Quoted By:
“I thought you said the great-worms were more reliable allies?” you ask, confused.
“More reliable than DWAREVS or ELVES, maybe… But you have placed much of our immediate and distant future in THOSE sweaty, hairy hands as well! You are letting your cocksleeve run our most sensitive intelligence operation in the HISTORY of this enterprise!”
“The Herbalist is more than—” you begin, a little indignant at this description of the dwarf, and of your relationship to her and your reasons for trusting her.
“And for the record, I meant GLOWIE, not her malignant mother! That damned fool of a bug-girl is… Is OBSESSED with you, but THAT we can trust. By your own admission, this ‘Herbalist’ is more loyal to her race than to you—attempts to use your pitiful penile preoccupation to manipulate you to her own ends!”
“Technically, the same could be said of Glowie,” you point out.
“This is not STRENGTHENING the case for your judgement,” she hisses, holding her head in her hands.
You both look at the four-eyed pathing-bug, who rears up slightly to watch your exchange with interest, and an unknown level of comprehension.
“You sound just like your father,” you point out, and the Novice flinches.
“I do not!” she snaps. “I am speaking from REASON, not blind, tradition-formed habit!”
“And yet,” you say, “you make such similar arguments.”
She hesitates.
“What would you have me do?” you sigh.
“If the Thief is watching the Herbalist, then… We can do little else now but see your fool-plan through, and make the best of it,” she groans. “As for this bug…”
The tiny pathing-bug crawls backwards along the work-bench where you set it, squirming under the focused gaze of you and your childhood rival.
“It should not return until our situation is secure,” she says. “A supply-chain is well-and-good, but we should be entrenched. Even if it were to… Go missing… or to return late… Then Glowie can surely produce one of her own, yes? A more loyal one?”
“Maybe?” you say, shrugging. “I know little of these matters, despite my involvement in some of them. And it could take much longer. The Worm Queen has trusted us. Can we not trust her?”
“Trust is, and I am not being hyperbolic, a literal mental illness you have inherited from your mother,” the Novice says.
You glower at her, offended on behalf of yourself and even a LITTLE on behalf of your progenitor. The Novice meets your gaze, unapologetically.
