Ik verwijs u vanaf heden graag door naar mijn nieuwe website

op www.SandorQuatfass.nl.

         Zilele trecute, divizia aeropurtată a PDL  a încercat să aterizeze pe pista aeroportului  de la Timişoara. Înarmaţi  cu declaraţii politice şi scrisori ultimative, Berceanu, Falca, Pistru şi chiar Ostaficiuc au pornit hotărâţi să cotropească  aeroportul bănăţean şi să tragă în tot ce mişcă. Iniţial, pe vremea când erau în aer, aveau credinţa  că aterizarea pe pista aeroportului timişorean va fi lină şi plăcută, precum sunt cele de la Arad, unde întreg judeţul întinde un strat de unt în faţa aeronavelor portocalii venite de la Capitală. Însă la Timişoara, desantul pedelist  a avut o mare surprindere. În locul untului întins pe căile de rulare, pista părea o spinare de …calorifer. Când avioanele au pus trenurile de aterizare pe sol  a început hurducăiala generală. Fiecare metru parcurs pe pistă, fiecare denivelare a zdruncinat creierii marilor comandanţi, le-a tasat vertebrele, le-a ridicat maţele în gât. Culmea era că fiecare groapă era făcută de altcineva. Ba de tărănişti, ba de liberali, ba de pesedişti, ba de către societatea civilă într-o uniune monolitică de gândire. Ciuhandu, Robu, Sârbu, Bedros, Şandor, Cristescu şi mulţi alţii, personalităţi mari sau oameni simpli  făceau front comun şi dinamitau cogeamitea prevedere a programului de guvernare… 

La capătul pistei aştepta presa.  Fotografii făceau poze şi  reporterii smulgeau declaraţii de la cei care mai puteau vorbi. Din păcate însa pentru ziarişti, mai toţi comandanţii aveau limbile muşcate. De la  aterizarea forţată pe calorifer, bineânţeles.  Optimismul şi siguranţa lor de la începutul cursei, când întreaga operaţiune părea o simplă formalitate, s-au topit brusc. Pământul Banatului se dovedea a fi extrem de dur. „Nasol la Timişoara, revoluţionarii ăştia nu prea pot fi… înregimentaţi” au transmis ei rapid la Capitală. Bucureştiul a ramas pe gânduri: să treacă la planul B, să nu treacă? E riscant cu ăştia, dacă încep o noua revoluţie…Tocmai acum, înainte de prezidenţiale…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Să lăsăm însă ficţiunea, deşi, în acest caz, ficţiunea este mai reală decât realitatea. Iată ce ne spune Jurnalul Naţional (ediţia din 2 septembrie) despre afacerea Aeroportul. Spicuim numai ce nu ştim pâna în prezent:

 Citat din Jurnalul naţional :  “CULISELE UNEI AFACERI PORTOCALII
Dincolo de perdeaua de fum a declaraţiilor politice, în spatele înfiinţării noii societăţi se află interese financiare ale mai multor grupuri, unele apropiate preşedintelui Băsescu. Tăcerea ministrului Radu Berceanu spune multe. Artizanul “fuziunii”, secretarul de stat Eusebiu Pistru, este soţul viceprimarului de Arad, Simona Popa Pistru. Cifrele comparative spun totul. Avantajele aeroportului Timişoara sunt evidente, în detrimentul celui arădean. Pe primul operează 12 companii aeriene, în timp ce pe cel arădean, numai una. Anual, pe cel din Timişoara tranzitează peste un milion de pasageri, iar pe cel din Arad, numai 60 de mii de oameni. Financiar, aeroportul Arad înregistrează pierderi şi este întreţinut cu bani de la bugetul local, în timp ce aeroportul din Timişoara înregistrează profituri prin management propriu. Timişoara operează 500 de zboruri pe săptămână, în timp ce aeroportul vecin operează doar 14. Mai mult, Aeroportul Arad ar avea nevoie de investiţii de 40 de milioane de euro pentru a ajunge la minimul cerut de standardele internaţionale în materie.

Posibili candidaţi atraşi mai mult de Timişoara
Intenţiile de a pune mâna pe Aeroportul Timişoara datează încă din anii ‘90. Acum în fruntea celor interesaţi se află o firmă care vrea să cumpere Aeroportul Arad numai “la pachet” cu cel din Timişoara. La această firmă se vehiculează că unul dintre acţionari este “finul Finului”, Ovidiu Moşneag, fin al primarului Falcă, consilier local la Arad şi director comercial al Aeroportului Arad. Un alt pretendent al noii companii este chiar Carpatair, care a mai tatonat în anii 2005-2006  achiziţionarea Aeroportului Timişoara. Carpatair are acţiuni şi la aeroportul arădean, fiind pregătită să devină majoritară în cazul fuziunii. Carpatair este nemulţumită de rezultatele financiare de la Timişoara şi dă vina pe conducerea aeroportului care a permis intrarea companiei low-cost Wizz Air. Pierderile Carpatair se trag însă de la managementul intern şi de la politica de preţuri. Un alt candidat este magnatul Nelu Iordache, patron la firma de construcţii Romstrade şi patron al companiei aeriene Blue Air. În urma privatizării, acesta este acţionar la Aeroportul din Bacău şi şi-a manifestat deschis interesul pentru aeroporturile din Arad şi Suceava. Interesată este şi o companie ungară, care a privatizat cel mai mare aeroport din Ungaria, dar în condiţiile în care Aeroportul Arad ar veni ca “bonus” la cel din Timişoara. Şi italienii de la firma Sagat s-au interesat de cumpărarea aeroportului, însă şi aceştia s-au declarat curioşi în primul rând de cel din Timişoara. Sagat are acţiuni în Italia la aeroporturile din Verona, Torino şi Bergamo. -  Încheiat citatul

 P.S. Aţi rămas fără cuvinte? Şi noi! Întreaga ţărăşenie, cunoscută de toţi timişorenii, este descrisă sintetic aici.

Egy barátom mutatta a videót, de ez kész én szakadtam rajta xD

Hello all,

I will be posting official results for the Indy Challenge 2009 pairs competition on our club website at
http://www.iwsafsc.org/indy_chal_2009.htm.

NOTE: Fridays events (Senior and Junior Pairs Short Programs) likely won’t be posted until 10 p.m. EDT. I have to leave the competition to go coach at another rink right near the end of the Senior Pairs Short Program, so please be patient.

Saturday & Sunday’s events:
I spoke with one of the accountants Jay, and he will try to e-mail me the official results as soon as they are posted at the rink. I’ll be upstairs in the competition rink chained to the music/announcing booth all weekend, so it may take me a few minutes to get them formatted for the web.

So all of you parents back at home, friends, family, and friends should get them quite quickly! (Unlike Skate Detroit… where are those results, BTW?).

LIST OF COMPETITIORS: http://www.iwsafsc.org/competitions.html

TENTATIVE SCHEDULE OF EVENTS:

Friday, July 31st
2:00-5:45 pm Senior Short Program
6:15-8:04 pm Junior Short Program

Saturday, August 1st
9:00-9:53 am Juvenile Free Skate
10:08-2:26 pm Senior Free Skate
2:45-5:04 pm Junior Free Skate
5:25-7:18 pm Novice Short Program

Sunday, August 2nd
10:10-11:02 am Intermediate Pairs Free Skate
11:15-12:47 pm Novice Free Skate

Okay… off to bed. We just finished setting up the rink, and I have an earlllllllly day since I plan to set up the sound equipment before Senior Pairs begin their practice at 8:30 a.m. Everyone in general was looking GREAT from what bits of skating I could see as I helped set up the rink. Plus it’s always fun to have Dalilah Sappenfield, Jim Peterson, Jenni Meno, Ron Ludington, and other wander around the rink.

PS: If any fans are posting reports from the competition, please post some links for me. I’ll be watching but not writing up reports or anything since I’ll be busy doing music/announcing all weekend…

-Rochelle

Wow. Okay, so life has been beyond busy for me and I’ve failed to update at all since the second day of Adult Nationals. Opps!

I will be posting results/reports from the Indy Challenge 2009 pairs competition here as soon as the are posted at the competition, between my announcing duties all weekend. (Official results I will post on iwsafsc.org as soon as they are releasted).

In the mean time, here’s the general information:

2009 Indy Challenge

Pairs Competition
July 31-August 2, 2009

Indy Challenge Pairs Competition
Tentative Competition Schedule
All events take place in the American Rink.

Friday, July 31st
2:00-5:45 pm Senior Short Program***
6:15-8:04 pm Junior Short Program
***Followed by an EXHIBITION: RUSSIANS Maria MUKHORTOVA / Maxim TRANKOV, 5th place 2009 World Championships, 2009 & 2008 European Championship medalists

Saturday, August 1st
9:00-9:53 am Juvenile Free Skate
10:08-2:26 pm Senior Free Skate
2:45-5:04 pm Junior Free Skate
5:25-7:18 pm Novice Short Program

Sunday, August 2nd
10:10-11:02 am Intermediate Pairs Free Skate
11:15-12:47 pm Novice Free Skate
12:47-12:58 pm Adult Free Skate Exhibition

*********ADMISSION:*********
3-day all-event pass: $24
1-day all-event pass: $12
1 event: $5
1 event for children 12 & younger: $3
(Competitors, note the announcement for details about credentials for your coaches, self, and parent(s)).

*********HIGHLIGHTS OF COMPETITORS ENTERED:
(Note, if I made any mistakes of info. below, please let me know so I can edit it. I pulled together this info. quickly over the internet). LAST UPDATED: SUNDAY, July 26

SENIOR TEAMS:

Caydee Denny/Jeremy Barrett — 2009 Silver medalists at Senior National Champions, 9th 2009 World Championships, 6th 2009 4 Continents, 4th 2009 ISU World Team Trophy

Brooke Castile & Ben Okolski — 2007 U.S. Senior National Champions, 2008 National Bronze Medalists, 2009 National 5th place finish, Two time World Championship competitors (11th in 2008, 12th in 2007), international competitions including Grand Prix events, 4 Continents, etc.

Amanda Evora/Mark Ladwig — 2009 & 2007 Pewter Medalists at National Championships, international competitors in Grand Prix, 4 Continents and others

Paige Lawrence/Rudolph Swiegers — CANADIAN 4th at 2009 World Junior Championships, 4th Senior Canadian National Championships, International Competitors, 2008 Junior National Silver Medalists

Chloe Katz/Joe Lynch — 6th 2009 National Championships, 8th 2008 National Championships, International Competitors, 2006 Junior bronze medalists at Nationals

Brooke Paulin & Brian Shales — 6th at 2009 Senior CANADIAN National Championships

Caitlin Yankowskas/John Coughlin — 7th 2009 National Championships, 6th 2008 National Championships, Grand Prix and international competitors

Laura Lepzinski & Ethan Burgess – 9th 2009 National Championships

Tracy Tanovich/Michael Chau — 2009 Junior National Champions, 2008 Junior Silver National medalists, 2007 Novice National Champions, 2006 Novice National bronze medalists

Brooke Paulin & Brian Shales — 6th at 2009 Senior CANADIAN National Championships

Sara Jones / Jeremy Sandor — 2nd 2009 CANADIAN Junior National Championships, Junior Grand Prix International Competitors

Molly Aaron/Daniyel Cohen — 5th 2009 Junior National Championships, Junior International Grand Prix competitors

Amanda Velensoi/Mark Fernandez — 10th 2009 CANADIAN Senior National Championships, 2-time World Junior Championship Competitors, International Junior Grand Prix competitors

Jessica Rose Paetsch/Drew Meekins — 10th 2009 Senior National Championships. International competitors and junior national medalists with previous partners.

Lisa Moore / Justin Gaumond — 15th 2009 Senior National Championships

Andrea Best/Trevor Young — 16th 2009 National Championships, 2008 4th Junior National Championships, 2006 2nd Novice National Championships, International Competitors

Kenda Moyle/Steven Pottenger — 19th 2009 Senior National Championships

Erica Choi Smith/Nathan Bartholomay — 11th in Junior at 2009 National Championships

NEW SENIOR TEAMS:
Jennifer Brunn/Steven Elefante
Brittany Chase/Grant Marron
Amanda Dobbs/Joseph Jacobsen
Kaleigh Hole/Adam Johnson – Canadian
Kirsten Moore-Towers & Dylan Moscovitch – Canadian
Tiffany Vise/Don Baldwin

WITHDRAWN:
Marissa Castelli/Simon Shnapir
Angelyn Nguyen/Themi Leftheris
Katie Orscher/Ivan Dimitrov
Ameena Sheikh/Aaron VanCleave

JUNIOR TEAMS:

Brittany Jones & Kurtis Gaskell — 1st CANADIAN Junior National Champions

Britney Simpson & Nathan Miller — 4th 2009 Junior National Championships

Haven Denney & Daniel Raad — 2nd 2009 Novice National Championships

Olivia Gibbons & Tyler Harris — 3rd 2009 Novice National Championships, 2009 Novice Eastern Sectional Champions

Tori Vollmer & Zach Sidhu — 5th 2009 Novice National Championships, 2009 Pacific Coast Sectional Novice Champions

Andrty Deputat & Vladyslava Rybka — UKRAINE Federation

Alexandra Young & Matthew Young — CANADIAN 2009 Novice Pairs Sectional Champions

Margaret Purdy & Michael Marinaro — CANADIAN 2009 Sectional Champions in Novice Pairs, 2009 Novice National Bronze Medalists

Cali Fujimoto & Nicholas Barsi-Rhyne — 7th 2009 Novice National Championships, 2nd 2009 Pacific Coast Sectional Championships

Meredith Pipkin / Brett Dunie-Neustadt — 8th 2009 Novice National Champions, 4th 2009 Eastern Sectional Championships

Kylie Duarte & Colin Grafton — 9th Novice National Championships, 2008 Intermediate National Champions, 2007 Juvenile National Silver Medalists

New Junior teams:
Carolyn Ann Alba & Chris Knierim
Rebecca Du & Sergey Sidorov
Andrea Tou & Garnet Suidy — CANADIAN
Maria Simoni & Alex Darnell
Felicia Zhang & Taylor Toth

Withdrawn:
Cassie Andrews & Nicholas Anderson
Gretchen Donlan & Andrew Speroff
Maria Izzo & Jason Smith — CANADIAN

ALSO COMPETING:
Novice level: 16 pairs teams
Intermediate level: 8 pairs teams
Juvenile level: 8 pairs teams

“… and you haven’t seen him for several years?” asked the figure.

Ingvar nodded, while he kept walking along the last caravan. Several carts ahead, Sandor was leading the group, tracking his way through the off-road terrain that would lead them toward their destination.

“Is there any particular reason for that?” the figure kept asking, “Was it because of the Silver Flame?”

The large man did not reply. The figure sighed, annoyed.

“It isn’t exactly easy making a conversation with you, you know…” said the figure after several moments of silence, in some exasperation. “I mean, we’ve been following your calls for several weeks now, heading towards this ominous Violated Temple, when all of the sudden a lost son of yours shows up. Not only that, but he is wanted by house Tharashk for stealing some powerful sword, and we are renegades in their own country because of that.
“You see…” the figure eyed Ingvar for a few seconds before continuing, “that sort of things makes one edgy and suspicious. It doesn’t exactly feel like something unintended, and I like knowing what I am intended to do. What is going on on that temple? What does Sandor has to do with it? And why has the order of the Silver Flame sent you from all of its believers? That is what I’d like to know.”

Ingvar broke his silence for the first time. “You’d like to know? Very well then.” He took a long breath, then unfolded the story of the curse.

“It started many years ago, with my firstborn son — Ragnar. Ragnar…” Ingvar lingered over the name, “he was a fine boy, and a great man in his own respect. Much stronger than both me or Sjondir, for whatever strange reason it may be. Perhaps he has more of Helnia in him, while Sjondir is more like me. But I trail off…
“Ragnar was six years the older brother to Sjondir, but very much unlike him. For one, Ragnar was born unmarked, while Sjondir’s blood courses with the strength of the dragon. Ragnar was never interested in the politics of the houses, nor in finding or Dragonshards. Since young age, he was a free spirit, living a dream of sorts, detached from the society in which we’ve been living — the rangers, hunters and bounty excavators of Tharashk. I remember him sitting hour after hour on his favorite chair, pushed all the way into the corner of our hall. He would barricade himself inside piles of books, and not stop poring into them until I urged him to retire for his night’s rest. Since he was four years old, he was already a scholar.” Ingvar smiled at the vivid memory of the small boy turning the large pages of heavy tomes.
“Sjondir on the other hand… He was so practical in comparison. For him books were a form of leisure, not a way of life. He was very much attracted to the sense of responsibility imposed on him by his Dragonmark. He always put the duty of Tharashk above anything else, and truly, he did a good job. He did a much better job than I ever had done before him.” A long sigh followed.
“They weren’t much alike, yet the curse spared neither.”

“Curse?” asked the figure quietly, after several moments where Ingvar was drawn into thoughts again. “The Dragonmarked curse?”

“That is the name of the tome we seek…” replied Ingvar. “Yes. The Dragonmarked Curse is its name. Written by a great dragon by the name of Yetamokil, it was kept for years within the Temple of the Pure Torch, before the Emerald Claw defiled and violated it. Since, none knows what remains of that ancient book, for little dared venture into the temple. It is why we go there. For the Dragonmarked Curse may hold the remedy to my sons’ malediction.”

“But…” asked the figure again, “What is this curse you speak of? How is it manifested?”

Ingvar’s gray eyes bore into the figure asking, his face was hard and filled with sorrow. “It kills them. Year by year, it sucks their life away, until reckoning comes. When it does, they are judged, and something I do not understand decides whether they will be granted the favor to carry on for another lapse of time, or granted the mercy of a restful death. It happened before, and in a continuous cycle, it continues to, and will happen again. As the years pass, it afflicts them. Every twelve years the full strength of it is manifested.”

“Exactly twelve years?” the figure was puzzled. “Why twelve? What is it that happens exactly every such period of time?”

“The life is sucked away… The bearer of the curse diminishes with time, for the period of a year, then fate is decided. If he is judged worthy at the end of the reckoning, he may live for another twelve years. Beyond that, none is certain.”

Then Ingvar raised his head into the dusk’s reddening skies, and continued in a lower voice. “Something in this world is trying to pass us a message you see. The whole lacks one, or it would make thirteen. My sons could live for healthy cycles of thirteen years, like most boys do, but something keeps being taken away. There were thirteen different Dragonmarks, but only twelve currently exist. There existed thirteen thriving nations, but since the fall of Cyre, only twelve now stand. It is said that the giant empire used a calendar with thirteen months, depicting thirteen moons, but us mortals since moved to a simpler system with twelve cycles, and one of the ancient moons is since gone.
“What is so special about thirteen? And why does a part of its count always falls down to twelve? A mortal such as me cannot say, but perhaps the answer lies within the Flame, or within the tome we seek. It is my hope, before Sjondir reaches his twenty five years. Then again, after twelve years of life, a year of death will begin.”

“A year of death you say… Does that mean the curse kills its bearer?” The figure eyed Ingvar, then looked ahead in the direction of Sandor’s silhouette. He was holding the sword known as Seeker, outstretching it towards the horizon, and towards their destination. A shimmer surrounding both gave an inexplicable sense of confidence. “But…” the figure blinked “Sandor isn’t dead — or is he?”

“Isn’t he?” the question was asked in complete wonder. Ingvar shook his head, shaking off a distant memory. “I haven’t seen him for several years. And now, it may start all over again.” Then he said nothing more, until they reached the temple.

***

A great distance away, where it would take a bird many days to reach, Ragnar was sitting. A large tome resting on his lap, he flipped the book’s last page with his delicate fingers. Taking in the final words, he then smiled in contentment, and returned the tome into its place on the shelf, among the thousand others.

He was very close, but time was very little.

Blinding, light cannot be seen directly
Soothing, darkness allows none to see

Once, he was marked by the dragon, favored in his own house, a renowned inquisitor. Now, he is a betrayer, a thief, and a renegade. The coin flips its face in a blink; the work of a prestidigitator.

Sandor Virendare is wanted by house Tharashk. And while the house still stands, his pursuers will never rest, never stop, never yield. They are named the house of finding for a reason. Sandor Virendare will be found. Either in life, or in death.

He must have lost some of his edge, for tracking him was easier than it was expected to be. Perhaps he was preoccupied; his mind elsewhere, he did not attempt to hide his whereabouts. Quite the opposite — Sandor practically gave his pursuers his position.

After encountering his allies from the past, and his father, most of the group entered the Great Crag to resupply. While Sandor and Koralaa stayed behind, Sandor did suggest the group tries to contact Lendar, who may prove of great assistance. Lendar was held in a Tharashk imprisonment cell, for further questioning regarding Koralaa’s investigation. There wasn’t much evidence tying the Shifter from Cannith to the case, and a suspiciously low bribe was enough to release him. Paperwork would later be filled to explain it officially. Unofficially, it was part of the investigation — Lendar would lead house Tharashk to Koralaa and Sandor; at least, that was the rational behind it.

And as expected, he did.

At first, Lendar did not trust the adventurers. He could see no reason for a group of strangers to pay a sum of money, or even perform any act of kindness toward him. The Shifter was suspicious, expecting these so-called ‘rescuers’ of his to actually be a Tharashk ploy to have him cooperate further in the questioning. But when they dragged him outside the city, where Sandor and Koralaa were waiting in hiding, his trust was gained. Ironically, it was him who was not to be trusted.

For Tharashk was now aware of their position, following Lendar’s steps.

Five were dispatched, and grand inquisitive Lovian d’Tharashk. Their task was simple — they were to apprehend the Orc murderer, and escort Sandor, the betrayer and thief of Seeker, back to the Great Crag and to lord Khundaran. The five were to inform him of the warrant against him, and if he refused to cooperate, Lovian was to make sure his location was always known.

