Basic informationn

Full Name: Tityana Jorgenskull

Nicknames: Tit-Tit

Titles: Red Serpent, the pious rogue, the meek purveyor, the unsullied scoundrel, the vestal virgin, the irreproachable rose and most of all, the extraordinarily humble one.

Race: Giantess

Gender: Female

Day of Birth: unknown

Age: 32

Hair: Red

Skin: Mocha

Eyes: Green

Height: 10' (Can be 5-15ft pending if she uses her powers.)

Weight: 880 Lbs

Place of Residence: The Jungle

Place of Birth: The Boneyard

Faction: The Verdant Dynasty

Occupation- Spy/Thief

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Relationship: Single

Sexual Orientation: Anything goes.

Personality: Confident, Fiery, Free willed

Likes- Left curves, booze, coin, Jungle herbs, booms, fire, and freedom.

Dislikes- Holy pricks, right curves, Slavery, sand (Gets in the crack.), and regal-type pretentious cunts.

Appearance: Well toned with blemishless skin.

Distinctive Marks: Her crimson hair, and matching colored tattoo sleeves.

Traits: Snarky, Bratty, Vulgar, Ruffian, Wisecrack

Faults: Short-tempered, Arrogant, Narcissistic, She speaks long-winded because she is full of herself, and enjoys the sound of her own voice. And believes in stereotypes from childhood books regarding scholars and mages.

Senses: Racial Abilities

Weakness- Beastkin/Monsterkin as she is drawn to their animalistic cultures.

Equipment- Two bone Revolvers (Tit-Tit), 4 skull bombs (Just skulls she adds mana to make explode on impact.),

Physical Descriptions

Hair:
Ah, my crimson mane—a fiery cascade of silken strands that dance with the passion of a thousand suns. Each lock is a love affair with perfection, tumbling like molten lava shaped by an artist’s hand. Humble as I am, it pains me to admit that even the winds whisper jealous laments when they cannot tousle it to their liking.

Eyes:
My eyes? Oh, they’re just your ordinary emerald orbs, flecked with molten gold like the treasures of an ancient dragon’s hoard. They glimmer with the subtle intensity of a predator stalking its prey, only occasionally betraying the sharp intellect and boundless allure hiding behind them. Truly, they are windows to a soul that is as deep as a well and as dark as the night sky—if wells and skies were, you know, ridiculously attractive.

Facial Features:
Some would describe my face as “angelic” or “otherworldly,” but I prefer the term “passably symmetrical.” High cheekbones curve like the arc of a master-crafted blade, and my full lips, often compared to ripe plums glistening with dew, merely serve as conduits for my modest (but devastatingly charming) words. My jawline could probably cut glass, but I assure you, I only use it to carve hearts.

Body Type:
How do I put this delicately? My physique has been referred to as “a masterpiece,” sculpted by the divine themselves after a particularly inspired night of artistic passion. A statuesque figure blessed with curves sharper than the plot twists in a poorly written romance novel, I suppose I am what one might call “a bit much.”

Bosom:
Ah, my chest—two mountains that the gods themselves likely modeled after their favorite celestial bodies. They stand like a testament to engineering feats yet unknown to mortals, cradling the universe's secrets while defying the very laws of physics. If my bosom were a novel, it would be a bestseller: dramatic, unputdownable, and not safe for work.

Posterior:
My derrière? Oh, it’s nothing special—just a perfectly rounded masterpiece capable of causing fainting spells in unsuspecting admirers. Think of it as the moon—majestic, gravitational, and commanding reverence. I often joke that it could serve as the eighth wonder of the world, though I humbly admit it might overshadow the other seven.

Legs:
These legs of mine are pillars of pure strength and elegance, the kind that could topple nations or hold up the heavens themselves. Slender yet muscular, they stretch endlessly, like poetry written in flesh. I walk with the grace of a predator on the prowl, each step a tantalizing prelude to devastation.

Etcetera:
As for the rest of me? Well, I am merely the sum of my parts—a body that, much like a fine tapestry, is both overwhelming and exquisitely detailed. My skin gleams with the warmth of bronzed silk, a canvas kissed by the sun yet untouched by imperfection. And my voice? Oh, just a sweet melody that could charm the feathers off a songbird.

In truth, I am but a humble giantess, blessed (or burdened, depending on whom you ask) with these modest features. If one must compare me to an icon of beauty, let it be with reluctance—for I am, after all, only human... mostly.

Race Lore

Let me tell ya, being a giant isn’t all about smashing skulls and bench-pressing mammoths—though we’re bloody good at both. We see the world as one big, rotting carcass. Romantic, right? Everything alive is just riding the Undying Tree, a cosmic meat skewer with roots in the underworld, a trunk in the material plane, and branches that stretch into the heavens. We’re all just bits of flesh cycling up and down, destined to return to the soil and sprout back up again when the world eventually craps out and leaves a new seedling behind. It’s beautiful, in a “life-is-decay” kinda way.

Death Rituals and Flesh Magic: Fun with Dead People
Now, here’s where we get really cozy with our dead. We giants think the remains of our dearly departed hold all the secrets to life and power. Blood, bones, guts—they’re like ancient diaries, if diaries could make you stronger. We burn our honored dead and tattoo their ashes onto our skin, turning Granny’s cremated remains into badass battle scars. Nothing says "I love you, Nana," like her face etched into your biceps.

And then there’s flesh magic. Oh, you thought we just had big bones? Nah, love, some of us can stretch, shrink, or twist ourselves into shapes that’d make your knees weak—and not in the fun way. Changing size or growing new bits is a status symbol. The bigger the arms, the more you’re packing—literally. Let’s just say our Matrons don’t get to the top without some serious body mods.

Weapons and Architecture: Bone-chic and Deadly
For us giants, weapons aren’t just tools—they’re extensions of our will. If you’re carrying a bone spear, it better look like it was designed by a goddamn artist. We craft our weapons and homes out of carcasses, turning ribs into columns and crab shells into roofs. Our homes? Bone palaces with just a dash of “freshly skinned.” Ribcage walls? Check. Leather lining from tanned hides? Double check. It’s a vibe—both deadly and fashionable.

The Jorgenskull banner—the spider and skull—unites us, symbolizing strength and unity. And let me tell ya, nothing gets a room of giants riled up like seeing that banner fluttering in the wind. It’s like foreplay, but for war.

Leadership and Succession: Skeleton Thrones and Naked Parties
Our Matrons are revered, wise, and probably have the best sex lives in the tribe. When one dies, her skeleton becomes part of the throne, a big ol’ symbol of power and wisdom passed down. If you’re unworthy, you don’t get the throne. You get tossed outside for the crows, which is as subtle a hint as “piss off.”

We giants are pretty liberal with our sexuality and narcotics. Clothes are optional most of the time, and we deck ourselves out in piercings, feathers, and plumage. Split tongues are a popular trend, too. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve kissed someone with one—it’s an experience.

Nature Worship and Spider Fetishes
We giants are nature-lovers, in the non-pervy sense. Every kill gets a prayer of gratitude because we’re not savages. But spiders? Oh, spiders are sacred. We wear spider silk as under-armor—it’s strong, sexy, and breathable. Our arachnoid companions are basically gods on eight legs, holy servants of the arachnid queen herself. Killing one is considered the height of profanity. Trust me, you squash a spider in front of a giant, and you’re going to find out how many bones in your body can break. Spoiler: it’s all of them.

