The modron, following its directives to the letter, chased after Thrombonius’s dancing lights spell. It trundled out of Short Shrift Dry Goods, across the flat plan of the private floating island, and tipped over the edge into the oblivion of the abyss.

“Sure, we’ll take you to our friends,” squeaked Squib the imp.

“Yeah, right through here,” peeped Gippy the dretch.

“Womp Rat” was shuffled through the door to see a deviless wearing an immaculate suit grinning across from a demon in heavy, almost comical armor.

“Well, hellooooo,” the deviless said. “We’re here because the same soul was sold twice, but perhaps you’d like in on the transaction?”

The elf was a teenager, fully grown but definitely considered a mere child at best by her long-lived brethren, with thick homemade spectacles and wearing an outfit that was an exact replica of Silius the Mage Queen from a popular scroll.

“Well,” Mixie said. “My friend, by best friend sort of–we kinda have grown up together–her name is Celeria. She kinda sold my could to both the demons and the devils. I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean it.”

“ULRIC WOMP RAT THON!” screamed Brynhildr as she stomped down the inn’s corridor, attracting a train of shocked imps and dretches in her wake. “YOU JUMPED OFF INTO THE NOTHINGNESS OF THE ABYSS AND LEFT US BEHIND? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”

Thrombonius’s ectoplasmic snot once again found its mark, gathering up every imp and dretch in the hallway before pasting them to the wall in a coagluated mass.

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