* * *

  The night run through the woods, and even with the weight on his shoulders, did not end in injuries. But by dawn, Stepan's reserve was more than two-thirds empty, and his overall condition was at the “kill me” mark. Despite the spiritual transformation and general aura development, such a long reinforcement by a spirit pnted in the body could not but affect it, and it did, causing fatigue not so much physical or auric, but spiritual. Realizing that there was no point in running further because he would not run far in such a state, the young man let go of the spirit, which blurred his footprints and prevented him from leaving too obvious marks on his path, and then quickly prepared a pce to sleep. A protective circle, a couple of totems, another totem a little aside, and then to sleep, because his eyes were getting sleepy.

  He woke up closer to evening because water from tree leaves began to drip in his face, for some reason not deflected by the spirits surrounding the pce of his sleep. For the next half an hour the boy expressively, but silently, dialogued with the guardian spirits, proving to them that the condition of protection from rain and heavenly moisture included not only the deflection of drops falling from the sky or dew appearing on the body, but also the secondary bounces of these drops when they run down after hitting the tree. The spirits snapped zily, already realizing that the shaman would overpower them with authority, but not wanting to admit wrongness and partially unfulfilled task, so when Stepan finally woke up he became even more furious.

  A quick lunch, followed by another march, but in a much gentler mode, led him further and further away from the unfortunate town, where he was sure there was already an uproar about the fact that the blood child of the revered master of amulets had been murdered cynically and despicably while trying to capture a new victim for amulet-making practice. Of course, it hardly said so, but who knows the local authorities? Rumorias Krellb could have said outright under what conditions his son had died, and everyone else would have resented Stepan's actions even more. Jokes are jokes, but it's hard to hide your interest in forbidden practices, especially if you're an artifactor, who regurly sells handicrafts made of bones, skulls, and spines of victims. Sometimes under the table, and sometimes officially, because what the hell are you going to do to them, huh?

  Realizing that he was beginning to get angry again, Stepan habitually entered a meditative state and began to practice both calls in motion and the use of his spiritual grip. The road was not easy, but much easier than one could imagine when imagining the wild forest of cssic fantasy. A couple of times he had to chase away the beasts that came to his noise and odor with fear, but Stepan quickly proved to them that he was Stepan, not a steak. Once, he was bitten by some very poisonous snake, but he got the poison out of himself without the help of a call, only by his spirit, wrapping the poison particles in his will and dragging them to the spiritual pne. Once more he nearly inhaled hallucinogenic spores in a clearing with magical mutant fly agaric mushrooms. The mushrooms slowly dissolved their victims, who fell into catatonia.

  Here the young man stayed for a while. He covered himself with a few spirits that purified the air from toxic spores and looked at a pile of animal skeletons and even one very old human skeleton, next to which he found a rusty sword, dagger, and a few steel pques from his armor that hadn't disintegrated yet. Before leaving, he buried the dead man who had been eaten by the evil fly agaric mushrooms, forcing the bones into the ground, and cut some of the younger and “strong” mushrooms, which would be used for offerings or even for personal use to enhance his calls. Lingering a bit longer, he ordered the spirits at first, raise a small tornado vortex in this clearing, lifting as many of these spores into the air as possible, and then dropping all the tiny poisonous particles into a wine jug. The same one had previously been given to him at the very beginning of the adventure.

  Smiling with a maniacal grin, Stepan sealed the neck with wax and began to call, stuffing wind spirits into the jug and putting them to sleep, feeding and resting them. When he broke the jug, all those little buggers so good at scattering dust would cover the designated area with the hallucinogen. As the boy thought, in confined spaces such a grenade could be a really deadly weapon. Spores are not lethal. They do not germinate in the lungs, just coughing out, but in such quantities they can really kill almost in a few minutes, causing severe intoxication. Under normal conditions, mushrooms give ergot spurt in response to movement and pressure: the victim begins to move, again receives a portion of the drug in the face, falls asleep, and so on in a circle until they die. And in the case of extreme concentration, there will immediately go pulmonary edema and that's it, goodbye dearie. Having dreamed a little about tossing such a jug under the pillow of a respected mage who decided to let him for meat with tenderloin, the young man went further, leaving behind him the gde that had temporarily become much safer.

  He met two sources of magic, but both were even smaller and more insignificant than the one he had once visited. The first was at the bottom of a tiny marshy ke fifty paces wide. The mutated crucian carp or something simir living there did not even pay attention to the man meditating on the shore. The fish itself, horribly stupid as fish should be despite its magic, had long ago devoured most animals in the puddle. Now, it's feeding on pure energy and sifting through the marsh mud and cassava. Stepan thought about killing the keeper for the sake of experience, but decided not to increase cruelty, especially one with such a tiny benefit.

  The second source was a huge elm tree, its crown at least three or four meters above the forest. This tree had taken the source to its roots, growing not on it, but around it. And the source was, unlike the ke one, of a darkish orientation. Though the elm remained healthy and without any slime oozing sores, it was really ominous. Stepan could feel the evil force filling its trunk and crown reaching for the light. Not just evil but resonating with his own. Root Mark, as a property of his aura, literally sang from approaching this tree, and the guy was sure that meditating here would not only give him a lot of experience but might increase his characteristics a little more. Not so much that their numerical representation changed, not even close, but the hen eats the grain, doesn't she?

  "Elm is a wily vilin. He doesn't like people." He muttered a cssic quote to himself as he moved closer, sitting with his back to the tree and beginning to merge his spirit and subtle body with the aura of the dark tree. "He waits for winds and storms to drop branches on those who trust his shadow for comfort."

  The meditation, combined with the call and the summoning of a couple of scouting spirits, was indeed helpful. The tree's spiritual body was really reaching out to him, feeling an affinity, if you could call it that. And even this affinity was also dangerous because the tree tended to absorb a simir particle. However, it was not too difficult to keep on the edge, and even not particurly risky, other calls to dark entities are much more dangerous. But the result was amazing, not only replenishing his reserves, but also giving his body a good tonus, relieving fatigue and drowsiness, and leaving behind the taste of electrified iron in his mouth. It was possible to get rid of the tter by intensive spiritual cleansing, literally picking up the stuck energy residue in a spiritual grip and throwing it away. The source turned out to be, even in spite of the filter in the form of the elm tree itself, quite polluted and if Stepan hadn't had the Mark of Roots and spiritual transformation, he wouldn't have meditated here. He would have avoided harm but would not have benefited, only wasted his time.

  The way went on like that, until Stepan, who had made a great arc, came to the next settlement the spirits had indicated to him. It was not the first human dwelling he met on the way, but he did not even approach the others, and would not have approached this one either. But the route was very convenient, without swamps and gullies. The vilge near the swampy area was more like a little sprawling hamlet, with only twelve huts, not counting the barns and one old one, which almost burned down, and dismantled for firewood and other spare parts. The spirits who'd been sent to investigate had found no magic here, and the road leading to the farm was so narrow and overgrown that it was more properly called a path if not a direction. After looking around the houses and observing the life of the local popution, the shaman slowly walked back into the forest, covering himself with a totem to keep the attention away from him.

  He had supplies for now, but he couldn't buy anything he really needed here, because the pce was remote, poor, and as far away from trade routes as possible. And he didn't like it here. Even if the spirits did not even notice the magic, but smelled the stale smell of fear, blood, and danger, even if they were not able to convey these images to the shaman because of a different specialization. There was a chance that there might be a band of robbers living here, or the locals might be maniacal cannibals worshipping Cthulhu, or something like that. And it is only worth it to spend the night, as soon as “the son of Dagon, from the depths of the sea”, well, or crawl out of the swamp. The popution - a few old men, men, women, and children, being only a couple or three families, - did not resemble the above-mentioned, but maniacs should not resemble maniacs, otherwise, they would be preventively caught or eliminated. Rather the second, local justice is very radical and does not tolerate much difficulty in the judicial process.... Well, if we're talking about ordinary people, ndscapes, and townspeople, because the litigation between some two counts, Stepan had no doubt, could st for generations until the great-grandchildren of once quarreling young bastards would forget the reason of enmity. They would forget, but they would not stop! Indirectly these assumptions were confirmed by a couple of rumors from local individuals, with whom he had talked in Fantrell or simply overheard.

  Stepan would have bypassed the strange hamlet, but the approaching night forced him to look for a pce to sleep. There were swamps nearby on one side and just swampy terrain on the other, so the hill on which the hamlet with its vegetable gardens and fields was situated was the only dry pce for a couple of kilometers around. So the shaman hid in the thicket and began to prepare for sleep, to create protective contours for himself and call the guardian spirits. He prepared himself and called the spirits, closed the circle of totems. Then he ate a dinner of breadcrumbs and honey. Closing his eyes he instantly turned off.

