Archmage Morresinius duKallek, known as "Unibrow" (but never to his face) to many of his rivals and enemies and "Half Beard" to many others (never to his face either), sat in his study. He sipped on a fine wine in a delicate crystal flute engraved with a forest scene. The crisp clear taste of the wine washed away the sharp taste of the cheese he'd eaten a small square of just moments before. His thick gray eyebrow covered his brow above both of his gray eyes below a lion's mane of gray hair. The long, braided beard that only covered half of his chin and one side of his jaw, the rest a casualty of the Lich King War, was as iron gray as his hair. His white skinned face was wrinkled, covered in the tracery of mage-burn scars that every practitioner of the arcane arts acquired over the years, and scars from decades of serving with the Iron Legion to break the power of the Lich Kings. Despite the marks and scars, the large mole just beneath his left ear, and the silver colored thread closing a still weeping gash on his chin below the left corner of his mouth, the Archmage eschewed the makeup that was so fashionable in Deliarre-Traxx and the rest of the continent of Lashtrak.

The room was a study in elegance. From the paintings of bucolic scenes to the statues and busts, everything was selected for elegance and to compliment one another. The shelves that covered much of the walls groaned under the weight of the books and tomes collected from all over the Six Worlds and the Ages that had come before.

duKallek's kimono was embersilk from the Land of the Ifreet, embroidered with thread made of rainbow scattered from the roaring froth of a waterfall, made from the gold rays of the harvest moon, and the rose of morning sunbeams. Patterns of power flowed through the embroidery, moving in front of an observer's eyes. The Archmage's personal mage-sigil was perfectly replicated on the left breast, identical to the mark on his palm and the pads of the tips of his index fingers, on his right breast were the symbols of the Iron Legion war mages, the city of Vellimarious duShravekian-Traxx of the Land of the Ifreet, and the Valley of the Stacked Skulls in a triangle, the Iron Circle on the left and the city on the top.

Across from him was a thin, effeminate man dressed in the coat and tails in style with the Lesser Houses of Deliarre-Traxx. His oiled hair was groomed into the same swooping mane that the Archmage's naturally fell in, and his mahogany skinned face was covered by paint, with drawn in eyebrows, bright red lipstick, a butterfly on one cheek and a scarlet ibis on the other. On his forehead was the sigil of the city's ruling body, the thick makeup that acted as a foundation unable to hide the unevenness of his brow thanks to the multitude of pimples that covered his face. He sat in the overstuffed comfortable chair uncomfortably, as if he would be shocked or stabbed at any second rather than seated in a chair that molded itself to his flesh to give the maximum comfort.

The younger man, Sarrius Shavelin duJulnrak was growing quickly irritated. He was a member of House Shavelin duJulnurak, a Lesser House true, but not a Minor House, not a merchant house, and certainly not some pedigree-less wanderer who had arrived at Sarrius' home city at the close of the Lich King War like some rootless vagabond.

How dare this spellslinging vagrant act as if I do not exist? Does he not understand the power of my house? Does he think his ability to throw off a few spells makes him my equal? The young man raged silently, watching as the Archmage turned another page in the book he was perusing. Looking at the book made the young man's eyes water, as the spidery script seemed to writhe and move on the page, which only increased his irritation.

After another page turn, by which time the young man was ready to storm out, orders from the council or not, the Archmage looked up, furrowing his brow so that his unibrow gathered together in a ferocious snarl above his crooked nose.

"Oh, I'd forgotten about you." The Archmage said, taking the silk bookmark that was hanging down from the spine of the book and placing it carefully in between the pages before closing the thick tome. "This book demands a reader's full attention and devotion."

The young man opened his mouth to retort when the book suddenly flew open and a disembodied snarl tore through the air. Purple and crimson energy tendrils began to reach up from the book toward the Archmage. Sarrius jerked back in his chair, almost standing up, as cold blue fire erupted from the book.

"In but a moment, have the patience you demand from those seeking your wisdom." The Archmage chuckled, slowly closing the book again. There was another snarl, but it trailed off as the Archmage stroked the cover with his fingers.

With a gentle smile the Archmage looked at the young man in front of him. Despite what the young man saw in the mirror, a powerful scion from a Lesser House preparing to make its move to join the Great Houses, the heir of a house who commanded power and respect from all within the city, the Archmage saw a callow youth who danced through life blissfully unaware of the many dangers he flirted with.

"Now, what may I do for Court of Lords?" The old man asked, sipping at the fine wine again and enjoying the taste on his tongue. It was made with glass grapes from the Lands of the Ifreet, where he had grown to power before joining the Iron Legion to throw down the Lich Kings and free his homeland. While he understood the politics that had made the Ifreet name all who joined the rebellion renegade and place them under sentence of death, he deeply regretted not returning home.

He found the city of Deliarre-Traxx to be rude and uncouth.

"What you may do, Unibrow, is follow the commands of the Court of Lords." Sarrius sneered, taking out the fear he had felt a moment ago on his host. "Which includes immediately attending to the representative the Court of Lords has sent to command you, not ignore him like some beggar at your back gate weeping pitifully for scraps."

The Arch-Mage's furrowed brow smoothed out and Morresinius' eyes narrowed as the young man continued.

"You are not of a noble house, Unibrow, you are little better than a commoner, and the only reason I am not having you drawn and quartered for your insolence in ignoring me is the fact that some members of the Court of Lords find you amusing, much like a talking dog or the idea of a flying peeper." The young man had come to his feet during his irate tirade, his anger blinding him to the faint sparkles of crimson and gold fire beginning to twinkle under the webbing of arcane burn scars on the older man's skin.

