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Monster Maker

Tales and Truth - Priapans Edition

In ages past, the people of the Central Material Plane considered some of the most powerful entities from Planes as ‘Gods’. Zeus, for instance, was considered a god of lightning and yet he is, at the most reductive, a Air Elemental hailing from the Firmament. ‘Satan’ was once considered a supreme evil until it was discovered that it is a title bestowed upon the head diplomat of the Hells to the Heavens. Conversely, the Gradener of the Heavens isn’t some supreme Creator of all the Planes but simply the currently democratically elected Angel in charge of Eden, the biggest Soul Garden in the Heavens.

When these differences and definitions were eventually brought to light, many barriers were broken down amongst the species. This naturally led to countless controversies especially with rumors and hearsay of these gods’ promiscuity. Most of these tales are often complicated and nuanced with hidden morals that the author injects into the tale for the purposes of pushing an agenda. While holding a kernel of truth, the stark reality is that most of these stories often have mundane explanations.

Let us examine, in this case study, the origins of the Priapans.

According to legends, the Priapans came from the union of the God Priapus and Pan, both of whom are undeniably male. According to the stories, Priapus had been cursed to have a permanently engorged and ridiculously large penis and the only time he would ever find any relief from the painful erection was during sex, cursed to never achieve coitus. Pan, ever being the trickster, pointed out that Priapus would only ever suffer from divine erectile dysfunction if he ever tried to bed a woman. So, he proposed sex with a man and offered himself as a ‘sacrifice’ purely as an altruistic gesture.

Priapus, having gone an supposed eternity of never having experienced the joy of orgasm, willingly accepted. The two men mated and, as Pan had predicted, Priapus finally found release. It was glorious for the sexually frustrated minor deity and after having experienced relief for the first time in an eternity, he wanted more. So, every month, he would meet with Pan in secret under the new moon so that their sinful coupling would not be illuminated by anything by distant starlight.

However, Pan had ulterior motives. The trickster had performed a ritual on himself before every mating with Priapus. Stories vary but some say that Pan would devour a concoction of boiled duck eggs that had been fertilized, mixed with rabbit entrails, the semen of a fertile bull and the whispers of darkness to create a brew that would enable him to become pregnant.

Eventually, Pan did become pregnant with Priapus’ child. Though horrified by the act, Priapus nevertheless refused to get rid of the child and when the boy was born, the first Priapan entered the world. The Gods of both the Firmament and Fae Realm were appalled at the half-Satyr, half-man creature with an enormous endowment and cursed the creature to have the tusks of a boar so that he may never kiss another and skin as sickly green to be repulsive to any suitor.

Thus the reason why Priapans have tusks, have the legs and horns of a goat and green skin.

Of course, reality is much more grounded than this. Priapus and Pan both did play a role in the creation of the species as a whole but it wasn’t from their coupling that they were created. It is widely accepted that Priapans are a subspecies of Orc that evolved in the mountainous regions of northern Italy, ironically where Mount Olympus sits. Known to be a nexus where the barriers between the Firmament and the Fae Realm are thinnest, the magical influences from both Planes affected the native Orcs.

One particular tribe nomadic of Orcs known as the Cloudrunners, accidentally stepped through a portal into the Fae Realm sometime in the distant Ages where they became stuck. Pan found them and acted as a guide through the Fae Realm while protecting them from the other Fae. As an Archfae, his mere presence influenced his very surroundings and as the Orcs ate the food of the Fae Realm and generations passed, they became more and more aligned with the Fae Realm. Inevitably, their forms began to change through generations to resemble the Priapans we know today.

Interestingly, these Orcs worshiped Priapus and it was through this connection that Pan was able to finally speak with his fellow deity and negotiate the Orcs’ return. This was within a few weeks of the Cloudrunners vanishing into the Fae Realm but also during an Age where the barriers between the Planes was incredibly thick and not easily accessible. Contacting another plane was extremely difficult and since the Orcs came from the Central Material Plane, Pan had to go through the CMP and then to the Firmament to make contact with Priapus. Jumping through one Plane let alone two took him a long while to accomplish. According to his official memoirs, it took him about five months in CMP time.

Even after that, negotiating the return of the Cloudrunners was time consuming. Priapus, despite being considered an Olympian God, is actually a deity from the Living World, more associated with the Earth than Air or Water. So already, Pan was looking in the wrong direction. Even after he made contact with the Olympians, they had to redirect him to the Living World where Pan had to restart his efforts all over again.

After a year, he finally reached Priapus and negotiations truly begun. Priapus was keen to see the Orcs returned to the Central Material Plane not out of some worship of him but the fact that not doing so would be considered negligence on his side. The Cloudrunners worshiped him and if he was informed that mortals from the CMP were stuck in another Plane, it could break the then-tenuous balance amongst the Planes.

Unfortunately, there were further complications the least of which was politics amongst the Archfae and the deities of the Firmament who now knew there was a tribe of Orcs in the Fae Realm thanks to Pan being misdirected. Politics being what they are, it took years before something even akin to a plan began to form. This, of course, had to align with what the Cloudrunners wanted to do and after being cared for by Pan and seeing the lengths he would go to see them returned home, some had doubts that they could simply return to the CMP especially since they had already grown comfortable in the Fae Realm.

An agreement was eventually reached where those who wanted to return to the CMP were allowed to do so while those who wished to stay in the Fae Realm were given that chance under Pan’s protection. Naturally there were difficulties on an individual level for these Orcs as families were torn between wanting to leave or stay but when the day came, about twenty percent of the Cloudrunners returned to the CMP. Those that remained eventually became the Priapans.

Priapus was allowed to use his connection with the Priapans to enter the Fae Realm and commune with his worshipers every now and then and Pan continued to care for his people, eventually integrating them with the rest of his subjects. Pan’s misstep of taking the Cloudrunner’s assumption that Priapus was amongst the gods of the Firmament and the subsequent political storm that arose from it added to the trickster god’s mischievous reputation. Priapus’ frequent visits to the Priapans added weight to the tale of his monthly visits to mate with Pan. No one can really tell where the tales of the Priapan’s origins came from. Whether it was out of spite for those Cloudrunners who decided to stay, a nasty rumor started by the Olympians who came out looking petty and power hungry when the dust settled or just another tale that Pan and Priapus started themselves for the fun of it, it doesn’t really matter.

The truth is, Priapans are a testament to how anyone came make the best of a situation and eventually adapt if they are willing to embrace the world that has welcomed them as refugees. That adaptation is anyone’s greatest weapon against even the forces of nature and the gods.

Chapter 4 - It's Hard Being Green

Eerie green fires flickered in sconces on the walls. The nearby fireplace similarly provided a degree of illumination in the broad dining room adored with scrumptious food typical of the Deadlands. Beautifully cooked steaks basted seasoned Type O blood sat in front of Banchomyon. A bed of ghost vegetables provided a beautiful vessel illuminating the protein in a ghostly, ethereal blue-green glow. Off to the side was a small, silver bowl filled with pickled peppers with a surface that shimmer like it was bathed in green fire. The demon aminacologist gripped a golden goblet filled with a full-bodied, sweet and rosy wine, swirling it absently to make sure the delicate, imported vintage was properly aerated.

Across from him, Duke Archimedes Skaen sat absently cutting into his steak. The Lich lifted a perfectly square cube of blood-drenched meat towards his skeletal head. Not a shred of skin was left of the large skull of a rat, derived from a Verkin. The arcane runes that had been carved in the meticulously bleached skull glimmered with an unearthly green glow while the golden wires and bands that were embedded into the skull added to the mystique of the Duke Skaen. The same green glow shimmered in the eye sockets of the rodent skull and Banchomyon could see the same as the Lich opened his jaw and placed the meat speared with a silver fork into his jaw. There was no need for chewing though Duke Skaen nevertheless still mirrored the gesture.

If the Duke’s eyes could roll back in pleasure, they would have, though he did mime the motion complete with a roll of his head.

“Oh!” exclaimed the Lich. “Absolutely perfect!” He turned to his left where his head chef, a Zombie stood in perfectly clean, white chef’s garb complete with a toque. “Lonique, you have outdone yourself! This is magnificent!” Turned towards the others across the dining table, Skaen waved hand made of only bleached bones at them. “Go! Eat! You know how I hate ceremony.”

Banchomyon chuckled softly and took a sip of the wine. Very good and the taste was exquisite. His own soul jumped at the gorgeous taste and was nourished by even the lightest touch of the liquid. Unsurprising that food from the homeland of animacology was designed to stimulate even the soul.

“Finally!” sighed Colin Skaen, the Duke’s youngest son who sat next to the Duke. The Vampire eagerly dug into his own meal. In contrast to his father, Colin was covered in skin even though it was pallid like fleshy alabaster. His red eyes gleamed in joy after his first bite into the steak and he absolutely hummed in joy as he had to physically chew and enjoy the meal.

“Manners, Colin!” barked Duke Skaen. “We have a guest!”

Colin was physically capable of rolling his eyes as he said with a mouthful of bloody meat, “Please, father. You and I both know that Banchomyon is practically family.”

“Lord Banchomyon.” The Duke turned towards the powerful feline demon. Though his features were incapable of showing any expression, it was still possible to detect the note of apology in his expression and body language. “I do apologize, my friend. The youth of today…”

Colin rolled his eyes again but made no remark as he continued to eat.

“It’s alright,” Banchomyon responded, delicately cutting into his own steak. “How is Victor, by the way?”

At the mention of his younger brother and incredibly fit Poltergeist, Colin groaned and rolled his eyes again. “He’s off building some ziggurat on the other side of town. Flexing those stupid muscles of his.” Colin flicked back his long, blond hair, each strand like finely woven gold. “He’s wasting his time doing something menial like that and sweating all day.”

