"THE END IS NIGH! ABANDON YOUR VICES AND LIVE CLEANLY, FOR YE SHALL BE JUDGED WHEN THE FIRES DESCEND."<br/><br/>It was a good line, Salnius thought. A bit overused, perhaps, but it played well in this quarter of the city. The crowd was mostly composed of older women attending the fruit market near the plaza, the sort of people who cared a great deal about the appearance of propriety. They nodded their heads along with his fervent speech, and he knew that their purses would be lighter by the end of his sermon. He didn't particularly need the money, but a public source of income was an important thing in these times. His true patron must remain a secret. Salnius knew a great deal about secrets; it was his business to pry them from the minds of the Gods themselves. If they came out a bit mangled in the process, well, then it was also his job to stitch them back together into something recognizable.<br/><br/>From the rear of the crowd he saw a flash of a pale blue handkerchief. Bother, he was just getting to the good part, a bit of grisly description about burning coals and singed flesh that always got the old termagants worked up at the thought of their wretched neighbors suffering. There was nothing for it, though, and so he brought the speech to an abrupt end to a smattering of haphazard and confused applause. The wooden bowl held only a few coins. This was just as well, for as he bent to retrieve it the thing skittered out of his reach, overturning and spilling the money across the square. "Foul spirits!" he cursed. "Must you vex me so?" He heard only their muffled laughter, this time, though perhaps that came more from the children who were scampering away with his few well-earned silvers.<br/><br/>Though his throat was dry there was no time to waste with a side trip to a winehouse. Daemus was not in the habit of summoning his agents to chat about the weather. Salnius made his way across the city and through Bakkheia's corridors to the secret room, careful not to be followed. Once within the chamber the last of his mad prophet act dropped, leaving only the considerable portion of actual madness that he refused to acknowledge. He bowed low, then raised himself to standing with the support of his engraved whalebone staff. Nods were exchanged with his fellows, each quite competent within their own spheres. A good crew.<br/><br/>"At your command, Sir."<br/>