The representatives of Pfilghol arrive. Slugs of vibrant blue and white slither into the event. Their leader, an absolutely corpulent specimen, scoops up a tunicate from the banquet in a prehensile tendril and crunches through its shell, slurping the insides out. "The food is exquisite! Where is our host? I absolutely must extend my congratulations, and my thanks!" Olgght, the-one-who-consumes, ruler of Pfilghol, seems to be enjoying themselves. Slinking behind them, a smaller, more furtive Pfith eyes the crowd (and Olgght's back) warily.