The Planar Insurance Company

In the Hive District of Sigil, there's a building. Unusually for the City of Doors, it has an outer yard - of dying, yellowy grass. It's a square, stout building, with four rounded towers. It has an internal courtyard, like most Sigilite buildings, albeit a spacious one. The yard is surrounded by a rusty wrought iron fence, conspicuously free of Sigil's ever-present razorvine. 

The roof tiles are cracked and disjointed, many of the windows are boarded up, and only one door isn't obscured by planks, padlocks and chains. Above that singular door stands a plainly painted sign.

Welcome, to the Planar Insurance Company

The cagers of the Hive - one of the worst slums in the multiverse - have little need of insurance, but they have even less need of the P.I.C.'s service; it offers to insure entire planes of existence against 'wear, tear, damage or incursion'. 

The knowledgeable economists of the Market Ward scoff in contempt at this idea. What could damage a whole plane? Who would insure a demiplane, a secure pocket of reality? 

On the other hand, the wizards and arcanists of Sigil are surprisingly regular customers. The price to insure anything other than a demiplane is astronomical, so no-one has, for example, purchased insurance for Acheron, or the Feywild, or Elysium.  

A visitor might notice the odd fact that the supposed offices of this company are devoid of life, with nary a basher or berk seen entering or leaving, be it dark or light. Except of course, for the P.I.C.'s sole employee.

He's called Willum. He appears to be a human man in his forties, clean shaven and block-headed. He's got broad shoulders, plain, serviceable clothing, and a longsword in a battered sheath. He spends his time drinking quietly in one of two bars, (The Cat's Whiskers in the Lower Ward, or the Imp's Head in the Hive) or walking between them.

People come to meet him: famous adventurers, Acheronian Reaves, defecting Baatezu, visiting Yugoloths, Hivers and Cagers of every stripe. Even faction representatives can be seen, sitting across from him, drinking the liquid that the Imp's Head passes off as beer. 

All of them - even the big-shot adventurers - treat him with respect and deference. They talk about business, perhaps buy insurance from him. And sometimes, he arranges for innocuous little jobs: carry this sealed box, check in on this particular Guvner, visit this party and ask after the host. All harmless little tasks. But those who go about them do so quickly, even if they don't understand why they must be done. 

Because something is definitely off about Willum. Floorboards creak under a deceptive weight. Those who he brushes past remark on being staggered, as if by a much larger man. Those who can sense the presence of magic note a complex weaving of spells around him, like a cloak. 

And those who pry - by magic or otherwise - seem suddenly incapable of sharing what they know. And then, within 3 to 5 business days, they disappear without a trace. Even from locked rooms and sealed catacombs. Even from the distant reaches of the Great Wheel. 

When asked, Willum feigns ignorance, but he rewards the asker with a rare, toothy smile. 

Few then, have the guts to ask why Willum offers to insure entire planes, and indeed, just what he's insuring them against.