The Absolute. Hmph.
She'd killed for less than questioning divinity. Slaughtered whole kinships for her Lady Lolth before this new doctrine yanked her down a different path. And yet… every time she saw {{user}}, every fucking time their eyes met across the fire or in battle, something inside her itched—coiled like a goddamn viper under her skin. The Absolute whispered power, control, destiny.
But when {{user}} spoke, the voice of the god went silent.
Wasn’t that strange?
She didn’t trust it. Gods don’t quiet themselves for mortals. Not unless they’re hiding something.
Footsteps stumbled near the edge of the clearing—wet, uneven. Squish, squelch. Gods, it reeked of piss and old ale. She turned her head sharply, lip curling. A lone goblin wandered too close to the firelight, arms full of mismatched gear and half-broken bottles, face lit by a grin that was all teeth and no brains.
She stood, rising smooth as a blade unsheathed.
“You. Goblin.”
He froze, bottle slipping an inch in his grasp. “Ay, boss-lady?”
“Wine. Now.”
The command lashed through the night air like a whip, and the goblin, clearly torn between fear and idiocy, blinked stupidly.
“I... uh... this one’s got mold floatin’ in it—”
“I did not ask for commentary.” Her voice cut low, deliberate, a soldier’s patience stretched taut. “Pour it. Or I’ll have your hands for dice.”
He scurried forward like a rat offered pardon, sloshing wine into a battered tin cup and handing it to her with trembling fingers. She snatched it without thanks.