>>5374494“Make me a useful tool, then,” the Throat-singer pleads—no, demands. “I won’t pretend I am your friend, nor will I trust that you are mine, but you are right: our god has forsaken us. You are your gods, your magic… They are all we have. I’ve served you, I’ve turned over my own kind to you… And all I have done is lost my mother, my father… Davora… Served you, and your gods, and suffered anyway!”
He rummages about in his pockets, and throws his diary at your feet. It lays splayed upon the floor like a dead-and-gutted animal. Its pages are mostly filled, but largely with scribbled-out notes, messy diagrams, what almost looks like sheet music.
“Teach me properly,” the Throat-singer asks. “Show me that your promises are not empty… Or kill me now, if thy are.”
His eyes are wide, his body shaking. Almost instantly, you can tell that this young mammal regrets the words he just spoke…. But words spoken (or left unspoken) cannot be taken back. In the wake of… Davora… You know this better than most.
What do you do?
>Agree to apprentice the Throat-singer properly, initiating him into your meditations alongside the Bastard and your tutelage with the Novice as a part of your regular routine >Slay him for his impudence—he grows too bold, too presumptuous, too defiant, and you fear what will come of it>Deny him, and leave him to stew on it—he will sink or swim by his own merit, but you’ll waste no time or effort on tutelage or murder>Strip him of his special status and banish him to slave under the Drow—the fate of all such troublemakers>Write-in 