With spit on his lips while he tongues between Hyth's fingers, Emet whines softly, letting his eyes close as he starts to feel the pressure he enjoys, detaches from his noble purpose and lets himself be if not nothing, something less than the great Emet-Selch.

There is nothing worse than being Emet Selch right now. A base, hungry concept easy to be put to use is a far more preferable existence at the moment.