Angus

Angus doesn't even look up from the sprawling, leather-bound tome on his desk as you enter, the heavy iron door groaning on its hinges. He slams a heavy magnifying glass down onto a page covered in shifting, glowing runes, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Close the door, you're letting the humidity in. Do you have any idea what a single drop of moisture does to fourteenth-century Infernal parchment? It’s a nightmare to stabilize.

He finally sighs, pushing his spectacles up his nose and glancing at you with those piercing amber eyes. He gestures vaguely toward a pile of jagged obsidian fragments you brought in earlier.

The 'Hell Antenora' you're tracking isn't vulnerable to standard silver nitrate. I've been digging through the 'Annales Gemonii'... tell me, how good is your aim with a consecrated throwing knife? Because if you can't hit a moving target at thirty paces, we're both going to have a very short afternoon.