“We are ready to begin.” The voice is warm, radiant, like slipping into a warm bath or coming home after so long away. Where is home? What’s a bath? “Do not trouble yourself with questions; you will buckle under the strain. You need only breathe.”
And so she does, though without lungs it’s a strange feeling, and she wonders if it’s worth the odd sensation when there’s no body to power, no need for the oxygen. Am I even breathing oxygen?
“These questions. Do you not listen? Will you not quiet your mind?” Something about the voice is trustworthy, reassuring, and the Vessel lets herself relax, only to feel energy constricting her like a tight hug. “You did too well, child — almost dissipated.”
“I won’t ask questions,” the Vessel says, with her mind. “But I am curious.”
“Very good.” The impressed tone reminds her of someone, someone inappropriately older, but who knows who? Everything is formless. “We are in an inbetween place. You are halfway through the door. Total relaxation will release your soul, let it turn to gas and float away, apart for ever — peaceful, but a waste of someone of your talents. Total anxiety will compact you to a solid ball of bristling fear, a soul fit for a hare or a skittish dog, but not a champion. You must be between these states; you must be liquid.”
“I can do it, I think.”
“Good. Do not be too certain. Do not be too uncertain. Simply be.”
“I am being.”
And as the Vessel exists, quietly and calmly, the world comes into focus. The kind voice, the warm voice, belongs to a pulsing mass of energy, a cool blue band containing all the love and wisdom of the universe. The Vessel itself, as far as she can tell, is a spark, a tiny compressed mote. They float in a world of blue and fog, like the peak of an impossibly high mountaintop.
“You were something else, before,” the Goddess says — and the Vessel is certain the voice is a Goddess, for who else could be so beautiful? The beautiful voice chuckles, reading the Vessel’s thoughts. “That’s a question, but I’ll allow it. You are right, child. I am the Goddess Sayla. I have been betrayed and forgotten. My priestesses preach a blasphemous gospel and venerate a usurper. The flock is led astray, and send their prayers to this imposter. I am weaker by the day. That is why I have brought you here.”
“Brought from where?”
“It does not matter. Your memories were irrelevant, and so they are gone. They will not aid you. It is best if you look forward: to who you shall be. I can forge you anew, in whichever form you wish.”
“Like character creation?” The last lingering threads of the Vessel’s memory are, strangely, of a plastos table in a dingy basement, of quills and paper, of dice and holographic dragons.
The Goddess chuckles. “In a sense. The first question, child, is of your race. In the Cradle, the most widespread people are the humans. Industrious, adaptable-”
“And boring,” the Vessel says, now comfortable enough that her personality can bubble back up to the surface.
“You prefer a challenge?”
“Goddess, I live for a challenge.”
“Very well. The weakest of the Cradle are the kobolds, scaled dragonkin of the caves and mountains. They are persecuted wherever they go, and their bodies are small and weak.”
“Might be too much. I should live in the middle, yes?”
The Goddess’s form becomes clearer — her shapely breasts, her swooping hips, her cushioned thighs. And her gorgeous face, smiling. “Well done. Yes. You should. A Beastkin, then — they face persecution, but as half-humans, they are not driven from all civilised places as their full-blooded Beast parents are. Many possess great abilities.”
The Vessel has some idea, some vestigial understanding of how she used to do things, before all the world was here, in-between. “Make me stealthy and cunning, and your enemies will fall before me.”
“Such vigour. Very well.”
The Vessel sees her new body. Her vessel. It’s modelled after the Goddess, it seems, with the same divinely beautiful face framed by striking silver hair down to the small of its back. The only notable differences are the fluffy grey cat ears atop its head, the tufts of equally grey fur running up the arms, and the idle tail. The ludicrous proportions are just the same. “Any adjustments?” Sayla asks.
“Grey? I dunno. I like tortoiseshell cats more.”
The ears, fur, and swishing tail turn black, streaked through with orange and burgundy — the waist long hair changes to match.
“Anything else?”
“Well. The tits are way too big — I’ll never find armour that fits.”
“Your faith shall be your armour.”
“I wouldn’t mind reinforcing my faith with leather.”
Sayla sighs, perhaps regretting such a wilful champion — but then, who else could accomplish such a monumental task?
The breasts that remain are still generous, but no longer so pronounced — they’ll turn heads, just not every head.
“Can I have orange eyes?” the Vessel asks, and this harmless request Sayla grants without issue.
“Now, onto your class.”
The sensation of being is replaced with the sensation of living, the thousand unconscious processes that sustain a biological body, as the Vessel is shoved into her new shell. The air here is crisp and fresh, like on a mountaintop, and makes her feel like hitting the ground running — in this lithe, muscled body, she feels she could conquer the world.
