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by WarLocke Zanaste sat quietly, nursing her ale, in a dark corner of Ogden's tavern. She was undecided. Her power had grown of late, but she was not ready to make a move against the Lord of Terror. Yet, she felt a strong urge to do so. "Hrmm, where to find a fool to further my cause?" Zanaste thought. As if on cue, the tavern's doors opened to allow entry to a traveler--Vizjerei, by his robes. Yet, he wore armor of gothic workmanship about his chest. Zanaste lightly tapped a black-lacquered fingernail aginst her teeth; where had she seen such armor before? "Of course," she said absentmindedly, "gothic plate from the Gothic Kingdom." The newcomer was obviously widely-traveled; the Vizjerei originate in the Far East, but the Gothic Kingdom was to the west of Tristram. The tests of the road could clearly be seen in his scuffed armor and dust-stained Turinash robes. This boded investigation, Zanaste thought. The inhabitants of the Gothic Kingdom were notoriously chivalrous, a virtue she found truely amusing. The fact that some also flirted with darkness brought a smirk to her face. "If only they knew..." Perhaps she could use this man. If she appeared to be a waif, perhaps she could convince him to accompany her to Hell... To rescue her parents? Yes, that was what she would tell him. She stood up from her table, but was stopped by the weight of her armor. "Oh, this will not do," Zanaste thought, "he'd never confuse me for a weak, helpless wench." This was true; what wench wore finely-made chainmail? Furthermore, chainmail interlaced with streaks of obsidian? Her circlet of star-metal likewise distinguished her. But neither set her apart as much as her blade, Soul Reaper. In size and shape the blade resembled the hand-and-a-half swords popular in the Khanduras military, but there the resemblance ended. The blade itself was formed of a wavy metal with many grooves, and seemed to glow with a sickly green light. Zanaste knew from experience that Soul Reaper was a vampiric weapon--it leeched the life-essence of any target she weilded it against. Oh, how did she love her sword! There was no sensation akin to the one she felt when the sword imparted a dead enemy's essence to her. Soul Reaper was her companion; they were tied together in a way she found hard to understand. But, none of that would help her now. She had to keep this man alive if he was to help her. Perhaps she would kill him once he was of no more use... She chuckled at the thought. Still, she had to get him to help her at first. She took stock of herself; she could sheath Soul Reaper, that would hide most of its' aura. But what would she do about her mail and circlet? "I'll have to hide them..." Spotting a cloaked man across the tavern, she quietly strode to his table. "Give me your cloak." The man began to protest, until he saw the deadly gleam in Zanaste's eyes. He quickly gave her the cloak, supressing shivers at the half-remembered promises her eyes had shown him. Gathering the cloak about her, and looping her circlet through her belt, Zanaste proceeded towards the Gothic Mage, practicing her best waif's voice under her breath. - WL 
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