Earth Bet: House of the Sun (Cultist Simulator/Worm)

Winning Vote:
[X] Plan: Grail Leaning w/ Double Summon - Reaching the White
-[X] You are injured (You currently have two wounds. You'll make a roll at +10 against a DC of 70. You must select one of the below)
--[X] Rest and recover (Cost zero actions, roll one recovery dice.)
–--[X] The medicine is dark black, it's easy to think you've been poisoned (Costs 30 Funds, one recovery dice will automatically succeed)
-[X] On work and the people you preach to.
--[X] There's been a crisis, one that you must handle yourself (Gain three extra actions; a few people may notice.)
-[X] On furthering the cause.
--[X] Request Funds (This does not cost an Action)
---[X] How much? (30)
-[X] On learning the Lores.
--[X] From the Cult's very own library (Gain 1 scrap of the chosen Lore)
---[X] Edge
-[X] Cast a Ritual
--[X] What ritual are you casting? (The calling of Influence, Grail)
--[X] What ritual are you casting? (Dappled Wing) (x2)
--[X] What ritual are you casting? (AotL, Edge)
-[X] On matters outside the cult.
--[X] Spend time with somebody
---[X] Who? (Charlotte)
-[X] A fleeting opportunity (rumor mills spin, opportunities come and go. These actions might never be available again)
--[X] Assist Damsel of Distress (This is an expedition)
-[X] The Mansus, a place of contradictions. It calls to you, reach out.
--[X] Head to the White Door, and its hurdle of Winter

---

"Definitely anemia," Dr. Galen said as he stepped into the small examination room, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He held a clipboard in one hand, flipping through the papers clipped to it. You sat on the examination bed, your cassock neatly folded on the chair beside you, leaving you in a plain white shirt and pants. Your right arm, wrapped in fresh bandages, throbbed faintly from the earlier blood draw, but you had agreed to it, knowing the blood work was necessary.

"Aside from that, you're quite healthy," he continued, a reassuring tone in his voice. "It'll likely take about a month for your iron levels to return to normal." He set the clipboard aside and began rummaging through a cupboard, his voice carrying over the sound of shifting bottles and supplies.

"A month?" you asked, your brow furrowing slightly. You had always been in excellent health, rarely succumbing to illness, so hearing that you had anemia came as a surprise. It felt like something that should take longer to recover from. But then again, you knew Heart had a way of accelerating your healing. Perhaps this would be another example of that.

"Normally, yes. Most cases take two to four months to fully resolve," Dr. Galen explained, emerging from the cupboard with a small bottle. "But your iron levels aren't dangerously low. This is more of a mild case of anemia, nothing too severe. Still, it's good that you came in when you did."

He handed you the bottle of iron supplements, his gaze meeting yours with the seriousness of a man who took his work to heart. "Now, take these twice a day with meals. They'll help speed up your recovery. Just be aware they might make you feel a bit sluggish after you take them. That's normal. It's your body adjusting to the extra iron."

You nodded, accepting the bottle as you reached for your cassock, draping it over your shoulders with practiced ease. The fabric settled comfortably against your skin as Dr. Galen shuffled some papers on his desk. As you fastened the cassock's buttons, his voice broke through the quiet rustling.

"One last thing," he said, his tone shifting, tinged with concern. "Do you have any idea how this happened?"

You paused, fingers lingering on the last button, contemplating what to tell him. You certainly couldn't explain the truth—that you had been attacked in a dream, your blood drained as if from some surreal nightmare. No, that would invite far too many questions, questions you couldn't answer.

"There was a blood drive in Boston a while back," you said smoothly, finishing with the cassock. "I think I may have been a little too generous."

Dr. Galen let out a soft, exasperated sigh, clicking his tongue in mild reproach. "Ah, I see. Well, that explains it. But no more blood drives for you for at least two months—doctor's orders." He met your gaze with a firm, yet understanding look, his expression equally stern and empathetic.

You gave him a small smile in return, appreciating his genuine concern. He was, after all, the only doctor in town, and his commitment to helping the people here was something you could respect. Even if his small clinic lacked the grandeur or cutting-edge equipment of larger hospitals, his heart was in the right place.

"Of course, doctor," you said, rising from the bed and extending a hand. "And I'll make sure to stay on top of the medication."

Dr. Galen clasped your hand in a firm handshake, nodding in approval. "Good. Take care of yourself."