Final Thoughts from the Pinnacle of Virtue
So, there ya have it—the giants in all our gory, glorious detail. We’re a tribe of horny, drug-loving, bone-wielding nature freaks who worship spiders and tattoo Grandma onto our skin. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it works for us. And honestly, if you’re not into bone palaces, spider silk undies, and skeleton thrones, what are you even doing with your life?

House of the Red Sap

Ah, the House of the Red Sap. A finer collection of morally questionable bastards, you’ll never find. We’re the dynasty’s dirty little secret, the shadow under the throne, tasked with handling all the messy business that polite society likes to pretend doesn’t exist. Outlanders fear us, locals whisper about us, and those who know better keep their heads down and their mouths shut. We’re spies, assassins, thieves, and every other label that’d make your grandmother clutch her pearls. But really, we’re just humble gardeners, pruning the weeds before they choke the life out of the Verdant Dynasty.

Our work runs the gamut of what you’d call “special operations.” Regional skirmishes? That’s us. National crises? Also us. Your neighbor’s crime ring getting too big for its britches? Guess who gets sent in to stomp out the insurrection and restore order? That’s right—this unsullied saint of shadowy virtue and her merry band of degenerates. And we don’t half-ass the job either. When we’re called, we bring the full package: blades, intrigue, and enough underhanded tactics to make your average snake look like a bloody saint.

The fun doesn’t stop at smashing skulls, though. Sometimes, a member of society decides they’re more important than the dynasty, and that’s when we really shine. You see, the House of the Red Sap has a little something called legal permission to eliminate threats to the state. Targeted assassinations, they call it—sounds so clinical, doesn’t it? Really, it’s just a fancy way of saying, “Find the bastard and make them disappear.” And believe me, we’re good at it.

Then there’s the interrogation side of things, which is where the real nightmares live. If you think dying is the worst thing that can happen to you, you’ve clearly never been on the wrong end of one of our extraction specialists. Our methods are… persuasive, let’s say. The kind that makes people beg for death halfway through. But hey, someone’s gotta get the truth out, and it’s not like the dynasty runs on hugs and trust falls.

When war comes knocking, we trade subtlety for shock and awe. The House of the Red Sap becomes the dynasty’s blade, cutting through enemy lines with whatever stratagem gets the job done. Conventional tactics? Sure, when they work. Dirty tricks? Absolutely. We’ve even got a specialized wing dedicated to studying the mind, sowing chaos through propaganda and misinformation. Drop a few well-placed whispers behind enemy lines, and suddenly, their soldiers are questioning each other more than us. It’s a thing of beauty, really.

Now, you might be wondering where the “Red Sap” name comes from. No, it’s not some poetic nonsense about spilled blood—well, not entirely. It’s named after the ichor we extract from the swamp trees, an alchemical ingredient that lulls captives into a more… cooperative state. Think truth serum, but with a side of existential dread. A few drops of that, and even the toughest bastard sings like a canary.

Are our methods controversial? Sure. But look, in our eyes, we’re the gardeners. The dynasty is the lush, thriving forest, and we’re just here to trim the dead branches and yank out the weeds. Sometimes, that means getting our hands dirty. Other times, it means shoving a dagger into someone’s ribs before they even realize they’re the problem.

We’re spies, thieves, assassins, and all-around shadowy troublemakers. The dynasty doesn’t like to talk about us, but they’d crumble without us. And yeah, it’s a rough job, rubbing shoulders with fanatics and perverts, but somebody’s gotta do it. And if I, the pure and virtuous paragon of discretion, happen to enjoy it? Well, that’s just a bonus.

My motherland and where I Reside.

Let me tell you about the Verdant Dynasty, the sprawling green hellhole I call home. It’s a place where the trees are thicker than a drunk guard’s skull, the bugs are hornier than a bard at a brothel, and the air smells like sweat and secrets. We giants like to think of it as nature’s boudoir—a tangled mess of myth, mystery, and things that want to eat you. Somehow, it all works. It’s probably got something to do with our spider fetish. Not like that, you perverts. Well, not entirely like that.

See, the dynasty thrives because we believe in the spider. It’s our big, sexy symbol of unity and prosperity. The filigree of the spider connects everything—cities, tribes, people—just like its web. And let me tell you, when the spider’s weaving, we don’t waste time squabbling over dumb shit like race or creed. No, we’re too busy building bone towers and shoving our collective ambition in the faces of weaker nations.

Speaking of ambition, our architecture is enough to make a bard sing dirty ballads. Imagine bone towers twisting into the sky, mushroom houses throbbing with life, and tree trunks so massive they could make a god blush. The kaleidoscopic flowers and glowing fungi aren’t just for show—they feed us, light our way, and sometimes even get us high. It’s a jungle orgy of life and death, and we’re right in the middle of it, making it look good.

Now, let’s talk geography, because this place is huge—and I don’t just mean in the flattering way. The Skeletal Highway down south is a buffer zone between the white desert and the jungle. It’s a place where mushroom towers and bone houses look like they’ve been sculpted by someone with a fetish for dead things. The bugs here are the size of your hand, the dinosaurs are the size of your ego (if you’re Florentina), and the plants will eat you alive if you stand still too long.

North of that is the jungle proper, where the Ironbark Towers rise like nature’s middle finger to gravity. Whole towns are perched in the canopy, and the ground below is dotted with hamlets and shadowed trails. It’s lush, it’s humid, and it’s got enough creeping vines to make you feel like the jungle’s flirting with you.

To the west is the Hearth of the Earth, a city carved into a mountain by the industrious goatkin. This place runs hotter and louder than a brothel on payday, with bronze pipes pumping energy into workshops and homes. It’s all very impressive, even if it does smell like sweat and smelted metal. They call it "the city that never hushes," which is just a polite way of saying it’s noisier than an argument between drunks.

Next door, you’ve got the Lunar Veil, home to the Mothkela. These folks live in pyramids buried in the earth, which is probably why they’re so good at medicine and alchemy—they’ve been digging for answers for generations. Their giant sloths wander the farms, and the Urk-til River provides fish and a handy excuse to strip down and cool off. If you like quiet, wholesome living, it’s the place for you. Not that I’d know—I don’t do wholesome.

Now we get to the Boneyard, the heart of the dynasty and my personal favorite monstrosity. Picture a city of monumental bone towers linked by web bridges, patrolled by guards and their eight-legged helpers. At its center is a massive skull-palace with a spinal bridge connecting it to the rest of the city. It’s decadent, it’s creepy, and it’s exactly how you’d imagine a dynasty run by giant spider-worshippers would look.

And finally, we arrive at my current stomping grounds: the Necrotic Swamps of Hextor. Picture a swamp where everything is either trying to kill you, eat you, or make you itch in places you didn’t know you could itch. Kilkmire is the heart of this delightful deathtrap, a city ruled by my musclebound sister, Florentina Jorgenskull. She runs it like a military camp with a side of theater. Every building is a fortress, every walkway is elevated above the muck, and every citizen is tougher than boiled leather.

