... to break your neck. To heck with that. "Tyroa?" you call up, tentatively at first. Silence answers you. "Hello!?"
After a long moment, you hear a rustling overhead. There's still a shambles of a second floor overhead, obscuring whatever awaits you above from sight. Dust rains down from the rafters. Tightening your grip on your staff, you start to wonder if this was a mistake after all. But you don't have the luxury of regretting your decision for much longer. A shrill, feminine cry echoes down from high above, followed by a deluge of white and pink feathers hailing down from the gaping hole where the stairs ought to have been.
You bring up a quick flashflame, burning the feathery storm away from your face before they can outright blind you. When the ashes blow away, though, you're left facing down a half dozen feathery heads of hair, all peering down from the hole in the ceiling with wide, golden eyes and plump-lipped mouths agape.
"W-who are you!?" one of the harpies yelps, waving smoke out of her face.
"How do you know Tyroa?" another says. Pointing to the flames still dancing along your claws, she adds: "A-and how did you do that?"
Glancing between the awe-struck avians, you call up "I'm a mage, that's how. I met Tyroa outside the castle last night. She said she lived here..."
The harpies chirp at each other, huddling up to whisper heatedly for a moment. When they finish, the one who spoke first calls down, "And what if she does?"
You pause for a moment. "Uh... I'd like to... talk to her?"
The harpies chatter excitedly for a moment more. "Why? We don't need any more women up here, thanks! Not enough good dick to go around as it is!"
Shifting your weight around your poor, over-used dong, you answer, "I just want to see Tyroa. Could you get her, please?"
"Maybe," another of the harpies, a plump pink-feathered specimen, coos down. "What'll you give us if we do...?"
If Tyr herself was anything to go on, harpies are chiefly interested in one thing. But you're three in the hole for today already, and Gods know what would happen if you disappointed them... of course, if they give you a choice at all. You take note of some loose dirt and muck in the cracks between the floor: that and a quick flame could seal your ears against their song, but you'll need quick reflexes if they realize you've got what they want and decide to take it.
But maybe there's a way you could get what you want of this without paying the cost in your dwindling supply of seed.
After a long moment, you hear a rustling overhead. There's still a shambles of a second floor overhead, obscuring whatever awaits you above from sight. Dust rains down from the rafters. Tightening your grip on your staff, you start to wonder if this was a mistake after all. But you don't have the luxury of regretting your decision for much longer. A shrill, feminine cry echoes down from high above, followed by a deluge of white and pink feathers hailing down from the gaping hole where the stairs ought to have been.
You bring up a quick flashflame, burning the feathery storm away from your face before they can outright blind you. When the ashes blow away, though, you're left facing down a half dozen feathery heads of hair, all peering down from the hole in the ceiling with wide, golden eyes and plump-lipped mouths agape.
"W-who are you!?" one of the harpies yelps, waving smoke out of her face.
"How do you know Tyroa?" another says. Pointing to the flames still dancing along your claws, she adds: "A-and how did you do that?"
Glancing between the awe-struck avians, you call up "I'm a mage, that's how. I met Tyroa outside the castle last night. She said she lived here..."
The harpies chirp at each other, huddling up to whisper heatedly for a moment. When they finish, the one who spoke first calls down, "And what if she does?"
You pause for a moment. "Uh... I'd like to... talk to her?"
The harpies chatter excitedly for a moment more. "Why? We don't need any more women up here, thanks! Not enough good dick to go around as it is!"
Shifting your weight around your poor, over-used dong, you answer, "I just want to see Tyroa. Could you get her, please?"
"Maybe," another of the harpies, a plump pink-feathered specimen, coos down. "What'll you give us if we do...?"
If Tyr herself was anything to go on, harpies are chiefly interested in one thing. But you're three in the hole for today already, and Gods know what would happen if you disappointed them... of course, if they give you a choice at all. You take note of some loose dirt and muck in the cracks between the floor: that and a quick flame could seal your ears against their song, but you'll need quick reflexes if they realize you've got what they want and decide to take it.
But maybe there's a way you could get what you want of this without paying the cost in your dwindling supply of seed.
