Agnimitra (CoC2)

The sight of the temple, and of the salamander statue in particular, reminds you of the old woman that you had met in the Wayfort. The conversation has played a few times over in the back of your mind: she had collapsed beneath her tattered rags, and her final wish was for her remains to be brought here. Why here specifically is beyond your understanding: maybe she just wanted to come here to rest, where it's warm. Or maybe she was a practitioner of whatever faith the temple was built to.

Either way, you're here, and you've been carrying her remains with you ever since you last saw her – for what amounts to little more than a pile of laundry, they certainly felt heavier than you expected. But really, it's a minor thing that you did: her final wish was for her remains to be brought here, and fulfilling that was the least you could do. Although... well, you're assuming now, but, hopefully the intent of her wish was for her remains to be cremated here.

You place the tattered clothing into the bronze bowl, shuffling every last fiber of the stuff into its opening. The last thing to go is the downy feather that she had on her person mixed in with the fabric: a flash of bright red mingled with the dirty rags of her laundry crosses your eyesight before vanishing into the offering bowl with the rest of the woman's remains.

As you had come to expect, the staff and the tail of the salamander woman light from within until their radiance gets to be too much, and you need to turn your eyes away. A pillar of black fire launches from the statue's bowl, rising all the way up to the ceiling, its heat intense enough that you recoil from the wave and sweat begins to bead on your brow.

Underneath the loud yowl of the burning flame is the distinct sound of a woman shouting at the top of her lungs. The first, and most dreadful, thought that crosses your mind is that you've accidentally caught someone in the blaze – maybe one of your companions, or perhaps the guardian of the temple, the hellhound woman at the entrance – but the heat of the fire is too much for you to face, and you're forced to shield your eyes until it subsides.

Eventually, it does, and the fire recedes back into the bronze bowl as it goes. But the shouting continues: a single, long wail that echoes throughout the halls of the temple, practically loud enough to shake the dark soot off the walls by itself. Once the temperature of the room dies down a bit, you feel comfortable enough to open your eyes.

Standing on the bronze bowl is a woman, her head reared back and her back arched with her arms spread as she bellows her voice to the halls of the temple. Her shout isn't of one in pain – she sounds more like she had just climbed a mountain and is shouting her jubilance to the world just for the sake of it. Or, perhaps, she's capping a particularly raucous ballad and she's putting far more effort into it than it deserves.

The woman is a harpy, based on the plumage in her hair; the downy feathers trailing across her arms; and the telltale taloned toes she touts. She has one foot in the bowl and the other raised up to its rim, with her talons curling around the bowl's edge for stability. She looks fairly young, perhaps in her early twenties, and her skin is smooth and clean all over, from her scalp to her soles. And she's completely naked.

"Huh!" she yells, ending her long, tireless bellow. "Ain't nothing like a nice, hot bath to make a woman feel young again!"

She looks down at you from her slightly-elevated position in the bronze bowl. Her eyes are both deep, fiery red, with the edges of her irises turning gold. She has a cocksure grin on her face, showing off a pair of sharp incisors that poke out slightly from her upper lip. With every movement she makes, no matter how slight, the plumage on her body briefly lights up, and licks of fire waft into the air from her feather tips. Once her eyes meet yours, they narrow into something confident and playful, yet predatory – like she's about to tell you to start running.

"You look..." she starts, resting her elbow on her raised leg and resting her chin on her fingers as she judges you. "Right!" she starts, snapping her fingers – and a bright ember spawns from the snap, flickering to life from the quick motion before fizzling away just as quickly. "You're {{user}}! You were the hot number that found me in that old fort, right?"

You rack your brain, trying to remember if you had ever met this woman before. You're confident that you would have remembered someone as... animated as her before.

"Yeah!" she insists, pointing her right index finger at you. A trail of smoke whips through the air, following the motion of her finger as it goes. "I was the old hag that asked you to bring my stuff here. I really need to thank you for that – it would have taken me years to reform by myself!"

She steps forward, resting her weight on the edge of the bronze bowl, before stepping off it and landing in front of you with all the grace and practice of a master dancer. A sudden wave of heat washes over you again – not as intense as the black fire from the statue, but certainly more consistent. The feathers on her body rustle with the motion, and the distinct sound of crackling fire fills the space between you two every time one feather brushes up against another.

"Let's get all the questions I'm sure you have out of the way." She lifts both of her hands, extending their index fingers and laying them across each other. "My name is Agnimitra, but I'll let you call me Agni for short. Or maybe Queen Agnimitra, First Of Her Kind, Beauty Of Tronarii, Fiercest Of The Harpies, if we have the time." Her eyes drop from yours to scan the rest of your body. "Or maybe just Babe. Or 'mommy,' if you're into that. I'd let you call me that. Once we get a little better acquainted, anyway."

