The rhyme hangs in the damp air, resonating against the stone walls. It seems to catch the very rhythm of the water dripping in the cavern. The panic that had seized Blibdoolpoolp vanishes instantly, replaced by a glazed, hypnotic look of adoration. He stops trembling. He straightens his rotting robes. The twitch in his eye ceases. Your performance has not just calmed him; it has rewired his anxiety into religious ecstasy.

[b]"The words..."[/b] Blibdoolpoolp whispers, his voice trembling with awe. [b]"You speak with the pulse of the tide, Great SHOOGBIMBHALD. The stillness... yes. We shall trust the stillness."[/b]

He turns to the chaotic mass of fish-folk behind him. He does not scream or flail. Instead, he raises his webbed hands with a newfound, eerie grace.

[b]"Prepare the procession!"[/b] he commands, his voice echoing with dark authority. [b]"Our God demands splendor. We shall give Him the march of the currents."[/b]

The Kuo-toa scramble to obey, smearing phosphorescent algae on their scales and lining up to form an honor guard of jagged spears. In the flurry of movement and bubbling chants, it is easy for Nyphl to slip away into the upper shadows of the cavern, just as you commanded.

You are ushered forward. The procession moves through the corridors, dragging you along in a tide of rhythmic slapping feet and low, thrumming hums. You pass beneath the broken arches, the "Great SHOOGBIMBHALD" carried toward judgment by the collective will of his flock.

Just before you reach the grand doors of the throne room, Nyphl returns. The flumph drifts down from the darkness to hover by your shoulder. There are no words—Nyphl seems to understand the need for discretion—but a powerful wave of emotion floods your telepathic link. It is a heavy, sinking feeling. A mix of profound pity and a sharp, stinging recognition. The flumph glows a soft, melancholy blue, projecting a mental image of a mirror that is cracked and dirty.

The doors groan open.

[b]"BEHOLD!"[/b] Blibdoolpoolp intones, his voice booming. [b]"HE COMES! THE LORD OF THE BLACK WATERS! THE KEEPER OF THE RHYME! SHOOGBIMBHALD!"[/b]

The throne room is vast and filled with the scent of salt and ancient stone. Your followers are already there, forming a wide circle around the foot of your throne. They part as you approach, bowing so low their noses touch the wet floor.

And there, in the center of the circle, is the intruder.

He lies in a heap on the cold stone, unconscious. His breathing is shallow, a ragged wheeze that speaks of rough treatment. He is a drow, a dark elf of the deep. But he is no warrior. He wears no armor of spiders or chain.

He wears silk.

Tattered, filthy, waterlogged silk. The fabric is sheer and impractical, dyed in garish colors that have since faded to mud. It is cut to expose skin, to titillate, to entertain. It is a costume.

He is a male drow. He is slight of build, lacking the hard muscle of a soldier. His white hair is matted with blood. His hands are bound behind his back with rough cord. He looks exactly as you did three months ago. He looks like a discarded toy.

The room falls silent save for the drow's ragged breathing. The Kuo-toa watch you, their eyes darting between their god and the broken thing on the floor.

Blibdoolpoolp steps forward. He gestures to the unconscious figure with a solemn gravity.

[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/w2rHD5T/imagem-editada.jpg[/img][/center]

[b]"The intruder awaits Your divine judgment, Great SHOOGBIMBHALD,"[/b] the High Priest says softly. [b]"He was found hiding in the rubble. He has no weapons. He has no fight. He is yours to command."[/b]