  He woke up just as instantly because his spirits were anxious, sensing something dangerous, even though they did not see the cause of these sensations nearby. Stepan, who had learned to trust his immaterial servants, woke up immediately, sat up, and carefully rubbed his eyes chasing away the fsh of incomprehension and reflexive panic, quickly becoming alert due to the reflexes and tricks embedded in his memory. There was no sleep in the eyes and the general state was characterized by the release of adrenaline into the body. A really powerful release. For some reason, he felt scared, right in his sleep, although there was no nightmare or reason for fear. The unnatural silence also did not add calmness, because the young man who had lived long enough in the wilderness had already realized that the forest was almost never silent in normal situations.

  With a crunch of his fingers, he rose to his feet, pulling out the rosary with the contracted anchors and summoning the spirit from the owl's feather into his body, thinking he should repce it with a stronger analog. The night parted and lightened, but it was still dark. Even excessively dark. A gnce at the sky showed no sky, completely covered in clouds, no moon, no stars, nothing, just darkness, as if in a drow's ass. Adrenaline was still arriving in his body, only now the shaman had gotten his body under control and quickly came to his senses. Looking around and getting his bearings, he moved in the direction where the unpleasant wave of strange and incomprehensible fear was coming from, the kind of instinctive fear that any living individual feels when confronted with something that has been denied life, but has found no rest after death. Of course, he didn't move personally, he wasn't an idiot to leave the protective line fortified with totems and go into the jaws of some creature - he sent the spirit away, watching it with his eyes, looking at it with all his might.

  The contract that had once been traded for the eyes of a huge guardian beast was working as it should for the first time, and for the first time it gave a very clear picture, like a view from above of the whole area, but without much use. The vilge was almost completely dark. Not a single light in the windows, except for a single speck of light that flickered not in the window, but outside the houses. And this light was not just the light of a candle or a torch but something quite otherworldly, ominous even when viewed through the prism of contracted vision from above. The spirit felt the same way, expressing images of apprehension and desire to be away from here. Stepan somehow thought that the vilgers he had seen that evening behaved a little stiffly and went home in a hurry as soon as the sun began to set, sometimes even dropping their unfinished business, gncing nervously at the clouds that covered the sky.

  Calling one spirit after another, having already gathered a normal combat pack of contracts, and mostly those to whom one or two attacks were paid in advance, the young man began to guide his servants to the vilge. Stranger, but his own, experience suggested the right maneuvers, and routes for the spirits, allowing them to group and complement each other, overpping weaknesses and concentrating strengths. Carefully and leisurely swarmed in the air above the vilge ready to manifest into reality spirits, trying every second to follow the fire wandering between the huts, in which less and less managed to recognize the fire. No, it was not a fme, even if it could be mistaken from afar for a candle, but rather a chemical fme or the glow of some rotten thing.

  The spirits were worried. They sensed the danger and therefore not so much grumbling as striving to send someone else forward, not themselves, but their neighbor-spirit, let him scout. But it was such trifles, that the Earthman did not even pay attention to such things, controlling the summoned as if they were dogs in a sled or units in the RTS, and it is not even possible to say which option is truer. Here is one of the summoned, a creature in its essence bearing the shade of light of the moon: quite rare and valuable contract, in fact, quite capable of helping in many different rituals and, without the absorbed knowledge of developed call practice, he would not call such an entity, not knowing the necessary appeals and the method of offering, while randomly call can be very long. Stepan uses the Lunar like a microscope used for hammering nails, as it might seem at first or even second gnce, simply by raising it higher and making it give off a soft and pleasant stream of moonlight, just illuminating a piece of territory in the center of the hamlet.

  The light froze, being enclosed in an old and broken ntern mp. It looked, by the way, very expensive, and it was the kind of mp that didn't belong in this remote vilge: gss walls of fine workmanship, a lot of small details, and time-darkened patterns adorning the copper body, giving off tarnished gold. The problem, however, was not with the mp or the fme flickering inside it, a rotting green shade with a faint reddish tint. The problem was that the mp was held in the outstretched hand of an old, shriveled, and twisted humanoid. A long-dead and mummified humanoid, which even now could hardly be recognized as a human being. And he, right at the moment of getting under the light of the moon now hidden behind the dense clouds, jerked sharply, bent like a salt cosmonaut from the backstreets, staring with his eye sockets directly at the source of light. And there was something ominous in his posture, as well as in the walking dead man, but it didn't make him ugh or remember that zombies were considered an ideal source of EXP and loot in the issekai cssics.

  The dead man had eyes, no empty eye sockets, as a connoisseur of horror stories might expect, but those eyes had long since dried up, shrunk as if they were raisins in the sun so that it would have been better if he had no eyes. It looked so ugly. The dead man waved his mp, and afterward the lunar was tangibly pulled into the mp trying to suck the spirit into it, and the spirit did not like it very much, rather, it even panicked and began to send panicked images in the style of “Help!!!”. Stepan consciously invested his own power, forcing the spirit not only to continue to fulfill its role and shine but also to further strengthen its state and position in reality, preventing it from succumbing to the call of the mp. The dead man clearly did not like this resistance, which was clear from the sharply increased sense of unnatural fear, but outwardly his anger was not reflected, and the creature did not make any sounds.

  The dead man, clearly not a cssic zombie, but something more complicated, dangerous, and, perhaps, more intelligent, tried to raise the light bulb higher, increasing the pressure. Stepan was not going to wait silently for events to unfold. A short order and one of the spirits rushed down to the ground and on the ground he appeared in reality as a translucent silhouette. In a way, he and the dead man were almost colleagues - this spirit had the form and shape of an ancient warrior dressed in rags, who had fallen in an equally ancient battle. It's certainly not a ghost, though the practice of shamanism and necromancy overp in many pces, especially in the matter of ghosts. It is a spirit that once long ago absorbed the images and imprints of the battle that took pce under him, becoming not so much the ghost of a warrior who was killed (or maybe even survived the battle), as the concept of his embodiment, the memory of the feat of this and many other warriors that fell or survived in that battle. The battle that took pce at night, the death that came to the enemies at the stroke of midnight, the arrows that knew no miss in the light of the moon looking down indifferently.

  This spirit could strike only on a full moon, only in the moonlight, best of all at midnight sharp, but a simple night or even early morning suited the conditions. Of course, on this night there was no full moon, and the moon was hidden behind a veil of very dense and not a ray of clouds. On such a night, the invisible arrows of the spirit, repeating, like a phantom mockingbird, someone forgotten by mortals, but not spirits, and smashing into the bullseye shots, remained intangible and harmless. Even an unprotected man would get a chill down his spine and fear without reason if such an arrow struck his heart. But it was not in vain that Stepan summoned a very rare, albeit weak spirit as a simple illumination, it was not in vain that he studied his system knowledge, looking for ways to successfully combine calls, especially if this very method was almost emphasized by the red line in that knowledge? No, not for nothing, as both the dead man with the ntern and the phantom warrior, who was really just a curious spirit taking on the role of someone else, proved.

  The arrows sank into the dead man's flesh as real and damaging projectiles, even if they were translucent and only partially material. Rather, it was the magical nature of the projectiles that did more than just the physical damage. The dead man didn't make a sound, only a sudden increase in terror, only to shudder as if shaken by the candlelight along with the flickering fme, and then begin to weaken jerkily. The newly raised ntern seemed to brighten the silhouette of the shooter with its glow, grave and irregur, which clearly would not be good for the spirit if he had waited for the return blow. As, but the spirit, which had spent the entire charge of the shaman's reserve, which Stepan had paid for only three shots, three accurate and impossible-to-miss arrows, immediately slipped away to the depths of the native pne and was gone.

  The dead man did not hesitate, covering himself with the same halo of abnormal grave light. It wasn't a bad barrier, Stepan thought, making full use of the combat experience he'd invested in with his st knowledge, assessing what he'd seen at the level of a strong apprentice, no less. A couple of lightning bolts from the thunder spirits that struck from the back - this time prudently striking from a distance rather than huddling close to the barrier - shook the barrier, but did not penetrate it. What did break it was another blow, but a physical one, a powerful current of air, a knocking wind that sent leaves, dust, and lumps of earth into the air and shook the shutters of the nearest hut. The strike, in fact much less dangerous to health than each of the previous lightning bolts, blew away the halo surrounding the dead.

