Even the air smelled of death and smoke. Ash, instead of dust, was kicked up behind the caravan, creating what looked to be murky, storm clouds. Nothing looked to be alive other than the vast amount of foreign peoples, migrating from across the land to answer to Queen Harcona's summons. Myr knew the reasons why Asmodius would ever cooperate with such a shrew. His forces on the mortal plane were becoming scarce, obliterated by the holy crusades of the Church of Pelor and by the campaigns of The Dozen. All of the unrighteous forces were retreating, reaching for a chance at recuperation and revenge.

As her convoy reached the sizeable west gates of The Black Citadel, it became apparent how many people were to be present at this meeting. Harcona had invited virtually everyone; royal purple flags and banners were flying everywhere. Setrin Trapspringer himself would be able to infiltrate the citadel under these conditions, everyone bustling about with some unapparent purpose. Oh yes, she had indeed heard of Chief Olaff and his failure to catch the halfling. Failure could not be accepted; not under the current circumstances. Myrenae glared grimly at the servant who called out her name, obviously placed there to invite guests in. How dare he forget her name? Anyways, she would be sure to put her guard on alert, and inform the rest of the company of any possible betrayal. They would have to be even more vigilant inside the fortress. This could be a ruse, a trap. But Harcona would be smarter than that... She almost certainly would rather let everyone die, fighting for a cause that would benefit no one else.

Paranoia always served a purpose.

As they were all seated around extremely ornate tables, servants rushed in quickly to bring them food and drink. She would be eating nothing - she didn't need to gorge herself on food, like the others. She knew her face appeared sunken. It didn't matter. It wouldn't affect her effectiveness in battle - Asmodius saw to that. Besides the fact that she wasn't hungry, the food could have been poisoned. It was dark enough, inside the stronghold, that they wouldn't be able to recognize it if it was...

A plump, male gnome had begun speaking without her immediate knowledge, her mind too focused on the possibilities. However, after she realized someone was talking, she was instantaneously drawn into the speech. So, Asmodius was correct... Harcona was planning something. Myr knew of the Scales of Creation, though she had always dismissed the stories as myth and pure fantasy. At least the gnome was making a successful attempt at hooking the diverse audience, though she could sense there was probably more to the narrative than the cunning little pretender let on.

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