"You're welcome, and thank you, too. For that and for everything else."

"If I had a face I would blush. Go on and meditate, it's getting dark."

He salutes then proceeds to pull his pants back up and do just that.

The ambient lust, which was already pretty low since he just came all over the floor (is he going to clean that up at some point?) goes down even further as he meditates. Soon, if he closes his eyes he might as well be back in Ingnam, if it wasn't for the weight in his trousers and the perkiness of his ears.

Also the bunny tail he got earlier, can't forget that. As for cleaning, only if he has a rag, otherwise, well, he's not planning on living in this abandoned place forever and who cares about cum stains here and there.

He does care about having some sort of bath or shower or even a river.

But for now he'll sleep, he guesses.

Sleep comes easily, after the various forms of workout he got today.

The sun rises in the morning, as it does, and due to convenient window placement shines directly into his face from about 8am on.

Coming from a preindustrial society, it's not like his sleep is by default misaligned with the sun. He opens his eyes and then shields them from the light, then yawns and calls, "Good morning.—do you sleep?"

"No, I left that behind with my mortal form. Did you sleep well?"

"I did. Should I try to prioritise finding you some form of entertainment for the very long stretches of time during which I am dead to the world?"

"Certainly don't prioritize it. I spent fifteen years in a tree trunk; eight hours is not a terrible burden. I spent this particular stretch contemplating what to do about various threats, given your... compunctions about killing."

"Reach any conclusions?"

"The Sand Witches should be easy enough to deal with: they can be reasoned with, at least if you've beaten a few into submission first. The bee-folk mostly keep to themselves, though it'd be useful to have an alliance with them, and they're best handled without any violence at all. I still can't see any good solution to the minotaur problem that doesn't involve a massacre, they're more hazard than their moral weight is worth."

"Are they? Why so?"

"Minotaurs are rapists with addictive semen. The more they fuck you, the more you need to get fucked by them. I had a brush with minotaur addiction, and it was one of the more unpleasant experiences of my life, not least because the effect also makes its victims less intelligent."

"How cultural versus innate is the rape?"

"Let me consult the Council of Expatriate Minotaurs, which exists and would definitely be willing to talk to me. -oh, dear, their receptionist tells me they're booked for the next week."

"There are many ways you could've come across the information!"

"And yet I did not. It's possible there are in fact expatriate minotaurs peacefully tending gardens or something and not raping anyone at all; I have never encountered any who may exist."

"The thing where I can just will myself to go places doesn't extend to places I don't specifically know, right?"

"Correct. You need to have been there at least once, to establish a connection."

"Alas." Sigh. "Well, where next?"

"I believe that the beginning of this conversation was your desire to stockpile Succubus and Incubus Draughts, so that you would be prepared for another shift to your gender. And I suggested you hunt imps for them, and we engaged in a lengthy digression about whether that would be acceptable, and as near as I can tell, we arrived at a 'yes'."

"Yes, right, but I still need a direction to find them."

"Ah. Imps can be found just about anywhere, but your likeliest hunting ground would probably be the forest - the other residents are usually one or the other of friendly, easily defeated, or easily avoided."

"Then off we go."

Off he goes.