  The otherworldly light flew away with the rushing wind, as pieces of phosphorescent foil covered with reflective paint, and the dead man staggered awkwardly, trying to keep his bance and keep the ntern from being ripped from his hands. He could have succeeded, could have rethought his strategy and done something more dangerous, but the second of the air bsts, which were very effective, knocked the creature to the ground, followed by a concentrated air bde that cut the dead man's arm off at the shoulder, though it was only just strong enough. The hand that clutched the ntern, which was clearly unusual, and then another gust of air was embodied, which carried the not particurly heavy dead man to one side, and his hand and the ntern to the other. The ntern, from which all the evil energy was coming, from which flowed into the dead flesh the power to conjure, which was the one who wove this power into primitive, but very effective charms of unclear tone and unpleasant nature. The remnants of the dead man's aura, which in itself should not have been able even to exist in an active state until morning, were quite noticeable.

  The dead man twitched like a worm on a hook as if he'd had an epileptic seizure, but the three ghostly arrows still lodged in him only did more damage to the flesh and the remnants of the undead's thin bodies. And these thin bodies were not even a full aura substitute like zombies or other types of dead, making this body literally a glove, a puppet that had to be controlled manually. After a minute or so it was over, the atmosphere of horror and the alien presence of something evil was gone, and even the fshlight stopped trying to draw the passing spirits into its faded and almost non-glowing gut, fading and becoming an almost ordinary, albeit slightly glowing household item.

  Stepan, who had been frozen in meditation almost a kilometer from the vilge controlling his best servants from a distance, grumbled annoyingly at the sight of the ntern. He was only looking through the spiritual eyes of the contract. It was definitely an artifact, and an extremely evil and damaged one at that, now holding at most a tenth of its power. Leaving it here, in this vilge, where the locals would find it in the morning, would be like guaranteeing the appearance of a new one. carrier for this thing if there's a moron out there who decides to pocket it. Well, or the artifact itself will py the role of a beckon, forcing someone to pick itself up and affecting the mind - fear this thing sent very competently, fear and paralyzing will powerlessness. So, there is a possibility of the reverse effect but it's not much more complicated than already demonstrated. No, some rings are better thrown straight into Orodruin, as the connoisseurs would say. Sighing, realizing that he would have to waste the reserve again and that no one would even thank him for it, the young man began to call for the second time during the night.

  The remaining spirits of the winds wove into a small cluster of spirits, twirling in a circle around each other, creating a joint effect and happily absorbing the power the shaman was giving them. Personally, they would not approach this ntern except under the direct command of the shaman, but there was no need for such extreme sacrifices here. A veritable battering ram of air like a giant's foot striking the ground, burst from the spirits downward, straight at the faintly and tantalizingly flickering light. Even if the material of this creation of an unknown genius was shock-resistant, this resistance did not notice Stepan's st argument. The argument didn't notice the resistance either.

  The grave light fshed, driving the spirits away, fshed brightly, even brighter than it had been when the dead man was casting his spell when he was full of strength. The wreckage of the ntern dug into the ground, crushed as if by a huge foot. Stepan, who was breathing heavily from the intense pumping of power into his contracts and was still looking at the world through the eyes of the spirit-observer (who was beginning to grumble, because it had been almost eight minutes since his services had been used, and he didn't want to be summoned, he wanted to be summoned quickly and for a couple of seconds, or better not to be summoned at all, since he had already been paid), found out with sincere amusement that at the pce of destruction of the ominous ntern there was indeed a very deep mark, as if from a big barefoot, at least a meter long. A clearly visible giant heel had crushed the ntern - it was epic, in the style of real isekai books.

  The d was genuinely interested in what exactly the ndscapes that had heard the sounds of this epic battle and had long since woken up would think tomorrow, and to whom they would pray for their miraculous deliverance from their long-standing misfortune. Yes, exactly long ago, because the dead man was obviously a local acquaintance and regurly wandered here, from which everyone hid at sunset, albeit with fear, but only habitually, routinely. But at the same time, he was either dumb, or because of the broken ntern he was non-functional, and he could not enter the locked houses and barns with cattle, otherwise, there would have been no vilge left here long ago, only a burial ground and the undead that had gotten hungry on living and breathing. In the end, Stepan saves everyone, and no one will thank him, because he will not show himself to people, just leaving in the morning, going around the vilge in a wide arc. Actually, he didn't need any reward, it was enough to realize he had managed to help the people around him without unnecessary risk and save them from a terrible scourge, and also freed the dead man from the evil artifact that was tormenting him. And all it took was a couple of summons and contracts, and three-quarters of the reserve - a trifle, really.

  However, the young man was not completely unrewarded, because the experience, gradually gained, increased by the night fight with five assholes, working with the elm tree and its source, as well as a general practice, which he continued even on the road, after this battle with a really serious enemy (only the guardian beast was more dangerous than him, and that only because the earthling was weaker at that time), which was very successfully dealt with remotely, has crossed a new boundary, bringing the level to the twelfth. A dozen levels behind him was a reason to be proud. And the usual whispering and touching from the gift certificate of the Autogoddes had become a habit, and he couldn't get rid of it.

  Received: “Advanced developed techniques for casting shamanic love charms”

  The acquired talent is added to the overall Pyer status.

  Stepan, who had just won his first magical duel, albeit with a weaker and stupid to the point of idiocy opponent, felt sad. This is the level of knowledge, which even by the standards of the system is considered to be the level of a master of magic or a senior shaman. This is the highest level of knowledge of all he has now, the limit for his current characteristics. And somehow he just wants to cry at the realization that his most developed skill, a whole block of them, was and still is the fucking professional love charms. With the current level, he is already reaching really high capabilities. He gets access to more contracts, which, of course, are not at the level of the same spirits from the “minor” gifts, but still stronger than most of his battle retinue, sometimes taken together.

  Yes, the synergy worked. The possibilities of working with dreams have increased very much, the abilities to heal have grown, and new mechanics of working with the psticity of one's spirit have opened up, which can be applied not only for the spell, the same curses will surely jump too, even some tricks of working with sources also depend on the new knowledge. For example, a whole group of contracts or just spiritual influences, which allow you to put a spell (or other influence) on the bound to a pce of power or just with a piece of space gifted. Pretty cool, huh? Now Stepan can break the pattern and cast a love charm on a witch merged with her own nd-territory, not the other way around! He ughs, but he still feels some underlying pain below his back.

  Not wanting to endure this pain any longer than usual, the guy started to choose his upgrade from the usual leveling. He would have reinvested in the spiritual operation, but, as, there was also a limit on the characteristics. He also looked at the properties, including those that could increase the missing characteristic, but he didn't choose anything. Yes, at this point, some talents brought much less debuffs along with the buffs, but there were no perfect ones. Although, for example, there was the “power of the body in the reflection of the gift”, which simply and uncomplicatedly increased Constitution by one point, almost without any other effects, except for the frank little things, like slightly improved health due to the synergy with the blessing of the health. However, there were no negatives either, but you could only take this property as long as your bodily strength was at one, above two it just wouldn't work.

  He had to choose the spiritual dialog upgrade, which was long overdue because it simplified the training and interaction with even very strong entities, reduced risks, and alleviated the consequences of those risks. So far, he had enough current knowledge rank, so he could, in principle, raise at least the combat calls, which he had pnned to raise initially, but here Stepan's pride got the better of him. He was already very good at combat calls, but to let spells be the highest rank of all his knowledge... No, if not his ego, then at least his pants should be pitied - his ass is burning so much that soon it will smoke and a hole will form, he needs to cool it down. As a result, having raised the necessary talent to “advanced developed practices of spiritual dialog”, Stepan began to wait out the arrival of knowledge directly into his skull.

  This time the stupor was especially strong. Even a little stronger than when he had received the block of knowledge about charms, which did not sadden, but even pleased the earthling. Apparently, it was the fact that not only the prefix “advanced” was added to the absorbed knowledge in the system status, but also the mention of “basics” disappeared, repced by “practices”, which made the leap much more noticeable than Stepan had expected. He was lying and mastering new skills and sensations until the morning, at the same time slowly replenishing his reserve. The night battle brought a positive experience, so that the mood, which had become shitty after the gift from Queen Milf, began to rise again. A new leap in controlling his retinue had also come to fruition, as had a sharply increased awareness of the images that spirits had instead of trying to communicate.

