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What about the others? She asked them to join her under false pretenses for this very purpose.

But the others said they had their own business to take care of. And maybe that made it easier. She didn't care for them following her, as long as the goblin or the wolf did.

But if they opposed her, would she be able to deal with them? She witnessed their powers and if they were together, they could overthrow her. So she either needs to divide and conquer or get her hands on something valuable to them.

Her gaze fixated on Traax.

But running a place like this was not all bloodthirsty dreams. It involved a lot of bureaucracy, too. And if she wanted allies, the first thing she need was a name.

Phandalin Alliance versus other United Kingdoms, that will be the name of her fiefdom. It will not be a monarchy, it will be a tyranny, and the other kingdoms will unite against it.
She did not mind.

Now, what about a motto. "Burn them like spiders." Nobody likes a spider, why would anybody enjoy many of them? Sounds good.

Sandra chuckled. What a difference between being sober and drunk!

Sandra dreamt of the better days she was promised.

Towns burning, so that They can be rebuilt again; people screaming, so that she can save them. Militia she deflects with the wave of a hand that commands armies. She breathes in smoke and ashes; black phoenix is born from the ashes of its predecessor. It spreads its wings.

Drops of blood are caught on her naked blade as she walks into the ruins. The people look at her with unwarranted fear. These are her flock; she feels the hand of her own shepherd on her shoulder.

She bared her teeth.

Sandra strayed from reality into memories and recalled their time in the goblin cave. When they first found Sildar, he was tied up, as blind in darkness as her, about to be beheaded, and not unlike Gundren, he showed little concern and much cowardice.
"Are they gone?" she heard him say from behind her back.
"Yes." Do not roll your eyes. Do not.
"Are you sure?"
How about you go find out yourself, she thought.
It wasn't until they made it back to Phandalin that he grew some balls. Truly, a muscle only seen in your peripheral. Nevertheless, of importance.

-In an intermission, we leave our heroes be, and show some love for the person behind it all.

The dungeon master is the one who makes the world around the player character come alive. They built the world, the pantheons of deities, the non-player characters that the PCs interact with, they build the quests, plots character story arcs.

The DM does this in a way that is selfless - creating for others, very involved and personal. They take the time to flesh out the game and build a campaign to satisfy the players and their creative drives.

BDSM connection not applicable.

" ... you get 10% from the profit we'll make," said the dwarf. It was the same day they saved him - and all Sandra could think about was how easily forgotten was what he went through, and how little gratitude he showed them.
"I am sorry, but we just went to hell and back, and to get to the mines would be even harder. If you offered a higher percentage, perhaps we might reconsider... "
The dwarf shook his head.
Sandra stiffened. "In that case, good luck."

"More mead?"
"Yes."
"Wormwood?"
No. What Sandra had to digest was of a whole other quality.

Sandra would be sweating, if she wasn't so well composed (supressing her emotions and shit). "The god that I follow does not share their name with those who do not worship them."
Uff. Well, that was about as evasive as it got. She handled that.
But even though Valshk did avert his gaze from the mark of a black hand (he rolled low), the new kid did not.

She recalled reading about Bane for the first time - Bane, the god of conquest, tyrants, and other such unlawfulness - and decided to get rid of him.

He ran off after a day.

Sandra reminisced on her training. How at first, she played with the others with wooden sticks. The bruises she received and then the bruises she gave were purple and blue.

Then they put blunted swords into their hands and taught them how to attack and how to protect themselves. It was fun and a bit more than just sibling-like rivalry than drove her.

Now it was a game of life and death - one wrong move meant, at best, a mistake, at worst it could cost her a limb or more. And at eighteen, she already had scars to prove it.

Her memories, they weren't all bad.

She was a noble first and foremost. A privileged fuck with education and she never had to worry about having a roof over her head or warm food a few times a day. If she weren't taught how to ride and fight, she wouldn't have gotten here, after all.

But her "friends" didn't need to know that, did they?

To them, she is just a knight, following some kind of god. Although she did never did tell who she prayed to in exchange for her power. And... did they ever really need to know?

Well, now that a black handprint was not only on her shield but also her chest, she could not back down, really.

And when Phandalin is conquered and under her rule, they will realize...

A flash of memories - *her cousins, nicely dressed, happy and laughing, playing in the garden - her kept apart and out of sight - her only ever looking at their backs, always behind them - her not being able to afford toys or books or her own weapon - the thinly veiled ridicule in the voices of even strangers - tears down her cheeks, again and again*.

No. Never. Never again.