Pestilence

Remix's nails clacked impatiently on the floor as Pestilence painstakingly sorted hundreds of gruesome trophies along the walls of the sparring hall. Something about their arrangement had evidently irked the elderly--but by no means decrepit--Skydancer; now she appeared to be arranging them by size, then color.

"So?" Remix asked, finally. "Are you going to do it?"

The Skydancer's head bowed as she fiddled with a piece of a podid's claw, preserved with tiny sparks of Arcane magics. The black iron plates that covered her arched neck clanked as she tilted her head from side to side, inspecting the claw.

"I do not have a choice."

"You always have a choice." Remix's claws clacked against the wood again, once, twice, then fell silent. "But there are consequences for the wrong one, you know this."

"I will do it," Pestilence said. "I do not like it, but I will."

"Your help is appreciated," Remix said, turned around, and left.