>>5389579>>5389270>>5389263>>5389119>>5389032>>5389029>>5388978>>5388970You indulge yourself in a bit of idle speculation about the possible efficacy of simply seducing compliance out of the uncooperative dwarf, as you did with the Herbalist. She is certainly differently-built, physically and psychologically, but that merely lends the notion a different sort of allure. It is quite… Amusing… To consider at length.
But, no. No. You shake off the haze of lust. What would the Novice Fleshweaver think, to see you in the grip of mammalian hormones again? Did such indulgences end well for you the last time? You see another, far more practical, path forward.
“Engineer,” you greet her.
She grunts, not looking up from the contraption of springs and gears she is fine-tuning with a peculiar little screwdriver-device. AT that moment, she indeed very much resembles her father.
“Heard you coming,” she notes. “Thought lizards were supposed to be stealthy. Must be those silly-ass boots you insist on wearing, huh?”
You ignore the jibe—you’re well-practiced at such, at least, thanks to your youth as the sole member of your age-cohort with hair.
“I jusst came back from an enlightening converssation with your father,” you begin.
The Engineer scoffs, continuing to work.
“Whatever he said, I still do NOT make prosthetics.”
“Cannot.”
Her screwdriver slips, whirring angrily as it spins in open air, under its own power. Fascinating!
“What?” she barks.
“You CANnot make prostheticsss,” you correct her again. “He made me underssstand that what I wass asking wass sssimply beyond your capabilitiesss… That I wass exxpecting too much from you. It wass my misstake.”
The Engineers sets down the screwdriver and trembles as if she’d very much like to lob the unknown contraption in her other hand at you.
“Father did NOT say that,” she asserts.
“Oh, maybe not in sso many wordsss,” you say with a shrug. “I underssstood, though.”
You turn to leave.
“W-wait!”
You pause, and try not to give away your smug satisfaction.
“Send your little toady down here, lizard. You’ll see what my ‘capabilities’ are!”
Over the next few days, the Throat-singer spends much of his time down in the not-exactly-dungeon with the Engineer. She apparently requires the access to his afflicted hand and arm not just for measurements, but to get a sense for the level of INTERNAL damage he has suffered, and to gauge the extent to which it has affected his grip strength and dexterity with his remaining digits. To your amusement, the beardless dwarf-male has clearly never spent so long in the extremely close physical proximity to a young female of his species which this process requires; he is ruby-red upon your visits to observe the proceedings.
