Chapter 148: Forges, Frills, and a Very Sore Princess
Morning sun blazes gold across the dwarven camp, glinting off polished brass pipes and fittings and dew-slick canvas alike.
Penelo, Lula, and Raikya sit around a food-filled table, dissecting the impossible deliciousness of dwarven pastries in exhaustive, borderline scholarly detail, comparing crumb structure and glaze consistency like a panel of very devoted, very biased judges.
"It’s the flake-a-nosity that truly brings out the flavour-nisms." Penelo says, cream dribbling off a chin held high.
"Indeed, indeed." Lula agrees, "The cream-to-crumpiness ratios are perfectly balanced."
"Those are not real words," Raikya chuckles, tossing a pie to Frostlick.
Off to the side, Sera flexes for a cluster of the princess’s guards, spinning increasingly implausible tales of her adventuring days.
Vuvi was elbow-deep in the engine bay of a steam-hauler, "Crystal balancer!" She barked, and Thari, standing patiently beside her with a full toolbelt, handed things to her with a practiced proficiency.
Veena rounds a corner with a fresh jug of dwarven wine and smoothly catches Zora by the collar just as the glamoured-up lich was attempting to sneak a peek into the princess’s tent for the fourth time.
Because, inside, the princess was bent clean over her own throne, crown hanging sideways off her head, entirely forgotten. Pip stood behind her, pounding away with the measured, mechanical precision of a pleasure construct who enjoyed his work entirely too much.
Thrust vectors twelve through twenty-one roll through his hips in pulsing, professional succession while she screams muffled devotion into a heap of her own dresses clutched between her teeth, fingers white-knuckled against the throne’s intricate ornate armrests.
Her back arches deeply, head thrown back, and she climaxes at full, room-shaking volume, squealing something about the fires of the Great Forge before collapsing upside-down, tumbling off the seat entirely, landing in a soft, undignified nest of floral frills and royal linen.
Pip lets out a worried string of beeps as she slowly slides down the steps of the dais entirely, goes completely still, then dissolves into breathless laughter and giggling.
"That..." she murmurs between breaths, "felt like I’d been personally fondled by the Great Forge’s fires itself!" she shudders as wave after wave of body-numb bliss washes over her, right there on the floor.
A guard pokes her head in, having heard the scream, and spots the princess, gasps, and a string of guards floods into the tent a moment later, surrounding Pip on instinct
"Your highness!? Are you hurt... did he... ?" one asks worriedly as she helps the princess up.
"I’m perfectly fine," Kathoril says, waving them off, "Better than fine!" knees still visibly wobbling as she stumbles back onto her throne. "That was... trans-magical! I felt my soul ignite!" She coos, bowing her head low to Pip, thanking him for his blessing. "If anything can bring the Flame Mother back," she breathes, "it’s you. And those divine hips."
Vuvi and Veena arrive moments later to find the princess draped over her armrest, tracing lines down Pip’s chest, whispering something soft and sweet against his faceplate.
"I hope he’s lived up to the hype," Vuvi says, clearing her throat.
The princess rises, wobbles, catches herself, then straightens with royal composure. "The stories don’t do him justice, not even close." she says. "It was nigh on enlightening. Words fail me. And yet I can’t stop talking about it." She touches her own lips, already drifting back into fond reminiscence, eyes glazing over.
"...Y-Your Highness? Are you still with us?" Vuvi asks worriedly as the princess’ gaze drifts off somewhere far beyond them.
"Apologies." Kathoril startles, her face beaming red. "My mind wandered."
"Yeah... well, we’re ready to move." Vuvi says. "We’ve got a pleasure palace to set up and a deity to track down, and a forest to save. We’re already way behind schedule."
"Of course, Lady Blackthorn, I’ll arrange it immediately."
An hour later, the entire camp folds itself into crates, carriages, and contraptions with the eerie, near-supernatural efficiency only dwarves seem capable of.
The team piles into a plush, steam-powered leisure caravan stuffed with gadgets built purely for comfort, which Lula and Penelo immediately abuse to their fullest potential, squealing out the window as a massage chair rattles beneath them.
Raikya rides alongside on Frostlick, shaking her head. "You’re the only ride I need." she tells the hound, who yaps happily in agreement.
"I could get used to this," Vuvi sighs, sipping wine as her own chair hums beneath her. "Dwarves make the best toys. They live for comfort."
"Even better than yours?" Sera asks, one eyebrow raised. "The princess seemed pretty impressed."
"Of course she was. Mine are quality!" Vuvi says, chin poked upward with ostensible pride. "Each one hand made, custom calibrated, built to last. That’s the Blackthorn difference!"
"Remind me to order something custom made." Sera chuckles.
"Say no more." Vuvi says, sinking deeper into the cushions.
"Favorite quest so far," Sera adds, eyes rolled back in bliss.
"Add one of these massaging chairs to the list," Vuvi tells Veena. "My mother would never leave hers."
"I feel like an actual princess again." Veena groans as she melts into the message mechanism of her chair. "This is better than anything we had at home."
In the Demon Lands, Vexena stirs uncomfortably in her seat as she watches Maribelle and Eris spar across the training grounds below her.
"Sorry!" Eris yells out, half-honestly, after parrying Maribelle clean through a wall of upturned earth. "Hand slipped! Honestly."
Maribelle explodes back out of the ground on a rising column of blue and black lightning, sword wreathed in the same, before crashing toward demon general like a very infuriated comet.
Eris brings her scythe up just in time to block her sword, blade meeting blade in a shriek of grinding metal and colliding magic, the impact rippling outward in a concussive flash that flattens the the ground around them, throwing up a churning wall of dirt and splintered wood in every direction that sends Sir Hop-a-Lot tumbling out of his seat at Virelle’s picnic table beside Vexena.
"Hey!" the little demon-kin princess cries out, scooping up her dishonored plush knight, "Careful!"
The dust settles around the training grounds, where weapons were locked, red and black energy crackling between blades.
Maribelle screams, pouring everything she has into the push... then freezes when she realizes Eris is gone, her scythe holding itself entirely on its own volition.
Eris reappears behind her in a curl of smoke, clapping slowly. "That was actually impressive, Elf."
Maribelle’s shoulders sag, sword drooping at her side, completely defeated by the demon-kins casual display of overwhelming skill.
She shoots the scythe with a side-eyed glare as it drifts through the air toward Eris’s back.
A portal blinks open beside Vexena, edges shimmering violet, and Krysil’s head pokes through. He squints at the craters, the smoke, the visibly winded Maribelle and completely relaxed Eris before turning to the Demon Queen.
"The queen of greed, your Grace." he says, handing Vexena a sealed letter, "Word of her movements. She reaches for the construct."
Vexena groans, breaking the seal and scanning the letters contents.
"Gather my army." she orders, crumpling the page to the floor, "It’s time we crush the queen of greed once and for all."