Kumquat-complexioned entrepreneur David Dickinson shoulders you aside as he storms the corridors of the Diablo III Auction House. “How can they shut it all down?” He barks, beads of butter springing from his forehead where only sweat would be visible on a lesser man. “Where will I be able to offload this Wicker Chair of +7 Discomfort and Old Tin Soldier of +2 Melancholy Reflections About The Interwar Years?” The items in question are firmly secured in his gargantuan trouser pocket.

“Well, Sir Dickinson.” You begin, struggling to keep pace with his powerful stride. Dickinson hasn’t been formally knighted by the monarch but the ‘Sir’ is fitting – the silver gavel of a higher power still has often caressed the lint from his shoulders behind the carved doors of certain secret chambers. “Nothing will be lost, at least not yet.”

He turns to you, actual bolts of lightning sparking across the damp crevices of his brow. “Explain.”

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