It was daylight outside the Nentir Inn, but in this windowless garret it might have been night. The dying warlock’s chamber was lit by a single feeble lamp dangling from the darkened ceiling; it swayed slightly, though there was no reason it should.

A slender young steward in close-fitting black garments, Gnarl stood just inside the doorway, an empty tray in his hands, wondering what exactly the warlock wanted. He had refused all service but a little broth and wine. The shadows darkening the chamber seemed to have substance, and personality, as if they’d gathered in the room to observe the tiefling’s decline. He was, after all, no ordinary tiefling-Sernos was quite a famous worker of magic.

“Come closer, young man,” said the warlock hoarsely, shifting on the small bed in the corner of the dank, shadowy room. “And close the door. I have a mission for you…” The tiefling’s rasping voice reminded Gnarl of the filing of old swords. Seeing Gnarl’s hesitation, the warlock scowled, the glow of his crimson eyes quickening like embers blown on a cold night. Trying to prop himself up on his pillows, Sernos gave an agonized grunt and pushed back his hood. Gnarl saw that the tiefling’s head was crowned by horns; his elongated features, always the color of a sunburn, were both noble and infernal.

Reluctantly, Gnarl closed the door and took a step into the room. He feared a malediction should he refuse to approach. “May I fetch you a tonic?” Gnarl suggested. “For your injuries… Perhaps a soothing solution of the poppy-?”

“Trying to put me to sleep, boy-so some assassin can slit my throat?” grated the warlock, eyes narrowing to fiery slits. “Has someone paid you to drug me?”

Gnarl licked his lips. “I am thinly paid, and all gold is welcome, but I wouldn’t take a pot of it to poison a warlock. My papa did not raise a poltroon. I have no wish to be magicked into the Abyss.”