Rolled 2, 2, 4, 4 = 12 (4d20)
>>5282546>>5282511>>5282430>>5282368>>5282344>>5282331“Then lend me the use of my—of the Great Green Dragonborn.”
The Chaplain looks at you incredulously. “We went over this, did we not? The risk of exposure is too great.”
“I will keep him out of the mammalian eye, beneath the earth—”
“—as you travel through narrow corridors where he is of little use, where he can scarcely manoeuvre, flanked by elven rabble who could easily spread word of his existence?”
“They are outcast elves,” you say, substituting courage and conviction for a certainty of their nature that you lack—you cannot KNOW, of course, and the Novice had her own theories…
“It cannot be allowed,” the Chaplain says.
“But surely his nobleness of blood, his power and magnificence, it can only create GREAT works, worthy of the Great One?” you cajole, appealing to the Chaplain’s own stated ideology.
“Sometimes, the Grand Design requires that the greatest works be preceded by lesser ones,” the Chaplain admits, as if disappointed. “It is a gradual crawl, evolution in action—the rise of empires from dust must START with dust.”
“Then why—”
“BUT,” the Chaplain continues, “if one has better materials—if one has built up from dust and has developed a more suitable tool, a greater work… Why fall back upon rougher, less suitable tools? The Great One is not suitable for this task, but there are many MORE suitable than the… SHAMED Ones who you have selected, the fringe filth.”
You away, frustrated. Then, looking back, you meet the Holy One’s eyes.
“Is this the philosophy by which you created me?” you demand.
“…Please clarify,” he instructs, voice like the hiss of sand over stone in some Southern desert-tomb.
“I was born of a Degenerate,” you say, causing the Serpent Priest before you subtle startlement. “I learned of this in a divination—a vision. But you assigned me to lead this expedition despite this—even aided me in establishing myself by hiding my ignoble birth. Why? Am I the rough, unsuitable tool which is the only one currently at your disposable, in this dusty, yet-to-reform empire of ours?”
“Hold your tongue!” the Chaplain snaps.
You hold his gaze a moment, then slowly turn it downwards.
There is a long, awkward pause.
