Nobody's Servant 1.0

Conditional Support [vore]

The frigid breath those words ride permeates me as if my pelt counts for nothing. Letting panic guide my hand, I reach out and push, trying to put distance between myself and them. My palm touches the handle of my oar, which its new wielder uses to shove me back instead. Knocking me over while I am crouched so clumsily is a simple task. From my new position on the floor, I can't even make out who or what they are over infrared; it's just noise where they stand.

They produce a ball of light in their hand, so I squeeze my eyes shut and switch modes again to adjust. Rather than the pale blue glow of fluxreading or a flickering conjured flame, it pulses and undulates like the sun. I have no desire to look at it, but the sight of its caster offers no comfort either. At first glance, they are a plush doll, at least as tall as I am. But their movements are too rigid for that; the soft exterior must be sewn on around a frame. Synthetic fur in shades of gray, a lighter piece stretching from collarbones to inner thigh. Black markings ring and coil their fingers, arms, and decorate their face. Such intricacy aside, their shape might have had me mistaking them for another morph if I saw them from a distance. Though, a kangaroo is an uncommon look for Paliputra but that thick tail is confirmation enough. I do not know if they are inspecting me back as closely. Their red eyes are cold, glassy, and reveal nothing, falling perfectly into that uncanny valley.

"I don't mean to intrude," I stammer, my delivery stilted even after a couple rehearsals in my head. "I didn't have anywhere else to go, there's a storm and... and..." I slow, figuring they would have objected at this point.

"No, this will work well," they say. Their voice settles into a deep, genuinely pleasant register despite all else, but the little detail of their unmoving mouth highlights the fact that it is sewn shut. There is a sound like a cassette being rewound, but with a wetness to it I cannot place. They continue, "We can help each other."

"You're stuck here too?" I ask. I cautiously place an arm on that foldout bench, intending to stand up, but the doll quickly points the oar in my face, its paddle a couple of fingers' widths away from my face. "A-alright alright, easy..."

"You belonged to the sea." Pause. "I waited, I saw you." Pause. "I stole you back again." Rewind.

"Why'd you leave me out there if you were around the whole time?" I ask, trying not to let nascent feelings of anger grow into anything that could sabotage my tone.

"I was on my way."

I huff. "Cut it a little close, maybe?"

"Preparations had to be made." They crouch as well, setting the oar down. I resist immediately going for it, especially while they continue to speak. "I need help with something."

"And you think I'm the one to help?"

"I think you will do," they assert. "You want off the island. You would like that, clearly. I think we should collaborate." That sound punctuates every finished thought, every five-word sequence. It almost reminds me of an especially productive cough, poorly soundproofed.

I look them over, as if I could be any more cautious about it. "May I stand?" I ask.

"And take your oar, too," they insist.

I do, rising to my full height. They do not. "What should I call you?"

"I call myself Suraokh. Please also call me Suraokh," they say. It's not a name I've heard before, I can't even place the language. The shape of it doesn't seem like it rolls off the tongue, but I suppose that's no issue for them.

"Alright, Suraokh," I try. It starts in the front of my mouth and travels all the way to the throat, as if inhaling it could make it sound more natural. "Did you select it yourself?"