Mark Hoover 330 |
You see a distortion in the air, like a shapeless force constantly recreating itself. Where its edges brush against the solid matter of the floor and walls, the nebulous thing smooths over and adapts to these surfaces. "Ewer!" Emirikol snaps impatiently through a mouthful of roast cockatrice meat, momentarily drawing your attention; at once a similar phenomena occurs, as the force glides slowly, silently to the indicated vessel. The roiling stuff cradles the ivory and silver of the wizard's ewer. Its movement is effortless, frictionless, as if a spirit made manifest by Emirikol's wicked will.
- from The Spy and Emirikol the Chaotic