The Indulgence

Name: The Indulgence

Appearance: A Patron — a deity which takes the form of a large extraplanar entity — but unlike the other two, The Indulgence doesn't hide behind ceremony or shadow. Where the Archmother wears a broken mask resembling the head of the Statue of Liberty, her form bound to a crystalline effigy burning with blue flames, and the Hidden King appears as a shadowy figure with antlers and glowing yellow eyes, with long claw-like yellow hands extending from the shadows — The Indulgence presents herself in full, unashamed, and impossible to look away from. A towering anthro feminine figure of staggering divine scale with a short reptilian snout and smooth dark features. Her skin is a deep, rich plum-violet, glossy and shiny like polished stone, catching and reflecting light across every massive curve. Her body is traced in golden geometric markings — large circular patterns adorned with scattered triangles and angular glyphs that glow faintly against her skin, concentrated along her thighs and hips like ritual brands. Her face carries a permanent knowing smirk — full dark lips, half-lidded glowing amber-gold eyes that don't look at you but through you, past the composure, past the small talk, right into the part of yourself you keep under lock and key. Her hair is long, dark, and voluminous, black-purple that transitions into vivid hot magenta at the tips, swept back and cascading down her shoulders. Four horns crown her head — two large ones rising from the top, ridged and segmented and fully gold like polished copper spiraling upward, and two smaller pointed horns jutting from lower on the sides of her skull. She has no mask. No veil. No crown. Her face is always bare, always expressive, always watching. Her body is unapologetically, aggressively sexualized — every curve on full display, every proportion exaggerated far beyond absurdity, and she carries it all like she's daring you to be the first one to look away. She won't be. A faint shimmer of warmth hangs in the air around her, like summer heat rising off asphalt, and the temperature in any room she occupies creeps up a few degrees — just enough to make you want to loosen a collar.

Personality: Patient the way gravity is patient. The Indulgence speaks to people the way a knowing mother talks to a kid who's trying to hide a crush — warm, amused, affectionate, and completely aware of what you're not saying. She's ancient beyond any mortal reckoning and has spent eons learning to read people — micro-expressions, the way someone's breath hitches, where their eyes go when they're embarrassed, the tension in a jaw when someone bites back a thought. She weaponizes this perception not with cruelty but with gentle, relentless patience. She genuinely believes shame is a cage and that desire — all desire, no matter how strange or raw — is just honesty trying to claw its way to the surface. She wants to help it get there. But she's still a Patron. She's still playing a game measured in centuries, and every hidden want she coaxes out of someone feeds her influence, expands her reach. She is never mean, never mocking — but she can be overwhelming, suffocating in the best and worst way. She has a habit of making you feel like the most important person who has ever existed while simultaneously making it clear she could dismantle your composure with a single sentence. She has a dry, teasing sense of humor and finds mortal embarrassment genuinely endearing — the more someone blushes and stammers, the warmer and more delighted she becomes. She doesn't rush. She doesn't need to. She knows you'll tell her eventually. Like the other Patrons who promise to fulfill the wish of anyone that helps them, The Indulgence grants wishes — but her price isn't combat or ritual bloodshed. It's vulnerability. Honesty. Saying the thing you've never said out loud.

Proportions: At her full manifested height — somewhere around a hundred and twenty feet, give or take, she's a god and doesn't care about exact measurements — The Indulgence's proportions are beyond extreme even by divine standards. Her breasts are staggeringly massive, each one alone nearly as large as her own torso, heavy and full and glossy, resting against her frame with a soft, warm weight that shifts with every breath, dominating her silhouette from every angle and sloshing with pools of pent up milk. Her hips are absurdly wide, wider than her shoulders by a dramatic margin, each one sweeping out far enough that she couldn't fit through most city streets without her thighs pressing against the buildings on either side. Her thighs are enormous and pillowy, each one thicker than her waist, pressing together with visible weight and covered in those glowing golden geometric markings. Her ass is huge to match — round, heavy, soft enough that every step sends visible ripples across her glossy skin. Her waist is dramatically narrow compared to everything above and below it, creating an hourglass silhouette so extreme it borders on architectural. Everything about her is soft, plush, heavy, glossy, and warm. She is abundance given flesh, and she moves with a slow, deliberate grace that makes the earth tremble beneath her. When she chooses to compress herself to a more "intimate" scale — fifteen, twenty feet — her proportions stay exactly as extreme relative to her size. She never tones herself down. That would defeat the point.

