In the land of dreams and nightmares not under the purview of Erias, there sat a conclave of women ’round a firepit which seemed to burn nothing more than swamp gasses. No wood, no other fuel, and no method of containment neither kept the fire burning nor prevented it from engulfing the conclave in sudden conflagration.
The women were all tall and thin, with hair ranging from stark white to pale blonde. Their clothes hung below their shoulders and seemed to fit their subtle curves, yet they did so without clinging. Such clothing must have been held on by magic, for any seamstress would be able to tell you there was nowhere that the clothing actually held to the women’s bodies. Gravity should have done its work, yet here, in the Blood Bayou, nothing was ever certain.
One with of the swamp chuckled and spoke to her sisters, “I don’t think Amelia is going to return.”
“The king said her little infection has failed, and that the Knights of the Morning Sky spared Mezzel,” said a second.
“Pity,” quipped a third. “I was so hoping we might have some more wretched to join the Krewe of Plagues.”
A fourth nodded in agreement while a fifth seemed distracted by something in the woods. The first then spoke again, "Foolish little man, Ivan was, for his actions would have damned all of Mezzel. Take note, girls, that men are easily swayed by promises of power and strength. Even those who seek the arcane arts can be so swayed by promises that they will be strong, fit, and toned.
“In his desperation to win strength and power, Ivan found our father-king and made a wish of the Momus, and he paid with… this,” a little girl walked forward from the crowd. A half-elf. “Who will be one of us soon.”