The tiefling slumps down in the rickety wooden chair of his room at the Fat Rat Inn. Various scattered parchments and wells of ink adorn a small writing table, along with a few rare and precious plants in clay pots. Reaching over, Sacrifice opens the window shutters.
“There, a little light for you. It’s only the moon, but her shine is better than nothing.”
He unfurls a discarded scroll and weights both ends before unstopping a bottle of ink and dipping his quill.
These past weeks have been fruitless — my search for the one called White Rabbit is in vain. Everyone seems to know of her, yet none can say where she is or what she is doing. I have run out of leads. I will start looking for other work, perhaps offer my knowledge in enhancing the city gardens. It might prove a relaxing reprieve while I struggle to find a path to White Rabbit. At this point, I am more curious about the mystery surrounding her than in finding and killing her.
Sacrifice reaches up to run his gnarled fingers along the broken ridge of his left horn, as he often does when agitated.
Perhaps she knows of the Children of Light. Time will tell. I pray our meeting will come soon.
He discards his tattered brown cloak and kicks off his soft leather boots, the heels completely worn down on them. Sighing, the tiefling lies back on the small cot and listens to the night sounds of the dockside that the breeze carries through his window. As he watches the stars, he gets the feeling that they are winking at him, knowingly, as if they desperately wish to reveal some great secret — perhaps the nature of the universe — but are bidden only to tease and hint. And just as he begins to comprehend the Great Truth, and the nature of everything unfolds in his mind, he drifts off to sleep, and the stars titter with childish laughter at the simple mortal…