Clueless drifted backwards from the wizard, his wings fluttering in the absence of air purely out of habit.
“What?” Tristol said, still holding out his hand. “Do you have a better idea?”
If Skalliska had had eyebrows she would have been perking them, and just as the spark of covetous curiosity would have gone alight in her brain, Fyrehowl conveniently, presciently drifted in between.
“Well…” Clueless began. “You just seemed insistent up till now that I…”
“KEEP IT AWAY!!!!… from him.” Nisha giggled from where she hovered behind the mage.
“Yeah, you did seem pretty intent on not wanting to mess around with it.” The bladesinger said. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
Tristol looked away and reiterated his earlier position. “Like I already said: no spells, tired, typical githyanki social graces or lack thereof. I’m willing to risk it more than I’m willing to risk two days unprotected travel out here.”
There was a soft rattle of a bell. “Can I try?”
Clueless and Tristol gave one another a look of unadulterated dread before the tiefer added a belated, “Juuuuust joking…”
The Xaositect chuckled one last time and drifted off to let them discuss matters, and to be honest they were happy to see her carried away by the latest in her life’s series of absolutely tangent whimsies, which at the moment was apparently the desire to see if she could turn Fyrehowl’s tail purple by concentrating really hard while on the Astral. Nisha plus heavy magic was not a pleasant idea. It would be like handing a slaadi a ring of wishes. As it was, back in Sigil they had a faerie dragon which was bad enough, and eventually they’d have to find something to do about him.
“But yeah.” Clueless said, pushing those concerns out of his mind and returning to the heavy magic. “I mean, if you’re certain.”
“At my own risk, I understand that. Besides, so far you’ve been fine as long as you haven’t abused it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure?”
Tristol frowned and held his hand out. “Keep that up and you’ll tempt me to leave you. Yes I’m absolutely sure.”
“Alright…” Clueless said, reaching up to take off the choker from around his neck.
Tristol accepted it and turned it over once in his hands. “How do I work the mechanism here?”
Clueless pointed out the spot to push to expose the raw, liquid bead of golden liquid. “Expose it, touch it, and think of the spell you want to bring to mind. You can do more than that, but you wanted to play it safe.”
Tristol nodded and did just that, smiling with no small amount of wonder as the light glittered on the surface of the bead in the moment before he touched it. It was warm and viscous, and it felt almost pleasurable when he felt some of that warmth begin to move up his fingertip even before he’d tried to call to mind a simple planeshift spell.
The sensation increased and his finger tingled as the warmth increased. Something in the back of Tristol’s mind wanted to giggle and absorb the entirety of the tiny bubble of liquid magic right then and there. But astral addiction or not, the borderline thaumaturgical junky was still not far enough down that particular road to where the craving, the need, overwhelmed his normal sense of self-preservation.
“Just something simple like a planeshift.” Clueless said. “As much as a gate might be nice, I wouldn’t push it.”
Tristol barely heard the bladesinger, and the blood was pounding in his ears as he did just that and willed the feeling spreading through his senses to reproduce that particular spell. The spell blossomed in his mind like a fireball, after the fact, when he recovered, he would vaguely recall that he had the wherewithal to mold the magic and focus enough to direct his companions and himself to the Outlands near the vicinity of Tradegate.
But the ecstasy of the magic transitioned into something altogether different a moment after the spell took effect, and for a brief moment before he blissfully lost consciousness, his blood felt like it was on fire and his mind felt like a nest of fire ants that had been poked and goaded by an unwary child. Something went wrong. Something about the fickle, whimsical, unrestrained nature of the heavy magic erupted inside of him like Shar herself was stabbing him in the eyes and mocking him for his presumptions. Perhaps Karsus had felt the same sort of transition, albeit orders of magnitude larger, moments before the fall of Netheril.
Thankfully though, Tristol had no memories of appearing a dozen miles from the gatetown seizing and frothing at the mouth, screaming and babbling incoherently as his mind and body were both wracked by a magical drain that would have put a vampire lord and Prolonger’s touches to shame. Florian attempted to immediately heal him, but for whatever reason her prayers did nothing to abate or reverse the damage, and it was all that they could do to pick him up and carry him the distance to the gatetown.
Several hours later his body had ceased rebelling against itself, but he didn’t return to consciousness for another three days, and when he did it became immediately apparent that while the damage wasn’t permanent, the healing process would be a slow and natural one. He’d learned a lesson, and Clueless had as well by proxy, and so when they finally stepped through the gate and into Sigil, the bladesinger wasn’t wearing the collar, and he wouldn’t for a while to come.
