>>5323171>>5323172You focus, focus, FOCUS your will upon the blade. Your Fearsome Presence, of course, does nothing, but even your burgeoning mage-sense struggle sto recognize anything but the presence of magic—you cannot understand or recognize its nature. It’s foreign to you, alien, obscure. You swing the blade, in the hopes that this can perhaps produce some effect. You mime combat, practice your forms. You shout words of command—in True Speech, in the derived tongue of the Drow below…
>1But by the time the sun rises in the sky and threatens to blind your cave-adjusted eyes, all you have is a headache and renewed muscle soreness. The Novice’s work to mind your injuries completely has been delayed in its effect by your exertions and lack of rest; you’re going to get an earful about this, no doubt.
Defeated, you re-wrap the sword and shove it frustratedly into your belt, slumping back to your chambers to get some by-now much-needed torpor. No sooner have you laid down against the wall, though, than you hear a rapping and clearing of a kobold throat at the entrance. You groan and, unrested, stand and return to your duties.
“What is it?!” you snap at Ivno, exhausted and irritated.
“Apologies, Dragon,” he says, all but flattening himself against the stone. “Apologies!”
You sigh.
“Scouts have returned,” he says.
“Which ones?” you ask.
“Both—scouts to dwarves, scouts to humans. Both!”
You rub your eyes, yawn, and follow the kobold to where your troops await your debriefing.
