Your interlocutor is not what they seemed to be. Their face cracks, contorts, reshapes itself―a changeling―to reveal its true form. A woman with death-pale skin and eyes paler still, clothed in visceral flesh-crimson. Orin.

"Oh! Look at it, crawling and rooting and squeal-sniffing around in the filth," yelps the BHAALSPAWN, hands clasped. Hmm. "Have you come beg-begging for a taste of my blades, little hero?" Her knife-arms twitch with a most macabre longing to stab, to slice, to peel and killkillkillkillkill.