In the heart of Angmar, the chamber deep in the bowels of Barad Durgul was silent and ornate, red and gray marble gleamed with a high sheen as Leon sat uneasily in one of the high backed chairs along the wall. His ruined left hand, two fingers fused together from an old burn, casually stroked his salt and pepper beard as he tried to take his mind off the summons. A few Priests of the Unkindled sat in other chairs, also awaiting an audience with the Southern Deacon. Most seemed casual, haughty.

Theinryd lay in his room at the Matravers farmstead, his left arm outstretched to be inspected by the local apothecary and friend to the family, Stanley Bloxwitch. “Nasty business” he said, poking the afflicted arm with a wooden probe, causing great discomfort to Theinryd who flinched in protest. “Very nasty business.” Bloxwitch stood from his stool and moved towards a wooden box upon the bedside table. From it, he opened a small draw and produced a round container.