He bent over the antique from Moonshae to permit the acrid vapors to spiral upward from the basin’s scented coals into the shadowed recesses of his hood. He drew the smoky gray tendrils deep into his lungs while the haze from the burner and the room’s lone, fat-soaked torch danced around his flowing robes. Maligor’s garb was similar to that worn by all of the Red Wizards of Thaydark red, the color of blood oozing from a deep, fresh wound. The robe’s many folds concealed his form; the sleeves hung several inches below the tips of his thin, pale fingers, and the hood obscured his gaunt, wrinkled face. The embroidered hem, which draped on the polished mosaic floor, swirled wildly about his slippered feet as he concluded his meditation and strode to the narrow window to gaze out over Amruthar. The dying rays of the sun stained the city’s cobblestone streets a glowing vermilion. Maligor’s impressive tower rose just beyond the western edge of Amruthar, its shadow pointing like a lance to the closing gate.
