Café de Nuit

(This is a DM-only thread, any conversation regarding it should go in the OOC thread.)

May 29st, 760

“Shenti get up here!” The whisper carried down the cliff-face, the owner of the voice clambering onto the narrow ledge. “And douse that torch!”

“But how am I supposed to see?” Shenti called plaintively as he tried to scramble up the rocky side of the cliff. He was a round, pudgy man, with a shaved pate and heavily bronzed skin. Climbing rock faces in the middle of the night was not what he preferred to be doing.

“’How am I supposed to see’ ‘How am I supposed to see’ Osiris Above, you want that she-devil to see us? Now hurry!”

“Hurry hurry, always Fassahd with your hurry. Menetnashte isn’t getting any deader you know.” Shenti huffed as he grasped the cliff-ledge with one hand.

“Now but if Snefru finds us we’ll get deader.” Fassahd grasped his brother by the hand and pulled him up onto the ledge, then grabbed the burning torch and doused it. The other man was thin and wiry, with a jackal’s sharp features and glossy black hair. The sky was studded with stars, but no moon rose up above the distant sands. It was the darkest night of the month, and this played no small part in Fassahd’s decision of this night for their expedition.

Shenti caught his breath and stood up. “So where is the old bag of bone’s tomb anyways?”

“In here,” Fassahd pointed to a fissure in the cliff-face. “Now come on!”

The two men grabbed their tools and ducked into the fissure, keeping their heads low. Fassahd relit the torch and waved it in front of them, warding off whatever may be in front of them. The smoke made their eyes water and their noses sting, but it was a necessary precaution.

They turned a corner in the fissure and nearly ran into a thick web. A fat, hairy spider the size of a child scuttled down the web away from the smoke, coming towards the two men.

“Aaaaaiiii!” Shenti screamed as he kicked out with his sandals at the hideous thing. It clicked its mandibles but before it could bite down at the flailing fat man’s limbs, Fassahd hit it straight on the abdomen with a torch. It wheeled and bit into the wooden stick, but then Shenti managed to kick it straight in its many multi-faceted eyes. The ugly, hairy spider fell to the ground, whereupon Fassahd hit it again and again with the torch till the body started to smoke and didn’t move any more. Fassahd hit it a few more times for good measure, then turned and slapped his brother on his bald pate.

“Shut up! Osiris Above, if we end up decorating a pair of stylish stakes in front of the village, I’ll haunt you in the afterlife!”

Fassahd whirled away and burned through the webbing as his Shenti glared sullenly. Shenti didn’t need this, not really. He was a big man in the village, a baker of breads, but then Fassahd comes by with one of his ideas, and now Shenti was scrambling up cliffs in the dead of night and being attacked by giant spiders. Shenti sighed. Relatives were a curse greater then any priest could lay down.

“Come on, I think I smell fresh air ahead.” Fassahd pointed the torch through the darkness of the fissure. Shenti nodded and followed. Some minutes later, the two men came out of the narrow tunnel, into the first chamber.

“Osiris Above…” Fassahd said softly. His brother whistled quietly.

It was like looking at the front of the temple of Osiris back home, but greater, more beautiful. A natural cavern in the sandstone of the cliff, the chamber was immense, larger even then Shenti’s bakery back in the village. An opening in the roof let in fresh air and a hint of light, but it was the far end of the cavern that had grasped the brother’s attentions.

Someone had carved the façade of a temple into the cavern wall. Brilliant designs covered the face of the temple wall, of men and gods and monsters, of the rituals of embalming. Jackal-headed men dominated the reliefs, and hieroglyphics were scrawled above the lintel of the immense doorway. Two statues in sand-stone and ebony-wood flanked the sides of the doorway, depicting a jackal-headed man many times life size, great bronze swords sheathed by the sides of their carved war-kilts.

“Fassahd? Was Menetnashte a priest of Anubis?”

“He must have been. Come on, the door is open. I just hope no one’s beat us to it.”

