>>5448807>>5448807You push off from Hamaraska, determined to support yourself without aid. The androgynous dark elf watches you with some concern. You gulp, swallowing air and saliva and willing yourself not to vomit.
“We are going back to the lowborn quarter,” you assert. “I have business with my Fleshweaver.”
“But Queen Myrymma will—” Sengar begins, then cuts himself off, thinking better of it.
Jhamrius shrugs, and notes: “She will hear of this regardless. All of Wevenore will., if they haven't already.”
Indeed, it is difficult not to notice the many eyes—mostly pale, bleached by generations below-ground in darkness—which watch you as you pass. Hushed voices whisper in elventongue as they marvel at your procession. Some of your entourage fall away from you as you go—the soldier-class of the Drow are primarily lower-ranking noble warriors, but still too highly-born for the shanty-town outskirts where you have made your temporary residence. Only the truly faithful stick by you…
(Well, and Azonia, for whatever reason.)
In the lowliest area of the so-called “Oasis of Crystal and Silk’, you find the crude assemblage of piled, loosely-affixed stonework and dried fungal stalks which passes for a home for your first local converts. There, in the domicile of a young family, your truest allies await: the Novice Fleshweaver, junior Serpent Priestess and prodigy of her craft, daughter of the Chaplain who all but raised you; the Degenerate half-human known as Oluwadamilare, a brave and bold battle-brother and former Reptilian Infiltrator; Ivno, kobold acolyte from the Bloodrise, a scout and surveyor known for prudent caution; Karz the Throat-singer, your beardless dwarven slave and arcane ‘apprentice’.
You manage not to puke until you have made it inside, and dismissed most of the remaining elves form your immediate presence to avoid embarrassment.
“You immature ignoramus,” the Novice chastises you, sighing and shaking her head as she watches you empty your stomach. “You may have the BRAIN of an ape, but you didn’t inherit their liver, OBVIOUSLY.”
“Watch your tongue,” you snap at her, glowering over the mushroom-cap ‘pot’ which your concerned hosts hastily provided you. “We are in mixed company.”
You and the Novice both glance back at Hamaraska, who hovers near the door, despite your instructions.
“The elf doesn’t understand True Speech,” the Novice counters dismissively. “None of the others who do are near enough to hear me, and if they did, I could simply pass it off as an allusion to the human blood used as a component in the Dragonborn ritual. Your secret is safe, oh Paranoid One.”
