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Of course the Novice Fleshweaver would not understand you brotherly quest, spoiled intellectual that she is. At least she lives up to her end of the bargain, arriving later in the Great One’s chamber on an ‘rescheduled physical examination’, and thus dismissing guards and Silkscale harem-wenches alike.
“More privacy,” she says, “to plan my entourage, and to plan how next to best you!”
Your elder brother grumbles mightily, eliciting a moment’s hesitation from the Novice, and a quick step back, but you call him off. Leave her to move her pieces about an arduous game of strategy against nobody in particular. You will be troubled no longer by thoughts of her—you will be chasing GLORY!
It is no easy thing to sneak the Green Dragonborn out of his chamber, even with the Novice’s assistance. He must hunch, even crawl, to make it through many of the tunnels, and you must remain several yards ahead to scout for witnesses and to run interference. It is slow going, but once you are out of the occupied areas of the ancient ruins, the process expedites considerably. You register his discomfort in the undersized spaces and, eager to give the Great One a taste of well-deserved freedom, you choose passages which you know from past experience will lead to a more open expanse as swiftly as possible.
When you arrive in the first of the great subterranean caverns, the other Dragonborn practically hurls you from the tunnel in his rush to reach the open space and to stretch his wings. With a roar of triumph and relief, he stands tall, ducking his head only slightly to avoid smacking it on an especially tremendous stalactite. His delight at the unfamiliar and open area becomes your own delight. You are happy to see him happy.
You both take in the space: a trickling stream which must once have been a rushing river to have carved out the smooth-floored space; mosses and lichens, and a few fungi with fruiting bodies nearly the size of a Silkscale male; luminous strands of glowworm goo hanging rom the high ceiling among the rocky outcroppings; a few flitting cave-bats, eyeless and keening at the edge of your hearing, chased by amphibious newts. It’s… Actually sort of cozy, an underground space like a private and hidden grove-in-grotto.
“Pretty,” the Great One acknowledges, swatting at a cave bat in an attempt to snatch it up and crush it; a narrow miss.
“Yes,” you agree, frowning. It’s pretty… But not exactly EPIC or HEROIC.