Inside a small village, west of the Great Crag, the adventurers were confronted by the five. The one who led them, a lavishly dressed Orc clearly displaying himself as a member of Tharashk, approached the group, while the remaining four were instructed to wait at a distance. Marked with finding, he knew Seeker, and he knew exactly where its holder was. As much as Sandor would try, he could not hide his presence from the Orc.

“I bear a message from house Tharashk, by decree of lord Khundaran and the support of the Daughters,” said the representative sent from the Great Crag. “I know Sandor is among you, and so is the criminal Koralaa. It was easy enough to follow Lendar — we knew he will lead us back to the Orc he assisted in hiding. Now, please, show no resistance and return with us to the Great Crag.”

But it was not Sandor who advanced toward the speaker, but his father Ingvar. For several days, he was using his cloak to hide the symbol of the Silver Flame — a mark of faith not welcome in Drooam. Now, the cloak was unclasped, instead lying loosely over his broad shoulders, and the shiny emblem of a blazing flame was apparent over his collarbone. He was carrying both his tower shield and great mace, presenting his capacity to defend himself, yet not displaying hostility. Ingvar took a few large steps, then stopped in front of the Orc.

“Messenger of Tharashk, you shall return empty handed to your superiors on this day, offering an uncompleted task, yet a message instead,” his voice was steady and deep, heard by all of the five which were dispatched in pursuit. “I am Ingvar Viendhar, once a man of Tharashk, now a servant of the Flame. These men, women, once prisoners or suspects of crimes, are all under my protection, and the protection of the Silver Flame. I am on a mission set by my faith, a task prophesied by forces beyond you. We may not return now. We will not return presently.”

The Tharashk Orc glared at Ingvar. He continued.

“Go back to your superiors now, and tell him this. Sjondir is required at the Violated Temple, and it is there you may find him if your need of him is so urgent. It is dictated by the Flame, and there is no alternative. Now go, for I have the force required to carry out my task, and the will to use it if you force me to.”

He stood defiantly, between the Orc and the remainder of the group. The Tharashk messenger reflected for several heartbeats upon his response, then replied.

“Very well, if that is the path you choose to take,” he eyed the emblem of the flame with distaste. “Flee to your… temple. But know this — there is no place for you to hide. As we return to lord Khundaran, more will be sent to track you. More and more, until you are found, and brought back for justice.”

Then he turned around, signaled his friends in the distance to mount their horses, and half a minute later they were all riding back into the direction from whence they came.

It was no idle threat the Orc from Tharashk declared. As soon as he would reach the Great Crag, more would be sent to find Sandor and Koralaa. Men and women with greater skills of tracking, both natural and beyond it. One such man, Lovian the inquisitive, was already close enough to feel in his blood the direction into which the group was moving.

North-west, toward Thrakelorn yet circumventing it. Ingvar, Sandor and the rest of the group were force marching their caravans to move faster; Magda was riding the great owl to scout the environment for further followers. They were in a hurry to reach the temple — although they did not know its exact position yet — before house Tharashk would come in force to stop them. And Lovian was stealthily behind them, making sure reinforcements would know where to find what Tharashk sought.

Magda was the one to spot him first, from her vantage point in the clouds. Lovian was inspecting the group’s position from some hundreds of yards away, while keeping hidden from sight. Unobstructed by the layout of the train, Magda noticed him. She was flying back towards the group to warn them of the possible Tharashk presence, when the owl was struck.

From the ground below, a bolt of dark energy shot upwards. It hit the bird’s body, and it instantly went limp. Its wings lost their strength, and the 500 pounds of feathers and flesh started free falling, head-first, no longer resisting gravity. On top of the mount, fastened to the saddle, Magda was plummeting to the firm ground with it. She was certain — with the height she was dropping from, and the velocity of the fall — she was going to reach the earth in a fatal impact. She knew she only had seconds, and started riffled through her backpack for the only thing that would save her life.

The ground was growing closer with every heartbeat. Magda’s hand was deep inside the backpack when she reached upon what she sought. In little more than a couple of seconds, the unmoving owl and herself were about to crash into the earth. She closed her eyes in concentration, drew upon the force of the stone she grasped, and the spell of featherfall affected her.

But she didn’t feel she was slowing down. Immediately, realization dawned on her that the effect of the stone was not powerful enough to affect the combined weight of herself and the owl. She struggled against the saddle, but was strapped for the flight. She was a dozen yards from the ground when she pulled her knife, and in a slit that risked cutting her own thighs, cut the leather of the harness.

The owl crashed against the rock and earth in an explosion of feathers and dust. Ten feet above it, Magda was suspended in mid air, her vertical velocity magically reduced to the most elegant glide, and she floated as a feather to land beside the dead mount. Racing towards her were the rest of the group, who spotted her falling from afar. Her faced flushed from the tension, and still breathing hard, she managed to warn them between gasps for air. Meanwhile, Lovian was running away eastwards. He was already far — a small figure against the horizon — yet moving by foot.

On horseback, Sandor and his allies were storming in the direction of the Tharashk inquisitive. Escaped, he would relay their position and direction to house Tharashk, which may intercept them before they reached their goal. He had to be stopped. With every heartbeat, the riding adventurers were closing on the fleeing man. But he was resolute, using a wand in his possession to shoot additional bolts at his pursuers. In the haste of his movements, it was hard to aim, and he missed. He then switched to an alternative strategy, and concentrated the power of the item towards the earth at his feet. Where the dark bolt hit, a creature long not living emerged, clawing its way out of the earth. Risen ghouls, which grunted in hate and anger, and awaited blankly for the riders to approach. Lovian kept running.

Once the first rider was in range, the undead charged. It shrieked hoarsely, then swung with its dead-cold arms, clawing into the mount’s flesh with broken and rotting fingernails. The animal was instantly paralyzed, stopped in mid-gallop. Its rider, keeping the momentum, was thrown off the beast, landing hardly on his back. The ghoul then turned, switching targets, and quickly moved toward the fallen living.

The second rider was upon it before it managed to strike. Prepared, sword drawn and horse directed to its flank, the rider swiped in a wide slash, taking the ghoul on its unprotected side. The strike was true, and a moment later the fiend’s body was on the ground, and its decapitated head was tumbling through the airs. The pursuit continued.

They drew much closer to Lovian then, and the inquisitive was growing desperate. His wand was proving inefficient, and he lacked physical speed to truly escape. When the group was in range, he shouted in their direction.

“Do not approach! I am from house Tharashk!” He flailed his wand-arm in their direction. “Sandor! This is all of your making, you criminal and house-betrayer! You must surrender!” He screamed, in panic, facing different members of the riders surrounding him, and not Sandor specifically. Then suddenly, he uttered a few words, and out of nowhere, a creature of dark wings and black shadows was summoned. Lovian then grasped on the ephemeral body, and was dragged away as it flew towards freedom.

But Cleave was slowly flanking him while he was talking, and was prepared for any additional escape attempt. As Lovian passed within range of the barbarian, he was struck with a mighty blow by the blunt part of his great-axe, and was thrown off the summoned beast. Sprawled on the ground, and with the keen edge of the axe poised over his throat, Lovian surrendered.

And thus the pursuit after the pursuer was over. But Tharashk would send more after Sandor, and Koralaa, and all who assisted them.

Just, true and honorable,
are the traits of a pursuer.
Driven, mad and irrational,
are the traits of the fanatic.

Only time could once more bridge between them. What has happened within the past — this could not be undone. But there was still hope, for another cycle was soon to be complete. And then, once more, reckoning.

Two Dragonnes travel the land of their blood. They are both seekers. They know it and at the same time are ignorant, that they are about to meet.

After a very long time departed.

***

Ingvar was growing restless. Droaam was no longer as he recalled it. Under the rulership of the Daughters of the Sora Kell, mobs roamed the land as they pleased, acting as they found just, and treated travelers as they found convenient. In such a surrounding, finding the Violated Temple was not going to be a simple task. They have been within Droaam for over a week already, and still far from their destination. Their supplies were dwindling, and the men among him were falling in strength. The guide they had recruited perished inside the mine where they tried to rescue the prisoners, and also others have since died under attacks of brigands the caravan encountered on the desolate and lawless roads.

There was however no other way to reach their destination; they had to take their chance, and continue. Advancing on the main roads, they were gradually reaching the next hub of activity — The Great Crag — the capital of Droaam, and the seat of the Sora Kell. Perhaps there they may find someone with the knowledge of the land and terrain, to take them where they had to go.

The road was as expected, unwelcoming and unforgiving. There were more attacks, strange encounters, and ambushes, but the caravan endured. More of the guards died, but they have been paid for that job, in a way. For several days they forced the beasts to march, almost to the point of exhaustion, before they were able to see on a very clear day the pillars of smoke produced by the capital, in the very far distance. In a couple more of days, they would reach it.

But some leaving the city would reach them first, midway.

***

With Seeker at his side, and Koralaa as his company, Sjondir could not leave the Great Crag the way he entered it. Stealth was in order instead. The guards were oblivious to their departure, although they were informed to keep their vigil. By the time a proper warrant was dispatched, he was already treading his way outside the city, moving slowly and carefully east, towards Sharn.

But some coming from that direction would reach him first, midway.

He was trying to avoid the roads, for they were frequently patrolled by men of Tharashk. Still, there were regions where leaving the trail was simply impossible, especially on horse. He was walking his great owl mount (which he purchased not long before, to provide Koralaa with an easier mean to flee the city), while the Orc was riding his magebred warhorse. It was just past noon when they could see a small caravan moving in their direction, not too far in the distance. It was pulled by native Droaam beasts — thick-furred buffaloes, — a couple of bulls, and common work-horses. As it drew closer, he could see the travelers within and along the carts and wagons. They were very distinctive — men and women, all armed, but also other races which were less frequently seen in this surrounding; among the group were Humans, Gnomes, an Elf, a Shifter, and quite a few Goblins and Hobgoblin.

But the most intriguing thing about the group, was the fact that he knew them. The most distinctive figures among the travelers were persons he met before, and known rather well, at some point in the past.

The caravan-riders seemed weary and wary. The beasts’ manes were glistening with sweat. The carts were damaged by the hard terrain they had crossed, and also broken and dented by blades and arrows. The lead rider had his hand over the hilt of his weapon, his eyes scanning the approaching Human and Orc; healing bruises were apparent on his neck and brow. The rest of the group were silent, most of them eager to reach the city for provisioning and recuperation. They had not the patience nor the energy for another unexpected encounter.

Sjondir stopped, whispering some soothing words in the direction of his owl, then advanced; the flying mount waited patiently, its great eyes scrutinizing the environment in wonder. Treading the middle of the narrow path, the caravan across was forced to slow. From the main cart, several figures emerged: two large men, one was wearing the simplest of clothes, while the other was decked in the heaviest of armors; and a scarred Hobgoblin. Coming from another wagon, deeper in the rear, were more adventurers, curious for the reason of the delay: a woman Shifter, her hair braided in many dreadlocks; a jovial-looking Gnome, a large parrot standing on his shoulder; and a Goblin, with skin the color of the skies.

The man before them had his face covered, hidden in the shadows of a dark cowl. Some steps behind him, on top of the horse, the Orc woman was sitting. She had a broken tusk, and matched a description they have recently been conveyed; house Tharashk was looking for her, for crimes involving murder and theft. Yet before the adventurers could ask any questions, the hooded man spoke to them.

“I recall your faces… And I believe you may know me as well,” Sjondir took a step forward, while the adventurers eyed him suspiciously. “Truly, I did not expect seeing you so soon; more so here in the land of Droaam. But then, I suppose it was expected — after all, there is not that much time left.

“Well then, which of you have come?” he eyed each of the men and women in turn, then addressed them separately.

“Aner. Which owes nothing and has none. But where is the brother that hardly leaves your side?” he asked the tall man with the ragged clothes, but Aner did not answer.

“Kass,” he spoke to the Goblin, “always seeking to restore the might of your fallen empire? Always the Dakaani reclaimer?” But before the Goblin had time to reply, he was already facing the next person.

“Magda. A shade among shadows. I am glad to see you are still alive, and judge by your party that you have found much riches on your journeys.” He smiled in the direction of the Shifter, then continued.

“Cleave,” he simply nodded in the direction of the Hobgoblin, who grinned widely at the mention of his name, and nodded in return.

“Zook… Or is it Seamus today? I never learned which was which or when. Still the actor of our tragic comedy?” Sjondir asked the Gnome.

“And who is missing? Let me see.” He scanned the group then the rest of the caravan, looking for more faces he may recognize. “Neathron obviously. Was he left in Sharn? Ironically, he is the person we were seeking… I see Kailyn is still absent, or has she taken the form of one of these guards?” Sjondir absently beckoned towards the caravan followers, as if that may conjure the presence of someone he knew from the past. “No? I suppose Irselle isn’t back from the dead then either. A shame. And Seidum is also not here, but I see another Hobgoblin — the one wearing blacks — who resembles him greatly; his brother perhaps, or is he the brother of Cleave?” he waited for a response, but receiving none, kept on speaking. “Which only leaves Cobalt and Maximilian. I need not worry about the warforged, he always took care of itself rather efficiently. Max on the other hand… Let me just say I am glad he is not among you.

“But I see there is a new addition to your group,” he looked straight into the face of the large armored man, who starred at Sjondir unblinking. “A man of the Silver Flame by the look of his arms and armor, in a land which does not welcome his faith. You tread dangerous grounds, bringing your hope and doctrine into a place which follows gods of fury and mockery and shadow. I wonder, have you all become religious? Or has this man asked you to aid him on a quest?” he asked with a trace of a sneer.

“I would not however, trust in the light of his flame. It may prove to be weak within the shadows. I should know.” he said as he turned around. Returning towards his waiting mount, he took several steps, then stopped once more. “I should know…”

There was then silence for a long time. Sjondir was musing over his last sentence, or perhaps deciding whether to climb atop his great owl and leave, or proceed with what he had started. His shoulders dropped, then he raised his hands to lower the cowl from his head, and reveal his identity. His back still facing the group, he spoke again, then turned to face them.

“Back to raise the fallen son, ey?” he smiled sardonically towards the large man, “Hello, father.”

“Hello Sjondir,” replied Ingvar, the man of the Silver Flame, “I had a feeling we would meet here, where–”

“Yes father, we meet as expected. But I am no longer Sjondir, who died almost twelve years ago. I am Sandor Virendare d’Tharashk now, although I am no longer certain about that last part. And I see you haven’t changed much since last we met; you are still very keen and eager in your beliefs of life… and of death.”

“You know very well where I stand, even if you still attempt to deny this,” he replied.

“Well, perhaps. But while you remained the same, you will find to learn that I did change, father. I may have seen things differently when I was younger, but I trust that now I understand better. Perhaps though, as time is running out, I am becoming more desperate. That I cannot tell.” He shrugged, then beckoned the Orc and both the mounts to approach.

“As it happens to be, destiny has brought us together. I assume it means there is some truth in your cause, and that I must take part of it.” His hand reached toward his sword, then he grabbed its hilt without drawing it from its sheath. “Tell me then — where are we going?”

And the Dragonnes were once again united, even if much has changed since they have departed.

In a new light
They may look different
Yet are quite the same

What do you seek?
I seek the truth…

What do you seek?
I seek freedom…

Life was harsh within the mines. Ironically, they were surrounded by the most precious of things, yet were living in the hardest of ways. Their only choice — to strike at the stone, else be struck by the whip, or worse. Every-day, they would prospect more mithril ore, only to render their oppressors even stronger. Such was the life of a laboring slave.

The village-outpost of Grimstone Keep had many slaves. They were of many races, and were all serving the local Gnolls and Shifters. It did not matter for them whether one was Human, Dwarf, Gnome or even Goblin; if one’s life was paid for in gold, it was forfeit, and the master had a rightful claim to bid as he desired. Some were given menial tasks to perform, while others went through turmoils and hardships.

If not for some hope, the slaves could not have had the will to continue. Their resolve was weakened day-by-day, as their bodies were pushed to certain limits. But the faint light of a future liberty infused them with the strength to continue. Until one day rescuers would come, or someone would muster enough courage, or lose enough of his wits, to attempt an escape.

And that day was nearing.

Ingvar was still troubled by the dead. He was still haunted by all those risen which he had to turn back toward the Flame. All of them were gone forever, their no-longer-living faces etched in his memory for eternity. All but one.

Inside Droaam, he found himself reflecting on this much more frequently. At times, it was almost drawing him away from the life he was living. But every time, something happened then yanked him back to the reality where he was. And he was grateful for that.

The Shields of Truth discovered Grimstone Keep was dealing in slavery. It was something wrong, and it had to be stopped. Also, it would draw the Colossus’ mind away from the dead, even for a little while, to concentrate again on the living.

While on another part of Droaam, an Orc named Koralaa — accused in death — was also denied her independence. For several days, she was secretly residing within the basement of the Leaky Bowl inn. She was sought by those who believed she was a thief and a murderer, while she had not the means to prove otherwise. If she had known that one of her seekers would eventually see her truth and offer her salvation, she wouldn’t have run away from him. But she didn’t. And she was already on the run, and for a long time not free.

Lendar was just leaving her small cell, after he left a basket containing some simple food to sustain her. She was busy studying and developing the prophecy, forgetting for a few moments the predicament she was in. The sound of his steps within the dark and narrow corridor were drawing farther, then it was quiet once again; the laughter and shouts of the patrons above could not be heard through the thick bulk of the basalt walls and ceiling. The runes and symbols were running through her mind; she was trying to make sense of it all. The stillness of her hideout were helpful for that.

But alone she could not figure out everything. There was a component missing, and she required assistance — surely if she could consult someone from the Chamber, the mysterious pieces would make a comprehensible whole. It wasn’t adding up, and the yipping outside her room was a grating nail against her concentration.

She then realized it was no longer quiet around her. There was the barking of that small lizard from the adjacent room; what was it that disturbed its rest? Was Lendar returning for something he forgot? Or perhaps it was the Kobold innkeeper coming to ask for more money? She decided she’d rather see for herself, stuffed her papers inside her pouch, raised her wooden shield, then left the cell.

The hall would have been dark, but the figure moving through it was carrying a burning torch. He was a thin man, unknown to her, with almost delicate features, but not weak. Two swords were fastened at his hip. He was covered by dusty layers of cloth, clearly indicating his many travels. As he raised the torch to shed the light farther, his sleeve dropped an inch, and the intricate dragonmark of house Tharashk was visible on his forearm.

She was found.

Dropping the shield on the ground, Koralaa sprinted back into her room. How have they located her so quickly? She grabbed the remaining papers on her bed, then darted into the escape tunnel, crawling as fast as her knees and elbows allowed her. Behind, she heard the door being kicked open, then the voice of the man.

“Stop! I simply wish to talk!” his voice had a truth in it, but she couldn’t risk believing. Instead, she pushed herself deeper inside the tunnel, towards the exit back into the streets. She might have a chance to lose herself along the Great Crag’s crowds. Moments later, the open air’s breeze was cool against her sweating skin. It was night-time; dark, cool, and relatively quiet. The opening from where she emerged was concealed as the chimney of a house. It used to have bars preventing entry, but Lendar and the innkeeper took care of that when they arranged for her to hide inside the inn’s cellar. Koralaa quickly climbed outside, then jumped from the low house’s roof unto the street below.

She ran through the small streets and smaller alleys. She didn’t look back. If she would be caught, there was nothing she could do to prove her innocence. She did not have the sword, nor any witnesses to vouch for her. Circumstances were against her; she was the last person to speak with that Tharashk sergeant Igraaska, before she was found dead the next day. An entire house was now after her, accusing, demanding justice. Heart pumping and legs throbbing, she didn’t stop running until she reached the slums. Within the trash, garbage, debris and waste the poor and refugees lived in, she could disappear.

And perhaps be free and safe once more, if even for a little while.

Beyond her sight and awareness, yet still behind her, the Tharashk Durrak’ash was locked on her trail. He was the kind of hunters that would never let go of their pray easily.

What do you seek?
I seek my son…

Koralaa was again in hiding. She sought shelter at Lendar’s house, an odd place in the middle of the Great Crag’s slums. His home was a true representation of his style and character: it was filled with countless machinations, parts and bits and pieces; it was bustling with mysterious devices which endlessly constructed then dismantled other machines which served unknown purposes; it was self-autonomous, so the master could concentrate on other things, which he laboriously wrote over hundreds of pages, yet were all discarded throughout the place. Lendar was a Shifter of house Cannith, obsessed with making, but also a firm believer in the Dragon’s Prophecy, and the last ally of the renegade Orc.

She felt pretty comfortable in the Shifter’s home. While she wasn’t quite certain what the purpose of most of the devices was, their clicking, whirling, buzzing and chirping was as soothing a melody which encouraged her thinking. She kept working on her papers, sometimes even reading through what Lendar had written; she felt she was making progress.

At least until the door burst open.

“I told you already,” it was the same man from Tharashk who stood at the entrance, “I simply wish to talk.”

The man took two steps inside the room, then thrust the door close behind him. His two swords were still inside their scabbard, but that did not make him look any less dangerous. He seemed relaxed, sardonically smiling through his short beard, but his eyes were as vigilant as those of a stalking animal. He stopped where he stood, then waited.

It was instinct rather than thought that drew Koralaa to act. She pulled her kukri knife from her belt, then lunged at the man. In five long steps, she was upon him, ready to slash the blade across his unprotected throat. He didn’t budge until the last moment. Just as the knife would have drawn over his skin, he pulled his upper body backwards, evading the cut. Then, shifting a leg to grant him stability, he pushed himself forward again, and landed a blow straight into her temple. Unprepared, she was knocked back, dizzy, then dropped to the floor.

“I wish to talk, not fight,” he repeated, but he then had his two swords drawn, and ready at his sides.

