This one's for Schroe

[Drunken_Gun]

A long time ago I promised Schroedinger's Cat that I'd post a story involving a character of mine that a couple of you might recall. Well, time flys and people move on but a promise is still a promise. So this one is dedicated to Schroe on the off chance that he still lurks these forums on occasion. I just regret that I never wrote one about the sessions we had. Too late now and I don't have the chatlogs.

Anyway, this might be a little difficult to understand as none of you will know the proper context of the rp setting that the story takes place in, but that can't be helped. It also ends rather abruptly because I havn't finished the last half of it yet.

Lastly, if you have a problem with coarse language, please don't read it.

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Slightly stooped and with his deep-set eyes squinting, Oil laboriously deciphered the notes affixed to the wall. They were written in common, no doubt for his benefit, but the elegant penmanship was in a cursive style that the barbarian found difficult to read. Not a few of the longer word constructs were a mystery to him, but he persevered doggedly, often back-tracking and using context as a guide to meaning.

Some time passed by in the Citadel's cavernous lobby, its native silence broken only by the muted thunder of distant rushing water and the half-orc's increasingly ragged breathing. His neolithic face darkened steadily and pressure began to mount behind his eyes and temples as more and more of the words became clear.

"…is in fact not trustworthy."

"…Calypso is quite a find..."

"…spittle from your eye..."

"…he cursed your name..."

"How have your dreams been of late?"

Oil's gauntletted fist crunched into the ornate stonework of the hall, displacing some loose masonry dust. Debris drifted down to settle upon his broad shoulders as he took a shuddering breath. It did precious little to calm him. Rage was rising up in his throat like poisonous bile and threatened to choke him. Blood now pounded in his head and hazed his vision. Again he struck the wall viciously, as ever seeking an immediate physical outlet for his rawer emotions but failing.

He knew the letters were meant to seed doubt. That much could easily be achieved. The Viceroy had an inherently suspicious nature coupled with a history of vindictiveness. Few were more aware of that than Oil himself who had by now in Jarrdan's service bore witness to things that'd dismay a less indurate creature. The formidable enforcer was not fool enough to think himself exempt from the man's distrust. Neither did he miss the author's secondary purpose.

Ak'ma'lis hoped to incite the choleric half-blood's fury so that he might unwittingly further the wizard's agenda. Make it so he couldn't think passed the driving need to tear the elf limb from limb. Bloody and final resolutions to disagreements were quite plainly the half-orc's preference and a cunning mind would seek to use that against him. Oil was wise to it. But being wise to it did not necessarily grant him greater control over his splenetic temper.

The half-orc's well of anger ran deep and with only a thin skim of determined self-discipline keeping it from overflowing at any given point. The rage of many men was upon him now and could not be easily set aside. The factitious contents of the letters coupled with the earlier public skirmishes threatened to prove too much. Oil tried to set his mind to the problem at hand dispassionately but there were too many well placed barbs, too many humiliations and too many plausible lies. Abstract notions of his enemie's motives and goals would not be enough to break the well worn circuits in his mind.

Luridly graphic fantasies of retribution to come began to crowd his head, scattering objective thoughts before them. To the mercenary they were just as seductive as the possibility of sexual gratification. Just as primal. And just as with sex, the longer the time since last indulged the harder the need was to resist. Oil did not want to resist.

But beneath his simmering bloodlust there still ran a cold thread of prudent pessimism nagging away. Ak'mal'is was plainly an influencial figure from the count's past. His counsel was valued. Perhaps most telling, Carnabas viewed him as uncle eventhough clearly they shared no blood bond. And what was Oil? Orc-spawn. Ugly. Stupid. Hateful. Untrustworthy. A tool at best. One that could be replaced more easily than mended if it were to break. Is that how the Viceroy saw it? Would he side with the elf if forced to choose? Oil had thought they'd had an understanding but he was now no longer so certain.

Their understanding had been based on one thing. Gold. Its acquisition, its spending, and its keeping meant more to the sellsword than most could understand. Gold meant status and status meant respect. Both were as rare as hen's teeth to a half-orc. If he managed to accumulate enough gold he might one day rise up high enough to escape the shackles of his mixed blood. That belief had become a driving force behind all Oil's mercenary endeavours. It sharpened his resolve and robbed him of all compassion. Of pity and mercy. He came to regard coin as others might a religious fetish and soon developed a reputation for never breaking an agreement that had been based on it.

