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…