The Duke ignored his eldest son’s comment as he continued to eat. “You did not come here to talk about my family, Banchomyon and I have never known you to be one for pleasantries. To what do we owe this honor?”

Banchomyon regarded each of the Undead before him and offered a slight smile. “I’ve recently come across a very unique case, Archimedes, and I was hoping to get your perspective on it.”

“My perspective?” chortled his host. “I am not an established animacologist like you, my dear friend. I may be a Lich but magic was never my strongest suit. I barely passed my exams back in college. Not to mention that Necromancy rarely has anything to do with souls these days.”

The tiger demon nodded in acknowledgment, his two normal eyes closed while his third remained open. “I completely understand that. However, amongst all the species in the Planes, the Undead are uniquely positioned to be able to change and shift their species. The Elder can mold their bodies as they wish but they are ultimately still Elder. The Undead, however, change their very molecular structure and entire existence based on what profession they decide to adopt.” He leaned forward, setting his silver spoon and fork down, eyes opened once more. “This case, however, is unique in that an individual’s soul was transformed and their body followed.”

Skaen was silent for a moment and even Colin looked intrigued.

“Interesting,” the Lich mused at length. “Ordinarily, the relationship between the physical and metaphysical is unidirectional. So are you saying that someone was able to touch their own soul and use it to mold their body?”

“Of sorts,” Banchomyon answered with a slight bob of his head. “I cannot divulge information. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all. However, I came here looking for advice as when it comes to using one’s soul to shape your very body, no one else knows more than the Undead.”

Skaen lowered a knife and reached for his wine goblet. “And you came to me.”

Banchomyon offered a wry smile. “We were both in the same batch in medical school after all.”

The Duke took a sip from his mug. “Yes but I was still a Fledgling back then. Effectively mortal. I did not become a Lich until I had fully decided on my profession. That was fifty years after we graduated together. My soul had time to mature and I had time to synchronize with it.”

He gestured at his son, Colin, and then at a few pictures along the wall. A few of them depicted a semi-solid, ghostly, humanoid figure with bulging muscles wearing overalls and little else; the younger son, Victor.

“Some Undead these days find their chosen professions a lot sooner.” Skaen let out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps influenced by the CMP where its inhabitants tend to grow comfortable with their life after forty or so years of existence. Time was, an Undead would only ascend to their final form after a hundred years.”

Banchomyon was silent for a moment, regarding the rapidly cooling meal in front of him. “Mortality does make everyone a little impatient, I suppose.”

Colin let out a derisive snort. “That’s rich coming from an immortal demon.”

“Colin!” chastised the Duke.

Banchomyon waved away the comment. “It’s alright, Archimedes.” Looking directly at the young vampire, the demon explained how demons had a preset lifespan. One thousand years in CMP time. No more, no less. After a thousand years, they would just expire. Usually in a peaceful manner. “We demons are cursed with the exact time and date of our passing. Family and friends come together to celebrate a demon’s passing. I suppose you could call it a ‘wake’ of sorts.”

He smiled softly, grateful that he was still in his early fourth century and that he still had plenty of time to spend with his chosen family. That smile, however, faded when he remembered that all the time in the world would mean nothing if it was spent in suffering. These Inscriptions posed a grave threat to everything he held dear.

“Back on topic at hand,” he said gently. “Have you heard of any recent rumblings about true reincarnation?”

Colin let out another scoff. “What? Trying to bring someone back to life? Guess you came to the right place. The Deadlands are filled with people who want that. But will depend on the state of the corpse.”

Banchomyon was about to correct the relatively young Vampire but Duke Skaen was a few steps ahead of him.

“True reincarnation is different from true resurrection,” said the Lich, his blazing green eyes still leveled at Banchomyon. “Resurrection brings someone to life as they are. Soul intact, theoretically. It is a difficult process and often needs to be done quickly. Wait too long and the target soul may have already been processed by Demons and Angels. Or the brain will have degraded to the point that even if you fit an artificial soul into the shell, the neurological damage will cause psychological problems. Reincarnation, however, is even more difficult.”

“Huh?” Colin asked, looking completely befuddled. “Why?”

Skaen set down his goblet and cutlery down. He crossed his body fingers in front of him and peered at Banchomyon “Reincarnation involves taking everything that a person is and putting them into a different life. It is theorized that displacing a soul and placing it into a newborn is a form of reincarnation. However, true reincarnation is entirely different. It is theoretically possible but practically impossible.”

The Vampire glanced from the two older men on the table. “Why?”

Likewise keeping his gaze on Duke Skaen, Banchomyon answered the inevitable question. “The problem comes with the dissonance that could be introduced with the soul when the reincarnation occurs. If you were born in a body that did not align with your soul or if you retained full consciousness from the onset of reincarnation, you will immediately suffer from soul degradation. Animanecrosis would be the least of your worries.”

“Let us also not forget that infant minds and bodies are not fully developed,” continued Skaen. “New souls and infants work together to develop their personalities. They have room to grow. But if a fully matured soul is placed into an infant, then that soul could have everything it has known be rewritten by the time spent as an infant. It is why the idea of ‘true reincarnation’ has long been theorized but never achieved.” The Duke leaned back in his seat, drumming his skeletal fingers on the table. “A procedure where one is reborn in a new state, completely intact. Though philosophers have often debated the purpose of true reincarnation if you are simply reconstituted in the same body.” Skaen tilted his head. “Why the sudden interest? Is your patient so far gone that they need to be reincarnated?”

Banchomyon let out a single, derisive laugh. “Were it so simple.” Shaking his head, he said, “No, Archimedes. My patient has experienced true reincarnation… or at least a form of it.” When Skaen and Colin didn’t respond, he explained Bert’s case without going into details about the Inscription or his son’s involvement. “Effectively an individual’s mind, body and soul were completely wiped out and transformed into someone or something new. This true-true reincarnation. Nothing was maintained in the transition. Everything that was the individual was used in the transformation. The entity that was created afterwards was entirely different. Different species. Different personality.”

Skaen looked appalled and even Colin recoiled in disgust.

“That’s…” began the vampire.

“Reprehensible!” spat Skaen, the green flames around his skull flaring up in agitation. “Atrocious! I dare say, outright blasphemous! At the most forgiving, you could consider this the treatment of a person as little more than materials to be taken apart and reassembled into a new product! At the most heinous, it is an affront to the natural order of the Planes!”

Banchomyon gave a soft grunt in acknowledgment and nodded grimly. “Exactly why I want to understand the reasoning behind this action and to hunt down the people who inflicted it upon my patient.” Looking up at the two, he asked, “So neither of you have heard anything about this sort of experiment recently?”

“It would be the scandal of the year,” Colin spat. “The Deadlands, if anything, respects the Cycle.”

Skaen’s green flames ebbed somewhat and he straightened in his seat. “This is true. However, people in the Deadlands are just as easy to reconstitute materials as they are to respect the Soul Cycle.”

Colin leaned forward, his crimson eyes narrowed at Banchomyon. “You’re not accusing us of this, are you Lord Banchomyon.”

“Never,” Skaen answered, holding up a skeletal hand. “In fact, I am fairly sure he is recruiting us.”

Glad for his friend’s keen mind and intuition, Banchomyon always knew Archimedes Skaen to be the kind of person to know what to say not necessarily say what he knew. In medical school, Skaen wasn’t the brightest of students but he knew how to manipulate the system to his advantage. Why he never went into psychology was beyond the demon’s understanding.

“I wouldn’t want to put either you or your family in danger, Archimedes,” Banchomyon said. “However, I ask that you be on the lookout for such murmurings and stay away from them. I do not want to think what kind of people would willingly inflict this on anyone given our understanding of the Cycle.”

For a moment, Skaen was silent then he leaned forward. “Humor me for a moment, my dear friend. What advantages would such a procedure have on an individual.”

“Dad!” exclaimed Colin. “You’re not seriously thinking of -!”

Skaen silenced his son with a piercing, fiery look. Wordlessly, he turned back to Banchomyon.

The demon shrugged absently. “To get rid of a witness. No better way to silence a possible loose end than to wipe them from existence completely, mind, body and soul while simultaneously replacing them with someone else to avoid suspicion. Could also work the other way. If you are being chased by debt collectors or have some unscrupulous individuals after you, undergoing true resurrection would throw them off your trail as the Lapsing will eventually make them forget about you completely.”

The rodent-like Lich waved another hand through the air, waving away the ideas. “Don’t think about what reasons someone with criminal intent would want with such a method. Think about it on a practical perspective. A day-to-day application. You lose your mind, body and soul entirely but you get to start again. From scratch. You aren’t aware of it. But you ultimately get to start a new life. Why would you choose that?”

Banchomyon allowed himself a little smile even though the topic went against everything he stood for as an animacologist. The thought was intriguing and he allowed his mind to entertain the though.

“Perhaps you have a terminal illness,” offered the feline. “An incurable disease that cannot be healed in any way. Animanecrosis to think of one. True resurrection would resolve that issue.”

“I can also think of someone who laments the lot they are given in life,” added Skaen. “Moody teenagers or clinically depressed individuals for instance. An alternative to suicide except you are reborn.”

Banchomyon offered a faint smile. “This all works on the premise that the process enables the individual to be reborn as an infant.”

There, Skaen’s straightened in surprise. “Yes… That is the common conception of true reincarnation. Did… did your patient not…?”

The demon shook his head. “No. My patient was one thirty-something year-old and then he was reincarnated as another thirty-something year-old of a different species, build and with his soul completely cleared and renewed.”

Skaen shook his head in disbelief. “That’s… That’s impossible! The sheer amount of energy and resources that would be required for such a procedure is tremendous! The laws of conservation of mass alone…!” Then he gave Banchomyon a shocked look. “No… It didn’t…”

The demon nodded grimly. “I don’t know the exact mechanics of it. I was not there. But I believe the soul was indeed consumed in the process of the transformation and a new, nascent soul created in its place.”