Ak'mal'is would have them believe the half-orc had chosen to betray the count's gold-bought contract. Chosen to betray more gold than he'd ever had claim to or hope of before. And for what? For nothing more than a skirt. A wet place between some bitches' legs. It was a claim so preposterous it could only have been made in ignorance. Were he not so incensed the barbarian might have attempted a bitter laugh of contempt. Carnabas would see through that lie, he assured himself. There could be no doubt. Oil silently avowed himself master of his own dick and not the other way around.

Even as he made that stern pledge his perversely rebelious mind chose to open upon an image of what it might be like to have the woman squirming naked beneath him. Her scent. Her heat. She had a pert mouth and bold eyes…

Fuck it, no! Not for you! Not never for you!

He screwed his eyes shut and snarled a withering curse at himself. He'd need to visit a whore at earliest oppurtunity. Get it out of his system. Recent events had conspired to distract him from certain chores and now he was paying the price. Regularly spilling his seed was one such necessity. To not do so was to court disaster. It made the orc blood stronger. Tipped the precarious balance. But for now it couldn't be helped. Oil had already unwittingly allowed Ak'mal'is a sizeable head start and there was no time left to waste.

A sudden tapping sound broke the half-orc's preoccupation and he whirled towards it, adrenaline coursing through his limbs and knotting his powerful muscles. He almost expected to find the pair of eternally vigilant guards gliding forward to apprehend him, but neither had stirred. Instead a hooded figure stood upon the narrow expanse that bridged the chasm cutting through this section of the Citadel.

By his height and build Oil judged him human but little else could he discern. The man wore dun coloured clothing which would easily blend in amidst desert sands and held an elaborate staff that was currently being used to knock sand from his boots. For all the half-orc knew, he could have been standing there for any length of time before deciding to announce his presence. It aggrieved Oil no end. Those who lived by the sword lived only so long as they stayed alert and here the mercenary had plainly been caught napping. That the man had chosen a tactful expedient made no difference, it could just have easily been an arrow in the back.

The barbarian levelled a belligerent stare upon the new arrival, making his displeasure plain. No doubt this was some native of the desert come to petition the Viceroy or sell some information. Whoever he was, Oil would rather see him gone. He had precious little patience to spare for some sand-shuffling nomad come to spout prophecies or herald coming rain. Never the most gracious of people, the half-orcs tone was cold as he issued a challenge, "You got business here? If you aint, best you leave."

His words were met by a deep and familiar chuckle emanating from beneath the man's hood. "Come in, Oil," said Carnabas. "Let us straighten this mess out."

Oil stiffened reflexively before schooling his face to impassiveness in an attempt to hide his mounting chagrin. "As you say, Viceroy."

The count moved passed Oil and unlocked the gate before striding through. The towering half-orc fell into step behind, silently rebuking himself. Three mistakes already in a place where you could hardly afford the luxury of one. Becoming so wrapped up in his thoughts and emotions that Jarrdan managed to approach unheard had been the first. Failing to recognise a man he had worked hand in glove with for months now, even if hooded and dressed in unfamiliar garb, was the second. Third and perhaps most dangerous, was issuing challenge to the Viceroy within his own domain as if he had no more right to it than a common beggar. That Carnabas seemed to find the whole thing mildly amusing did little to mollify his enforcer.

Jarrdan lead the way to the parlor as Oil secured his greatsword to the leather harness on his back. Keeping the blade bared while alone with the Viceroy and under his own roof could be construed as a rather unsubtle insult. A fourth mistake. It would indicate that the mercenary had reason to fear some form of treachery. He did indeed hold some doubts, but he put the sword away all the same. Some things the Viceroy did not need to know.

They emerged into the parlor and the mercenary had immediate reason to regret his diplomatic decision. His hands began to rise of their own accord to the sword hilt now jutting high above his shoulder. Ak'mal'is himself sat at ease upon one of the sofas, regal in his dark robes. The elf was currently occupied with summoning small balls of smoke that he sent dancing around Holdred. For his part, the Citadel's spectral butler made no move to interfere with the mages idle diversion.

The count took his customary seat, apparently unaware of the barbarian's discomfiture, and spoke something to the wizard in what the half-orc suspected was the elven tongue before switching to common to address his henchman, "Sit, Oil. Please."

