“I was a good man once,” Weston keeps his black eyes on the table in front of him. The thumping of the music in the Three Wishes vibrates through the table, but your attention is clearly on the man, if he can be called that, in front of you. His hands hold a cup filled with a warm red liquid Azonia had brought to him. You find how quickly she came to it a little alarming.
“I was a good man, once,” Weston repeats. “But not now.”
“I believed in what Zovelle was doing. I believe it even now. I could lie to you and tell you I didn’t know about the diabolical machine, but I did. He needed it to survive. A beast like him always hungers for blood. A beast as large as he requires so much of it. He served a purpose in Sigil. He got rid of those who needed to leave. We didn’t go after the workers. We didn’t go after those who produced things and who made Sigil a better place. We went after those who prayed on others. We went after those who grew fat from the sweat and torn bodies of others. So we tore their bodies as well.”
“He isn’t dead,” Weston looks to you and you see the tiny pinpoint of red light in the center of his black eyes. “Not really. Zovelle has been here a long time. His web of influence grows deep within Sigil. You may have cut apart his body, but his life lives on in the web of influence he created. His servants, though they do not think of themselves as such, will not stand for your actions. There will be repercussions for your actions. I can help you a small bit with this, but I was never a smart one. I was his master-at-arms, his enforcer. When he had a dirty job that needed to be done, and you can only imagine what dirty jobs existed that one such as himself would not do, I did them.”
“I want you to know this before you make your decision. I will serve you. I will not lie to you. I will ensure your bar is safe. I will act as your cooler.”
“But when I leave for an evening, do not ask where I go.”