The Orc hesitated. She was in pain, her mind pulsing with fear and aching. Still, fighting this man seemed a better option than fighting for justice in a Tharashk tribunal. She quickly rose on her feet, hardened her grip over the kukri, then dived for his torso. Again, he was too fast for her — he back-stepped the attack, dodging her completely, then, in two deft slashing, cut across her arm and side. Koralaa yelled in pain, dropping into the floor again.

“Can’t we simply talk?” the cynical smile was fading from his thin face, replaced by a tired frown. He raised both his swords, then poised them to hover over her heart and neck. Defeated, Koralaa yielded.

“What do you want? How did you find me?” she asked, panting.

“I am Durrak’ash,” was the toneless reply, “our kind does not let go of our-”

“Yes, I know what Durrak’ash means. I am of house Tharashk as well, if not dragonmarked. I know what you seek, but you very well know I do not have it, if you are as you claim to be.” She was growing annoyed; the man was not behaving as she was expecting him to. Others from house Tharashk were trying to apprehend her immediately, yet he showed no intent to so far. Suspicious, she was considering what his motives could be. “What is it that you want then?”

The man sheathed both his weapons, turned around, then sat on the nearest chair he could find. He eyed Koralaa for several moments, then spoke.

“I was Igraaska’s second in command. I seek whoever killed her. My brothers claim it was you — the Orc with the broken tusk — yet I recognize another seeker when I see one. You are not the kind to murder for your goals; such an act shapes mysteries, not untangles them. And you have a very particular problem you are attempting to solve…”

His last sentence trailed over the silence, the he continued.

“As you claimed, I can sense you do not have Igraaska’s stolen sword, Seeker. Yet I know you desired its powers very strongly. Tell me, what is it that you seek, and perhaps we can reach an understanding.” His gaze was locked into her eyes, and Koralaa knew he wouldn’t be satisfied by anything other than the truth.

“Very well,” she pulled herself weakly to her feet. “You require to know what I seek, then I will require your assistance. It is my son that I seek. Taken from me, he resides with his father, who will never allow me to see him. But you must understand — his father is a being more powerful than any other. It is for this reason that I asked for the services of Seeker.”

She moved forward, then stopped defiantly before the sitting man. “Will you aid me then? Is this an understanding we can reach?”

The sardonic smile was back on the man’s lips, then he spoke again, his eyes looking way behind her, into something unseen. “We shall see about that… But first, there is a sword we must find; only then the rest may be resolved.”

And then he raised from the place where he sat, and strode outside the house.

“Wait!” called Koralaa, still aware of her situation and not willing to leave her hideout. The man stopped at the door, but did not turn around. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“He used to call me Sjondir,” was his only reply, then he was gone.

Meanwhile, some days’ walk to the east of the Great Crag, a caravan was advancing toward the big city. It consisted of some carts and wagons, pulled by a variety of beasts: horses, bulls and buffaloes. It carried provisions, but mostly men and women of many races, most of them tired from what was, and also of what was about to be.

Ingvar was sitting inside a wagon, tending one of the slaves recently rescued from the mines of Grimstone Keep. The adventurers’ mission to free the slaves was successful, but not all of them were saved; some were left behind. Nearby, inside the same wagon, an old Gnome woman was crying — her little girl was not among the rescued, but was still captive inside the mines. Sadly, there was nothing the Shields of Truth could have done for her; they could not return to Grimstone Keep at the time, and the old Gnome lady would have to keep on living without her girl by her side.

It brought back memories. And Ingvar wondered how his own sons were faring. He tried to believe what he sought was for their ultimate good, but he wasn’t quite certain what was true anymore.

What do you seek?
I seek my life back…

A face was smoldering in the flames. It felt like a nightmare, but it was quite real. The fire consumed cloth, flesh and tissue, and as the features of the man were slowly gone, so was all the evidence of the truth. Whichever lies were chosen to be told then, would have been accepted; verity was erased.

Sjondir stood over the body in flames, panting and drained. He defeated the enemy — the murderer of Igraaska and taker of Seeker — yet did not manage to get the answers he sought. The thief took his own life before he would reveal anything, and his remains were quickly being licked away by the searing energy. The sword was lying in the next room, but the reasoning behind why it was taken were forever gone.

At least a part of the job was done.

Men from Tharashk were already alerted of the culprit. Soon they would arrive. They would listen to Sjondir’s story, gather further evidence, then reclaim the sword Seeker to bring it into charge of Lord Khundaran. Then, perhaps the name of Koralaa would be cleared; it all depended on how Sjondir would recount the events happening.

He was standing over Seeker. It was a glorious piece of swordsmanship. A rapier with a keen blade like no other’s, its hilt was shaped as the body of a Dragonne; the wings of the beast protecting the grasp of the wielder; the eyes of the creature were determined, glowing as Sjondir touched the metal of the weapon. It felt like something much more than a tool of war. It was a tool of the trade. A true seeker.

There was an odd tingling in his wrist as he grabbed the sword in his hand. It was a little heavier than he expected, and not quite balanced as he initially thought. But as he raised the blade, aiming it at an unseen foe, judging its quality, he felt something else. His senses, they were much sharper than before; a new kind of awareness he did not previously have. It was the sword — it was trying to help him fulfill himself, and to find what he truly sought.

His life back.

The window’s shutters shook as a fierce wind was blowing outside. Change was coming. Men were nearing on Sjondir’s call, prepared to retake what was the property of house Tharashk; and an Orc woman was waiting for her innocence to be proven. Sjondir thumbed the intricate design of Seeker’s hilt, feeling the curves and delicate outlines of the Dragonne, the mark of his own house. Then he made his choice.

Kicking the shutters aside, he vanished into the cold evening’s wind. Behind, the last wisps of smoke were fading from the body of the culprit, leaving nothing but ash. And mystery.

A day’s ride to the east, an aged man was holding a small clay statue of a Dragonne in his large hands. Absent-mindedly, he turned and moved the statue with his fingers. He was reflecting upon events that had occurred almost twelve years before. He had not forgotten.

In light he sought what could not be found
At night he found what he did not seek

For the rise of a fallen sun

Died as the skies, sought by all, to be none

The last whit of making, keen to pore

Won to keep a nightmare, another the door

You knighted by the blood; a fortune the fool filled

Trait or feature, for a life in the misshapen house spilled

Riddle or prediction, night and day

Az Endemi mindössze húszezer fényévnyire fekszik a földtől. Egy kutató, David Whist a fiával él ezen a különleges bolygón már 12 éve. Teljesen hozzászoktak az ottani élethez, és hogy kettejüké az egész bolygó. Ám ekkor a férfi hírt kap, hogy érkezik egy hajó 14 ezer telepessel a fedélzetén…
Nagyon jó az alaptörténete a könyvnek, megvan miden benne, ami egy jó sci-fi-hez kell. Sajnos mégsem igazán az bontakozik ki, amit én vártam volna.
David és fia, Justin érthető, hogy nagyon szeretik egymást, és ragaszkodnak egymáshoz, de úgy érzem, hogy ezt nem kellett volna kismilliószor az orrom alá dörgölni. A kormányzó személye is túlzás számomra, annyira tipikus, hogy az már zavaró. A többi karakter sem lett számomra túl szimpatikus.
Ami mindenképp pozitívum a regényben, az az Endemi élővilágának leírása. A különböző növények, állatok, az őslakos goruk leírása igazán remekre sikerültek. Amikor David az állatokkal vagy a növényekkel foglalkozik, azok a legkellemesebb részek.
Maga a történet viszont a telepesek megérkezésétől nem tudott lekötni: olvastam, olvastam, talán egy nagyon kicsit még érdekelt a szereplők sorsa, de nem rágtam le a tíz körmömet.
Ami viszont leginkább feldühített a könyvben, az a befejezés: az egész olyan kurtán-furcsán lett megoldva, számomra nagyon idegen befejezés volt az addigiakhoz képest. Talán ha a könyv nem így zárul, kicsit más érzéssel tettem volna le. Nem azt mondom, hogy miden történetnek pozitív véggel kell lezárulnia, de ez a befejezés számomra nem teljesíti ki a regényt.
by Nita

The subtle wind blows fiercely.

A leaf brought from a distant land.

Another leaves until it returns.

… and while Sandor’s story is held in stasis, there is a new tale to tell …

Finally we reach the surface. Leaving Khyber’s Gate, we continually move upwards, through Undersharn, then the Cogs, for many levels, before we can actually rediscover the sunlight.

It is early morning, roughly a month since we entered the darkened labyrinth of tunnels and caverns. The sun is far above, hidden by the many towers, and still it is the most welcome thing I could have wished for. I take a deep breath of the fresh air, then realize how worn and ragged we all look. We went through so much that we transformed, unnoticed, into denizens of the world below; dirty, wounded and dark, certainly not the kind welcome above. But Sharn has many layers, and the lower levels are much more forgiving to those of strange appearances.

Surprisingly, we are awaited by someone. An hobgoblin sits at a small inn, holding the day’s newspaper upside-down, yet oblivious to his error. He is very large, has a savage look on him, with half his head deformed through a scar going from his chin to scalp. Upon seeing us, he immediately rises to embrace Seidum. I then realize he must be Cleave, Seidum’s lost-friend from his village of birth which was raided in their early youth.

Cleave eagerly listens to the answers to his questions. He wants to know everything: where we were, what we found, who we fought, what trophies we brought back. Somewhat like him, I am amazed at several of the answers; events which I do not recall, events which occurred before a part of my memory was lost.

But I digress. Before reaching Sharn, there were additional events which require recounting. Back into the depths of the earth, and over a week in the past, the story concludes.

The Lillend, Slaads and Gythyanki were gone. Silence returned. Darkness remained. Memory was still somewhat difficult to grasp. On our long walks, I often wondered what I should do with myself, and how my life ought continue after such great a change. I still wonder whether my decision is just.

We moved quite a lot during the following days. The dragonshards of the Kobold camp were successfully extracted, and the miners were in high spirits. The natural continuation of the underground expedition was to travel toward the area labeled with the single word Dragonshards, and the caravan edged slowly in that direction. Luckily, the trip was uneventful; I certainly had little strength left to face more oddities.

The map was mostly precise and our navigation was true. There was a sense of excitement prickling at my skin moments before we entered the large cavern, to discover its entire walls covered by the ebony shards. It reminded me countless claws and fangs of beasts attempting to rip their way into a room, yet this was a symbol of fortune rather than of lost hope. We reached what we have striven for. One of the miners whooped, then immediately started unloading his gear from one of the mules.

But the place was not exactly abandoned. With caution, I approached what appeared to be a Beholder lying on the cave’s ground. It was dead, a large gush in the back of its body. Several arrows made of dried cacti pierced its front, a weapon used by Kass’ tribe from his description. I quickly confirmed the past presence of small creatures, possibly goblins, who had struggled against the creature, probably resulting in its death. The tracks were not very old, but there was no trace to their owners. We decided to be extra vigilante on our watches.

At first we considered remaining with the miners for the entire excavation period, but this thought was quickly dismissed. The map in our hands indicated at a place titled The Glass Hall nearby. Curiosity and sense of adventuring pressed us to learn more. According to the map, it wasn’t very far. Some remained to guard while the others left to learn.

Within a few hours, we reached the border of the place. The way was not uneventful, but I will not delve into the details at this time. In short, we encountered a small unit of flying insectan creatures which were harvesting the paralyzed bodies of Bugbears, then decided to intervene and aid the humanoids. For them however the battle was lost, and our assistance too late. They were followers of the Dragon Below, and I couldn’t feel pity for them anyways.

There was a wall of mushrooms obstructing our path; very large mushrooms. In order to cross and discover the Glass Hall, we had to climb it; cutting our way through would have taken too long. Their stem was covered by some thick oily fluid, secreted by the fungi, which left clear marks on our hands and feet as we grabbed and held for purchase. Once this obstacle was overcome, a small city made of crystal glass was standing before us. The Glass Hall.

Each and every structure was made of crystals. All of them were deserted, almost empty. It looked like something erased all signs of the civilization which had once inhabited the place, but even that something had no signs to its source or origin. Once perhaps a hub of activity, in our eyes it was merely a blank city made of opaque glass. Mysterious. Unknown.

Our curiosity and sense of wonder unabated, we continued to tour the place. Perhaps a hint to its explanation could be found.

The place was empty, yet not void of light; in some of the housing, were cones emitting a subtle yellow glow, strong enough to keep the small city from the darkness around. Spending many hours, we discovered very little to help us understand: some broken walls, but the missing fragments could not be found; corners affected by erosion, rounded to a certain perfection, perhaps by acid or an extensive period of time; many structures built of crystals, which Mashtil (the dragon accompanying us) believed to have powerful psionic powers.

Once we completed the contours of the city, we noticed something unusual. There were seven tunnels leading into the place (not counting a dried river which crossed the city’s center), one of which was noticeably larger. It would not have drawn our attention, but for two large pillars standing at the sides of that entrance, connected through a massive arc. The arc was constructed of distinct stone blocks, for on each face of every such stone a rune was etched. From below (the arc was standing high), it wasn’t easy to inspect the runes, yet Kass managed to notice one which symbolized a function of sorts, whose purpose was unknown, and another which stood for cohesion; perhaps the gate was keeping the city whole, while an unseen force was trying to disrupt it?

Our uneasiness grew, more so as Aner realized the fabric of his garment was corroding as quickly as he tore a piece of it; he wished to clean his hands of the sticky liquid we had our hands covered in while climbing into the city. As soon as it was no longer part of what he wore, the cloth deteriorated into the very strands of linen it was made of, as if a hundred years have passed over it in that short instant. We decided to leave before it affected us further. We went over the mushrooms again, and left the strange place behind us, within its mysterious empty glow.

It was not the last time we have seen the city.

Back at the camp, the miners were almost done with their job. There remained a single night of rest, before we would pack everything then finally return. During that night however, as we have ventured uninvited into the city made of glass, it has ventured into our dreams. The dreams of each and every one of those who had seen it.

It was not as we have perceived it. Empty and desolate on our first inspection, in the dream it was full with life. It wasn’t in a cave, under a roof of enclosed stone, but standing under the open skies. Men and women of many nations, mostly of Tharashk, were occupying the streets; all seemed content and relaxed and happy. The city was whole and complete. It felt like the most inviting thing I have sensed in quite a while.

But it was only a dream. Disturbingly, it was the same dream we all had, different only in the occupants of the city; Human were replaced by Shifters, by Goblins or Hobgoblins, depending who the dreamer was. In each dream, we felt at home; a place where we belonged.

This dream, was it a vision or a collective illusion, it increased my urge to return. Our cargo much heavier than the day we arrived, some of the mules grunted as they were goaded into movement. The caravan pushes forward, slowly climbing, back towards Sharn.

Less than a day before this moment of writing, we were very close to Khyber’s Gate. But we learned that we were not alone in our travels: a pack of Kobolds, from the tribe we have assaulted, were following us; they were not alone either, for a group of deadly fiends and Khyber’s minions were following them as well.

We learned of the kobolds’ presence in a very unusual way. While traveling, Mashtil was suddenly affected by something, some lingering force, and as she stumbled, she bumped into Magda. As a reaction, the Shifter was granted a vision. Kobolds were spying on us, tracking our trail, hiding in crevices behind, stealthily approaching our position. If we allowed them to live, we would have shown them the route into the city; we could not have allowed it.

We ambushed the followers. They were too weak and small in numbers to prove any resistance. Some were slain, others fled. It served them no good; from behind arrived the real threat, creatures which followed the kobolds unsuspecting to reach us. Between the rock and a hard place, the kobolds were lost. We then had to face a real challenge.

A creature of darkness riding a beast of flames; a being of water advancing torrentially; a fiend of death seeking to claim the living; an aberration, of yet another kind, covered by sickly yellow hair and sprouting a pair of tentacles out of its back; the most corrupt of men, wielding a glimmering-sharp glaive, with the black heart to stand side-by-side with such foes. Together, they were all after us for a single purpose – to learn the way into Sharn.

We fought desperately. For our freedom, for our safety, and for the protection of the living above. We were already exhausted from the long trip, yet mustered our remaining strengths, to fight like never before. Every member of the group proved his worth, alone, and as part of a team. One-by-one our enemies fell, destroyed, until the combat was over. We were then wounded, tired beyond the body’s capabilities, ragged, worn and dirty. Despite it all, we pressed on. Very little remained.

Several hours later, we were back under the sun. Where I am now. Fatigue has somewhat subsided as fresh light fills our hearts.

We spend some time to organize, to clean ourselves, rest, then learn of what we missed during our absence. Each goes on his own business, and I tend to my own.

There are two matters which remain for me to complete, before I can do what I plan, and have my mind at ease. I must respect my house, and conclude the business of the dragonshards. I then must give a proper explanation to the people I have spent most of my recent time with.

The first is fairly simple; the miners have done most of the job really, only formalities remain. The shards are brought to the nearest Tharashk warehouse, where an inspector verifies their quality while an armed group of mercenaries assure the safety of the wares. We are paid for 10% of the shards’ worth, and I am guaranteed that royalties will be given for every time the same source of dragonshards will be used. Truly, for me, the most important is I have held my word towards the house, money cannot give me back what I have lost. I fear it never will.

And now I must explain. I must explain my decision. I choose to do it through a letter, a letter of farewell. It is perhaps the hardest task in this world, to come up with the words to tell others you are about to be gone. It becomes even harder, as the bond I have formed with my friends is somewhat lost to me. I choose to be honest, but I lack the courage to present it directly. I will leave the letter behind, and this diary as well; I have read through it many times now, but more than half of it feels written by someone I no longer know.

I may return one day to continue it…

[There is a large blotch of ink here, as if the pen was resting in thoughts, as the writer attempted to summon more words, yet could not. On the next page a letter is attached]

I would like to say it has been an honor adventuring by your side, but it is something I cannot do. It is not a matter of respect or gratitude or appreciation, but simply of memory. Like the fleeting wisps of smoke from a dying fire, drawn away by the lightest of breezes, my memory of our travels eludes. I cannot recall most of it. Like in that dying fire, where there are still-glowing embers, lying side-by-side with blackened coals and cinders, I feel a vague stronger connection with some of you, while the others just bring back a sense of blankness.

It isn’t personal. It is simply how I feel about many things nowadays; ever since we returned from the darkness below.

It is also the reason why my presence among you must end. I cannot linger at a place where nothing feels to belong. I can remember my home being in Droaam, and that is the direction I choose to currently take. I hope that there, the shroud of mystery will be lifted, and all those lost memories will return.

Even the remains of a dying fire can become a blaze once more. But the embers must be stirred, the spent coals removed, and fresh tinder must be found.

I hope I do not leave untied knots behind. I hope I shall return, in the future, as distant as that may be.

May luck be on your side.
Sandor Virendare d’Tharashk

Dragonshards.

They should be excavated, yet I do not have the proficiency to do so efficiently.

I am told that miners have come with us, intentionally for this purpose, and await our return a day’s walk away. I wonder why they hold a camp so far from the dragonshards; it doesn’t make much sense.

Every turn, climb or descent are new to me. Seidum ensures me we have all been here before, but it still feels like a fresh voyage, if such a thing is possible in the humid dark we walk in. We spend little time to rest. Within the day, we reach a caravan.

I am wary. There are many unfamiliar faces, and an odd assortment of creatures there. Another warforged, constructed of a large piece of cobalt, which is incidentally also his name. Many men, the miners by the look of them. An injured gnome. A person claimed to be Aner’s brother, but they are as different as two species; he has an unnatural-looking skin, is much smaller of stature, and has a pair of devil-red eyes. Yet another goblin, but he looks like the type of actions than of thoughts. Then are two of the most extraordinary companions of the group: a stubby brown-skinned giant, and a female-dragon having a thick silvery mane.

What has brought me to travel among such company? I wonder…

It isn’t easy getting along with so many unfamiliar beings, and I retreat to discuss the matter of the dragonshards with the Tharashk miners. They are somewhat shaken from past events; events which occurred while we were gone. They tell of a hulk of umber who burst its way through the wall, kidnapped the gnome, then retreated back into the darkness. What ensued was a chase by Cobalt the warforged and Aner’s brother (whose name is Naethron apparently). While the miners cleared the path of the debris left by the hulk’s escape, the two of them managed to save Zook (the name of the gnome). But they did not return alone; both the giant and the dragon are new allies, from alliances formed during the rescue operation.

We decide to extract the dragonshards as soon as the miners are done with our current position. There is a gold vein they started digging into, and the matter of an ancient vault which must be sealed. I am told it is a matter of importance. The dragonshards will have to wait.

Night falls. Actually, I have completely lost a sense of time, but the others have settled into a certain pace. I rest for a while, then stand vigil while the rest of the camp sleeps.

These tunnels have a very unnatural feeling about them. There is an eternal silence holding the place in stasis, but at the same time, a multitude of interruptions indicating of a mass of activity around, over, and below. Dirt dislodges from the ceiling, dropping in a whisper to the ground; did something cross a tunnel above? An echo of an echo; other denizens of the underdark are rising. Then silence again; a sense of hollowness in my ears, while even my own breath is hardly heard.

Suddenly there is a noise behind me. Such a contrast to what was before, that I turn in alarm. Aner has risen; he is preparing to depart. He gives a blurred explanation of a call he can hear, an embracing sound which is nullifying all the dark and evil around. He insists he must investigate it.

For some reason, I try and convince him not to tread the blackness alone. Our conversation rises others, and shortly a group is ready to accompany him on this mid-night quest. At first, none can understand where he is taking us, but after a while, I can hear something as well.

Music in the dark.

With every step, it grows louder. It sounds like a flute of some kind, yet accompanied by the swirling and tumbling of liquid. We spot another bend of the tunnel, then beyond it is an opening, a glowing red light illuminating its border. The noise is much more distinct now: cascades, and the flute piercing them with its tune. We enter. The place is very hot.

