"I mean, it's a cute dog, my dear lord," said Staffanic, a sybarite with eyes diluted from his ocular stimulant injections. "Though I certainly cannot imagine casting my civilization apart on its behalf." 

He gave a deep yawn, wiping the humidity from his forehead with a sweet-scented orkskin kerchief.

"If this is an intoxicant, it is either specialized for a certain set of targets - or it requires repeated exposure to build up its effect. Can't see the appeal from where I am. And that's for the best, really - there are a [i]lot [/i]of screens down there."

To Vael and Hagar, this excuse seems reasonable enough - but Geron has caught this scent before. The sweat, the fatigue, the thickening of the swamp water around the sybarite's ankles - the Ancient Raven has set its mark. Staffanic is clearly unaware of this sickness but a seed of it already germinates inside.