"Oh good, a cleric," Tyst says. "Welcome to the asylum. I'm Tyst, don't mind the soot, it's illusory...mostly...a byproduct of hanging out near the Fey. Let me introduce you to Zarvox. Zarvox is a secretary for the Abyss - likes to write and talk in riddles. You two will get a long great!"He chuckles as he leads Thrain towards Zarvox.
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"...at worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."
Zarvox’s ember eyes flicker with theatrical delight as he steps forward, coat flaring like a curtain before a performance. His tail taps once—twice—thrice, in rhythm with the riddle he begins to weave: "A thief steals time, a dwarf wields faith, A soot-born jester dances near wraith. But tell me, newcomer, if truth you seek—Who writes the riddles that all others speak?”
He tilts his head, smile sharp as a scalpel, and adds with mock reverence: “Welcome, Thrain. You’ve arrived precisely when the plot thickens. I am Zarvox—footnote framer, abyssal archivist, and the reason this tale remembers itself.”
Then, with a wink toward Tyst: “And yes, dear sootling, I do believe we’ll get along famously. Provided he enjoys being confused.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Ian. I look forward to working with you. Hopefully we all life long enough to get to know each other better.”
With a slight look of irritation at still being in chains Ian follows Jade into the tent.
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"Oh good, a cleric," Tyst says. "Welcome to the asylum. I'm Tyst, don't mind the soot, it's illusory...mostly...a byproduct of hanging out near the Fey. Let me introduce you to Zarvox. Zarvox is a secretary for the Abyss - likes to write and talk in riddles. You two will get a long great!" He chuckles as he leads Thrain towards Zarvox.
"...at worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."
Zarvox Narration
Zarvox’s ember eyes flicker with theatrical delight as he steps forward, coat flaring like a curtain before a performance. His tail taps once—twice—thrice, in rhythm with the riddle he begins to weave: "A thief steals time, a dwarf wields faith, A soot-born jester dances near wraith. But tell me, newcomer, if truth you seek—Who writes the riddles that all others speak?”
He tilts his head, smile sharp as a scalpel, and adds with mock reverence: “Welcome, Thrain. You’ve arrived precisely when the plot thickens. I am Zarvox—footnote framer, abyssal archivist, and the reason this tale remembers itself.”
Then, with a wink toward Tyst: “And yes, dear sootling, I do believe we’ll get along famously. Provided he enjoys being confused.”
Ian looks at Thrain.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Ian. I look forward to working with you. Hopefully we all life long enough to get to know each other better.”
With a slight look of irritation at still being in chains Ian follows Jade into the tent.