Caer Branloth, the elder matron and leader of the Branloth family, has earned the respect of the Berador community over the years. The Tieflings of the Branloth manor have long held a great deal of influence in the area owing mainly to their wealth. Lady Caer's wisdom and resourcefulness have proved her particular value to the locals as she has dealt directly with numerous problems in the past.
Calculation . . . Correction
Lady Caer checks her look in the hand mirror and approves. With her blue-black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her makeup accentuating the angular lines of her jawbone and the slight tilt to her eyes she has the desired imperious look of the disciplinarian. Her eyes glow with the hint of red-orange embers in deep black coal. The ebony spiral horns above her forehead reflect the candlelight, splintering it into dozens of points of light.
She lays the mirror on the desk among the papers and sundries and looks to the dark oak door across the way. Without rising from her soft leather chair she waves her hand dismissively. The door creaks open. "Come!" she calls; it is clearly a command, not a request.
A tall, dark-haired man pads into the room cautiously as if afraid to disturb its occupant. He has eyes of ebony. The tiny nubs of his horns emphasize his long, angular face. The family resemblance is unmistakable; the man is Lady Caer's close relative, likely a direct descendent. The Tiefling's sharp tail slashes left and right behind him in agitation as he approaches Lady Caer's desk. He drops to one knee, bows his head and waits in silence. The door closes silently behind him.
"Rise, Glathro, and report," Lady Caer sounds almost bored.
Glathro Branloth stands, clears his throat once and straightens the lapels of his tailored overcoat.
"Yes, well, the goblins will no longer trouble Bull Emmet's homestead. During the last attack I managed to sneak in behind them, and I grabbed one of the lieutenants. After some, ah, persuasion, he gave me the full particulars of what they were doing. Using that information I managed to track down and approach the war party leader."
Lady Caer leans forward one elbow, clearly interested, but trying not to show it on her placid face, "And? What did he have to say?"
"He told me who paid him to make the raids. He told me that he would destroy the Emmet farmstead and holdings. When they finish their work the goblins will return to the hills, and we will never hear from them again."
"You offered him payment to stop the raids immediately?"
"Of course I did; and exactly as you predicted he refused. When I told him who offered the payment he called his lieutenants together and they immediately began to strike camp. I watched the rear guard leave before I returned."
"So, what have you not told me? Who paid him to make the raids?"
"Lady Caer, we agreed, no you insisted, that I would not reveal that information to anyone, including you. 'Take it to your grave,' you said. And I intend to."
"Excellent," Lady Caer purrs and smiles lazily. "You're dismissed, Glathro. Thank you."
Glathro turns towards the door. His grandmother, Lady Caer, rises behind him and lifts a black metal rod from the desk. Glathro hears the soft mumbling as Lady Caer calls on the power of the rod. He leaps to his left, hoping to tumble away from the deadly blast. He is not nearly fast enough. Black tendrils of fiendish energy spring from the Nine Hells through the rod in Lady Caer's hand and strike the young Tiefling in the back. His muscles convulse, and he stands frozen in motion for an instant and then he crumples lifeless to the floor. Faint wisps of acrid smoke rise from his ruined form.
Lady Caer puts the rod back onto the desk. Lifts the mirror and examines her features again. A bead of blood runs from her nose, and she wipes it away with a tissue from the box on her desk. She motions to the door and it opens again.
"Claudius, could you come please dispose of this mess in here? And bring in some flowers from the garden. The odor in here is . . . irksome."
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