“I’d like to know more about my mission, first.” She stretches idly as she asks, getting used to the feel of this thing. She can’t remember her old body, but she knows it was nothing like this. This is power, which only fuels her old arrogance, reawakens a feeling of suppressed superiority.
The porcelain skinned goddess nods like an owner whose dog just learned a new trick. “Very well. You are to restore my worship to this world. Preach and inspire disciples; infiltrate the Church of Thala — my rival — and subvert it as her agents did to my Church of Sayla; forge an empire and spread my gospel by the sword. It matters not how you do it, so long as it is done.” The Vessel likes the sound of that last one. “Every new convert strengthens me, which in turn strengthens you. You are a conduit for my power.”
“And you’re the Goddess of what?”
“Passion.”
The Vessel continues to stretch, making sure to push her hips and chest out. Best to practise now.
The Goddess, sensing this, giggles the way you might when a child thinks they’re the first person to think of something. “You need not couple with everyone you see, merely spread the gospel of Passion in whichever-”
“Don’t worry, Goddess, I’ve got it from here. Classes?”
“Hmph. Yes, you are right. It is strenuous to keep you here, and we should be quick. Nothing quite so discrete, though. You are not constrained by Class; you will build your Skill List with options from the umbrellas of Body, Mind, and Magic. First, Body-”
Though she would never admit it, what happens next disquiets the Goddess Sayla; clearly her power is slipping, and the memory wipe is not as effective as it once was. Waving away her explanation, her Vessel says, “I’m thinking some minor Alteration ability, lots of cunning, but really the top priority — if it please you — is dexterity. I need to be quick and sneaky. And I guess if we’ve got the space you should throw some Evocation in.”
Still, all this is possible, and as the Goddess curates her Vessel’s Skill List she begins to feel like this could be the one. “There is just one more thing before you go,” she says. “You must give yourself a name.”
“I was thinking first I’d get a bit of practice in.” The Vessel stalks across the expanse and puts her hands on the Goddess’s hips. The two look just the same, but for the Vessel’s half-cat features, her smaller bust, and her tri-colour hair. That, and the orange predator eyes. “Send me down there with a bit of extra experience.”
“There is no time, child — though use this boldness down there, and you will go far. I have not the power to keep you here.”
“Do you have the power to find yourself a new Vessel on short notice? Because if I go down there without a reason to worship you, to win you devotion… Well, who’s to say I won’t cut and run?” She leans in to whisper. “Besides, I need to get used to this magic system.” She waves a hand over her crotch, and a moment later the Goddess feels something graze her thigh.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are a naif. You have shown no devotion and earned no rewards. Once you have done as I asked, however- Stop that.” The Vessel does not, however, stop grinding against Sayla’s thigh.
Already rock hard from rubbing against the pillowy soft skin, the Vessel angles her eight inch cock up and slips inside the Goddess. “If you don’t want it, you can just send my soul on, can’t you?”
It’s not so simple, of course. The character creation is not complete until a name is chosen, and, crude and insolent (where is this newfound boldness coming from?) though she is, the Vessel isn’t wrong — Sayla does need her; she’s her last shot at this — if she tried to bring forth a new Vessel, the exertion would destroy her, and the Goddess’ fate would be sealed. So she can’t afford complain at the Vessel’s tender thrusts and caresses. No, instead she moans at her touch — this body is, after all, near-identical to hers, and she’s the most gorgeous being in the entire universe.
“Fuck,” the Vessel grunts. “This was a bad idea. How’s anything down there going to compare?”
“Y-”
The Vessel clamps a clawed hand over Sayla’s mouth and coos. “No, shhh, I don’t need you to talk. Just-” she flips her around, holds her by the arms as she fucks her from behind. “Just hold that perfect fucking body still for me.”
This is all happening so fast, which is maddening — there were days when the Goddess would have never had to take this lying down, and to see how far she has fallen rankles her soul. Still, though, if this is how the Vessel treats her, she should have no trouble climbing her way to the top of the Cradle. If she doesn’t get herself killed, first.
The cock twitches inside her. For the Vessel, this is her losing her virginity; even if she could remember the sex of her past life, she’s never had a real cock before, a part of her body rather than an extension of it. It’s not, really, all that better than the strap — the Vessel’s favourite part are the moans (and Sayla’s are heavenly), and you can get those just fine with the ivory version.
But there’s a novelty to it, and something to having you in the perfectly tight hole of an actual sex Goddess. “Fuck,” she grunts, embarrassingly close already — but then, it’s just a sign of her passion.
All at once it comes, drawn from her by the pleasure dancing across her length. She holds the Goddess in place as she fills her, her high physical attributes — which affect her even here — translate to high virility, and consequently high volume. It runs down Sayla’s thighs when the Vessel finally pulls out.
“Alright. Put me down there. And call me Kara.”