***
At roughly the same time the next morning after they had returned to Sigil, while Tristol was still bedridden, having spent the night puking and repeatedly wishing that he were dead, Skalliska sat up in bed and yawned. The scales across her back and legs were warmer than normal, the only sign that her priest and lover, a proxy of her newfound deity had spent the evening next to her. He hadn’t been there when she’d fallen asleep, and his appearance hadn’t woken her, but the fact that he’d been there warmed her more than the lingering traces of body heat ever could.
Everything seemed to be going right in her life.
“Saravtesh be praised.” She whispered, kissing the holy symbol around her neck as she glanced at the shadows, half expecting her lover to be there.
But no, the other kobold was gone once again, busy with whatever inscrutable tasks their mutual divinity assigned to them. Of course, Skalliska realized, she was yet a neophyte priest, though possessed of the fervor of a newly enlightened convert, while he was something more. Her lover was a proxy, invested with a fraction of their god’s power to serve as a direct intermediary on his behalf.
“I wonder what you’re up to today?” Skalliska mused as she rolled over and into the shallow depression that he’d left behind.
She inhaled and her nostrils flared ever so slightly as they caught the briefest trace of reptilian musk still present and lingering. She smiled again and closed her eyes, laying there in bed without a care in the world, drifting in and out of sleep and hovering on the edge of dreaming for the space of several long minutes. She was happy, and the tumult that had been her life was suddenly, finally looking stable, even with a Xaositect thrown into the mix.
“Well, I can’t stay here all day.” She sighed contentedly.
“Besides.” She continued, looking at the shadows where her lover had vanished. “You set an example for me, and I have to try to stay faithful to it. Last night was enough self-absorbed bliss on my part, I should get up and find out what everyone else doing.”
Scaled, clawed feet swung over the side of the bed and hit the floor a moment later as Skalliska hopped out of bed. Her toes wriggled and the lean muscles in her legs twitched at the sudden cold of the stone, a far cry from her recently shared bed. One step, then another, and that was when the wave of nausea hit and sent her down on one knee, retching and shuddering.
Morning sickness.
***
As it had before, and as it would many more times in the future, many of the group’s more interesting experiences, and many of their troubles alike, would begin with the receipt of a letter. Later that same afternoon, just such a thing would land itself in the letter box of the Portal Jammer.
Toras was the first to check the mail that day, and he found the curious envelope mixed in with the more typical assortment of business offers, bills, and junk mail sent to the Inn. It was a rather large envelope, and the first thing out of the fighter’s mouth was a curse of “oh you stupid gods-damned mephit”, because the letter was sealed with a large glob of wax that initially looked like one of Seamusxanthusxemus’s special promotionals leaking from the interior.
Upon closer inspection however, Toras’s expression changed from homicidal mephit-killing rage to curiosity. The wax seal was impressed with the symbol of the Bleak Cabal, the same symbol that was used by the current administration of the Gatehouse since they were no longer nominally a faction. In any event however, the letter carried a bit more weight than the typical business offer.
Toras of Andros. Clueless. Skalliska. Tristol Starweather. Nisha. Florian of Amn. Fyrehowl of Elysium.
Interesting. The letter was formally addressed to each of them and not just a generic greeting.
“Hmm…” He said, leaving the rest of the mail in the box for the moment as he walked back inside.
“Hey Florian!” Toras called out as he walked towards where the cleric was sitting. “Take a look at this if you would.”
Florian glanced up as the fighter took a seat next to her and held up the letter.
“Umm. Normally letters addressed like that involve legal disputes.” She said with a worried expression. “Did this just arrive?”
Toras nodded as Florian snapped a finger and called the others over.
Tristol’s ears twitched from where he currently sat, head down on the table, cushioned by his sleeve. “Who’s it for?”
“All of us.” Toras replied, holding the envelope up and giving it a speculative look.
The mage mumbled some non-committal, incoherent response in reply without looking up. He was feeling better, but not completely recovered from his unfortunate experience with Clueless’s heavy magic. In fact he still felt wretched in some ways, like a drug addict coming off of a high, and so sitting in public rather than staying in his room was the best that Nisha had been able to coax him into. Being seen and being semi-social was something he’d acquiesced to. Being pleasant was something else altogether.
