They were face-to-face, they were immediate foes. While violence was inevitable, they warmed the cool subterranean air with the embers of of their ideologies—a quaint exchange of perspectives. The demon seized the initiative, and spoke first. Meanwhile, the glowing shaman remained impassive while his blue-skinned adversary leveled accusations of racism and judgement.

With care, the tranquil shaman composed his response.

"Stranger," he ventured, "I do not believe in righteousness." Gum do Mugu twitched his nostrils and sniffed, there was a swirl of sulphur spreading through the cavern's air. "Our eyes and minds experience life—just dreams and nightmares—and often we endure these illusions against our will." The shaman looked down at his own fragile frame, he saw it as neither gift nor curse. "Our bodies," he explained, "come from our parents." His sermon, dosed with the vibrant energies of the spirits around them, quickly gathered pace. "And our control of the worlds we live in is limited." His logic was becoming clearer, and so the lesson was taking shape.

And then, summoned by just a thought, the previously nascent crow became—for that moment, at least—flesh and blood. The vociferous bird fluttered onto his master's shoulder and began to stifle squawks into the shaman's ear. The bird uttered troubling truths, revealing every banshee and spectre looming from Nosdyn's murderous past.

"So," he mused pointedly, "what is blame?"