive areas and stimulating her wet folds. 

Rhywiol’s legs had become one long trunk now, a single column of flesh as broad as his chest, and his feet had twisted into new forms as well. Barely resembling their previous forms, they had become spongy and boneless like some strange sea creature, each set of toes having merged and fused into a long, waving tentacle, spirals of skin and pigment giving way to stranger, mucus-dripping red flesh. They smelled faintly of meat, and coiled over Odette’s deformed body, their strong, thick lengths wrapping around and around the Baroness.

“Yes, just like that,” she cooed as the slimy limbs sent pleasurable sensations through her body. 

“You’ve been keeping these cooped up in your body, I can tell you want-mmph!” Odette gagged as one of those thick red limbs forced its way into her mouth, pressing against her tongue and driving her lips apart. The invading member dragged itself in and out of her mouth, mucus mixing with saliva and pooling below Odette’s chin. Though she sputtered and gagged, the thick limb’s actions further aroused her, battering her with sensations and stimulations. Her breasts stiffened in response to the combined attentions of tentacles in her mouth and groin, nipples growing hard erect from the rapid movements deep in her sex. 

It thrilled Odette to partake in such a profane, monstrous act, even more so to be doing it in such a pristine location. The thrill of defilement, of debasing her host’s home with the act was just as stimulating as the limbs writhing inside her, holding her limbs tight and constricting her neck. That tentacle wrapped around her throat kept it tight, so that the walls of her neck hugged the invading limb tighter. Again she summoned The Power, changing her mouth and the walls of her throat. Her teeth retracted into her skull, and her lips shifted and changed. Once the transformation was complete, her mouth resembled her vagina, a vertical flower of contracting muscle, better suited to accommodate Rhywiol’s thrusting tentacle.

Rhywiol too had changed again. His arms had become longer and more flexible, his hair growing out to his waist and waving unnaturally. Many more small, finger-length tentacles had sprouted from his leg-trunk and his upper arms, all writhing uncomfortably. He resembled a human tree, his perfect body twisted and deformed. Still, his angelic countenance remained unchanged, unwaveringly beautiful and pristine, his eyes fixated on his writhing, captive prey.

Odette’s back arched, and her spine became less rigid allowing her greater flexibility, giving her a range of movements impossible for the human body. She twisted and writhed, each thrust and wriggle of the tentacles, each tug of their strong, thick lengths on her skin heralding another wave of pleasure. She could feel the hot length of another tentacle pressing against her rear, the thick, muscular appendage teasing her sphincter.

Again, her body transformed, altering the dimensions of her anus to allow Rhywiol’s thick limb better access. Again and again the tip prodded her rear, causing the Baroness to shiver with anticipation. It then surged forwards, burying itself inside her and vigorously pumping in and out of her ass. No sound could escape her mouth-cum vagina, but the flutter of her eyes, the drooling of her second sex, the tensing of her leg and back muscles all indicated how the invading arm made her feel.

 The mucus coating that red tentacle served as adequate lubrication, one of the many purposes it had been shaped that way, and allowed the limb to drive its way deep into Odette’s colon, the inner surface of her rear clinging to the tentacle as it retracted only to surge forwards again. The other two limbs in her duplicate vaginas increased their pace to match the one driving away at her ass, their motions causing large amounts of drool and vaginal fluids to escape Odette’s entrances.

Again her body tensed, this time a steady wave of heat and pleasure escaping her core, each thrust, each tug on her neck and arms increasing its intensity. Finally, it became too much, and the Baroness rocked with orgasm, her toes curling and eyes rolling back from the battery of sensation her triple penetration afforded.

She cleaned herself up after Rhwiol’s limbs relinquished her, rubbing her sex and rear and shivering as aftershocks rocked her body. Over the course of a few minutes, her body returned to what it had been when she entered the room, complete with fan and heel spines. Even her hair fixed itself, not hinting in the slightest that she had just been ravished by a many-limbed abomination. It took longer for Rhwiol to return to the shape of a man, the crunching of bones snapping back into place or being regenerated accompanying the sickening image of his body shrinking in on itself. Once he was redressed Odette wrapped her arms around him, resting against his side for a moment and drinking in his scent, his aura of maleness and sexual powers. With a peck on the cheek-one which she needed to extend the length of her legs to reach-, she released him and unlocked the door, returning to the ballroom floor as though nothing had happened.

