Phyacair calmly floated through the chilly pines of the Whispering Forest in western Tirisfal. He knew that his target was here, somewhere, but – ah! There he is. A lone figure was standing in a clearing, and even though his face was concealed behind a rather macabre mask, the identity of the undead man was clear.
“Greetings,” Phyacair rasped out, floating toward his target. “You are Nimin Duskhammer of the Black Harvest, yes?” Of course he was, Phyacair thought; there was no one else here, and this is where they had agreed to meet. But there was no sense being impolite and assuming.
“Yes I am,” the Count of the House Duskhammer replied. “I can only assume that you are Tuera’s... representative outside of Harvest meetings?” Phyacair nodded.
“I am indeed.”
“You have your Mistress’ gift for me, then?” Nimin asked, cutting to the heart of the matter immediately. Phyacair merely smiled,