Krixx dipped his quill in his ink well, and sat thinking to himself. He was in the Gallow's End, one of his favorite retreats, and he had his succubus, Domthea, at his side, and his dragon Sparky sat proudly on the table before him in all his black might. The air smelled of death, and had a peculiar musty odor on top of that. The area looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Twice. Krixx hated tornadoes. He thought hard for a few minutes, paused, and proceeded to scratch down the first words of his document in a barely legible, lazy script: He lifted his quill and began to write again: