>>5352646>>5352648>>5352649>>5352651>>5352666>>5352915>>5352992>>5353047Your main priority is obvious, automatic… But there’s something else you must attend to first.
“Throat-ssinger,” you call out to Karz, approaching Olu the Archer who keeps his chain. “I require your sservicesss.”
The Archer hands off the male dwarf’s chain to you and, relieved of this duty, gives you a questioning look. You nod, and he grins gratefully, and springs off to the same tent which you just left, to pay his respects to Jazkarmel. You suspect you’ll not see him around for several hours. You can hardly begrudge him—it can’t hurt your efforts to keep the Drow on-side.
The Throat-singer is stubbornly stiff-necked by sheer dwarven instinct, but he does not actually resist or attempt to escape as you bring him to the edge of the dwarven encampment. The further you get from the others, though, the more his façade of gruff dwarven machismo cracks, until the youthful fear shines through. Perhaps you are simply primed to recognize a young male playing at maturity—sometimes, it is difficult not to feel that this is exactly what you are doing, negotiating diplomatic deals and leading armies at your own young age.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asks.
“I told you,” you repeat, “your sservicesss are required.”
His face pales, expression terrified for a moment,a s if he fears his demise is imminent… But then you drop his chain, pinning it beneath one boot. Your draw your sword, and one form of fear is replaced by another, and by confusion.
“You’re going to kill me?”
“No,” you say. “Wait, what did you think I wass going to do to you before I drew my ssword.”
“You know… Like with Davora.”
You stare at him. He thought you were going to… With a MALE? A MAMMALIAN male?
“Sssssing,” you hiss.
The young dwarf shrinks away from your fury, but then he narrows his eyes and steels himself.
“Last time I sang, you did that… THING with your sword.”
You say nothing, but his eyes linger on the blade, then meet your own in defiance.
“Something about my song is making you stronger, then?” he asks.
You still say nothing. You have no need to answer this beardless tunnel-monkey. He WILL sing. You are his MASTER. His DRAGON KING.
“I won’t do it,” he says, crossing his arms with childish impudence.
“You will,” you sneer. “You will do sso or I will show you how persssuassive I can be.”
“If I make you stronger, better at… Whatever you can do with that’s word… The dwarven blood you shed will be on my hands. I’ll be a pawn of… Of EVIL. I won’t do it! You’ll have to kill me!”