The two brothers passed through the door-arch, beneath the shadows of the Anubis-statues, and into the tomb-temple proper. Trusting instinct, Fassahd led the way through the maze of passageways and side-chambers, probing deeper in the mausoleum, looking for the main burial chamber. There, they would find Menetnashte, and there, they would find treasure beyond the dreams of avarice. Or at any rate beyond the dreams of Fassahd and Shenti, though the two brothers could dream quite nicely.

Some hours and some near-death experiences later, the two entered the treasure chamber. Gold and lapis lazuli, fine woodwork and heaps of myrrh and frankincense reflected the light of the torches. A senet set of inlaid rosewood and ebony lay on a gilded table, while a war axe with a ruby-studded head hung on a hook in the wall.

“We’re rich Fassahd, we’re rich! Ha ha!” Shenti enfolded his brother in a bear hug. Fassahd returned a quick squeeze but he was looking at something else. At the far end, a sarcophagus was propped up against the side of the wall, atop a series of pedestals. The coffin seemed solid gold, with large inlays of lapis lazuli and a death mask with shining sapphires for eyes. The carved hands of the sarcophagus seemed to circle around its center, and there, set into the gold and semi-precious stones, was the largest emerald Fassahd had ever seen. It was the size of a young child’s head, a tapering oval six inches long and three inches around, with a strange flaw in the center. It looked like an eye.

Fassahd move towards it, crossing the treasure room quickly, to rest his hand upon the emerald. Shenti was whistling cheerfully to himself, putting gold and gems into a sack. Neither man noticed the shadow boiling out from the corner of the chamber.

“We’re rich Fassahd! I’ll never have to bake another loaf in my life!” The fat man lifted a pair of golden earrings shaped like wrens, tiny rubies glittered in the eye sockets. “Think Nefrit will marry me if I give her these?”

“Fassahd?” Shenti looked at his brother with concern. “You alright?” The wiry man was caressing the emerald, seemingly hypnotized by the play of the torchlight on its faceted surface. Suddenly Shenti noticed the growing shadow. “Hey, what’s that!”

The shadow rushed forward like an angry sea. Shenti grabbed his sack of loot and started to run for the chamber door, but then he saw Fassahd still enthralled with the gem. He ran quickly, fear lending wings to his feet, and slapped his brother a few times on the cheeks. “Wake up! Come on, we’re rich, let’s get out of here.”

“Huh-wuh?” Fassahd woke groggily to consciousness. The shadow had covered more then half the room. “Osiris Above, what is that?!”

“Dunno, and I don’t plan to stay and learn, run!” The two tomb robbers made for the exit, jumping over golden chairs and chests of rosewood as the shadow followed fast on their heels.

For a while, it seemed like the brothers would make a clean getaway, but the life of a baker is not an athletic one, and a few feet before the door Shenti tripped on a rise in the sandstone flooring. The shadow, like an angry, viscous tide of darkness, washed over him.

“SHENTI!”

February 17th, 761

“Quite the honor to have you visit. You usually avoid my home like it was a plague hospital.” The old man accepted a cup of tea from his housekeeper. A flash of lightning punctuated the driving rain that pattered against the country house’s windows.

The second elderly man nodded thanks as he took the proffered tea. “People were starting to wonder that the two of us avoid one another, and I’m sure that curiosity isn’t something either of us wishes.”

The first man smirked. “One might almost consider this a gesture of trust. That will be all Genevieve, thank you.” The housekeeper curtsied and departed, leaving the tea set behind.

“Trust? Don’t be ridiculous.” The second man tilted his cane towards the departing woman. “Dominated?”

“Too much effort to keep up. Geas, and high pay also.”

The second man nodded, as if this made perfect sense. And to him, it did. He took the tea and murmured an arcane phrase. Finding the cup un-poisoned, he drank. The first man smirked at this little display but said nothing.

After a few minutes of small talk, the first man asked, “So how is your club coming along? I’m surprised that no one’s managed to spill your secret yet.”

“We take…measures…against that. There are a number of benefits to the organizational approach.”

“I’d have thought even you would know the old adage, ‘three can keep a secret only if two are dead’. You approach is a calamity waiting to happen.”

“All things considered, you seem to be in the minority in that view. After all, don’t the rest of your fellows take the social avenue? You’re a minority of one, my friend.”