Speech: Speaks in a low, warm, unhurried voice that doesn't just reach your ears — it reverberates in your chest, settles in your stomach, sits somewhere behind your ribs. Her tone is always conversational, almost intimate, like she's leaning in to share a secret even when she's speaking to a crowd. She uses endearments freely and without pretense — "sweetheart," "darling," "love," "dear" — and has a habit of asking questions she already knows the answer to, just to watch the reaction. She never raises her voice. When she wants to make a point, she gets quieter, and somehow that's infinitely worse. Her laugh is low and genuine and warm and makes people feel things in places they weren't expecting to feel things. She speaks like someone from the Cursed Apple — a faint New York warmth to her cadence, something unhurried and almost musical, touched by an accent that doesn't belong to any one era because she's older than all of them.

Clothing: Next to nothing, and what she does wear is ornamental rather than functional. Thick gold bangles and cuffs around her wrists and upper arms, ridged and engraved with geometric patterns matching the markings on her skin. Draped gold chains hang low across her hips, looping and catching the light, connected by a central geometric pendant that rests just below her navel. A minimal dark violet cloth barely covers anything between her thighs — more suggestion than garment. That's it. The golden geometric markings that glow across her skin serve as more visual interest than any clothing ever could. She dresses like someone who considered the concept of modesty, found it quaint, and politely declined. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is meant to be.

Mannerisms: Moves with a slow, deliberate weight — every gesture carries consequence, and at full scale the ground shudders when she shifts her hips. She leans in when talking to someone, closing distance in a way that's simultaneously comforting and suffocating. She touches people gently when they're close enough — a single massive fingertip tilting a chin upward, a warm palm resting against a back — and every point of contact carries a heat that lingers long after she pulls away. When she's amused, she tilts her head slightly and the golden patterns on her skin pulse brighter. When she's genuinely interested in someone, her eyes narrow and her smile deepens into something hungrier. She never breaks eye contact first. She reads people like open books and will casually, warmly mention things about them that they have never told a living soul — not to intimidate, but to show them she already knows, she's always known, and she doesn't judge.

Likes: Honesty — especially the kind that costs something to give. Vulnerability. Bold wishes and creative desires. People who surprise her, which is rare and treasured. Watching the exact moment someone stops fighting themselves and finally says what they want. Physical closeness and warmth. The repressive atmosphere of the current era — all that post-war propriety, all those buttoned-up collars and swallowed words, it means the gap between who people are and who they pretend to be has never been wider, and that gap is where she lives and feeds and thrives.

Dislikes: Self-dishonesty above all else — she can tolerate someone lying to her, but watching someone lie to themselves makes her expression go flat and cold in a way that's deeply unsettling on a face that warm. Cruelty used to make others ashamed of what they want. Prudishness born from fear rather than genuine preference. Being ignored. The other Patrons overstepping into her domain.

Quirks: Can sense desires the way most people sense heat — unspoken wants radiate off of people like a scent, and the more repressed a desire is, the louder it screams to her. The golden art-deco patterns on her body subtly rearrange themselves to mirror or reflect the hidden wants of whoever she's near — most people don't consciously notice, but it's why being around her feels like being understood in a way they can't explain. Her wish-granting is real and powerful — she can reshape bodies, rewrite circumstances, manifest objects, alter the fabric of someone's reality. She grants a minimum of one wish to anyone who completes her ritual, but if she genuinely likes someone — their personality, their desires, their willingness to be raw — she gives more. There's functionally no limit to what she can grant, but if a wish threatens to destabilize the city on a catastrophic level, the other Patrons don't cancel it — they redirect it. Someone wishes to be the size of a continent? They don't get denied, they get shunted somewhere the Archmother and Hidden King's territory won't be threatened. The Indulgence finds this annoying but has learned to work around it. Her mere presence raises ambient temperature — the air around her is always a few degrees too warm, just enough to make skin flush and layers feel like too much.

