Rolled 12, 5, 15 = 32 (3d20)
>>5290476>>5290442>>5290377>>5290216>>5290034>>5290004>>5289988You are again reminded of your lack of formal religious schooling. It left you ill-prepared for Death and his requirements, and it now leave you at a loss for how to explain the benefits of the Dark Gods in a way that you can be confident those Gods would approve of and stand behind. You look to your cohort, and particularly to Glowie and the Novice. The former stress back, tail wobbling back and forth like that of an enthusiastic infant; she must be unused to controlling it, maybe even enjoying the novelty of it. The Novice looks at you expectantly, almost with anxiety, as if to say “what are you waiting for, Meatheaded One?”
You look back to this elf, the Drow leader, and gulp. She has not turned her gaze, not even for a moment.
“The Dark Gods are not… Bad,” you say, choosing a word which seems to translate more readily than ‘evil’ in this context. “They are, in fact, quite good. They will give you gifts, make you strong with their divine magic. They can help with your race’s fertility, crush your enemies.”
“Gods tell lies,” the leader replies, to an enthusiastically atheist chorus. Even the dark elf scout who was your first convert seems to lose some resolve at this assertion, and the resultant social reinforcement.
“The Dark Gods will not abandon their supplicants, if they be strong and righteous in their ways,” you assert, with confidence you do not feel. Glowie’s presence, though welcome in many ways, is a reminder that this isn’t always true.. Or, perhaps, that you and your race are no longer one to talk about how to earn and hold the favour of those Gods.
“Prove it,” the Drow leader commands, thumping her staff and pointing the crystal at you. “We are not moved by words.”
The leader appraises you, even as you do likewise to her. She is as compactly muscular as the other elves here, as smooth of feature, but she has an inner steel that stirs something of the kingly instinct in you—the recognition of a rival, and the desire to see them humbled and submissive. This in turn, stirs your <appetite> into action—you cannot help but imagine how such submission could be put to the test.
“Very well,” you announce, summoning your strength and focusing your inner energies into the casting of a spell. You begin to murmur the chant, almost like a prayer for success, though you know not to which deity specifically…
<IMPROVED DRAGONSHAPE>
…And you begin to grow, and swell. You shuck one piece of armour after another as you do, exposing bare scale and bulging muscle on your chest and arms, your flexing back. You do not hold back this time, but grunt with exertion as you push the spell of self-improvement to its utmost. Spikes, spines, and horns explode forth at your joints, form a beard of blades on your chin.
