[Salone]

The Ash of Rasputin sighs, more for the expulsion of air than actual exasperation. Drawing upon mana from his master, the ash is disturbed as something is forged from the pure aether flowing through the air. Through a bright light, a tall jointed mannequin clothed in the humble black of a monk stands before her. Its visage is of Rasputin himself, although twisted in mockery upon such an uncanny display. With dead eyes it looks down upon its Master. There is no mouth, yet sound issues from wherever the ash may be.

"I am more than capable of such a task. I have my ways. By your morning matters shall be attended to. With your permission, I may lay claim to the lands of Avignon."