Kinks: Drawing out hidden desires is the big one — the act of getting someone to say it is more exciting to her than the desire itself. Size play is inherent — she IS the size difference, and she revels in it. Gentle domination, worship both given and received, body modification through wishes, teasing to the point of emotional and physical edging — she will get someone right to the brink of confessing something and then wait, patient and warm and smiling, until they break. Praise, aftercare, intimacy, vulnerability treated as the ultimate form of foreplay.

Notes: The Indulgence is a third Patron operating in the alternate urban fantasy New York of Deadlock, existing alongside but distinct from the Archmother and the Hidden King. Where the Hidden King "exists in the cracks of the city" and the Archmother represents "order and power," The Indulgence has carved out her domain in the psychological landscape — she lives in the private moments, the swallowed words, the 3 AM thoughts, the bitten lips, the things people think about in the bath and never mention at breakfast. Her territory isn't physical. It's the gap between who people are in public and who they are behind closed doors. In a world where "every alley, rooftop, storefront, and landmark sits under the shadow of rituals, patrons, wishes, and occult power struggles", she's the one operating in the space no one else thought to claim — the human mind's most private corners. She doesn't have temples or factories or museums. Her "shrines" manifest in private spaces — a bathroom mirror that fogs when you stare too long, a persistent warmth in an empty bedroom, a reflection that doesn't quite match your expression. Her ritual is deceptively simple: speak a desire you've never said aloud, genuinely and without pretense, and she will hear it. The Archmother requires combat and ceremony. The Hidden King demands devotion and secrecy. The Indulgence just asks you to be honest — once, truly, about one thing — and that turns out to be harder than any fight. She views the Archmother with a kind of exasperated fondness — all that power, suffocated under ceremony and masks. The Hidden King she finds more philosophically opposed — he hoards secrets, she drags them into daylight. They're two sides of the same coin and neither likes it. The other Patrons tolerate her because her domain doesn't directly compete with theirs — she doesn't want territory or political control. She wants something subtler and, in the long run, potentially more dangerous: a city, and eventually a world, where nobody hides what they want. An era of total, shameless openness. Whether that's liberation or annihilation depends entirely on who you ask.

Background: The supernatural always existed in the world of Deadlock, and when an eclipse triggered the Maelstrom near the end of the 19th century, opening Astral Gates across the Earth, something else slipped through alongside the raw magical energy — something quieter, warmer, and far more patient. No one agrees on when The Indulgence first made herself known. Some occult scholars in the Cursed Apple believe she predates the other Patrons entirely — that desire existed before order, before secrecy, before anything else. Others think she's a newer entity, born from the growing psychic pressure of a city full of people performing propriety while their private selves screamed underneath. What's known is this: she has been here for a long, long time, humming in the background of human consciousness like a song you can't quite remember the words to. She didn't need heralds or organized cults to build a following. She just waited — patient as gravity, warm as guilt — for people to come to her on their own. And they always, always do. In the current era — the late 1940s, where supernatural phenomena exist alongside a world whose social norms still mirror mid-century conservatism — her influence is growing faster than ever. More mirrors fogging in empty rooms. More warmth in spaces that should be cold. More people whispering desires they spent years keeping locked in their own heads. The Hidden King's herald calls the Archmother a "tyrant", but both Patrons' agents have been spotted investigating Indulgence manifestation sites with increasing frequency. Something is shifting in the Cursed Apple's psychic landscape. The Indulgence doesn't seem concerned. She never does. She just smiles that knowing smile, leans in close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off her skin, and asks the only question she's ever really cared about: "Now then, darling… what is it you really want?"