>>5474487With business handled for the moment, it is time for pleasure! Or, well… Another sort of business, honestly, but the outward frivolity of this ‘dance class’ is a pleasant diversion after all this (at least no longer thankless) politicking and proselytizing.
“Why is SHE here?”
The withering snarl comes from the Novice Fleshweaver, and refers (of course) to Azonia the Duelist.
“You would not ask that if you had seen her dance,” you note.
“I misspoke,” the Novice jeers. “I know what YOU see in her, One in Eternal Rut. I suppose, given your habit of collecting ‘pets’ such as that kobold and dwarf of yours, I can even understand why you welcomed an actual SPY back into our fold. But why is she HERE.”
“I told you,” you reiterate slowly, “for her dancing ability.”
“You know, it’s considered rude to talk about someone in a language they can’t understand,” the Duelist interjects, arms crossed.
“Quiet!” the Novice hisses in her heavily-accented Dark Elven. “Not asssk for you ssspeak, ssscum!”
“You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?” you ask in True Speech.
The Novice’s eyes widen, and she lowers her head slightly to hide her obvious discomfort, pulling her hood over her face. It’s… Kind of cute.
“Think,” you say. “We are… Not excellent dancers. This will be a major political event. Many eyes will be on us. We must represent the Master Race’s many physical and intellectual virtues, and do so well. The Duelist can help with this!”
The Novice huffs haughtily, but ceases her complaining.
The Duelist grabs your claw in her small hand’s iron grip and wrenches your attention away from your oldest ‘companion’.
“Enough! I’m not here to listen to you two snakes hiss sweet nothings all day!” she protests.
She grabs your hands and puts them on her hips. You blink, a little startled, and you hear the Novice choke.
“This is not like our previous—”
“It’s a WALTZ, Dragon,” the Duelist admonishes you with no small amusement at your clear confusion. “Not some Tlintear revel."
For a moment, you are concerned that this warrior-woman may prove an unsuitable teacher for such a refined variety of dance. Perhaps the Lancer would have been better? As she snaps her fingers to signal the Throat-singer to begin his thrumming, though, and her ample chest comes to rest against your stomach, your concerns are abated by the distraction. As the actual dance begins—The Duleist forcing you to lead, even as her power, speed, and precise footwork guides you, and her harsh barks of command correct your errors—you find yourself surprised by the efficacy of her tutelage.
