I question where I would be if I was not with you, Quinn. I would not be dead, but so too I would not be living. I might be something of a better mage, forced to face myself and practice the craft they insist is mine. Oh, Quinn, I might be someone so very different, so foreign to myself. They might insist on calling me 'sir' or 'master' when I am only ever Daimd, a Daimd, an orc, but I could not be just Daimd with them, because they would demand a mage first.

Do you love me, Quinn? Or only my blood, brimming with the arcane? Are you like them, but fooling me? But fucking me? I would still be sowing seeds if not for you, finding my pleasure elsewhere, and there might be others like Valm—though none ever like Valm. Valm might be me, if she so claimed to attempt it—would you love her? Could you?

Or do you only love Daimd—not the Daimd there might have been, but the one that is yours, your orc, your lusty violent creature, your ever-orbiting beast. Quinn, am I as much to you as you are to me? Oh, Quinn, would you still love me if you knew what I would have been? A senseless, bowed-head follower, never veering from the straight-line path laid out for me.

Quinn, would you still love me if you knew what I am?