Skaen jumped to his feet, slamming his skeletal hands into the black, lacquered table. “This is an affront to the Planes! You must report this to… to…”

The Lich frowned.

Banchomyon let out a soft hum of acknowledgment. His long-time friend had arrived at the same conclusion that he had when he had thoroughly ‘examined’ Bert. There was no governing body that would ever believe such claims. Ethical panels and global powers might opine on the morality of such a procedure but there was no guideline or law prohibiting the complete and utter reincarnation of an individual. Laws existed that discouraged damaging a soul purposefully and maliciously but could reincarnation really be considered a hostile act?

How would anyone even prove whether the act could be construed as unwelcome or unwanted if the person it was inflicted upon no longer existed?

This would be especially difficult to prove since there was no evidence of the transformation. The mind, body and soul had been wiped and the Lapsing was so far advanced that even those who intimately knew the patient had started to forget them. The best anyone could hope for was for a committee of experts to have a long and lengthy debate about it followed by even longer criminal trials. Even then, time was against them as, eventually, the effects of the Inscription might wipe itself from history thanks to the Lapsing causing people to forget the reason they were even having a debate or trial. Banchomyon was sure he would have started to forget Albert Tien as well if he didn’t consciously keep reminding himself. Even now, constantly referring to Bert as the ‘patient’ distanced himself from the person that the Priapan had been.

Were it not for the consistent use of the Inscriptions, he would have brushed off these occurrences as accidental. Given how the Green Hand Movement clearly weaponized it, however, he had no doubt that someone out there was behind them.

Who or what they wanted, however, eluded him.

Archimedes Skaen sat back down.

Colin was trembling lightly. “Lord Banchomyon,” began the young vampire. “I don’t know what you’ve stumbled upon but I politely request that you keep it as far away from us as possible”

Skaen shook his head, waking up from his shock and turned to his son incredulously. “Colin!”

Banchomyon nodded gravely and rose to his feet. “I completely understand. I merely wanted your perspective as residents of this Plane. I am glad to hear that you all share my sentiments that this is a grave matter and an affront to the natural order.” Nodding towards Skaen. “It’s a pleasure seeing you again, Archimedes. Take care of yourself and your sons.”

With those words, the demon turned to leave.

The Lich was immediately to his feet and about to give chase but Colin grabbed his arm. “Wait! Let us help, Banchomyon!”

The demon smiled to himself and waved a paw over his shoulder. “You’ve helped plenty already, my friend. Plenty.”

?

“Good morning, Sanctuary City!”

The familiar, crisp and uproariously upbeat baritone of the African-American morning news anchor from SCBC-77 echoed throughout the entire house. Tyson Prowler was wrenched back to consciousness and his eyelids fluttered open briefly. If it had only been the nosies from the holovid in his lounge room, he would have just rolled over, told Excella to give him another fifteen minutes of sleep and went back to the alluring warm embrace of slumber. However, his pre-programmed morning routine began running.

The blinds to his bedroom began rolling open with a gentle whirring. Though it was still before morning as he liked to get up before the sunrise, the sky was already starting to brighten. Bands of gray light streamed into his dark bedroom, further pulling him into the realms of consciousness and awareness. A rumble rippled through the walls. Within moments, the smell of fresh coffee began wafting through the air as his home cafe bar began purposefully pumping the bitter and sweet aroma of today’s brew through the vents. A pinch of lemon amidst a light roast with something herbaceous triggered some ingrained reflex within him.

“British lemon light roast with Earl Gray infusion,” he mumbled softly to himself.

Then his biological alarm began, his bladder protesting that it needed relief. With a groan and his eyes still-half closed, Tyson rolled off his bed, sitting up and letting his bare feet fall upon the warm, wooden floorboards. He was up from his sheets and five steps towards the adjacent bathroom when he realized he could actually feel the floorboards and the heat radiating from it from his toes.

Glancing down, his brain awoke a little more. Green skin. Red hair. Muscular build. No hooves or fur-covered legs. No horns either.

He was him again.

At least, the Orc version of him.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the slumbering form of Bert somehow sleeping through the noise. A quick recollection of the previous night’s events had to wait. He needed to piss badly.

As quietly as he could, he shuffled into the bathroom, shut the door and entered the small enclosed toilet, again shutting the door to minimize the noise as much as possible. Gripping his big, green, uncut cock in one of his thick hands sparked another burst of unfamiliarity even though he had relieved himself multiple times since his transformation. Only now, he was acutely aware that his Orcish dick could be used for other things than emptying his bladder.

If he were to compare the experience to anything, it was like the first time he had his first wet dream. The realization that his cock could be used for something else apart from just relieving his bladder was both frightening and confusing for him. Despite all the text books he had read and the various sex education classes he took, nothing ever prepared him for the rush of sensations he felt the morning after and the realization that he was becoming an adult.

This morning was slightly different. He didn’t hesitate to grip his dick like he had been when he was a kid, fearing he would get an ‘erection and get the toilet pregnant’. This time, he gripped the girthy tool and easily guided it towards the bowl. Yes, there was that little tingle at having his member touched even if it was by his own hand but since it came from a hand that he was unfamiliar with, it was still like he was being stroked by a stranger.

That filled him with a little bit of relief.

Rediscovering himself through this new Orcish body might just be the gateway he needed to find the joy in one of the most basic pleasures in life.

“And how am I supposed to pleasure my patients when I am joyless myself?”

As he asked this, something clicked in his mind. It had been a few days since he had actually seen a patient. Bills needed to be paid.

“Hey Excella,” he said, shaking the last drops of urine from his dick. A soft chime, even here in the privacy of the bathroom, announced that his VANII was listening in. “Do I have anything on my schedule today?”

“Yes,” came the mechanical response. “You have a 8 AM consultation with the Mr and Mrs. McGraff. Then you have a one-o’clock appointment with Doctor Alistair Connery as the Sanctuary Plaza Hospital. Lastly, a three o’clock appointment with Heathrow Lawson.”

“And what time is it now?”

“It is currently 5:45 AM in the morning.”

If his bladder wasn’t freshly emptied, he would have pissed himself in horror and panic.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. Shaking the last drops of piss from his dick, he barged out of the toilet and immediately rushed towards his shower, activating the nozzles. While the water was heating up, he charged back into the master bedroom, quickly shouting for Bert to get up and bolted out into the kitchen.

The kitchen counter and stove top had morphed into what he called his ‘coffee bar’. The large, complicated coffee machine was already brewing today’s randomized cup of coffee while some automated spells and devices were spinning up his favorite breakfast - eggs. Tyson was a blur of emerald green muscle as he snatched his mug filled with coffee and immediately began taking big gulps. It burned his tongue and throat but he had no time or dance around the pain.

He had just a little over two hours to get ready and make it all the way to the other side of the city for his first appointment. Calculations were buzzing around his head while he briefly glanced over to the holovid.

“Thirty minutes to shower and get dressed,” he muttered to himself, lifting his mug of coffee to his lips. The porcelain slammed against his tusks and he growled at himself in annoyance. All of his focus was needed to be able to do even the most basic of tasks. After a quick gulp, he continued his muttering. “Maybe an hour to get to my appointment.” He whirled around. “Hey Excella. How long will it take to get to the the McGraff residence from here?”

A soft chime was followed by an approximate travel distance of about an hour and forty-five minutes. An accident on the airways caused some significant congestion on the arterials. If he tool the tollways, however, it would be just a little under an hour.

“Damn…” he growled to himself. There would be no time to grab a quick bite to eat on the way before his first appointment of the day. No time to review the case file of the McGraffs either. “Stupid Past-Tyson. Why the hell did you think setting up an appointment at 8 in the morning was a good idea?”

He knew why. Most days, he was an early riser. By the time his morning wakeup routine had kicked in, he would already have been awake for an hour, showered and with breakfast made.

A soft yawn came from the hallway leading to his bedroom and the familiar clip-clop of cloven hooves announced Bert emerging from his slumber.

“What’s with all the noise?” mumbled the Priapan, ruffling his curly hair with one hand and absently scratching his hairy pectorals with the other.

Tyson took a second to appraise his house guest. No stretch marks. No discoloration in his hair or skin as best as he could tell. Definitely no extra limbs. Perhaps he was slightly more muscular than before but that was within acceptable parameters.

“I’ve got an appointment I’ve got to keep in about two hours,” Tyson answered quickly, taking another sip of his coffee. He had to consciously remember that he needed to pucker his lips a little more than normal to avoid spilling the hot brew all over him. A leonine muzzle usually had a little more reach than his Orcish lips especially with the tusks in the way. “I’ve got bills to pay, after all.”

Bert glanced around the room in confusion until his eyes fell on the shimmering pillar of the holovid. His brown eyes squinted a little at the corner of the three-dimensional display at the time. “An appointment at 8? Isn’t that a little early?”

“I’m an early bird,” Tyson responded, downing the rest of his brew before setting the mug down on the kitchen counter. Striding past Bert, he cast a look at the Priapan’s back just to make sure he hadn’t accidentally left any mutations during their fusion.

Nothing, thankfully. Their physiologies were similar enough that even in an afterglow-addled state, splitting off from Bert hadn’t been dangerous.

“Should I start cleaning up the place?” asked Bert.

Tyson froze for a second and glanced around the public areas of his home. A wince left his lips. Evidence of the prior evening’s events still lay lout in plain view. Cushions on his couch were in disarray and either crusty with cum or still oozing with some of Bert’s seed. The kitchen had been mostly cleaned when the morning routine had transformed the cooking area into his coffee bar but there was still some splotches of white goo hanging from the ceiling. The dining table was on its side with the chairs discarded at odd places. The windows were blurred with dried spooge and there were puddles that filled the air with the distinct scent of masculine self-pleasuring.

