>>5679059>>5678849>>5678786>>5678756>>5678740>>5678728>>5678712>>5678702“Yezz, okay,” you agree after some consideration. “But you zzhould bring the Zzentipede Lanzzzer. They will lizzten to that one.”
The Throat-singer frowns, and asks: “They won’t listen to me? Why not?”
“They barely lizzten to me,” you lament, and exhale a sigh from your book-lungs. “Boyzzzz.”
Maybe serving their purpose in war will help expend some of your sons’ pent-up energy. As long as most of them live, it should be fine! The dwarf is very excited, at least, yammering on about their tactical utility and how fearsome they are—his fear for your sons transformed into some sort of militaristic fetishism for their martial potential. You sons silently request with pheromones and subsonic thrums to eat the little mole-ape. You tell them ‘no’, and <hum> until they all signal compliance. None-the-wiser, the Throat-singer asks:
“And you can produce more these, yes? Uh, that is… You can have more sons?”
“Yezz,” you agree.
“How quickly?” he asks eagerly.
“Not zzoon enough for your war,” you answer.
In truth, it is no meagre feat to produce warriors—they require far more calories than any daughter, save perhaps a future queen—you haven’t tried to lay a ‘princess’ egg yet, and won’t until you have ample territory for her to expand into, and can enforce her compliance. Perhaps you’ll breed her to one of her brothers, if she is good: a male is necessary to fertilize eggs, if a hive is to make soldiers. Fertilized once, you may produce them indefinitely… But you know, without knowing exactly how, that subsequent generations of warriors will not match the artificially-augmented ‘fleshwoven’ sons of your first clutch, made with a ancient dragon-blood and the assistance of your mate’s other lover. All the more reason to hope that most of these nine survive to breed, and pass on their unique genetics, but ALSO all the more reason to be careful how you breed them…
The Throat-singer eventually stops talking, seemingly noticing that you have stopped listening. He thanks you and leaves, and you bid your sons to leave with him—and to be good! No eating anyone important! They follow the dwarf, obedient for now at least.
You hum happily, imagining the thousand generations to come, and your big, happy family holding hands and wiggling in unison the world over in the aeons ahead. An Age of Chitin, AND of Scales! How lovely~
~HmmMMM, mmMMM, hm hm HMMMMMmmmmmMM~
