dormouse are pretty cool I guess

Nemo Bauer, adventurer, master spellsword and now 'savior of lilims' is currently drinking himself to death in the guild bar. The reason why he is here is simple. If he were not here, he would be pinned under a succubus, getting the life sucked out of him. While that may not be so bad, it's much worse when considering the fact that it is not one succubus, but a legion. Nemo is far too content being an adventurer than to become some lonely succubus' sex toy.

Adventuring, much like NEETdom, is the act of sitting on your ass and waiting for the jobs to come to you. While most jobs consist of 'lokin 4 cute boys halp!!~~~~~' and its limitless variations, every once and awhile a genuine quest shows up. The pay is good, but asserting himself as a 'strong male' is a surefire way to get raped by a manticore. Passing himself off as a complete hobo in public seems to deter most attempted rapes, but after having his face plastered all over the news in the wake of saving a lilim's daughter from paladin militants, he's beginning to think that might not cut in anymore.

He moves his drink from the makeshift coaster of today's newspapers. For time innumerable, he skims over the scattered array of headlines and articles.

LOCAL ADVENTURER SAVES LILIM!
PALADINS SCOURGED, YOUNG LILIM RESCUED BY DASHING SPELLSWORD!
-the man, now identified as adventurer Nemo Baeur had this to say "Oh [expletive], she was a Lilim?"-
KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR!
-the handsome spellsword was last seen exiting the scene after relinquishing the child lilim to the authorities-
-"I just want to show him some appreciation y'know" says succubus relative-

Needless to say, rescuing what he now realizes was a child lilim was not part of his plan while clearing feral beasts from the sewers yesterday. Paladins look surprisingly a lot like ferocious lizard aberrations when pasted in raw sewage, and how was he to know that the black-sclera'd child among them was a centrifuge of raw demonic power? It's hard to find a girl these days who doesn't fit the literal definition of 'sex demon'. Though, he knows he would have saved her anyway, even if he knew those sludge monsters were actually order-trained militants who could have easily cleaved him in two. He's always had a soft spot for children. Probably the same reason he buys those Sabbath cookies, even though he chucks them in the bin the moment he's finished casting 'detect aphrodisiacs'.

Though as much as he likes children, he's learnt the hard way that involving himself with lilims, for good or ill, cannot bode well. This point is only accentuated by the fact that his house is now a black sun of demonic energy as a result of all the lilim's relatives who are eager to 'reward' him.

Now he can only hope that none of them are dumb enough to barge into the Adventurer Guild.

Being in the magical zone of both drunk and indignant, naturally, Nemo spills his woes to everyone who will lend an ear. Whether or not he has to force said ear through liberal use of voice-enhancing magic is irrelevant. He's midway through rambling to a (non-activated) gargoyle when a familiar voice echoes across the room, booming with melodramatic knightliness

"What is wrong, brave sir Bauer? You are a hero among your people, what greater honor is there for an adventurer?"

His boss and guildmaster, some form of archaic war golem that he cannot hope to ever bother remembering the name of, partly due to the fact she changes it every week. He's pretty sure she just does it to screw with the novices. She stands austerely among the wasted barflies, her eye-holes glow non-directionally, yet he feels the twin-points hone into him like a predator on prey. He returns it with a look of slovenly apathy.

Her moderate frame is magnified two-fold by a chimeric mish-mash of armor, ranging from primeval feathered leather to European plate armor, all chaotically bound together with patches of Kevlar. Knick-knacks and keepsakes jangle on lengths of rope and chain, simultaneously giving the appearance of a gypsy witch and travelling Chinese vendor. Patches of her body shine through the many seams in her armor, revealing a runic body carved from some form of porous, volcanic rock; her crater eyes still glow luridly with the same ancient lava flow it was begotten from. She needs no weapons, a point constantly proven by the novices who decide to comment on her absurd sense of fashion, who can be readily found lodged in the walls post-introduction to her fists.