Clueless looked over from the bar. “Does it say “all of us?” or maybe “owners of the Portal Jammer?” or what?”
Toras shook his head, “No, it’s addressed to each of us, by name. Well, everyone except for Kiro, but…”
Clueless’s wings dipped slightly and their color dulled briefly. They missed him. Cleric of Sutekh or cuprilach rilmani, they really did miss him.
Florian held up her drink, “To Kiro.”
Tristol’s ears perked and he sat up to join in the impromptu toast, an act which made him feel a bit better, and made them all feel a bit better. What followed was a pregnant moment of silence, solemn smiles all around, and several minutes later their attention turned back to the letter.
Skalliska meanwhile was silent, still pondering when, if, and how to tell them all that she was pregnant. She’d been the only one without a drink, and she’d only held her hand up and pantomimed the raising of a mug, waving off Clueless when he offered the real thing since he was tending the bar. Eventually she’d have to tell them, but now seemed like an inopportune moment. Another inopportune moment in the future would have to suffice.
But breaking the mood of remembrance on behalf of their fallen companion, Toras held the letter up and into the path of one of the inn’s magical globes of light.
“No watermarks, nothing concealed inside, and nothing funny looking.” He said with a shrug. “Just looks like a letter. And here I was expecting to have the ‘loths coming after us, even with… you know…”
Fyrehowl nodded as Toras slipped his voice lower and gave an evasive, secretive look. There was no need to go into specifics. They all knew what he meant, and it wouldn’t be a wise thing to openly talk about it in public, within earshot of anyone else.
Florian looked up from her mug of ale. “So if it’s not from someone wishing us death, who’s it from?”
“Well the envelope was sealed with the symbol of the Bleakers.” Toras replied, holding the letter up again to show.
“Hey now.” Nisha said, interjecting. “So it’s from the Bleakers. They might still want us dead… not that they’d have a particular reason for it or that it would matter one way or the other to them.”
Florian spit her ale across the table, and Fyrehowl preemptively ducked for cover while Amberblue giggled from his position perched atop the head of the ex-Factol L’har doll on the mantelpiece.
“You timed that Nisha.” Florian said as she wiped her mouth of ale. “I swear you time those things.”
“But that wouldn’t be random…” The Xoasitect giggled back. “And the Bleakers still might want to kill us. You never know. Sneaky fellows. They might have a gang of depressive assassins hiding in their soup kitchen or something.”
Toras shook his head and broke the seal on the letter. “No explosion. We’re on the right track so far then.”
“What’s it say?” Clueless asked as the fighter unfolded the parchment and gave it an odd look.
Toras quickly scanned the page, then scanned it again much more slowly. “Dunno what to make of this. I’ll read it out loud.”
Greetings to you all,
In light of recent events, one of my guests would very much like to speak with you. Typically it’s somewhat difficult to obtain easy access to myself or much of the atypical portions of the gatehouse unless you happen to be a member, former member now, of the Bleak Cabal. The crowds at this time of year are long, and at times insufferably loud and you would do well to avoid them by taking a route through the orphanage.
When you arrive at your convenience in the next few days, please ask to speak with Guildmaster (or former factor) Tessali. If you are asked by any of the gatehouse staff who you are there to see specifically tell them my name, and that you are also there to see Marason the Shackled Warden, or some variation of that name.
Guildmaster Tessali of the Gatehouse
The letter was penned in an elaborate script, not something that might ordinarily be expected from the often dour members of the Bleak Cabal. While the faction might nominally have disbanded, most of the staff in the gatehouse still operating its kitchens, orphanage, and asylum were all former Bleakers. Perhaps Tessali, who Skalliska vaguely recalled being an elf, or maybe a half elf, something out of the Sigilian ordinary, was different from the typical member of his group.
“Weird.” Toras said, laying the letter flat upon the table and letting the others crowd around and take a look.
“Looks legit.” Florian said. “But I’m not sure what to make of the offer.”
Fyrehowl turned to the kobold. “Skalliska, have you ever heard of anyone called Marason, or the Shackled Warden, in the gatehouse or otherwise?”
She shook her head. “It’s not ringing a bell.”
“Hmm.” Florian said. “So what do you want to do about it?”
Toras shrugged. “It’s weird, but it has me curious. Even if it’s not from their guildmaster, whoever wrote it has some connection inside the gatehouse at least. And if it’s a hoax or a trap, I’ll still want to see who’s behind it.”
