Tymothus kicked and screamed, bit and pled. Morlia slid open the lid as Morden and Irion stuffed him into the sarcophagus. The once summer-hued skin of Rinlot, turned coarse and loathsome, clung to the new inhabitant.

As the lid slid back, Irion Ordrid’s grin grew as wide as his son’s. Sons were a theme. It make have taken too many years and two bodies, but the Ordrid soul who Rinmauld had cheated finally avenged the Ordrid House, and sent Rinmauld’s into tortured ashes, his dearest son moaning in this delightful little box.

Rinlot’s hands found holds on Tymothus. Just before the lid was sealed, and what was left of the light of the moon would be conquered by forever black, Tymothus dared look beside him. Rinlot stared back, the agony of hell on his wry grimace.

Leaving a wake of bursting bottles, the runaway mules careened out of the Morgeltine. The last to see it in the district was a bloated Wardsman, watching in disbelief as a ghost-driven wagon wheeled past.

The beings that haunt the dark weren’t limited to the Rogaire Mansion that night. As the wagon entered the celebrated Do-Gooder’s Row, flowers and confetti and strands of human hair were kicked up by its wheels. The mules’ hearts finally exhausted, the shadows stalking the nooks and miasma of Nilghorde began to envelope the cart.

Some would suggest more Ordrid magic was at work, but the mob was just the poor, the slowest five among them sent to the Pauper Morgue.