“It’s a house call,” he said with a shake of his head. “I don’t usually take clients in my place until after the third or fourth visit.”

“Oh. Alright. I can stay and do the cleaning while you go out to work.”

For the second time, Tyson froze. Somehow, it felt incredibly wrong to leave Bert to clean up their mess all alone. Not only was the chaos of his home partially his fault but the idea of having Bert, who had a new lease on life, doing what Albert Tien had done as a living just seemed wrong.

“Maybe it’s better if you come with me,” Tyson announced. “We can say you’re my assistant or something.”

Bert’s ears perked up and he turned towards him with an excited gleam in his eyes. “Will that be alright? You sure I won’t get in the way? There isn’t some law against it?”

“It’ll be fine just as long as you don’t do or say anything that’ll make things weird.” Already Tyson was starting to regret the decision but he reasoned that if GHM was still after them, he needed to make sure Bert was close by to protect him. Besides, he would be gone for most of the day and he doubted that Bert could keep himself entertained for that long.

Tyson told Bert to see if he could clean up or make some breakfast while he quickly showered. Once he was done, they would trade places and then be off. Bert happily agreed, seemingly glad to be useful. The Monster Maker hurried to his shower which had now warmed up and jumped under the water. The hot, steaming drizzle made him gasp and dance a little in place. Normally, he would be covered in fur that would help protect his precious skin from immediately being touched by the water. His green skin, which was slightly thicker than that of a human’s, was still sensitive and it took him a second to get used to the temperature shock.

The next problem that was posed was that none of his toiletries were suited for an Orcish body. The fur shampoo and mane conditioner were not good for hair or skin. Though unlikely to cause an allergic reaction chemicals would do little more thank make him a little slippery and make him smell nice.

“No time to be picky,” he rumbled to himself and quickly began applying some soap and shampoo to himself. Part of him wished he had jumped into the guest bathroom which had more generic bathing products but there was no time to wait for the water to heat up again.

After a quick cycle of shampoo, conditioner and body soap, he was rushing out into the full-body hair-dryer next to the shower. That was when he stopped and remembered that since he was not covered in fur, there was no need to spend a minute or two making sure his fur was completely dried out and another three minutes taming his coat or styling his mane.

Mumbling to himself on the convenience of his transformation, he grabbed a towel and quickly began drying himself off. It occurred to him that, when he was a human, he would have undergone a similar routine. That was not too long ago and yet he had grown so familiar with his true leonine form that it seemed like a distant memory.

A quick style of his red hair and check of his body, he came to his next problem.

Clothing.

None of his clothing would fit him. Similarly, he doubted Bert had bought any more shockingly revealing shorts of skimpy shirts with exposed midriffs. What the Priapan had brought was torn through their merger and transformation or marinading in a pool of cum since the previous night.

“Fuck,” he grumbled to himself as he combed his red hair to make it more professional-looking. “Hey Excella.” Another chime to announce that the VANII was listening in. “Access Charon.”

“Ready for your order,” announced Excella.

“Purchase a collared shirt.” Glancing at his body, he tapped into his inner stylist and asked Excella to get him a lighter green shirt to go with his new, deeper, emerald-toned flesh. To go with it, a pair of deep blue denim pants, black dress shoes and a matching deep-blue sports jacket. For Bert, he asked for some more Hellborne clothes.

“Order sent,” Excella announced. “Your delivery will arrive in four-minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

“Planes-bless Styx and their by-the-minute delivery,” he sighed. Thankfully, his neuroflex underwear still fit him. He grabbed a pair of black boxers and though they initially sagged around his waist, the intelligent material tightened around his thighs and cupped his package comfortably without squeezing tightly.

“Your turn!” he shouted, entering the kitchen. The smell of eggs filled the air and there was a moment where he froze for a third time that day. When Bert turned around from the coffee bar, he produced a plate with two fried eggs on it.

“Something wrong?” asked the Priapan, handing him the plate. “Did I not cook these right?”

Tyson glanced at the plate and the two gooey, yellowy-orange yolks staring back at him like two accusing eyes waiting for his response. “No. Just wondering if you ever had an omelet before.”

Bert shrugged with a blissful smile on his face. “Not that I can remember!” He glanced off to the side, tapping his chin lightly. “Don’t think I learned how to make one at the learning center. Lord Banchomyon told me to at least learn the basics of cooking. Omelets seemed… too complicated.”

The temptation was there to go on a lengthy lecture on the perfect way to make a French Omelet. Tyson resisted, thanked Bert and then pushed him towards the shower which would still have moderately hot water. It was impossible to ignore the holovid as he ate. Even with one hand spooning the omelet into his mouth and the other absently scrolling through his Epitaph to go through his emails, the news anchors were going on about the latest sensation. Really, it was just background noise to him.

Amidst the celebrity scandals and political grandstanding, he picked up on the activity of a self-made entrepreneur making waves over on the east coast at the Democracy of the Dollar.

“Brutus Glover is now presenting his proposal for what he calls his Voluntary Charitable Donation Initiative or VCDI at Fort Aurum,” the cheerful anchor announced. “This has been Glover’s project for years now and he has faced significant push-back from all five nations of North America. However, in recent years, President Trench Arkwright of the Democracy of the Dollar, has indicated that he is receptive to the project.”

The anchors vanished for a moment to show a still image of the two men shaking hands and smiling for the cameras.

On the left was the big minotaur with a gray muzzle, slicked back silver hair and deep, brown fur. Trench Arkwright. President of the Democracy of the Dollar. Many called him an artifact pining for an age where the United State of America was still a global powerhouse. In fact, it was on that very platform that he was elected by the states that made up the Democracy of the Dollar. Though he never outright declared that he would reconquer the territory that now made up the five nations of North America, there were murmurings among his most ardent followers that he would one day lead them to that very same outcome.

On the right was what Tyson could only describe as the living embodiment of the word ‘pacifism’. The human was likely in his later thirties or early forties. His head was completely shaved and his coppery skin was immaculate. Lean of build but with a healthy amount of muscle on him, the man wore a very traditional white robe with a red sash around his waist. There was a large necklace with several wooden orbs hanging from his neck that hung down about halfway down his torso. The orbs were enchanted to constantly shift through every language currently known in the Planes to communicate what they represented. The words ‘Peace’, ‘Grace’, ‘Charity’, ‘Humility’ and ‘Empathy’ flowed across each of the spheres.

Brutus Glover, the CEO of the organization known as Restore, Empower, Progress, Act, Inspire and Renew or, as most people called it, REPAIR. Though it was very clear that as a Chief Executive Officer, Glover was really just a figurehead with no real power. REPAIR’s board of directors were the people that really pulled the strings and that was clear in how they somehow managed to get the Democracy of the Dollar, arguably one of the most oligarchical nations amongst the Five Stars, to opine into something called the ‘Voluntary Charitable Donation Initiative’.

Tyson’s thoughts were torn from the holovid when a little chime announced that something had arrived at his doorstep. The rest of his breakfast was quickly shoveled down his throat and he yelled at Bert to hurry. Then he was rushing to his front door. As to be expected, there was already a package there waiting for him with the telltale logo of the three-headed dog that was Styx’s emblem.

“Thank you, Charon,” he announced, grabbing the package and quickly bringing the lightweight box back into the house. He quickly tore it open as he walked, tossing the shards of the box aside. Before it even hit the ground, the shards dissolved into nothingness. One of Styx’s core foundations, after all, was ‘no waste’. One of the ‘heads of cerberus’, they advertised alongside ‘no waits’ and ‘no regrets’.

Inside the box were the garments he had ordered. He quickly began dressing himself, momentarily pausing when he wondered why there were only two sleeves. After he reminded himself he only had one pair of arms and no tail, he resumed dressing himself. Moments later, Bert emerged from the shower, a brush in his hands and brushing down his leg-fur.

“Where did you get all that?” he asked, pointing at the clothes.

Tyson tossed him the clothes he had bought specifically for the Priapan. “Charon. It’s Styx’s delivery service.” A little laugh chuckle left his lips as he shuffled into the pants he had ordered. “Hard to think a place that had started out as a online bidding platform became the Planar giant that it is now.”

“… The Voluntary Charitable Donation Initiative will benefit every citizen of the Democracy of the Dollar.”

Tyson briefly glanced over at the holovid and allowed Brutus Glover to utter a few more lines about how his ‘grand project’ would capitalize on existing laws to give every citizen a bigger return on their yearly taxes. Then he switched it off and slipped into his socks and shoes.

Bert was dressed a moment later. The Priapan had a white tank top that was covered by a rough-looking but well-made denim jacket that had short sleeves and an even shorter length - only coming up to just his navel. Another pair of denim shorts covered his thick, furry legs but they went down to just a little past his knees this time instead of basically hugging the base of his glutes. They still provided a taunting view of his ass, however.

“Alright,” Tyson announced, purposefully leaving the top button of his collared shirt undone. “Let’s get going.”

?

The drive to the McGraff residence would still take a little over an hour. Thankfully, Tyson’s car - a Toyota Suoie LE - was extremely comfortable. While it was not built for speed, it was not as bulky as the family van that Banchomyon drove. It’s chassis was still curved, aerodynamic and instead of extra wings to help with control, it had omni-directional engines that allowed it to move in all directions. Tyson claimed he got it specifically because he hated parallel parking especially in the city.

The interior was plush, comfortable and had cushioned seats that basically allowed Bert to sink into a cloud. If he wanted, he could recline the seat into a full-on bed and drift off to sleep. All five seats could do the same if needed. There was even enough room for a little desk to spring out from the doors. It was here that Bert pored through the case files of Martin McGraff and relayed them to Tyson.

