A latch clicked, hinges creaked, and the door drifted open and shut in rapid succession. This was followed by a faint thump in the darkness, which was in its turn followed by a sullen cursing from the newcomer and a brief snigger from the armored figure.

"Gods damn it," the new arrival snapped in a voice made wispy with age, "is there some reason you didn't bother to make a light?"

"I'd rather hoped," echoed from within the horrid helm, "that you might trip and break something. Guess I'll have to settle for what sounded like a stubbed toe."

"Light. Now."

"As you demand, O fossil." Fingers twitched, grating slightly against one another as the gauntlet shifted, and a dull glow illuminated the room's center. It revealed the newcomer to be a tall, spindly fellow clad in midnight blues, with an equally dark cloak thrown over bony shoulders. His bald head was covered in more spots than the face of the moon; his beard so delicate that he appeared to be drooling cobwebs; his skin so brittle it threatened to crack and flake away at the joints.

"Better?"

The old man scowled. "Better, what?" he demanded in a near screech.

The sigh seemed to come from the armor's feet. "Better, Master Nenavar?"

"Yes," the old man said with a toothy grin. "Yes, it is." He looked around for another seat, spotted none, and apparently decided not to give his servant the satisfaction of asking him to move. "I assume it's done?" he said instead. "You smell like someone set fire to a butcher's shop."

"Nope, not done. Actually, I explained your entire plan to them and led them back here. He's all yours, gentlemen."

Nenavar actually squeaked as he spun, arms raised before him in a futile gesture of resistance-only to find nothing more threatening behind him than cheap paint slowly peeling off the walls.