Nordom: Attention, Fall-from-Grace. I wish to address your body.

Fall-from-Grace: Pardon me?

Nordom: Your body. Your form. Your reason for selecting it. Why?

Fall-from-Grace: Why... I suppose I find it comforting. Besides, I rather like the wings.

Nordom: It would be more practical for you to assume the form of a modron. It is 13.27% more efficient. Give or take +5.2%.

Fall-from-Grace: Why, Nordom, are you trying to court me?

Nordom: It was not my intention to initiate legislation against you.

Morte: Women were the reason I became a monk - and, ah, the reason I switched back...

Morte: Hey Nordom, knock-knock.

Nordom: Why do you persist in addressing me as a door?

Morte: It's a joke, you stupid polygon! You're supposed to answer "Who's there?"

Nordom: I know who is there. It is you. Why would I ask a question when I already know the answer?

Morte: Just forget it.

Fhjull Forked-Tounge: You know that if everyone was immortal, then this entire petitioner system would be up the famed fecal creek. Immortality is not a trinket to be given to unruly children such as you.

Morte: It's called the 'Mortuary'... it's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider.

Fall-from-Grace: Time is not your enemy, forever is.

Ravel: There is no room for '2' in the world of 1's and 0's, no place for 'mayhap' in a house of trues and falses, and no 'green with envy' in a black and white world.

Transcendent One: Does he really *matter* to you?

Annah: He matters more to me than life!

Transcendent One: Then die.

Nameless One: I have committed many crimes across many lifetimes. I go now to a place of punishment. You cannot come with me.

Nameless One: You're going to eat me?

Ghrist: Aye, as soon as ye finish with ye damn fool questions.

Nameless One: You can try, but you'll die from a bellyache as I gut you.

Ghrist: I'll take that chance.

Dak'kon: There cannot be two skies.

Nameless One: It insults the dead when you treat life carelessly.

Dak'kon: When a mind does not *know* itself, it is flawed. When a mind is flawed, the man is flawed. When a man is flawed, that which he touches is flawed. It is said that what a flawed man sees, his hands make broken.

[the question asked of all who seek Ravel's help]

Ravel: What can change the nature of a man?

Vhailor: When the injustice is great enough, justice will lend me the strength needed to correct it. None may stand against it. It will shatter every barrier, sunder any shield, tear through any enchantment, and lend its servant the power to pass sentence. Know this: There is nothing on all the Planes that can stay the hand of justice when it is brought against them. It may unmake armies. It may sunder the thrones of gods. Know that for all who betray justice, I am their fate. And fate carries an executioner's axe.

Nameless One: I see.

Vhailor: No, you do not see. Pray you never will.

Deionarra: [to Nameless One] You shall meet enemies three, but none more dangerous than yourself in your full glory. They are shades of good, of evil and of neutrality given life and twisted by the laws of the planes.

Nordom: I think therefore I am. I think.

Nordom: I estimate Fall-from-Grace to be found attractive by the male sex of 321,423 separate species. Give or take five.

Fall-from-Grace: Oh? Does that include modrons?

Nordom: I am no longer able to answer that question. I do not know.

Deionarra: You must die... While you still can. The circle must come to a close my love.

Deionarra: I shall wait for you in Death's Halls my love...

Fall-from-Grace: Morte, I'm curious... What are you?

Morte: Me? I'm the head of Vecna.

Dak'kon: Endure. In enduring, grow strong.

Dak'kon: Steel marks flesh, but flesh cannot mark steel.

Transcendent One: The weak suffer. I *endure*.

[Fell explains one of the Nameless One's tattoos]

Fell: It is *torment*. It is that which draws all tormented souls to you. The flesh knows it suffers, even when the mind has forgotten. And so you wear the rune always.

Vhailor: Justice is not blind, for I am her eyes.

Transcendent One: I am that which walks with all life. My voice is a death rattle, a last breath in the throat, the whisper of a dying man.

Coaxmetal: Metal is like flesh. Both carry potential in their veins. When tempered with heat and pressure, the potential surfaces.

[about Fall-From-Grace]

Annah: I wish she'd fall from a great height. I might even bump her off meself.

