The fiend that slithers onto the deck, its three-jawed mouth open in howl of rage, seems born of some fevered nightmare. Manlike from the waist up, save for its horns, wings, and glaring red eyes, its lower body melts into a slug's and from it oozing unnameable vileness. You know it now though you have never beheld its foul continence and hope never to do so again: Xerfilstyx, Hell's mad oracles, weaving prophecies from the broken memories lost to the Styx.
"I will have your eyes!" it screams at Ser Richard, possibly the first one it had laid eyes upon in its mad rage. A dreadful
word in the tongue of wyrms, eldest of all mortal sages whose memories are washed on the banks of the River of Lost Dreams. The knight gazes back in defiance... and the word echoes
back.
The sage devil's eyes burn into black pits as a full six-and-ten Bueroza march up to make a shield of steel and flesh around their appointed lord.