Rolled 7, 8, 6, 11, 3 = 35 (5d20)
>>5362952>>5362904>>5362851>>5362824>>5362813>>5362639You take a seat next to the Herbalist on the bed, and she flinches a little. She neither leans away nor closer to you. You sigh, beginning to suspect that there will be no release from the grips of the <appetite> tonight.
“You can leave, if you would prefer,” you tell her.
“With one of my, um… Handlers?”
You shrug at Davora’s question, and nod. Obviously, she’s not going to be allowed to wander the halls of your Master Race, among against of the Great Conspiracy, without being observed and attended.
“It seems a cruel thing to offer a slave a small taste of freedom, but naught else,” she notes, not angry but with a sad wistfulness.
You say nothing to this—what CAN you say to that? It’s your offer: take it or leave it.
“Could you… Remove my collar and cuffs, instead, sir?”
You oblige the Herbalist, and she sighs happily and in a deep relief to feel the body-warmed metal fall away from her throat and wrists. Her skin in both locations is raw, thinned by the constant chafing. She gasps and winces as you idly trace the marks they have left.
After several minutes of your silently stroking and touching her—a medical check-up which slowly transitions to the stroking of her hair, and which was beginning to move lower as she cozied closer to you, the Herbalist seems to realize with a start just how cozy you have gotten.
She flushes, and asks: “So, um… Dragon magic, sir?”
You pause, and hod back another sigh. She is referring to the Throat-singer.
“Yess,” you say, “ssort of. It iss lesss a sschool of magic and more a way of… Thinking, being. Being more like a dragon. Having a dragon’sss ssoul.”
“If you don’t my saying, sir… That seems easier to achieve when you’re already…. Um, a dragon.”
