>>5374493It is shortly after your final such lesson with the Novice Fleshweaver when the Throat-singer crosses your path. The young, beardless dwarf has been avoiding you since the ceremony—not actively, but clearly steering clear of your path. Bumping into him today seems to be a miscalculation on his part. He takes a step back, as if to correct his course, then takes a depth breath and holds steady.
“Dragonborn… Sir.”
“Throat-sssinger,” you acknowledge, a little uncertainly.
The look on his face implies he wants something, and yet he neither leave snor speaks up.
“How are you enjoying being among the chosen—the Blooded Dwarves? Or, rather… How do your people sssay it?”
“Not ‘blooded’, but ‘bloodied’, as in ‘to have blood on one’s hands,” he corrects. “And the word, in Dwarven, is ‘Duergar’.”
“Ah.”
And awkward silence passes. You realize that the Duergar Throat-singer has not answered your question. You feel this, in some way, implies the answer.
“You promised me that you would teach me magic,” he says.
“What?” you ask, a little throat by the sudden change of conversational topic, without segue.
“You promised,” he says. “The Dark Gods, and their Dark Prophet… They haven’t forgotten the honoured among dwarves, have they?”
“No,” you begin, “but…”
“But nothing!”
You narrow your eyes a little, and the Throat-singer bows his head slightly, clenching his fists.
“Davora was a fool,” he says, voice full of bitterness. “But so was Befridna.”
“Who is—”
“The one you butchered like livestock.”
“Ah.”
“There is no changing you,” the Throat-singer says, “and no bargaining with you. You have no love in your heart. You are a creature of darkness. You do not care for us. We are tools to you.”
You think you’ve heard this song before, from Befridna, the Traitor. And yet… This is somehow different.
