Jyth allowed a ripple to travel through the feathers over his back as he alighted curiously on the stone arch. Cocking his head, he turned an eye toward the girl below. Her black dress and hair rippled in waves defined by tears in the cloth or clumped strands. Rippled, even though the air was dead.

Darkness reigned beyond the windows when the revelries finally stilled. Veth sat on the Black Throne, watching. A few men slumped over tables, too worn to seek their beds. Still Veth sat as a statue watching, separate from the merriment as always.

After century and a half Kosmos’ ineptitude still shocked me. In unison, the three stared dumbfoundedly at him. He twitched what constituted his head, equally dumbfounded at our shock.

Adralith groaned glancing at the mist covering the normally clear mirror. Someone demanded his presence. He glanced at his tart. It was perfect. Freshly baked, vibrantly red, fragrant, and the crust. Venna had outdone herself, and he’d missed the season the last three year’s.

“Something’s wrong with this thing.” Lola bellowed.

Nerezza let out an exasperated breath and straightening from the cauldron. “What now?”

The Pointless Axe was overfull. Overfull of noise. Of bodies. Silithie grimace, wrinkling her nose. And especially smells. The scents Rotten food, spilled drink, and unwashed bodies was aided by too infrequent breezes.