With an abrupt flick of his hand, Ak'mal'is banished his magical spheres and turned his head to regard Oil. A smile quirked his thin bloodless lips but never reached his cold eyes. "Orc, how good to see you."

You let them say it and you make it true.

That word coupled with the affectedly companionable greeting was like a searing flame to dry tinder. Oil knew that the voice in his head plainly spoke the truth and that it was a truth that needed to be acted upon. Rational thought began to falter beneath the rising heat of his anger. There was no need for explanations now, no place for empty words. The half-orc's face twisted into an alarmingly feral cast and saliva glimmered upon his predatory teeth. He spoke in a tone thick with hunger, "We aint needing to talk long, Viceroy…I come to tell you he dies."

Carnabas snapped his fingers to Holdred and the spectre moved forward with a selected wine. Taking the proferred glass the Viceroy spoke without turning, his voice flat. "Not tonight he doesn't. Now sit."

"Oh? Is all that truly necessary, orc?" chimed in Ak'mal'is. "Tell me, how have you been sleeping? Pleasant dreams, I trust?" The elf's thin smile had broadened into a mocking smirk, obviously unfazed.

Despite himself, Oil's thoughts returned to their last encounter and the final spell the mage had unleashed upon him. Something had closed upon his consciousness like a vice and in the next instant reality dissolved while his very mind proceeded to tear itself apart. The half-orc's past was haunted by many demons and facing them all at once was a horrifying prospect. Ak'mal'is spell had forced just that upon Oil and in so doing had almost cost him his sanity.

Mercifully the duration proved short, but even so the warrior had been driven to his knees where he vomited violently in involuntary physical reaction to his mental torment. It was nothing like when the cursed blade had commandered his will, this was infinitely worse. At that point Ak'mal'is shamed him by chosing to leave while Oil remained helpless. That there were people present to bear witness only added mortal insult to the negligible physical injury. It was true that the half-orc's sleep had been troubled since. And even now he uneasily wondered if the elf could make him relive it.

You think too much, orc-spawn. You aint got no place thinking. Get angry and no room for fear. Kill him. Cut him. Gut him. End him!

"Quit yer mouth, elf." Oil breathed menacingly. "You aint safe from me."

Ropey veins throbbed into life at his temples and the pressure inside his skull quickly became intense. The half-orc knew of only one sure way to relieve that pressure but doing so would go against the Viceroy's will. The man who sat there witness to the elf's baiting and whom bade Oil stay his hand. But he was also the man who supplied the gold, and as such he still held influence over his seething henchman. Just enough.

"I'm shocked…Are we cross, orc? I would hate to think that we're cross," demurred Ak'mal'is, picking away incessantly at the thin scab that was Jarrdan's hold over his enforcer. You didn't pick at a scab unless you wanted to see it bleed. The elf showed no sign of tiring of his game.

The hulking warrior strode forward with a dull rattle of chainmail to take a seat as instructed. As he stalked passed Carnabas, Oil's glittering eyes raked over his employer and naked animosity could be seen there. Either the mercenary was unable to mask it or he was unwilling. The Viceroy's choices were swiflty eroding the foundations of their carefully constructed relationship. The half-orc's eyes had made that clear.

"Holdred...Bring Archegos Oil something," muttered the Viceroy wearily.

That Carnabas still used the bestowed title of rank did not pass Oil's notice but its use only served to highten his resentment. The barbarian's wolves-eyes augered into the count as he snarled softly, "Bring me nothing but his heart." Oil raised his right hand to point a long index finger at the elf's chest. "I aint here for drinking. I aint here for fucking around with words."

Ak'mal'is deftly plucked a black pearl-sized bead from his necklace before rolling it between his fingers and speaking one strangely discordant word. The black orb glowed and pulsated before sprouting two ends that swiftly grew into a six-foot staff mounted by a drake's talon. Oil interpreted the appearnance of the wizard's staff as an unapologetic threat. His hackles rose as he stirred from his seat, his mouth set in a rictus of hate.

"Enough! Both of you!" roared the Viceroy in exasperation. The whip-crack in the mans voice was enough to give Oil pause and he slowly subsided back into his chair with face glowering. Ak'mal'is stood leaning heavily upon his staff, favouring his left side. The left wing still hung unnaturally where Oil's sword had previously struck deep and the sight was pleasing to the half-orc.