Fyrehowl had an odd feeling about the whole thing, not that she could pin down the exact reason for her vague concern though. It might have been the Cipher in her, or it might have been the fact that she was a guardinal, increasingly lapsed in her status as a guardinal notwithstanding. Something didn’t entirely add up, but the words of a farastu gehreleth in Carceri hadn’t yet bubbled like so much tar to the forefront of her mind.
Clueless tapped the hilt of his sword, “Then it’s a trip through the Hive then?”
***
True to the letter’s words, the line of beggars spiraled down the hill that the ancient, massive structure of the Gatehouse lay nestled atop. Thousands of the Hive’s residents awaited whatever meager handouts they might gain from the efforts of the former faction that still operated the facilities even bereft of political power. Ideology remained behind and in the hearts of the faithful, even in the absence of organized, official power.
“This place smells.” Tristol said, still feeling frazzled and ragged despite being back up and on his feet.
Nisha gave him a quick snug on his shoulder, “Well, you don’t have to wait in line. It’s the archmage privilege.”
Tristol had to smile, even if just for her efforts to cheer him up.
Clueless checked his purse as they passed a cluster of beggars, given that they all rather stood out as not being from the Hive, “I didn't seem to need the archmage privilege when I was here before."
Skalliska looked up at the bladesinger and checked her own purse. "You had a member in good standing with the tout's guild leading you around at the time."
"And they thought that he was crazy too." Nisha pointed out.
Clueless shrugged and smiled as they moved through the crowd and under an archway crowded with bored-looking children.
Quickly moving through the orphanage, the group was largely ignored by the staff and avoided by all but the most adventurous children. Toras smiled and waved at the few brave orphans, and one or two of them waved back, though another made faces, and Nisha made a face right back, sending the young tiefling running back to the safety of some hiding place elsewhere in the building. But compared to the kitchens and its waiting, loitering throngs, there was little traffic and no one approached them till they made it to a door leading into the originally Bleaker specific portion of the Gatehouse where a pair of guards were casually posted.
“May we help you?” One of them asked, looking curiously at the group.
“If you’re looking for the kitchens, you’ll want to go to the back of…”
Toras waved a hand and cut the man off. “Actually we’re just trying to avoid the crowd. We had a letter of summons from the guildmaster. Apparently he wanted to see us about something.”
The guards looked at each other and then looked at the letter itself. They nodded approvingly, confirming the identity of the writer, or at least the legitimacy of the seal on the paper.
“Very well then. Past this door go down the hallway, take the second left and the factor Te… excuse me, guildmaster Tessali’s office is at the midpoint down the corridor. If you can’t find it, anyone you come across can direct you.”
Toras thanked them and the group continued on, deeper into the gatehouse and into regions that in years past would have been completely off limits to anyone not a member of the faction. Had they been members though, they wouldn’t have learned any hidden secrets or amazing revelations though, because there wasn’t much to see. Perhaps it was just the Bleakers’ sensibilities, but as they stood outside the office of the man who in other times would have been their factol, there was little to be impressed about.
The simple wooden door to Guildmaster Tessali’s office was open, revealing a relatively sparse room filled with paperwork and a few curling wisps of incense rising up from an antique, blown-glass incense burner of arborean design. The guildmaster, a slender gray elf dressed in simple, relatively unadorned robes, sat at his desk looking over a spellbook while the remnants of his lunch sat slowly cooling to one side on a chipped ceramic plate.
Clueless looked at Fyrehowl and they both shrugged.
“Hrrrmmpphhh.” Toras cleared his throat and knocked on the frame of the door.
“Yes?” Tessali said, not looking up from his studies. “Just put the reports on the corner of the desk. And actually, while you’re here, I want you to go find Tyvold and have him speak to that one merchant out of Bedlam when he arrives later today.”
Obviously the guildmaster had been expecting someone else.
“Actually we’re here for something else entirely.” Toras replied, getting the elf’s attention. “You sent us a letter asking us to come see you about something?”
“Excuse me?” The gray-elf asked, looking up from his desk. He blinked and studied their faces for a moment before frowning. “I can’t say I know who you all are. I didn’t send you or anyone else any letters, or request any sort of meeting. I’m sorry, I really am, but you must be mistaken.”
Standing there in his door, they looked at one another with some confusion. The letter had been sent from the gatehouse, sealed with the symbol of the Bleakers, and signed in the guildmaster’s name. So why wouldn’t he be aware of it?
