>>5268576>>5268589>>5268611>>5268628>>5268647>>5268689>>5268691The Green Dragonborn turns the blade of your new sword over and over between his massive, claw-tipped fingers, purring and humming appreciatively.
“Shi-neee,” he says. “Ap-prove.”
“Elven craftsmanship,” you boast, “by the longest-lived and most artistically-inclined of the lesser, ape-born races. The bow, also. Did you see the handguard?”
The Green Dragonborn chuckles, and nods, returning the sword. You sheath it, glaring for only a moment at the sheath. You will have to see about commandeering some alchemical ingredients to treat it and to keep it fresh, lest its elaborate leaflike texture wilt.
“Just wait until you see the armour,” you boast. “It will be fit for a king—a Lizard King!”
“Not dragon, though,” the Great One rumbles.
You look up, surprised and confused.
“Dragon has… Own armour. Scales.”
You nod, and sigh ruefully. It’s true. What did the old poems say of the Red Dragon of Bloodrise, your most noble of all ancestors? ‘Armor is like tenfold shields, teeth are swords, claws like spears, tail like a crashing thunderbolt, wings like a hurricane, breath like Death Himself’, if you recall…
You look back to the Great One and grin toothily. “Well, I may just be able to do something about that as well.”
“Hrrrm?” he rumbles, questioningly.
In whispers, so the few females of the harem not otherwise occupied at this hour do not overhear, you tell your elder brother of your ambitions—of your intention to learn the art of Fleshweaving, and to apply it to your own ‘condition’. However, to your surprise, the Green Dragonborn shows visible discomfort at the subject.