"Dear Uncle, I was simply fetching the orc a goblet of wine," the wizard replied conversationally. "If he is so willing to make a mockery of your offer, I was to forcefully insist he rethink his manners."

The count's eyes were flinty and his voice cold, "War is coming. War with the frost giants. This is a tremendous opportunity to capitalize."

Ak'mal'is may as well not have spoken. Carnabas was losing patience with them both and his tone indicated that he couldn't care less about their squabbling. No doubt the noble hoped to lever them back onto a productive course and away from each other's throats by mentioning the giants. For his part Oil's face had twisted slightly in puzzlement, so intent was he on his all consuming enmity that the change of subject struck him as completely out of context. His prominent brow furrowed as he took a moment to adjust.

The wizard smiled and did not miss the oppurtunity to needle the sellsword, "Indeed, a war filled with casualties, no doubt. I trust you will keep yourself safe, orc?"

Oil's face hardened visibly but he was apparently still sorting through his thoughts as the Viceroy continued, "The death of the two foolish orphans has done nothing but make the disgrace of New Haven hasten..."

"Yes, pity for the orphans," muttered the elf without conviction as he reseated himself, once more carefully favouring his left side.

The human avoids. He don't want to know. He don't give a fuck. It aint nothing to him so he thinks it aint nothing to you.

A violent breath exploded from the half-orc's nostrils, spraying phlegm. Heavily blood shot eyes sought out the count and when Oil next spoke his ominous tone held the promise of violence to come.

"You value my arm? You want to keep it, Viceroy?" Oil grated. "Then you tell him to shut his hole. Or just look away. Close your eyes and it'll be done."

It was becoming increasingly evident that there was no way the sellsword would be able to concentrate on any strategies and plans the Viceroy might wish to discuss so long as the elf continued to sit their baiting him. The mage's every comment so far had been an attempt to incense Oil and make him lose control. The half-orc looked more than willing to indulge him but was making one last attempt to secure the Viceroy's consent before flying off the handle.

"Come now, orc, certainly you don't mean that. Afterall, last I checked you seemed to be the one constantly lying on the floor, prone and apologetic." The wizard would not let up. He was like a dog chewing on a favourite bone. "Apology for the misgivings of your race begrudgingly accepted, might I add. Further, I find it of particularly high caliper that you would choose this time to make such an apology public. Thank you, dear orc. It means ever so much to me." Once more the elf offered up one of his pleasant false smiles before touching a hand to his heart as if genuinely moved.

Oil's face reddened precipitiously, shame mixing with his anger to produce a dangerous cocktail. The half-orc's gaze flicked briefly to the wizard's injured side before asking in clipped tones, "How's your wing?"

It had truly been a fell blow, as evidenced by the fact that Ak'mal'is had yet to fully recover from it. A blow that could easily have ended the wizard had luck fallen the other way. Oil hoped that reminding the long-lived elf of his brush with mortality might rankle and thus unsettle him but the half-orc's verbal sally was to prove unsuccessful.

"Quite well, orc, thank you for asking. Tell me, you never answered…How have your dreams been? Uneventful and prosperous I hope."

Vulnerable to a sword strike he might be, but when it came to words he was Oil's better by far. The insipid taunt had been deflected with contemptuous ease and turned back on him. The half-orc's face twisted into an ugly grimace and once more he began to lever himself up from the low couch, intent on putting some sting into his words through force of strength. So intent were the warrior and mage on each other that neither had been paying the count the slightest notice.

"DAMNIT TO ALL THE FUCKING LAYERS OF THE HELLS! I SAID ENOUGH!," he bellowed stentorianly before hurling his goblet across the room. Barely a drop of the expensive merlot spilled from the vessel as it arced gracefully through the air before smashing against the opposite wall where the red liquid splattered like blood. The Viceroy flayed them with his gaze, his face on the verge of apoplexy.

Oil once more subsided bitterly before the man's displeasure, dropping his chin to his chest and watching them with hostile eyes from beneath lowered brow. For his part Ak'mal'is seemed unmoved by the count's outburst. If anything he appeared somewhat disappointed and spoke to Carnabas in a tongue that was different to the earlier one Oil had supposed was elven.