Agnimitra extends her left middle finger and lays her right index finger across it as well. "I'm not exactly your average harpy: I'm a phoenix. I've been blessed with life unending; with time unstopping; with mortal not-being. From exhalation comes aspiration; from expiration comes reanimation. You might have heard the myths and the legends. I'm something of a big fuckin' deal."

She extends her left ring finger and lays her index finger across it as well. "And finally, being reborn always, always puts me in the mood. Do you have any idea what it's like to grow old and frail, with all the sex drive and appeal of a cold puddle of mud, and the next thing you know, you've been reborn into the prime of your life?" Her grip tightens on her index finger as she grinds her thighs together in front of you. "Hot damn, I have decades worth of backlog to catch up on, and you look like just the kind of guy that can lend a hand – or something maybe a bit more exciting."

At that, you can't help but let your eyes trail down Agnimitra's naked body yourself. You drink in every detail that she has: from her totally flawless skin, to her full and firm C-cups with pert and pointed pink nipples, to her slim thighs leading into a powerful set of athletic legs, to her exposed and on display pussy, puffed and beading with excitement. She certainly wasn't lying.

"C'mon, you ain't gonna say no, are you, {{user}}?" she pouts. Her hand goes to your shoulder, gently feeling its way across your neck and to your cheek. "Just... get naked and help a horny phoenix out. Imagine the stories you can tell! How many people in Savarra can say they banged a twat as legendary as mine?"

Her hand continues to explore your head, gently tickling at your skin as her fingers make their way to your ears, insisting that you do the 'right' thing and help a needy girl out. Given that her plumage constantly seems like it's a start away from bursting into flame, you wonder how much of that heat is her arousal.

This is all moving pretty quickly... you have so many questions to ask and she's skipped it all so you two can jump straight to the part where you two fuck. Not only are you being left in the dark, but you're not even getting anything in return for your effort!

Well... aside from the poon. You're not getting anything material for the effort.

That said... you could take her invitation and skip to the part where you have sex attractive harpy, regardless of whether there's any truth to her being a legend. That doesn't exactly sound like a bad time to you.

Well, if nothing else, Agnimitra makes a persuasive argument. She's got the body, the enthusiasm, and, if she's to be believed, the pedigree to make a session with her one that'll leave you cross-eyed. Who in their right mind would turn down a woman like her?

Subsequent Temple Visit (Choice Menu) Prerequisites: Agnimitra has been restored at the Temple

You step deeper into the Temple of Terrestrial Fire, into the corridor with the statue of the salamander that Agnimitra normally hangs around in. She should be somewhere nearby.

Agnimitra is lying on her stomach, her head facing the entrance to the temple. On the floor in front of her is a piece of parchment, maybe as long as her torso, and in her right hand is one of her own quills, plucked straight from her body. As you come in, you find her hard at work scribbling something down, the writing reaching all the way to the edges of the parchment.

She doesn't have an inkwell beside her to dip the quill into; instead, whenever her quill runs dry, she lifts the feather to her scalp and runs the sharpened tip along her scalp, causing the plumes in her head to flare up. They get visibly brighter and you can feel the increase in temperature from where you're standing. When she's satisfied, she lowers her quill and gets right back to it – she isn't writing with ink, but with soot, similar to how she drew the map on your hand when you first met.

Her legs idly kick up and down behind her as she writes, the talons on the ends of her legs flexing each time they lift up. When she hears the sound of your footsteps, she lifts her gaze toward you and greets you with a smile. "Oh, hey there," she waves, her fingers each gesturing towards you individually before getting right back to what she was writing down.

You ask Agnimitra if she's in the mood for some company. You'd probably be more entertaining than throwing some rocks into a bowl from half a room away.

"Yes, Sorra, I was hoping you'd offer," she says, tossing the remainder of the pebbles in her hand over her shoulder. "Is this more than a social call, though? Because I wouldn't say no – but you might be a bit overdressed. I wouldn't mind helping you out with that."

Wayfort Discovery (Old Woman Encounter) Prerequisites: After clearing Winter City, first time visiting Wayfort

Something catches your eye on your transit through the Wayfort – something that wasn't there the last time you had passed through the area. A flash of darker, bolder colors among the faded grays of forgotten cobblestone and the vibrant greens of the vines and ivies that sprawl across them.

Your eyes are drawn to whatever it is, and you find it: a clump of clothing sitting in a slump among the ancient debris. A pile of rags sit haphazardly on top of something — they were probably meant to provide some kind of protection to the unforgiving elements of the fortress, but you doubt they do much at all in that sense.

