>>6081675You stiffly your irritation at the delay in proceedings, not least of which because you can see the Dragon King’s point. A symmetry in disarmament and trust is precisely what you want, even if this isn’t EXACTLY how you’d have gone about it. Initially you hope that the Ranger Commander’s own gesture signifies an intent to comply, for surely as Qinfir goes, so will his supporters. The longer he lingers, though, the more you worry. Finally, feeling yourself begin to sweat, you turn to Nenaias and raise both eyebrows in silent plea.
>Favour: CashedNenaias nods after a moment. In full view of all the others, he reaches into his robes and withdraws a small vial, filled with anointed oils and sacred herbs, and capped with a silver-set gemstone of a raw, milky-golden colour. He removes the thin strand of enchanted elven hair which holds it in place, and sets it down upon the table.
>Result: Instant successA moment later, the other elves begin to do the same. Commander Qinfir’s Rangers wait until he does so first, but he doesn’t linger long,, whether out of pride or trust in Nenaias’ sagely wisdom. The Ranger Commander makes pointed eye contact with the Dragon King as he does so, though, in a wordless dare.
The Dragon King works his jaw, lowering his head and rolling his shoulders. His eyes flit to Hawksong’s Queen, who gives him a reassuring smile and squeezes his hand. He nods in turn, and completes the motion he started, removing his illusory amulet. The effect is fascinating, and disgusting, and less immediate than you had expected it to be. The tastefully-draped fabric of the monster-sovereign’s garb fills out with muscle, while it grows baggier elsewhere, for his form does not simply grow but SHIFTS in ways that are subtly inhuman. His neck extends, even as his face expands outwards into an elongated muzzle. His mouth splits his cheeks, which peel apart as if sliced at the corners and ripped asunder, and wicked, carnivorous teeth fill his maw. His green eyes flash, and their position shifts, as horns sprout up from amidst the red-orange hair upon his head; the hair, to your surprise, does not disappear., nor does the pallor of his skin—now scaly—change overmuch. His beard recedes, though, replaced by a series of spines along a proud, saurian chin. He shifts in his seat, half-standing, as a long tail ending in a devilish fork explodes forth through an artfully-hidden flap just below the back of his bel. He curls it around the chair, sitting ever-so-slightly sideways to accommodate its back. As he licks thin, lizard lips with a forked tail and crosses his arms.
The effect upon the elves is immediate. No one screams or shouts, such dignity beneath them—the only such sounds are a quick squeal of alarm from Costella.
“I take back the ‘handsome’ part,” you hear her whisper to Izirina, who doesn’t so much as smile, her attention fixed furiously upon the King of Bloodrise.
