>>5354218>>5353892>>5353863>>5353760>>5353746>>5353741>>5353733>>5353723>>5353705You might not be IN love with Glowie… But you miss her. You and she, you share a bond that is undeniable. She believes in you in a way no others do—not Davora the Dwarf, not even the Novice Fleshweaver. She wants what you want: your kingship, your dominion, your happiness and triumph. And, well... If she’s not ‘your queen’, you still care for the worm-girl. You want her to succeed as well, to thrive, to be happy… And for your children to share that same happy fate, whatever their nature.
You reach out a hand, and you place it upon the cocoon’s structure… And, channeling your time with Karz the Throat-singer, you begin to hum. You are not a musical being by nature, but you recall intimately the thrumming, cheerful hum which Glowie so frequently reverberated with. It was the tune she hummed when you rutted with her, holding her close and thrusting unabashedly. It was the tune she hummed when you sat together and watched the famous sunrise of Bloodrise. It was the same tune she hummed when you last saw her—when she wall but pleaded with you to be with her as she prepared for this long period of transformative isolation.
Against all odds, in spite of her strange slumber, she hums back.
You cannot hear the faint sound, but you feel its faint tremble travel up your arm. You close your eyes and really FEEL it. Glowie recognizes your presence, you sense, and responds to it with a pure and unabashed joy. Before you realize it, you are embracing the cocoon, careful not to damage its exterior or shake its inner workings…
And it’s then that you feel your children.
Glowie’s connection is a distant one, comparatively. She communicated by primitive instrumental, but your shared offspring commune on a spiritual level. You sense the burgeoning selfhood of true dragons, fearsome kings waiting to be born and to prove themselves. You sense your own fearsome determination in these half-formed spawn, even as you witness their twisted shape in mind’s eye: warped, elongated, winged but wormlike, with too many limbs and a pattern of scutes and scales better described as an exoskeleton.
Your eldest sons, your first-most heirs, shaped by yoru desires and deficiencies alike. And yet…
You stop your rain of thought there. Acculturation tells you to hate and reject their degeneracy. Something… ELSE… Calls to you to embrace them. You gently pet the cocoon’s exterior In thankfulness for Glowie’s support, but cannot decide where to land. Feeling foolish, you murmur to the silk satchel containing the worm-woman, telling the bug-princess what events have transpire din her absence. Somehow, you feel she hears, even understands… But you sense no specific reply, just Glowie’s gratitude and desire to be with you.