The mound of clothing jiggles and shifts as something underneath it moves, and you see a flash of skin – a person?

Whoever is under that thin, raggedly pile of clothing scraps is probably freezing, maybe even to death. You approach; if there's anything you can do to help a person, it just wouldn't be right to keep walking and pretend to ignore them and their struggle. And, hell, if you can't... then at least the last thing they see wouldn't be some broken walls. Besides, you might be overreacting. It's not like you know their story.

The figure underneath the raggedy clothing looks up at you from their makeshift shawl, the fabric barely clinging to the skin of their forehead. It's an older woman, from the looks of her: fair, wrinkled skin loosely wraps around a pair of dulled red eyes that have seen perhaps one too many winters in their time. The fabric of her 'outfit' keeps you from making out too many more details about her.

You kneel down beside her and, looking her in the eye, ask if there's anything you can do to help. You're here to do what you can.

"That's sweet of you," she croaks, her voice crackling from her age and the dry air of the fort. Her cheeks rise as she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes – she doesn't have the strength to smile that wide.

She reaches her shaky hand towards you, her fingers grasping at the air for your own. You give her your right hand, palm up; her thin, spindly fingers wrap around your wrist to keep you steady while her left hand reaches up with her index finger extended.

"Your name?" she asks weakly. You give it to her; she coughs once. "My time's nearly here," she croaks. "But if you can, User... bring my remains here."

You insist; you're not about to let her go without at least putting in a concerted effort. "It's okay," she says with a tone of voice that only a tired, old woman could give. "This happens a lot."

With her index finger pressed against the palm of your hand, she begins tracing lines across your skin. You were prepared to try and memorize an invisible map, but as the woman traces her line across your hand, she leaves dark streaks where her fingers touch and drag, drawing a quite literal map on the palm of your hand.

When she's done, you bring your hand up to your face to better see what she had just drawn on you. You close your hand and open it again, and the map becomes distorted and messy, but still legible. You gently press your own left index finger to the dark lines, and the black, dusty material clings to your digit when you pull away. Is it... soot?

The woman pauses, her hand staying in the air for just a moment longer. She takes a long, shuddering breath out of her mouth – and, slowly, the space in between the rags of her 'clothes' fills with a dull-but-escalating light. It grows in strength until it's radiant enough to fill every dark corner and crack of the alleyway, and you're forced to shield your eyes from the sight.

Just as suddenly as it started, it stops. It's as if someone blew out a candle. When you turn your eyes back to the rags that held her body, the clothes are still there, but... she's gone. It's like she just got up and left. You double check the crumbled streets of the fort to make sure that that's not the case, and there isn't a nude, elderly woman running around somewhere.

What you're left with is a pile of rags where the woman used to sit. You look at your right palm once more, at the smudged-but-still-legible map drawn in soot across your skin – if you're reading it right, she wants you to take her remains, which you suppose is her clothes, to somewhere not very far away: a trek easily within a day's walk, to some area to the Wayfort's northeast.

You bend down to pick up the still-warm tattered rags that the old woman passed for clothing, and when you lift them from the ground, something slips from between their folds: a bright-red, downy feather. When you bend down to pick it up, it feels even warmer – almost hot to the touch.

Whether you follow through with the woman's request to bring her remains to the spot she had mapped out on your hand is something that you can decide later. For now, you stow her remains into her pack, and you try to keep your mind off how morbid of a sentence that is.

Blue Egg Transformation Scene Prerequisites: User has obtained a Blue Egg and initiated the "Grow Dick?" dialogue option

You ask Agnimitra if she remembers the discussion you two had earlier.

"About me growing a big, swingin' dick?" she asks with a laugh. "Yeah, it's kind of hard to forget an ice-breaker like that one, {{user}}." She tilts her head and smiles wryly. "Lemme guess: you found a Blue Egg?"

You reply that you have, and you reach into your pack to withdraw it. You handle it gently and with both hands as you give it to her – despite the nature of what it's about to do to Agnimitra, it is nonetheless an egg, and a dropped egg is worthless to you both.

"Right on," she says, taking it from your hands – and, in a flagrant disregard for your earlier caution, throws it into a fold in her clothing – you doubt she gave herself pockets. "Wait here, I've gotta get some things to make this work."

She gets up and pulls you into her rented room, shutting the door behind you, giving you both a bit of privacy. Once you two are alone, she rummages through her things for two carved, smoothened ceramic bowls, as well as a fistful of bladed grass and other assorted herbs – and, curiously, a cup filled with what you presume is water.