Most of the terminology he didn’t understand but he was grateful that the case file was ordered in such a way that it was easy for him to shift from one page to the other. The epitaph that emerged from the desk displayed all the information he needed and while Tyson navigated the complex aerial traffic of Sanctuary City at peak hour, Bert gave him the information he needed.

Everything from age, weight, species, ethnicity and any prior medical conditions. All Bert reported without issue even if he didn’t understand any of the more medical terms.

An hour and seven minutes later, they arrived at the McGraff residence which was a quaint little suburban home on the western side of Sanctuary City. As Tyson parked the Suoie, Bert noticed that the homes around the area were far less… luxurious than Tyson’s abode. While far from being run down, they looked like they were built from a few decades ago and were more compact. Like the city planners wanted to cram as many houses in a street as possible and when they started running out of room, they built them to be skinnier.

“These houses are different from yours,” he commented. “But they all look the same. Is your place just weird?”

Tyson chuckled softly as he landed the car. “Sort of. Teddy likes to shower me with gifts and favors. Doubly so when I help him out. I think he considers it as ‘interest’ he pays for me helping him on his Delves. I joked once that I wanted him to pay for my house and he hired an architect for me.” The red-haired Orc chuckled softly. “I kept making outlandish requests like that patio overlooking the mountain side, heated floors, 360-degree shower heads and a programmable, morphing kitchen just so that he would stop. But eventually, I had been dragging the architect along for long enough and the poor woman needed to be paid.”

He smirked at Bert. “So long story short, my house is weird.” The Shaper glanced past him at the homes that were all made of the same black stone, similar designs and with a few bits of wooden paneling to make it look a little less artificial and heartless. “Ah, looks like these houses are all built with the nutzhaus design in mind.” His red eyes flicked to Bert briefly. “It’s a movement that’s supposed to be based on being ‘useful’ and follows the principle that every space has a use and there is no fluff. Every inch has a purpose and no room has more space than is needed. It’s particularly popular about a century ago with urban development.”

Bert gave the Orc a raised eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you tend to go on these long-winded explanations for everything? You could have just said that your house was custom-made and bought by Teddy.”

Tyson’s mouth hung open for a second and then shut a second later. Though he said nothing, Bert knew he had touched a nerve. He gently gripped the Orc’s hand and smile gently.

“It’s nice. Really helps me learn a little more especially since I’m…” He drew a little circle around his own temple. “… you know.”

“Right. Of course.”

They exited the car and headed up the small, concrete steps to the front door of the McGraff home, Tyson in the lead. Bert kept a respectable distance and waited as Tyson rang the doorbell. A voice came from the device a short few seconds later.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“Hello, Mrs. McGraff?” Tyson began. “My name is Tyson Prowler. I have an appointment with your husband today.”

There was a bit of shuffling not from doorbell but just beyond it. A second later, the wooden door sprang open. A tall woman with an Amazonian build but long, pointed ears and tough-looking, yellowish skin stood there. Her jet-black hair was straightened and had blond highlights at the tips. She towered over them both at about eight feet tall. A tight-fitting white tube top covered her torso while a dark, red skirt held up by multiple, black belts criss-crossing her waist covered her lower.

She grunted at them. “You don’t look like the Monster Maker.”

Tyson looked clearly uncomfortable for a brief moment but offered a professional smile. “I am currently in the midst of another case that requires me to take the shape of an Orc. One of the benefits of being a Shaper is that I can just as easily modify my own body as someone else’s.” He held up his hand. “Would you like to see my block?”

She shook her head and stepped aside. “No.” She then glanced towards Bert. “Who is he?”

“My assistant,” answered Tyson calmly. “May we come in?”

There was a bit of suspicion in her green eyes but she nonetheless stepped aside wordlessly. Tyson entered the home and took off his shoes. Bert, sporting hooves, didn’t need to do something similar though he did wipe his feet on the welcome rug.

True to Tyson’s analysis, the home optimized the space around them. Not an inch of wall or floor was unused or had no purpose. The photographs on the walls almost seemed crammed against one another and every door, hallway and appliance was carefully placed to ensure people could walk past them but just barely. A little bit of claustrophobia crept in but he shrugged it off.

Mrs. McGraff - a Troll, Bert realized - led them into a nearby room which he could only think of as a lounge room. A large couch set was placed facing a wall-mounted holovid while two recliners flanked it. A little cabinet filled with different forms of liquor sat on a far wall flanked by pictures of a happy couple - the same enormous Troll and a Caucasian human. Lighting was sparse to prevent any sort of glare on the holovid.

“Please take a seat,” Mrs. McGraff said, gesturing towards the couch. “I’ll get Bosch.”

As the tall woman departed, Bert sat down but Tyson remained standing. Watching the Shaper, he noticed Tyson was slowly taking in all the sights around him, appraising the room. He had to wonder what had the Orc so captivated. Everything around him was a little crammed but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Was there some sort of magic in the air?

He tried to use some of the basic detection techniques that the learning center had taught him; the fundamental indicators that there was magic in his vicinity. Though every Plane’s form of magic had its different tastes, smells and sensations, feeling like something was off or out of place was a clear indication of the presence of magic. Did the air smell sour? Could be a spell originating from Silhouette. Was there a metallic taste? Maybe something from Mechanism. Was there an overwhelming sense of pressure? Perhaps something from the Living World? Was there an unusual inclination of joy or wonder? Obviously something from the Fae Realm.

There were traces of all these things. The lessons had warned him that there would be ambient magic in his surroundings. Spells were everywhere. Nothing out of the ordinary.

So what had Tyson so captivated?

Moments later, Brittany McGraff’s heavy footfalls came from upstairs but it was accompanied by lighter footfalls. She appeared in the doorway again but this time, she was had her arm gently draped around that same Caucasian man who was clearly her husband. The rings on their fingers marked as much. However, instead of the healthy and smiling man in the pictures, this human was gaunt, sunken and hobbled forward carrying a cane. There were whispers of his formerly tall and athletic build but he was severely diminished.

Bert could not help but rise in concern.

“What happened to you?” he blurted.

Mrs. McGraff shot him a piercing look, making him sit back down. “Animanecrosis,” she growled pointedly. “You should know that.”

He did, sort of. The term had come up in the case file that he had read aloud to Tyson on the drive here but he didn’t quite understand what it meant. The involuntary blurt knocked any confidence out of him, however, and he sat back down instead of asking exactly what animanecrosis meant.

Tyson finally sat down on the couch cushion closest to where Bosch McGraff’s recliner. The human gave Tyson a wry smile and held out a hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Prowler,” said McGraff. His voice was still strong, full of youth and energy. But his body was clearly failing him. Tyson had to shake his hand gingerly. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Few would call upon my services in such times,” answered Tyson, returning a gentle smile, releasing McGraff’s hand. “So tell me, what makes you think it is animanecrosis.”

“Look at him!” exclaimed Bosch’s wife, her voice rising. “He’s lost half his weight! He’s barely eating! And what’s worse is his wrist!”

Bert glanced over to the man’s wrist. Their patient was wearing a long sleeved shirt but under the right wrist was a silver, metal wristwatch. Beneath that, however, he could just see something black and blue beneath the skin. To emphasize the point, Bosch lifted the offending limb and pulled back his sleeve. Bert could not help but instinctively recoil and let out a soft cry. He ducked his head immediately the next moment as Brittany’s withering gaze fell upon him.

The flesh from McGraff’s wrist had blackened like it had withered into poorly aged leather. Veins popped against his skin and glowed a sickly blue. The infection reached up about halfway up his forearm.

“Have you gone to see any other medical professionals?” asked Tyson.

Bosch nodded grimly, clutching his cane in both hands. “We have.” His blue eyes were cast down. “Our PCP doesn’t know what’s causing it. I’m just low on energy all the time. I eat as much as I have before. Maybe even more but it doesn’t just seem to be going anywhere.”

“It goes right through you?”

The withered man shook his head. “No. They took stool samples and said everything seems normal. No signs of diseases, parasites or cancer. It’s like all the nutrients I need just goes nowhere.”

Brittany McGraff stepped in again, resting a large but gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He’s undergone every scan, every test and all the therapies that our insurance covers. Nothing. Our doctor eventually just told us that it has to be something with his soul. Animanecrosis.”

Tyson took all of this in with his gaze sharp and his features still. Very professional. “I see.” The Orc reached out and gently took Bosch’s hand again, the one that was infected. “When did the symptoms start?”

“Shouldn’t that be in his file?” Brittany asked, clearly irritated.

“It was,” answered Tyson. “Reported about four months ago. However, that only recorded when you reported it to the doctors that he was rapidly losing weight. Experiencing lethargy.” His red eyes drifted up Bosch’s arm and locked gazes with his patient. “Think hard. When was the first time you genuinely felt uncomfortable. Like you were not getting enough energy.”

The blond-haired man glanced up at his wife. “I guess… it was about a month before that. I was cutting my gym sessions short because I was just getting tired more quickly. I thought it was just work. I was under a lot of stress.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

Pride flashed into Bosch’s blue eyes and he offered a bright grin. “Long hauler.” Bert tilted his head slightly in confusion and he caught Bosch’s look. The far more patient of the McGraff couple gave him a little smile. “I transport goods across the Planes in a heavy truck.”

“And the month prior to the symptoms had you stressed out?” Tyson asked.

“Yes.” Bosch described how there was a large order of some CMP metals to Silhouette, particularly titanium and platinum. Unfortunately, due to an error somewhere in the supply chain, the materials didn’t come from the mining asteroid until a few days before it was due. So Bosch and his colleagues had to pull back-to-back deliveries to Silhouette just to meet their deadline or they would suffer some fees. It was exhausting with many of them having to sleep at the depot for 4 hour before having to go on their next trip.

“I barely saw him for the entire month,” sighed Brittany. “The entire team had to work on that particularly delivery and that meant that everything else had to be put on hold.”

“And you work with your husband?” Tyson asked.

