Signed, Your Faithful Servant

[Avacyn 1712]

 

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"Thou wouldst do best not to trust the tongued mutterings of red-fleshed men."

 

"You never have anything trustworthy to say, either."

"This is sacrilegious to the highest degree, whelp. Do not forsake thine sanctity."

 

The witch did not reply to her Preacher, instead returning to the dim-lit lounging room wherein sat the evening's peculiar guest: as the Preacher did truthfully speak, yes, he bore skin tinged with the brightest red, an infernal and blinding color and owed to his origin. Hands clapping together once in satisfaction, his sharp-toothed smile fell upon the returning witch.

"I was beginning to fear you wouldn't return."  he chimed, standing to his feet and dusting his scarlet hands off upon his coat. "You've an answer for me, then? The both of you?" 

The room's other dweller shambled from the shadows by the other door: a hooded and entirely veiled man that the witch knew as the Dreadlord. He simply nodded, and despite the vagueness of the movement, the witch and the King both knew what his answer would be. Another grin, and he opened his coat to pull a long-scrolled piece of parchment out.

"Sign here, Princes."

The Thrones were claimed-- Woe and Temptation had risen.

 

((Students will be sought out over the coming days.))

[ToodIes 1575]

A high elf stares at the icy desolation of Johannesburg, dismayed.

 

She falls to her knees with a clank.