>>5448848You groan and heave once more, but nod. The Novice Fleshweaver, alone of all your allies, knows the full truth of your origin: you are no creature of alchemist’s laboratory or Fleshweaver ritual-chamber, as with a true Dragonborn. Rather, you are a sort of competing project, the product of an unauthorized effort by your Degenerate mother to create a ‘Dragonborn’ of her own through fleshweaving, demonology, and forbidden cross-caste mating with your distantly dragon-descended father. Among your people, who have long served the Dark God of order and purity called Lawgiver and Persecutor of the Weak, such a genesis would bring great controversy and scandal to your mission.
“Well, at least you seem mostly unharmed apart from your self-inflicted poisoning,” the Novice notes, when your dry-heaving has stopped and her rather close examination of your other vitals has begun.
You two are left more or less alone for this, with the Novice unabashedly stripping away your armour to investigate your cuts, bruises, scrapes and punctures more closely. You two have known each other virtually all your lives—albeit not always on the friendliest of terms—and over the last year have gotten quite… Comfortable… Around one another’s bodies in a way that would generally be seen as UNCONVENTIONAL by your kind. Then again, the Novice Fleshweaver is no conventional female…
“Put the hemipenes away,” the Novice hisses quietly, her tail delivering a stinging slap to your inner thigh. “I am NOT ministering to THAT condition.”
You snort, but shift to hide this automatic response to the Serpent Priestess’ touch, ignoring the pangs of your <appetite> until the process is completed, your wounds sanitized and sealed by medicine and magic.
“I recommend rest,” the Novice sniffs, “if your overinflated ego can be brought to heel long enough for your WEAK flesh to heal properly.”
“You would not call me weak if you’d seen the carnage I wrought in the name of the True Faith,” you boast.
“You have pushed yourself too hard, Degenerateborn. What, are you overcompensating?”
“Are you worried?” you tease.
The Novice sniffs, and crosses her arms haughtily… But doesn’t reply.
