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[Thrax]

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Thrax was exhausted. He slumped down in his throne high atop the manor to catch his breath. He leaned his head back and filled his lungs with air. As he sat, he deliberated about recent events...

It was finished at long last, and he was glad. The elaborate and time-consuming rituals to restore his human form had continued for many days and nights. Every aspect of the rituals had to be precise: every syllable pronounced distinctly, every gesture executed flawlessly. Since it had been so long since he had had to perform them last, there were many failures and restarts. Adding to his frustration was the fact that during this time, as his newly-created flesh dried and normalized, he could do little else but wait. And he was not used to waiting. He had failed to follow up on several important meetings with certain heads of state, informing them, in ambiguous terms, that certain difficulties had hindered him.

He had neglected his prisoner, Duke Kotare, instead entrusting his upkeep to his son, Skurj, who had made sure he was well cared for, and who gave him just enough of the antivenin to inhibit the painful muscle constrictions that would have begun without it. He had ordered that Dharzhal's small tower, adjoining the manor, be ransacked and burned to the ground. A small quantity of the antivenin was found hidden within it and taken. But now, that supply was running low. He has given another of his slaves, a reasonably skilled alchemist, orders to duplicate it, but he had no faith that he would succeed anytime soon.

The drow. He had to be found and brought back. Word had it that he had been seen in Zento, at the bank. Knowing the honorable disposition of many of that city's people and leaders, he worried that he would seek asylum among them. He had sent Skurj there in hopes of confirming the information.

In the meantime, there were letters to forge, treaties to conclude, and a Duke to drive slowly insane.

So much to do... so little time.