"Are you Lady Vilans? Don't worry, we've already eliminated all the goatman bandits nearby. We're the Transian mercenaries your servants summoned to find and rescue you."
In the dark tunnels of Baphomet's dungeon, the Fire Demon Saint Lord—the most charming of the Eight Demons, and a man who had chosen a Xilanian heritage—stepped forward. He did his best to look friendly as he addressed the bedraggled Weaver of Fate, who was curled up in front of him and looked utterly "helpless."
"You're safe now, my lady! We'll take you out of here. Can you walk?"
His voice was transformed into Elvish by the computing orb. Vilans, already immersed in her role, timidly nodded.
With the help of the six men, the Weaver of Fate used all six of her arms to get to her feet. The movement made her tattered ritual robe fall open even more, exposing her flat, artfully sculpted abdomen, with its bewitching runes adorned by a tiny ornament at the navel.
A classic glimpse of bare skin.
Based on Vilans's past experience, these foolish men would surely come rushing over, breathing heavily, to help—and cop a feel while they were at it.
As a mature, seasoned 300-year-old shadow elf, she didn't mind.
In fact, if the Eight Demons were willing, the Weaver of Fate would be happy to "have some fun" with them in this dungeon.
After all, they were all warriors of her master Murphy, and she was new to the group, so she needed to build a good rapport. She'd also been on the run for a long time, and had been starved for company. On top of that, she'd just been powerfully attracted to Lord Murphy's handsome, youthful charm. Taking a little time to relax now wouldn't be a bad deal.
Besides, what was