>>5407808>>5407681>>5407665>>5407633>>5407288>>5407273You encourage the Novice to work with the Throat-singer on this matter. The sword reacted to his song, after all. Perhaps the sample will do likewise? If he can awake a shoggoth-sword, can he command a single shoggoth-slime, as he can command lesser reptiles? It is worth some consideration.
On the subject of Karz Throat-singer, you have not had a chance to speak with him alone for some time. In the next twelve to eighteen hours, you have been told that you will arrive at Wevenore, the City of the Drow. Before then, you would have words with him.
“Ivno said you wished to speak with me, Dragonborn,” the sullen, babyfaced dwarf man announces himself, upon his arrival at the stone which you have claimed as throne-for-the-moment.
You look to the young dwarf, and again are struck by the odd roles you two have taken. You, whose invasion killed his father and enslaved his people, and who now serve as mentor and guide in some capacity—a kind of ‘dragon shaman’ on his journey. He, alone and bitter, helping to oppress his race as he becomes more and more like you… And yet, you still see the core of hatred in his eyes, when he sets them upon you. You, half his age in actual years, thrice his height, monstrous by his race’s standards… What does he actually think of you?
“How iss your training coming along?” you ask instead. “We have not had time to practiccce.”
“Fine, I s’pose,” he says.
There is an awkward silence.
“You wrapped the moon-ssword up,” you note, for indeed he did.
“You’ve been being weird about it since we got back,” he says, shrugging. “Figured you were keeping it hidden for a reason, yeah?”
“Yesss,” you reply. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to do that, you know,” he mumbles.
“Do what?”
“Thank me,” he answers. “Pretend to be grateful, or friendly. I told you, I’m not like Davora.”
He certainly doesn’t have nearly the rear end… Nor the softness, the tenderness, the affection. And you don’t just mean for you—this dwarf is hardened to the world. YOU have hardened him. You must take a different tack.
“Tell me how your sspellcraft progresssessss,” you command, not harshly but with an inflection making it clear that this is a report to his master, not idle morale-boosting chit-chat.
“Not a lot of lizards and snakes to sing to down here,” he notes.
“What of ssslimess?”
That gets his attention.
“What, like with the sword?”
