A convoy of dwarven craftsmen enter the Imperial lands, headed for the dilapidated palace.

An ancient dark-elf leans heavily on his staff, nodding in approval at the craftsmen through sightless eyes.

The dark-elf gets a brief look of annoyance on his face, utters a brief prayer, and disappears.

The dark-elf walks through the lower levels of the palace, peering into the darkness.

Pushing aside a ruined door, the dark-elf approaches a figure cloaked in shadows.

The cloaked figure waves his hand, dismissing three other figures from the shadows with a nod.

"To what do I owe this great honor?" states the unseen voice sarcastically.

The dark-elf speaks softly 'The Lord of the Blades forgets himself. He fails to see where true power in the Empire will rest.

The dark-elf continues 'Keep an eye on them. I will pay greatly for information on their strength, and ambitions.

The unseen voice whispers 'I shall gather around me a sect of those worthy to do such. Yours are the the hands of Gods, the Blad
es the fist of the Empire... mine shall be the eyes and ears.

The dark-elf utters a brief prayer and disappears.

The shadowy figure chuckles to himself. 'A purse from the Divine, and a purse from the Blades. This shall work out quite nicely