You kneel beside the unconscious form. The Kuo-toa watch in silence. They nod in agreement with your decree. Of course the outsider cannot see the throne. It is only logical.

You place your hands on the drow to inspect him. Your fingers tell you a story that your eyes missed at a distance. He is cold. His skin feels like ice against your hand.

You turn him slightly to check his back. The tattered silk sticks to his skin. You peel it back carefully. What you see makes you pause.

His back is a map of pain.

There are whip marks. Dozens of them. Some are old. They are just white lines of scar tissue that crisscross his dark skin. But many are new. They are angry and red. Some are still weeping blood. The flesh has been torn open repeatedly. This was not a punishment for a single crime. This is the mark of a lifetime of abuse. It is the mark of a slave who was broken over and over again.

You check his ribs. They stick out sharply against his skin. He is starving. He has not eaten a proper meal in weeks. Perhaps months. He is light. Too light.

Your medical knowledge is certain. This man is dying. His heart beats like a trapped bird in his chest. It is fast but very weak. It flutters. He has lost blood. He is dehydrated. He is in shock.

If you do nothing, he will be dead within the hour.

As you reach this conclusion, you feel a shudder through your telepathic link. Nyphl has received your mental images. The flumph does not like them. Not at all.

Your companion drifts closer. Its light shifts from soft blue to a sickly, unhappy green. It touches your mind. It does not send words. It sends a feeling. It is a sharp, stinging sensation of *rejection*. It pushes back against your fear. It pushes back against your idea of sacrifice.

Then Nyphl sends an image back to you.

It is you.

It is Leo from three months ago. You are wearing your costume. You are bleeding. You are terrified. You are running from the mind flayers.

Then the image changes. It is the drow on the floor. He is wearing his clothes. He is bleeding. He is terrified.

The images merge. You and the drow become the same person in Nyphl's mind. The message is clear. [i]He is not them. He is you.[/i]

The drow lets out a soft, pained groan. His head lolls to the side. The blindfold you tied is already damp with sweat from his fever.

Blibdoolpoolp leans forward. He looks at the dying elf. Then he looks at you. His bulging eyes are full of eager anticipation.

[b]He fades, Great SHOOGBIMBHALD,[/b] the High Priest observes. [b]His spirit leaks out. Does he require the final mercy? Shall we crack him open to let the rest of it out?[/b]