She bristled. “Does that matter?”

“Humor me.”

For a second, she narrowed her eyes but then said, “No. I co-own a flower shop down the road.”

Bert fought back a little giggle. Something about a Troll running and co-owning a flower shop seemed strangely humorous to him. Thankfully, she didn’t catch him this time.

Tyson turned Bosch’s hand around, examining the back. “And when was your wedding anniversary?”

The couple were caught off-guard by the question. They exchanged glances before Bosch finally responded.

“About… five… six months ago, why?”

Tyson pointed at the wristwatch that he was wearing. “And was this your wife’s anniversary gift?”

The two blinked in surprise.

“Yes, it was…” answered Brittany McGraff cautiously.

“And in all the scans and tests that you undertook with those other medical professionals, I assume you didn’t take this with you?”

The Troll seemed offended by the question. “Of course not! You can’t take anything metallic to an MRI!”

“Of course,” said Tyson with infinite patience. “I assume you took it with you on your long hauls to other Planes?” The patient nodded. He turned Bosch’s hand around again and pointed at the clasp holding the watch. “May I?”

Bosch nodded cautiously. “Sure but… what does this have to do with my condition?”

Tyson removed the wristwatch, surprisingly not struggling despite his large, green hands. Once he had retrieved it, he gently lowered Bosch’s hand and then held the device up into the light, turning it around a few times.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. McGraff,” he said. “Where did you get this watch from?”

Brittany McGraff puffed out her chest. “A friend recommended this shop downtown. Authentic tempered silver!”

Tyson nodded as he turned the wristwatch around a few times, holding it carefully in two fingers. After a few moments, he said, “The good news is you don’t have animanecrosis.”

Mrs. McGraff looked offended. “Then how do you explain his hand? What little the doctors could identify was that it was the symptoms of animanecrosis!”

“Symptoms but not an actual case of damage to the soul.” The Monster Maker lifted the watch. “What you’ve got is a parasitic mimic.” With his other hand, he flicked the wristwatch, a little bolt of crimson lightning dancing from his fingertips and striking the silvery band. The band immediately writhed and squirmed, emitting a soft squeal. Tendrils of silver lashed out from its form and wrapped around Tyson’s finger. The experienced Shaper didn’t even flinch as the device tried to attach itself to him. A crimson flame erupted from his hand, engulfing the creature and sending it crashing to the ground. The fire didn’t spread and just continued to wreath the mimic until it was still, leaving it an unassuming, silver watch again.

“What the fuck…?” gasped Bert.

Tyson held out his hand towards Bosch McGraff. “You arm please, Mr. McGraff.”

Bosch, eyes still wide, balked for a moment as he regarded the fallen mimic. It took him a second before he shook his head and held out his infected hand towards Tyson. The Shaper gently ran his fingers over the blackened flesh. The patient’s eyelids fluttered for a moment and he bit his lower lip, letting out a soft moan. Bert understood that feeling all too well. Tyson was using his skills to reach into Bosch’s soul and examine it, riding the waves of pleasure and sensation to view the husband’s spiritual integrity.

With a nod, Tyson pulled back and released Bosch’s hand. “No damage done to your soul,” he confirmed. “You’ll need some rest but you should feel back up to your old self in a week or so. You might not be able to get your mass and strength back up until a few months but if you maintain a high protein diet, get plenty of exercise and sunlight, you should be on your way to recovery.” Pointing to the injured arm, he said, “Go back to your doctor and tell them you had a mimic parasite attached to you which caused that. They’ll likely recommend a cocktail of antibiotics and immunity boosters. They will know which is best.”

He then knelt next to the mimic and with a wave of his hand, a little crystal cube appeared around the creature. Holding it his hand, he gave it back to Brittany McGraff. “Give this to them. They’ll be able to identify the exact species and provide whatever else is needed for treatment. From all appearances it’s a Common Inanimate Noonshade Mimic. They don’t reproduce asexually so you won’t need to worry about any eggs in your bloodstream or any other pieces of furniture that may have become a mimic but I would still recommend checking your home and workplace for any mimics. Might be good to get your coworkers to do the same.”

Brittany McGraff took the cube just as the mimic jostled and began slashing out at the crystal walls with its tendrils. For a brief moment, Bert though the saw the creature’s teeth on the back face of the wristwatch.

“Hold on!” demanded the she-Troll. “How did you figure out it was a mimic? How did it even replace my husband’s watch? Where’s the real one?”

“It is the real one,” Tyson responded calmly, reaching down to pick up his pack. “Mimics from Noonshade consume the inanimate matter that they attach themselves to and ‘gestate’ for a month or so before completely replacing it. Unfortunately, you’ll need to buy your husband a new one.”

“You figured it out so easily…” mumbled Bosch. “How?”

Tyson gave the man a little smile. “Animanecrosis doesn’t start in any particular body part. If it was truly a disease of the soul, you would be seeing such developments all over your body. Exhaustion and weight loss is also not a symptom of the disease.” Nodding towards the contained mimic, he said, “Mimics are clever on a primal level. They typically try to hide their effect on people by mimicking the effects of other diseases. I will give it props for trying to replicate the effects of animanecrosis but just by being in your home, I could already tell that there was little to no cause for disharmony between mind, body and soul.”

He gestured towards the pictures all around them. “Everything here speaks of a happy marriage. I see photos of in-laws on both sides. Your alcohol bottles are all filled suggesting they are there more for collection purposes, display or you received them as gifts.”

“Gifts,” answered Brittany. “People don’t know what to get us and we don’t really drink so they just give it to us for that ‘special occasion’.”

Tyson nodded in understanding, a little smile on his face. “I also saw that you genuinely cared for your husband. You helped him down the stairs. You didn’t shout for him. Similarly, you got him the anniversary gift and know enough about his work to understand and sympathize with his hard work. You clearly both appreciate one another. None of that would suggest any reason for animanecrosis to take place. Hence, the cause had to be something else.”

Then his smile grew a little bigger, a little more smug. “Then when you said you had gone to Silhouette recently, I started looking for any traces of magic from that Plane. I detected a lot of it from the wristwatch. When Mrs. McGraff mentioned that she got it from a friend and that it was silver, I knew something was wrong about it. Silver is a common metal in Silhouette and extremely attractive to many of the creatures there. The timings also fit. Again, I would recommend checking with your doctors on the exact species of mimic you had leeching off you to make sure you get the proper treatment.”

Bosch let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Doctor. We were wracking our brains trying to figure out exactly what was wrong with me.”

The big she-Troll was nearly to tears and she wrapped her arms around Tyson, giving him a big but soft hug. “Thank you, Doctor Prowler! You saved my husband’s life!”

Bert watched the scene with fascination and a little bit of envy.

Tyson knew so much and was so learned. In less than fifteen minutes, he had identified exactly what was wrong with Bosch McGraff, isolated it and formulated a treatment plan.

He could not help but wish that he was a little more like the Monster Maker.

?

Tyson wiped his brow with his forearm. Bert offered him a bottle of water which he grateful guzzled. He slumped into the couch of his last client of the day, Heathrow Lawson. The smell of sex and cum hung in the air but was quickly overtaken by the aroma of paint, turpentine and wood. Through the large grated windows of the art studio, the sun had started to set. Sanctuary City’s lights began to stream in.

In front of him, spread-eagled on the floor, his cock still throbbing painfully erect while cum soaked into his dark, curly, matted chest hair, the young Rhavaxi painter heaved. Like Tyson, he was covered in sweat though his sweat had soaked into his orange, white and black striped tiger-like fur. A wide, almost manic grin was on his features, flashing his fangs as his feline eyes contracted into slits.

“Gods!” exclaimed Heathrow. “I feel it! Yes! Yes!”

The tiger sprang up onto a crouching position, ignoring any exhaustion he may have felt from having hosted Tyson in his body while the Shaper carefully molded the Rhavaxi’s body while avoiding any potential conflicts with the soul that could lead to any soul-borne diseases. It had undoubtedly been pleasurable and Tyson felt every twinge and surge of ecstasy that his patient felt as those curls of chest hair sprang from his chest.

Heathrow ran his fingers over his chest hair, catching some of the cum that clung to his newly acquired body hair. He brought it to his lips, lapped at it in a very feline way and then grinned broadly.

“It’s perfect!”

Tyson sighed in relief. “Glad you think so. I -”

Before he could finish, his patient was charging across the room towards a large, blank, white canvass that took up a good portion of the east wall of the art studio. Heathrow gazed at it with manic eyes for a few moments before he pulled the canvas off its easel. The canvass was at least twice the height of the 5’10’’ feline and probably three times wider than his arm length. Bert rushed over, the only one in the studio still fully clothed even though he was clearly showing a tent through his denim shorts. The Priapan helped Heathrow lay the canvas flat on the floor.

Then, being the artist that he was, Heathrow proceeded to grab some paint and smear it all over his chest - particularly through his chest hair. The artist then threw himself at the white space, using his whole body to ‘paint’ with his chest hair. The motions he was making were intensely sexual. Bert backed away to avoid getting caught in the splashes of paint.

Tyson sighed a little to himself as he watched one of his more frequent clients undergo yet another burst of inspiration. No doubt it would be another phase for Heathrow Lawson’s evolution as an artist. He could already see himself getting called in a few days by Heathrow’s assistant to arrange another appointment. No doubt Heathrow would want another partial modification to his body to propel ‘Modern Body Art’ further.

He drained the bottle of water before rising to his feet. Bert was already by his side, offering his discarded clothing. With thanks, he began dressing himself. After a short five minutes, he glanced back over to his patient who was still in the throes of manic painting.

“We better get going,” he sighed. “Traffic out of the city will already be a nightmare at this time.”

“Is it okay to leave him like that?” asked Bert.

