Dragonheart Core

In the end, it came down to survival.

I dithered and bit over the Otherworld schema options for far longer than I wanted to; this was my fourth choice, all new, and I wouldn't let myself just rush into a bad choice because of how shiny it was. Shoth's dead-man sprint had taught me that wouldn't work. Not anymore.

All of them were lovely and vicious and fanged and dangerous and, ultimately, similar to what I had. The corpsefarmer could be made from a shadowthief rat, so long as I obtained an alchemist to show the rodent what ingredients were critical to collect; the galactic hoverling provided mana and building materials, which I could devote more of myself to. Myconids were a shambling wreck of sapience and personhood, a force constantly building and growing, a combination of my thornwhip algae and kobolds—without a home for it. In a similar vein, the terrorbird was lovely and wonderful and hurt me to my bones not to pick—but I didn't have a floor for it, not yet. They hunted in jungles; maybe Nicau would find one, when I sent him out. But not now.

The only option that I couldn't make myself and didn't require a specific home was the restorative aloe.

Veresai had caught Kriya under a geas just to have a healer. And now I could provide one to all my creatures intelligent enough to use it—and, perhaps, start one of my other goals; teaching them to work together. Considering how mana-intensive I imagined this schema would be, I would only be able to create limited amounts of it; and if everyone wanted to use it, they would have to coordinate.

In another world, I could see it going like it had with the ironback toads and burrowing rats up in the Drowned Forest, creating a society of backstabbers and betrayal and extortion, but this time I would muscle in and make sure everyone coordinated. I had nearly been enslaved today, and if that happened, all my creatures would be either killed, broken, or cut down for mere gold. I would tell them this. I would show them how vital it was to play together.

With that in mind, I allowed the schema of restorative aloe to flow through me.

Its mana was dark and cool, filling my mind with the impression of emerald green spikes from pale soil, water beading on the edges, spines from the tip—and potential. So much potential. To heal all my creatures not just when an invasion had finished, but throughout every day. A way to survive. A way to be better.

A way to crush every stupid fucking invader who thought they could waltz into my dungeon and take my core.