>>5328385>>5328209>>5328166>>5328112>>5328110>>5328077>>5328046>>5328035>>5328003>>5327993>>5327969>>5327959>>5327913>>5327906It is on the third day, when you are saying your prayers, seeking guidance on the journey ahead, that you have your epiphany of how to deal with the Junior Novice. You are whispering alms to the Serpent Ascendant at the time—you have been alternating between he and the Mother-Goddess, for these two are principal in your attempts to convert the dark elves—when the realization strikes. Why keep the abominable wretch weak? If the Junior Novice appreciates your kindness, he will grow strong, becoming a useful pawn. If he does not, he will become one more mighty beast for you to best, and thus further test and prove yourself. Only a fearful weakling would starve out a foe to avoid true confrontation.
“You make no sense,” the Novice says testily, when you explain this theory to her.
You continue feeding the novice anyway, making a game of setting morsels of dried venison before him and holding him at bay with your presence until you release him to consume the food.
“It wouldn’t be an issue is you had crafted an amulet for your Junior here, Oh Brilliant and Logical One,” you note.
You click your tongue in admonishment.
“You are slipping in your diligence,” you tease.
The Novice hisses furiously, and rakes the ground with a slap of her tail.
“Yes, foolish am I!” she mock-laments. “If only I had forgone MORE torpor, perhaps I could have made the time. Or perhaps if I had not wasted so much time laying hands upon a certain MEATHEADED MAMMAL-BORN MORON and his FAT BUG—”
You hold up a hand, gesturing for her to quiet. The others are not SO far away, after all. With a frustrated rumble, she obliges, crossing her arms and hunching in an almost comical sulk.
“I loathe you,” she sneers.
You tilt your head, allowing your empathetic sense to expand. It isn’t entirely psychic—it’s a matter of acute understanding of subtle tones, shifts in body-language, subcutaneous heat an patterns and subtle colour-shifts.
“You do not,” you note, matter-of-factly.
She looks away, more sullen than ever. You say nothing, watching her for a time and then looking away, finishing your own meal. Eventually, you both turn your attention to the ‘dogbold’… Or perhaps ‘dog-dragon’, now? ‘Drogon’, maybe?
The Junior Novice looks up, registering the attention upon it, and snarls half-heartedly as it scoots back, clutching its food protectively. It has grown more assertive and aggressive, as the dragonblood take should upon it and its form sells and contorts to more and more resemble something royal and reptilian—albeit a perverse parody of such, like an overlarge jester in kingly clothes.