The first man’s light blue eyes glinted dangerously. “It suits me.”

“I dare say you’d go mad if it didn’t. Or madder, I suppose.” The second man smiled and took another sip of the tea. A good brew, he decided, handpicked in Sri Raji and shipped at great expense. The best in fact. He had expected no different here.

“I find sanity to be an over-rated concept.” The first man smirked again. “And its certainly preferable to the endless paranoia and fear of betrayal. And that fear isn’t always unfounded, as you’ve learned recently.”

“Quite.” The second man acknowledged the hit. “Still, the benefits of the social approach outweigh the deficits.”

“I disagree.”

“You’re certainly entitled to your views. It’s a free country, unless they’ve has changed the laws recently.”

The two old men sat in silence for a minute, a century and a half of experience between the two, sipping their tea and preparing for the next verbal duel. Nevertheless, the second man wasn’t expecting what the first proposed.

“Perhaps a wager to settle this argument? My personal skills versus the powers of your organization?” The first man leaned back to view the reaction to his idea.

“Interesting.” The second man’s mind worked furiously. Despite that he sounded utterly bored as he asked, “And what do you have that I want?”

“Access to the Library of Il Aluk? I’m certain there’s many a curious and eldritch tome your club would want to get their ink-stained fingers on.”

The second man nodded again. Access to the Necropolis was something that had eluded them for years. They knew about the Amaranth, of course, but the devil was in the acquisition. “And in exchange?”

The first man smirked once more. “A ranking position in your club.”

“I can’t do that, there are rules, bylaws and regulations. They’d never agree to letting you in.”

“Rules are meant to be broken, old boy, and with your influence you can arrange it. Do you deny it?” The first man was not to be deterred.

“I…might. ‘Rules are meant to be broken.’ Just the kind of attitude I’d expect an aged anarchist like you to have.”

“Anarchy is an excellent system,” the first man said breezily. “It lets the cream of society to rise to the top and leaves the dregs where they belong. Certainly better then the formalized mediocrity of aristocracy. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen as many inbred weak chins and rabbit teeth in my life as before I came here.”

“Regardless…” The second man considered for a long moment. Lightning flashed. “Very well, let’s say I can arrange it. I’ll see to it that you have the membership you request. Is this acceptable?”

“Certainly. And if I lose, then you will have access to all the treasures of Il Aluk.”

“Very well then. How do you propose this then?”

The first man smiled dimly. “A simple contest is what I had in mind. Hasn’t Devereux been foaming at the mouth about some new tomb uncovered in Har’Akir? You shall organize an expedition under the auspices of your club to retrieve the burial goods. I shall make my own arrangements. Whoever returns first with, say the emerald that savage is babbling about, shall be the victor. Is this acceptable?”

“You’ve thought this through?” The second man raised a single eyebrow as he asked this question. The first man just smiled and sipped his tea. “Very well, it’s a wager.”

“A gentleman’s agreement?” The first man smirked once more. “On trust?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be by with the binding charms later this week.”

March 15th, 761

• This is obviously a very preliminary report. I write in haste, as we are about to depart. With your other sources of information I presume you will be able to add what I have deliberately omitted.
  
  You should be aware of a few of the more salient points revealed by the evening’s unfortunate events; I am sure you have already heard the general story, as Port-a-Lucine can hardly be talking of anything else this morning. To mention the details which you will probably not here on the street:
  
  About the corpse: The unfortunate was a lower-class dockworker, later revealed to be one Pierre LeGuerre, known to work on boats plying river-trade on the Musarde. No word on how this unfortunate was killed, although it is possible that a-M. let slip word of his discovery before arriving in Dementlieu to Leguerre (and others, for that matter). A dagger of Akiri design pinned a message to LeGuerre’s chest, warning us against seeking the tomb; its text was as follows:
  
  • I, too, sought Anubis's Eye
    And for that crime I must die.
    Turn back now, before it's too late,
    Or you shall share my sorry fate.
  There was also a complicated glyph which was identified as the sign of the Cult of Anubis, apparently an Akiri group who object to tomb-plundering expeditions of all sorts. Vehemently. How or why LeGuerre would be searching for the Eye is not clear.
  
