A titter of laughter echoed from the darkness at Ralk’s feet. He gave a start and took a couple steps backward, his cane thumping on the floor.
“Promises, promises.” Another titter. “Pick the ones you like best and throw the rest away, is it?”
The words rose and fell like waves on jagged rocks. High and whining at first, then falling to a deep and echoing bass, then rising again.
Ralk stared. So did Fiafia. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Break your promise to the Venari, and I’ll keep one to you,” came the voice. “Silas of the Rift will wear your skin like a suit, and I’ll see to it you watch him dance a jig in it.”
A dark shadow rose from the floor. A man dressed in black. In one hand, he held a staff topped with a skull, and a bird-like mask with a curved beak covered his face.
Ralk stumbled backward. His feet tangled together, and he went down in a heap.
“Doctor Blight!” he cried, struggling to right himself.
Doctor Blight tilted his bird-like mask toward the heavens. He spread his arms, and his body jerked and twitched. A green, necrotic energy uncoiled from him, its tendrils snaking out. He laughed, the pitch warbling from high to low again and again.
—From Creeping, an entry in the Tome of CHAOS