>>5708870>>5708844>>5708795>>5708773>>5708768In the end, the Chaplain’s instincts and decades of training are in accord: the stars are not yet right to openly invade the lands above, whatever that insolent little whelp of a False Dragonborn might believe. Until such time—until the cosmic tapestry of the Grand Design is woven properly so as not to unravel at the slightest tug—any attempt to create a New Age of Darkness is doomed.
The Chaplain sighs as he concludes this, despite himself. Privately, only privately, he can admit the truth: hearing his living weapon speak, seeing what he’d achieved, he’d actually allowed himself to BELIEVE some of the rhetoric for a time. It was an absurd flight of fantasy, of course—a Young One’s hairbrained delusion. Still, to imagine himself upon the surface, lording over a realm of plenty, for the century to come…
No.
He shakes his head. The Master Race cannot field an army sufficient to crush those of the realms above, and even the Southmen will not bend the knee to open Reptilian rule without putting up a fight. The conflict between North and South will continue, as planned, but no Reptilian reinforcements will come to save the day and assert their ownership of the victory. However, nor will the Chaplain pull all his operatives from Hawksong’s allies and vassals. Rather, their work shall be more… Subtle.
The secret weapon, which he had thought to wield in this war, will instead be turned with the full force of a breaking hammer upon the intransigent False Prophet of Bloodrise and his barely-born ‘kingdom’.
Like a father asserting discipline, it is time for the Chaplain to remind this Young One why elders are to be respected!
The Chaplain leaves his personal quarters—a space for prayer, reflection, and torpor, and strides past the blooded dais of the Stone of Judgement, where he periodically takes his confessions. He slithers through tunnels dug in eras immemorial by the hands of the Truly Faithful, in keeping with the wise dictates of the Master of the Insightful Eye, and maintained by the stringent discipline of the Lawgiver. He passes the shrine of the first, offering a bow and a prayer, and makes for the second: an altar to a high-horned figure with bowed back, wideset shoulders, and gripping a great maul in one hand and a trailing chain in the other.
“Oh Forger of Chains and Breaker of Spirits! Oh you who crafted Law, who built order and protected it, who are the font of ALL AUTHORITY! Oh you who teach the strong to subjugate the weak, that the weak will not swallow up the world and drown it in their mediocrity! Oh Persecutor, Lawgiver, Dark God of the Pattern Unbroken! Here me, your humble and stalwart servant, and help me to reassert your rightful dominance!”
The Chaplain gets his response. He knows what to do.