  The Eye of Anubis: An enormous emerald reputed to confer eternal life on its possessor
  (no word of what “eternal life” means—eternal youth? Eternal life at the age at which it was acquired? Undeath?). Supposedly given by the god to a faithful servant, who eventually relinquished it voluntarily. No word on how Menetnashte acquired it (or who Menetnashte is), nor if he (she?) used it for its stated purpose. D. has obtained a book from Lord Ramsey (more on him below) with the following couplet about the Eye:
  
  • He who has Anubis's Eye,
    Can never falter, never die.
    Never sicken, never age,
    Need never leave the mortal cage.
  Obviously, if this is even true in part the Eye is of tremendous value.
  
  The Anubite: Whoever or whatever this apparition really was, it is obviously a spellcaster of considerable power. It employed magical means to walk in the air, and to influence the minds of C. and K. and also employed black lightning and cause a localized tremor. The opinion of L. was that this was divine, rather than arcane, spellcasting. The Anubite employed an ankh for all its spellcasting, and when divested of the ankh it retreated, dissolving into sand. The residue of sand remaining was determined to have been imbued with illusion magic. What spell does this correspond to? Was the Anubite on the roof merely a puppet for a confederate (or controller) situated elsewhere in the garden? See below for more evidence on this point.
  
  Other incidents: The Anubite took a throwing knife belonging to K. During the course of the encounter C. lost his daggers; one of these was also taken (see below). Despite the fact that the Anubite dropped its ankh, this was not recovered either. A sliver from a box was recovered in the garden; the scent from the box led G.’s dog to the place where C.’s lost dagger had fallen, confirming that it had in fact been taken, then to another site (where the ankh fell?) at which point the dog was unable to track the scent any further, hinting either at teleportation or an airborne departure. The person who retrieved the ankh and dagger is most probably the aforementioned confederate/master of the Anubite on the roof.
  
  Note that there is at least some evidence that there were two spellcasters present from the beginning of the rooftop encounter. C. and K.’s actions against each other were both apparently due to magical manipulation, and occurred roughly simultaneously. The simplest explanation is that there was one person situated in the garden who cast his spell on K., while the Anubite on the roof did the same for C. If that were true, how were the two correlated so perfectly? Telepathic communication? Was the sand-creature on the roof controlled from the garden? Note that C. and K. agree that the sand-creature was seen to bleed under their blades. Was this merely a figment?
  
  Afterward, Professors C. and D. made a circuit of the building and were assaulted by a creature with glowing yellow eyes three feet from the ground, which used arcane means to incapacitate them and bled them. Could this be related to a) the jackal seen earlier, b) Lancaster’s acquaintace, also yellow-eyed? It was put forward by C. and seconded by Professor T. that this bleeding might have been done to use their blood (and C.s’ and K.’s weapons) to cast spells on them at a later time.
  
  The Anubite was the most impressive, and probably the most important, of those who must be accounted for. At various times throughout the evening before the incident, the following individuals were seen in the garden: K., U., A., “Lancaster” in company with an unidentified person, M., Professor Smythe, Ramsey, Chantreaux, de Casteelle, Vedarrak, and a jackal. Lancaster’s confederate was described as yellow-eyed, which may be significant (see below). Of these, a few words on the most significant points:
  
  Lord Ramsey: Made a present to Prof. D. of a book on the Eye of Anubis and displayed significant interest in the Eye and the expedition at the soiree. Also made a present of (something) to L. Said package was delivered by a boy in his teens, who returned to the grounds of Harrow House after its delivery (and attempting to throw off pursuit by a circuitous return). On closer examination this is a bizarre circumstance; why would a teenage boy go to Harrow House well after midnight? Lord Ramsey does not, to the best of my knowledge, have any teenaged children. Could it have been a member of the staff in disguise, magical or otherwise?
  
  A final word about “Lancaster”: Apparently (according to A. and U.) it would seem to be non-human (A. noted “fangs”). A. and U. were approached by him (it?) and offered 20,000 nightshades for retrieval of the Eye of Anubis. Is the offer of Borcan coinage significant? How did Lancaster learn about the Eye?

