>>5417092You thank the guards for their understanding and loyalty to your cause. This seems to fill both the elf-men with ambivalence, as if you have forced them to recognize the new duality of their loyalty…. But the evidence of divine guidance and attention stares them in the face, with two pairs of wide and youthful, lizard-green eyes.
You are not naïve, though. You recognize that this unnatural event could be viewed… Poorly… By those not already swayed to the True Faith. They might see it as some vile, foreign infiltration—something not exactly far-off from your race’s usual modus operandi. To be frank, even YOU aren’t entirely sure what has happened, and that makes you… Uneasy. Your vision of the Mother of Dragons is already fading, suppressed by your subconscious so as to not break your nerve and leave you a shuddering mess. You are aware that this is her doing… And that, in addition to this, she gave you another gift… Something great and terrible.
You instruct all present to keep the secret. Form the guards, and from your packs, you gather cloth; with her medical supplies, the Novice Felshweaver and Ivno work together to sew cloaks for the elf-children, to bundle them and hide their scales.
“What shall we tell the others who see them?” their mother asks, worried. “This is not typical Drow dress.”
It’s certainly a lot more modest than what even the children wear here, which is a confabulation of leather and cloth not unlike your own attire or that of Jazkarmel’s guards; such ample fabric, even low-quality fabric, seems to be reserved for a noble or priestly class.
“Tell your neighbours that your children suffer from a scabrous pox,” Oluwadamilare suggests, without much pause. “This will explain any scales they spy, and encourage people to keep their distance.”
He speaks with the authority of a Degenerate nfiltrator—of a Reptilian who, going amongst his mammalian forebears in the surface’s Southlands, ahs no doubt used the excuse himself. You nod yoru thanks to him, as well.
“Study them,” you whisper to the Novice. “Remain here to render medical aid… But tell me what you learn, what this IS, and how far the mutation goes.”
The Novice tries, and fails, to hide a rattling cackle that draws concerned looks from your elf companions. You grimace and hastily place a hand over her mouth, drawing and indignant-but-muffled hiss.
“Do not touch me, Filthy and Impure One,” she snaps, quietly enough not to be overheard, in order to cover her obvious embarrassment at your familiarity.
“I don’t recall you minding, in private,” you note.
The Novice fumes, but says nothing. As she leaves, you watch the lash of her tail, the way of her rear… But then, unbidden, a half-remembered glimpse of a cavernous and toothy cave appears, filled with staring eyes and dark laughter, swallowing you whole, waist first. Your libidinous interest wanes.