Toras looked at the letter and then back at the elf. “Well your letter mentioned that you knew us, and wanted us to speak with you about someone by the name of Marason.”
And then something odd happened. The guildmaster abruptly stopped and put down his pen in a disturbingly mechanical fashion. He looked up with glazed, unfocused eyed and gestured towards the door.
“My apologies.” He said, his words slow and deliberate, lacking inflection. “That matter must have slipped my mind.”
Fyrehowl glanced to Florian with a look rapidly shared by the others. It was like the mention of Marason’s name, whoever he was, had flipped a switch in the man’s mind. Might he have been in the grips of the Grim Retreat and developed multiple personalities? He was a bleaker after all. Or might it have been a magical compulsion or powerful geas? They didn’t know, but all of those ideas were plausible ones.
“If you’ll follow me please.” Tessali said as he walked to the door. “It’s only a short walk to his cell.”
“His cell?” Toras asked as they followed the man.
Tessali led them away from the more public areas of the Gatehouse, down a long, twisting corridor towards a heavy iron portcullis. He paused at the gate and knocked on the iron to summon the guards on the other side.
“Yes, his cell.” He finally explained, turning back to Toras. “Marason is locked away in this portion of the asylum.”
“What’s he in here for?” Clueless asked.
Tessali paused and a stronger look of confusion crossed his features. “I… I don’t know.”
In fact, the guildmaster seemed to just forget that he’d been asked the question, much less that he didn’t know the answer. Parts of his brain appeared to be running like a bit of wound up clockwork.
On the other side of the portcullis, a paid of guards appeared and looked at the group and Tessali. Rather unlike the average bleaker seeing to the normal operation of the Gatehouse, they were armed and armored. That was odd. What portion of the place was Tessali leading them into?
Fyrehowl’s ears perked and she tried to listen to the words passing between the half-elf and the guards. She didn’t hear most of it, but as soon as the name of Marason was dropped, both guards immediately went to open the door like they were zombies, slow, stiff, unthinking. There went the idea of split personalities. Something or someone was controlling the wardens of the Gatehouse.
The portcullis cranked open with a heavy grating noise of metal on stone and the thud of landing counterweights somewhere behind the masonry. Beyond the entryway the stone seemed thicker and less polished, with more grime and dirt to evidence a lack of open concern with appearances. Whatever portion of the gatehouse that it was, it wasn’t public, and the bleakers had absolutely no concern about giving it the care due to a public place.
Tessali led them down another short passage and then through another set of iron doors, ones that this time he held the keys to himself. Past the door they ascended a long flight of stairs and emerged into a secluded hallway that held only a handful of darkened cells to either side and the glow of candlelight from the cell at the corridor’s end.
“Just what part of the Gatehouse are we in?” Skalliska asked. “This isn’t on any of the maps of the place that I’ve ever seen.”
The elf frowned. “It’s part of the center wing of the building, but it’s not something we like to talk about. Welcome to the irretrievably and criminally insane ward. Special prisoners, and any of our members who fall into the Grim Retreat, are kept isolated here away from the public, for the mutual good and safety of all involved.”
Isolated was the key word as they walked down the dimly lit corridor past walls that ran with bits of nitre and dripping water. The place was deathly quiet, and except for the drip of water from the walls, there was no sound other than their breathing and their footsteps. Pitiless was a vacation spot by comparison to the atrocious condition of the cells, since while they were doubtless secure against escape, absolutely no concern seemed given to the comfort or health of the prisoners.
Fyrehowl glanced at the cells and an odd, wary look crossed over her features. It was an odd expression, and an even stranger feeling for the cipher. To be honest, outside of a sense of apprehension, she didn’t know what to think.
A sudden scream from one of the cells broke the silence. “She’s coming for me! The bladed Lady! She knows where I am!”
Tessali looked at the cell and shook his head sadly. “Former factol L’har is a broken man. He fell into the Grim Retreat a week before the Faction War, and conveniently enough he was no longer Factol when his successor was mazed. L’har seems to think that Her Serenity made a mistake and will eventually come back for him. We can’t put any illumination in his cell or he screams to the point of hurting himself when the light throws shadows across the room.”
Florian glanced to the mad factol’s cell and then towards the other three.
