Rolled 19, 1, 13, 3, 12 = 48 (5d20)
>>5465787While the tailors are working on your requested garments, preparing for your ‘coming out party’ (an elven aphorism for one’s first formal public appearance, apparently), you stage a rather significant ‘coming out’ of your own. You have decided to reveal, publicly and openly, the transformation of your followers! After all, keeping them shrouded in secrecy threatens to make your actions appear illicit, subversive. Which… Well, you ARE subverting the Drow, but it is for their own good, and your followers recognize this!
There is nothing to hide or obfuscate here, after all: the Mother Goddess has given these elves a GIFT, decorated them with shimmering glory.
You use your expanding network among the dark elves to spread to word of a grand announcement. Then, with the proud parents—proud, but somewhat nervous, you notice—you lead a procession through the streets, from the slums to the higher-places closer to the central oasis at the core of Wevenore. There, along the shore, you command those in your cult with the aptitude of illuminating magics to ignite and amplify the glow of local crystal lanterns.
“As you know,” you announce to the gathering, curious crowd of locals, “I come to your city to bring strength, glory, and the blessings of the Dark Gods. They have liberated your ancestors and protected your sacred places from the malevolent attentions of ghouls and demons. Their fond attentions are not limited to your death, though: they also care for you, as they would care for their own children, in life!”
It is at this point that the blessed ones, heretofore enshrouded in concealing robes of roughly-woven silk, cast down their concealing cloaks to reveal themselves to the shocked and startled crowd. Illuminated proudly in the glow of a dozen mage-augmented crystals, they shine—just as you shine—with glorious copper armour, and all their other divine augmentations.
Horns point proudly to the sky. Spiked chins turn upwards with pride, or at least the best facsimile the poor elf-waifs can manage when they are so used to hiding away from the eyes of their betters; they are more comfortable evading such attention than commanding it. Their nails are blackened, sharpened, elongated; their eyes are shining green. They all look taller, more muscular, than any other elves you have seen of the same age. Their hair and teeth—albeit SHARP teeth, now—look healthier.
“Behold!” you bellow, with all your prophet’s zeal brought here from the Bloodrise. “Your lowliest offspring, raised up and made marvelous, by the bounty of the Mother of Dragons—made into true DROW-DRAGONS!”
You came up with the name yourself. The alliteration is nice, you think. You realize it sounds somewhat better in True Speech, though. You find yourself sharing somewhat in the anxiety of the young elves, as you await the reaction.
DC 15/17/19; Diplomacy, with a bonus for religion. 