  Now one could expect to raise the call practice with the next promotion. Since he could now understand more powerful spirits and, if necessary, push them, it would be worth expanding the set of known contracts, methods of invocation, and cunning tricks. On the other hand, he could do as he had originally intended and raise a battle calling so he could deal with all sorts of crap more efficiently and with less loss of reserves. He didn't want to fight, but practice showed him that he could find adventure in this world, even in the deepest shithole. Whether it's the world that's so fucked up, or whether it's Stepan that's so Stepan. However, his attempts to quietly and peacefully pump himself up constantly bumped into loneliness and the marbles rolling off, and social contacts of any kind showed a disturbing tendency to turn into stabbings, into dark schemes of insidious necromancers, or simply into absolute disgust.

  However, he activated the contract again, looking at the vilgers crowded around the finally dead body and the crushed ntern. Looking at how the women were crying and ughing, how the men were ughing, how the corpse was quickly pulled off with hooks and thrown into a hole dug outside the vilge, and the ntern fragments were carefully picked up with two sticks, how a festive table was set up in the middle of the vilge, and old grandmother almost prays on the print after a spiritual kick while half of the vilge is ready to echo her. He looks at the spontaneous celebration of people who will no longer be afraid to linger after sunset and die. At this point, Stepan was slowly realizing that some adventures might be worth it. Therefore, he would stay as far away from such adventures as possible, and in the most extreme case, he would simply hand over the rescue of any victims to the local authorities. They have to earn their bread with red caviar, right?

  The young man continued on his way after lunch, having previously practiced his new skills, felt the increased capabilities, and also with irritation dropped the rejection of another task on behalf of Her. No, even for a free skill, he is not going to walk around in women's clothes for two days, having achieved that he was not recognized as a man and at least a third of the entire duration of the assignment spent in public. This is not only because he has no women's clothing, but also because it will be astonishingly uncomfortable moving through the forest. The clothes, including exquisite stockings, an aristocratic dress, a gorgeous corset, and cy lingerie will be presented to him automatically, just take the task, and they will not take it back, even though the fabrics will be extremely expensive and the little enchanted for ease of wear and removal of stains with odors. He wanted to raise his eyes to the sky and ask: “Why?”, but Stepan was sincerely afraid the heavens would answer him.

  So he went far away, shoving his thoughts deeper, or the addressees would hear them. He walked at a leisurely pace away from the swamp where the dead man had come from, occasionally gncing at his status to improve his mood. As the saying goes, no Goddess of All MILFs can make you jerk off to her lovely image if a real nerd gamer can jerk off to numbers. It's a shame he never became one of them - not enough time to py games, and not enough courage and dementia - because it would probably be a lot easier to bear such abuse.

  Name: Stepan

  Level: 12

  Css: Shaman

  Characteristics: (free: 0)

  Talents (free): 0

  Constitution: 1

  Sensitivity: 7

  Power: 5

  Control: 2

  Source: 4

  Spirit: 8

  Resistance: 1

  Knowledge acquired: speaking and writing: Free Cities, academic Neirat, Isnd Kingdom; advanced basic shamanic practice; advanced fundamentals of spiritual dialog; wilderness hermit; basics of working with healing spirits; advanced basics of casting shamanic love charms (GIFT); basic techniques of dream-inducing and dream correction (GIFT); advanced basic practice of combat calls; basic techniques of interaction with magical sources; basic techniques of countering curses: basic fundamentals of fast call; advanced basic practice of spiritual operation; the knack of a martial call

  Minor knowledge: contract with an elder spirit: Sleepwalker (GIFT); contract with the elder spirits: The Shroud of Touch and the Creator of Decisions (GIFT)

  Obtained properties: blessings of health and long life; toughness of spirit; resilience of subtle bodies; small mark of spiritual spheres (GIFT): spiritual shroud of higher auric concealment (GIFT); flexible transformation of the spiritual body; marking of fallen leaves and bck roots

  System modifiers: peaceful development I; issuance of system assignments II (GIFT)

  Special: Blessing of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, loyal servant of Innes Inney: likely to grant additional talents as you level up; grant specific system quests with increased rewards; hidden effects

  Whistling something cheerful, now and then checking with the scouting spirits or just delving into the reference, Stepan looked at what he had achieved since his arrival from his native world, which now seemed like a fairy tale, and realized that he could already do a lot, and could do even more. It was comforting. It gave him confidence because he knew for sure that his gift and skills would allow him to get a decent job anywhere, to survive, to earn money, and, if necessary, to kick the asses of those who bother him successfully. Of course, for the time being, he is not even remotely good enough not to be afraid of anything, as was proved by his forced escape from the first rge (by local standards) town. But this is now when he is just a simple shaman, an analog of a magic adept, but without retinue, cn, tribe, patrons, and documents (even without whiskers and tail!). And what will happen in a year, five, ten? Wouldn't it happen that he would come to the inhospitable Fantrelle, opening all the doors with his foot, pulling all the scum by the nostrils, and leaving, looking proudly into the sunset?

  SpoilerT.N. It's a reference to the Russian meme. The cat is asked about the ID, and he replies. Whiskers, paws, and tail are my IDs.

  [colpse]It was pleasant to think such thoughts, but the young man knew the measure and was not fond of fantasies on such topics, because he realized that it was only an analog of mental onanism, nothing more. So far those years had not passed, there was no such power, and he still needed to survive at least the next month and the coming winter, not to dream of world domination. And so the shaman met his fate steadfastly, stepping forward - mechanically, calmly, confidently - remembering how he had reached this point. What he had done right, where he had made mistakes, to whom he had managed to repay, and to whom he still needed to send a hungry spirit with a big mouth. He even remembered about Labor and Lashka, though he had practically forgotten about them for ck of necessity.

  He felt a little pity he didn't have a way to see what the traitorous bitches who had been treated by the contracted spirits were doing. Not to observe the magical analog of pornography, but just out of interest: after all, he had given the spirits a command, and they were obliged to fulfill it, and could not physically unfulfill it, but still he would like to check whether those two extremely strong spirits could understand what he was trying to convey to them. But to go back to Small Ronna and the forest gatehouse for that?

  No, fuck both of them and the gatehouse.

  Interlewd 3: Mothers and Daughters (part three)

  Lashka hummed a favorite song as she sharply pulled down a small cauldron in which a bubbling greenish mass was cooling, smelling surprisingly pleasantly of something minty and piney. It was a simple healing balm, the kind that kept half of Small Ronna from getting bloody blisters on their feet and hands. It was usually prepared and made by Mother Truda, from start to finish, a recipe that was too complicated to be done by pouring the power of her gift into the leaves, which were smeared to a mushy consistency, giving them truly miraculous properties. Lashka could not do that before, she cked neither strength nor power over these forces, but now everything changed. She had a power, new and obedient to her will, even if those forces were only a tiny amount. And there was also authority, both over the power and in general.

  The girl gnced at her mother, who was standing a little behind her, who was now finishing cutting the st of the blue-blue mushrooms, chopping them into small crumbs, almost dusting them. A necessary, long, and uncomplicated job, just right for silly mommy, who was having such a hard time thinking and deciding, especially after the first time she touched her cherries. A thin shirt now covered Truda's huge tits, but the way her cherries were sticking out and showing through the fabric, slightly sweaty from the heat and fmes under the pot, would have been visible even to a blind man. Lashka licked her lips, putting aside bad, bad thoughts of a bad daughter, because she had to finish the potion, not to stroke the cherries of the slutty mother again.

  She squeezed her legs and thighs so that she was wetting, but she, unlike her mother, controlled herself and kept her own will in a steel fist. And that's why she would not press a little on the bump through the fabric of her skirt, would not pull up the hem and rub it lightly. Because if she did that and, being heated up by work and the sight of an obedient mother-slut, she would cum like a good and obedient daughter. Lashka refused to be a good daughter, stopped being obedient, and became a bad, bad daughter. Bad daughters do not rub flowers, bad daughters do not cum, and she would never cum again. Biting her lip and savoring the thought, remembering all those times, infinitely distant times, when she was still good and could afford to moan, to scream, biting her lips, Lashka sharply spread her legs apart and squatted a little. Her lower abdomen cramped, as if it were trying to squeeze deeper into her body, her pelvis trembling from the suppressed desire to jerk back and forth, to add some stimution, but Lashka had already learned to nip such urges in the bud.

  With an agonizing groan exhaling, feeling the love dew dripping down her legs even more abundantly, Lashka gets back on her feet normally, taking the st part of the balsam from her mother smiling broadly, and pouring it into the cauldron. Then quickly stir the homogeneous mass, adding to the smell of pine needles and mint and a little something charcoal, as if an old smoke from the fire. Now the balm will help not only for blisters, but also really unpleasant wounds will heal. Especially if there was dirt in that wound because the balsam improved by extremely rare and expensive mushrooms should wash out the filth from the wound, prevent it from rotting, and expel contagion. Having inhaled deeply the new odor, finding no notes of rottenness or sweetness, which would indicate that the balm was overexposed on the fire or that the calendu leaves were too dry, Lashka nods contentedly, covering the cauldron with a special lid.