Three waterfalls drop from above; white, yellow and orange water come hissing down. Across it, another cascade pours; ember-bright liquid, but it is not water. Lava is flowing into the room, to mass into a large pool some feet beneath us. There is much steam, and it is hard to see. Pillars made of many many tiles rise from the pool, each tile painted with a symbol. Visibility is bad from our position, but one of the pillars appears to depict an evolution – a creature transforming from object to living, under many transformations – from the lowest tile to the uppermost.

The call of the flute is coming from behind the fall of molten rock. Hardly, we can spot a creature there, but barely moving. In a small alcove within the wall, it is confined.

Kass attempts to contact it psionically, but some barrier is preventing him from reaching his target. Naethron then tries a spell of his own, yet it fails too, draining him of most his powers instead, the demand of the task too great for him. There is a strange feeling in the air, over the crushing sound of the water, the hissing of the lava and the whistling of the flute. It feels as if we are being inspected and scrutinized, by an unseen being, which is granting us visions in return. For a moment I sense being in a completely different place, where the land is covered by golden sand and the sun is striking bright. But as soon as the vision starts, it is already gone. Around me, my allies appear to be undergoing a similar experience. Kass looking as if he is taking the most intensive part of it.

He is drawn forward, almost to the edge of the room, where a drop into lava awaits. Ogan watches him apprehensively, but fears pulling him back, not implicitly ordered to by his master. Kass lingers at the rim for a moment, his gaze locked into the alcove behind the cascade. Then, very abruptly, his face is taken by great terror, as if he is envisioning horrible sights. Not knowing an alternative, Seidum strikes him, and the trance is shaken off the goblin.

Back to his senses, trembling and panting, he tells us how he saw into the mind of each and every creature nearby. It was too much for any living to handle. But from what he glimpsed, he learned that whatever is behind the veil of fire is held captive; at least it is what it – she, a feminine creature with hair and angel wings the color of rainbows – wants him to believe.

Nevertheless, we lack the means to set her free at the very moment, so we head back to our base. From there, we will continue to the lair of the kobolds, then finally mine the dragonshards. Later, we may return to save this strange damsel from her distress.

The shard-excavation is not very interesting. The miners work hard, but their progress is slow to my eyes. The kobold lair we find slightly altered since we left it, with signs of pillage and vandalism; yet there is no trace to who is the perpetrator. We remain there for a couple of days, overseeing the operation, which is mostly uneventful (except for the incident with the Mamba snake which disappeared a day after we caged it, but is not worth delving into the details). There is still the sense of being watched, but all of Khyber is foreboding to begin with.

While the Tharashk workers progress, the rest of us go elsewhere. Naethron remind us of a very large summoning room encountered on Zook’s rescue mission, and the sightings of a gargantuan worm burrowing its way much deeper; a worm summoned from another plane, ordered to dig a Daelkyr free of its underground prison.

It sounds like something we should attempt stopping. Whether we can however is something we will soon discover.

The creature is not very far away, but it still takes us some time to reach it. Something or someone has caused one of the passageways to collapse, and we are forced to find an alternate route. From our inspection, we learn a lava vein has been struck, causing the passage’s foundation to weaken, resulting in a cave-in; there is no sign whether made artificially or intentionally. Once we retrace a route, we reach the tunnel through which the Umber Hulk abducted the ranger gnome.

We cross an underground river, where a kind of fisherman used to live; now slain by some fiend. We discover an ancient vault, where enemies of the Illithids are buried; depicted as great warriors, we dare not disturb their remains and cause unrest among the restful. A short distance travel from that spot, we enter a huge round-shaped hall. A pentagram holding most of its floor is clearly visible, if showing signs of age. There are some deteriorating pieces of furniture standing along its walls, but they were not constructed of wood, but rather made from a condensed mushroom of some kind. It is from here that the worm was brought into our world.

A tunnel 60 feet wide leads outside the hall, smoothly dug, spiraling down. At its end, hours of walk away, we find the worm. It is blocking the path completely; it digs further.

A worm as large as a small keep, and as long as we can dare imagine. Not a creature we can slay by a simple slash of a sword. We decide to find whoever summoned it; we could then force him, her or it to banish it back to its plane of origin.

According to Doxorix the giant (who is still at the camp, but has confessed the information to Naeth previously), the masters of the worm are a group of humanoids creatures of wrinkled features, who reside somewhere deeper below the summoning chamber. There is a tunnel in that direction which we follow. But before we reach a small settlement of Kobolds, led by a Gythyanki in a keep occupied by many Slaads, we find a horn and meet a Restless Walker.

It was Magda who finds it, fastened to the tunnel’s wall. An inscription foretells of the creature, its strengths and virtues, and the boons it would grant to whoever has the courage to sacrifice a bit of himself in return. Sonir warns us of the danger, for those no-longer-living creatures are mightier than any other he has seen, and urges us not confront it with arms. Heeding his advice, we still choose to blow the horn. The creature is summoned.

The Restless Walker comes in the shape of a Rakshasa, the way it was before falling down into unlife. A high ranked officer once, in an ancient yet ongoing war, he failed his troops and nation by dying in combat, never finding rest since. He is bound to law by his nature, and accepts to speak truth to us. For the price of a fraction of our life, he proposes to aid us, through strength, relics or information.

Kass accepts, Magda considers, yet the rest of us refuse to pay such a price for such a creature. The dead Rakshasa seems disappointed, but passive. We continue on our way, and finally reach the small village.

Crossing a river of lava, we enter it. Established within a great cave in a vast open space, with glowing crystals on its ceiling, creating an illusion of a night with many stars. Its small number of houses are made of large bones and mushrooms; mushroom which grow in many farms around the settlement. Peaceful-looking Kobolds eye us as we approach; large lizards grazing on the fungi gaze in our direction indifferently, then continue to munch in noise and contentment. Every question we ask, they reply by pointing at the castle, built on a small cliff above, muttering the name Meskalis.

Meskalis is a Gythyanki. He is very neatly dressed, and behaves like someone of noble blood. He is welcoming in his behavior, telling us of his past, his present struggle against Illithids, and his future plans and wishes to lead once more great armies in this battle, hopefully with the help of the humankind above. We learn of his ancestors and recent brothers in arms, fallen in battle, who are buried within the tomb we have visited earlier.

The Gythyanki is worried once we tell him of the giant worm. He confirms the involvement of his grandfather, who lost his way and allied with the Dragon Below; he is the one responsible for the summoning. He assures us that his father’s father has been executed for the betrayal, and the worm banished. It is distressing that after so many years, it somehow managed to remain within our plane of being.

But not all is lost yet. Meskalis is eager to terminate the banishment which did not succeed previously. He suspects the Daelkyr has performed something, even while still being locked-up, which forces the worm within our realm. Yet with his help, we might still be able to send it back through the crudest means; we will simply slay the creature. In return for his help, he asks the smallest of favors: once we return to the surface, we should introduce him to the kind of Breland; a simple audience, for he wishes to offer him an alliance. It doesn’t sound like too much to demand. We agree.

We leave the keep with two of his servants, Slaads, escorting us; they will summon their master once the objective is reached. We use the bridge spanning the lava again, go by the Restless Walker’s horn once more, and travel through a set of tunnels already familiar to us, before we reach the large burrow, spiral down its length, to see the summoned worm still at work.

What happens next is a simple thing, yet done in the most gruesome of ways. Meskalis is summoned through a crystal of power carried by one of his servants, then inspects the worm. He declares his plan: food must be prevented from the creature, for it to starve then be forced back into its origin home, or die. Yet starving such a worm is not a simple thing to do; its mouth we cannot reach, digging at the very end of the tunnel, beyond tens or hundreds of yards of its flesh body.

I will not describe here how we finally completed the task, but know this – I had to cleanse every inch of my body through rubbing, scraping and washing for many hours once it was done.

There is one additional duty which now remains, and we dare ask Meskalis for additional help in order to complete it. The being (we learned it was a hybrid of a Lillend) caged behind the lava should be set free, but we need the aid of a creature resilient to heat. The Gythyanki nods at our request, then commands one of his Slaad servants, one with dark-reddish skin, to remain with us for this charge. He then vanishes back to his keep as swiftly as he was summoned.

In haste, we reach the Lillend’s prison once more. The place is as we left it, hot, bright and steaming. The Slaad seems at ease. It has no problem to swim through the pool of lava, then climb up the cascade into the recess beyond. It lingers inside for some time, then emerges through the blazing curtain to return into our midst, still smoking but unaffected. Kass uses his powers to speak with the Slaad, which does not use our tongue to communicate. It tells us the creature is bound by shackles to a chair, and is completely ignorant to her surroundings. As much as it tried, the Slaad could not free or move the Lillend from her position.

We can’t stop the fall of lava, nor cross the pool. We require Meskalis’ aid once more if we want to free this strange captive. By another crystal, the Gythyanki is called for the second time that day. He inspects this new challenge, then offers his help in the form of a wand; one that can shape the stone. He targets the rock-side over the source of the lava, and in a sound that I can only describe as the accelerated growth of stone, it moves and slides until it covers the opening; the lava flow is stopped, if temporarily. Next he targets the earth at our ground, and in a swift motion shapes it to the form of a bridge, from our side of the bridge over to the entrance into the Lillend’s cell.

He warns us the spell will not hold for long, reminds us of our deal, then vanishes, taking the Slaad with him.

The Lillend does not react. Like mesmerized, she keeps playing her flute, oblivious to her rescuers. Some of us cross the bridge, which seems narrow and unstable, to reach her; I stay behind.

The walls around the room shake and tremble. The entire place rages with molten fury.

The place is still filled with dissipating steam, obscuring most of the view. I see the outline of Seidum shaking the Lillend, but she does not budge, still within her trance. Then there is great motion through the haze, as Ogan attempts to break the shackles loose through his brute force; he raises his arms, bringing a large tool over his head, to bring it down across the chains, again and again.

The obstructed cascade spits and splutters. Chunks of rocks fly through the steam; some fall into the pool below in a splash, others onto the improvised bridge, rebounding back to the side. With every passing moment, the makeshift stop is cracking and deforming, unable to hold the force of the lava.

The song of the flute can no longer be heard over the pounding of the metal. It continues, but grows desperate, the beating more and more apart; the Lillend’s bounds refuse to break, while Ogan tires.

Persistent lava starts flowing anew from the cracks above, slowly.

The air becomes tense; all are aware of the time running out. I hear Kass’s voice over the boiling of the pool, hungrily feeding of the debris thrown into it. He shouts something at Ogan, then there is a loud crack of light, blinding, and the next moment the Lillend lies on the alcove’s floor, and the half-giant replaces her at her seat.

Events then happen very quickly. The Lillend rises, completely freed from what previously held her. She opens her eyes for the first time, smiles, and the entire place glows in a golden green aura. An instant later, all of her is gone, but for her flute, tumbling and flying through the air in my direction. As it moves, it steadily grows smaller, until it at my feet, now as small as a child’s miniature.

Then the cascade explodes.

It spouts liquid fire in a forceful jet, almost reaching the spot where I stand. I splashes over the bridge, over the tiles, over the walls. Fragments of the rock blocking the opening are thrown in every direction. And then, after much of the pressure has been relieved, lava starts streaming down towards the alcove.

My allies rush out, carefully balancing their weight over the bridge, avoiding the small puddles of lava. Behind, Ogan is still bound to the chair, its shackles holding him fastened. Then, there is another loud crack, and Kass is at his place. Much smaller than both the Lillend and the half-giant, he manages to wriggle out of the confines, and soon both of them are free.

The lava flows. A large piece of the wall shatters by the change of temperatures.

Kass and Ogan run over the bridge.

The wall breaks. Its pieces falling over the cross-way, taking a part of it down into the lava pool.

The two reach our side, and not a moment too soon.

Without support and under its own weight, the stone structure breaks of the last thing which held it, then drops below. In an instant, it is consumed within the viscous yellow-red liquid. The fall of lava flows renewed, and the room is almost as it was before, but for the call of the flute which is gone.

In the palm of my hand it now lies, yet very small, and very silent; the Lillend’s flute, our last memory of her. And Khyber is once more, as silent as ever.

We must move again. Time is nearing for us to leave this place.

Would I recognize my memories, if one day they’d be strangers to me? Would I feel any kind of familiarity to past events, the day they’d be gone? I don’t know… I can’t remember.

Something is going to happen. An event that will tamper all those which happened before it. Until it does, allow me to cherish what I have previously gone through, throughout my life in the past.

The present flows, but I am also living my past. Both still in Khyber, and across all the travels of my life.

It is nighttime. While everyone sleeps, I stand sentry. It reminds me of a time where it has been different.

Daytime, many years ago, when I was back home. I sleep in my bed, everyone stands nearby, watching. Actually, this is not even a memory of my own, since I was never awake. I was sleeping the whole time, for so long…

Shuffling of feet brings me back from my reverie. I turn barely in time, to notice a dark silhouette, a small humanoid creature, standing at the sleeping body of Kass. I sound the alarm; it darts away.

Seidum rises first, instantly awake, as if he was never sleeping. I run in pursuit, but the darkness and quickness of my quarry hinder me too much, and I soon find myself too far to follow. Seidum is faster, and still on the target’s heels. Like on that other time.

I stand inside the alley, there is no air in my lungs. My legs hurt, my feet throb. My hand is empty, yet it still clutches on the thing that was taken. Ahead is my brother, he will retrieve it back for me. It was the other kids who took it. I was happily going back home, holding it dearly to my breast when they blocked my path. Names they called me, all but Sandor. Then the greatest of them pushed at me, forcing it from my hand. I never had the strength to oppose, not ever since my day of weakness. But my brother will get it back from me. I know I can trust…

Suddenly, a figure returns from the darkness. I have been staring at it for a while, almost forgetting the intruder on our camp. I raise the torch with one hand, and grasp my rapier more firmly with the other. But it is Seidum who returns from the chase, fatigued and wounded; I lower my weapon and run to help him.

Kobolds have taken Kass’ charm, the third eye he used to contact the world above. Whoever took it quickly had reinforcements in the form of bat riders, and Seidum could not keep up. He tried to fight, but they were numerous, too many for him to handle alone. Gone now into their lair, their home or base of operations, with the only mean for us to gain information of Rocson again.

So our fate now depends on getting it back, in a way.

Sonir tells us he is aware of the location of the Kobold’s encampment. He has not grown very fond of the creatures during his time underground, and is willing to lead us to the place he knows. It shouldn’t take more than two days to reach.

From the Gatekeepers’ imprisonment hall where we have settled, we begin our march. Zook, Naethron and Cobalt stay behind, hopefully enough presence to fend off anything that will find interest in this new open room. The rest of us travel back the way we have initially arrived from, only to take a new turn at a known fork, to walk once more into dark tunnels.

I am at my parents’ house, walking down a hall, a chandelier hanging over my head…

We walk up a narrow path, stalagmites and stalactites climbing up and down from the ground and ceiling.

I stand within a darkened room; its windows are covered by thick curtains. In its center, a large table stands. There is not a single area of free space on it, so covered by books and symbols and scrolls it is. I try to read some of the text, but the table is too tall, and I dare not reach with my hands. A man stands in the corner, his back to me. I think he is looking out the window, but maybe he is caught in thinking…

I look around. The place is still dark, but it is no longer the room from my memories. We have stopped. Kass found something of interest. It is an altar of sorts, shaped of stone; an hexagon is crudely carved on it. When Seidum inspects it, he suddenly feels the blood boil in his veins, and an ancient rage take hold of his mind. I decide to stay away.

Nearby, lying near a pile of rocks, I find the skeleton of a man, probably dead for decades. His cape was once blue, but is now dusty and almost colorless. His hand clutched something of importance, tightly locked in a firm grip, but it has been pilfered already.

…The man near the window is wearing a great cloak. Within the darkness, it looks deep blue to my eyes, but perhaps it is red, or even plain green. He holds something in his hand, a symbol, his fingers grasping it dearly. I’m trying to edge closer, to see better, but my knee hits the chair in a loud noise. He turns to face me…

We continue on our way. Sonir is still ahead, choosing in every fork we reach the right path to take. According to him, there is not much left to walk. We encounter little more than small critters on the way.

Ultimately we reach a great hall. It reminds me something of the not so distant past.

During my first visit to Sharn, despite all my previous travels, I could not but be caught in awe. The place was enormous, and more bustling than any other place I have yet seen. Towers striking into the skies, as many as rain would drop from it; chariots, wagons, mounts and men, going through a myriad of paths, every moment of the day, ever busy, always on the move; shops and stands and vendors, offering the most exotic of tastes and sights and smells.

I arrived just as some festivity started. Many of difference races – human and gnomes and goblins and elves and even the warforged made of iron and wood – were standing tightly around a very large fountain. Jets of water were sparkling in the fresh morning air, a haze of humidity glistening on the cobbles around it. The people were smiling, laughing, shouting and talking, a cacophony of noises too great. Colorful ribbons were thrown into the air, and also a shining silvery dust. Little boys and girls were darting through the corridors made of the spaces between the grown men and women. A man was shouting at my side – “here they come, get ready!” – and there was a great exclamation.

Suddenly, a great cloud of white was bursting into the air; tens or hundreds of snow-white doves set loose into the morning, flying in every direction like the rays of the sun…

And as suddenly as in my vision, I am hit by something, and thrown back into the rocky ground of the cave. Still shocked by the blow, I don’t yet realize what is going on. My face and body on the floor, I can see on our side a large pool of steaming water; a pillar of stone erects from its middle into the ceiling of the place, and water is tumbling down from its top, to crash down then rise upwards again as vapor. I push myself up, slowly realizing there is a great pain at my chest. Around me, people and creatures are yelling, shrieking, drawing steel, preparing and moving. Seidum is crying out over me – “from above, watch out!” – and there is a great tension forming up.

Something swoops overhead, then emits a piercing screech. Dazed, a pulsing throb at my ribs, I look up. I return to my memory.

…The crowd pushes and pulls through itself, chaotically managing to form a path within it, then everyone shoves again to be able to see. I hear the neighing of a horse, then the drumming of many hooves. All of a sudden, four horses gallop through the opening in the crowds, their riders wearing the most elegant of clothes, holding a banner each…

I spot a large dire bat overhead, two kobolds riding it; one is holding the reins, the other a great spear. An instant later, another bat, with two additional kobolds, dives down upon us. I draw my swords for protection. Nearby, Lord is muttering some mystical words, then a large blaring of an unseen horn fills the entire hall.

…The trumpets blare. The horses stop as one entity, elegantly turn, then in three blinks of an eye, are galloping again into the other direction. The flags are drawn proudly through the air, depicting the coat of arms of men or families I do not recognize: bats with wings outstretched, black over gray; standing spears around a small skull, red over silver, bordered by a flowering line of green…

An ache through my side brings me back to my senses. One of the bats looks held in place, flying several feet over the ground; the other is circling farther away, readying for another attack. The kobolds yell in a clicking and hissing tongue, making no sense to my ears. A crossbow-bolt whines through the air, striking into the wing of a bat. The other bat flies again in our direction, the spear of its rider shining in the torchlight. But its tip never reaches any mark: coming too fast to be seen, Seidum hurls himself through the air, his fists glowing a blazing red; he pummels the bat on the side of its head, then the creature plummets like a stoned gargoyle into the ground, crushing its two riders under the weight of it body; the spear breaks like a twig.

…In perfect unison, the horses rear. Through the gap between every pair, a new rider breaks into sight; a total of three new horses, as magnificent as the first four. Their carried flags portray victory: a proud white angel over golden-yellow; and a strong man brandishing a sword, blue over bright cream…

On the floor of the cave lay the remainder of our enemies. The bats are dead, and so are half of their riders. The two kobolds that live are taken prisoners, tied-up until they feel well enough to be investigated. Still weak, and fleeting memories of that day in Sharn still affecting me, I realize I’m still down deep within Khyber. My blood drawn. My swords on the other hand have drawn none. What am I becoming?

I tend my wound while the others tend themselves or the kobolds. Some of my ribs are broken, and the flesh is badly cut; but not something a potion wouldn’t cure. When done, I approach our prisoners. One of them is awake, if still using his non-comprehensive language. Kass is standing near him, and Sonir is overhearing the conversation as well; they both speak his tongue, Draconian. An investigation begins.

Droaam’s border. Less than ten years ago. The guards tell me they are not familiar with my name, while they ought to. I try to explain them my family has only risen in fame and fortune recently. It isn’t the whole truth, but it is true enough. They ask many questions…

How many kobolds live in your base? Where is the stolen jewel? What is the safest route to reach your lair? Who took the third eye? Are there any traps protecting your home?

The goblin asks, then translates the answers: the last count was 130 kobolds; he does not know; there are two ways, one of which is trapped, the other is slightly longer; he swears he does not know; only one of the paths contains traps, the other is safe. He even draws us a map. But Kass is not satisfied, and presses the captive further; he torments him with threats, tricks his mind, then pushes into his thoughts and reads them. The process isn’t short.

Two things happen then: we learn the truth, where the traps really are, and the accurate number of kobolds living in the settlements; and a scouting party of new kobolds spot us, then attack.

They come from behind the large steaming pool, six in numbers. Four kobolds and two medium-sized beasts; quadrupeds with a grayish-red carapace, having a long pair of feathery antennae, and a tail ending with an axe-shaped bone – they are Rust Monsters. They split into two even groups, then attempt to flank us, one coming from each side of the pool.

Ogan is the first to charge; the cave resounds with the clanging and scraping of his plated armor, his large sword held in both hands, ready to cut down all that would dare face him. He reaches the first kobold, who attempts to fend off the half-giant with his quarterstaff; the sword cuts through the wood then digs its blade deep in the creatures’ neck, killing it instantly. He then turns, spotting the rust beast facing him. Ogan does not think, and presses his charge further.

He brings both arms over his right shoulder, ready to drive down his sword in a powerful arc over his next target. But the beast does not hold in wait; its antennae thrust forward, they brush and lick at the attacker’s wrist-guards, gauntlets and sword’s hilt. Ogan’s blow never lands. He loses his grasp, his fingers clutching powdered rust. The blade of his sword clatters to the floor, half-erroded, its handle shattered. And the beast does not stop, but keeps consuming. In a matter of moments, the entire armor-set of the half-giant is gone, transformed into a mound of brown and red flakes of what was once metal.