But soon the private commentary was done. The wizard assumed a smugly pretentious grin and switched to common so that he might resume his verbal seige. "Patience, Carnabas. The orc and I simply need to discuss our mutual endeavors. Better to do it now than when you are not around…For his sake."

To the sellsword's eyes it seemed that Ak'mal'is was no longer even bothering to feign deference to the Viceroy. If Carnabas Jarrdan had hoped to give pause to the elf's constant goading for Oil's sake, his fit of petulance had failed to affect any change. The wizard now spoke with the kind of condescending knowledgeableness that a particularly supercilious adult might employ with a child. Oil had struck people for lesser indiscretions in the Viceroy's presence.

"He mocks you, Viceroy. Your word aint nothing to him," the half-orc growled. "You let me make it something to him."

The count stepped forward and with careful deliberateness turned the Chalice of Trust over on it's pedestal before placing himself between his too combative associates. The import of the gesture was lost on the elf and he continued unconcerned, "Though, I feel the true action which needs to be addressed is how he could sleep with that dirty human, the druid. So terribly, terribly uncooth."

With his eyes locked on Ak'ma'lis, Carnabas pointed to Oil and tersely instructed in a tone that brooked no argument, "Sit. Quiet. Now."

Yet another stone carelessly tossed into the roiling pool of Oil's rage. The barbarian allowed himself to settle back into the sofa as the Viceroy turned his back on him. Oil's dark eyes narrowed dangerously and his gauntletted hands dropped to the couch where they began restlessly tearing up the expensive fabric. It was a doomed attempt at releasing his mounting frustration.

Sit. Quiet. Dog. He turns his back on you? He puts himself between? You aint taking that shit. He shows you his back. Now. Now! End them both. Or be his dog.

Neither human or elf were aware of the flat ugliness clouding the half-orc's eyes and neither noticed his breath quickening or his spatulate hands beginning to clench and unclench restively. The voice in Oil's head rattled on, making itself heard and understood.

"It is no secret that I admire your race, {e}Uncle. That I appreciate everything you've done for me and the Jarrdan line," the Viceroy was saying. "But your race's arrogance wears thin even with me. I have put too much effort into the machinations of this Citadel. I have invested heart, soul and profit. I have done what you have told me ever since I could think for myself…I have made my own way..."

The count trailed off into thoughtful silence while a malignant smile spread upon the elf's lips. It was a smile no sane man would ever have reason to wear and Ak'mal'is shined it fully upon Carnabas before replying in elven. The Viceroy replied in the same musical tongue and Oil was forced to assume they were discussing him. They only used it when there was something they didn't want him to know. He watched them resentfully as their exchange became steadily more forceful. The butcher's smile had by now left the wizard's face to be replaced by a stern mask that better matched his raised voice.

Suddenly the elf surged to his feet without any care for his injured side and anger blazed in his eyes. His next words were spoken in common but magical infused so that they reverberated around the room deafeningly, threatening to shatter the bar's glassware.

"Athul is DEAD because of THAT thinking, you insolent human! Had your father LISTENED to me, I would not be here, and they would all be alive. Make his mistakes, I'll have no part in them."

It was all the excuse Oil needed and had been waiting for. He roared to his feet even as the Viceroy raised a hand to forestall him. Such a signal from the man would have been enough in the past but no longer. Too much damage had been done their mutual understanding and the relationship was now changed. It was too late for the count to stop him, Oil would not be denied any longer. Rage empowered him and there was murder riding in his hands. Forsaking his sword, he instead simply stepped forward, bunching his guantletted right fist into a steel wreaking-ball.

"I said quit yer mouth!," he thundered and swung his boulder-like fist around in a blow that would drive the elf's teeth into the back of his head. The maddened barbarian would savour the sweet satisfaction of breaking the fragile winged creature with his two hands. There'd be nothing left but a red puddle and a few feathers.

Ak'mal'is made no attempt to evade the attack or flee, he simply watched his doom approaching as if entranced. Oil's punishing blow connected with the elf's pale face and passed through without slowling in the least. Infact, there was so little resistance that the warrior was caught by surprise and overbalanced by his own prodigious follow-through. Catching himself against a couch, he steadied before turning to survey the gory aftermath.

Ak'mal'is still stood unmoved and with his skull anything but caved in. Oil howled his disbelief as the elf offered him an apologetic smile.

Magic, idiot. He aint there. You got played. Again.

