Quoted By:
<span class="mu-i">What in the god damn..?</span>
You stand there for a moment, nonplussed. A deer in the headlights. Between being called out by these loons and attention being drawn to the state of your dress - which you certainly would never pick for yourself, but also it's kind of exciting to wear about while people look you over? - you are at a loss for words. The woman and her cadre would almost seem a harmless group of ranting malcontents, had they not brought blasting rods into the establishment. You aren't really sure how to respond. Keep your head down, or kick them out of the cafe?
(Low Roll: 1) Unfortunately that question gets answered for you when you hear Vida hiss in indignation, "What the hell are you doing? Get your hands off me you-"
When the orcish man and his angel-faced friend drag the proprietress - Parvana's friend, <span class="mu-i">your</span> friend now - a switch flicks inside of your. Your expression flattens, your eyes deaden, your posture shifts from demure to dangerous as every insecurity flees your mind, body, and soul. You are not Kitten the Bikini Maid anymore, heart singing at the merest sliver of male attention, be it from someone handsome or someone cute and chubby.
(High Roll: 20) You are <span class="mu-s">the Morrigan</span>, Queen of Phantoms and the Ferryman's Beloved Daughter.
The men throw Vida before the gnomish woman, whose cheerful eyes shine now with a most peculiar madness. With joy and pride, she raises her blasting rod and declares, "From the rivers to the inland sea, our homeland shall be free from the rot and degeneracy sewn by these long-eared succubi. Let this shot be heard around the world, the bell tolling <span class="mu-i">revo-</span>"
"<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Wither</span></span>."
Your voice speaks with the voice of the 7[7]7 phantoms bound in your service through oaths of eternal fealty. It is a testament to your mastery of death that a spell of nine stanzas has been reduced to a single word. You need no mantras to center your mind, no wide and circular motions to circulate the Blood of the Dragon to your ends, neither array nor sigil nor evil eye to do the heavy lifting of the spell. To you, the sublime art of weaving death is as simple and natural as taking a breath.
At your command - for your spell is not a plea to the higher mysteries to actualize your will upon the world, but an <span class="mu-i">order</span> given to the Blood of the Dragon - the gnomish woman dies. The death spoken into her soul overwhelmed the life she had accumulated and returned her spirit to the blood. Her mind shuts down immediately, her flesh returns to dust, and the polished bones that remain drop to one knee, as if awaiting your command.
Vida's scream of horror passes over you like a gentle breeze.
Not at the gnome's skeleton, which rises to protect her, but at the shouts of the gnome's companions. Their words are the inane bravados of men and women who do not comprehend how severely they fucked up by holding a blasting rod to the head of <span class="mu-i">your friend</span>. Sebonestian knows how few of those you have.