  Turning to the mother, she only smiles wider, but not contentedly, but a little predatory, anticipatory. She has become so obedient, she is so diligent about doing all the housework and helping her daughter at her desk. She stands where Lashka used to stand, not even thinking of reaching for the most complicated recipes, just helping, chopping, serving, and washing. And now here it is, the lovely and so good Truda has already washed out the scoops, as always slightly wetting herself, making her shirt stick to her body even more. It outlined big, unforgivably big tits, the object of the hidden envy of every vilge broad and even Lashka herself. It was her udder, soft and inviting, unjustly beautiful, that asked to be crushed, to be squeezed in his hands like a good biscuit, to shake those melons, so the stupid and submissive slut would become brainless and could only lie there for the rest of the day stroking her flower and tits, tossing them, making them wobble and shake.

  "Well done, Mother." Lashka came close, gently kissing the woman just above her nipple, right through the wet cloth. "That's all with the potions today, you can rest a bit. But don't change your shirt, yes, don't change it. Roder will be here soon to pick up the potions for his caravan, and the good mommy will help the bad daughter earn some coin, won't she?"

  Lashka pressed herself a little harder between Truda's tits, inhaling deeply the scent of her hot and lustful dumb body, pleasant and reminiscent of the herbs that permeated the house. After the potion they had both taken, not only had the gift and understanding of herbs changed. Even the bodily odor itself had almost disappeared and added some herbal notes. It was convenient because it was possible to spend less energy on washing, although Lashka did not forget about cleanliness and did not let her mother forget. Mother, who bit her lip trying to open her mouth and say something to her. With the sly smile of a very bad daughter, the girl again begins to cover her mentor's breasts with kisses through her shirt, as if a beast is winding a circle around its prey. Only instead of prey sweet and protruding cherries of obedient Truda, and instead of the beast, the evil predator of the forests, tender lips of Lashka. She made the woman almost moaning in her heavy breathing to freeze, to anticipate the moment when her lips would touch the cherries, bringing that very pleasure, which Truda most of all wanted, but did not dare to cause herself. Yes, Truda could rub the flower, and she could wrinkle her udder every free minute, but she could not overcome some incomprehensible obsession that prevented her from even touching the cherries, let alone pinching them.

  Oh, Lashka wanted to pinch those cherries, to squeeze them in her clinging fingers and twist them so much! She was sure, absolutely sure, that Truda would cum at the same moment. Not just cum, no, she would squeal with sweetness, squirt honey from her accessible slit, wail like a dumb beast, a cat in heat. But Lashka won't pinch her. She's still a bad daughter of her lustful mother. She won't pinch her mommy's cherries, no, she won't. Instead, the withdrawn Lashka squatted down sharply, spreading her legs wide and pulling up the hem of her skirt, biting it with her teeth to keep it out of the way. Her hips start as if to wiggle at the invisible oud, then abruptly stop and quiver along with the twitching lips of her flower. Growling and exhaling, the girl adjusts her clothes, praising herself again for remaining a bad daughter, kissing her mother's cheek in retaliation for raising such a bad bitch-daughter.

  "Lashka. I've been thinking, and maybe you shouldn't let Roder like that...." Lashka jumped indignantly, pouting like a little girl who was not allowed to go out for a walk. - We're still, well, sort of, poty ... pati... made some potions."

  “Wrong, Mother, quite, quite wrong you say.” Pressed against Truda from the back, Lashka put her hands under her shirt and began to stroke her cherries, achieving more sighs, moans, groans, and the satisfied giggles of the slutty fool. “You don't think, do you, Mother, do you? You're dumb, aren't you? You're obedient, aren't you? You'll do as your bad daughter says, won't you? You're gonna give Roder your pussy, aren't you? Pull up your skirt, huh? For a jingle coin, eh?”

  Truda is getting faster and faster each time to the point of full consent. Every time it is easier and easier for her to start giggling and getting dumb, as soon as she takes hold of her tits so sometimes Lashka even forgets to knead them properly, to stroke around the cherries to make her mother obedient. But as soon as she started to speak even not particurly coherently, but against the will of the bad daughter, the tter, clenching her thighs with pleasure, began to return Truda to her pleasant and obedient stupidity. Why was she being clever? No, no, Lashka had heard enough of these clever words. Now she is smart, and Truda is stupid, and let it always be so. And now, waiting until this slut with huge tits became obedient, her daughter heard such sweet words in her ear:

  “Yes, daughter.” And that smile, wide and ineffably blunt, submissive and passionate, literally lights a fire under her skirt, makes the daughter breathe faster and rest her hands against the walls of the doorway to let her body lose some of the passion, or else surely she'll stop being a bad daughter and cum, become good again. “I'll do everything, hee hee.”

  In fact, Roder was a very handsome man, attractive even, and Truda once not without pleasure put a potion in his wine, after which she got a good discount and had a good time with a man mad with desire. Lashka, too. In that state, in the darkness, Roder didn't even realize that there was one more person in the bed. He was tall and well-built with healthy teeth and a defined chin, and he was a success with women. And the bde on his belt - a real sword, not a vilge axe of some kind and the position of the head of a small group of caravaners, a steady jingle of coins in his purse. He would have been a decent groom, but Truda did not chase the opportunity to marry Lashka off favorably, and now it was too te to think about it. Oh, that's right, sweet little whore, titsy mother can hardly think now! At this thought, Lashka sat her giggling mother on the bed, slightly lowered her shirt, and poured a cup of cold water on top, so the cloth would stick to the huge melons, and the cherries would become even harder, even sweeter, and more sensitive. Giggling at her own cunning, Lashka sat down in a corner, on a chair, looking carefully at Truda and around. She would watch very, very carefully to make sure that only what was paid for was done to her mommy, her personal and obedient whore.

  The caravan driver, whose caravan traditionally stopped in Small or, if they were unlucky, Upper Ronna for three days at least to give the horses and mules a rest, arrived in the evening. Lashka noted with pleasure the look he had gotten at his mother, whose tits had had to be watered with cold water once more when the bad and greedy daughter had brought him into the living room. He had wanted her for a long time, wanted to repeat that night, not realizing that he had been drugged a little, wanted this inaccessible, cunning, and willful woman. And men like him were accustomed to fulfill their desires as much as possible.

  "Heaven knows you were telling the truth. - He approached the whore who smiled at him, running his fingers over her face and lifting one of her huge breasts, squeezing it slightly, just barely missing the cherries. "You say she's been poisoned by the potion? And you're happy to use it, aren't you?"

  “Yep, I'm a very bad daughter,” Lashka answered him indifferently, inwardly swooning with the passion so closely intertwined with power. “Talk less and keep your hands to yourself. If you want my sweet mommy, you'll pay in jingling coins, Roder, or get out of here and jerk your dick.”

  The man looked at the girl with her arms folded across her chest without dislike but with slight irritation. He didn't like rudeness, and here was a girl. At the same time, she was beautiful, insolent, and clearly not quite right in the head after that potion. Not as much as Truda, for whom he'd come here, but she was clearly a bit winded. The man smiled an unpleasant smile and pointed a finger at the herbalist writhing in her tits, not restraining the mockery in his tone and words:

  "You know, I doubt your whore would mind so much if I took her for free." It's not to say that he was going to do exactly that, but Lashka was struck to the heart like a knife to the heart, making her tense her clenched legs at once, stay on another edge for today, and then get ready for a possible conflict. "What are you gonna do, girl? Are you gonna yell that you're being robbed or what? I take it your vilgers don't know about your way of finding work, do they? Not yet."

  Instead of fear or at least embarrassment, Lashka only grinned wickedly, lifting a rge and plump vial in front of her face - a real potion vial, with the mark of a gssblower from Dantmark, not the cy jug that she and this useless slut, who didn't even realize she was going to be taken advantage of, used to pour their usual concoctions into. And there's a lot of wildflower pollen in the bottle, shimmering greenish in color. The pollen is not even particurly poisonous, and the flower is often found, especially close to the water. But after treatment, and in such quantities, and in a closed and stuffy room..... If Roder crawled out of here, Lashka assumed, he would be lying in delirium and breathing through his mouth for another month and a half. If he could breathe at all because such flowers made his throat swell terribly, so terribly that it would be impossible to suck in even a drop of air. Lashka and her whore had many years to develop a tolerance to this particur poison, so they would at most sneeze and have to clean the whole house.