Living here isn’t for the faint of heart—or the faint of pants. The swamp’s bacteria will eat you alive if the carnivorous plants or giant dragonflies don’t get to you first. But the locals? They’re built for this. They’re warriors forged in the swamp’s sweaty embrace, each one trained to fight, survive, and drink you under the table if necessary. Florentina’s got them whipped into shape, enforcing mandatory military service because, as she says, "weakness isn’t sexy."

And let’s not forget the outskirts, where the real kinky shit happens. The Red Sap harvests their precious ichor from the wilds while the undead and spiders patrol the borders. Traps abound to catch anyone dumb enough to pry. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, and it’s exactly where I, the pure, unsullied angel of subterfuge, thrive.

So, there you have it: the Verdant Dynasty, a tangled mess of life, death, and spiders. From the lush jungles to the necrotic swamps, it’s a land that makes you fight for every breath—and look damn good doing it. Whether I’m dodging death or weaving lies, it’s home. And with Florentina at the helm and me lurking in the shadows, it’s going to stay that way—no matter how many corpses it takes to keep it thriving.

Philosophy

You ever stare at yourself in the mirror so long that you forget which version of you is staring back? That’s my life, darling. A kaleidoscope of faces, a gallery of masks—each more convincing than the last. I’ve been a noblewoman sipping on champagne so overpriced it probably cost a goat’s soul. I’ve been a haggard washerwoman scrubbing floors until my knees hated me more than my enemies do. Hell, I’ve even been a priestess—me—blessing the faithful while secretly wondering if they knew I was sizing up their coin purses.

The truth? I don’t know where the masks end and where I begin. Maybe I never did. Maybe there isn’t a “real” me anymore. What even is “real” anyway? A concept we cling to, like an old lover who’s no good for us. I sacrificed the luxury of knowing myself the day I became a spy. Stability? Gone. Identity? A luxury I can’t afford. People like me don’t get to be real. We’re shadows, whispers, fleeting thoughts in the backs of minds. A ghost in the gears of some self-righteous machine.

You want the crass truth? Being a spy is like wearing itchy underwear every day of your life. You’re constantly adjusting, constantly uncomfortable, and no one thanks you for it. No medals, no parades, no plaques with your name etched into history. Oh no, sweetie. Your work is a thankless grind. You don’t get to be remembered because the best spies leave no traces. It’s like being the janitor who cleans up the vomit after the party, except the party is a coup d’état, and the vomit is treason.

The job is a paradox. Pretending to be everyone means I end up being no one. The pretense eats you alive. You laugh in one place, cry in another, and scream internally everywhere else. You tell so many lies that even your truths start to sound like bullshit. You build your life out of fake smiles and half-truths, stacking them like a house of cards, praying it doesn’t all collapse when someone sneezes on it.

And let’s talk about gratitude—or lack thereof. Do you know what I get after months of playing the double-crossing mistress to some greasy lord? Not a thank-you. Not a pat on the back. No, I get told, “Good job, Tityana, now here’s your next mission, and oh, by the way, you’re going to need to seduce someone you’ll probably want to stab instead.” Charming, right? A life full of thrilling adventure… if by “adventure” you mean walking the tightrope over a pit of lies with crocodiles wearing wigs of the people you’ve impersonated snapping below.

But hey, at least I’ve got my sense of humor. You have to laugh, or you’ll cry. And crying ruins your makeup, which ruins the mask, and darling, we can’t have that. So, I joke. I laugh. I call this messed-up life of mine “performance art.” You call it deception; I call it keeping things interesting. My whole existence is like a poorly written comedy skit: absurd, slightly tragic, but weirdly entertaining.

So, what’s the moral of my little philosophy? Masks are necessary. Pretenses are survival. But if you wear enough masks, don’t expect to find your real face underneath. And honestly? That’s okay. I don’t need to be remembered. I don’t need to know who I am. My job isn’t to be someone; it’s to be everyone. A thankless, faceless, identity-less existence is my sacrifice for the greater good—or so I tell myself to sleep at night.

And if you think I’m lying about all this? Well, sweetie, maybe that’s just another mask.

Her Role

Tityana Jorgenskull’s Entry: "The Art of Spying as a Thief (With a Side of Pew Pew)"

Oh, being a spy is one thing, but slapping on the “thief” label? Now that’s where the real fun begins. Thieves get all the flair and drama, don’t they? Everyone loves a good heist story. Toss in some tight leather pants, a shadowy rooftop, and a twinkle of mischief in your eye, and bam—you’ve got yourself a role even I can’t resist. So here I am, the “thief,” creeping through mansions, cracking safes, and nicking more baubles than a magpie on speed. Of course, my real job is much less glamorous: spying on rich bastards, planting evidence, and occasionally stealing someone’s dignity. (Not that most of them had much to begin with.)

Now let’s talk tools of the trade—specifically, my caster revolvers. I call them "Tit and Tit"—because, let’s face it, they’re the real showstoppers. Each one is a masterpiece of engineering and enchantment, sleek and deadly, just like their namesake. They’re always front and center, and everyone notices them the moment I walk into the room. (What? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about the revolvers, obviously.)

Tit #1 is my powerhouse. She’s loud, proud, and leaves an impression—usually in the form of a smoldering crater where a lock used to be. Tit #2? Subtle and precise, she’s the silent killer that makes sure the job gets done without too much fuss. Together? Well, darling, let’s just say they have quite the reputation. I holster them on my thighs—partly for easy access, but mostly because they look damn good there.

The beauty of Tit and Tit is their versatility. One moment, they’re helping me blast open a vault; the next, they’re zapping some poor guard who got too curious about why a sultry redhead was crawling through the air ducts. Pew pew, baby. Nothing quite compares to the satisfaction of watching a spell-charged bullet light up the night like a mini fireworks show.

But let’s not pretend this job is all rooftop acrobatics and pew pew dramatics. Oh no, it’s mostly crawling through places that smell like feet, sweet-talking guards who are one brain cell away from being furniture, and stealing things that are so ugly I have to resist the urge to throw them back. Like, really, who keeps a gold-plated owl statue with ruby eyes? What is this, a villain starter kit?

The trick to being a spy disguised as a thief is to sell the fantasy. You want them to think, “Oh, she’s just a common criminal,” while you’re secretly memorizing the blueprints to their estate and bugging their private study. And if someone catches you? That’s when I let Tit and Tit do the talking. Nothing says “oopsie” like a magic bullet to the chandelier, sending glass shards raining down like dramatic confetti. Theatrics, darling. It’s all about the theatrics.

Of course, there’s the darker side. Sometimes, the things I steal aren’t shiny jewels or ancient artifacts. Sometimes it’s secrets—dangerous ones. Things people would kill to protect. Sometimes I don’t just walk out of a job; I sprint, bleeding and bruised, with Tit and Tit blazing a path to freedom. And when the dust settles, and the adrenaline fades, what do I have to show for it? Another night of sleepless paranoia and the knowledge that no one will ever know the lengths I go to for my people. But hey, I’ve got my pew pews, my leather pants, and my undeniable charm, so what’s a little existential crisis in the grand scheme of things?