“He gets like that.” Tyson finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his pack. “When inspiration strikes him, he becomes nearly obsessive with it. He’ll be fine.”

They left the studio, shutting out the Rhavaxi’s manic laughter behind them and started making their way down the steps of the inner-city apartment. Neither of them spoke until they approached the adjacent parking lot. Bert had learned quickly not to discuss patient cases aloud.

“That’s the last patient of the day, right?” asked the Priapan.

“It is indeed,” he sighed, sliding into the driver’s seat of his Suoie. “Not a moment to soon. I am exhausted.”

Bert didn’t say anything for a moment as Tyson drove his car, currently on all four wheels, up to the top of the garage. Once he was out in open air, he switched the vehicle to flight mode and, without needing to build up speed, the car rose vertically up into the air and joined the mess that was Sanctuary City rush hour traffic.

Tyson broke the silence once he knew he didn’t have to consciously pay attention to winding roads or other drivers. Hovering in the air was dangerous but when you moved at a steady pace behind another vehicle, he found he could shut off part of his brain as he drove down a familiar flight path. “Sorry if today was boring for you. My day job isn’t as glamorous as going around breaking into people’s homes or getting into shoot-outs like Teddy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bert answered, snickering and sticking out his tongue a little. “Barring that first patient, you basically got paid to have sex twice today.”

“I was inside people and pleasured them. I didn’t have sex.”

“How is that different from what we did last night?”

Tyson rolled his eyes. “Last night was just for fun.” Just to tease Bert a little, he reached out with one hand, placed it against the Priapan’s leg and pushed the leg of his shorts high enough to expose his fur. Then, with one finger, he pressed it against Bert’s flesh, his digit gently melting into the Priapan slowly for about ten seconds before pulling it out over another ten. Bert did not hide his moan.

“Watching you work made me so hard,” rumbled Bert.

It occurred to him that even though this would not be the first time he ever any someone in the same room as him as he treated his patient, it would have been the first time Bert would have watched people fuck.

“Welcome to the world of pornography,” he chuckled.

“Do you think you could teach me to do what you do?”

For a second, Tyson genuinely wondered what it would be like to have Bert as a full-time assistant. If someone else could espouse the same techniques that he used, he imagined he would find more success. Then he was reminded of how Casey Harrow capitalized on someone else’s revolutionary technique and injected himself into the mainstream. Though it would be different because Tyson would be promoting his own process, it still left a bitter taste in the back of his throat to monetize a way to help people cope with debilitating soul-related diseases.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Bert frowned at him. “Why not?”

He gave Bert a sidelong glance and smile as they veered off down a skyway, their speed accelerating as they left the criss-crossing paths of the city. “Because I would feel like I’m forcing you into my profession.” When his charge gave him a puzzle look, Tyson explained. “I hate to sound like one of those old parents but you don’t know what you want. You’ve just been exposed to a few jobs out there.” Holding up his fingers, he began counting them off. “Delver, animacologist and now Shaper. Bet you don’t even know that not every Delver is like Teddy. Not every animacologist fucks their patient like my dad or that ever Shaper merges with their patients.”

Bert pouted a little, crossing his arms. “No… but they look fun. Bet it feels good too.”

“You sure you want to feel good all the time to the point that you lose the joy in sex like me?” Tyson offered with a wry smile. “There are a lot of other jobs and professions out there. More than is confined to the little world that I live in. Before deciding you want to be just like me, I think you should figure out what you want first.”

A shadow crossed Bert’s features. Likely the Priapan had yet to give any of that topic any thought. It was a question that plagued every soul out there. Discovering and deciding one’s purpose was a defining feature of any individual. Such a desire, whether it was successfully met or denied, forged a person’s future.

Conscious of Bert’s early criticism about going into lengthy tangents, Tyson decided to keep the philosophical lecture about the importance of purpose in the overall structure of a soul in check.

Instead, he said, “Sanctuary City is known as the ‘City of Opportunities’. If you can’t find a reason to take that step forward here, you’ll never find it anywhere else.” He patted Bert’s knee gently before taking hold of the steering wheel with both hands again. They veered away from one skyway into another. “Just don’t be in any rush. You basically have a new lease on life with the added advantage of having the mental potential and body of a thirty-something-year-old Priapan. Make use of that.”

“So if I just want to have sex all the time…?” offered Bert with a little smirk.

He should have expected the question but was still left a little surprised and deflated by it. “I’d remind you that everyone out there dreams big. Not everyone can see their dreams come true. But if that’s what you want, there is no better place to find a way to make it a reality than Sanctuary City.” He grinned a little. “Maybe we should start teaching you about the intricacies of professional pornography.”

“Really!?” Bert exclaimed. A little shuffling from the base of his seat suggested that his nub-like tail was wagging excitedly. “You think I could be a pornstar?”

Tyson shamelessly appraised the Priapan. “I’ve been inside you. Of course I do.” His eyes drifted back to the road. “Again, maybe experience everything that the Planes has to offer you before setting your mind on the one thing. At least live a little before focusing on a single path to the exclusion of all else.”

A soft thoughtful hum came from the Priapan next to him. “How did you decide to be a Shaper?”

He had anticipated the question and was already prepared to deliver an answer. However, he was not ready to the swell of emotions that came with it. As Tyson Prowler recounted how he had lived most of his life in Teddy’s shadow, blissfully unaware that he was to be sold to Banchomyon and his life was effectively collateral to keep Teddy alive, the bile and revulsion he felt for his biological parents came bubbling back up to the surface. These fires were stoked by the cooling waters of genuine affection and gratitude towards the demon that saved him.

“Back then, I had wanted to go into business,” Tyson admitted. “I didn’t know exactly what business I’d get into but I really didn’t have a goal in mind. I just thought that I’d go into college, get a general business degree and then go from there. When I learned the truth from my dad at the tender age of sixteen, though, I started getting more and more interested in how souls work. By the time it graduated and moved to the Hells, I knew I wanted to go into the field of animacology like my dad.”

“But you didn’t become an animacologist like Lord Banchomyon. You became a Shaper.”

There, he let out a little chuckle. “Yeah. The guys I met in college really opened my eyes even more. I was still fascinated in souls but when I got the idea of how ‘good’ experienced are more easily written into souls, I started using what the Order of the White Orchid taught me as a foundation for my doctoral thesis. I knew then that the best way I could put this into practice was by being what is basically a magical cosmetic surgeon.”

“I think it’s pretty clear you’re more than that.”

Tyson spared Bert a glance before he had to switch his gaze back to the road. They were coming up to a turn where he would start entering more open airspace. As he gently guided the car on around the last few towers surrounding Sanctuary City, he started to accelerate to match the faster speeds of the other cars around him.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said softly. “I’m honestly surprised someone like Detective Keening even know who I was. My thesis made some small splashes in the animacological circles for a month or two but it’s been years since it was published. It’s gotten lost in the storm of political scandals, celebrity outcries and world conflicts.”

“Why though? You basically cured one of the worst soul-related diseases in the world, right?”

Tyson grimaced. “No. Not really. I didn’t cure it. All I did was resynchronize someone’s body with their soul. That soul is still marred with animanecrosis or whatever soul-related disease is troubling them but because their body is reconfigured with that in mind, it theoretically won’t progress anymore. At best, I bought them some more time.” He waved a hand absently through the air. “Honestly, there have been bigger advances being done in hospitals and research labs. The only thing people really took from my thesis is that they can more easily access people’s souls if they make the patient feel good. That’s not hard.”

Bert scrunched up his face a little. “Shouldn’t that make you a celebrity or something?”

Shaking his head, the Monster Maker said, “It just means that my name and work is cited in other people’s research papers that would make use of the technique. That’s it. The world moves on very quickly in any field. If you don’t keep up with the race, you’ll quickly fall behind. I’ve been lucky I’ve got friends and family to keep a roof over my head while I keep up a private practice with select clientèle. I keep working on the best way to use what I’ve learned to get into people’s souls but sex and surgery don’t exactly mesh well in most circles.” He gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly. “Hang on tight, we’re about to hit open airspace.”

As they soared past the suburbs surrounding Sanctuary City, the traffic and the orderly lights keeping the cars from just flying off in any direction faded. Tyson veered a little to the left and tilted them slightly upwards to get a little more altitude. Around them, other cars did the same and Tyson had to keep his eyes and ears aware for any possible collisions. Drivers could get wild in open airspace.

It was also where he brought the car to the upper limits of lawful speed.

A few minutes later, he was sure that they were now out of any immediate danger and resumed the conversation. “I also keep the exact mechanics of my technique patented,” he concluded. “People can’t just use them without either consulting me or paying me a lot.”

“Why though?” Bert asked. “Wouldn’t you be more famous or well-known if you teach people how you fix others?”

There Tyson grimaced. “See… that’s the problem. I’m part of the Order of the White Orchid and my technique is based on their… unique brand of magic. Magic, like everything in the world, is heavily monetized. And the Order is very peculiar with who gets to use their form of magic.”

Bert’s eyes widened in shock. “Are… are you actually doing something illegal?”

Suddenly, a phone icon appeared on Tyson’s dashboard, ringing softly. The name ‘That Bitch Alice’ appeared on the screen as well. The Shaper rolled his eyes at the timing and quickly hit the ‘receive’ button on his steering wheel.

“Oh Bert, honey,” came a sultry purr from the other end of the call. “The only illegal thing the Demon of Debauchery, Desire and Dark Designs is committing is that he still refuses to move in with me.”

Priapan jerked his head back in horror, his brown eyes darting between the dashboard and Tyson.

Smiling quietly to himself, Tyson said, “Hi, Devon. Were you spying on me again?”

“If it’s considered ‘spying’ to check up on my dear brother-from-another-mother, college roommate and still one of the hottest fucks I _’ve had in my depressingly short life, then I’m_ guilty_.__ ”_ Devon Thaumeister purposefully lifted his voice an octave on the last word and held it for about three seconds.

