Far to the north, while Stoneheart still reveled in its festivities, the clown's Orc avatar was being devoured by its opponent. At that very moment, a young insectoid, drawn by the bait the clown had laid, stepped into the trap.
"Mentor, I've made my decision. I will practice The Art of Aetherial Shaping you have bestowed upon me."
The clown turned. His current avatar was a perfect replica of an insectoid, though it radiated a pressure and power that dwarfed Lokiviria's by an order of magnitude.
"Are you certain?" the clown asked, his voice a low thrum. "One misstep on this path, and all your work will simply pave the way for another's rise."
He studied the insectoid before him. Young, brimming with potential, and shackled by the weight of a blood feud. A perfect vessel, he thought. A perfect sacrifice. Drawing on the lessons learned from the Torin fiasco, the clown adopted a new, more refined approach to his little toys.
