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[center]T h e G a r d e n s O f F i l t h [/center]
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"Master master!" the jester cried pathetically, squealing to the cavernous roof of the Gardens of Filth. "Master does not believe me?" 
The small, keeling creature retreated from the mighty Demon Lord of Plagues as he moved, recoiling from his every word that seemed to install rot and decay into the hearts of all who cast their ears to him. He demanded proof, questioning the consequences of trust or mistrust - a clever creature indeed. 
The Jester's tone changed swiftly, and he stood to his full height, his slouch becoming non-existent, and his squealing tone retreating to a more confident, rumbling timbre, though it was nothing in comparison to that of the Demon lord which he stood up to. 
"Oh, [i]master[/i]," he sneered through his now visible set of needle-like teeth. "I do not need to prove anything to [i]you[/i]. You either take the chance to bring your decay to the Human world, or you can sit here upon your throne of maggots and..." The Jester chuckled menacingly. 

"Rot." 

He immediately retracted back into his hunched, pitiful form. He stumbled backwards, away from the every approaching Demon Lord; unleashing a flurry of distressed calls for redemption.

"Master! I am as much of this world as you! Master you must believe me!"

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the Jester was simply gone. He had vanished behind a cloud of noxious gas so suddenly and with such sleight that even the Lord of Decay would have been momentarily taken aback by the grace of it, leaving the Demon Lord and his subjects silent once more to consider their options. Was the world in Conflux once more?