Then the rest of us attack. Magda pounces into a nearby wall, shifted into her feline presence, moving vertically, and takes down an unsuspecting kobold with a bolt to the throat. Kass thrusts another enemy into the scalding water, never touching him, using the power of his mind instead; it thrashes inside the pool for several heartbeats, then floats still. The last standing kobold drops under Sonir’s scimitar, but his weapon turns to rust as a beast counter-attacks him. Man grapples with monster for a while, as the creature attempts to feed on any other metallic object he might wear. Its hide is quickly pierced by a hail of bolts, arrows and spell, then it drops lifeless.

One Rust Monster remains, its antennae posed menacingly. Suddenly, it emits a strange grunt, then bolts for Lord, the warforged. Before any of us has time to react, it reaches, strikes, hits and attempts to consume. He is fully made of wood and metal. For an instant, what looks like horror takes his emotionless face, while the beast seems content. Its antennae shift and slide over his body, its mandibles twitching in anticipation. But the outcome is unexpected. Lord remains intact, only a few crossbow bolts in his possession eroding; his entire body remains as it was. Against such an invulnerable foe, the monster is hopeless. It is swiftly dispatched of.

We now know for certain which is the way for the kobold camp. There is no further time to delay. The group advances.

Shortly the entrance is reached. The path slopes down as the corridor narrows. There is a ramp leading down, but also stairs, on both its sides. I choose the stairs, while others slide down the ramp. Shouts and yells in Draconian come from above before I notice the danger: a gateway over us, fortified; several murder-holes are located at its border. Arrows storm in our direction, cutting through the air, whizzing. I’ve been through almost the same before.

I ran through the projectiles. There was no time to think. Arrows smacked into the ground behind me, missing me by a hair’s-breadth. At my back, others were not as fortunate. A man screamed, and there was a thud as he crashed down. On my side another had the shaft of an arrow protruding from his side, yet he kept running forward. I was looking up, the sweat itching in my eyes. It was dark, but I could still see the archers standing on the ramparts, visible through their torchlight.

If only we could reach the sewer holes at the base of the wall, all would be fine…

We run. Kobold archers giving us their best shots, but luck and might is on our side. Through the tunnel we move, under the holes from where they snipe, then beyond. Aner is hit, but he keeps running. Then there is a slope back upwards, and soon we are out of their line of sight. According to the kobold’s map, the entrance hall lies ahead. We can’t afford delay.

…The alley is dark; I walk it alone. The wounded preferred to remain hidden near the sewers, lest he’d hinder our progress too many. I tread silently, but have a horrible feeling of being watched. I hear a crack behind me, then I instantly turn.

It was the worst move I could have done…

We hurry, but evidently not enough. Upon entering the next hall, we are welcomed by more snipers. There is a balcony on our left, manned by four kobolds. They fire. In the openness of the hall, there is no place for cover. Suddenly, something supple strikes me straight in the face.

…Hands dart over my head, and before I manage to resist, a thin wire is drawn over my throat. I start choking. The hands are deft, and I fail to grasp at them. A moment later, a black hood is pulled over my head, and there is a fibered blackness around me. I struggle in vain. A hard object strikes at the base of my skull, then my knees buckle. The last thing I feel is my face crashing into the gravel, my lungs crying for air, and my mind becoming very blank…

The thing tangles with my face. It sends tentacles, then grasp tighter, impossible to remove. Something edges into my mind, erasing the past away from me. I struggle with my arms, but the mind is unable to protect itself. Blankness overcomes me. I drop to my knees. Blackness is taking over.

…Someone lifts the hood, but there is a sticky and sluggish feeling in my mind, it prevents me from understanding the surrounding I see. Cold air washes my face. Slowly, I manage to grasp the voices around me; the confusion of noises starts making sense. Someone calls my name…

The tentacles go slack and the mass over my face drops to the ground. Relief washes me, yet I cannot recall why. Crashing sounds around me bring me back to my senses, and I can hear somebody’s name being called. Sandor. Is it me?

To my left is a balcony, bodies lie at its edge, sprawled and broken; they appear to be kobolds. To my right is a multitude of characters: a very tall man holding a spear, a crouching women with feral-looking features, an unarmed hobgoblin, an almost naked half-giant, a warforged with a single arm, a ragged looking man and a small goblin. They do not look hostile. The hobgoblin shakes my shoulder gently, and calls my name. Sandor. I am starting to recollect what happened.

Dragonshards. Khyber.

There is great agitation among the people around me. Slowly, I manage to put names to faces. I begin to remember the place where I stand, the lair of kobolds, into which we entered as a group to get something back. The goblin shouts something about his gem, then looks at me with expectation. I try to recall what he wants.

Blood of Tharashk. Mark of Finding.

The goblin is excited. He cries something about his third eye. He seems obsessed. The hobgoblin by my side asks me if I can try and locate where it is.

Sandor Virendare. Inquisitive.

I concentrate, then try to bring into mind a jewel of sorts, a bijou shaped like an eye I do not remember I ever saw. Somehow, it shows vividly, and I have a great sense of it being nearby, straight ahead, yet somewhere below us. The hobgoblin finds a trapdoor, and the goblin follows him eagerly.

Seidum. Kass. Third Eye.

It’s a narrow and dark corridor, but I can feel the item closer with every step. Something moves in the shadows, Seidum grows tense. Suddenly, a mutated creature jumps at us, thrashing and spitting; it looks like a kobold, but it has an extra pair of legs coming out of its sides.

Aberrations.

Both swords drawn, I have to destroy it. But the corridor is too narrow, and Seidum is ahead. He pummels the creature again and again, until it drops senseless to the ground. I try to reach closer. Behind me, Kass let’s out a call of exclamation, then edges past me, towards the body of the fallen aberration. He quickly rifles through its pockets, then extracts a gem. He cries with glee. I reach the monster.

Khyber. Aberrations. The Dragon Lies Below.

I prepare to grant a merciless kill, but something else happens first. At the corner of my eye, I sense movement. I turn, and to my horror, spot a large floating mass, with eye-stalks emerging from every part of its body. Before realizing what it is, a crossbow is unslung, a finger presses the trigger, and a bolt is set loose into the dank air. Iron flies and a creature dies. It bursts in an explosion of spores.

Tricks of the Trade. Survivalist.

I throw myself flat against the ground. Minute pieces of the creature fill the air. Kass coughs. We better leave this tunnel. Breathing through the cloth of my sleeve, I reach the trapdoor, then emerge again into the hall above. I see a small mass of tentacles on the ground, oozing a purple liquid. The others stand nearby, awaiting our return.

Magda. Aner. Lord. Ogan. Sonir.

Sonir insists we press on, while we still have the advantage. The throne room nearby might hold their leader, and without him, the pack of kobolds will no longer pose a threat to us. If we fail to do so, we could be hunted down before we leave this place. It sounds like a sensible plan.

And we continue; but the following rooms are not unguarded. Kobolds sided with aberrations, and they hold against us in cooperation. A Gauth, a Roper, a Lizardman and many Kobolds. They fight together, and they die together.

Thrust forward. Cut across. Swerve. Back-step. Swing. Slash. Stab.

The room is in chaos. Bodies lie everywhere, bleeding, broken or burning. Something caused a conflagration; great walls of fire consume the air, thick smoke devours every source of light. A chandelier above, made of crystals, goes down, to shatter into countless pieces on the ground. The throne, made of some metal, melts into a meaningless mass. Someone leads us into a hidden passage, where there is fresher air to breath.

After a while, the blaze subsides. Behind it, ashes remains. Fire is merciless, and leaves very little of the past. There is no more resistance, and we are free to learn more of the kobolds’ lair. We find a nursery for dire bats, the mounts kobolds use so frequently; a laboratory, used to implant grafts and symbionts on hosts; and a cavern filled with Khyber dragonshards.

Sandor Virendare d’Tharashk.

I entered Khyber for dragonshards. It is the task I shall perform. That I remember. Yet what about the rest?

Hundreds of feet under Sharn, perhaps even miles, we walk, in the dark. In the absence of light, there is only blackness; a blackness that ever remains. It is the same blackness we have delved into with Klabon, months ago, yet emerged leaving him behind. Deep down inside Khyber, we move again, fragile and wary. We do not learn our lessons.

For the second time, we cross Khyber’s Gate to continue deeper into the world under. The first time was for remediation, when Seidum, Maximilian and myself attempted to find again the Flumf Oomlaupop, to guarantee aberrations would not use the information it held in order to gain access into Sharn. This time, our motives are mostly business. We hold a map claiming dragonshards. We are ready to mine. But mostly business is not entirely selfish; Rocson has appointed us a mission while we are scouting the dark tunnels of Khyber. Beside shards of dragons, there is another thing we must seek.

Unsurprisingly, it is aberrations. According to the gatekeeper’s sources, a very distinct group of them is making its way in the dark, scanning and searching. They are more clever than others, and are bound to find the path leading into the city. If left unstopped, Sharn’s future may be even grimmer. So the half-Orcish Druid has given us directions and a task. Before we mine, we must first kill.

My boots crunch the hard ground. The darkness is kept at bay by our torches, waiting for the light to diminish, for it to overwhelm us again. There are men in front, many more behind. We move in a line; there is simply no other way to advance otherwise. All but Cleave have come, and Kailyn, but she is no longer part of the team really. In total, we are many: Tharashk miners I hired for the extraction job; Zook, a Gnome Ranger who introduces himself with new names every single time he meets a new person; Kass and Ogan, the goblin I do not yet trust and his bodyguard; a gnome researcher named Asali Filsmissita, one of Kailyn’s friends who is also interested in dragonshards; carts, mules, equipment; and the team’s core we have formed over the months: Aner, Naethron, Cobalt, Seidum, Magda and myself. Our long caravan advances purposefully, while each and every one of us, as a single unit, is not as reassured; at least I have my misgivings.

Three days have passed. Seventy-two hours of eternal darkness. A lapse of time which obeys a different set of rules, where there is no ordinary schedule. As long as the mules have strength, we advance. Night and day are meaningless. Whenever we can, we go. When some of us cannot, they rest while the others continue. We press to delve deeper, so we can be fast on our return, the return back to the surface, back home.

The journey started in regions I already knew, but we are now many miles ahead, inside Khyber, within areas new to my eyes. The ground slopes mostly down, the tunnels turn narrow or wide, the ceiling takes a multitude of different patterns. Uncharted yet, we add the new places to the maps we hold. First there is a spiraling path, then large cracks within a wall, and a cavernous room is revealed. The first place on our journey which shows signs of habitation, if in times deep within the past; a past mostly forgotten now.

The air inside the room is sweet, but the walls are black as ash. The ground seems covered by the softest of powders, an organic white substance of sorts (which we later find to be the decaying bodies of moths living in the same room). In the center of the place stands a well. It was built centuries ago, but was now left unused for years; a thick layer of the same organic powder covers the still water, water which looks surprisingly pure to drink. It looks as if it was constructed out of the remains of another structure, salvaged for this new purpose. We decide to drop an ever-burning torch inside, perhaps the light will teach us more. Invisible prior, we can now see the faint glow of multiple runes, etched on the inner border of the well, a border coated by a thin layer of wax. It is incredibly strange.

But Seidum decides to test the water, and drinks it. We later learn it granted him a boon against evil forces. Perhaps it was a replenishing station for the Gatekeepers, in the days of their previous glory? We find little further interest in the room, then continue on our way.

That was not the last time we have encountered something of the Gatekeepers’ making. Some hours later, or maybe a full day, we reach a path blocked by a large circular door. It stands by two large pillars, and is covered by many runes, soothingly glowing. Asali inspects them for some moments, then classifies it as a seal; whether meant to hold intruders at bay, or to lock atrocities behind, she cannot judge. It seems however likely to be made by a gatekeeper.

Which renders the entire area even more mysterious. According to Rocson’s description, it is here our quarry lies; here is the place where the aberrations we must stop must be. If a seal is keeping them at bay, why were we sent? The last time a gatekeeper sent us below Sharn, it did not end well; I fear this path of thought.

None of us has an explanation. We choose to leave the door and seal behind, then continue through another corridor; perhaps an answer waits ahead. But answers never wait to be claimed, neither above nor below ground. In their stead, danger lurks. It is even more true in Khyber.

I advance through the corridor, taking the point. It has grown wider, but we still advance in a narrow line, the breadth of two men. The ground is made of baked earth, cracked and dry; the ceiling is far above our reach; the walls have lost their evenness, and are covered with niches of many sizes. I do not show it yet, but I am becoming much more nervous. The last time we were underground, four aberrations were among us, without our knowledge. We were trusting, while they were leading us, concealed as humans, into a trap.

And at that moment, I lead my friends into another, completely unrelated one.

I take another step over the arid floor. My boot crushes through the thin layer of earth. The ground breaks open, and a large pit awaits below, welcoming us with two Ankhegs. At that same instant, three of the niches burst, and large ants emerge from the new openings, surrounding us on both flanks.

Survival instincts kick in, and I somehow manage to keep my balance. Mandibles crash sharply closed, but miss as I pull myself backwards. At my side, Zook proves to be as agile, and none of us falls into the pit. It does not matter, the Ankhegs deftly climb out.

There are shrieks and hissing and clicking. Kass’ mount, a small green mottled dinosaur, panics from the sight of the creatures, then rears and drops its rider to the ground. While it attempts to flee, it is caught within an ant’s reach; the carnivorous insect surgically strikes, bringing the mount to the ground in a sickening sound of shattered bones. Asali aims at the ant with her fingers, then a lava-white ray shoots forward. The walls illuminate in a blinding light. But the instant the spell touches the ebony shell of the creature, it is reflected back to its caster; Asali screams in pain. I parry and dodge mandibles and iron-hard claws; at my sides, both Zook and Kass are overwhelmed by the arthropods’ strength, which are slowly pulling them into their mouthes, ready to crush then consume and digest. There is another scream, then Asali falls to the ground, an Ankheg over her immobile body.

Then there is a strange noise, and Ogan is gone. Where he stood an instant ago, is Kass instead; his cohort has replaced positions with his master through Dimensional Swap. The large half-giant is too much for the Ankheg to handle, which it quickly spits free of its grapple. Nearby, Zook succeeds soothing the large beast, and it looses its hold over him, momentarily pacified. Seidum kicks and punches, I cut and slash, Ogan hacks and splays open. A giant ant and an Ankheg drop to the hard ground, the rest attempt to flee with the day’s spoils. We manage to secure Asali’s dead body, but the raptor’s carcass is stolen away.

We study our attackers, attend to our wounds and prepare the gnome for her final rest. I have heard of similar creatures before, both the Ankheg and the giant ant; they are not remarkably uncommon, especially not in underground environments. What does make the specific ants special, is their carapace; hard as tempered steel, and enhanced to reflect back spells; far from being natural, it was obviously improved by something else.

Both the creatures were lying dead on the floor now, harmless, useless. Their bodies broken and already reeking with bleeding ooze. But those of their kind do not travel alone, but in swarms of countless many. An army of arthropods must be nearby, with three of its soldiers heading back to the base. We retreat before it is too late.

Our resting period passes peacefully. There is no signs of the remainder of the swarm. No more ants, no more Ankhegs. Refreshed and rested, we return to the pit-trap from which the creatures have emerged; the place is completely clean, there is almost no indication to a combat having taken place there. We advance further, more alert this time, following the corridor which continues to slope down. Where it ends, an enormous hall stands, but the bottom of the large room we cannot see; more like a chasm, it drops far downwards, beyond the sight of our eyes.

Seidum offers to climb down, and through a taut piece of rope and a fast anchoring point, he lowers himself along the wall of the chasm. In moments, he is no longer seen, but the rope he hangs from, swaying as he moves in the blackness below. His voice reaches us, describing twisted roots, mushrooms and many sorts of vegetation, all protruding from the earthen wall. Suddenly, he is alarmed, and he shouts for us to hoist him back; from deeper below, the arthropods are coming, this time much more than five. There are more giant ants and Ankhegs, but this time also thousands of normal insects and greater ones that can fly. We hurriedly pull the monk into the corridor, then flee. In our retreat, we drop oil and flames, covering our escape through fire. For now, the insects do not follow.

Why are we even interested in them, I dare not say. My allies sense this confusion as well; we return to the gatekeeper seal, where we were sent for initially. Another time for resting passes, again, we are not hindered by ants.

Upon rising, I spot Kass concentrated in speech, but there is none around him. I notice he focuses on a piece of ornament on his forehead, a jewel shaped like an eye; a third eye. I soon learn he is communicating with his cohort, a goblin from his tribe named Cherchek, through the magical power of that item. Confused by the seal, he requested his friend in Sharn to act as proxy and contact Rocson, asking him some question in our stead.

Not long after, Rocson answers through a spell of Sending. From the general description of the seal, he believes it to be an aberration scheme; a fake seal to keep adventurers such as ourselves away, and hide their intentions. We study the doorway further, and the runes and marking covering it. After a closer inspection, I manage to determine a clever trap ties the pillars and the opening, through an intricate runic design suffused by strong magic, but it is something beyond my skill to undo. Instead, we use magic to fight magic; we Dispel the trap, if momentarily.

Then remains the task of breaking open the gate, which proves to be as complex as disarming the trap, as none in the group has the natural power to overcome the sturdiness of the construction. Again, we resort to magic to aid us. Lord buffs Seidum with greatness, stoicism, lethality and protection (casting the spell Enlarge, Bear’s Endurance, Sonic Weapon and Shield), and the monk tests himself against the doorway once more.

Great fists bash against the door. The corridor explodes in thundering booms with every hit. Ancient dust rises from every cranny where the particles managed to find some rest, rendering the air dreary and opaque. Eventually, the barrier shatters; with it, so do the two pillars.

Rock and stone and iron and wood spill into the rooms, the remains of the doorway and its supporting pillars, but also something else. The large mass of ooze, encased for decades within the stone of the pillars, now set free. Unstoppable, it flows into the hall.

But while it is ooze and debris which wash down on our direction, I am hit with a memory from another world instead.

A gray wolf is running, but its steps are not heard. In the great ruckus of smelting and smithing, only the song of iron, steel, bronze and copper is heard. The wolf runs forward elegantly; it is made of liquid silvery metal, flowing, ever-changing, taking the most efficient form with every shift and turn. Where it hurries, I cannot see; its form reflects the light, blinding, mirroring all that is around. Suddenly, I spot a colossus of a man reflected within the wolf’s body, standing erect and tall, courageous and unafraid, primed for any challenge. For a moment, I think it is myself, then the trick is unveiled; the mercurial body of the wolf changes, and I see my form as I truly am: thin, ill-looking and confused. Then the beast loses its firmness, and crashes in a large puddle of silver liquid on the floor.

Silver turns to gray, and I regain my senses. At my feet, the ooze seeps into the ground, almost gone completely. Around me, my friends seem slightly winded, their wielded weapons covered with gray slime. My rapier and sword are not even drawn.

The path is now clear. Beyond the shattered door is a perfectly circular room. Five additional doors stand closed around its walls, evenly spaced. In the center of the room an ash tree grows, yet is held still in time; made of stone, it has been sculpted to such a level of minute detail one could swear it still lives. The tree rises from a flat drum, filled with earth. The ceiling is covered with the depiction of a large green shield, the sign of the Gatekeepers.

Wary of further traps, we enter slowly. There are rectangular containers made of stone surrounding the tree, lying on the floor. On each, in small print, is declared the Orcish name of whoever lies within; four containers for four old gatekeepers. Seidum decides to uncover one, then finds a single candle inside, unlit but ready, to burn a last memory for the eternally restful. For some reason, a primal urge perhaps, or superstitious belief about death, we light each.

The tree, emblem and names, all seem related to the Gatekeepers organization. I fear Rocson’s perception of the place has been misguided… Or was he intentionally misguiding? It wouldn’t be the first time the head of the Gatekeepers in Sharn is not who he seems.

Except for what we see, the room appears to be empty. The doors do not look to be trapped. Except for the one from which we entered, they are all fully made of metal, now gray with dust. After a closer inspection, I notice it is adamantite they are constructed from, with a Khyber dragonshard fixed in the middle of each. On the frame of every one is a layer of wax, carefully and meticulously applied. As a whole, somebody has put much thought and effort into each; but for what reason?

I do not think it will be wise to uncover what lies behind them.

But it is the goblin who approaches one of the doors. Kass studies one of the shards for a while, then mutters a few words. His gray and coarse fingers linger over it, almost touching. His eyes are opened, but focused much beyond the physical world. After a while he tells us what he sensed and felt.

Oldness. Ancientness. Experience. Tiredness. Characteristics of a tree; a tree which has grown way beyond its natural limit. But also an Orcish voice, warning against the vilest of prisoners held behind the door. A Beholder by the name of Musu’uk is kept from entering our world. And behind the other shards, others are imprisoned: Bizeka the necromantic spirit Naga; Ojkofilza the half-Illithid bronze dragon; Kzarad the constructor of relics; Shduarni the warlord. All locked up, generations ago, to protect the others.

But does each of them really hold in wait behind the door?

Naethron arrives to aid us from the caravan. He can use his powers to tell us what is there, hidden from our eyes. We dare not enter physically; his mind acts as our eyes.

A very large shard, a dragonshard, as large as a man’s torso, standing on a pedestal. But the shard is not whole: a fissure, from top to bottom, travels through it, ready to split it in two. And when that happens, we can only dread the outcome.

We must choose a course of action: leave the doors locked, and risk other creatures from below reaching them; or risk ourselves, and open the doors to handle the shards and the creatures captured within, forever? It was Rocson who sent us, and we hope he can lead us onto the right path.