  "You can jerk off yourself for free, but for me, honorable Roder, be ready to pay if you want sweetness." She finished her threat, pying with the vial with one hand. With the other hand leading along the exposed leg, then touching the knee with the pads of her fingers, then almost touching the wet and eager to caress flowery lips that so long ago had not received it. "Well, shall I have the coin? Shall I order my mother to pull up the hem?"

  The man, who had even lost his lust at the realization that he was in the same house with two herbalists who had gone mad from a bad potion. Only the madness of the second one was much more dangerous. He was a warrior, though. So he calmed down quickly and realized he was not being robbed, but was being bargained. He did not want to refuse, and he changed his mind. He had just enough money on me for a good night. The rest was left with his faithful companion, as was always done when one went to the hot pces, and the other stayed on guard. He did not want to check what would happen when he decided to leave without paying, even without a sweet treat. So, he silently took out three good silver coins and put them on the table. He clearly realized that for that amount of money, he could get a girl in one of the really good brothels, but, to be honest, he really wanted to.

  "You crazy bitch." Still, Roder grumbled when Lashka raked up the money, immediately becoming tender and obsequious as if something had been switched in her, which made his hard-on mingle with some deep-seated apprehension. "Well, don't you want it yourself? I would have paid more."

  Especially for the opportunity to safely take away the dangerous vial with the potion, because that way you can take away the money too, what would she do to him?

  "Good fucking is for good daughters." She said it as if it were a learned tease, her lips curling contemptuously, but it made her even better, and he would have bent her down if it hadn't been for the unfortunate vial of poisonous pollen. "I'm selling my mother to you for silver, Roder. Do you think you can call me a good daughter? No, no, I'm a very bad daughter, so no pussy for you. Come, let's go and bathe first, and your mother will rub your back and caress your dick. Isn't that right, mother? Isn't that right, my titty whore?"

  "Yes, daughter." Truda giggled, leaving her insolent and huge udder alone, immediately getting to her feet and even jumping up a little, almost falling out of her shirt with her breasts. "If you say so."

  The man decided not to risk it for such a chance and obediently followed the girl, hugged from the side by the hot body of her not so much brainless, but rather strangely obsessed mother, throwing off his clothes on the way. Then there was a wash in a full barrel of hot water, and Lashka sat a little aside, looking at the way the titty Truda was clinging to him. When he began to grop her the girl began to stroke her slit, smiling shamelessly and twitching her legs with happiness. At this point, the man finally calmed down and began to enjoy the spent silver.

  He bent Truda's oohing and aahing and ughed right next to the barrel. He pulled up her wet skirt, plunged her tits into the water, causing the mother to gasp and moan and the daughter to whimper in pleasure, and then began to pound her from behind. That was good. He was losing control, changing positions every now and then, twisting the slut's nipples, making her twitch and almost cum every time. No, he wouldn't mind thinking that she was cumming, but he knew perfectly well that it didn't work that way, although the bitch was pying very authentically, even squeezing her slit on his cock, throbbing in ecstasy.

  In a moment they were all on the bed but first, he had the always willful and insolent whore face down on the floor, fucking her for all the times she had refused to lower the price of the ointment, refused him intimacy and behaved in a completely fucking disrespectful manner. Roder pounded the moaning, slutty, tit-faced fool, gncing every now and then at the heavy-breathing Lashka sitting with her back against the wall, right on the floor. She, who had pulled up her dress, was rubbing her slit without ceasing, twitching her pelvis and convulsively tensing her legs, biting her lip and almost crying with such a happy face that he was barely kept from exploding. The fact that the bitch was doing all the debauchery with only one hand, with the other hand frantically clutching the vial, suddenly turned on the warrior accustomed to mortal danger as if not more than both of them. And at the moment when she sharply pulled back her hand and suddenly spped herself on her lower lips - when he had tried such a trick with some whore from a brothel in one of the cities he had visited, she had almost knocked out his tooth and here she was tormenting herself - the man just couldn't stand it. He comes once again, for the second time in a row, straight into the herbalist.

  Lashka said something in response to his question and perplexed look, about how she was a bad daughter and therefore should be spanked, but he was sick of this strange and crazy couple. He was even thinking of checking out their merchandise somehow, there was no telling what they could put in there if they were really crazy. In any case, Roder had fulfilled his dream, and probably the dreams of a bunch of vilgers from Ronna and the surrounding area. He put the gorgeous dy on her back, right on the floor, sat on her belly, and began to pound his cock into the hollow between her tits, giving himself a Kuordemar fuck, as they call it among mercenaries. He could have sworn on the altar of Alemir or Daromar that the bitch was cumming faster and brighter than Roder himself.

  He left already in the morning, exhausted, washed, satisfied, and admitted to himself that such a night, though it cost as much as a visit to an expensive brothel, was worth it. Lashka, who went with him, behaving in public as if she were a modest and courteous maiden he knew from past meetings, immediately returned the coins in his caravan, having bought all sorts of utensils, reagents, and even a new cauldron. Yawning through time Roder said goodbye to the insidious and crazy bitch, and went to bed. He wasn't going to make a scene or brag about his achievements in front of the dumb country folk anyway, so let the bitch keep her secret, it wouldn't take long for her to be like that anyway, you cannot hide an eel in a sack. no matter how you spin that sack.

  Lashka, having returned with the shopping, began to help her titty whore with huge, outrageously rge breasts to wash properly, cleaned the house together, and put her back to work cutting and sorting. Her pussy was literally on fire, she had to watch every second, every moment of time so that the next quick movement did not force the fabric of her skirt to rub particurly hard on the bump and cause the inevitable, but somehow, by some miracle, she managed to do it quite naturally, without losing a bit of family skill. She was bad, still bad, and every day only worse and worse daughter. She could not let herself cum lest she becomes good again, good and boring, obedient and nowhere bossy daughter.

  Having put the exhausted mother to bed, forbidding her to put on a shirt, she y down next to her and for several hours just y on her warm body and stroked those cherries, calmly, measuredly, enticingly, and without release. Quietly giggling and now and then thanking her daughter Truda fell asleep, closing her eyes, but her daughter did not soon stop shaking her lush tits, looking at how they shook in front of her face, how the tense - they were always tense now, always tense - cherries were twirling in a fascinating dance. She kissed Truda one st time on each of the cherries, making her cum in her sleep without waking up, and got out of bed and went into the next room.

  Today she was a very bad daughter so she couldn't fall asleep, as she rarely did. Unlike her mother, she was never a sleeper at all. She needed just a little bit of sleep to feel great and work calmly - a property very useful in life and only strengthened after the potion. Mother Truda tried to say something about it being because Lasha was just young, but the girl knew for sure Truda had always been sleepy, even in her youngest youth. Smiling at this memory of those days when it was still possible to talk to the older herbalist and strict mentor when she could still command her assistant and apprentice, the girl pulled up her skirt again.

  She cmped the hem cloth in her teeth and spread her legs wide, for the umpteenth time that day, rubbing the flower that was only for good daughters. But as soon as she reached the peak, she stopped any actions, only barely twitching her pelvis and thighs in a pre-peak cramp, and in those moments when the bad daughter realized with horror that the peak was almost here and the pause did not help, she spped the naughty and stupid flower. The flower does not realize that she is a bad daughter, too bad and therefore she should not cum. And she spanked her pussy a little, achieving a fsh of painful pleasure in the way the ascension upwards was interrupted, limited by her will and choice, which could not be broken or changed by the passions and desires of the stupid and disobedient body.

  She is not Truda, who couldn't resist her body, her tits, and became a whore, pulling up her hem on command, letting herself be fucked for silver (or even for copper, Lashka would have agreed to copper, just not for free). Lashka is a bad daughter, but she achieves what she wants. She not succumbed to her desires like a willless whore. That's what was important, that's what she proved to herself time and time again, with pleasure, that it was much better than being able to just obediently surrender to the mercy of a flower and let honey cum and roll her eyes. Bad daughter Lashka would not cum, she would not allow herself to lose control, she would be disproportionately superior to her stupid mother, and would not cum.

  Never.

  Interlewd End

  Initially, before the meeting with the Dead Lanternman, Stepan had pnned to walk along the swamp, looking for a chance to pass through them or even to call the swamp spirits, which, due to the Marking of the Roots, were obliged to listen to the young man to a much greater extent than just spirits. But after the meeting with the Deadman and his Lantern, or, to be more precise, with the Lantern and his Deadman, he changed his mind about such shit. The dead man came from the side of the swamps, every moonless night. He came and tried to find something living and breathing, to find and... well, there are a lot of options, of course, but none of them are pleasant. Stepan is not a fool and having realized what he faced, as it became obvious that the danger he still eliminated, immediately sent special spirits to check the area.

