[Suzerain of Sheol]

No one is comfortable in Old Lady Marl's cellar. Lambent torches fill the dank, crowded room with unreliable light, glinting off the blades of stockpiled weapons as fumes of oily smoke make breathing a burden, mingling unhappily with the must of dried herbs.

Beyond the crackling of the torches, silence fills the space, broken only by the intermittent sobs of the young man in the corner, hunched over on a dusty mattress.

"They're really... going to kill him... I can't believe it..."

Across the room, an old woman spits on the earth below her feet. "Damn kid did it to himself. Always knew he'd get hauled in one of these days. Probably thinks we're gonna stage a rescue, too, poor bastard."

"Are we?" The question comes from the far corner where a massive, heavily-muscled man stands with arms crossed, a curved sword sheathed at his waist.

The old woman scoffs. "One day back in town, and you're itching for another war to fight. Bah. We don't have half the men we'd need, Casper knows Dalton's one of ours. 's a trap, if I've ever smelled one." She hitches up the saber that sways at her belt, adjusts her coat. "Bloody idiot jackdaw like him, I can write off. Not keen to lose a son today, as well, Ulysses."

"So touching that your gnarled heart still beats for me, mother. But we'll have to do something, eventually. Things will only get worse from here."

"Yeah, don't think I don't know it. We'll need every hand we can get. You're fixing for a fight, right, Tans?" She addresses the fourth member of their gathering, a large and broad woman who sits cross-legged atop Marl's desk nearby, disturbing various alchemy recipes with her presence, looking bored.

Before she can respond, however, the young man, Horace, rises from the bed, wiping at tears. "I'm real sorry, Lady M., but I just can't hear this. Not right now. I'll go check on Uncle Isty." With a nod from Marl, he excuses himself up the hatch to the main floor of the house.