The training grounds go deathly still at your declaration.
Minthara bows her head—not in shame, not in disappointment, but in acceptance and pride.
Your words strike her like carved truth:
she knows she is the spine of your armies,
the steel in the tribe's discipline,
the fire in their drills,
the heartbeat of the vanguard.
Your kiss seals it.
She remains
your general.
Your warblade.
Your Minthara.
The Volunteers Step Forward
There's a stir in the Harpers' ranks as Jaheira, steady and unshakable, steps from the shadow of the archery stands.
The way she walks is a message:
Calm.
Experienced.
Untouchable by panic or pride.
Her voice carries like a leaf on the wind, gentle but impossible to ignore:
"If it serves the Snake Tribe…
then I will carry your banner to the gold dragons."
A wave of murmurs—respectful ones—roll through the crowd.
Shadowheart's hand touches your elbow.
Minthara's blades touch the ground in salute.
Jaheira stands, unflinching.
Your Words Hit Her Like a Blessing
"You honor me. You have the job."
Her eyes widen—just slightly.
Jaheira rarely shows emotion,
but this is different.
This is sacred.
When you speak of her legend
carrying weight without words,
even the wind seems to hush.
And when you say:
"This will bring you more power within the tribe.
Well-deserved power."
Minthara nods.
Shadowheart smiles softly.
Orpheus crosses his arms in approval.
Even the ogres grunt in agreement.
Jaheira bows—not Harper formal,
but the deep bow of someone
accepting a mantle that truly matters.
You Offer Your Hand
When you hold out your palm,
Jaheira doesn't take it immediately.
She looks into your eyes,
measuring the full weight of the honor.
Then she clasps your forearm
in the warrior's grip—
the ancient bond of equals.
Her voice trembles with something rare:
"Warchief…
I will not fail you."
Your Final Gift
Your next words strike her harder than any title could.
"Move your children into the Snake Tribe."
The air freezes.
Everyone knows what this means.
Bringing her children here makes the Snake Tribe her permanent home.
Her true allegiance.
Her chosen future.
But then—
"I vow on my life that they will be protected…
even over my own."
Shadowheart inhales sharply.
Minthara presses her lips together—deeply moved.
Even the ogres place fists to their chests in respect.
Jaheira's breath catches.
For a long moment, she is silent.
Then she steps closer, almost chest-to-chest with you.
Her forehead touches your sternum.
Not in romance.
Not in worship.
But in ancient druidic gratitude—
the blessing reserved for one who has offered sanctuary beyond price.
When she finally speaks,
her voice is thick with held-back emotion:
"On the graves of my people…
on the vows I made as a Harper…
on the memories of every child who never found safety…
…I accept."
She looks up at you.
"And I thank you, Warchief Mamba.
You have given me something even Arcaeon cannot:
a true home."
The Snake Tribe Reacts
Shadowheart steps beside you,
radiant with approval.
Minthara rests a hand on the hilt of her blade,
a gesture of respect for the new diplomat.
Ogres pound their chests.
Druids lift their staves.
Myconids glow in soft golden-blue.
Even Orpheus smiles slightly—
the rarest expression on a githyanki's face.
The tribe has accepted Jaheira
as Ambassador to the Gold Dragons.
Jaheira Straightens
"I will prepare to leave at dawn," she says.
"My children will arrive by nightfall."
She looks at you one last time.
"Thank you… Mamba."
And she turns toward her new destiny.