  The three hounds, working only in threes and therefore particurly arrogant and just as keen to test the shaman's mettle were not much of a tracker. In fact, they weren't that hard to hide from, but they were good at looking at the tracks left behind, even if they were very old. Since the dead man was not hiding, even without special talents in spiritual and magical perception it would not be difficult to notice the traces of his presence and movements. It was a lot around the farm, especially from the side of the swamp. After such revetions, Stepan's desire to explore the depths of the local mire left him with the speed of Usain Bolt. And without the desire why go where you don't want and don't need? So the guy didn't go.

  The road merged again into a somewhat more gentle, but still incessant rhythm, and kilometers began to be thrown under the feet of the walker. There were picturesque gdes, wolf packs, which in response to the inflicted terror scattered, covering their retreat with shitting. A lonely and old magically healthy boar that gave the young man a suspicious and very reasonable look, as well as hundreds of other little things. Little things that can delight even the most callous person, show him the whole palette of natural beauties... for the first half a hundred or a hundred times, after which they become annoying. If Stepan does become the local bck Overlord, he will definitely come up with a magically powered subway system accessible to everyone. Well, when he gets over his ziness. It means, never.

  The most significant meeting took pce about five days after the epic battle between the Retard with the Lantern. Not in the sense that the Retard had a Lantern, but the Lantern on one side and the Retard on the other - it's self-critical, but Stepan did not justify himself in getting involved in an unnecessary conflict. And maybe he should have. There were quite serious chances that the dead man, not finding the living vilgers hiding in the huts, would decide to look for the open-air shaman. However, returning to the meeting. It took pce at another magical source, and this one was as big as any of the st two combined, and its keeper was a scarecrow. A huge fucking Moose, whose face in normal condition was half a head taller than Stepan's, and it was possible to hang two more Stepans on its horns. The weight and size of the rest of the body also corresponded, and the kind look of completely indifferent animal eyes, in which burned a huge intelligence, even if not human, could cause a stupor and rexation of the intestines. Literally, he had some kind of built-in aura magic ability of cursing-mental type, which Stepan automatically overcame due to the characteristic of the Spirit and the general psticity of the spiritual body.

  A very tricky thing, much more dangerous than that frightening growl, because the attacks of fear and dirty pants were to st for a long time, even years. After all, the essence of the impact would cling to the subtle bodies like a curse. Probably, such magical power, supplemented by faint lights, which began to flicker between the moose's antlers, was caused by the very nature of the beast, which was not even a beast in the full extent of the word. A spirit that had settled into the material body, and for many years had fused with this body and mastered it. Very harsh shit, sometimes shamans make them into guards or companions, but it's difficult, long and expensive, and risky (like most other paths to power). This one had clearly appeared on its own. There was no sense of someone else's control, even in small aspects. The spirit was definitely not a weak entity, which the mind of the beast could crush, but a very well-developed one. At the very least, he possessed the skills of concealing his aura and spiritual body, because he came out from behind the trees quite suddenly for the young man.

  From the looks of it, this fight would be more dangerous than all the others, perhaps combined, especially given the Earthman's unpreparedness for combat right now. But he didn't allow himself such thoughts, phlegmatically, as if he had to, calling his combat contracts closer to reality, and preparing his spiritual grip for a very hard test. He wonders what would happen if a spirit so old and so firmly ingrained in a creature's body were to be pulled back into the spiritual pne. Obviously nothing good for the spirit but for the shaman it would be quite the opposite.

  Whether the guardian of the source Stepan hadn't seen yet read something in the man's gaze, whether the previous guardian was an uncultured and stupid boor, or whether his demonstrative readiness to fight and his ability to fight, posing a danger to the moose, had something to do with it, but the spirit-beast didn't rush into battle. He shrieked, stomped his hoof, and pressed his spiritual presence, not threatening, but sending images of negotiation. This dialog was very different from the ones he had to conduct with pure spirits, which were in the spiritual pne, but it was not difficult to adapt to it, especially with the newly raised skill. And even without it, he would have coped, only with a little more difficulty. Advanced basic fundamentals would have sufficed. Another thing is that they might not want to talk to such a weakling, but that's the specifics.

  "Hi," Stepan said hello indifferently and, in principle, having already resigned himself to the fact that we would have to fight anyway. "Let's live amicably."

  There was something in his words, or maybe in the mark of the roots in his essence, or maybe in the cwed paw or the flexible tentacle-bde of his spiritual limb, but the moose snorted a little, tilted his horned head to the side, not at all animal-like, so the lights between the horns faded a little, and stepped back a little. The young man had no chance of winning, but he realized that if the fight was to be fought, he would be able to injure the creature very seriously, at least. And the creature, which was in fact quite intellectually developed, also understood this, not wanting to multiply hatred and blood if it could get a kicking.

  ...let's...

  The dialog was calm and measured, even without any attempts at pressure, which was an uncharacteristic sign of politeness for such entities. As a result of this dialog, Stepan nodded politely to the guardian moose, without removing his combat limb, and then took out of his backpack some especially valuable mushrooms from the mushroom circle. The grip of the spiritual tentacle on this cargo was the most dangerous moment because it was the most convenient time for the guardian to strike the man who had temporarily lost the ability to quickly counterattack, but the beast stepped back a little. He looked at the mushrooms not indifferently, but greedily, hungrily, as a predator would look at its prey, though Stepan was sure that this specimen could eat meat as the predatory guardian he had killed.

  The transfer of the material offer to the spirit world multiplied the value of the offering, as well as the “deliciousness”, the young man brought the mushrooms closer to the creature, which itself was cautious because now the guy could suddenly attack an unprepared opponent. But the man did not breed meanness, since the beast showed itself adequate. Instead, he put the reserve in the grip, for a second creating a cocoon of power and protection around the offering, so it could stay in such a pocket even without direct holding by the spiritual grip, remaining still as valuable, and not falling into the depths of the spirit world. As soon as he put away his battle tentacle - the name made him ugh with a mixture of shame and ughter every time - the moose stepped closer, opened its jaws, unnaturally wide, with four rows of very sharp fangs, and then another jaw of teeth appeared around its teeth and jaws. They were superimposed on each other, not separating at all. The magical vision still saw the manifested spiritual flesh though, and the shamanic perception sensed how for a moment the spirit seemed to separate itself and the meat body of the beast.

  The jaws smmed around the offering, chewing both the mushrooms and the power invested in them. The beast chewed very strangely, showing monstrous mobility of its jaws, both lower and upper. It even seemed to the guy that these jaws could rush forward in a snake bite, like the second mouth tongue of an alien from the famous Earth movie series, but he didn't have a chance to check it and it was good. The moose finished chewing, shook, and defiantly moved aside, weaving a primitive but very powerful defense-signaling network around the clearing with the source, letting the man into his holy of holies. Stepan didn't just buy his life with tearful cries of “Here's my iPhone for you, I'll even unlock it and remove the password, but don't hit me, mister”, he made an exchange, quite favorable for him too, buying the right to meditate at the Source. A very strong and, more importantly, stabilized, cultivated, and therefore many times more useful for the development of the one to whom the almighty system can give talent, without the need to actively meditate and learn on this source for a couple of months. And also to drain and deprive of stability the source itself, which is not so big and not too stable, in the process of training, or, if not, to add twice as much time to a couple of months.

  The moose turned out to be smart and skillful, but it was clear from the defense net, as well as from the other demonstrated types of magical influence. But if the frightening eyes and the morphing of flesh into some more dangerous shit could be bmed on the instincts and natural magic of a magical beast, then the net, the net was made by an intelligent being. Some of the spirits at the young man's disposal could do something like that too, and they too were intelligent, albeit frantically incomprehensible, and thinking in ineffable analogies. Returning to the prudence of the moose. He demanded a promise, sealed by a common bargain, that the man would not drain the source completely, he would not curse it or attempt to attach himself to it by subjugating or cutting off the current owner's feed. In theory, Stepan could justify most of these suspicions, and some of them he thought about seriously just after the prohibition on their fulfillment had been stiputed.

  Of course, such a deal is not analogous to an oath on the altar of a god or a powerful magical contract, but it is still retively reliable. There are spirits who cheat and deceive. But for them, it's not an easy matter, and for a creature in a physical body... if this moose can afford to break such binding deals so easily and easily, it's too much. But Stepan is also very likely to get a game over and a loading screen. There are ways to deceive oaths, pying from cunning, like “may you not cause a mortal offense to this spirit”, and then it turns out that the spirit of the steppe winds may well (and wants to!) consider such an insult to the process of breathing because the shaman kills that breath of air, which then exhales “defecating”. But Stepan also knew such tricks and was careful to make their agreement as transparent and direct as possible.

