Order? you think, as you approach the desk. It is night, and the Slaughtered Lamb's door is locked and shut. A long, rotten oak desk is sitting at an angle, papers and forms covering the top. Piles adorn the oak, neat and orderly. You catch a glimpse of one, a roster. Commander Sazu requesting the presence of all Unholy Knights? Blodricther's plea concerning Sergeant Ayallia? These topics seem strange, all placed in precise order. The yellowed paper suggests their age, with the newest parchment only partially obscuring the other topics. Your thoughts are suddenly grasped by the small gnome who sits at the other end, her cold eyes piercing. You feel strange for a moment before a tunnelly voice rumbles into the air.