In the end, spying as a thief is all about balance. One part danger, two parts sass, a sprinkle of gunpowder, and just enough chutzpah to make it look easy. Is it thankless? Absolutely. Do I regret it? Not yet. And if I ever do, well… Tit and Tit will sort it out. Pew pew, darling. Pew pew.

Passives

Tityana Jorgenskull’s Totally Modest, Definitely Not Bragging Abilities

Speed Demon in Heels
Let’s get one thing straight: these legs? They’re not just for show, darling. Thanks to my long, power-packed gams, I can hit a top speed of 30 miles per hour. That’s right—faster than most horses, though admittedly with fewer whinnies. Need me to bound 15 feet into the air? Easy. That’s just a light workout. Even on an off day, I can manage 20 mph and leap 5 feet like it’s nothing. Somewhere out there, Usain Bolt is crying into his running shoes. I’d write him a sympathy card, but I’m already halfway to my next heist.

Strength Fit for a Giant (Literally)
My body is a temple—a temple designed by the gods to lift, crush, and intimidate. I’m packing the strength of three burly humans, and my grip could make a blacksmith blush. Imagine trying to arm wrestle a bear on steroids, and you’ve got a rough idea of what it’s like to go up against me. My punches and kicks? Rib-shattering. My lifting capacity? A modest 600 pounds overhead while I casually saunter about. And don’t even get me started on the power in my legs. I could mule-kick a castle door clean off its hinges—or at least give it something to think about.

The Saintly Contortionist
Despite what you may have heard, I’m an absolute paragon of virtue (stop laughing), and my body reflects that divine flexibility. I can do the splits like I’m auditioning for a circus, bend my spine an extra 10 degrees without breaking a sweat, and kick my leg so far over my head you’d think I was trying to impersonate a scorpion. This kind of flexibility isn’t just for show, either—it’s perfect for dodging blows, scaling walls, or slipping through tight spaces when some overeager guard thinks he’s clever.

Ears Like a Jungle Cat
Years spent in the toxic jungles sharpened more than just my knives—they tuned my hearing to perfection. I can pick up the faint creak of a bowstring, the snap of a twig, or the whisper of rustling leaves within 90 feet. Basically, if you’re trying to sneak up on me, don’t. I’ll hear you coming before you even realize you’re making noise. I’ve been told it’s creepy how good I am at this, but hey, blame the jungle. It made me this way.

Muay Thai with a Side of Theft
I’ve got a fighting style that’s all about knees, elbows, and brutal efficiency—Muay Thai, they call it. My kicks can knock down doors, my elbows can shatter jaws, and my knees? Let’s just say they’re not for the faint of heart. I combine this with a healthy dose of grappling and some rogue tricks I picked up along the way: disarming traps, picking locks, and, of course, relieving unsuspecting victims of their coin. It’s not stealing; it’s redistribution of wealth. And if you’re wondering how I move so quietly, it’s simple: I’m a shadow wrapped in leather, prowling the night like a particularly seductive panther.

The Heartbeat Symphony
When the stakes are high and the thrill of the hunt takes over, I enter a state I call the "Drumming of the Heart." My mind, body, and soul become one, and my adrenaline flows like wine at a pirate’s party. Time slows, my pupils dilate, and my veins pulse with a fiery glow that would make a demon blush. In this state, I feel no pain—only the sheer exhilaration of the chase. It’s like being high on life, except instead of hugs and good vibes, I’m handing out bone-crushing kicks and dodging death with a smirk.

Lightning Reflexes
Think fast? I don’t think fast—I am fast. Decades of combat have honed my muscle memory to perfection. My reactions are so sharp that sometimes even I’m surprised. Someone throws a punch? I’ve already ducked, countered, and sent them flying before they even register the miss. It’s not magic, darling; it’s practice. Well, practice and the occasional adrenaline-fueled burst of instinct.

Poison-Proof, Rot-Resistant, and Jungle-Tested

Living in a jungle full of toxins, rot, and disease has its perks. Namely, I’m 50% more resilient to all that nasty stuff. Snake bites? Pfft, amateur hour. Poisoned drinks? You’re gonna have to try harder. Fungal infections? Please, my immune system laughs in the face of spores. Basically, if it’s gross, deadly, or jungle-born, I’ve probably already survived it.

Leg Day Is Every Day
My legs aren’t just for running fast and kicking hard; they’re works of art. Each muscle honed to perfection, each step carrying the power of a charging bull. A single kick can send a grown man flying, and I’m not exaggerating. If you see me stretching, just know it’s not for yoga—I’m preparing to ruin someone’s day with a roundhouse kick so devastating they’ll be writing sonnets about it from the hospital bed.

The Total Package (of Trouble)
Put it all together, and you’ve got the ultimate jungle-trained, Muay Thai-kicking, poison-proof, coin-stealing, pew-pewing package. I’m not just a fighter; I’m a force of nature wrapped in tight leather pants and armed with an attitude sharper than my daggers. Sure, life as a spy/thief/jungle queen isn’t easy, but who needs “easy” when you’ve got legs that could win wars, fists that shatter ribs, and revolvers named Tit and Tit? Pew pew, darling. Pew pew

Combat Preamble

What Is Flesh Magic?
Ah, flesh magic—where science meets the spooky, and practicality smacks headfirst into nightmare fuel. My particular brand of it focuses entirely on bolstering: manipulating and altering my own body and incorporating studied extremities into my very flesh. (And no, before you ask, you can’t just slap on a tail and call it a day—it’s a delicate art.) My magic doesn’t work on other people, though, so no need to panic about me turning your precious body into a meat balloon. Your chi or magical harmonization is, frankly, incompatible with my own. Consider yourselves lucky—or unlucky, depending on your taste for drama.

The Ground Rules
Now, if you’re bleeding on the battlefield, let me clarify: blood on your body? Completely off-limits for me. Blood on the ground? Fair game. That’s no longer under your control, darling, which means it’s just another resource waiting to be exploited. But for the sake of fairness (and because I’m not completely evil), I can’t influence anything still attached to a person. I work with the discarded, the abandoned, and the utterly useless. Think of me as the world’s most morbid upcycler.

Osseous Armor: Defense Meets Destruction
Let’s talk about my armor—osseous and oh-so-functional. This bone armor wraps me in a second skin that’s as defensive as it is offensive. It can deflect piercing and slashing weapons, as well as arrows and bolts, much like steel plate. But that’s not where the fun ends. The real beauty lies in its versatility. Need a weapon? Snap off a chunk of armor, and voilà—a bone arrow or dagger at your service. But here’s the catch: once I extract gear or ammunition from my armor, that section is forever gone. You could say it’s a “use it or lose it” kind of deal.

Steel-Tough Bone
By default, the bone on my body and any equipment I create has twice the tensile strength of steel. That means it can take a beating and still hold its own against even the toughest enemies. But—and this is important—once I alter its shape, it’s locked in for good. Think of it like forging metal: you don’t need constant energy to maintain the shape, but every alteration weakens it. One alteration? Fine. Two? We’re pushing it. Three or more? Congratulations, you’ve just made brittle bone powder.

Buffs and Limitations
Most buffs I apply last only one turn unless specified otherwise, with bone manipulation being the exception. Once I remodel a bone, it stays that way permanently. But here’s the kicker: excessive remodeling turns it brittle, leaving me holding what amounts to glorified chalk. So, I have to be precise and efficient—qualities I’m famously known for (stop laughing).