No longer did the mercenary have to wonder at the strange courage of the elf who taunted him like a man that had nothing to fear. He wasn't truly there, he was nothing but an illusion.

"More lies! More tricks!," the half-orc shouted apoplectically with spittle flying from his mouth as he rounded on the count. "Fucking snake in the grass! Fears to speak his mind and be in the same room!"

This was the final straw that broke any semblance of proper subordination the half-orc might have shown his employer. Oil closed on the Viceroy, a dagger-like finger pointing accusingly, "What happened, Carnabas? What the fuck happened!? When you start being a fool? You're fucked if it takes ME to think for YOU!"

The mercenary's unprecedented use of the noble's first name did not go unnoticed and it was now Count Jarrdan's turn to fume angrily in the knowledge that it signified a fundamental shift in his enforcer's attitude. Oil swung his right fist and slammed it into the palm of his left with a metallic crash. The same right fist that had just moments before been so frustratingly denied. Pausing only long enough to suck air into his lungs, he continued his vehement tirade, "You got your balls in your pocket? You got your head up your ass? Open your weak eyes and SEE!"

The wizard's projection had raised a hand, its expression stern as if preparing to chastise the half-orc for his outburst but Ak'mal'is flicked his gaze to the count and decided to keep his peace. Carnabas stood weathering the storm silently, slowly kneading his temples as Oil raged on, emptying his vitriol on the man, "He comes out of nowhere and tells you your family is dead-"

"Oil…I have known my family is dead since the first night Ak'ma'lis arrived on Salrun. That is why he is here," interrupted the count calmly.

"That aint nothing to me! I don't care if it's something to you! I talk plain, and you know it. Used to be you valued it, Carnabas, but now I dont think it anymore."

The Viceroy began to pace, his fingers steepled upon his chin as if in deep thought, but by his eyes could be seen a wakening temper. Oil was beyond the point of caution and took no heed. The illusionary elf had quietly reassumed his seat and now smiled broadly while watching the two in fascination as if they were performing a play organised to entertain him.

"THINK! Don't you see he aint got no respect for you? Don't you see he don't give a fuck what you say? I, Oil," the mercenary paused in his exhortation long enough to crash a fist against his breast plate as if suspecting the man may have somehow forgotten who he was. "I, your chosen right hand...And what does he do? What does he do? He baits me! Mocks me! Your right hand! What does that say about YOU?"

The Viceroy ceased his pacing and by slow increments turned to face Oil, a dangerous light in his eyes.

"I'll tell you what it says. It says he don't think your choices are worth a fuck," the sellsword declared in disgust before whiping his arm to the side as if dashing someone's brains against the ground.

"Now I come here and see he's been writing letters. Putting words on paper so maybe they wont look like lies." Oil paused and his eyes become narrow with suspicion as something occured to him. His voice was a rasping hiss directed at the count, "You still aint said what you believe. You still aint said nothing of that…"

"{e}Uncle-," begun Carnabas, but the mercenary was not yet finished and again raised his voice to override him.

"You want me to sit down and shut the fuck up like some dog while you talk around it and over it and away from it. The elf mocks me and you deny me the blood price!"

They stood there amidst the electric silence for a protracted length of time, their eyes locked and neither willing to give any ground. Oil's bleak gaze took in the Viceroy standing before him and the realization that he wanted to kill the noble at that point in time occured to him. With a disgusted shake of his head he broke his stare first and muttered grimly, "Where I come from, you say something someone aint gonna like, you lose your fucking teeth if you cant back it up."

Oil now wondered if it was time to lose more than his teeth. He cared little either way. He had spoken the truth and it'd cost the Viceroy dearly in pain if he chose to try and force it into a lie. The elf's grin was almost too broad for his face and his head kept turning back and forth as he watched it all unfold with wide avaricious eyes.

Carnabas's steady gaze had never once left the half-orc's rage-twisted visage. He waited long enough to be sure Oil had finished before speaking calmly. "{e} Uncle..."

"Oh, I'm listening, Carnabas. I give his performance a flawless ten. Quite convincing. Captivating even. I'm stunned," the elf enthused maliciously.

"You wasting my time, Viceroy?" the half-orc menaced quietly. "You already got your mind all made up?"

"{e}Uncle..." Jarrdan repeated levelly. "Apologize to Oil."