But Kass no longer trusts the gatekeeper. Instead of sending his cohort to contact him, he prefers to send him in order to spy. He can only communicate this way once every day; the answer we may gain tomorrow. Until then we wait.

Before that moment arrives however, many unexpected events occur. The first of which is the return of the insects.

Slowly, the noise of buffeting wings is heard, and the great march of many creatures. As we first notice it, it is still far, and Seidum leaves the confines of the circular room to perform reconnaissance. Not very far from our location, he discovers the army of arthropods, then returns to report. They are many, and many more than we have seen before; and led by both a giant dragonfly of a creature, and also a man, dressed in armor made of chitin, wielding a staff adorned by snow-white feathers. Someone utters the name Sons of Winter, but it is not a name I have heard before.

Not much after he finishes describing what he saw, and the noise of marching – already much louder – changes into an outburst of combat. Cries of human and shrieks of beasts, an orchestra of fear and hate and calls for pity, accompanied by the clangs of metal and booming of blows. But before we have the time to decide on an action, it diminishes into as strong a silence; it is as if nothing has happened, as if our wait was never interrupted.

Carefully, we move towards the origin of the noise. From the other side of the tunnel, we are met by a man, a survivor, dazedly advancing, clutching at his scimitar. When he notices us, he shows no signs of hostility; once we lower our weapons, he responds similarly, the scimitar dropping to his side. He then presents himself as Sonir, man from Starilaskur. He seems confused, telling of a long journey underground, so long he cannot recall when it originated; of friends who died battling insects; of an past alliance with Gricks, but it has failed since; of Kobolds living in caverns, mortal enemies of his; and of the undead delving in caves much below. Long ago he ventured into Khyber to collect treasures. Now he simply wishes to see daylight once more.

We agree to escort him to the surface, the moment we are done. And with the ants mysteriously gone again, we return to the chamber with the five doors and its five captives. In the morning, Cherchek will be contacted, a truth may be known, and a decision taken. Meanwhile, we rest again, in Khyber.

My body is healing, but my spirit might not. Perhaps it was never whole to begin with.

It has been less than a day since we left the Cyre forge in the Cogs. At least some of us did. The death count has been high, claiming many dwarves who were simply Charmed into hostility, and my wolf, my loyal companion for some time, Scrap. For them, they will be no proper burial. From the destruction we have initiated, little remained, and the dead have mostly turned to ashes. Through cutting blades, acidic slime and consuming fire, little is left. Nothing but memory.

Myron survived. Once Grolox’s power over him lifted, he was clear and lucid again to see and speak the truth. He was able to tend himself, heal, then tell us about the forge’s purpose, and the role of the Cyre refugees in the greater plan.

It was Chyrassk who led the idea, to bring back the might of Cyre. Many were enthusiastic, for living without a proper home was not something meant for a man or a woman. But the home could not be secured while the Mournlands were corrupted by wild magic and nightmarish fiends; an army had to be mustered, to retake what was rightfully theirs. An army of the elite, armed with the best there was. For that purpose, the forge was brewing poisons and melting metal and shaping iron and sharpening steel. The hardest armor was smithed, and the sharpest weapons made. In such quantity, it could easily outfit an army fit for obliteration.

But Myron did not consider the numbers. There were far more weapons than the number of Cyre refugees he had known. And who was even able to wield or use all those types of armaments? Under the influence of the Charm however, they did not consider such things. And now, part of the forge destroyed, its personnel mostly dead and scattered, it will probably reshape into an inconspicuous abandoned warehouse, while Chyrassk transfers his treacherous plans into another, safer and more hidden, location.

Or worse.

Evolution. Not the academic mean, the one scholars like to study and analyze and debate, but the fundamental one. The rational that in order to progress, one has to change during his life, and not to stay still. Stillness was the thing putting us in danger. It was a way of life I have attempted to avoid; yet I somehow slipped along the way, and been unchanged for too long now. It was a way of life someone other in the group knew how to handle better.

So Chyrassk struck while we were not prepared. At the house bought by Aner, all of us together, we had a misguided sense of safety. It was our immobility which was our bane; our enemy was well informed of our habits. He sent a group of assassins to dispatch of us. Luckily, we weren’t completely caught off guard.

Two groups, both unknown to us, came to bid us warning, or help. The first was a group of warforged, one believing in the might and everlasting glory of the Lord of Blades. They claimed we shared a goal in stopping Chyrassk, then warned us of his incoming strike against us. The second help came in the form of a small pack of goblins. They were coming from a shore-side village south of Sharn. Their representative, Kass, was looking smarter than his allies. I never started to trust him, but circumstances and the gullibility of my friends (some of them at least) concluded the events in him and his goblin friends assisting against Chyrassk’s hired hands.

Warned and aided, we survived the attack. But gaining the advantage on one round of combat hardly means the wind is on your back for the rest of the war. A change was due. We could no longer remain as we were.

The first to change was Kailyn, in more than a single sense.

One evening, she approaches me, offering me to go out for a drink somewhere. She has a specific tavern in mind, a quiet place where one can have a private conversation. We settle down in a small table, half hidden from view, yet with a good vantage point over most of the place. We order drinks. She seems distracted, and much more nervous than the composed and self-contained bard I learned to know her as. While we wait on our order, we do not speak; she is looking for the words to start with.

The drinks arrive, and she comes into focus. Suddenly, she looks at me straight in the eyes, for the first time that evening. There is something there, something deep and much more mysterious than I have ever considered of her. Her eyes never leave mine. She knows exactly what she is going to say, and clearly indicates she wants me to listen, before I respond. Ever the bard, she recounts how her tale in our story is about to end. She threads together her past, our present and her plans for the future, then unfolds it, the whole picture, before me. She starts talking. I listen.

She speaks of our times together, as a group. Of trust so hard to acquire, of friendships almost impossible to form. Of the time spent in a single place, the lustrous city of Sharn; much more time than in any other city before. Of this lifestyle, where so much is shared, where so little is hidden or concealed, where so many know about her; about us.

She speaks of caution. Of avoiding risk and covering all angles and knowing about your foes before they know about you. How any other way would result in her being defenseless against whoever comes at her. She tried not to risk herself, avoiding attention. But it becomes no longer possible. We got involved in too many things, then made ourselves too many enemies. People, creatures, that a bard should never have a reason to be in conflict with. The Dragon Below, the corrupted council of Sharn, the Inspired, the Da’ask, Chyrassk and his band of followers; countless enemies.

I remain emotionless. She continues.

She tells me more of herself. How gathering information had harmed her the most. No matter how good she is, and how careful, she simply asked too many questions, too many times, and of too many people. People who are now suspicious, then ask questions in return. The inconspicuous bard no longer. And it makes her feel less of an ally and more of a threat.

She stops, eying me in silence a while. Judging whether she ought to continue.

Then she talks about Kass. Like myself, confidence was something she did not grant simply. And simply put, she did not, and still does not, trust the goblin. She explains how telepaths with mind-controlling and mind-reading abilities are dangerous, especially when having no hesitation about enslaving others to their will. She finds him ruthless, the kind with no moral compunctions whatsoever. She strongly believes all of his followers are not with him of their own free will, and fears he will unscrupulously sacrifice any of them when he can gain from it. And he will probably always advance his own greatness over the group’s good, even at the cost of someone’s death. His speech of us sharing the same interests, of our common enemy in the Dragon Below – she has little faith in that. He is nothing more than a temporary ally. She learned he had researched about us before coming forth, which strengthens all of her suspicions. His personal agenda may put us all at risk. Simply, he is yet another person to share information with; information which could be used to do us harm.

She concludes with a word of caution, then a bid of farewell. She recommends we recheck every bit of information we have acquired; little sources can be relied on. She also suggests we strive to teach our enemies a minimum; they know too much already. This way of life is something she never expected, and in a way it is too much for her. She cannot remain. She is not sure where she will be going, but she will definitely leave the city, then move around for a while, attempting to cover her tracks then lead away any unwanted attention. It might be a good time for her to start working on the airship she longed for so much, yet put off for so long. For a moment she smiles, perhaps dreaming of a better future, but then focuses again into a blank gaze.

I want to tell her how in a way, how alike we are, but she stops me with a small gesture of her hand, beckoning me to wait.

She clutches her drink, clinging to it as if it was the only anchor keeping her from drifting away, then takes a deep breath to continue. Her lips part, but she quickly scans the other customers in the tavern before she actually says a word.

“Keeping the most difficult to the end, how silly…” she mumbles, barely audible, then shift deeper into the shadows, where it is even harder to make out her features. Kailyn is uneasy; as if she is about to unveil something she did not want to for a very long time. She explains how in the past, it was a decision she never had to face; escaping or disappearing was always easier, then none would hear of her again. But now there are no more excuses, and she hopes I will not be so quick to judge.

“It is about time we actually spoke face-to-face,” she grows quiet and still.

I attempt to lean forward, to see her face better, and the emotions held there, yet something holds me back. Still seated in her chair, she somehow moves, alters, transforms. Then, it is she who leans forward, but it is no longer the Kailyn I know. Her skin and hair, lost their warm golden tone, are now pale grey and white; her eyes, still recognizable, grew wider and colorless; most of her features are gone from her face, but for the barest outline. For a heartbeat, I take in her changed appearance, and she retreats back into the shadows of the corner. The next moment, she seems again to be the Kailyn I have always known, yet perhaps slightly more sad.

“As far as I’m concerned, this–” she gestures at herself, “is my real face. But for doing what I do, I use whatever is most appropriate; like any changeling would…”

I study her face in silence. She stares at me, past me, into the future she plans. Strangely, I find myself much more surprised at this truth, than at every time I discovered our enemies tricked us. Is that the result of confidence? Yet myself as well, I have never told my friends all the truth about me. Kailyn has been hiding her face, while I was hiding my past.

Then the weight of my turmoil crashes down on me, and most of my strength is lost. I sigh. Kailyn focuses on me, perhaps expecting the rage of one who’d been deceived. Instead, I simply reply, more concentrated in myself than on my surroundings.

“I understand. I suppose I would also change my face if I had the power to, yet I do not.

“We are pretty much alike, you and I. We both have something to hide, if for different reasons. While you have been hiding your identity through your features, I have been hiding mine through other changes,” I tap my fingers on the table, delaying.

“Sandor Virendare they call me. I have become somewhat of an inquisitive with a name in Sharn now. Yet it is a lie, as true as your current face. Sandor never existed. It is not truly my name.

“But unlike yourself, who had the courage to show me the truth, it is something that I lack. I cannot unveil this shroud. I cannot speak my true name; it brings back things I cannot face at the moment, if I ever will.

“I wish I could change my face as well, then disappear forever. Still, I do not know if it would help,” I conclude in another sigh.

I look down into my glass. Most of the wine is still there, left undrunk during the conversation. Deep red, it shines with the reflected light of the chandelier above. I slowly slide the glass on the table, thinking; the red liquid swirls.

“There is a word of advice I would like to give you, before you leave. It is something I have never managed to achieve myself,” I raise my head, but find myself sitting alone. Kailyn’s seat is empty; even her glass is gone. I complete the sentence. Perhaps this time I’ll learn to follow the advice.

The further we try to escape, the harder it becomes. I don’t think that we can run away from ourselves. But none who is wise hears it.

I leave.

Much changes. The first is I; I am not the same since born in Droaam. Then are the women and men I trust and fight with; they simply do not remain the same, coming and going, betraying or dying. Last is the world; it feels growing fouler with black forces every day. The need to adapt does not however change; it remains as strong as ever.

Heading back towards the place where I will be spending the night, I wonder if one day, myself as well, will follow Kailyn’s path, and vanish.

In all, it only lasted about thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Personally, it felt as if it was claiming and demanding our entire lives.

We were on a mission to save Magda’s boyfriend. She’s a shifter. Somewhere during the last month, she joined our group. I was busy investigating the outcome of Flonnghualla’s trial, and am vague on the details. Nevertheless, she seems to be part of the team now. If my allies trust her, I guess I have no reason not to. As a member of the team, we obviously offered her our assistance.

His name is Myron. A human survivor from Cyre, he lived with his family in Stoneyard (truly not the best area in town for his kind). Recently, he showed keen interest in Chyrassk; the same person we have shown interest in. As a Cyre refugee, Chyrassk’s promises allured him, and he became one of his followers. Ever since, which was roughly a month ago, he never returned home. Although alarming, his friends and family are used to this behavior, which already affected several of Cyre’s surviving youth.

We suspected he was serving at the Cogs. There was the place where many of Chyrassk’s followers worked, on various tasks. We had reason to believe he was under the influence of magic. Our task was to sever any authority over him, then bring him back to safety. It was a simple goal, yet its execution was almost our own.

It wasn’t easy tracking the boy down, yet it wasn’t very hard either. We knew where he lived, and our best source of information was Myron’s friends, family and neighbours. Questioning lead us to a small local tavern, where the innkeeper complained of Chyrassk’s effect on the men he knew. Once swayed by him, those men rarely returned. Sometimes he saw them perform a menial task, such as buying ingredients at the market, or transporting cargo through town, but they would return quickly into the Cogs, where the innkeeper dared not enter. As much as he cared for these men, he felt there was nothing he could do to bring them back.

Our cause however, was not yet hopeless. The next day, in the morning, a group of Chyrassk’s followers have scheduled to pick-up special Cyre ingredients from the innkeeper. He was paid to leave the crate of goods at a storage section in western Sharn, early in the morning. We prepared to follow whoever was sent to retrieve it.

Surprisingly, two dwarves arrived to pick it up. I expected men from Cyre. I did not expect the same dwarven slaves from the Wavecutter to serve under Chyrassk. Did it mean the Neogi was also serving under him? Only following the two could tell us more, and we followed. They brought us all the way to their base of operations. A forge. Where weapons are created, men are destroyed; but there will be some time yet before we face the real danger. Its entrance was located at the end of a narrow corridor, down within the Upper Cogs. There was a large relief of a Beholder, its mouth wide open in a snarl, at the corridor’s bend. I had my suspicions.

As it was only myself and Seidum who followed, we decided to return the next day. We didn’t know yet that Myron was held there. When we returned, a day later, we confirmed his presence. Magda knew him well, and was able to intimately describe a bracelet he was wearing (perhaps she was the one who bought it for him). Through her description, I could use my power of Locate Object, to gain insight whether it was nearby. It was. Standing at the top of the corridor, I could sense the presence of the exact object a level below us. Whether it was Myron wearing it, alive or dead, or whether it was simply tossed there, I could not however tell. In order to answer this question, we required Naethron’s help.

Which brings me to the recent changes he has gone through. It might not be very important, but it is worth mentioning. Up to several days before the entire incident, the tiefling was proficient in the art of artifacts. It wasn’t his entire life’s dedication, for he also had the knowledge of psionics, but it was a path he had travelled for quite a while. Not too long ago, he started having misgivings about this way of life. A sort of emptiness that fills one’s heart when the doubt in one’s route becomes strong. A life’s confidence that vanishes when another bit of information is suddenly discovered, nullifying everything one has so far achieved. I didn’t judge him. I never learned his entire story. The outcome however is known to me; following a series of events, he ultimately, several days before that day, decided to change. Leaving artifact mastery behind, Naethron became the master of his mind; sometimes also, the master of others.

We sought his help in order to see into the unseen, to detect behind the floor and walls; by Clairvoyance. Where the eyes are blind, the mind is ever-knowing. One level below the street’s cobblestones was a room where Myron worked. With closed eyes, breathing deeply, Naethron described what he was seeing. In a room detailed as a kitchen, Magda’s boyfriend was assisting a cook, cutting what was illustrated as a very large and slimy worm into rings; preparing a meal for someone, or something. Naethron could see Myron wearing clothes in very poor condition, with a bracelet on his right wrist, and looking overall unclean and tired; he wasn’t quite the same man Magda knew.

But we then knew where he was kept. We could also guess what was keeping him away. Tasked by Chyrassk, as many others, he lost the will or the comprehension to return to his normal life. The rescue operation would start.

The entrance we knew was at the end of the corridor. It comprised of several steps, followed by a right turn, where the beholder relief was situated. Beyond the turn was obstructed by the wall, and generally dark; from our previous reconnaissance we knew of a door located a few steps past the bend. The door was probably locked, possibly even rigged with a trap. A peep-hole was positioned at the wall vertical to it, providing clear visibility of anyone attempting to approach the entrance. It was through sheer luck that Magda and me had managed to spot it, before attempting our entry. We required supernatural help, in order to gain entrance silently and invisibly. We couldn’t actually make our presence unnoticed, but we could affect the sentry’s ability to spot us. Neutralizing him completely was the easiest thing to do.

A fight was probably unavoidable. As much as we hoped to enter in stealth, we still braced our steel, prepared. On the ball of our feet, ready to unlock a door, disarm a trap or a guard, or kill if required, Aner, Seidum, Magda, Lord and myself were holding on Naethron’s cue. The mark to strike, while the lookout was disabled.

The psionic braced his strength, his mind. Through extra sensory perception, he could find strands of time. Future was interwoven by the infinite lines of the coming times of every being, every object. One had only to pull one, in order to change the shape and form of the greater pattern. An almost impossible task, but minor tweaks could be done, by the few able. Tweaks such as preventing a short time from someone; a lapse which would never be refunded, where the affected would not exist, and unable to act.

Sentry, lock and trap, such were our obstacles. Naeth was ready, and so were we. The sentry was banished into his future, the lock was picked, and the trap was momentarily dispelled. Timing was everything. We stormed into their base of operation. We chose stealth, but still triggered a set of events which resulted in death. In thirty minutes, maybe an hour, it was over. Entire lives were claimed. Some were rescued, some were lost. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

The entrance hall wasn’t clear. A kobold wearing decent clothes was standing at the room’s midst, alarmingly staring at our direction. We weren’t what he expected. He darted towards a door at his right, calling the alarm. At that same instant, the dispelled trap had become once again active.

Naethron was standing at the door’s frame, his body breaking the aura of the magical runes. Out of thin air, a blaze of fire was created, incinerating any intruder. Most of us were already past it, but were still caught off-guard by the detonation. In the confusion, the kobold managed to reach his allies. At the door opening into a chemical laboratory, he shouted for help. Working dwarves picked their tools then prepared to hold us back. They were the same captive dwarves from the Wavecutter, but their condition had grown ever worse since last we have seen them; their faces were haggard, their clothes stained and torn, their hands wounded, rugged and bleeding; they looked alive, but at the same time also dead. But they were carrying hammers, picks and saw blades, and held a face of blank enmity. I already knew some of them would die.

The laboratory’s door was a choke-point. It would only allow one, maybe two fighters to cross at a time, only to be butchered by those on the other side. The kobold attempted to cross it, but Seidum lurched as a wild cat, dropping the kobold in a loud crash to the ground, holding him tightly. Over their tangled mass, we shot bolts and quarrels into the other room, keeping the dwarves temporarily at bay. The kobold tried to wrestle free, spitting, flailing and shouting. I then realized how noisy the place was. Over a constant reverberation of steam-pistons, working furnaces and smashing tools, I could hardly hear the yells. The steady beat of manufacturing resonated everywhere; my heart hammered, my veins throbbed. One of the dwarves was beckoning his allies to move, motioning them towards another direction. More bolts were shot, but the dwarves were slowly changing their position, then we lost our line of sight.

They were going to call on reinforcements, that much was certain. Aner charged in pursuit first. I was a step behind, following, Scrap at my side. We entered to see the last of them move into another room, far to our left, hidden from our eyes. Where we stood was where they worked before our interruption. A foul smell filled the air. A large cauldron was bubbling at the center of a large table; a table covered by tools, substances, liquid stains and spots, and countless vials holding colorful mixtures. The air was stinging, evidently pointing to the nature of their work. It was either poison, or acid, of that I was sure. Behind us, Lord, Seidum and Naethron entered the lab; Magda I could no longer see.

Scrap sniffed the floor in disguest, then howled. My skin tingled. It wasn’t something that happened a lot, but I learned to interpret it as a great sense of danger. The last time, it saved me from the explosion of a fireball. I followed my instincts. Diving towards the floor, under the relative protecion of the alchemy table, my timing couldn’t have been better. From the farthest door, a ball of liquid fire whooshed into the room. I shouted for my friends to reach for cover. An instant later, there was an explosion. Fragments of broken vials flew in every direction. The fireball’s blast should have been searing hot, but somehow it wasn’t quite so; it actually felt nothing more than a hot nuisance. At my side, Aner was strangely radiating. He never had the time to reach cover, yet the explosion barely affected him. Shards and blazing pieces were shimmering all around him, lost the velocity and heat to injure his body. I then realized a similar aura was surrounding each and every one of us; a shield of power summoned for our protection; its source was the psychic warrior. The room was mostly destroyed, but we were only slightly scalded.

There was one creature we knew that was capable of such spells. The Neogi Grolox was nearby, probably preparing another spell in the next room. Lord was the first to react. He ran into the next room, bellowing the call of charge. I raised from my cover, but could no longer see him. There was the sound of metal against metal, barely audible over the area’s ambient sound, then another bellow as Lord was obviously hit. Aner was running towards the area of his friend, when visibility was suddenly reduced to null. In a blink of an eye, I could no longer see the large table in front of me, nor the walls around me, nor the allies standing by my sides. Everything was covered in thick purple haze. It appeared out of nowhere, then covered everything.

I felt Scrap dart at my side, following his sense of smell. Instinct told me to follow. I felt crossing a door, then entering a larger room; something about the air’s density indicating it. There was a presence at my left, but I ignored it, instead following my animal companion. We reached the border of a wall, when Scrap suddenly growled furiously. A dwarf appeared out of the purple fog, slashing at me with his sword. My wolf pounced, biting at the dwarf’s wrist. He fumbled, missed, then turned for another attack. My sword points were at his torso in an instant, biting into his flesh. I ducked under his strike, then drove the entire weight of my sword-arm into him. I could feel the life leaving his body, slumping powerless to the ground. The first death was granted. The fog swirled, and I could no longer see his dead body, lying pointlessly on the ground, under layers of purple haze. The dead were not important.