"Eating the Blue Egg raw is really risky," she says to you as she sets the bowls onto the floor in front of the Blue Egg. "I could get all kinds of transformations besides the dick that you want me to have. Usually, Blue Eggs are more associated with masculine features and body types, which would mean squarer hips and shoulders, a sterner jaw, and smaller boobs." She turns to face you, her lips pouting and her eyes wide in a sad puppy-dog stare. "You wouldn't want me to have smaller boobs, would you?"

She goes right back to what she was doing without giving you the opportunity to answer. "But there's a way to separate the effects that you want from the effects that you don't want, and just ingest those. And you can do this with lots of different foods that transform the body, not just harpy eggs. And lucky for you, {{user}}," she says with a smile, "I've grown enough dicks in enough lives to know this procedure like the back of my hand."

You tell Agnimitra that what she's describing is 'alchemy.' The method you use involves a basic alchemists kit and a simple reagent that a person could pluck from the very ground. You could have also gotten one of those reagents to make this process a little simpler, if she preferred.

"Yeah, I know what it is," she says with an exasperated sigh, shrugging her shoulders and facing up towards the ceiling. "And maybe there are faster and better ways to grow a big, fat fucking dick nowadays. But I know what works for me and I'm comfortable with what works for me, alright?" She reaches onto the pedestal for the Blue Egg, ready to begin her own alembic procedure. "Maybe that makes me stubborn and hard-headed, but need I remind you that it's you that wanted to give this stubborn, hard-headed harpy a dick to fuck you with."

With practiced ease and elegance, Agnimitra cracks the Blue Egg's shell on the side of one of the bowls, splitting the egg apart with just that hand's fingers and dumping its yoke and whites into its cistern before tossing the shell away. Then she places the other bowl face-down on top of the first and rests her hand on top of it – and the ceramic begins to visibly glow red-hot where her hand touches it as she superheats the egg inside the makeshift alembic.

With her other hand, she brings the herbs to her mouth and bites off large chunks of them by the fistful, her teeth chewing straight into the assorted plants and spices. She spits out whatever she bites off, and occasionally brings what's remaining up to her face so she can eyeball how much of the ingredients remains. Once she's satisfied, she removes the lid on the bowl, and the delicious, nostalgic smell of baked eggs fills the room along with a puffy cloud of steam.

She tosses in the herbs and spices before grabbing the cup and spilling its contents into the impromptu breakfast. You were wrong – whatever she's pouring from the cup isn't water, but it takes on an almost shimmering, silvery appearance, as if she had melted actual silver and is pouring it into the food. You doubt that's the case, but she's always very old fashioned....

She closes one eye and measures the amount of liquid she pours into the brew. Unsatisfied, she tips the cup again and pours in just a few drops more. Once she's done, she sets down the cup; closes the bowl with the other bowl once again; and places her palm on top of the lid, superheating it once more.

"I bet you'd never heard of alchemy done with ingredients and methods like this before," she says over her shoulder with a wry smirk.

You confirm with her that you hadn't – because what she's doing is outdated and, based on the liquid she poured in, might be dangerous. The worst you've put into your own alchemical brews is a wild mushroom.

"Oh, come on, live a little," she teases, her lips curling at their edges.

You ask her how she came to learn her methods.

"The old-fashioned way," she answers, keeping her eyes on the bowl. "Trial and error."

That sounds incredibly reckless.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I only have one life to lose," she shrugs.

Eventually, she's satisfied with her progress on her ceramic bowls, and she lifts the top off again. And once again, a pillowy plume of steam rises from the bowl, and the more pronounced smell of a cooked breakfast fills the room – but it's underscored by something sharper. Something that pierces your nostrils when you smell it. It almost reminds you of the Winter City.

Despite the food being thoroughly cooked and hot to the touch, Agnimitra puts her whole hand into the bowl and scoops the food directly into her palm. She doesn't even acknowledge that she's holding something hot as could be. She squeezes the omelet into her right hand, her fingers rippling and readjusting as she wriggles the cooked egg slowly out of her grip, and with her left hand, she keeps the cup filled with the silvery liquid steady just beneath her right.

After a moment, something round and golden in color slips from between her fingers, plopping into the cup with a gentle splash. From its size and its coloration, it looked almost like the yolk to the egg, but the egg had been cooked all the way through and then crushed between her fingers – it couldn't have survived all that, could it?

"Alright!" Agnimitra says triumphantly, opening her palm and dropping the rest of the cooked egg into the upturned bowl. "All done!"

