Caine Black Knife

Deliann truly believes that the fundamental purpose of the Ankhanan Empire is to defend Home against fuckers like you. Like us. Remember that it was his grandfather who forged the dil T’llan to keep us out. Remember that Deliann is also the head of House Mithondionne, which makes him king of the elves. Who are the greatest spell-casters of Home. Remember what happened to your invasion force three years ago. Remember that the entire Ankhanan Empire has spent these past three years preparing to make war on you.

Try to imagine what that war will be like. They won’t be coming to conquer; we’ve got nothing they need. They’ll be coming to punish, get it? You won’t know what a scorched-earth policy really is until you see it executed by a conflagration of dragons. Think of Deliann as me with an army. Think of yourselves as the Black Knife Nation.

Between them and you, all you’ve got is me.

This is what I bring to the table:

The Smoke Hunt still exists, so I’m still an Agent of Khryl. No matter how much Markham hates me, he can’t touch me publically. Pretty much every Khryllian I meet has to kiss my ass, and the Soldiers of Khryl are still the finest fighting force in the history of either world. I’ve got a Khryllian Knight in my pocket. I’ve got Kierendal believing I’m on her side. I’ve got an Esoteric strike team that’s probably in place already, which is commanded by a woman who worships me as a god. I’m the goddamn boogeyman of the ogrilloi, my brother is kwatcharr of the Black Knives-unless, y’know, I am-and no one alive can match my understanding of the dil T’llan.

Not to mention that I am, all modesty aside, the Hand of Ma’elKoth.

I can get you out from under the Khryllians. When I’m done, you’ll have permanent access to Overworld. Permanent.

I can stop the war. Or, y’know, win it.

This is what I want:

I want my job back.

Not Acting. I guess you could say I want Faller’s job. Better yet: I want to be his boss. Call it Director of Overworld Operations. I want an iron-clad lifetime contract, along with a full wipe-the-fucking-record-clean pardon for any and all prior acts.

I know you don’t trust me. The beauty is that you don’t have to. Nothing I can possibly do will make shit any worse than it is already. Call it my gift to you: the gift of no tomorrow.

Think it over. Take your time.

I’ve got nowhere I have to be.