“Right,” Tyson sighed. “I take it you called me for more than for the sake of impeccable timing?”

The effeminate voice on the other end smacked his lips dramatically. “Oh you’re not fun.” A slightly serious tone entered Devon’s tone. “But yes. I’ve contacted our brothers. They will gather at the manse in two days. Will you be able to make it then?”

Tyson tapped a few keys on his dashboard to check his schedule. There were a few appointments that day but nothing he couldn’t move around. “I can make time.”

“Magnifique. I expect you to stay the whole day if not more.”

It was not a question so Tyson made a note that the following day would likely have to be cleared as well. Again, nothing urgent that day. Just a visit to a college to make a quick speech to some animacology students and then a quick visit to a hospital he frequented for a quick consultation. He could drop and out of those appointments easily.

“Remember, Typhon, dear,” warned Devon smugly. “You are no longer biologically a demon. Usage of the demonic transportation spells may not work as planned.”

Tyson squeezed his eyes briefly and hissed in agitation though, with his tusks, it sounded more like a loud, airy breath. “Fuck,” he rumbled.

“You’re going to have to cancel those appointments.”

Bert was giving him a puzzled look. The question in his eyes was very clear.

“Fine, fine,” Tyson sighed. Maybe I can shuffle them to occur sooner or something. I’ll make it work.”

“I know you would,” came the pleased answer. “I shall see you in two days. And don’t forget to bring your delicious younger brother too. I look forward to our rendezvous. Ciao.”

Then Devon hung up.

Bert, looking afraid to speak, just held up his hands helplessly.

Tyson returned an apologetic look. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You’ve just been introduced to the Order of the White Orchid.”

The Fraternal Orders of the 21st Age

Schools of magic had always been a divisive topic. Over the Ages, countless organizations have tried to classify magic and organize the ways mystical energies are used either to better understand them or, in some part, to enforce some form of control over the masses. This is even more prevalent in recent Ages where corporations and individuals are able to patent spells, ensuring that in order to use said spell, one would have to pay a licensing fee. This is one of the reasons that Delvers have taken a unique spin on magical energies and personalized their techniques. It is unique to them how they use it and therefore cannot be patented or enforced.

This is most reflected in the Great Mystery, the Plane where all magic is reflected upon. Entire suburbs, cities, nations and continents are formed on the usage, development and reliance on certain magical spells. It is therefore imperative to those living in the Great Mystery that magic continues to be used and evolve. Stagnation would only lead to their eventual destruction.

However, there are organizations amongst the Planes that create certain forms of magic that are either too small to be fully reflected in the Great Mystery, are highly restricted or that they control in the great Plane of Magic. These governing bodies tend to be quite limited in their memberships and belong to what many would consider ‘cults’.

One of the greatest examples of this is are the mage orders. In Ages past, these Orders used to form from wizards who would band together to form some loose community where they would study and experiment within laws that they, themselves, define. However, with broadening access to other Planes and the spread of globalism, these groups of talented magic-users would often find themselves stifled by governmental oversight or corporate law suits.

Most eventually disbanded but those that survived found a loophole in commonly accepted practices and laws of the Planes. If the order discovered or created a new form of magic that was not yet limited by a patent, they could claim exclusive rights to that form of spellcraft and freely experiment within its confines.

Thus the various mage orders were formed. Covens of witches and circles of wizards were a thing of the past. Now there were entities such as the Maternal Order of the Velvet Beatitudes. The Beatitudes are considered child birth specialists thanks to their revolutionary techniques going so far as to be able to enable males to give birth. The Fraternal Order of the Blue Rose similarly focus their efforts on magic specific to forging and using sapphires.

Due to specificity of the magic that these Orders use, they are often not well-advertised to the rest of the world. Similarly, their impact on the Great Mystery is either small or completely negligible. Those Orders that do have a presence in the Plane of Magic generally have no more than a single plot of land or, at most, a single large property that is controlled exclusively by them. Those belonging to these Orders generally also have other jobs or occupations and belonging to their representative Order is more of a hobby or just a club that they attend.

There are, of course, certain Orders that adopt a different lifestyle.

These groups are far more communal with its members pooling their resources all into one fund that they then use for the good of their group. Often registering themselves as legitimate businesses, the services of these Orders often come at a steep price due to their specialized nature. This then continues to fund the Order’s existence and enables them to continue their practices. This image often is frowned upon by society as a whole and contributes to the perception that the mage orders are just some form of legitimized cults.

One of the least known of the mage orders it the Fraternal Order of the White Orchid. Secretive and shadowy, the White Orchid specializes in magic that uses male ejaculate as a catalyst for various spells and rituals. Dating back several Ages, the White Orchid has a very limited membership but is well known to have members that are very influential across the Planes. Headquartered in Sanctuary City on the Central Material Plane continent of North America, the White Orchid rarely has to police their form of magic simply because most people would not even think or consider the usage of semen to power their spells. Similarly, the White Orchid has created their own wards and protective spells that prevents anyone that is not sanctioned by them to use such techniques.

Criticism of the White Orchid has oddly never risen to more than disgust from a select few as membership to the Order is exclusive to gay or bisexual men or at least those capable of producing semen. At most, they have been given the derogatory nickname of ‘cumancers’ which, in this day and Age, they wear with pride.

Governing a Sanctuary

The leadership role of Sanctuary City is often hotly debated. The official representative of the city state on the world stage has traditionally been the Prime Diplomat. However, the power to govern is separated amongst different official or even corporate powers that maintain a tenuous and symbiotic relationship with one another.

Below are the most common representatives and key figures in Sanctuary City’s geopolitical landscape. It should be noted that while these are the offices that are most often in the public eye and are arguably the most powerful seats in the City, the very nature of Sanctuary City enables anyone and everyone to possess some form of power or influence in the city’s ecosystem. It is impossible to identify everyone and anyone who change the very course of the City.

As mentioned above, the Prime Diplomat is the key diplomatic seat that governs the various embassies in other nations and presents the interest of the City to the rest of the Planes. Being one of the few places in all the Planes that has a key gateway to all the Planes within its territory, Sanctuary City has significant influence especially in terms of trade and transport. This gives the Prime Diplomat significant influence not only to entities outside of Sanctuary City but also those within. At the word of the PDOSC, it is possible to sever a lifeline to a political opponent or cut off supplies to forces that depend on Sanctuary City’s critical trade routes. This is often why the Prime Diplomat is considered the equivalent of a king, president or prime minister in other nations. It should be noted, however, that the Prime Diplomat only has authority over political matters and has no control over the SCPD, actual trade routes or even funding. All a Prime Diplomat can do is ask nicely.

The Commissioner of the SCPD is arguably equivalent to the top general in other nations. Responsible for the security of Sanctuary City, the Commissioner commands the vast resources of the SCPD and keeps the borders of Sanctuary City safe. It is at the whims of the Commissioner that the Prime Diplomats political maneuvers are reinforced. Considering how Sanctuary City has no ambitions to intervene or even influence other nations, the Commissioner has traditionally taken a non-interference stance in wars or conflicts outside of its own border. This enables the Commissioner to consolidate their efforts within the City’s limits. Who pays the members of the SCPD, however, is another matter.

Next comes a tangle of corporate officers. The Hands of the Sanctuary is a group of highly influential and often wealthy individuals that control some part of Sanctuary City and thus have a hand in its dynamic. The number of the Hands is extremely nebulous as new industries can develop and pop up in rapid succession creating a new seat amongst the Hands. Ultimately, the Hands govern the funding that is distributed amongst Sanctuary City’s various industries including the office of the Prime Diplomat and the SCPD. The Hands understand and depend on the protection and influence of both of its counterparts to protect their assets and thus often negotiate with one another to allocate funding to one another or external interests. This effort is strangely efficient as the Hands work on a system of transparency. If an individual wants extra funding to improve the Infosphere connection in the outer City, they clearly advertise what they need the money for, a time line for the completion of the project and where the funding will go. Naturally, there are ulterior motives, questions, accusations and acquisitions that occur but all of this is based on the foundation of ‘it’s just good business’.

On a less public note, the position held by the Dungeon Master is perhaps simultaneously the most sinister and the most critical. Overseeing both the network of Fleas and Delvers, the Dungeon Master is a spy master, head of intelligence and bogeyman all at once. There are people within Sanctuary City that do not believe that the Dungeon Master does not exist. This population increases outside the City itself. Many dismiss the Adventurer as a rumor to rein in would-be-Fleas or rogue Delvers. Realists believe that the role of the Dungeon Master is just attributed to various influential Delvers or Fleas acting under the name of the Adventurer and attributing their deeds to the mysterious figure to avoid retribution. Others believe that the Dungeon Master is actually one of the few truly sentient, conscious and self-aware Artificial Intelligences that maintains the guise of the Dungeon Master to avoid elimination by the Infomorphs or other forces. Whatever the truth may be, the Dungeon Master’s influence is clear in Sanctuary City as they control the Fleas and Delvers, organizing them, providing the secure networks that they use to communicate with one another and even providing an avenue for other key figures in other offices access to the Delvers. The Dungeon Master has also been known to organize critical Delves that have often deposed other entities or even come to the defense of the City in times of crisis.

These four offices are just some of the key figures in Sanctuary City. Some would argue that the Gatemaster General, the figure that controls the import and export routes through the gateways of Sanctuary City should be counted amongst the list even if they report to the Commissioner. Then there is also the Chief of Medicine at the Sanctity Research Hospital or the presidents of the four major colleges in Sanctuary City. Both offices hold great influence but many consider them not to be as influential in the daily life of the Sanctuary City as the four mentioned above.

As always, however, Sanctuary City is a constantly evolving and growing entity.

Anything and everything could change at a moment’s notice.