Quoth the Raven

The Intrigue of the Prelude

The cowl lifts but a fraction as Avarren's attention raptly locks upon the figure exiting the citadel, enough to reveal his glistening eyes, a pale yellow, touched with swirling specks of green, the slightest traces of madness tweaking the corners into a blinkless stare. A permenent, wide grin creases a corrupt face, erupting in uncontrollable, hyenaish mirth that he reflexively muffles with a billowing scarf that swallows all sound. Wrapped in a shroud of nebulous cloth, nary a trace of his body is seen, though his proportions indicate he is of smallish stature... obviously no bigger than a five year old human... were he human.

The power courses through him. Exhileratingly, maddeningly. His shoulders rock up and down in the throes of his muffled laughter as he watches the Undead Lord's manservant direct the cleanup of offal about the Citadel. The scavengers are run off, slinking back to the forest, peering on the loss of their banquet with hunger filled eyes and poignant sorrowful howls and caws.

Snorting derisively at the disgusting beasts, Avarren glides past the milling undead, unseen, unnoticed, undetectable. He pauses near the butler, a million devious plots and ploys playing through his mind, each precipitating its own laugh, before he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and moves on.

Into the very depths of the den of the Undead Lord he traverses, taking stock of the amassing troops, the sheer number of dead being raised by necromancers, the neophyte vampires lingering in the shadows awaiting the call of the dread master. Weaponry is being prepared. War looms upon the horizon. He laughs again, its just too deliciously intoxicating for him to take it all in. It draws him, like a moth to flame, he feeds upon it... the intrigue... the tense energy... the emotions of the place swirl, unseen by the inhabitants... tantalizing.

"Covetous of a title." *laugh* His weaselish voice sidles through the interior of his own mind as he shakes his head slightly. "Traitors... traitors... and more traitors in the midst." Gliding onward and ever inward, through the depths of the hall, he goes, unseen, unknown, even by the Demon Lord himself, mentally ticking off figures and statistics like an abacus.

Avarren's malicious thoughts tickle at his mind, prompting action, a plan of sorts takes form. His impromptu raid finished... he cannot help but snicker, shifting like the falling grains of sand through a crack in the wall and away, as formless as a shadow.

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Lightning strikes across the sky as the small figure appears at the gates of the great castle. An ominous sign, to be certain, perhaps of wicked portents, ill meaning designs set in motion. Approaching the gates, the figure whispers in a conniving voice to the guards, "I have information for the Dark Liege." His voice grating to hear, like nails raked across slate. Supplicating himself appropriately, he hides a wide grin and muffles a laugh.