My sight taken, I could then give more of my attention to what I was hearing. The din was still ever-present, but I could then pinpoint other noises as well. Somewhere at my far left Aner, Lord and Seidum were fighting; I heard the distant shout of Magda, but she was too far for me to tend; also audible, were the murmurs of the Neogi, channeling another spell. Blindly, I stepped towards the center of the room. There were beds scattered about, and various clothes and items tossed on the floor. I then reached what looked like a large container, a small tower of sorts; it had a veiled opening, and spiraling steps leading to its top, yet I could not see what was over it. My weapons outstretched as prods, I advanced. Slowly, the haze was dissipating, and I could see the bare outlines of figures fighting. At the room’s corner, near a door leading to yet another room, four dwarves were holding their position, and a man I did not yet encounter, against Aner and Lord. Aner brought his spear down in a thunderous strike, taking down one of the dwarves. The warforged prepared a spell. Between his outstretched hands, a fiery orb appeared, which he then hurled toward the fray. It flew through the almost gone fog, somewhat surreal, red through purple, to finally impact with the torso of the man. He screamed, his body instantly scorched, then dropped to the ground, smoking. Around him, the dwarves gritted their teeth as scalding wisps of fire burned their bodies.

We then heard the anguished scream of Magda. Myron! Her eyes were locked in the direction of the fallen and seared body. Aner was momentarily held in surprise; he looked down at the body at his feet, then back at Magda, perplexed. She then ran at the direction of her loved one, then the fight continued.

One of the dwarves attempted a desperate charge to break away from the corner where he and his allies had fortified. A large axe in both his hands, he shouted something in dwarven I couldn’t catch, and rushed toward Aner, Lord and the approaching Magda. Back to his sense, Aner prevented him from dealing any harm. Quickly reversing his spear, he bashed the dwarf on the side of his head, using the pole of his weapon, sending the attacker forcefully against the wall. His axe slid harmlessly on the floor. The dwarf dropped down unconscious from the blow. Through this new opening, I then realized that Grolox the Neogi was keeping himself safe among the two still standing dwarven defenders. He was preparing to cast another spell.

At that moment, several things happened. I couldn’t prevent any.

Behind me, I heard a shuffle of feet. I turned too late to spot a dwarf running up the steps of the construction within the room’s center. I heard shouts of alarms, and sent a bolt at the dwarf’s direction, but none could stop him from attaining the top. He looked down at us triumphantly, lifted some canister with both his hands, then spilled its content into an oval tube.

Meanwhile, Magda was kneeling near Myron, tending his wounds.

Then Grolox completed his incantation, and a large fiendish bat popped into existence, on top of Seidum. Again, my attention was drawn to a specific direction, and I missed what was the most important. While I was readying another bolt in order to assist Seidum against the bat, something lethal happened under the tower construction. I was almost done reloading my crossbow when it crashed free, like a giant wave over sea-side boulders, crushing anything in its path and flowing over everything that obstructed it. The silken veil was sucked in a blink of an eye when a huge mass of gelatinous matter emerged from the tower, to engulf the bed and all personal belongings that were in its path. A black pudding. Mindless. Deadly.

On top of the tower, the dwarf was cheering in glee. We were shocked. Magda was still paying little attention to her surrounding. Seidum was fighting off the bat. I let loose a bolt towards the dwarf over me, but it ineffectively ricocheted from the rim of the construction. Scrap was growling at the large pudding, slowly retreating.

Then, Aner shifted his position. Something must have told him that the pudding was a much more dangerous foe than the remaining dwarves and the Neogi combined. In three steps, he closed his distance, and in a powerful arc, brought down the tip of his spear over the black viscous liquid. It was a blow that could have cut through lesser metals; yet against the pudding, it had a disastrous effect – it was sliced clean in two, only to become two separate creatures. There were then two puddings in the room, if of slightly smaller size. I felt panic starting to affect me. I just wanted to keep those creatures at bay. Reaching into my haversack, without even thinking, I found a bottle of alchemical fire held in my hand. An instant later, it was hurled at the direction of one of the oozes. On impact, it burst into flames. Bed sheets, tossed clothes, and pieces of unknown matter within the pudding’s body were quickly catching fire. But oozes show no pain, and it simply kept sliding steadily toward our direction.

I took a step back, but Scrap darted forward. I will never know what drove him into action; it might have been panic, fear for his master or maybe a mysterious primal call. I have never seen him move as gracefully, nor as quickly. The wolf cut across the room, passing inches from the ignited pudding, then turned and started growling. For some strange reason, it attracted the ooze’s attention, which started edging slowly in the opposite direction. Scrap was buying us time.

Noise was starting to grow louder. Within the room now stood multiple foes; the dwarves still living, the Neogi who kept casting, and two large masses of black pudding. Yet over the clamor of each, slowly came the sound of something new, much more terrifying. A more distinctive sound of metal. Not the clang of sword against axe, nor the shaping hammer against raw iron, but something else; as if an entity made of steel was furiously advancing our way. Something more was coming.

Instinctively, we all advanced towards the corner, where the dwarves were fortifying but a minute before. Of their defenders, little remained; Myron was lying on the floor, severely wounded, but tended by Magda; bodies of the fallen were sprawled at his side, their condition unknown; almost alone, Grolox was snarling at our direction, weakly trying to summon more creatures to his aid. Seidum was close to the caster. In a massive blow of his elbow, he knocked the breath out of the creature, which immediately interrupted his next spell. He then grabbed the Neogi by the throat, squeezing the air out of him, which forced the smaller creature to surrender.

All of us, but Scrap now, were concentrated within that corner. The dwarf on top of the tower was loading a massive crossbow, preparing to pierce us with its bolts. One pudding was chasing the wolf, while the second was closing on our direction. Behind us was the door leading into another room, but it was only a small kitchen place; hardly an area to shelter through an attack. Seidum was talking with Grolox, threatening him, commanding him to break the enchantment he had over Myron and the dwarves. I wasn’t paying much attention. A large bolt was shot from the tower, screaming, biting at my thigh. I didn’t feel the pain.

We edged backwards, into the smaller room. A dwarf on the floor was whimpering, too wounded to move. Myron was coming to his sense, pulled by Magda and Aner, but still too weak to realize his condition. The compulsion over them was broken. Even the dwarf manning the large crossbow was suddenly gazing dumbstruck at our direction; he lost the reasons for his actions.

And that moment, the room crashed with the fury of iron and steel. From the main door of which we first entered, an army of full plated armor suits entered, booming with every step. Constructed to arm and shield the finest of soldiers, the once immobile armaments were animated by magic. The forge itself coming alive to toll its justice. They were too many to count, too numerous to fight against. Something was driving them forward, to drive us out of their base. Steadily, they filled the room. Without real hands, they were still carrying deadly weapons, forged to kill and to maim and to destroy. In perfect union, they turned to our direction.

The last thing I remember seeing was Scrap. Too far away, he found himself caught between the pudding and the metallic army. He had no place where to escape. He ran into their midst, the pudding on its tail.

I felt a pang of pain. I only managed to see the swift arc of a weapon brought down, crimson-red blood, then the black of the pudding colliding with the silver-color of the plate. The door to the kitchen was closed, and there was nothing more. A yelping cry was filling my head. I knew for certainty then, that Scrap had sacrificed itself. He had driven the ooze into the group of plate suits, but it had taken his life. And a part of mine was gone with him.

My body was numb, my mind blank. With my back to the door, sitting, I did not actually register most of what happened after that. The battle of the animated armor plates against the ooze; the calls for help of the surviving dwarves; the gasping of the injured Myron; the heated conversation between my allies and the Neogi, attempting to devise the means to flee our predicament. None of that I realized at that moment. I shut my eyes, expecting darkness, but seen Scrap’s golden eyes instead. They were piercing, judging and instructing. Suddenly I knew what to do. When I next opened my eyes, another force guided me. I cannot recall what I have done, although my friends described it many times already. It may be that it was not really myself who acted. But in a way it kept me alive.

They say I held the door against the intruders, that I managed to hold off the mass of animated armors. My friends recount how Grolox gave them the key to fight this unliving enemy, by killing the creature which gave them power; and how after it managed to force its way into the room, we fought to the last of our strengths, to take it down with its army of iron and steel. Each describes remarkably the moment when all the magically hovering weapons, helmets and shields suddenly fell back to the floor, normal once more, in a large clash of metal; how it sounded like victory. Myself, I cannot recall such an event. All I remember is a pair of golden eyes, slowly closing, then vanishing forever.

So we are all alive, mostly. Even Myron has recovered, and will probably be seeing Magda again before too long. But in the forge at the Cogs, where we infiltrated to save a life, too much was taken. Too much was claimed.

A part of me, gone, is still there.

Stop the presses and alert the media.

Big hoopla around the tango communities!

Dancing with the Stars will include the Argentain tangou!

It would be nice to have the United States go crazy over ARGENTINE TANGO, some loony writes. Unfortunately many people have not experienced it. And we all know that “TO KNOW THE ARGENTINE TANGO IS TO LOVE IT”. Bless her clueless heart.

So Li’l Kim and Derek just went first and they did the tangou to a cheesy TAQUITO MILITAR, a milonga beat.
Bruno must be smoking the real shit, because he gave them a 10.
America is loving it already.

LT is having a hard time concentrating but… Edyta pobrecita. The music sucks very badly so actually they don’t look too bad. Almost “nuevo light.”  Yes, a little chemistry was lacking, but how can you focus your testosterone when the woman is flying and flicking her feet all over the place. Lawrence got punished with a 5 from Len for being grounded. Go figure it. Oh, elephants can’t dance tango like a panther. Got it. Are you still loving it America?

Fans seem to love Steve the Woz, who seems to be overcoming his fear of acting gay. Karina brings a chair and after they do an interlude a la me Guillerma, you Fernando, they actually go into a brief Pupi apilado walk without the tongue in Karina’s ear. He didn’t drop her but he still gets trashed by all three judges. Bruno gets the best quote for tango that stinks, “We all know that the tango comes from the ghettos of Buenos Aires, but the only thing you got from there is the stench.” Ah yes, the music is getting even hideous now but who’s listening.

Holly and Dimitri. Very sophisticated dance, he says. She’s hurt and cries in the bathroom. What’s with the chair? He goes around holding her foot! She exhibits chicken legs. Stupid arrangement of Libertango with a choreography that looks it was learned from watching You Tube. At the end he picks her up and does a Larici with poor Holly throwing her backwards into the floor. If they had that big bandoneon, she would have hit it with her ass. So far pretty lame so we suspect that Cheryl and partner after four hours with Sandor in L.A. would clean everybody’s clock. But you never know so while we go for another glass of wine, we wait. And ah, yes. How do you love it so far America?

Everybody knows Frenchmen can’t dance tango. Just kidding, actually I’m using the typical “everybody knows bullshit, bullshit” preface to lame postings by loony tunes people. So Gilles and Cheryl look fab. Never mind his faggy back ochos or his stiff pointed elbows. Who cares about dancing. They are good actors playing a clean, tight routine. The Sandor touch shows, they learned the few tricks and they look amazing. All in four hours. To top it off, the clincher of all the sleazy endings, the roasted chicken. That gets Bruno so aroused that his butt might be melting like butter on a hot pan, and proclaims Gilles the quintessential Latin Lover. Carrie Ann makes sense when she says that nobody could tell who was the professional. That goes to show you America that a good time tested choreography properly performed can go a long way to the point where you can’t remember what music they were dancing to. I bet it was as bad or worse than the previous one. But fear not, next time you go out and try the roasted chicken never mind what music they’re playing, except if the lyrics start with “Oh, Jose can you see?” They got a deserved perfect score and your vote America. Me, I go with my own sets of values and vote for Li’l Kim and Derek who chose a piece of music, wrong rhythm and all, that actually sounded Argentain.

Szélesi Sándor Guberálók című novellájáról szeretnék írni pár sort. Abból az alkalomból, hogy ez a műve is jelölt a Zsoldos Péter Díjra. Egyébként ez az írás a 209. Galaktikában olvasható, ha valaki szívesen elolvasná vagy újraolvasná.
Szóval a mű két, roma származású, szkafanderes férfiről szól, akik az űrben válogatnak a sok kidobott, és összegyülemlett limlom között. Bár efajta történetet olvashattunk már a korábbiakban is, ahol az űrszemetet gyűjtik az erre elhivatottak. De azért bizonyára előttünk van az a kép, mikor a cigányok vadásszák a kidobott lomok közül az “értéket”. (Gondoljunk akár a lomtalanításokra, és az ott őrposztot ülőkre.) Ennek analógiájára történetünk hősei az űrben szedik össze a tárgyakat. Ruha helyett persze szkafandert viselnek, ami épp úgyanolyan toldozott-foltozott, mint a földi viseletük. Révén, hogy azt is egy ilyen szeméttelepen találták. A novellából megtudjuk, hogy igenis van hasznuk ezeknek a guberálóknak. A még használható dolgokat válogatják ki ők a tényleges szemét közül, és ezeket a tárgyakat adják aztán tovább. Leselejtezett űrhajóikkal szállítják az eladható holmit a Föld szegény területeire, és a peremvidékek. Ahová ritkán jut el a földi utánpótlás, és ami eljut, az is silány minőségű.
Jelenleg ilyen hasznukat nem látom a guberálóknak, de tényleg majd talán a jövőben. Manapság önellátás céljából túrják a szemetet a rászorulók. Néha látni a belvárosban, hogy egy plédre vagy újságpapírokra kirakják portékáikat. De nem hinném, hogy valakinek leszakadt fejű babára, vagy kosztól fekete plüssmacira lenne szüksége.
A rövid történet egy csattanóval zárul, amit így most kár lenne lelőni. Inkább érdemes hozzá a novellát elolvasni!

by hadiosveny

Betrayer she called me. In truth, it was I who was betrayed.

She refuses to speak with me. She claims I am the cause for her predicament.

I did not hold to my promise. I did not act as it was set. I did not stop the inquiry that was launched into the involvement of her friend in an unexplained matter. I did not stop the truth from reaching the light. I did not prevent the authorities from catching her, a slaver.

Outrageous!

How dares she? Attempting to trick me like this; as if I was so simple-minded to do her bidding without even learning more. Did she actually think I would silence sergeant Sundew? That I would prevent her from concluding her inquiry? Without asking any questions?

I have to learn why she did it. I need to know what pushed her into performing illegal actions. I want to understand why she resulted into such activities. Out of all things, she decided to profit from slavery… It doesn’t make sense.

She won’t speak with me.

And that sergeant… Sundew… she doesn’t care about this investigation anymore. She has her signed confession from the suspect, and she is satisfied. “She did it for the money” she said, “it’s always about the money”. There are no more questions to ask, no more evidence to collect, no more witnesses to interrogate. No more answers to be given.

The suspect sits in her cell, angry but confident. Justice proceeded to another Sharn villain, until trial will be held. The victims, the eight dwarven slaves, are gone. Before a testimony could be gathered, they have escaped; probably in order to rescue the Neogi. All the threads have been cut short, and I remain holding insignificant pieces of string. I have reached a state from which progress is no longer possible.

How very annoying.

The truth is denied. It is starting to become a habit now. In the name of business, of love, of maliciousness, of ignorance, or of good intentions; an important detail is omitted, a lie is used instead. The past is depicted as something of the future; something that has not happened yet, if it ever will. My father, mother and brother; my allies and enemies; even those I do not categorize; they are all to blame. All of them still owe me a fragment of reality. An unpaid due. Without it, I cannot be whole.

I cannot be whole. Not ever again. Unless…

My mind is in turmoil, I should put my pen down.

Dusk in the docks.

There is no doubt about it, somebody is being played. And I have an edgy feeling it is being me.

A single ship gently rocks to the rhythm of the waves, alone on the pier.

Flonnghulla, my librarian contact, has a friend. She wouldn’t say who that friend is, yet what I have discovered indicates this friend is none other than herself. Now, if she is using such dodgy excuses to convince me into interfering with an official Watch inquiry, something is obviously dishonest. I have now a very good reason to believe Flonnghualla is somewhat tied to this investigation, whether directly or not.

An inscription on the ship’s hull bears the name “The Wavecutter”; it is the vessel we seek.

The fact my contact is culpable is supposed to make my decision easier, yet it does not. I suppose nobody likes to admit he has been betrayed, unsuspecting. Such emotions are pushing a hope into my heart that there is a very good explanation to all this. But such an explanation will not be found, as each piece of evidence I put my hand on clears the matter even further.

Inside the ship, there lies the final clue.

Flonnghualla is the master of a slave ring in Sharn. In the day she copies books, in the evening she oversees at her barrel workshop, but in the night, she trades in slaves. But as I am an inquisitive, I will not claim one’s fault without evidence. Here is how we learned the truth, to my dismay.

While my informal investigation began a few weeks ago, its progress only started being apparent once my friends joined me. Together we worked, to discover the thread of evidence which ultimately led us to the docks, and to the Wavecutter.

For a change, we did not meet that time at the Broken Anvil, but at entirely new place. Aner has decided to purchase an apartment where most of us could live, and has kindly invited us to stay there whenever we wished. In a still unfurnished room, I laid before them Flonnghualla’s task, what I suspected, information I discovered, and possible paths of research.

As usual, we split up. I went to speak with Aurus; Aner left to survey the suspect’s house and those who stand guard by it; Kailyn proceeded to do what she did best, and paid some of her less trustworthy friends a visit, seeking information. Some hours later, we all returned bearing more clues. Aner was the first to speak, detailing a house where he suspected a Watch stakeout operation to be held. It was quickly confirmed, once his brother Naeth performed both spells of Clairvoyance and Clairaudience within the place, seeing and hearing the two guards stationed there. Their conversation did not teach us anything relevant, but it was evident they were waiting for Flonnghualla to give them a reason to arrest her. Then, Kailyn told us of the underworld’s rumors, where a new player has entered the slave-trading game, and is allegedly connected to a docked ship called the Wavecutter.

We organized, and immediately left for the docks. With ease, we learned of the Wavecutter’s exact location, moored alone at the pier, near a series of warehouses. We noticed a large man standing guard, attempting to hide at the ship’s side. We moved out of sight within the shelter of a large storehouse. There, Naeth proceeded with another spell of Clairvoyance, to learn what the ship held in store. Closing his red eyes and outstretching his arms, he could see beyond, even where our eyes could not.

Within the Wavecutter’s cargo, were gathered tens of barrels, marked with a very particular trader’s symbol. With a nimble hand, Naeth sketched it quickly on a piece of paper, for me to recognize as Flonnghualla’s; the same trademark the barrels from her workshop used. Circumstantial, but it was evidence enough to arrest the dwarf. Still, Naeth decided to sense deeper within the ship. A meter lower, over the vessel’s keel, lying on a mass of stabilizing sand, were eight dwarves, wearing rags.

Slaves.

We are still at the docks. The Wavecutter does not appear to be very well protected, and we decide to reach it, to free the slaves, and to confirm the guilt of my suspect.

Only a single lookout separates us from boarding the ship, but if we allow him to sound the alarm, one can only guess how many guards will come to his aid. Maximilian, the artificer, advances first, accompanied by his cohort Wolfsbane the warforged; pretending to be looking for merchant friends, he advances towards the ship’s guardian, who is still hiding behind a mooring post. In range, he casts his spell, surrounding the guardian in Silence.

The spell is cast with such expertise, such proficiency, that any present onlooker would have been oblivious to it. There were however, no observers on the docks, but only the guard, who might also have missed the illusion, if the ongoing sound of the crashing waves around him had not suddenly stopped. In panic and impotence, he reaches for his horn.

This is the moment I have waited for. I burst into a run, sprinting in his direction. My feet crash loudly on the wooden wharf. The sea churns. Blades are drawn in a scrape. The cold and wet wind blows at my ears. Then there is suddenly nothing, no sound at all. In mute silence, I crash into the guard’s body; a huge man, with a chest like a barrel and shoulders like bollards. The horn is thrown from his hands. He opens his mouth in a yell, but emits no sound at all. In his other hand, he holds a polearm, which I try to disarm. I lunge at his wielding arm, ready to strike at his weapon, but he raises his elbow in a defensive motion just in time. My wrist hits his iron-hard arm, then the shock of the blow goes deep to my core, destabilizing. He counters, swinging with his enormous fist, and sends me sprawling on the quay, almost tumbling into the water. An instant later, he thrusts with his weapon; a strike I am unable to dodge.

The tip of the polearm plunges into my side, rending flesh and crashing bone; so strong is the strike, that the weapon’s tip bites deep into the wooden planks, pinning me to the floor. I scream in pain, yet nobody hears my pain. In a pull that brings tears to my eyes, the guard pulls the polearm from my wound, aiming it for a final blow. Dazed, I try to reach for my fallen sword, try to delay my death somehow. The large man raises his weapon again, ready to strike, then suddenly turns.

I do not know how he managed to expect what was coming. We were both standing within the radius of the Silence spell, in total lack of sound. With his back to the city, only instinct could have prepared him.

He turns barely in time to parry Aner’s spear. Its tip collides into the polearm’s shaft, and the strike is sent high, almost piercing the guard’s head. The two battle, and I rise to my feet, disoriented. There is something very confusing about the silence now, or maybe it is an effect of my wound; the two man rage in combat, slashing, striking and bashing, but there is no auditory sign to their existence. I sway, like a novice mariner on a ship, and move toward my weapons. Behind Aner, I see the rest of the group approaching, mutely coming to our aid. They are agitated, and seem alarmed, staring at the boat.

An urge tells me to roll for cover. Despite my injury, I manage to jump away, and flatten myself to the wooden planks of the quay barely in time. Not an instant later, a ball of liquid fire hits the spot I was standing at. It explodes, sending a rain of fire, wood, and mangled flesh in every direction.

