Xaro Xhoan Daxos:The East is plagued with mystics who claim many dread powers but prove only one. Separating the foolish from their purses.
Not so with the renowned Warlocks of Qarth. They demand a much dearer coin in return for their parlor tricks. Respect.
Once, the Warlocks truly were mighty, or so they would have us believe.
I do not doubt they have many secrets. They are an old order, and one does not obtain a seat on The Thirteen, the governing council of Qarth, without making twelve of our most powerful citizens afraid to forbid it.
Thankfully for Qarth, the Warlocks exert little influence in our politics. They rarely leave the confines of their House of the Undying, a pompous name but, I admit, a strange and dark tower.
It is said that none who enter ever leave. Of course, since there are no visible doors. I have to believe that none ever enter, either. I can only imagine what the Warlocks do inside. I wager we do not have to imagine much.
They read dusty scrolls detailing their lost glory; they sip shade-of-the-evening, a foul concoction brewed from the nearby trees, until their lips turn blue, the better to frighten children, and the ignorant.
Stewing in their fantasies like an old soldier who drinks alone so no one may challenge their prowess.
Whatever the Warlocks may wish, their magic like all magic, is dead in the world, if it ever existed. Though, one does hear strange whispers of late.