Secretary Youvalan looked down the table, silently appraising his lieutenants, his viceroys, the lynchpins of his future power. The wizard grimly smiled; some such as the mercenary Egil who was shifting uncomfortably, the secretary still reserved his final judgment, the rest were proven, valuable members.
Lyri Farsil’s journey had easily been the most difficult, Youvalan understood it to be true that she had actually been killed and resurrected at great personal cost. Alvored was the least affected by the silence in the conference room, experienced in the political exercise of power by his Van Fleet brethren.
It was the Secretary most recent coup that brought him the most pleasure, a halfling brawler of dwarves who had brought him so much more information. Essentially a slave to dwarves for years, the diminutive warrior’s psyche was so easily manipulated, Youvalan had found it unnecessary to risk any of his newer talents on him. Simply offering him a mission of importance, a position of authority with an organization that asked him to join rather than demanded, and commensurate opportunities for wealth had guaranteed Adalgrim Redhammer’s loyalty. Everyone else at the meeting, the muscle, had been provided to him by his patron Nerith Alia.
Standing, Youvalan now spoke, “Durg carries the Axe ofWitches.”