Tessali held up his hand, “Please don’t touch the doors. I’d rather Esmus and Tollysalmon not be disturbed. They…”
The guildmaster shuddered and trailed off. “Trust me. When I’ve let you into Marason’s cell I’ll be leaving. Call for me when you’re finished and I’ll return to let you out. I’d prefer not to remain in the ex-factols’ presence.”
“Why?” Florian asked.
“They’re still bitter.” There was an evasive look in the guildmaster’s eyes.
The cleric raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“The last time we tried to kill them.”
Clueless turned and looked at the former Bleaker. “What?”
“Not that we could…” Tessali shuddered again. “But we had to try.”
From somewhere in the darkness of the cell opposite the elf, someone giggled.
Tessali glanced at the cell and hurriedly took out his keys. “Take your time. I don’t care to come back here soon.”
The moment the key entered the lock, the guildmaster resumed his marionette act, slowly and unthinkingly unlocking the door and gesturing them forwards. A moment later he turned and left, leaving the door open as he walked away in a daze.
“Please come in.” Came the voice from the cell’s interior. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you for a while, and I’m sure that you’ll find me a much better conversationalist than the barmies in the neighboring cells.”
As if on cue there was another unhealthy giggle from ex-Factol Esmus and in the darkness of his cell a pair of luminous eyes opened and were just as quickly shut. Fyrehowl stepped back and away from the former factol’s door, disturbed by the even brief expression of something altogether unnatural from the madman to her right. She looked away and across to the cell reserved for Tollysalmon, the githyanki ex-factol who had preceded Esmus.
The cell was pitch black and silent, but even without seeing so much as a darkened outline of the woman, she felt watched nonetheless. Disturbed, she turned away and shook her head, looking towards Marason’s cell, but as she did so the fur on the lupinal’s head visibly moved with a rush of static, and she felt a sensation that could only be described as something cold ever so faintly brushing against her mind. Tessali’s overreaction had been anything but.
Standing in contrast to the impression given off by the adjacent cells, the open doorway to Marason’s chamber seemed positively inviting by comparison. Looking inside the cell there was a single table, a small cot and a lone candle pushing back the darkness. Outside of having a source of light though, it was incredibly spartan, dirty, and had little to differentiate it from any of the other cells in the asylum.
“Greetings.” Said a thin man seated behind the table. He was dirty but rather nondescript, and outside of his smile there was nothing remarkable about him save that his fingers were stained heavily with ink. There didn’t seem to be a pen or paper on the desk however as he rapped his knuckles on the wooden surface and welcomed his guests.
“Do we know you?” Toras asked.
“In a round about way yes, you might say so.” His fingers toyed with the air at the base of his neck as if he were toying with a piece of jewelry, or repeating some old, ingrained habit.
Fyrehowl saw the motion of his fingers and something started to form in her memories. “I take it you’re the person who wrote Tessali’s letter to us?”
He grinned and held up his fingers. “You’d think so I suppose. I composed the letter but I didn’t write it, not really. Tessali’s fingers held the pen. I just directed him and gave him the words to write. Assign authorship as you wish.”
The candle’s flame flickered and they stared at the man who was obviously more than just a mortal man.
“So who and what are you?” Fyrehowl asked, unwilling to come right out and voice her suspicions.
Marason spread his hands and the veil of illusion that cloaked his cell lifted, revealing a room cluttered with dozens of stacks of books, open handwritten ledgers, and piles of paper and loose manuscripts. Rather than a single candle burning in solitude, a dozen globes of light drifted through the air, illuminating the writer at his desk and casting a distinctly inhuman shadow across the floor.
“Back in Carceri you were promised aid.” He said. “You were also told that someone would eventually contact you. And in light of your recent, and might I add brilliant, crippling insult against the rotting little bitch of Othrys, I found it to be the time to make your acquaintance and introduce myself.”
The man’s form rippled, shifted and expanded to fill the opposite side of the table’s width. The chair creaked and groaned under the sudden stress, and the light glinted off of the being’s glistening teeth and the simple black triangle that hung around its neck.
The shator gehreleth folded its hands across the book upon the table and smiled.
“Had we made a bargain over what you did, I would count myself in your debt right now. But in the absence of that, let me just say that I admire your actions and appreciate their consequences. Allow me to introduce myself then as an admirer of your deeds and a kindred spirit in terms of our displeasure with the yugoloths, wretched abortions of the Waste that they are. In the event that you might have heard of me or my work, my name is Xideous.”
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
THAT'S a good girl.