The gala continued as normal, and the pair had retired to the Beteons Duchy’s most comfortable coach for their return to Gardenia. 

It not until morning two days later that Odette’s weary eyes took in the relaxing green hills and manicured woods of her home, the tall white of her manor seated atop all the calm greenery.

Before retiring to her manse, however, the Baroness traveled to the gatehouse at the edge of her property. Inside, beneath the cozy wooden floors and hunting trophies, in the carpeted cellar, stood a tall set of iron double doors. Their surface was decorated with bizarre images; men, women and beasts all worshiping the silver outline of a woman, which in turn surrounded five golden faces. They almost seemed alive, like they were moving, how real they seemed. Each of the golden faces had a tiny hole where the mouth should have been.

Odette reached into her purse and withdrew a slender silver needle, one of only five in existence, and inserted it into one of the faces. There was a strange crunching, almost like gnashing teeth, and the doors cracked ajar, just enough for Odette to squeeze in.

This was The Cradle. If the Chapel of Union was the heart of The Faith, this was the womb. The squirming, ugly, hot seat of creation where The Goddess and the majority of The Faith’s shaped constructs were made. It was something that must remain hidden, all of The Faith’s founders agreed on this, so horrid and repulsive was this place. 

A stone spiral staircase lead down and down into the underground, and the smell quickly changed from the cool air of the gatehouse basement to the hot, sweaty, sickening stench of raw flesh.

Shaped creatures bowed to her as she passed them, monsters with the bodies of men and the features of insects, beasts or monsters of legend. Some were clearly guardians, others steeds, weapons of war, and still others served more esoteric purposes. 

Odette passed the great pits where they kept the stock; naked humans awaiting their fate at the hands of the fleshcrafters. Odette casually scanned the throngs of screaming masses, every pit guarded by a many eyed, centipede-like creature made of a half dozen strong men, but could not find Deidre. Perhaps she had already been put to use.

The walls and floors of The Cradle were made of stone, but layers of ooze, slime, flesh and stranger things coated different parts, many experiments or discarded refuse from The Cradle‘s master. Odette had donned thick leather boots to walk here, so repulsive was the surface she walked on. Light came from lanterns and reflected off Inimel-shaped mirrors in every room, a bizarre network of rays of light traversing The Cradle.

A hundred horrors she passed; a room of headless giants stitched together from swine and elderly women that heaved bundles of corpses into a chute, a hallway coated in skin and eyes and half-formed mouths, seemingly one great organism, and a pack of three-legged scuttling creatures with plumes of tentacles on their backs.

When she finally arrived at the core of The Cradle, a great laboratory overlooking an enormous, luminous pit.

“Baroness Betenos,” whined an throaty, gravelly voice from the interior of the lab. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just stopping by, Isaiah. Rhywiol was great, thank you so much for making him for me. A bit antsy when he was in a crowd, but he more than made up for it in the sack.”

“Well I try my best, anything for a friend. You know I see less and less of Franklin these days, I’m wondering what’s become of him.”

“You know he hates the charade he put himself in, its finally starting to get to him I’d say. Ill talk to him for you, it’s the least I can do to show my gratitude.”

Odette extended her fan and pointed it into the shadows where Isaiah was lurking, shifting to a more serious tone.

“The ley lines are ours, it looks like the Laurel Mountain Republic worships Her now. But The Mardik issue is getting worse, Isaiah, they’re showing up all over The Republic, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they’d show up just as were getting so close. They may be preparing to make war, Isaiah, to invade!”

No answer came from the shadows, just a wheeze and the clacking of great claws against stone.

“I want you to triple production of war forms and templars, and I want you to do this now Isaiah, do I make myself clear?”

“Of course Baroness, i've got lots of new ideas I’d like to try. It’ll be fun, we’ve got plenty of spare stock I could use, and Ive been trying some new things with adrenaline that will improve reaction times by at least three percent.”

“Good, keep me and Judith informed as to your progress. None of us want the Mardik ruining all this work, especially not after all this time.”

She nodded to the shadows and turned to leave. If his projects were successful-they always were- the Mardik problem would be over before it could begin. Then they could turn their attention back to constructing Her.

“And then,” she muttered to herself, “I can escape the inevitability of death.”

“Through Inimel, I will be immortalized.”