(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"Eeeh..." Morte seems to shrug, "Nothing of consequence."
Annah certainly didn't believe that.
"But really, I've been hunting rumors. I think I finally pinned down where the
chief is. Well, at least the layer he's on..." Morte blinks suddenly, and eyes
Annah up and down as if for the first time, "You look terrible by the way."
Annah squelches the urge to bat at him, and pulls her hood up to hide the
wings of white in her rust-red hair. Her years are stretching thin. She had
turned to potions and elixers, bartered years from the young for several
fortunes she'd liberated from her heists. She had discovered bubbles of time
on the Astral plane and lifted artifacts of longevity from the lich-queen of
the githyanki herself. She is still strong, quick, and clever enough for these
once-a-decade ventures, but in the back of her mind she knows all too soon
that this would change.
"Still no word on Dak'kon?" she murmurs quietly.
"Nothing since he disappeared into the mists of Limbo," Morte shakes his
head, "I can't believe you still have to ask after all this time."
"Aye well, we still need someone who knows the Art," she grumbles, "It's
been so much harder without him."
"We could always ask Grace..." Nordom offers. It is still strange to Annah's
ears, hearing the modron speak without that stuttering drone. The years
have smoothed out his speech mannerisms.
"Yeh know I hate hearin' that name," she hisses.
"The stupid box has a point, Annah. She's been skimming the Abyss all this
time on her own, and she knows the territory. Heck, she may have even
found him by now..."
Annah trembles in fury as she turns, "We'll talk about that later. Come along
now."
Annah leads the five of them as they walk down the streets. The lanes have
changed and many of the new alleys and crossroads are unfamiliar. But a
turn here, a turn there, and Annah recognizes the shell of what used to be
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