he doors swung open and High Priest Auron Tenebrae strode into the room, his robe swirling around his tall, narrow frame. To his right was Quiver, a miser with words, but overly generous with withering glares. To Tenebrae’s left, Craven, a bland sycophant, possessed of an uncanny skill to worm his way into his superior’s good graces. Solomon Wreath had been seeing far too much of all three lately.
“Cleric Wreath,” Tenebrae said, nodding imperiously at him.
“Your Eminence,” Wreath responded, bowing deeply. “To what do I owe the honour?”
“Why do you think we’re here?” Craven said, almost sneered. “You’re
