A luckless Nightgaunt drowns her misery at the bar of her friend Holly who has an interesting proposal.

“What’s my soul like then?”

“Eh, like an Ogress. Big, full of… hard stuff. Pulpy.” Visgali’s abyssal eyes were mesmerizing, but the comparison stung the bartender’s own pride. “You’re a stiff drink, but I need a- a-,” the nightgaunt’s eyelids lulled over as she drifted off to sleep mid-sentence.