ing much in the days, tendays, months, or even years ahead.
«Thank you,» the archmage said to the boy. He caught the edge of the captive's confused, surprised expression as Kyorli began again to worry at her itchy hip. «I don't care what you might have to say about your doomed House. You will answer only one question. . what is that sigil?»
There was a silence Gromph took as confusion.
«The sign,» the archmage said, letting impatience sound in his voice. «The sigil my young nephew is holding up in front of you.»
As ordered, Prath had taken up a position some yards away, against the wall of the giant chamber, and was holding up a small placard maybe six inches on each side. Painted onto its surface was a simple, easily recognizable rune—one any drow would recognize as marking a way to shelter, a place of safety in the wilds of the Underdark.
«I could compel you to read it, fool,» the archmage drawled into the prisoner's hesitation. «Tell me what it is, and let us move on.»
«It's. .» the captive said, squinting. «Is it the symbol of Lolth?»
Gromph sighed and said, «Almost.»
The archmage mentally nudged the rat on his shoulder and turned her head to see Zillak wrap a thin wire garrote around the prisoner's neck. When blood began to ooze from under the wire and spittle sprinkled from his mouth, Kyorli paid closer attention. Gromph waited for the prisoner to stop struggling, then die, before he stepped to the next traitor.
«I won't read it!« that one barked, the fear coming off him in waves. «What is this?»
Gromph, aggravated at the waste of time a spell of compulsion would take, tipped his head to the Xorlarrin mage who still stood right behind him and asked, «What color?»
«A garish magenta, Archmage,» Jaemas answered.
«Well
«Thank you,» the archmage said to the boy. He caught the edge of the captive's confused, surprised expression as Kyorli began again to worry at her itchy hip. «I don't care what you might have to say about your doomed House. You will answer only one question. . what is that sigil?»
There was a silence Gromph took as confusion.
«The sign,» the archmage said, letting impatience sound in his voice. «The sigil my young nephew is holding up in front of you.»
As ordered, Prath had taken up a position some yards away, against the wall of the giant chamber, and was holding up a small placard maybe six inches on each side. Painted onto its surface was a simple, easily recognizable rune—one any drow would recognize as marking a way to shelter, a place of safety in the wilds of the Underdark.
«I could compel you to read it, fool,» the archmage drawled into the prisoner's hesitation. «Tell me what it is, and let us move on.»
«It's. .» the captive said, squinting. «Is it the symbol of Lolth?»
Gromph sighed and said, «Almost.»
The archmage mentally nudged the rat on his shoulder and turned her head to see Zillak wrap a thin wire garrote around the prisoner's neck. When blood began to ooze from under the wire and spittle sprinkled from his mouth, Kyorli paid closer attention. Gromph waited for the prisoner to stop struggling, then die, before he stepped to the next traitor.
«I won't read it!« that one barked, the fear coming off him in waves. «What is this?»
Gromph, aggravated at the waste of time a spell of compulsion would take, tipped his head to the Xorlarrin mage who still stood right behind him and asked, «What color?»
«A garish magenta, Archmage,» Jaemas answered.
«Well
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