[Suzerain of Sheol]

"He maketh sport of us." Maugris practically hisses the words -- a sure sign of his rising ire.

A moment passes in audacious spectacle, and then Charlemagne suddenly laughs: rich, powerful, and long. He turns a wry eye to his Paladin, a remnant of the man behind the irenic mask of imperial lordship. "Is that not what we are here for this day?! Let us all make sport, while yet we may!" He lifts his arm in eagerness, then brings it swiftly down.

"The terms are set! Let it be thus! Commence!