While the orcs celebrated the end of the cycle, feasting on meat and fresh ale, and dancing at the rhythm of the drums, Adam sat across from Grum'Thal.
The air between them thickened, the festivities strangled in deadly silence. Answers, and their prices. What would they cost? He didn't know yet. But one thing was sure: he wouldn't take a losing deal today. Or ever, in fact.
He pressed his elbows on the smooth leather covering the broad table. The lights from the braziers cast shadows across his face as he leaned forward. "A nice performance out there. Your political skills were impressive, truly. I'd be lying if I said it didn't piss me off to the highest degree to be your pawn." His eyes narrowed into slits. "So, no more games. What do you want?"
Grum'Thal leaned his staff against the table. The empty eye sockets of the demonic skull seemed to glare at Adam with ancient malice. Not Grum'Thal's red eyes. They were soft, almost as if he were studying a new friend.