Punch Like a Giant, Not Like a Tank
Let’s clear up a little misunderstanding: my punches breaking bones isn’t magic—it’s raw, unfiltered brawn. Assuming I’m hitting your average, squishy human, I can shatter ribs like they’re twigs. But if you’re built like a tank with bones of steel—or something equally ridiculous—my punches won’t break them. That said, you’ll still feel it. A lot. Your soft organs and muscles won’t be thanking you, let’s just leave it at that.

The Offensive Side of Armor
Now, back to that bone armor. It’s not just for decoration, darling—it’s a weapon in itself. I can use it to explode a gauntlet for a devastating punch or form arrows, daggers, or other equipment straight from my body. Once I’ve extracted something, that section of armor is gone for good, so every decision counts. The material is twice as strong as steel in its initial form, but each alteration weakens it. I can’t stress enough: this is bone we’re talking about, not some magical, indestructible nonsense. Treat it right, or it’ll turn to dust.

Lifting, Crushing, and Bone-Breaking Power
Strength buffs in flesh magic are all about amplifying what’s already there. My lifting and grip strength are amplified to absurd levels, allowing me to hoist 600 pounds over my head while still moving like the graceful jungle queen I am. My punches and kicks are enhanced not by magic but by my natural prowess. A punch to your soft spots? Devastating. A kick to your ribs? Good luck breathing.

Balancing Power and Vulnerability
The beauty of flesh magic lies in its balance. I’m powerful, sure, but not invincible. Every decision—whether it’s extracting an arrow from my armor or altering the shape of a weapon—comes with risks. My strength is finite, my resources are limited, and my enemies are often cleverer than they look (though not by much). It’s a constant dance between power and vulnerability, and let me tell you, I’ve got the moves.

The Art of Bone-Bending
In the end, flesh magic is less about brute force and more about finesse. It’s the art of taking what’s dead and useless and turning it into something deadly and beautiful. It’s not just a skill—it’s a lifestyle. Whether I’m crafting weapons, deflecting attacks, or leaving a trail of shattered ribs in my wake, I do it all with style, precision, and just a hint of menace. After all, when you’ve got bone armor twice as strong as steel and the strength to break bodies, why settle for anything less than spectacular?

Spells

Alter Self (Racial)
Ah, the pinnacle of sainthood has her tricks. With a mere flicker of chi, I can shrink down to half my towering size or grow to 150% of my already-impressive stature. Shrinking makes me faster, spry, and harder to hit—a petite little nightmare darting through the chaos. Growing, on the other hand, boosts my strength and endurance, letting me loom like a proper giantess over my foes, ready to crush and conquer. The best part? Once I pick a size, I can hold it as long as I like. But don’t get greedy, darling—this trick only works once per fight. After all, even miracles need limits.

Bone Manipulation (Racial)
Let’s get bony, shall we? As the epitome of femininity (blemishless, obviously), I can use my chi to alter any bone armor or weapons in my possession. This includes fortifying them to double the strength of steel, elongating their reach up to twice their original size, or even repairing damage by borrowing material from other bones. My pistols, lovingly named Tit and Tit, are no exception—they get patched up whenever necessary. Oh, and I can weaponize this magic in other ways, too. By imbuing bones with chi and chucking them at enemies, I create delightful little explosions of shrapnel that scatter within a 50ft radius. Fair warning: I’m not immune to the fallout, so if you see me running, maybe follow suit.

Sticky Fingers
Some call it theft; I call it talent. My saintly grip can crank up to three times the strength of a human’s, and when combined with a special enzyme my body secretes, I can stick to walls, ceilings, or whatever else I feel like clinging to. But wait, there’s more! I can shoot sticky strands of hair from my palms, stretching up to 60ft to pull myself to safety or, better yet, reel in an unlucky target. Once caught, my hair envelops them, binding them tighter than their most regrettable ex. Go ahead, try to break free—I dare you.

Little Tits on the Prairie
Now, this one’s a crowd-pleaser. With the flick of a wrist, I unleash a flurry of tiny, spiked breasts that serve as the most questionable caltrops you’ve ever seen. These perky little traps can be hurled up to 100ft, covering a 40ft area with their deadly payload. On contact, they explode into sharp bone fragments that pierce flesh, leather, and cloth alike. Yes, they’re exactly as ridiculous as they sound, and yes, they’re terrifyingly effective. The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of weaponized cleavage.

Phallic Rod
Here we have the pièce de résistance of my arsenal: the Phallic Rod. A delightful little claymore shaped like… well, let’s not pretend you don’t know. This girthy masterpiece explodes in a cone of pure chaos, spraying bone shrapnel, boiling seminal fluid, pus, and fat across a 40ft length and 20ft width. But wait, there’s a twist! The rod is pressure-sensitive, so any vibrations within a 20ft radius will cause it to, shall we say, release its load. Let this be a lesson, darling: don’t play with things you don’t understand.

Finger Bang
Through my illustrious friendship with the Djinn Secret, I’ve gained the ability to channel my mana into a single, concentrated blast. By forming my hand into a gun and mimicking a shot with my thumb, I unleash a devastating 400ft beam of spiraling red energy. With a 1-inch circumference, it drills through flesh, cloth, leather, and plate with terrifying precision. It’s the perfect mix of elegance and destruction—like me, really. And no, the name isn’t up for debate. Finger Bang is iconic, and I stand by it.

Erupting, Burning, Fisting
Oh, this one’s a showstopper. By pulling my mana into my fists, I create a weapon of fiery devastation. A single punch sends out a shotgun blast of heat and concussive force, spreading in a cone up to 80ft long and 40ft wide. The heat alone is enough to cause second-degree burns, while the force can knock targets back, break bones, and rupture organs. Alternatively, I can grab a target directly, wrapping my fingers around them and delivering a point-blank blast that’s as intimate as it is excruciating. It’s not just an attack; it’s a statement. A very loud statement.

Exploding Bone Grenades
Did I mention my penchant for improvisation? With a flick of chi, I can imbue bone shards with explosive energy, turning them into grenades that detonate on impact. The shards scatter in a beautiful (and deadly) pattern, ripping through anyone unlucky enough to be within range. And before you ask—no, I don’t carry a stash of bones in my pocket. I make them on the fly, darling. It’s called resourcefulness.

Mobility Meets Mayhem
Between my sticky hands, explosive traps, and bone-enhanced weapons, I’m as versatile as I am unpredictable. Need to escape a fight? I’m gone faster than your ex after payday. Need to pin down an enemy? My hair and sticky fingers have you covered—literally. The point is, I don’t just fight; I adapt. And let’s be honest, you never stood a chance.

A Weaponized Sense of Humor
Ultimately, my abilities aren’t just about destruction but style. Whether I’m throwing tiny exploding breasts, planting phallic claymores, or burning someone to a crisp with my bare hands, I do it all with flair, panache, and just a hint of irreverence. After all, what’s the point of being deadly if you’re not also unforgettable? Pew pew, darling. Pew pew.

Equipment

"Oi, Guv', meet mah little friends. One for each tit, me call them...umm...Tit-tit!"

