Scrunge excused himself from the crowd. The Islanders let him leave without fuss. Moorfain had long ago established an embassy here, and he’d held the post of ambassador for seventeen turns. He was tolerated by the locals, though not particularly well-liked.
Scrunge’s quarters were up the mountain, in a glen far removed from the main city. As he strode along stilted wooden walkways snaking through the jungle, he shuddered at the thought that the dreaded Prophecy of Night might come to pass. It echoed in his head:
When the female sorcerer of wild soul and eyes
Beseeches the daemonion to sow their own demise,
When the kindred spirits are remembered from the past,
Then shall Moorfain’s power fall and fail them all at last.
Her cry unto the demon kin shall plunge them into night,
For da
