Hebrert sunk back into his chair as the others started talking. There wasn't a whole lot left for him to say, anyway. The representatives from the other branches of the cult weren't even looking at him any longer - he was no one special, and thus easy to ignore. Soon, even those that had glared at him before were ignoring him, caught up in the rest of the argument. Now, Herbert didn't at all mind being ignored, but at the arrogant tone of the others his vision went red and his teeth started grinding together. Neck bent, his face was hidden from view and none could see how close he was to exploding in a cascade of violent magics, and he fought it as best he could. After all, he wasn't much interested in dying then and there. It was only with great effort that he managed to hear the names being drawn, and by the time all the names had been drawn there were bloody trenches in his armrests where he'd dug through the wood with his nails. Two of them were still stuck in the chair. As the cults were drawn, the entire group broke into whispered arguments about who would go.

The different branches all wanted to push the responsibility onto the others, and no one wanted to accept it. It took about half a minute before anyone took notice of the purple-robed one, frozen in his seat. All of a sudden, everyone remembered that he spoke out and, gathering around his chair, they declared that he would be the one to go. When he made no sign of responding, one old, black-clad man jabbed him in the gut with a tentacled rod. Herbert's hands went slack and he doubled over, falling face-first out of the chair. He eventually crawled to his feet, coming face to face with the one who stabbed him. The old one repeated the verdict, and Herbert nodded. "Yes, yes, I will go". He tried to brush his robes off, but didn't manage anything more productive than getting blood all over them. Oh, well. At least this'd be the last he had to see of the Old One cults for a while.

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