The ribbons were simple cloth, but I could see that there were glyphs on the hooks. We found a sort of half-hidden trading where dzulu were bartering meat and greens for small wooden beads and sharpened obsidian – well shaped, fit to serve as knife blades – and mere streets later drow were sneaking to the side a run-down temple painted entirely in shades of yellow to hang small white ribbons from hooks on a wall. They were the first drow we encountered, but hardly the last. None of them noticed the edge of our illusions glimmering against the wall, but we quickened our pace anyway. The three of us had barely turned our first corner before we nearly stumbled over a handful of nisi sitting in an alcove and chatting about a recent game of inic cin as they wove reed baskets.
Sure, it wasn’t exactly a market fair out here but neither was it a ghost city with a few terrified souls shivering behind closed doors. The streets weren’t empty the way it’d seemed from up on the Soaring Stairs. I thought I’d gotten a sense of the Yeshala territory, but I’d been wrong. – Translation of the Kabbalis Book of Darkness, widely attributed to the young Dead King
A god can have no beginning or end both must be slain without hesitation.” “Understand this: divinity is an act of murder.
