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[GiglameshDespair]

Ava frowned at the unfamiliar word. "Sentient?"

[Dwarmin]

Ava frowned at the unfamiliar word. "Sentient?"

"Hyu, sentient creatures are said to be intelligent enough to understand they themselves exist-for example, a wolf looking into a mirror would only see another wolf, whereas a 'sentient' would understand it as a reflection of itself. It is a complicated idea.

To an Elf, at least in a racial sense, the line does not really exist. Most of my down to earth cousins would tend to say, meat is meat. I don't make a habit of consuming sentient beings, but Sahuagin are an exception-they raid sailors mercilessly, and when your deck ends up littered with a few dozen corpses, and you've had nothing but stone hard biscuits for the last three months, we'll see what you do!

...

As for cooking, most of us do not have your wild constitution, Ava. The North no doubt keeps meat cold and fresh, but down in the warmer countries you are advised to cook your meal well so you do catch a blood disease or parasite."

[GiglameshDespair]

Ava leaned back, bumping against the shelves. Some kind of thread - perhaps from bookbinding - dislodged and fell to the ground.

"Vhat are zhese zag-hoo-ain? Are zhey a good fight?"

[Dwarmin]

"Sa-hoo-aguin. I suppose you could call them 'Fishmen'. Though they are nothing like men, they do have two legs and two arms. Very sharp claws, teeth and spines-though they can use weapons, of course, usually nasty coral tridents that leave infected cuts..they dwell in the coasts and shallow oceans, and enjoy preying on ships...and they are very much 'a good fight'. They have very good senses, you see-the scent of their own blood drives them into a battle frenzy. You would perhaps then find an enemy to match your rage, Ava. Blood crazed Sahuagin are very interesting to fight..."

[flame99]

Spoiler: Somewhere, in a place beyond light, beyond order and definition... (click to show/hide)

...A man bowed his head, and slowly sank to his knees. He stood alone, in this primaevel blackness, in which light has never touched nor given form to the beings which haunt it with such fury. A crown sat upon his head, corroded and damaged with naught but shards left of the crown jewel, as the wearer sat equally decrepit. Chittering in the void, foul creatures reached out to consume the interloper, to show him his error in ever entering this abyss, and yet each grasping hand, or tentacle, or other malformed Thing found itself repelled. Soon, the fallen king spoke  aloud. A simple plea, for nothing in particular and yet all. For his life, his freedom, his soul. And in the void a shape formed.

A being, of a blacker black; a truer black, took shape. Its form bent the mind and soul and drove all normal men who should gaze upon it to death. And it spoke.
"I shall not consume you, or enslave you. I shall not steal away your soul, no...I have something much different planned. Your name..."
The king, knowing better than to face his tormentor, spoke the word, though it was snatched away by the whirling blackness. And the Thing reached out, snatched away the word and with it the very idea and essence of it. In its place, a new name. A new mask. Gold and silver woven together, stark against the evershifting void.
"You shall be the Firstborn. Rise, my child. Take your throne as your siblings soon shall. Rise, Ulthras, and let this be your rebirth."

((Aretrian shall continue, very soon. For the time being take this bit of cryptic exposition. Interestingly enough if you all payed very close attention, you could probably figure out most of the major story elements at this point.))