Today, she is wearing a flauntatious jousting helmet, proudly displaying a flared, plastic rooster on its top. The plastic roosters bobs up and down as she marches purposefully towards Nemo, the crowd of barflies part like a recreation of Moses and the Red Sea.

"I'm a hero amongst succubi, not my people, and certainly not our people." his voice is slurred, and his body still leans against the de-activated gargoyle sentry.

"Demon or angel, seelie or unseelie, man or god; all is good business, sir Anon." her voice is a battle of accents, haphazardly overlaid with exaggerated knightliness, a testament to both her character and many eons spent travelling the globe as a mercenary.

"Except I'm being paid in rape."

"Enamored succubi rape as much as they reward, you will be reimbursed."

"My pelvis won't."

She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. It jingles as a string of charms is caught by the momentum.

"Does the knight truly value his chastity so much?"

"I jus- yes, just tell me how to get rid off the damned succubi."

He throws away what might be his fourteenth can of beer, the void in his hand is soon replaced by another, courtesy of the fearless mantis bartender.

"The solution is simple."

Nemo tries to lean closer, but ends up losing balance on his gargoyle-stool and falls ignobly to the floor. His guildmaster looms over him, the red glow of her eyes twinkles lividly behind her helmet visor.

With a laugh reminiscent of a conquering warlord, she speaks.

"You must get laid, sir Bauer."

That's the last complete sentence he remembers before drinking himself into unconsciousness.

------

Nemo awakes in a soft, surprisingly un-gutter like location; a bed to be exact. His eyes are welded shut on virtue of his head being buried in what feels to him like a miniature sun of warmth. While incapable of sight, his arms are more than active, with movements akin to the waving antennae of an insect he scouts his surrounds.

Through fogged mind, he does a mental checklist of his findings:
-comfy bed? unexpected
-the rattle of empty beercans? inevitable
-something warm? ERROR

Nemo has lived long enough in a monster dominated society to know that waking up hungover next to a warm object is less than desirable for one who values their own free will. He's not ready to be a househusband.

With muscles fueled by the vagrant force of adrenaline and panic he wrenches the warm bundle from his skull, and immediately opens his eyes to witness whatever manner of feminine horror he's got himself stuck with.

A dormouse.

Nemo's vocabulary, honed through years of reading all manner of eldritch tome, can only procure a single word to describe his situation.

FUCK.

Like a wound gained in the midst of battle, Nemo only notices the aura of pure torpor surrounding the wonderland mouse when he sees it with his own eyes.

His adrenaline fades as soon as it came, he struggles to remain lucid, but the combination of being hungover and being in the general of a dormouse forces him back to slumber.

-----

"GET UP, ASSWIPE."

With a flurry of limbs Nemo awakens, and instinctively he grabs for his sword. There is no sword, so he settles for the next best thing.

Thoughtlessly, he ends up punching his substitute alarmclock in the face with a magically empowered fist.

Nemo's senses return with a flush of blood, followed with vertigo, and then nausea. His eyes soon note the fact that a dormouse is splayed over the floor with a plate of what may have once been pancakes.

When his brain catches up to this development, it once again articulates the same eloquent phrase as before.

FUCK.

He gets up from the bed, sending a buckshot of empty cans flying in the process. Ignoring the bile rising up his throat, he cats a quick rejuvenation spell.

Now, with tohughts less akin to a handicapped wurm, he notices the fact that he is in fact fully clothd. Meaning that he didn't bond himself to that dormouse while enjoying the finer points of getting drunk off his ass.

He feels a pang of guilt for knocking her out cold. Though that guilt is overshadowed by the realization of the fact that he is currently in the guildmasters room. He knows this because the walls are plastered with arms, armor, and literal arms. Golem arms, and legs, and heads.

Something at the back of his mind tells him to ignore the fact that he passed out drunk in his boss' bed with an unknown, now-concussed mouse.

With shock-hazed mind he one-handedly hauls the motionless dormouse onto the bed, clearing the remaining cans before tucking her in.