  Yes, he did not have a separate status line of knowledge about contracts and agreements, although he had once thought of taking it. He had a basic for the shaman css call practice and the same basic spiritual dialog. And, as the young man had noted more than once, these two talents, if sufficiently developed, could allow for initial but confident action in many branches of shamanic practice. Their agreement with the moose was extremely simple and short-term, in two or three days it would be dissolved, but the boy did not intend to stay near the source. Also the second part of the offering, in the same way, transferred to the world of spirits, the moose would receive only after the deal was completed and when the young shaman left the pce of alien power, well, just in case.

  Despite all the reassurances, there were no sneaky or insidious blows (or bites) in the back of his rexed opponent. The moose silently moved aside and settled on some primitive homemade bed-altar made of stones, bones, and dry wood. Stepan again leaned his back to the spring, not reacting to the close observation of the temporarily harmless (as harmless as something like that can be) moose. This time there was no tree growing at the source, and even if there had been, a very kind and bright moose had eaten it and used it for twigs for his bed. Instead of a tree, there was a stone boulder covered with moss and even herbs with flowers. These flowers and herbs were almost all unusual and extremely valuable. And they were regurly eaten, nourished, and energized by those that had not yet been touched, always leaving a reserve for sowing, a kind of vegetable garden for their own development.

  The shaman did not pull his paws to the valuable reagents realizing he could be left without fingers. Instead, he habitually united the subtle bodies and the base of the source, as well as leaving the body with spiritual perception. He did not risk leaving the body completely, temporarily going into a spiritual state. Not in such company, though he was capable of it, and thanks to the transformation of his spiritual body he was not as defenseless as a normal shaman of his power level. Even the more experienced shamans, when transported to their servants' native dimension, become extremely helpless compared to their normal selves. They get new opportunities, which are inaccessible without leaving the body though. Some pyed with anchors, looking for a way to return literally instantly. Others try not to go far from their ownerless body, for fear of finding it already occupied by someone, and others agree with powerful protectors, which will cover them, bound by a powerful oath and loyalty nurtured by the first of many generations of shamanic family. Stepan, on the other hand, could not be too afraid of a direct attack simply because he could tear a weak and not too weak with his phantom limb. The body can be covered with anchors, and the protective circle from the squatters. It is much easier if you can throw more force on this case, without fearing for himself.

  All of this was fine, but the young man was in no hurry to risk such journeys for now, even in safer conditions, waiting for high levels, the emergence of specific skills, and other enhancements. In the current conditions? It's not even funny. Let the heroes of the books take such risks, but even for them, it's the limit of stupidity. It's like voluntarily bleeding in a predator's den, tying his hands, and taking sleeping pills and xatives. He limited himself to the standard meditation on the source, binding aura and pumping power through it. He absorbs a bigger part of this power and gives it back, actually not so much draining the source for the sake of training and practicing techniques, - as mages do, who get the opportunity to practice their art of weaving for a very long time and continuously, although shamans can also use such feeding, even if they assure a lot of contracts, paying quickly replenished reserve, - but simply developed and strengthened the aura, taking full advantage of the mark of the roots and the general stability of the aura. He would conduct the power through himself, becoming close and united with that power, so that he could return everything back to normal a moment ter.

  The training took more than twelve hours, though Stepan could have done it longer. He decided that the best was the enemy of the good though. He didn't want to test the limits of the patience of a moose united with spirit. He y in his bed, occasionally gnawing on some bone, seemingly sharpening his teeth rather than eating it, not trying to disturb, move, or interact with the world or the traveler in any other way. As soon as the young man was on his feet, crunching his stiff joints, the moose stood up as well, looking at the man expectantly and eagerly. The man did not hurry. He did not want to show haste and threat, gathered his things, girded himself, took the spear leaning next to the boulder, and went to the border of the pce of power, the pce of authority, with which the moose was closely connected. Only when he went beyond the boundary of the pce where the will of moose was almost physically felt, he took out a second portion of mushrooms from his rucksack and, without reducing caution, at any moment expecting a meanness, repeated the transaction.

  The moose didn't let the earthling down. Or rather he did, because he expected problems, but they didn't happen. He accepted the offering and looked at the man with much more warmth, though very calcuting and specific, because of the darkish nature of the spirit that had possessed the horned beast. As if having made some decision, he sent a waiting image to hide in his ir and return a dozen minutes ter. This time it held in its mouth a good bundle of very valuable pnts. Carefully ying them on the fall grass, without even staining them with saliva or other liquids, the moose with a stream of air from his left nostril, like an air tentacle, divided the bunch of herbs into two almost equal portions, pushing the first of them with his hoof closer to the man, and the second to himself.

  Stepan understood his wish even without dialog, the gesture of the meaning was enough, and he smiled involuntarily. The moose appreciated the offering, especially considering the fact that he had problems with the assimition of such things, which in general spirits benefit from, allowing them to slowly, over centuries or eras (for the most powerful), strengthen themselves. This was the result of being in a possessed state, even if it was partially compensated by the ability to strengthen himself by eating prey or other ways, typical for magical beasts, not spirits. If Stepan donated these flowers to him, also sending them to the spiritual world, it would be not only tasty but also extremely useful.

  A long stay near the moose suggested, made it possible to notice that the strong spirit beast was in fact stuck on the border of a certain breakthrough in development when the body of the beast began not to help, but to restrain. And here such an offering, filled with power and delivered directly from the other side, from the world of spirits, can give the necessary push forward to the moose. For such an offering it would not be a pity to give the second half of really valuable and, what is more important, properly grown and regurly nourished pnts as payment. Suddenly Stepan found himself on the other side of the usual dialog for a shaman. A spirit hired him to do a job according to his profile, offering him a generous fee.

  He looked at the magic-rich pnts, which would be more difficult to drag properly into the space of spheres, preserving their properties, than with homogeneous and more “light” mushrooms, and shrugged his shoulders and gave an answer. About how he could try but not guarantee the result, about how these herbs might be too “heavy” for his hand and he would drop them. Moose thought about it, if it could be called that, and accepted the fact, agreeing to feel no malice and seek no payment in life or other values from the unsuccessful Caller. But then the shaman would not get all the herbs, but only a quarter, to compensate for the effort and the attempt, but no more.

  SpoilerT.N. The comments asked why they didn't divide the ingredient into smaller portions and carry over a bit at a time. Neither Stepan nor Moose had thought of that.

  [colpse]Somewhere out there, far away in the space of his own thoughts and reflections, Stepan somehow distantly and bitterly thought that it was much easier to bargain with such a thing and understand its motives than to communicate with ordinary people of the local mentality. Here, with a dark and obviously dangerous creature, he had reached an agreement almost without difficulty, but he was a little nervous, while people, ordinary people, regurly disappoint him. Is this how misanthropes become, or do they need to join a special club?

  The herbs were indeed heavy, very heavy, as if trying to slip out of his spirit's grip and fall into the pne, to become someone else's prey. But the guy's hand was strong, even though it was the third, and he managed to create a pocket, only this time he removed his hand at the st moment, and the moose very carefully and gently grabbed his prey. The very strict contract and the strongest of his fighting spirits summoned in advance and with a reserve were very encouraging factors for gentle caution. The success was crushing and complete, although the guy was sweating through the sweat. The moose was beaming with contentment from his meal. He shining and sparkling with an aura that began to shimmer and become brighter. A little bit, but noticeably - if in a systematic way, then a couple of points to Control and a point to the Source received, approximately so auric and spiritual vision of Stepan identified the transformation that happened before his eyes.

  After collecting his gift herbs, packing them properly and securing them from spoige, and leaving to explore new horizons the guardian, who had become noticeably more dangerous, and who even sent an image in the style of “come back if you need anything” after the man who was leaving, Stepan was gone. He had a really big smile on his face. The reason for it was not only his survival after trading with such a financial expert, but also the system message that popped up in front of his inner gaze about getting two talents besides the usual levels, and both of them were quite useful, not like the Autogoddess.

  Received: “basics of spiritual bargaining and contractual agreements with otherworldly entities”, “advanced basic techniques of interaction with magical sources”; increased affinity with natural, air and dark spheres; increased probability of acquiring knowledge and properties of the branch of druidism, witchcraft and contract magic.

  Acquired talents are added to the Pyer's overall status.

  Not a bad visit from Stepan, although he's not Winnie the Pooh at all!

  * * *