Morte: One time you awoke obsessed with the idea that *I* was your skull and chased me around the Spire trying to shatter and devour me. Luckily, you were crushed by a passing cart in the street.

Vhailor: Perfection through punishment.

Nordom: I sleep in a drawer.

Nameless One: Can you speak?

Ecco: [She shakes her head at you and smiles sadly]

Morte: I love this chit already!

Nameless One: One foot in the grave and the other in hell.

Morte: Psst... Some advice, chief; I'd keep it quiet from here on - no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary... especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here.

Nameless One: Why do you care about the female corpses?

Morte: Wh- are you *serious?* Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be *chivalrous*... no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that.

Nameless One: Last chance? What are you *talking* about?

Morte: Chief, THEY'RE dead, WE'RE dead... see where I'm going? Eh? Eh?

Nameless One: You *can't* be serious.

Morte: Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We've *all* died at least once: we'll have something to talk about. They'll appreciate men with our kind of death experience.

Nameless One: Wait... didn't you say before that I'm *not* dead?

Morte: Well... all right, *you* may not be dead, but *I* am. And from where I'm standing, I wouldn't mind sharing a coffin with some of these fine, sinewy cadavers I see here.

Nordom: The issue no longer equals total logic.

Nameless One: I had to wind up dead in a place like this.

Nameless One: I wonder what it was I said that made death reject me.

Ravel: The past is past, and histories care little for a-speaking the truth of it.

Nameless One: Well I, for one, plan on discovering the secrets of the multiverse by rubbing cottage cheese on my belly and eating vast quantities of fresh-water fish. Mmm... cheese.

Fall-from-Grace: Morte, what are you again? I don't believe you ever said.

Morte: Me? I'm *le petit Morte*.

Fall-from-Grace: You know, Nordrom, you are perhaps the cutest little rogue modron I have ever encountered.

Nordom: 'Cutest' is a subjective term. I prefer the designation "fearsome cubed warrior".

Fall-from-Grace: Of course! That's why you're so cute.

Nordom: Attention; Morte. I have a question. Do you have a destiny? A purpose?

Morte: Is Annah still wearing clothes?

Nordom: Affirmatory.

Morte: Then the answer is yes.

Nordom: A query, Annah: is your tail's purpose to indicate your current level of hostility?

Annah: [angrily] What kind of stupid question is that you pikin' sod box?

Nordom: My analysis is correct. Danger! Danger!

Morte: Hey Nordom, calculate the easiest way for me to snuggle with Annah's pillows.

Nordom: Annah, Morte wishes to snuggle with your pillows!

Nordom: Nordom is a fearsome cubic warrior!

Nordom: Nordom and crossbows wish to go in search in trouble!

Morte: You know, it couldn't hurt you to be nice to me once in a while.

Annah: Aye, it would. Hurt me, tha' is.

Annah: Old Ward, also known as: Wanker City.

Coaxmetal: Start with a fragment of the enemy. A drop of blood. A crystalised thought. One of their hopes. All of these things tell the way it can die.

Nordom: I am cube de-cubed.

Morte: C'mon, Chief! We're in a building with some of the sexiest chits this side of the multiverse, and you're stopping to talk to *modrons*?

Nordom: Annah, does your tail assist you in maintaining your balance?

Annah: No, it's fer scratchin' me back, yeh soddin' box!

Nordom: Yes, that is quite logical.

Annah: [sighs]

Elderly Hive Dweller: [Upon The Nameless One telling her that he is an adventurer] "I'll bet ye've got all *sorts* o' barmy questions!" She mimics your heroic stance: "Greetin's, I have some questions... can ye tell me about this place? Who's the Lady o' Pain? I'm lookin' fer the Magic Girdle o' Swank Iron, have ye seen it? Do ye know where a portal ta the 2,817th Plane o' the Abyss might be? Do ye know where the Holy Flamin' Frost-Brand Gronk-Slayin' Vorpal Hammer o' Woundin' an' Returnin' an' Shootin'-Lightnin'-Out-Yer-Bum is?" She spits. "Dung, all o' it! Only gets ye in the Dead-Book! I ought ta kick ye in the shins fer even pesterin' a poor ol' woman about it all! Now go away an' leaves me in peace!