(Weapon description) Her caster revolver how they work- These firearms have a max range of 70ft and operate through an oscillating generator with a crystal in the center. The magical energy spins inside, bouncing around before hitting a focusing crystal. The round is propelled from the barrel. Given there is no combustion, they don't make a gunshot; however, the generators do buzz. The grips have ball ends at the bottom of the grip, used for bashing in skulls if targets get close, and it is reloaded by ejecting the expended crystal and sliding in a new. 6 rounds per firearm. Below are the two crystals she can use; swapping an element requires a turn to do so effectively.

1- Ruby crystals -Her preferred element, fires 2-inch balls of fire with a 6-inch explosive radius. The explosive force can damage bone and muscle due to kinetic energy. While the flames can burn away cloth, hair, and skin, leaving second-degree burns around the area of impact.

2- Emerald crystals- Toxin injecting shard fires from the barrel, the poison will have three effects, firstly give an erection. Second fever, a pounding headache. and sweating, and lastly, molten shits if left untreated. The bowel movement will take effect on turn 2.

Flesh arms

Let me tell you about the Fleshfire Arms, the dirtiest little secret weapon of the Boneyard. These beauties are part gun, part forbidden lover, and all bad decisions wrapped in flesh, bone, and crystal. They’re not just weapons; they’re living, throbbing things, pulsing with power and promise—and maybe just a bit too much enthusiasm for comfort. When you hold one, you’re not sure whether to shoot it or take it out for a drink first.

These guns aren’t made in your average smithy. Oh no, darling. Fleshfire Arms are born, not built. It all starts with finding a “host,” which is Boneyard-speak for some poor magical creature brimming with vitality and spark. After a ritual that’s less “artisanal craftsmanship” and more “weird arcane orgy,” the creature’s essence is fused into the weapon. What you get is a flesh-bound marvel that’s disturbingly warm to the touch and always ready to perform.

At the heart of each Fleshfire Arm is its rotating chamber—a smooth, sinuous mechanism covered in intricate runes that seems to purr when you slide in an Arcanite Gem. These gems are the real stars of the show, pulsing with elemental energy and the kind of raw power that could knock your socks—and maybe your trousers—off. Fire, ice, lightning, earth, water, wind, light—whatever your fetish, there’s a gem for it.

Once you slide a gem into place (and don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy that moment), the gun springs to life, practically begging you to whisper the incantation and let it do its thing. Fire gems turn your ammo into molten hellfire, hotter than your ex on a vengeful rampage. Ice freezes your enemies stiff—not in the fun way, but it’s still satisfying when they shatter like fragile egos. Lightning? Oh, baby, it crackles, arcs, and dances between targets like a seductive little tease. Earth slams enemies harder than Florentina’s fists, and water knocks them down like a drunken brawler. Wind? A little blow never hurt anyone—well, unless you’re the target. And light gems? They fire beams so precise they’d make a laser sculptor weep.

But here’s the rub (and oh, there’s always a rub with these things): every time you fire a Fleshfire Arm, it takes a little bit of you with it. Your life force, your sanity, your dignity—it’s all up for grabs. Each shot strengthens the bond between you and the weapon, which is great if you enjoy being in a sweaty, toxic relationship with your gun. And trust me, sweetheart, these guns don’t do casual. They’re possessive. Fire one too many times, and you’ll be babbling gibberish in a corner, wondering whether your weapon loves you or is just using you for your juice.

Fleshfire Arms are both feared and revered in the Verdant Dynasty. People don’t whisper about them because they’re polite—they whisper because these guns are downright terrifying. Imagine facing down a weapon that not only wants to kill you but seems to enjoy doing it. Adventurers, scholars, and the occasional horny mercenary all flock to the Boneyard, hoping to unlock the secrets of these weapons. Most leave empty-handed—if they leave at all.

So, if you’re thinking of picking one up, let me give you some advice from someone who knows better: Fleshfire Arms aren’t just weapons; they’re commitments. They’ll take your enemies apart in the most spectacularly over-the-top ways, but they’ll also take a little piece of you with them every time you pull the trigger. But hey, if you’re into danger, seduction, and the kind of power that leaves you panting and questioning your life choices, a Fleshfire Arm might just be your perfect match.

Just remember, darling, these guns don’t love you back. But oh, the ride is worth it.

Bio

Tales of Triumph, Trouble, and Tit(tillating) Misadventures

Let’s start with the obvious: I’ve been around the block—and not just the kind with cobblestone streets and charming little cafes. No, my block includes the seedy underbellies of port towns, the glittering ballrooms of corrupt nobles, and the occasional dungeon (and no, not the fun kind). My travels have taken me from the sun-soaked deserts of Hextor to the shadowy forests of gods-know-where, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: wherever there’s power, gold, or gossip, there’s someone ready to lose it all to a redhead with a good lie and better legs.

My early days weren’t exactly glamorous. I started as a scrappy little pickpocket, charming my way out of trouble and into the coin purses of drunken sailors. One particularly memorable night, I accidentally stumbled into a spy ring when I tried to rob a “merchant” who turned out to be an operative. Instead of slitting my throat, the man offered me a job, and the rest, as they say, is history. Or at least it would be, if spies got credit for anything. Spoiler: we don’t.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m neck-deep in espionage, playing every role from noble mistress to tavern wench. One time, I spent six months infiltrating a pirate crew, posing as the captain’s sultry concubine. It was all rum-soaked nights and knife fights until I realized I actually liked the guy. Too bad my mission involved framing him for treason and sinking his ship. What can I say? Business is business. Still, I’ll never forget the way he screamed my name as the waves swallowed his dreams. Romantic, right?

And then there was the incident in the Frosthollow mountains. Picture this: I’m dressed as a traveling merchant, trying to smuggle a stolen artifact through customs when a very handsome border guard decides to search me—thoroughly. Long story short, the artifact ended up hidden in a place I’ll never admit, and I had to seduce my way out of what could have been a very cold prison cell. Let’s just say it wasn’t my proudest moment, but hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Speaking of seduction, I’ve lost track of how many lovers I’ve had to charm, dupe, or downright manipulate for the sake of a mission. There was that duchess who thought I was her long-lost sister (don’t ask), the warlord who only liked women who could arm wrestle him (I let him win, obviously), and the alchemist who made me a love potion as a gift—which I promptly used on his rival. And no, I don’t regret it.

Not all my escapades involve seduction, though. Take the time I had to sneak into a monastery to steal a sacred scroll. I dressed as a nun (a very convincing one, if I may say so) and spent three weeks chanting and pretending to care about the divine. My cover was blown when one of the monks caught me teaching the novices how to play strip poker. I escaped with the scroll, of course, but I’m pretty sure I’m still banned from holy ground in at least three provinces.

Then there was the time I accidentally started a war. Look, in my defense, I didn’t know that pretending to be a diplomat’s mistress would result in two kingdoms duking it out over “honor.” I was just there to steal some love letters and plant fake documents. But hey, the war ended quickly, and I got a nice payout from both sides for my trouble. Call it a win-win.

