Quoted By:
The words taste like ash in your mouth. An admission to your weakness.
As if to speak on your level, the noble drops into a crouch, resting his arms on his pudgy thighs.
"Interesting! Very interesting. I can see the girl is injured–I presume you want us to heal her somehow? Well, you're in luck."
From the folds of his robes, he withdraws a finger-sized crystal vial with a ruby-red liquid swirling within. Flecks of gold sparkle in the light.
"A single drop from this little beauty would be enough to fix her up and then some. Very, very expensive, but to the House of Furor, there's no price too high for one of their sons."
It takes everything you have to not snatch it out of his grip.
"So–we can help you. But how can you help us?"
>CUN DC: 10/15/20 | Roll: AUTOFAIL
Your words fail you. Really, you never even thought you'd get this far. What <span class="mu-i">can</span> you offer this group? A freshly-raised undead, unable to even protect his master–and on top of that, someone in direct competition with them for the 50 slots.
There's still time for you to fix this. For a moment, you consider simply slaughtering him now and taking the medicine as your rightful spoils. His grip on the kris is loose and easygoing; separating his head from shoulders would take mere seconds. From there, it would be simple to use his corpse as a temporary shield against whatever spells the slaves fling your way in retaliation.
But that would risk damaging the medicine. How can you protect…?
>END DC: 30/45 | Roll: 5d6 + 14 = 35
Ah. That's right.
The only thing you're good for is–
"I offer you my flesh."
