Your name is Jack. It means "fool," not in the sense of a comedic person retained to entertain a monarch, but in the sense of "stupid asshole". Your parents hadn't known this or, in fact, much of anything at the time, though more and more lately you're finding the name eerily prophetic.
They call you the Debtor, and you hate these meetings.
You hate these meetings because the Lush disgusts you. You hate these meetings because the Diviner /terrifies/ you, with her wide blue eyes and the way she always seems to know what you're thinking. But mostly, you hate them because they're time away from your search.
"She has to strike at one of us soon," the Diviner - Gabrielle, her name is Gabrielle - says flatly, almost indifferently. "She has no other way to progress. How are your preparations."
"Ready," the Lush rumbles. The giant is handsome, in his own way, like a well-done carving. He leans on the table, drinking tea from a delicate porcelain mug the size of a bucket. "Ever have I been prepared for war."
The Diviner's eyes turn to you.
"Don't give me that," you snap. "You know how I prefer to operate. The Warehouse remains mainly untouched, except where -"
"Except where your craven hunt takes you, yes," the Diviner interrupts. "Did you trade your spine instead of your soul, Jack?"
"Listen here, you mass-murdering -"
"Enough," Richard's voice cuts in, from the middle of the table. It emanates from a small silver bell. "Debtor, the heritor will not spare you for your elegance."
"She might for not being a mass-murdering piece of shit," you retort, cynically.
Then the chain manifests around your throat. You cry out as you're dragged face-first to the table; stars blossom in your vision while you choke.
Flitter, your closest friend - your only friend, really - flits next to the bell and kicks it with all the fury her four-inch pixie frame can muster. "You're killing him!"