With a final nod, you left his clinic, stepping out into the crisp air. You had your prescription in hand, the iron pills tucked securely in your pocket, even if they were a bit more expensive than anticipated. But it was a small price to pay for your health, especially considering everything else you had to deal with.

You have received medicine and treatment for your injury, which was, in fact, acute anemia. That cost 30 Funds and you will heal one health at the end of the turn, returning to full health.

---

Lady Mylissa's manor was busier than usual, the halls alive with the quiet movement of people. As you went inside, you couldn't help but notice two maids, diligently tidying the already pristine surroundings. The increased activity wasn't entirely unexpected. Given the cult's growth in numbers, it made sense—more members meant more hands to keep the manor in order. Still, there was something strange about seeing new faces in a place that had once felt like a sanctuary of solitude.

Your mind drifted briefly to Lady Mylissa's hiring practices, but that wasn't why you were here today. You had more pressing matters to address. The thought of finances hung heavy over your head. Ava had mentioned it a few months back during a quiet conversation over tea. The cult had begun to receive a modest, steady stream of income from various sources, and she had assured you that, if needed, they could offer some financial assistance. The implication was clear: the money was meant for the cult's growth, rituals, and prosperity. It was never explicitly stated, but you understood the expectation.

And truthfully, that's where the funds were headed. The upcoming month promised to be particularly taxing on your personal income, with the number of rituals you had planned and the sheer quantity of supplies and reagents you would need. The work was crucial, especially with your plans to draw Damsel deeper into the fold. That goal consumed your thoughts, driving you forward despite the financial burden it brought with it.

As you approached the door to Ava's study, the other maid who had shown you the way quietly departed, leaving you alone in the quiet corridor. You knocked gently, the sound barely echoing before a soft voice beckoned you inside.

"Emir, here to request support?" Ava's voice was calm but sharp, her tone carrying a touch of amusement. She sat behind a large desk, her normally composed appearance enhanced by the small pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. You blinked in mild surprise—Ava had never struck you as someone who needed glasses. But you pushed the thought aside, refocusing on the matter at hand.

"Yes," you replied, stepping further into the room. "I'll need some financial support for the rituals this month." You gave her the figure you had calculated, a sum that would ensure everything went off without a hitch. Ava nodded thoughtfully, never missing a beat. She reached into a drawer and produced a checkbook, and the sharp scratch of her pen against paper filled the room as she filled it out.

"You'll find this sufficient," she said, tearing the check free and extending it to you. You took it with a quiet word of thanks, slipping it carefully into your pocket.

For a moment, the room fell silent, and you became acutely aware of Ava's eyes on you, peering over the rim of her glasses with a calculating intensity. Her gaze felt heavy, laden with unspoken expectations. She trusted you with these funds, trusted that you would use them wisely and not squander them on anything frivolous. And while you had no intention of doing anything of the sort, her stare was still unnerving in its quiet intensity, as if she could see through to your very thoughts.

"I'll get started on preparations right away," you said, offering a small, strained smile as you turned to leave, your back feeling strangely stiff under the weight of her gaze. You managed to exit the room and close the door behind you before letting out a slow, steady breath. Your body relaxed, the tension leaving your shoulders as the oppressive weight of her scrutiny finally eased. Ava had been friendlier of late, but you had no desire to test her patience or end up on her bad side. She was fiercely loyal to Lady Mylissa, and that loyalty could turn into a sharp edge if crossed.

As you made your way through the manor towards the library, the distant echo of Christopher's voice rang in your ear, his warning on the other's loyalty to Lady Mylissa.

You have received a sum of money, 30 Funds. You are expected to use it wisely.

---

You had claimed one of the many plush chairs in the vast, echoing halls of the library, surrounded by shelves that reached up towards the ceiling, filled with countless volumes that seemed to contain the knowledge of the ages. In front of you was a bundle of papers, the work of Christopher—meticulously transcribed notes, along with his own attempts at deciphering an ancient text attributed to someone called Arun. At the top of the first page was a warning, written in Christopher's neat, deliberate handwriting: "Arun speaks in riddles. I have done my best to interpret them, but the meaning is open to wide interpretation."

That caveat had been enough to catch your attention. Riddles, after all, were a kind of puzzle, and while they could frustrate, they could also reveal profound truths when unraveled. Your eyes skimmed the opening passage, noting the cryptic phrase that seemed to set the tone for all that was to follow: "Agony is the root of cunning."