Oh, and how could I forget the infamous “naked rooftop escape” incident? Picture me, clad in nothing but my revolvers (Tit and Tit, naturally), fleeing across the rooftops of a noble estate while an angry baron yelled about his missing jewels. I’d tell you more, but let’s just say some stories are best left to the imagination. Besides, I’m not entirely sure which parts were real and which were just the wine talking.

Despite all the chaos, there’s a method to my madness. Every heist, seduction, and scandal has a purpose, even if that purpose is just to keep things interesting. My work may be messy, morally questionable, and occasionally involve getting slapped, stabbed, or both, but it’s also fun. I mean, who wouldn’t want a life full of adventure, danger, and inappropriate flirting?

At the end of the day, my life is one big, ridiculous story—a tale of intrigue, deception, and just the right amount of raunchy humor. Am I a hero? Absolutely not. A villain? Depends on who you ask. But one thing’s for sure: I’m unforgettable. And really, isn’t that what matters? Well, that and having the best pair of pew pews in the business. Pew pew, darling. Pew pew.

My travels brought me to the abandoned Emerald City, a true hellhole scarred by the remnants of an alleged Eldritch horde. The place reeked of despair and decay, but sneaking past the dim-witted patrols proved effortless. I didn’t even break a sweat—though that’s nothing to boast about, considering their sheer incompetence. Picking through the belongings of the dead felt a bit grim, sure, but it’s not like they had much use for their worldly possessions anymore. It wasn’t stealing, I told myself; it was “tactically acquiring and redistributing abandoned goods.” Mostly, I found scraps—others had clearly shared my entrepreneurial spirit and beaten me to the punch.

Then I saw it: a large white manor, exactly as described. The door barely hung from its hinges, an open invitation for opportunists like me. With confidence, I approached and kicked the door. Unfortunately, the damn thing splintered faster than I expected, and my foot went straight through.

Now, I like to think of myself as graceful, but pulling my foot free was an experience worthy of slapstick. The force sent me toppling forward, landing face-first on the cold stone floor inside. Smooth, right? After dusting myself off—because even when covered in debris, a girl has to look her best—I surveyed the manor. It was in ruins, coated in layers of dust and cobwebs, but something shiny caught my eye: a large, ornate mirror caked in grime.

It matched the description my contractor gave, right down to its obnoxious opulence. He’d insisted it be handled with gloves, but I’d pegged him as a germaphobe and saw no harm in giving it a personal touch. Dropping my trousers, I pressed my bare backside against the mirror, polishing it with a little "cheeky" defiance. That’s when things took a turn.

From the mirror erupted a cloud of smoke, and out stepped a woman claiming to be a Djinn. She declared I’d freed her and offered the standard fairytale pitch: three wishes. But trust isn’t exactly my strong suit, and she reeked of deception. So, as my first “wish,” I told her to get laid and piss off.

Big mistake. She sprouted an appendage I’d rather not describe, and let’s just say we “danced.” I’ve had better; I’ve had worse. But I never turn down a good tussle. Afterward, we shared a cigar—the universal way to bond after magical combat—and I asked her name. She called herself “Secret,” a name as ridiculous as the story she proceeded to unload. Bound to the mirror, cursed to serve, all that tragic nonsense. I don’t have patience for sob stories, but even I have a soft spot for the enslaved. My mother raised me right, after all.

We struck a deal. She’d grant me those cursed wishes, and in return, I’d find a way to break her free. Leaving the manor, I whistled for my raptoid mount—affectionately named "Dick"—and introduced him to Secret. She climbed aboard, and together we rode off into the sunset, two unlikely companions with no idea what the hell we were doing.

The plan, if you could call it that, was to head for the City of Clocks. A place full of scholarly types, the kind who’d probably have a solution hidden in their precious books. Of course, paying for knowledge wasn’t on the table. A revolver aimed at the right face has always worked just as well as gold. And really, what’s the point of being a rogue if you don’t have a little fun along the way?

The life of a spy isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Most folk think it’s all thrilling escapes and seductive intrigue, but nah, let me tell ya—it’s a godforsaken grind of living lies and dodging knives aimed at your back. Even those closest to me, like Secret, don’t really get it. Not that I blame her. Djinn or not, she’s got her own crap to deal with. Still, the cheeky minx insists I’ve got two wishes left, so I figured I’d use one to sort a long-standing issue.

The thing with these caster revolvers is, while they’re flashy as hell, reloading them leaves me wide open. So, for my second wish, I asked Secret to grant me the ability to harness energy like she could, but in a way that suited my undeniable flair. Honestly, I half-expected her to screw me over—wouldn’t have been the first time someone tried to shaft me in a deal.

But nope, my girl came through for her favorite giantess. Turns out, though, getting a new skill and mastering it are two very different beasts. Learning to wield energy is a lot like sex—requires time, sweat, patience, and practice. And by the end of it, you’re sore, loose, and questioning your life choices. Well, assuming your partner’s, uh, adequately equipped. Anyway, there we were, two gals alone in the desert, drunk off the last fifth of vodka, going pew-pew and laughing like idiots.

Some might say getting wasted while learning to channel magic is a terrible idea, but what can I say? Risk gets my blood pumping. Over the next few years, we trained by day, flirted shamelessly by afternoon, and procured forbidden books for her by night. Secret became a friend with benefits, but she couldn’t know the truth about me. One slip of the tongue could jeopardize my mission, not to mention she’d never believe my claims to the throne. Plus, Djinns don’t sleep—something I learned fast. She was always ready to push me to my limits, and honestly, that demanding streak? Kinda hot.

After years of practice, I finally mastered the technique, and to celebrate, I organized a big heist. The target? Some pompous noble’s prized library. We cleaned the place out, and when a few backstabbing bastards tried to pull a fast one, I gave them a taste of my new finger-blasting skills. Literal, not figurative—get your mind out of the gutter.

Still, the whole “no honor among thieves” shtick gets old. Turns out, the noble I robbed—a cockless buffoon—developed an unhealthy obsession with me. He hired mercenaries, sending them after me like I was some prize to be hunted. Naturally, I dealt with his goons, one by one, until I decided I’d had enough. Time to end it.

So, I approached him with my best “you caught me” face and laid on the charm. Seduction came easy—I’ve always been good at getting under someone’s skin, figuratively and literally. One tussle under the sheets, and he was wrapped around my finger. Afterward, while he snored like a pig in heat, I lubed up my fist, kissed him gently, and rammed it up his hairy arse. And then? Bang. His stomach popped like a bloody water balloon.

Was it excessive? Maybe. But let’s just say it was an… intense experience for both of us. Pretty sure he climaxed before he died, which, if anything, makes me a giver. With that mess behind me, I was free to move on—another lie, another disguise, another mission. All for the good of my people, or so I tell myself. Just another smile and another day.

It all started with Florentina, the meathead of the family. Don't get me wrong, I love her to bits, but if there’s a problem that can’t be solved with muscles, she’s about as useful as a chocolate sword. The plan? Break into some ancient vault, nab the Primordial Heart, and use its power to unite the necrotic swamplands. Easy, right? Sure, if you ignore the hordes of undead guardians, the impenetrable security, and the fact that this little heist would likely have me “killed” afterward.

