The warriors have come to your little nesting hooch. Your inspiration hooch! Exoskeletons of metal-infused chitin menace from their arms and legs, acidic venom courses through its veins, flesh eating bacterial saliva drip from its mouth, nerve clusters flop from their heads flailing around looking for a wound to push into; penises with paralytic venom dangle limply from between their thighs. The fact the Hazaari offshoots thought to use those for...

”Soft one.” The warrior buzzes angrily from its mandibles, flexing its claws. ”We must feed. Tell us what we can take.”

The locusts of war demand their tithe. You are beholden to your lord, the one who planted your wisdom tree, and from the same seed birthed you. Your Fief's resources are not in gold; but in life. War among the Aristocrats, and to their enemies, mean devestation for the land; and you must contribute. This obligation is ironclad, and you will not deny it. But your project...

”Grrghm... Need biomass... I want to fight! I want to kill!”

It is famished, angry, and horny in some twisted way. It could kill you easily with but a swipe of its claws; but you are still its master, as this land is yours. You must send off your levies to aide your war in his conflict, and you must arm them from your own “stocks”, but the highest form of life, art, is above their petty temporal concerns. Which means, you have some discretion...

>Give them what you must
>Hold back to make your project even better
>Order the warriors to go back to sleep