>>5699366You raise your hands to the chain which holds your Amulet of Disgusie, and let it drop.
“I have approached by shadows and sssubterfuge,” you admit. “no more. I will be transssparent in my purpossse here.”
You feel the unsettling sensation of your transformation reversing—of your face extending from humanoid flatness to elongated, draconic approximation. It isn’t painful, but it is… Disconcerting. Your stance shifts, legs adjusting as your spine elongates into your familiar spade-tipped tail, with which you whip the ground like a thundercrack. You are grateful for the flexibility of your light armour to accommodate the changes in stance, of the carefully-hidden flap through which the tail emerges without tearing through trousers, and the horn-like crown’s ability to accommodate and complement your actual horns.
“What in the name of Moroth and Marese?!” gasps one knight, as his horse staggers back in terror t the sight and spoils his instinctive lance thrust—such that you are able to grab the lance in your hand and, by your might, hold the man and his mount fixed.
“No,” you say, meeting his frightened eyes, “not in THEIR name.”
You take the transformation a step further, swelling and growing Without time to attune to your Amulet of the Dragon, you cannot attain your fully-augmented <Dragonshape IV>… You know this. And yet you grow, and grow, and your armour strains against your stature and your musculature. You KNOW you cannot manifest true wings as more than a temporary and <Lesser> manifestation without that relic… And yet, great wings stretch out behind you, casting the cowed and terrified knights into silence as you look down upon them—DOWN, though they remain seated upon their equine servants!
“I’ve never seen anything like this…” murmurs the other knight. “What—what do we do?”
“You have not,” you agreed. “You haven’t sseen ANYTHING like thisss before, nor will you know itsss like again!”
The shadow you cast is sudden gone-replaced by a blazing glow, like the fury of an alien sun in an ancient summer—a <Radiant Aura> projected from aeons past, alive once more. The men cry out and their horses throw them as their metal armour is heated by the blazing luminosity of your glory. They stagger to their feet, torn whether to flee or attack. Your subordinates make the choice for them: enervated by your presence, they set upon them. The Duelist steps forward, parrying two thrusts intended for you, and the Translator—with a wave and a weaving of surprising spellcraft—turning their spears as wiggly and loose as serpents in their grasp. They drop them, realizing only too late that this was half-illusion and incredibly temporary… And by then, your Wyrm Prince has bowled them over. He leans over them with sadistic glee, drooling his bluish, glowing spittle as he prepares to feats upon their faces.
