Hoke sits once again in the large cushioned chair by the hearth. He pulls out a small pouch tied around his neck and dumps the contents into his hand: a small inky metallic black orb. He rolls it around a bit. It rolls slowly, seemingly sticking slightly to his hand as it made a few circuits in his palm. It whispers to him. Hoke closes his eyes and listens for a bit. There are promises in those faint voices.
"Not yet," Hoke says.
He closes his hand into a tightened fist, then drops the orb back into its pouch around his neck.