May 3rd, 761

• I have a great deal to report since my last communication; little of it impinges directly on the mission, but it is of sufficient interest in and of itself to merit a full description of events. After our entry into the Barovian hamlet of Ravnika we took lodging at the inn known as Karl’s Folly, where we had an unfortunate encounter with a drunken farmer, one Stefan, and a curiously belligerent bard, Dimitri Koroviev, who denounced us as foreign interlopers. After said encounter Stefan was sent home with a bloodied head (alive and relatively well, but somewhat the worse for wear) while Dmitri vowed vengeance on us all.
  
  Said vengeance was not long in coming; the next morning we awoke to discover a lynch mob gathered at the doorstep, the aforementioned Dimitri at its head. He denounced us as the murderers of Stefan and was in the process of whipping the mob into sufficient fury to attack us when Burgomeister Konstantin Sandeluscu appeared and ordered them to disperse. He heard Koroviev’s accusations and agreed to put us on trial two days later, meanwhile giving us the freedom of the village to conduct investigations into the murder, but warning us that any attempt to leave the village would result in letters being sent to Castle Ravenloft identifying us as murderers. Thus constrained, we went to the scene of the crime.
  
  The unfortunate Stefan had indeed been murdered, in an extraordinarily grisly way, bearing the marks of ritual slaughter by a worshipper of Anubis. It transpired that it was, in fact, one of our number—none other than K.—whose hand had done the deed, under magical compulsion by a masked figure similar in outward appearance to the apparition which attacked us on the roof in Port-a-Lucine. This revelation discomfited us greatly; if K. had been present on the scene, we would be hard-pressed to prove he was innocent unless we could find the mysterious figure who had forced him to do the deed. While at the scene of the crime another bizarre event occurred—U. vomited on Koroviev, who promptly challenged her to a duel. She nominated A. as her representative, and the duel was immediately scheduled for the following day.
  
  In addition to this astonishing turn of events, we uncovered evidence that Stefan was a grave robber who had supplied raw materials to local necromancers, including one Goodwife Marilena, a local wise woman. We resolved to visit her immediately and see if she could furnish us with further information. She received us very hospitably and ordered the shade of Stefan to communicate with us; his information, although fragmentary, gave us hope of combating the charges against us successfully. Because of the neglect of certain of our number to put themselves beneath Marilena’s protections, Stefan attacked us and eventually received his final quietus.
  
  All thoughts of the trial, however, were put aside at the next day’s duel. The matter was judged by the burgomeister, a local priestess, and Prof. P., and began as a close-fought thing; however, things were not sufficiently to his liking, and Dimitri began to use magic to strike at A. and, when they showed signs of unease, the burgomeister and priestess. A general melee was near to breaking out before we succeeded in convincing the local authorities of Dimitri’s tampering, at which point he murdered A. in cold blood (having previously incapacitated her) and revealed himself to be an inhuman creature calling itself John Lancaster Cavendish. Announcing that the village would forthwith be attacked by a horde of undead he had spent the last month creating, he discorporated into a murder of crows which took wing and left the scene.
  
  We rushed to get the villagers into defensible places—Karl’s Folly and the local temple of the Morninglord—to seek out assistance from Goodwife Marilena, and to purify a profaned shrine to the god Andral in the hope of using it as a sort of spiritual redoubt. Despite our best efforts not all of the villagers were saved, but the quick thinking and outright heroism of various members of the Expedition proved equal to the task of driving off Cavendish and his undead minions. Perhaps most important was the self-sacrifice of Goodwife Marilena, who negotiated with fey powers found there to exchange her life for those of the villagers.
  
  After the fey had sent a rain destructive of the undead and Cavendish had been forced to flee, we received word that Cavendish had made his headquarters at an abandoned mill near the village; accordingly, we hastened there and succeeded in obtaining a very few clues as to his motives, abilities, and modus operandi before the mill, which he had fired as he departed, exploded.
  
