His head sported a tempest of hair, long and black with streaks of white, jutting in all directions. Deep cuts and burns scarred his face. Thick brows overshadowed bright, explosive eyes, which darted about rapidly, rolling in his skull like marbles struggling to free themselves from the confines of his head. He was bare-chested except for an elaborate vest of small laced bones. His long fingers absently toyed with a large bloodstained axe lying across his lap.

“Who is this?” the warlord asked in Tenkin, his loud, disturbing voice echoed from the walls. “Who is this that enters the hall of Erandabon unannounced and unheralded? Who treads Erandabon’s forest like sheep to be gathered? Who dares seek Erandabon in his den, his holy place?”

A strange assortment of people surrounded him, and all eyes were on the party as they entered. Toothless, tattooed men spilled drinks while women with matted hair and painted eyes swayed back and forth to unheard rhythms. One lounged naked upon a silk cushion, with a massive snake coiled about her body as she whispered to it. Beside her an old hairless man with yellow nails as long as his fingers painted curious designs on the floor, and everywhere the hall was choked with the smoke of burning tulan leaves, which smoldered in a central brazier.

In the darkest shadows were others. Hadrian could barely make them out through the fog of smoke and the flickering firelight. They clustered in the dark, making faint staccato chattering sounds like the whine of cicadas. Hadrian knew that sound well. He could not see them, merely the suggestion of movement cast in shadows upon stone. They shifted nervously, anxiously, like a pack of hungry dogs, their motions jittery and too fast to be human.

Dilladrum shooed Wesley forward. Wesley took a breath and said, “I am Midshipman Wesley Belstrad, acting captain of what remains of the crew of Her Imperial Eminence’s ship the Emerald Storm, out of Aquesta. I have a message for you, Your Lordship.” He bowed deeply. Hadrian found it comical that a lad of such noble bearing bowed before the likes of Erandabon Gile, who was just shy of a madman.

“Long Erandabon has waited for word.” The man upon the throne spoke in Apelanese. “Long Erandabon has counted the moons and the stars. The waves crash, the ships approach and gather, the darkness grows, and still Erandabon waits. Sits and waits. Waits and sits. The great shadow is growing in the north. The gods come once more, bringing death and horror to all. The undying will crush the world beneath their step, and Erandabon is made to wait. Where is this message? Speak! Speak!”