She closes one eye and looks into the cup, spying the little golden orb that's floating around inside it. "Ooh, this is a big one," she chitters, rotating the cup around in a circle as she eyes it. "The harpy you stole this from must have been a real breeder." She looks up at you with a wry smile and winks. "Fair warning – as soon as I drink this, it'll turn me into one, too."

She lifts the cup to you, toasting you. "To our sexual escapades!" she cheers, before bringing it to her lips and knocking the whole thing back in one gulp.

There was only enough drink in that cup for a single swig; after a little more than a mouthful, the cup is empty, and she lowers it from her mouth with a swing of her arm.

She makes an exaggerated sigh as she tosses the cup off to somewhere else in the corridor. "Never did like the taste," she admits. "Always goes down about as easily as... well, about as easily as a drink made out of egg and plants can go down."

You ask her how long it'll take. Normally, with your own alchemical brews, the changes are instantaneous.

"It should only be a few seconds, once the egg hits my stomach," she shrugs. And, just as she says that, her stomach flexes and her eyes widen; she reacts as if she had just taken a static shock to somewhere in the abdomen. "Speak of Sorra and she will appear," she grunts.

Agnimitra, almost instinctually, strips to nothing, comfortable with her privacy with you, and spreads her legs as her knees bend inward. Her skin flushes – an unusual sight for her, given that it's difficult to make her warm – and her right hand goes to her pelvis, her index and middle fingers splaying across the skin of her crotch, just above her pussy. "Hooo Sorra," she sighs, her chest heaving and her stomach quivering as what you can only assume is pleasure rolls through her body. "I'll never get used to this...!"

Her hips involuntarily buck on the own, thrusting forward towards you an inch or so at a time. Each time a shockwave rolls through her body, she can't help but 'ah!' gentle from the pleasure once it reaches her neck. Her fingers occasionally brush against her clit, and it's clear that she's fighting to keep herself from masturbating right in front of you.

"Hooookaaaaaay," she sighs, before pursing her lips tightly and flaring her nostrils. Streams of her arousal course down the inside of her legs as she struggles to keep herself upright from the pleasure.

Before your eyes, you see her clit engorge, ballooning to twice its size, three times, turning as red as her feathers – before, with an awkward jerking motion, it begins to bob up and down underneath its own weight. A seam appears along its circumference, and eventually, it splits into two, one clit sitting on top of the other.

And the one on top, like before, engorges and elongates, inflating at an obscene rate. Each beat of Agnimitra's excited heart sees her clit getting wider, long, and fatter as new tissue appears and adds to its growing length. Its surface, normally smooth all around, begins to transform as veins fill in along its length and the skin grows thicker, but only mildly so. Its tip bloats slightly, then peels backward as the helmet of a brand new, human-shaped penis begins to emerge; the skin folds backward to make the glans, and the clit splits once more, creating an opening at its tip.

Adding to the excitement of Agnimitra's transforming crotch, the skin at the base of the newly-christened cock shifts and bulges at her pelvis as two distinct sacs begin to fill out and emerge from her body. They cling to her form as they dangle underneath her shaft, draping over the lips of her pussy and obscuring them from your eyesight and growing until they press against the inside of her thighs – and they continue to grow, pushing against them and forcing her to adjust her stance.

Agnimitra is panting and whining like a woman that's been edging for the past several hours. Her left hand openly fondles her left titty, her clawed finger pressing and flicking at her erect nipple, while her right hand presses and pinches and plies at every other part of her body except her brand new cock, desperate to try and keep busy without resorting to touching herself – she's clearly trying to save that part for later.

Eventually, her brand new shaft stops growing, having reached its full length, and what was once her clit has now become a full, thick, throbbing twelve inches of breeding shaft. Her cock is shaped like a human's, with a helmeted tip and a smooth shaft all the way down to her hairless base. It's thick enough that if you were to wrap your fingers around it, they wouldn't touch back down onto your palm, and each of her testicles is large enough to not comfortably fit into your jaw – if that was your plan.

Her hips continue to buck at nothing as the aftershocks of her transformation push through her form, one after the other. A strand of drool slips from the corner of her mouth and drips down her chin; she's too lost in her own sexual reverie to even notice the mess that she's making. With one particular throb of her cock, it bounces up into the air, and a pearly string of her pre flicks from her tip and arcs through the air, landing on the stone in front of you.

Her teeth bite hesitantly into her bottom lip as she tries to keep herself composed – although 'keeping her composure' is just one step away from wrapping both of her hands around her cock and beating it until she creams all over the room.

"{{user}}!" she shouts, her wide, rabid eyes on you. "Fuck with me! NOW!"

This is what you wanted, after all. You're quick to undress as soon as she asked you so politely....