The ruler of Vallaki. A squat man with long, receding hair and vibrant red finery, whose arms move about as though he were a conductor while he speaks. A tall, slender woman in similar finery stands at his side, wringing her hands, and two large basset hounds flank the pair and eye the crowd. Izek Strazni stands nearby.
When the party arrived, he was hearing petitions from atop the repurposed gallows in the town square, the way a king does. Every concern was met with blind optimism:
“Something comes in the night to take my pigs, and leaves no prints.” “Many blessings! Think of the amount you will save on pig feed! All will be well!”
“The flour cart has not come this past month. My bakery runs dry.” “Great news! We can work off some of this winter fat and spare our purses for the time being! All will be well!”
The church sexton’s complaint about stolen church property was dismissed the same way. Each time he says “All will be well,” the crowd answers in kind.
His two basset hounds are not what they seem. When Retnuh knelt to feed them, he smelled sulphur and old smoke on their breath, the same infernal reek he knew from Buccephalus. They are hellhounds.