If you're to pretend at intelligence, you might parrot something of value, Schiele had once insisted. He'd worked it into a mnemonic on that first ruins job: MAD-EGS-JF.

The elvhen Creators. Mad eggs, the lot of them.

"Never heard a Corellon," Lazar swallows at last, taps the sun tattooed on his neck. "This one's for the Maker. Don't reckon he's an elf, but someone's bound to argue."