The Crimson Hand lay in ash and embers. The one who wrought its downfall found himself in the heart of Althanas, a place most would deem him mad to show himself in public. The Lye of the past looked so very different than the man now. Worse for wear suited his concealment in the public. Besides, who would recognize him with all that long, white hair cut short? Perhaps the sly renegade with a ridiculously large bounty on his head might recall the youthful face under the accumulated years. Lye bowed slightly to the Ai'Brone monk whom ushered him through the chamber entrance mentioned by his sources.

A flash of light and the assassin emerged back outdoors. Sun high in the sky and the smell of Radasanthian fare wafted from the shops and inns down the alley. He was impressed with the tenacity and skill the old monks showed in their work. One thing set apart real from synthetic: a stark lack of bodies which usually shambled from place to place in search of purpose or meaning in their miserable lives. Instead, just one silhouette marred the blue horizon, and Lye raised his head so the light could dawn on a smile.

"I'm surprised you still don't run this place," Lye joked. His arms gestured outward to the visage of Radasandth and what lied outside its illusion.