It was only a few days until the
celebrations would begin and Narcissus prowled his palace with barely concealed eagerness.
A weeks worth of enforced adoration.
He could hardly wait.
The streets and buildings had been cleaned
and painted.
Blue and yellow bunting had been strung
from every parapet.
Banners of his own image had been hung
between rooftops.
The Dragon-born’s armour had been polished
to reflective perfection.
The Black-cloaks were all freshly died to
the nadir of darkness.
The lowly Kobolds were as clean as could be
hoped for.
Even the Human vermin had been forcibly
washed and given new burlap clothes to wear.
The Dwarves had delivered enough ale to
supply the town for months.
The Elven musicians had arrived and the Halfling
acrobats were already practicing in the market.
Of all these things though, it was the
expectation of the tribute food he was anticipating the most.
What delicacies would his chefs’ prepare
for him?
Narcissus’ diet had been reduced to
brainless cows, sheep and chickens since he’d arrived in Khajag.
Running his sinuous tongue around the spaces between his razor-sharp teeth, the young Dragon imagines all the delicious treats that are in store for him…
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