It is said that I have the soul of a poet, and in fact I have thousands of them. Over the ages I have claimed the souls of poets, priests, emperors, beggars, slaves, philosophers, criminals and heroes; no sort of soul escapes me. What I do with them is unknown. No one has ever peered into the Abysm whence I reached out like an eel from among astral rocks. Do I devour them one after another? Do I mount them along the halls of an eldritch temple, or pickle the souls in necromantic brine? Am I merely a puppet, pushed through the dimensional rift by a demonic puppeteer? Such is my evil, so intense my aura of darkness, that no rational mind may penetrate it. Of course, if you really want to know where the stolen souls go, there's one sure way to find out: Add your soul to my collection. Or just wait for me.