[Suzerain of Sheol]

Hearing the psychic's complaint, Shealtiel rouses from his meditative reverie, a slight smiling creasing his gaunt cheeks. Cleanliness is one advantage of the inhuman forces he allows to ravage his body; any foreign organisms die at first contact. The black waters of Sheol wipe clean his body every time he invokes them -- which is almost constantly. He is kept hale even as he wounds himself with necromantic power.

Now that most of the others have awoken, Shealtiel stands and says to them, "I suggest we return to Corinth now while the night holds. The city will be reeling from the assault and the death of the Saint. We should be able to acquire any supplies we might require, with little resistance, hopefully." Looking around, he adds, "Though I'm sure you have a better idea, my dear," to the red-haired woman who seems to find some sort of facile pleasure in keeping her name a secret -- and yes, he is aware that his thoughts are open to her. Draw from that what you will, daughter of Babylon.