(Something strange happens in the morning)
As you wake up you feel something strange under your pillow, curiously you reach inside and pull whatever it could be. Expecting a bug that nestled itself into your tent in the night, you instead find a simple letter. Though, it’s not decorated, you look at it for a moment in confusion. Opening it, the letter reads.
“Hello, fellow intellectual.
If you’re reading this, you have ascended beyond the human facet of the mind. We have chosen you to join us, at the wetbitch in Tel'Adre. We'll be on the second floor, last room on your left. The password won’t be tough to figure out if you’re a man of taste.”
As you read the last word, the letter vanishes into a puff of smoke.

>player goes to the wetbitch option to go to the back-room appears.

You come across an aged and poorly painted door,  it’s rather squalid, shining like some fat bastard's oiled gut, bits of gold paint peeling off like thick, greasy hairs. You start to wonder if you've made a bad decision. You tentatively reach for the handle, as though it might be tainted by some horrid disease, but you're halted by a booming, if somewhat nasally voice.
“What doth the f-forbidden fruit, p-plebeian?” it stutters in attempt to sound imposing.

>Laugh and attempt to leave.
You can barely contain your laughter. Wiping a tear from your eye, you turn to leave, but the voice stops you.

“Wait, sir, please! We’re cut of the same cloth you and I, please at least humor this old man.”
The man begs.
You stop and think about it for a moment.

>>Leave while you still can.


>>How bad could it possibly be?
You turn around and humor the fellow. A secret society could be interesting after all. Being a man of incredible intellect, you effortlessly mouth the password, though it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. (go to speak the password)

>Speak the Password
That's easy. “Incest”
The door opens, bright dazzling light shoots through engulfing you totally, blinded you enter the room, but just as you do a harsh smell hits you all at once a combination of cum, wet fur, and body odor. You try to escape but in your daze you only move closer to the source.
“It appears that new blood has joined the ranks of the awakened. Come hither.” Says an oily voice.
The door slams shut behind you, almost with a life of its own. It's dark inside and for a few moments you can't see. Eventually when you can, your filled with disgust. The room is filled with emaciated robed figures – the picture of your average secret society, save for the odd puddle of cum or strange sexual device. It dawns on you that you're surrounded. You could probably take them out pretty easily, but then you'd have to touch them. It wasn't an attractive prospect.
That's when you notice the robed figure before you pull down his hood, revealing a face almost as oily as his voice, long muzzle drooping down almost as far as your hopes for getting out with your dignity intact.
“Welcome to the Four Corners Society, brother.”
You muster up enough courage to speak.
The man smiles, bats his ear in a sort of grotesque imitation of a cat. You can’t help but shudder.
“Oh, no, you've come to the right place. You knew the password, after all. You're one of us now.” He pauses, waits expectantly.
You take a deep breath, and try not to gag as the smell becomes so intense it starts fill your lungs.
“No, that won't do. You still need to pass the initiation.”
You hear a series of gasps and whispers of excitement and anticipation.
“Mr. Quick, fetch me the Staff of Enlightenment.”
A few moments pass, though they feel like days. Mr. Quick returns with a long, oddly contoured steel rod. It is placed on a pedestal in the centre of the circle, and you can finally see what it actually is. You begin to lose the little bit of hope you didn't even know you had left. The rod itself is about two feet long, with a wide base that narrows and widens again as it reaches the tip, which ends in a mushroom like cap. It is generously rippled with veins and other details. Clearly a great deal of effort went into the construction of the thing. In your mind a candle suddenly flickers to life. A small glimmer of hope. The oily hook-nose man speaks up again.
“The initiation ritual is simple. Simply quaff a punnet of Cream of Dragon, then swallow the staff to its base, at which point you will ascend to divine illumination and truly become one of us. Then we shall congregate and speak of our achievements, and our disdain for the degenerates and unintelligent filth that surrounds us.”
You take a few slow steps to the enormous steel member, placing your hands at the base.
“Ah, the initiate is eager! But, before that you must quaff the cream, quickly now.” Says the man, proffering you the grimy cup with his grimy hands, a manic smile spreading across his face. You nod absentmindedly. To your surprise and relief, the Staff of Enlightenment is not fixed to its pedestal. You pick it up, test its balance. Etched at the very tip you notice is an inscription.”NTR”
“Please, initiate, I understand your desire, but you must respect the ritual!” He pleads.
Then you turn to him, with an unsure look.
>Perform the ritual. Become a god.
Are you retarded? (You attack anyway).

>Attack.
You grasp the shaft of the steel cock firmly, brandishing it with both hands. You feel your desperation boiling over into rage. You lift the metal cock high over your head and the man’s eyes widen with fear. Before he can speak, you swing the cock down with all of your might, lodging it deep into his skull. You find yourself in a trance, your senses dulled by the rank smell, and the metallic taste of his blood. You continue pounding mercilessly into him, and he’s long dead by the time you finish.
The rest of the cabal avoids your gaze, saying nothing.
As you make your way out, one of the braver members stops you.
“Don't forget your card.”
He hands you a small tile, engraved with one word: “Cuck.”
You pocket the card and leave.