You paused, turning the phrase over in your mind. It was a strange statement, but not entirely incomprehensible. You could see how one might draw that conclusion—after all, pain has a way of sharpening the mind, forcing a person to adapt and become clever in order to avoid further suffering. But as you delved deeper into the text, it became apparent that this Arun character was more than a little unorthodox.

The text fluctuated between bursts of violence and fragmented philosophical musings, leaving you unsure whether you were reading the thoughts of a sage or someone who had long since lost touch with reality. To make matters more confusing, Arun alternated between masculine and feminine language, speaking as if they were both man and woman—or perhaps neither, straddling some ambiguous line between the two. It added another layer of complexity to an already convoluted document.

One passage in particular caught your eye, a riddle so abstract it seemed to defy meaning at first glance: "If one were to fall in battle, where would the pieces fall?"

Christopher included his own thoughts on the matter, and his commentary was written in the margins with steady precision. He suggested that Arun was not speaking literally but metaphorically, implying that those who die in battle are scattered—not only in body, but in mind and memory as well. It was confusing but one that began to make sense the more you read. Arun's writing was a labyrinth of riddles, but Christopher's steady hand guided you through it, helping you connect the disparate pieces into something resembling coherence.

The further you read, the more certain patterns begin to emerge. Though Arun's riddles seemed impenetrable at first, there were three recurring themes woven throughout the text: the slow hunt, the careful implements chosen were of cunning; the brutal fights, fast and over in an instant, were of strength; and the struggle to survive, to endure and live another day, was of agony. These three elements—cunning, strength, and agony—seemed to define the framework of Arun's philosophy.

Christopher's notes grew more detailed as he worked through the text, offering interpretations and insights where the riddles became especially obscure. Slowly, you began to understand Arun's meaning, helped by Christopher's guidance. The text spoke not only of violence, but of its deeper nature—of what it meant to be strong, cunning, and how suffering played into the process.

It wasn't as simple as being clever in battle equating to cunning. Arun suggested something more profound: to be smart was to be strong, to be strong was to inflict agony, and only through pain could one truly learn. Violence, in Arun's view, was not a straightforward application of force, but a complex interplay of these three elements. Cunning sharpened strength, strength amplified agony, and agony, in turn, was the crucible through which wisdom was forged.

You sat back in your chair, the weight of these ideas settling over you as the words clicked into place. Arun's riddles weren't just a confusing collection of phrases—they were a reflection on the nature of violence itself, a philosophy that sought to understand the brutal reality of survival. Violence, in Arun's world, was not merely an act, but a conflux of cunning, strength, and suffering, each feeding into the other in a continuous cycle. And now, through the work of Christopher and the strange wisdom of Arun, you were beginning to learn just what that meant.

You have read up on violence, on how it is the conflux of cunning, strength and agony. Gain 1 scrap of Edge Lore

Edge Lore is Level 1

Lady Mylissa's cellar was as unsettling as you remembered, steeped in a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that seemed to cling to every shadow. The thick, musky scent of damp stone mingled with the faintest trace of something older, something arcane. You could feel it all around as if the very walls were soaked with the energy of rituals long past. Your cadre, cloaked in the dark, moved like whispers between the columns and racks of dusty bottles. They were as silent as the spirits you were about to call forth, lurking within the folds of obscurity, awaiting your lead.

This was the perfect place for conjuring. It was ancient and already saturated with the echoes of old powers. The presence of so many people—your cadre—only made the task easier.

You moved among them, exchanging firm handshakes, offering quick nods, quietly ensuring that each of them was ready. This wasn't a ceremony you could afford to rush. While you had enough knowledge to get the ritual started, they would bolster it, reinforcing the magic once it had begun. Preparation was crucial here—any mistake would lead to disaster, especially with the kind of spirits you intended to summon. Slow and methodical was the only way forward.

[First Knock Roll: 15+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+20(Knock)+20(Cadre) = 70]
[Second Knock Roll: 94+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+20(Knock)+20(Cadre) = 148]

The ritual began with the lines of Knock, sprawling in large, deliberate circles, each stroke of the chalk widening the rift between the waking world and the Dream. You were carving a path, a bridge that would allow the spirits to wander from the Dream to this plane. You kept drawing, your hand steady, the chalk scraping across the cold floor with an almost musical rhythm, accompanied by the quiet murmurs of your cadre as they mirrored your movements.

