Rolled 3, 4, 15, 16, 1 = 39 (5d20)
>>5646786You put the prattling of these apes out of your mind, entering that familiar meditative state as you prepare yourself. You reflect on those many dark days beneath the earth, when you found peace in this same exercise. You remember your big brother, the Great Green Dragonborn, and smile. His kindness has been repaid tenfold: where once your were his only brethren, he now has the Red Dargonborn, nine more Young Ones to teach the ways of the True Dragon, the way of power, and nobility, and love.
You draw your arm back. The apes are still screaming.
Ekaterine… You wonder how your Princess is? Has Irinnile succeeded in her mission, kept her safe from the elf? Will she learn of who and what you truly are… Or is it what you WERE? How wills he react? Will you ever know.
You think of Roth and Oluwdamilare, your father and your brother-in-arms, your faithful friend. Where are they now? Why did they not arrive in time? Could they have aided and availed you, high above the earth? You suppose not.
Will Roth recall you fondly by that mug, that tea? You also suppose not, but perhaps he will at least remember you in SOME way. And you trust in Olu—h will carry your memory forth. You hope he will escape the city, and tell the others of what happened—prepare the Bloodrise for the war that is to come, perhaps, if you fail here.
You hope he will tell Sseztlussth you love her. You hope she will know this, really know it, and maybe even understand it someday. You wish that for her so, so dearly.
You hope they will, together, avenge you… Protect your kingdom, with the Bastard and the Pit-Guard and with your sons and their strange and alien mother. Will Glowie mourn for you, in the Novice cannot? Will the wyrmlings? If you die here, those strange hybrid creatures will be your only heirs… But they are big, and strong, and draconic in their way. Will they one day rule this world, then? You hope son.
You take one long, deep breath, gurgling on your own lifeblood as you do so and nearly choking. The air smells like burning fur and feathers, like copper blood, like seawater and city stench.
It smells like death.
It smells like glory.
You swing your sword.