It is then he notices an odd weight in his pocket. Despite the alcohol-induced amnesia, he knows that it's something terrible, more terrible than the fact he is currently the interest of at least twenty succubi and a lilim.

He pulls it out of his pocket the way like one would pull a bandage. It reveals itself to be a scroll, bound with a wax seal most familiar to Nemo. Only one person uses that seal, and he can already feel his hangover returning at the thought of what she has to say.

With a twinge of real fear, he reads the scroll.

~~~~~
Dear sir Anon, master spellsword. You are officially assigned miss Amelia Vangard as your squire, she is a novice monk and quite a big admirer of yours. Best of luck with the succubus!

sincerely, MARK IX AKKADIAN DESTROYER, RUINER OF URUK, WITNESS OF ISHTAR, Guildmaster

Ps: failure to accept this assignment results in the forfeit of your tavern priviledges
~~~~~

With a sigh, Nemo summons a flame. The scroll burns to a crisp in his hands.

He has a feeling this is going to be a long year.


ORIGINAL GREENTEXT IF YOU'RE INTO THAT SHIT:
>>13897644
>be spellsword, damn good at it too
>work under the local adventurer's guild
>most jobs posted consist of 'lokin 4 cute boy halp!!~~~~~' and its limitless variations
>but every once and awhile something serious pops up
>pay is good, but asserting yourself as a 'strong male' is a surefire way to get raped by a manticore
>while passing yourself off as a complete hobo in public seems to deter most attempted rapes, after having your face plastered all over the news in the wake of saving a lilim's daughter from angry paladin militants, you think that might not cut in anymore
      >you've all but locked yourself up in the guild tavern, now that your house is all but crawling 	with succubi eager to 'reward' you
	>singificantly inebriated, you spill your woes to any and all patrons in the vicinity
>your boss, some form of archaic war golem, has seen this happen countless times in the past, and offers a solution in her melodramatic 'knightly' voice
	>"You must get laid, sir Anon"
	>That's the last thing you remember before drinking yourself to unconsciousness
>You awake in a bed, surrounded empty beercans, with something warm clinging to your chest.
>Your hungover mind tries to process what little information it has
>comfy bed? unexpected
>empty beercans? inevetible
	>something warm? ERROR
  	>lazily, you turn your head to the side, and your gaze is met by the sleeping face of a 	dormouse
	>fuck
	>you struggle to remain lucid, but the combination of being hungover and being in the general 	vicinity of a dormouse forces you back to slumber
	>"GET UP, ASSWIPE!"
	>you awaken with a flurry of limbs, and instinctively you grab for your sword, but instead you 	end up punching your substitute alarmclock in the facer with a magically empowered fist
	>your senses soon return, and you notice the fact that there's a dormouse splayed over the 	floor with a plate of what may have once been pancakes
	>fuck
	>you get up and cast a quick rejuvination spell to ease the hangover
	>now that your thoughts are less akin to that of a handicapped wurm, you notice the fact that you're in fact, fully clothed
	>meaning that you didn't do anything utturly stupid with that dormouse while you were drunk
	>now you feel even worse knocking her out cold
	>you pick up her lightly breathing form and tuck her into the bed, brushing away the empty cans 	as you do so
	>then you notice an odd wight in your pocket
	>you pull something out, which reveals itself to be a scroll, branded with a wax seal
	>only once person uses that seal, and you can already feel the hangover returning at the 	thought of what she has to say
	>with a twinge of almost physical pain you read out the scroll
	>Dear sir Anon, master spellsword. You are officially assigned miss Amelia Vangard as your squire, she is a novice monk and quite a big admirer of yours. Best of luck with the succubus!
	>sincerely, MARK IX AKKADIAN DESTROYER, RUINER OF URUK, WITNESS OF ISHTAR, Guildmaster
>Ps: failure to accept this assignment results in the forfeit of your tavern priviledges
>with a sigh you summon a flame, the scroll burns to a crisp in your hands
>it's going to be a long year