One month ago...

The Collector appeared, and for once, he moved with purpose. Gone was the ambling shuffle, the lackadaisical lean against this pile of bones or that; instead he strode with frighteningly swift strides, his nine-foot height sweeping through the Chambers with softly-clicking steps.

In his arms, he held a bundle. A precious bundle. A bundle of the finest-tailored Tesarill cloth; and how those bastards valued perfection in their extravagance... It was perfect, really. The waistcoat, the pristine shirt, the little tie; the gold-chained watch and the silken handkerchief.

At least, he thought it was silk. He hoped it was silk; it had been a pain to spirit this all so quietly away.

Ah, but the important part was-

-No, we mustn't jump that far ahead in our story, now. That would ruin the narrative, hm? No, the Collector stopped. Quite dramatically, he looked left, right, up--silent, listening. He cast out his senses, and his magic. Once he was certain that no one was following him--that none of those Gembound had prowled along behind (and really, wasn't that almost disappointing-? They lacked mischief, this generation)--he pushed farther into the labyrinth of bones.

At last, well-shrouded in the honeycombed passages, he knelt beside a little alcove of bones. It was like any other: full of dried yellow skeletons, musty and silent, as identical to any other passageway as could be. He'd leave no sign; he'd cover it enough that it wouldn't be happened upon by any passersby. No, this one would not be found.

Delicately, he lay out the clothing, and mused that he'd need to find the little bastard and leave new sets as it grew. Couldn't have it wandering about naked the first time it went up a size, could he? And what a bastard it would be.

Algol pushed back his hood. Beneath was a horrid face: like a man's and a goat's, hook-nosed and pointed-eared, with leering fangs and glowing red eyes. The pocked, warty skin gave way to coarse, gray-and-black fur at the hairline and around the face, and a long beard blended into the ruff of fur around his neck--a ruff so many assumed belonged to his cloak, but which was part of his humped back.

He was grinning.

He wanted to see this one placed, himself; he wanted to watch it fuse, to view it without the shroud of shadows that his hood would provide. The golden earrings dangling unevenly from each ear glinted in the low light, and he leaned forward, unfurling the little three-piece suit.

Ahh--and now we reach the important part in this tale.

Folded within the clothing lay an emerald--gleaming with potential, stifled by the lack of substrate with which to bond. Any other stone might have died, by now, but not this one, not in his hands. Claws picked it up, delicately, and then placed it down among the bones, beside the clothing--and at once it took root, the gleaming, glinting green swelling and merging with the rock below.

"Go on, then, my little troublemaker," he murmured, his grin too wide for his face.

The bones were carefully placed to hide its hatching-spot-to-be, and then he pulled his hood back up again.

He came to his feet--and again looked, listened, and sensed for intruders--and then swept away, gone as quickly as he'd come.

This would be a fun story to watch unfold...

...and Chapter One was about to begin.