On the ship’s deck stands a very particular aberration; like a snake morphed with a spider, its upper body is reptilian, but beneath its torso is the physique of an arachnid. It isn’t very large, yet looks as dangerous. In one of its front arms is a flaming wand, which it holds in a very threatening manner. I stare at it blankly for several instants, fearing another triggered explosion. Then, the night flashes in bright blue, as lightning strikes at the fiend. I avert my eyes, and see the rest of the group launching an array of spells and projectiles at this new enemy. Still lying on the floor, I draw my crossbow, to load it with trembling hands. At my side Aner is still alive, with only his arm scalded by the Fireball. The guard was killed in the scorching blast.

The sea churns, and the quay is on fire. Flames bite hungrily at the wooden planks, destroying what they can before the water can put them off. I take a breath, and cough at the suffocating smoke. Aner reaches an arm to aid me, very calm and still.

In the silence, we are not aware of further danger. Skimming over the waters comes a creature dark as the night. From the bowels of the ship comes another aberration, a creature fearfully known as a Chwindencha, ravenous for flesh; looking like a great spider, with double the amount of legs. From two directions, they are ready to strike, yet no matter how loud a warning can be sound, we will never hear it.

The Chwindencha jumps from the ship and flies through the air like an animated glove, ready to grasp. Unsuspecting, Aner is still motioning me to rise, when the aberration drops on top of him, clasping him, grappling him. Another ball of fire lights the skies in infernal red, and my eye catches a shadow over the waters. Something that resembles a bat, but conjured in darkness; it darts in my direction. I loose a bolt at it, then immediately roll back to my feet.

Fire lights the night. In the water, flaming debris rise and fall. On the dock, a single ship is moored to a burning quay.

The large spider is closing its legs over Aner, crushing him to death. I try to strike at it, but fear hitting my friend. There is much smoke in the air now, and it becomes harder to see. Wolfsbane reaches the aberration, and another creature I have never seen before comes to Aner’s aid (I later learn it was summoned by Naeth). They tug at the spidery legs, pummel the aberration’s body, attempt to pull Aner free. Against several enemies, the Chwindencha quickly finds itself in disfavor; it tangles free of the grapple, and in another powerful jump, dives into the debris-filled waters, then escapes. The bat-like creature is soon killed by the teeth of Scrap, and the fire-casting aberration is subdued by the joint efforts of Naeth, Kailyn and Maximilian.

Before the wharf disintegrates into ashes, we jump onto the Wavecutter.

The deck is well illuminated through the blaze of the fire. It is deserted, but for the immobile body of the aberration. Still weak, but invigorated by a healing potion, I approach it. After a short inspection, I determine the kind of the fiend; it is what gatekeepers call a Neogi, a creature normally living underground. It is still alive, if very injured. What has brought it and its allies to Sharn’s harbor, I can only guess. I hope the captive dwarves below deck will be able to teach us more.

We descend into the ship’s hold, expecting the inventory of barrels we have foreseen, but still on the lookout for further enemies. The hold contains little more than what one could expect from it: a multitude of crates and barrels, bundles of nets and coils of ropes, buckets of tar, mops and swabs, and several hammocks tied to the wooden supports. The barrels are indeed marked with the same sign I have seen within Flonnghualla’s workshop, there is now no doubt to it. I open several, to discover the mundane contents of dried food. If we did not know better, we could have thought it was simply another trader. There is no sign to anything unusual. We scour the compartment for several minutes, until we find the trapdoor leading further below, under one of the crates.

Beneath, the eight dwarves lie sleeping. Somehow, the chaos above did not disturb their rest. All of them are shabby-looking and ragged, but do not seem harmed, nor mistreated, nor miserable. None of them is tied, but with the trapdoor blocked shut from above, they had no mean to escape. We wake the lot. They are very much surprised by our appearance, but not for the expected reason. “Where is Grolox?” is the first thing one of them asks, while the others share looks of apprehension. Following a somewhat confused exchange, we understand they are referring to the Neogi, who they describe as the person taking care of them. Clearly, some compulsion is at the root of this. How deep is Flonnghualla involved in this scheme, is the next thing we continue to find out.

Carrying the unconscious Grolox, and escorting the disoriented dwarves, we manage to leave the boat, then report to the nearest Watch station. After another confused inquiry, where the captives answer strangely to the guardsmen’s questions, sergeant Sundew arrives. The hour is late, and she is grumpy for being awaken. It takes us some minutes to convey her the recent events and adventure. She recoils at the sight of the Neogi, and frowns at the odd-behaving dwarves. She considers the situation, then agrees the grounds for Flonnghualla’s arrest have been established. Together, we immediately proceed to the suspect’s house. Meanwhile, we send Wolfsbane back to our new meeting point, the recently purchased house, carrying the still subdued Neogi. Only later we will learn, how this has been a bad choice of action.

We are deep within the night when we reach Flonnghualla’s house. The guards performing the surveillance are still awake, and inform us the dwarven librarian was spotted going into her room many hours ago; no motion or action has been seen since. For me, it is a rather unnerving moment. Will the dwarf resist arrest? Will she explain her actions? How much of the information she has gathered for me until this day was actually truthful? Sergeant Sundew knocks on the door loudly, announcing the Watch’s presence. We stand ready at her sides.

Late at night, the street is very quiet. The sergeant bangs on the door. We wait for an answer. The house is silent. Maybe Flonnghualla is no longer there? We are all very tense. Suddenly, we hear steps, and mumbling. A dwarven voice answers nervously, “just a minute…”. Shortly after, we hear the scrape of the key in the lock, the clicking of the tumbler, then the door opens.

Before us stands Flonnghualla, still wearing her nightdress. She appears frightened and defeated. Sundew announces the charges for which Flonnghualla is the suspect; the dwarf does not reply. While two guardsmen secure her for the arrest, I try to think of the words to confront her. I expected her to flee, or maybe to deny our accusations. Now that she simply submits to the Watch, I find myself without anything to say. I stare at her, angry and confused, as she is being taken away. For a moment, she glimpses at my direction. She simply looks sad.

Somewhere, I feel pity for her. Judging her so quickly in my anger, I failed to learn her motives for her actions. In retrospect, every bit of the information she supplied me proved to be accurate. Then why have I recently been so skeptical? Dark times make men bleaker, and hopes scarce. If Flonnghualla kept her word and supplied Lucy with the suspended animation she promised, maybe she can still be redeemed.

Inside her house, we find a thick diary. Within it, she described her routine; the work in the archives; the cooperation with the Korranberg university; the supervising at the barrel workshop, and various sales and purchases required; and the researches she performed for a particular individual, me. Through the pages of her diary she kept all the questions I have asked her, then with an ink of a different color, noted all the answers and information she managed to gather. All of it seems genuine. Up to her last task, she was truthful.

On our way back to the apartment, I wonder whether the Neogi is Flonnghualla’s pawn, or maybe it is the other way around. I recall that creatures of its kind have the power to drive others into doing actions against their will. Maybe my dwarf contact was affected by something similar. I hope I can interrogate the aberration. Upon reaching our home, we learn interrogation will not be possible. Grolox, the Neogi, is not where we have tasked Wolfsbane to keep him. Maximilian’s warforged friend we find lying on the floor, senseless and bruised. The apartment’s door has been forced open, a trail of destruction leading from it to the room where the aberration was held. After tending to Wolfsbane, he regains his consciousness, and recounts us the recent attack. Eight raging dwarves, armed with pikes, hammers and cudgels forced their entry, savagely beat him while screaming and shouting the name of Grolox. Evidently, they rescued the creature once the warforged was down.

If the dwarves are still under the effect of the Neogi’s charm, perhaps so is Flonnghualla. I must investigate this, but today is already too late.

Now, I must leave my contact’s story for a few days, in order to tell how other contacts of the group proved to be… how can I say it… not quite what we believed or thought them to be. Somewhat like Flonnghualla.

What were we thinking? We believed Kaelys Tela is an arts merchant. We thought Elaydra d’Vown was of Cannith West. We worked for both, for different reasons; for rewards, favors and ulterior motives, we have killed and taken, as they have requested. To a different degree, each of the group has put his safety and trust in each of these women.

What have we learned?

A couple of days ago, we had a little talk with a rogue of house Tarkanan named Smiral. Actually, the group had encountered this person before several times. Myself, I had seen her killing a minotaur at the Cogs, before we ventured into the temple of the Dark Six, some weeks ago. According to her, Kaelys Tela is not who she seems to be. In truth, she is a silver dragon, part of an organization named the Chamber; an organization so secret, only a dedicated few know much about. Kaelys is a ruthless killer; she slaughtered a woman named Magdalene for speaking too openly about the Chamber. She collects pieces of art, while her organization collects clues for the meaning of the universe, where us mortal human are simply pawns. Smiral believes we have been used. She claims we have been played with.

Elaydra’s story is not as dramatic, but equally untrue. She claimed in the past to serve the western ward of Cannith, yet her actions contradict her words. She convinced Maximilian, also a man of Cannith, and some others of my friends into destroying a fort of Cannith South. Once the deed was done, they learned it was men of the Cannith West they have killed. The fort was not manned by whom Elaydra suspected. It seemed they were tricked into killing who they believed they were serving.

We did not have yet the time to discover the motives behind Flonnghualla’s actions, nor the truth regarding the claims against Kaelys Tela. Our first priority, now, is to learn more about the person we have worked for the most; to learn who Elaydra really is. Maximilian decides to confront her. He does not wish to do this directly, but using divination instead. Once again, he chooses to delve into our opponent’s mind.

Three days after the grim discovery about Flonnghualla, we are ready to make another one.

Elaydra is very often present at the Broken Anvil. While other patrons enjoy their time chatting, eating and drinking, the lady d’Vown prefers working on her various books, accounts and papers. She sits at a regular table, where most customers already know she should not be disturbed. She smiles at us politely when me and Maximilian join her. At the inn’s stage Kailyn is giving a special performance, to celebrate our recent achievements. Lurking behind the scenes, unseen in the guest-rooms corridor, is Neath, his psionic powers prepared.

Here is what we planned. Maximilian will talk to Elaydra, while Naethorn channels his powers to read her mind. Both the artificers are linked somehow, using a method that cannot be detected, yet strives to detect what Elaydra is attempting to hide. Hopefully, distracted enough by our bluff and Kailyn’s performance, the lady from Cannith will teach us, unwillingly perhaps, what she knows.

The plan is a complete failure. After being tricked by the woman more than a single time, we actually believed we can defeat her in a game of thoughts. We spend hours pretending to perform idle-talk, listening to flute-music, while Maximilian and Naethron try to detect what Elaydra d’Vown is thinking. Her mind’s barriers however, are strong as the walls of an impenetrable fort. Even her amusement at our silly attempts, both the artificers do not detect.

Ultimately, Elaydra decides to teach us her motives, on her terms. I think she realized what we were trying to do, yet still decided she trusts us enough to unveil the shroud of mystery enveloping her. It is true, she was never part of Cannith West. Cannith South is the section of the house she serves, since ever. She works for Merrix d’Cannith himself. Her lies was a mean to protect of betrayals from within. Now that we have proved our allegiance, she is willing to teach us more. No games of thoughts, but honesty. I think.

She tells us much. Of the strife within the house. Of the Lord of Blades. Of patterns of creation. When she is done, she takes us to the man who can tell us even further. The next morning, following her blind-folded, she leads us to a secret Cannith forge, deep under Sharn. There we meet Merrix.

What follows is even more information about the inner politics of Cannith. Allies and enemies, goals and achievements, past and present and future. So much political talk, it lose interest somewhere on the way. I do however gather a few pieces of interesting information. Cannith South are interested in sources of dragonshards the other houses know nothing about. Does it mean they are trying to work without the knowledge of Tharashk? Merrix describes the different powers of the schemes we have found, and tells us how a creation pattern can be put to great use at his forge; such patterns require a large amount of power to operate; a pattern such as the one we have secretly held for a while now. The last interesting bit is the tale of a man named Artgal. Previously of Cannith, yet his interest in Khyber and the Blood of Vol have somewhat corrupted him. He became dangerous, and had to be stopped. Proclaimed dead for years, after Cannith artificers collapsed the bridge he was traversing, Merrix now discovers he is not. Naeth has a contact who matches his description. Another person who is not as he seems. While Naeth attempts to reassure us his contact is not dangerous, I remain doubtful.

The day ends. We learned so much today, it is going to take some time to process. We learned so much this week, there are major decisions we must take. On the way back to our apartment, I keep wondering how likely it was to discover many of our contacts have not been entirely truthful, in so short a time. Is it a mere coincidence, or have we somewhat changed? I think our trust is harder to gain now.

Present contacts will be cleansed. Future ones will be scrutinized. No more lies.

Defeat is not the opposite of victory. If it was, how could we win a battle, but still feel as if we have lost it all?

The dead and the living lie and stand north of Sharn. Inside a great catacomb, in an impressive ceremony, Irselle is laid for her final rest. Those who accompanied her in life are there to bless her departure; mourning, praying, and some wishing fate would not have been as cruel. Yet the dead remain dead, and the living must carry on. Her coffin is closed, ceremoniously carried into the cavernous catacomb, spiraling down into the earth, where she will eternally lie.

But will she?

I remember as a child, asking my parents why the dead can’t return, as it feels like a great injustice. They smiled at my innocence, then detailed to me the different powers of our world. I would usually turn bored of such an answer, then come up with an explanation of my own; the world beyond is much better, and the dead prefer to remain, rather than go back. Much later, I learned resurrection defies the wills of the gods. The gods would not have it, that a mortal would escape their grasp, and I believed they were cursing each who tried. The secular may pay little heed to such claims and warnings, but how many of them had seen one who returned from death to living? I believe it is true now, what the gods wanted, although I wish I did not.

Still, there are men and women who believe in other ways. Commands can be interpreted in more than a single form, given more than a single explanation. If we could learn that Irselle’s soul still had a task to complete in our world, and her friends wanted so dearly to see her back, perhaps it was meant to be?

It may be. But I would learn of this only somewhat later.

I have yet objectives to complete. Despite the grief, I return to where this recent chapter has abruptly ended. Back to Victor Saintjermaine’s destroyed water tower. But in the rubble, little remains, and I continue to the Gates of Gold district, where our story was concluded. Where the inquisitive has fallen, only crimson stains on the cobblestones remain. I am reminded of the crowds picking the fallen man’s body, carrying him away in lamentations. I wonder where his corpse ended up, and decide to investigate this further. In short time, I learn the truth from the temple’s neighbors.

Victor Saintjermaine is not dead, though his fate is yet undetermined. The fall did not kill him. Still it did take most of the life out of him. Expeditiously carried to house Jorasco, he has yet not risen from his bed there. The guards keep vigil, but it is unknown if Victor Saintjermaine will see the world ever again. For now, he rests.

Irselle is dead, Victor is considered gone, yet may still live, and there remains one who lives, but who’s remaining time drains fast. Lucy, the mechanical spider familiar, is still animate. Normally, once the link between a familiar and its master is severed, the familiar loses the power to carry on. On special cases however, it may grow strong enough to continue, if only for several days. Yet without a new source of energy, once those days elapse, the familiar will become inanimate as the parts from which it was conjured.

As a last tribute to Irselle, we have decided to do our best to keep Lucy alive. It isn’t an easy task, and the clock is our worst enemy. I have only some days to learn how this feat can be performed, and I approach Flonnghualla, my best source of information. Sadly, the time to conduct the research presents itself to be too long; by the day I acquire the understanding I seek, Lucy will be past our helping. But Flonnghualla offers me an option I did not yet consider; she has a friend in House Kundarak who could put Lucy in a special magical container that will preserve her in a state of suspended animation, at least until a solution can be found. The service’s price is high, and requires me to perform a favor for the librarian, but at this stage, I reckon it is worth it.

Flonngualla has a friend,  which she wouldn’t name, who got in trouble and is accused for a crime she did not commit. The person in charge of the investigation, a Watch sergeant named Sundew, is set on framing her, and it appears the only hope for Flonnghualla’s friend is stopping the sergeant somehow. While the terms are vague, it is all I have for now. I accept, for Lucy’s sake.

I decide to pay Aurus a visit, so I could learn more about this particular case.

On the way to find him however, I am intercepted by my friends. It is Maximilian, telling me there is an urgent matter to discuss regarding Irselle. Apparently, after the funeral’s visitors dispersed, he sneaked into the catacombs, to cast a spell of Speak with the Dead on our fallen comrade. With shivers running down my spine, I listen to him detailing the conversation with the other side, how Irselle would like to come back.

Come back from the dead.

I can’t understand it. Return back from the eternal, into what we have here. I can’t fathom it. Suffer once then have the same ordeal, another time, always lurking, waiting for the life to end again. I can’t deal with such a decision. I have to stand-by. This decision will not be mine.

The group gathers, to discuss Irselle’s judgment. Again, time is against us. The dead has but a few days for an able cleric, or an artificer, to pull their spirit back into the world of the living. Once this period is over, the spirit is way past redemption, although rumors tell of men of such divine strength, who can bring back to life even those who passed decades ago.

In bleak silence we sit, waiting for a decision to be made. All of us cared for Irselle, but at stake is something much more profound than having back something you have lost. Some of us fear the outcome; resurrection is forbidden by most faiths. Others believe the cause is just. Ultimately, we have to choose, and our choice is to delay. Time and circumstances cannot allow us to use the power to raise the dead, but perhaps, one day, divine forces will assist in her resurrection. Yet for now, Irselle shall keep on resting.

The night I pass in nightmares.

I am my old self again, but I stand in darkness. From all directions, come the noise of a thousand shrieks, but they all sound very hollow. In the confusion, I try to find a direction in which to move, but end wandering aimlessly, frightened by what might come to get me. Suddenly, a very bright figure dives at me from the skies. It looks like an angel, winged and majestic, but has a dreadful voice. It shouts at me, it is not yet your time, and takes hold of my body. In fear, I attempt to wrestle free, but the angel is much stronger than I am. It rises into the dark skies, flying higher, and I slowly start seeing there is light coming from the distance, where the creature is taking me to. For some reason, I keep fighting, and can feel its grip on me loosening. We are very close to the light now, when I push against the angel’s hold a last time. Its grasp breaks free, and over a distance of hundred meters, I fall down. Down into the darkness. Down into the shrieks.

I wake up covered in sweat. The hour is late within the morning. I decide to forget about my night’s visions, quickly wash, skip breakfast, then head into town to find magistrate Aurus.

At the Watch station, the magistrate cannot be found. With averted eyes, the watchmen tell me Aurus is gone, and it is only through some searching and inquiry that I discover he has been fired from the Watch, stripped of his title for incompetence. Eventually, I find him at the Redblade tavern, in Deathsgate in Lower Tavicks’s Landing, where he sits miserably over a glass of wine. I join the man for a drink, while he tells me his side of the story. Recently, while he was conducting the investigation of the Tyrants organization, he started being summoned to increasingly and frequently more meetings and clarifications. At some point it occupied so much of his time, that any investigation lead he had was quickly lost. Aurus was then accused in achieving little, and consequently discharged. But he believes it was all set on purpose, as he was very strict fighting corruption within the Watch, and probably vexed the wrong people. Now out of job, he hints at me that he could perform some tasks for me; he still has his inquisitive flair and skill.

Which was exactly why I have approached him in the first place. I quickly tell him about Flonnghualla’s favor, then ask about sergeant Sundew. According to Aurus, Sundew is one of the more decent sergeants within the watch, not as corrupt as some others. While spending the afternoon over drinks, the ex-magistrate tells me what he knows, and refers me to those who could say more.

Upon leaving, I promise Aurus I will do my best to help him out of his predicament, and make a mental note to ask Trelib, the Baron d’Medani, if he can find a place within his staff for a very capable inquisitive.

The rest of the week, I move around Sharn a lot. From one source of information to another, I ask questions, bribe watchmen and informers with drinks and money, survey scenes of activity, and learn. I discover many things, most of them to my disliking. It seems sergeant Sundew is in charge of a slavery ring investigation, which by now proved to be trickier and more dangerous than expected. Two guards have already died during the inquiry, at the docks, but I couldn’t discover the cause of death. As for the suspect of the investigation, I failed to learn who it might be, but apparently the watch is keeping vigil over Flonnghualla’s house night and day.

It appears as if my contact was not entirely truthful to me… But I fear for Lucy’s condition, and decide to approach this matter delicately and discreetly. Perhaps with the help of my friends, we could conduct an investigation of our own, then decide whether it is sergeant Sundew who must be stopped, or Flonnghualla.

Several more days pass. My nights are dreamless, yet my days are filled with thoughts and feelings. A worry comes into my mind, that whoever I decided to trust, might have been a bad decision on my part. I have laid so much valuable information in the hands of Flonnghualla; could I have been wrong all along?

The twelfth day arrives. One day before the thirteenth dawn to Irselle’s funeral, and I decide to pay respects to her tomb. I reach the catacomb late morning. At first it appears deserted, but then I see an armored woman with a holy symbol and a silver mace, walking the cave in silence, ensuring nothing and nobody disrupts the rest of the dead. She nods at my presence, then continues with her task. On Irselle’s coffin, I try to find some words in prayer, but fail miserably to come up with something to say. My sight sets on a rune carved on her casket, a mark inlaid with molten silver, and I wonder whether it was present on the day of her burial. For a moment, I determine to ask the woman sentinel, but quickly change my mind. What if it something of Maximilian’s doing, when he spoke with Irselle’s spirit? An eerie sentiment suddenly takes hold of me, and I quickly leave the place.

Outside, a soft breeze is now blowing, sending dry leaves on their last journey. Hurriedly, I step away from the catacombs, to stop several meters from it. Once more, I try to come up with the words to say, some farewell to the dead. But words fail to come, and instead I can only see faces; Victor, Flonnghualla, Aurus and Irselle. I shake my head in annoyance, and return into the city.

With a promise to honor the dead with a gesture. To find the truth and save a familiar.