Still wracked with pain from Ba'alzamon's attack, the man calling himself Ancalagon got back to his feet only to realise that he was now uncloaked and unmasked. A man in his thirties, short, lean and hard-faced, a thick blond moustache failed to conceal the dreadful scar that climbed up the left side of his face, drawing attention to the filmy white eye that occupied the socket on that side of his face. The other eye, sharp and black and filled with rage looked around at the other people sharing his predicament.

Visibly disconcerted, he took a mouthful of the wine in his cup without thinking, immediately spitting it out upon notice. With a scream of rage he hurled the goblet into a fireplace, something he regretted when the fire failed to sizzle or smoke in protest. That seemed to calm him down, somewhat.

"This situation, it is a pleasantry, yes? If the Great Lord, he knows those of us who are loyal and those who are not, then why not deal with the traitors immediately? Surely that would be more efficient."