Three interlocking circles formed beneath your feet. Simple enough in appearance, but their geometry held the power to punch a hole into the Dream and keep it stable. You needed to make sure the boundaries were firm, reinforced by your cadre's collective focus. The Dappled Wings were not gentle spirits, and failing to bind them properly would unleash havoc.

[Success]

[First Edge Roll: 47+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+10(Edge)+20(Cadre) = 92]
[Second Edge Roll: 62+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+10(Edge)+20(Cadre) = 107]

The next phase required you to honor the blood—the lifeblood that called to the spirits of the hunt. You positioned yourself outside the circle, eyes closed, as you recited the ancient words. Their meaning was not entirely clear, but the rhythm and intent behind them resonated deep within you. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you drew a thin line across your forearm. The sharp sting was familiar, the blood dripping into the center of the circle with quiet, almost reverent precision. The crimson drops seemed to shimmer against the chalk, absorbed into the ritual.

It would aggravate your anemia, of course, but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle. You could take a pill later, once the ritual was complete. For now, it was a necessary cost—these summons demanded blood, and you would provide.

The air shivered in response, a tremor passing through the cellar as the spirits stirred. You could feel them now, lurking just beyond the veil, hungry and restless. They always were. Pain had been honored, the hunt acknowledged, and the Dappled Wings were ready to answer.

[Success]

The final step approached, and your voice softened into a whisper, laced with the promise of power. You called to the Dappled Wings, enticing them across the bridge you had built from dreams and memories, coaxing them to step into the mortal plane.

[First Moth Roll: 84+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+20(Moth)+20(Cadre)+30(The Lady's Cellar) = 169]
[Second Moth Roll: 13+10 (Piety)+5(Intuitive)+20(Moth)+20(Cadre)+30(The Lady's Cellar) = 98]

"Come now," you whispered into the air, your voice barely audible but pulsing with command. "I call you through rite and deed, through secrets and bloodshed, act and pact."

[Success]

A fluttering noise filled the cellar, soft at first, like the distant beating of wings, then louder, more insistent. The air seemed to grow heavier, as if the very atmosphere thickened in response to their approach. Footsteps echoed—soft but unmistakable—followed by the collective gasps of your cadre as they realized what had arrived.

You looked up, and there, standing within the circle, were two figures. Their forms were nearly identical, both tall and gaunt, their eyes gleaming with the cold intelligence of hunters. A faint rattling sound resonated in your chest as the chains of binding wrapped tighter, confirming the spirits' submission to your will. They regarded you with sharp, unblinking eyes, subtle differences setting them apart, but they were undeniably of the same breed.

"Thank you for joining us," you said politely, inclining your head slightly in acknowledgment. There was no need to be rude, even to spirits bound by your power. A certain respect, even when holding the leash, was always wise. You glanced at your cadre, who were still wide-eyed with awe and fear.

"Do not worry," you murmured softly to them. "They may appear fearsome, but they are under my control." The Dappled Wings likely heard you, but they remained silent, compliant to your will.

From the back of the room, you heard a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness," one of the robed figures muttered, their sentiment echoed by the others. They began to shuffle out, casting nervous glances at the spirits lingering in the circle. But your words had reassured them, and soon the cellar emptied, save for a few who stayed behind to clean up the remnants of the ritual.

One of the Dappled Wings stepped forward, its black eyes glinting as it observed the cellar with what could almost be described as curiosity. "What an interesting place you have summoned us," it hissed, bowing low, the motion smooth and deliberate. "You have bound us with blood and pact. What is it you wish of us?"

The other figure remained further back, silent but attentive, awaiting your command.

"I have plans for you," you said, your tone steady. "For now, you are to head to the church on the edge of town. Hide there, and do not reveal yourselves."

They nodded in unison, acknowledging your order with quiet obedience. Without another word, the two figures turned and made their way toward the exit, disappearing into the shadows beyond the cellar door. You lingered only a moment longer; you had other things to do here today.

There were more preparations to make, more supplies to gather. The next summoning was already on the horizon.

You have summoned two Dappled Wings; they will serve you for three months. 60 Funds have been removed for the cost of ritual materials.

---

You were back in the cellar with lines drawn and ready. The cadre was back, and you had your supplies. One of those was a simple pomegranate held in your hands. You stood in the middle of the circle, eyes closed as the cadre got ready.

[The Calling of Influence - Grail DC: 60/80/110/150]

[Roll: 84+10(Piety)+5(Intuitive)+20(Grail)+20(Cadre)+30(The Lady's Celler) = 164]

You waited until the low chanting started before you brought the fruit to your lips and bit down. The succulent juices mixed in your mouth as they spilled from your lips, hitting the ground.

Your eyes fluttered as the words around you grew, your hearing sharpening to a narrow point as pleasure surged through your body. You felt as if you were being flensed, every imperfection driven from your body as you simply stood there quivering in the waves of pleasure.

The musty air, your breath, and hair tickling the back of the neck. All of them sent pleasant tingles through your body as you breathed in, smelling the pomegranate as you took another bite. The flavor exploded on your tongue, striking your brain with an ice pick.

You ate it, bite by pleasurable bite, until nothing remained but the rinds sitting in your stomach. You then opened your eyes and smiled.

"Thank you, sincerely," you purred, your words slipping from a velvet-smooth tone. Your eyes surveyed your cadre, young and succulent. They had so much to grow, so much more to do before they would blossom. There would be pleasure in that, you thought.

However, you sighed, that timbre rattling your chest in a manner that sent shivers down your spine. Even the mere act of existing brought about new pleasures, ones that you hadn't recognized or even thought about before.

Your smile grew as you walked out of the cellar, your senses ringing like a fine-plucked violin as you went to enjoy yourself.

You have invoked An Incarnadescence (+40 Grail), it will last until the end of the next month. 30 Funds have been removed for the cost of ritual materials.

You have gained 2 scraps of Grail Lore, due to being under the effect of the greatest influence Grail can birth.

---

The past few days had slipped by in a delightful, intoxicating fog, one that left your senses sharpened to a degree you hadn't known possible, your mind balanced precariously on a razor's edge. Everything seemed more vivid, more alive. Every taste, every touch, every sensation had taken on a new intensity. You had savored each bite of your meals, the flavors mingling on your tongue in ways that sent shivers through you. Even the sound of snow crunching beneath your feet had been more satisfying than you'd remembered, the icy bite of the cold against your skin as you lay in that frosty embrace bringing an undeniable thrill. It was all so heightened, so consuming, that you couldn't help but be swept along, helpless to do anything but bask in the pure, primal enjoyment of it all.

But now, with the haze of indulgence lingering at the edges of your mind, you found yourself standing in the kitchen, cooking a meal that you hoped would help soothe the worries of the guest you were expecting—Charlotte. You had taken special care today, selecting the finest ingredients, and the scent of searing meat filled the air as you prepared a succulent steak, rich and dripping with juices. You'd even brought out a bottle of wine from your small collection, a rare indulgence for yourself, but tonight was an occasion that demanded it.

The meal, of course, was only part of your plan. Charlotte, for all her cheerfulness, had been troubled ever since you'd mentioned Lady Mylissa, particularly regarding the issue with Christopher. She'd been squeamish, uneasy, and you knew she would need some coaxing to settle back into her usual warm and easygoing self. The influence you'd summoned was meant to aid in that, to smooth over the discomfort she might feel when you explained why you had involved Lady Mylissa. You would make her understand, one way or another.

The wine and the steak were key to that effort, you decided, flipping the cuts of meat with expert precision. It was far too cold outside to even think about grilling—though, to be fair, you didn't own a grill anyway. Still, that didn't matter. The way the meat sizzled and hissed on the stove was enough to make your mouth water. You could tell just by the scent, by the look, that it was going to be perfect, succulent and tender. A meal fit to ease Charlotte's worries.

Just as you were finishing, pulling the steaks off the stove and letting them rest, a knock sounded at the side door. Charlotte, no doubt. Wiping your hands on a towel, you made your way over, pulling open the door with a broad smile. There she stood, bundled in her usual plain and practical clothes, holding a package in her hands.

"Good afternoon," you greeted her warmly, your smile widening as you took in the sight of her. She looked every bit as charming as always, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cold.

"Afternoon!" she chirped in response, stepping inside and wrapping you in a tight hug. You returned the embrace without hesitation, your chin resting lightly on her shoulder as the two of you lingered there for a moment, comfortable in the shared warmth.