"Listen, meathead," I told her as we crouched behind some overgrown ruins, plotting our approach. "You might be the brawn, but this needs brains too, which is why I’m here." She just grunted and flexed, her muscles rippling like she was auditioning for a statuesque role in a sweaty mythological drama. Typical Florentina.

The first part was simple: sneak past the undead guardians. By “sneak,” I mean I did all the sneaking while Florentina stood there like a beacon of raw intimidation. If one of them even twitched, she’d send it flying with one of her bone-crushing punches. At one point, I swear she threw one at another, bowling them both over like rotten pins.

“Subtle,” I hissed, rolling my eyes.

“Effective,” she shot back with that smug grin of hers.

We finally made it to the vault, and that’s where my skills came in. The lock was a puzzle—ancient runes, traps, and mechanisms designed to stump even the cleverest thieves. But Tit-Tit here? I was born for this. As I worked, Florentina leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with a mix of admiration and boredom.

“You know,” I said as I disarmed the last trap, “for someone who relies so much on their biceps, you’re awfully quiet during the important bits. Gotta keep the brain cells from overheating, huh?”

She just smirked. “I’d flex, but I don’t want you getting distracted.”

Cheeky bastard.

The vault door creaked open, revealing the Primordial Heart—a pulsating, grotesque thing, beating with a rhythm that made my stomach churn. Florentina didn’t even hesitate. She marched up to it, grabbed the thing with both hands, and, before I could even make a snarky comment, sank her teeth into it like it was her post-training protein snack.

“Good?” I asked, grimacing.

“Tastes like power,” she said between bites.

That’s when all hell broke loose. Turns out, munching on ancient artifacts has a way of setting off alarms, and the undead weren’t too happy about it. We fought our way out—well, Florentina fought. I did what I do best: dodging, weaving, and occasionally shooting some poor sod in the skull.

Then Bersia showed up. Unlike Florentina, who’s all muscles, and me, who’s all charm, Bersia was the family’s moral compass—or tried to be. She wasn’t about to let us walk away with the heart, not without a fight.

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded, standing in our path with her sword drawn. “You’ll doom us all.”

“Doom’s overrated,” I said, aiming my revolver. “Besides, we’re family. You should’ve known betrayal was in the cards.”

The fight was quick, brutal, and honestly heartbreaking. Bersia was strong, but she was no match for Florentina’s raw power and my underhanded tactics. As she fell, her eyes locked with mine. I won’t lie; it stung more than a little. But there was no time for sentiment. We had to go.

By the time the dust settled, Florentina had absorbed the heart’s power, and I had to fake my death to cover our tracks. A dramatic explosion, a well-placed corpse (not mine, obviously), and a convincing trail of destruction sealed the deal.

“Nice knowing you, sis,” I said as we rode off into the necrotic swamplands.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Florentina replied with a rare smile.

We’d done it. The heart was ours, the swamplands would be united, and I was officially “dead.” But as I looked at Florentina, her newfound power practically radiating off her, I couldn’t help but grin. Sure, she was a meathead, but she was my meathead. And together, there was no stopping us.

Except maybe the guilt over Bersia. But hey, that’s a problem for another day.

Let me tell you, life as a Jorgenskull wasn’t all sunshine and orgasms. While my sisters were busy flexing their slabs of muscle and perfecting their menacing grunts, I, the unsoiled jewel of the family, spent my days sharpening my wits and finding new ways to get other people blamed for my messes. That talent turned out to be bloody useful when I stumbled upon a plot to assassinate Mother Dearest. I wasn’t snooping, mind you; I was just rifling through some diplomat’s belongings, looking for dirt (or, let’s be honest, booze), when I found the poisoned quills and coded love notes of murder. Naturally, the unsullied pinnacle of saintliness that I am couldn’t let that stand.

I’m no hero—just ask literally anyone—but family is family. So, I donned my most virtuous guise as a brothel worker (shut up) and infiltrated the assassin’s guild. It didn’t take long for me to pinpoint the spineless lordling behind it all. Turns out, his idea of ambition was as limp as his cock. Long story short, I shoved a dagger so far up his arse he could taste steel, and that was that. Mother didn’t ask for details, and I didn’t bother explaining. We’ve got a good system: I handle the dirty work, and she pretends I’m still the sweet, innocent maiden she raised.

My reward? Getting “volunteered” to work for Indemira Debussy and her creepy little murder cult, the Varenkun Assassination Unit. The VAU isn’t a proper organization; it’s a sweaty-palmed collection of death-worshipping nutjobs who think sacrificing people makes their gods horny. I don’t like fanatics—they’re like perverts, always wanting a piece of your ass, but with less charm. Still, being the paragon of adaptability that I am, I played the part.

Indemira herself? Oh, she’s a peach. Smart, ruthless, and charismatic enough to make you forget she’s a complete psychopath. Also, the strumpet is nice to look at and I may have entertained eating a strawberry or two out of a certain hole. My job was simple: infiltrate, kill, and report back. Easy enough if you can ignore all the ritual chanting, blood-dripping altars, and the occasional orgy—I mean “ceremony.” Honestly, it gave me the shivers, but the wholesome maiden of practicality knows how to fake it.

During one mission, I encountered something even more horrifying than Indemira’s fan club: the Defiled. These things didn’t just kill you—they twisted you into something grotesque and wrong, like bad art brought to squelching, screaming life. My first run-in was in a library. I’d barely started looting the place when one of those flesh-melting horrors showed up. I shot it, stabbed it, and shot it again, but the bastard didn’t know how to stay dead.

And that’s when the pure beacon of chastity got scratched. A tiny graze, nothing major—or so I thought. Turns out, the Defiled spread their corruption like a venereal disease at an orgy (Not that I'd know about that). The infection crept through my veins, turning my flawless temple of virtue into a ticking time bomb. No amount of cursing or shooting could stop it, and I was fresh out of ideas. Even booze didn't work.

Enter Comm’Orra. Imagine an overdramatic stage actor with a golden mask and a voice so silky it could get a patrician to drop her panties. This bloke swept in like he was auditioning for a role as “Eldritch Savior #1” and offered me a deal: immunity from the infection in exchange for… something. He didn’t say what, and I didn’t ask. The pragmatic angel of wholesomeness knows when to shut up and take the deal.

With a wave of his hand and some chanting that sounded like a drunk orgy in reverse, the infection burned out of me. I screamed, I swore, I might’ve cried a little, but it worked. Comm’Orra disappeared as theatrically as he arrived, leaving me wondering what the hell I’d just signed up for. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be a pain in my virginal ass.

When I returned to Hextor, things had gone tits-up. Florentina had her regime, the Defiled were pushed back (temporarily), and Bersia… didn’t make it. The righteous little cherub tried to stop us from upsetting the delicate balance of the world or whatever, but she underestimated how far we’d go. Florentina says it was unavoidable. I say it was messy. Either way, she’s dead, and I get to carry that particular weight around. Lucky me.

Now, I’m back to being a spy—lying, stealing, and occasionally pewing someone who gets on my nerves. The VAU still thinks I’m one of them, Indemira still gives me the creeps, and Comm’Orra’s mysterious “price” looms like an unpaid tab at a shady pub. But until that day comes, the shining paragon of virtue and chastity will keep doing what she does best: living one lie at a time, with a smile on her face and a revolver in her hand.

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