One of the younger maids, a comely thing who could scarcely be more than one hundred and twenty speaks up, her corn silk hair twisting in the maelstrom of death and noxious humors that is the Mordent Tempest.<br/><br/><strong>"You must escort us safely to a portal leading back to the Prime Material Plane and return our sister after one and one hundred years."</strong><br/><br/>Everyone knew--or so they think--that this is the way with Demons. As the maiden speaks men in silver chased armor alit with pale blue magical rues rush to the deck with longswords and harpoons. How feeble their mortal wrought weapons look when contrasted to the great beast that looms over their Trireme.