"Come in, make yourself at home," you said, your voice soft and welcoming as you stepped aside to let her fully inside. Charlotte stamped the snow off her boots on the mat before moving further into the house. You followed her into the kitchen, the scent of the meal already permeating the air.

"I thought we could have something to eat," you called over your shoulder with a playful smile. "I even brought out the good wine—none of that communion nonsense, either. The real stuff." You winked at her, lowering your voice in mock secrecy, and Charlotte giggled, the sound light and infectious. She was already beginning to relax, her earlier tension slipping away bit by bit.

"Well, I brought brownies," she announced with a grin, lifting the lid of the package in her hands to reveal the still-warm, freshly baked treats. The rich, chocolatey scent filled the air, and your mouth watered at the thought of digging into them. But dessert would have to wait. There was plenty to enjoy before that.

"That sounds wonderful," you replied, already moving around the kitchen to gather plates, cutlery, and glasses. Charlotte moved to help, but her movements were hesitant, unsure, as if she wasn't quite certain what to do. With a gentle smile, you gestured for her to sit down.

"Don't worry, I've got this. Just relax," you assured her. She hesitated for a moment but eventually took a seat, watching you as you set the table. It wasn't long before the meal was ready, the wine poured, the food laid out before you. You took your seats, the atmosphere warm and inviting, the scent of the meal mixing with the faintest trace of incense you had lit earlier.

With a clink of glasses, you began to eat.

[Soothing Worries DC: 80/100/120/140]

[Roll: 96+13(Diplomacy)+5(Beautiful)+10(Grail)+40(An Incarnadescence) = 164]

The wine flowed freely, and Charlotte, to your amusement, was drinking more than you had anticipated. For someone her size, she was holding her liquor remarkably well—though the same could be said for you. The conversation was light at first, pleasant, as the two of you enjoyed the meal. But as the last of the steak disappeared from the plates and the wine glasses emptied, you could feel the atmosphere begin to shift. Charlotte's posture stiffened slightly, her eyes flickering with an unease she had been holding back. She knew what was coming—the conversation about Christopher, about Lady Mylissa. You could feel her apprehension, the tension in the air thickening.

"It was necessary," you began, your voice calm but firm. You didn't give her a chance to interrupt, to voice her concerns. Instead, you leaned in, your words carrying the weight of conviction. "He was going to leave. This project—our project—it's too important for someone to just back out because they're getting cold feet."

Your tone was measured, but you let the influence bleed into your words, the vibrant red of the Grail humming beneath your voice, wrapping your argument in a layer of irresistible allure. Charlotte flinched, just slightly, but she was listening. You could see it in her eyes, the way she was trying to reconcile her doubts with the pull of your words.

"He was talking about going to the PRT," you continued, and then, with a gentler tone, you reached out to clasp her hand. "I didn't want you to get hurt. You're the most public member of our group, Charlotte. He could have put you in danger."

It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. You weren't twisting the truth, merely framing it in a way that suited your needs. And Charlotte, sweet Charlotte, was starting to believe you. You could see it, the way her expression softened, the way the tension began to leave her shoulders.

"But did you have to turn him over to Lady Mylissa?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes searching yours for some kind of reassurance.

"Yes," you replied without hesitation, your hand gently rubbing circles on the back of hers. "He wasn't thinking clearly. The stress was getting to him, reminding him of his past, past mistakes he made. He was lashing out, and I couldn't let that put us at risk."

Charlotte studied you for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception. But there was none. You weren't lying, and with the influence of the Grail still washing over her, the thought that you could be anything but honest was becoming more and more distant.

The incense filled the room with its soothing, heady aroma, and you could feel Charlotte's resolve crumbling. She was nodding now, her doubts slowly dissolving under the weight of your words. But you could tell that you hadn't yet fully reeled her in. There was still an opportunity, still room to push further, to draw her closer, to let the rising crescendo of your influence peak into something more. Something overwhelming.

[] You talk, you speak, you grow closer
-Charlotte will become a Confidante
-So long as you are under the effect of An Incarnadescence you will have the ability to transform her into a Minion
-She trusts you, any doubts have been erased

[] You bid her good evening
-Charlotte will remember this as a fond evening
-You are still Close Friends, but nothing more
-Doubts are cleared, mostly