Velendo sighs heavily as he leans forward on the table. "Kellharin, what do you want? We're all really tired, and we don't have much patience for games."

The undead dwarf smiles ingratiatingly as he puts the old bottle of wine and the flowers down on the edge of the table. It's now apparent that the bone white flowers have tiny splotches of crimson on them, like splatters of dried blood. "Understood. I just wanted to thank you. I took a big risk earlier this evening when I asked my favorite pet to drive home my point. Instead of killing him, you were kind enough to plane shift a section of him away. That was really thoughtful of you." He beams at the group. "He's already home safe. So, I'm appreciative." He indicates the proffered wine and flowers, his smile stretching even wider.

In answer, Malachite sweeps his arm across the table. The wine bottle shatters when it hits the floor, splashing blood red fluid across the tumbled flowers. The Hunter of the Dead glares at the dwarf, sword half drawn. "Anything else?" he asks icily.

Kellharin looks at this display of bad manners with unfeigned disappointment. He gazes up at the human looming above him. "You know, I've been dead for some time," he says reprovingly, "but I'm fairly sure that's not how you treat guests. That was drow wine, you know, hundreds of years old!" One of the carrion flies settles back on his cheek. He doesn't seem to notice.

"You're not a guest."

Kellharin clears his throat noisily, patchy beard bobbing. "I suppose not. It's a shame; there is seldom opportunity for polite conversation in our kingdom. Too much to do. I also wanted to point out that your group is entirely vulnerable to us. Do you really want to . . . ."

Malachite interrupts, speaking over his shoulder to Velendo. "Is there any reason to wait?" Karthos leaps to the paladin's hand.

" . . . spend months of your precious life sleeping poorly and looking over your shoulder, wondering when we'll launch an attack? Really, I don't think it's too late for us to find a com . . . ."

"No," answers Velendo with a shake of his head.

" . . . promise, an interim solution." Kellharin looks hopeful.

Long sword flashing, Malachite slashes him down in a single blow.

The dwarf's clotted bodily fluids join the flowers and the wine bottle in a grotesque puddle on the carpeted floor. Well, half of the wine bottle, anyways. Malachite looks up, and sees Splinder at the end of the table, swigging down the unbroken half as he watches the confrontation.

"What are you doing?" asks Velendo, aggrieved. "It could be poisoned!"

"Nah," answers Splinder. "Good stuff. A little fruity for my personal taste, though."

The group sits in silence for a minute, and then Nolin pushes himself back to his feet. "We've really got to do something about him. But for now, I'm going to bed. If there are any more emergencies, don't bother waking me up." He stomps down the hall. One by one, the others follow him.