Audland hadn't cared much for the blabber-mouthed papers yapping on some bullhonkey regarding singing and dancing and not being a loser or whatever. He found the improvisational invention of new words to be lightly amusing and annoying simultaneously, but unfortunately for Master Nemean, the missive simply hadn't caught Audland at a good time. Had he been luxuriating in the tunnels outside of Ursa, or at least not actively dealing with one of the incredibly annoying, ever-persistent "flare-ups" afforded to him by his alignment with Chaos, he might have shown a little more interest. Unfortunately, that pink glitter gel pen-laden email had only added to the frustration he was enduring thanks to the black winds choosing to death grip his skull in that moment, like an unseen hand he couldn't pull off no matter how hard he tried.

When the feeling finally abated and Nemean's missive lay torn to shreds beneath Audland's feet, Audland had opted for a long walk through Polaris. He had made it most of the way to Orion before he had found more yet more persistent parcels strewn about. He might have seen fit to destroy them too, had these ones been imbecilic enough to speak; but they had held their... tongues? And so, Audland would spare one a glance. Once he'd grabbed a hold of it, something in his gut told him that this one might be worth keeping.

Traveling into Orion, he had asked around for what the paper might mean. Those not immediately put off by Audland's lumbering, Valkhoundish appearance usually had little useful information to offer him. There was something about a man though—one who dealt in written contracts that few could read. It wasn't until Audland met some stupid looking pink thing that Audland had received any real information. "The Collector," the two-horned two-winged flying pinky people eater had said. "He'll give you what you need, for a price." Audland hadn't been too sure about trusting the guy, either because he looked funny or because the gleam in his eyes was funny. But Audland had needs, and never before had there been an inkling of a chance that something in these caves could do anything about them. Until now.

So Audland had taken the stranger's directions to the Bone Fortress in Canis, where he eventually caught sight of the one he assumed was the source of these summons; the man of the hour: the Collector. Audland attempted to will the only form of aid he actually had under his own control: the ability to see who was Chaos, who was Order, and who simply was not.

The singular trustworthy ability in Audland's toolkit managed to fetch him the most curious answer. One that suggested that pinkie might have actually been telling the truth.

Without any pleasantries or introduction whatsoever, Audland would begin: "There is somethin' I want," Audland would tell the Collector with uncharacteristically hushed solemnity, "that I cannot have, by virtue of my nature. I don't know what you'd call it. I think I'd know it as power." The Collector may notice the harrowed expression in Audland's face. Perhaps he would find it bemusing—promising, even. "An' there's a lot I'd be willin' t' do for it."

What kind of moral challenge could a Valkhound even face? I supposed we will all have to wonder, for now.