"I have been sent because someone thought that a member of a noble house might impress upon your dim intellect that someone might have thought you might be a slight bit of use in a task that someone thought you be capable of playing a small part in." Sarrius said, waving his silk gloved hands. "One simple task is all that your betters require of you, and it might be good of you to show my person some respect, Half Beard."

Morresinius leaned back in his chair, taking the time to sip at his glass of wine to give him some time to get a rein on his temper.

"Now pay attention, you magic tossing vagabond." Sarrius sneered. "The Court of Lords has a task for you, and should you fail at this, I will personally ensure you are put to death."

Reminding himself that the young man had no clue who, or what, he was actually addressing, Morresinius simply watched the young man with a bland expression. Sarrius drew confidence from the older man's silence, his tirade gaining in strength and abuse.

"The task should be simple even from one such as you, who lacks proper breeding and a title that could be bought even by a simple day laborer or beggar." Sarrius told the older man. "There is a man that the Court of Lords wishes stopped from whatever nefarious plans he has been sent to complete, and you are to do this immediately, without delay, and using whatever vague and weak powers you have at your disposal."

Morresinius was silent, despite the obvious question that the younger man wanted him to ask, until Sarrius couldn't control himself any more and blurted it out angrily.

"If you do not undertake this task, should you prefer to ignore the commands of your betters, the Court of Lords has stated that your asylum that was granted to you shall be revoked and you shall be ejected from this fair city-state immediately. Due to your insolence I will personally see you executed." Sarrius snarled. "You shall slay Fraker the Axe by sundown, or you shall die in his stead."

Morresinius' unibrow rose up to nearly meet his hairline at Sarrius' command. Not at the tone, not at the sheer arrogance the younger man had wrapped himself in, but at the command he had just been given. He was silent out of shock for too long, and Sarrius stepped forward, attempting to intimidate the older, heftier man.

"Do you understand, or are you too witless?" Sarrius asked.

Morresinius set the book to the side, his motions as controlled as his emotions, a lifetime of wielding arcane power filling him with discipline. With a bland expression he slowly stood to his feet and Sarrius stepped back, momentarily intimidated as he realized that his five and half foot stature was at least a foot less than his host.

Sarrius had come to believe all who wielded the arcane arts to be the slender, almost fragile appearing men shown in plays, operas, and theater. Morresinius' shoulders were broad, and despite his age his frame was covered in thick ropey muscle. Morresinius' eyes, formerly a bland gray, now seemed like molten steel as the older man stared at the younger man.

"Am I to understand that the Council of Lords thinks that I will attempt to slay He Who Cannot Be Bound merely because it is their whim?" Morresinius' voice was not the bland tenor is had been, but rather a deep bass rumble.

Sarrius shook himself slightly and stared defiantly at the older man, forcing his lip to curl in distian. "Are you deaf, spellworm?"

"Let me consult my magic a moment." Morresinius said. His stentorian voice even and low.

Sarrius stood sneering as crimson and gold fire filled the intricate tracery of arcane burn scars and the older man made smooth flowing motions for a heartbeat or two, muttering in a sing-song voice despite the harsh syllables of the words for less time than it took Sarrius to inhale and exhale once.

Morresinius' hand flicked out, covered by a steel gray glow. The younger man went to cry out, went to deny Morresinius' action, but found not only his voluntary muscle movement frozen, but his voice stilled.

The older man stared at the young man for a long time in silence, and Sarrius could not even scream as the terror inside of him rose higher and higher.

"Do you know why the Council of Lords sent a member of a Lesser House?" Morresinius asked almost idly, his voice still the deep bass rumble, almost a slow drawling growl as he spoke. Not waiting for an answer that he knew the other man could not give him, the Archmage continued. "It was not because I would be impressed by a preening effeminate fop like you." His stare was a withering thing as he reached out and lifted a delicate etherium bell.

"It was because they wanted to send someone that they could afford to lose." The Archmage said softly, and then rang the bell.

The Archmage stood sipping from the wine flute as he waited on his servant to arrive. The servant, a man dressed in red dyed leather, with coal black skin that seemed to be cloaked by a faint layer of mist, burning green eyes, and small vestigal horns on his forehead, curtseyed deeply before the Archmage.

"You summoned me, powerful one?" The servant, who had served House of Kallek for centuries, asked in a pleasant tenor.

"Take this thing to my workshop, so that I may use it to craft a refusal to the Court of Lords as well as an apology to the Living Lich King." Morresinius said. "After that, prepare the house for a move and hire a caravan."

"Our destination, honored one?" The servant asked, a tinge of hope in his tone.

"The lands of my birth." Morresinius said, sipping at his glass. "We shall see if the rumor of amnesty for those who rebelled against the Lich Kings is indeed truth and present ourselves to the Ifreet herself to beg her forgiveness for our arrogance in pretending to know her wishes when we fought to cast down the Lich Kings whom we felt had usurped her power."

The servant curtseyed again, much deeper, a hint of a smile playing about his mouth as he eyed the paralyzed form of the young man. The man's screams would be a fine wine to the servant, his flowing blood a delicate fragrance, and the feel of the young man's flesh parting before the servant's tools would be exquisite. The servant knew that his powerful master would use the young man's living flesh, blood, muscle and bone to craft both an apology to the fearsome immortal and an insulting response to the ego-fueled council, and trembled in anticipation of watching his master craft a work of art. But that paled before the promise of the future.

It would be good to go home.