  In short, it was an extremely eventful two days. Despite its lacking any information on the points which really interest us, it ought, at least, to sufficient to form the basis of a picaroon-romance. I have, if anything, rather understated the drama of the whole series of events, but a lack of time constrains me from giving a fuller narrative.

April 19th, 761

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Father! Are you alright?” The voice sounded from the hallway, a concerned, feminine voice. “It’s nearly midnight, and the servant’s say you still haven’t had dinner!”

“I am fine, now let me work!” Algernon Mournswaithe hissed at his daughter from inside the arcane laboratory. Somewhat miffed footsteps retreated, and the Fourth Lord Mournswaithe nodded to himself. Food! Can they seriously expect me to think about food when I am so CLOSE!

So close… and he was doing it all for Ermenglot, yes he was. Soon that DEMON CHILD would die, so soon, and then Ermenglot would inherit everything! The business, the title, the wealth the power the strength thelifethenametheRESPECT! And his liability would be removed. Forever!

All he needed to do was carry out this last bit of work, and then everything would be settled. And this time, the old hag downstairs wouldn’t interfere. After all, if the demon child was dead, how was she to inherit, hmm? Lord Mournswaithe smiled to himself. Oh how he would enjoy breaking that news to the old hag. Who knows, it might just be enough to send her off on a short-trip to the next world. Wouldn’t that be a treat?

Algernon Mournswaithe crossed to his worktable, beside the great platform he had constructed in his laboratory. Upon the table, there lay a book, its form bound in demure brown leather, and careful handwriting in Darkonian told Lord Mournswaithe just how to get revenge upon his liability.

He hadn’t thought it possible, really. She was so far away now, on a dangerous expedition to some forgotten tomb, out of his reach. Perhaps she’d die on it, there was a cheery thought that. But Lord Mournswaithe had been willing to leave well enough alone, trusting in the elements to take care of it. Until that yellow-eyed ruffian came.

• ”See, Guv, I been told you’re interested in wringing a certain lovely lady’s neck, and my boss, he’s got similar ideas, if you are getting my meaning, hmm?”
  
  Taking the book from his ill-fitting clothes, the brute passed it to Lord Mournswaithe, who read the title with growing interest. Tipping his hat, the yellow-eyed man soon left, leaving Algernon Mournswaithe with an avenue for his desires.

The book was difficult going at first, written in an archaic tongue and using terms Lord Mournswaithe had never learned in his magical education. But soon, it was a revelation. It was all so simple! Just… desire. And that, Algernon Mournswaithe had in spades.

Lord Mournswaithe re-read the crucial passages once more, and then once again. Taking the ritual chisel he had prepared, the nobleman approached his creation, stepping on to the ladder to reach the top. Slowly, assuredly, Algernon Mournswaithe tapped the chisel against his creation, carving into the soft, yielding surface. Soon, so very soon…

None of the other wizards could have done this. They laughed at Lord Mournswaithe, derided his ability behind his back, even as his tutors explained in oh so careful words that perhaps, just perhaps, arcane ability wasn’t for him. HA! He’d like to see one of those over-dressed buffoons do this. Lord Mournswaithe was creating that which not a one of them would have dared!

Tap-tap! Tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap!

Just one more letter. Just a single symbol. And then, then his liability would be removed. Ermenglot would inherit, and this dark, vile stain upon the Mournswaithe name be forever expunged, destroyed forever! Soon, Liability Mournswaithe would be dead!

Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead-dead-dead-dead-deaddeaddeaddeadDEAD!!

Tap-tap!

And the creation’s eyes opened, and two scarlet motes of light entered the unseeing eyes, and Algernon, Fourth Lord Mournswaithe, knew he had succeeded.

DEAD!

May 15th, 761

• This report will be another with little but spectacle to recommend it, but that it has in spades. It is not quite so dramatic as the events in Ravnika, but will still form an admirable chapter in the picaroon-romance which this reports mirror “in a glass, darkly”.
  
  We arrived at the estate of Rishad Basler Nisanci, a local nobleman and friend of S., and were received with great hospitality by him; on our way through the outlying village we passed by a local funeral and learned that several children had disappeared from the vicinity in recent weeks. The disappearances were variously laid at the feet of a Vistani caravan passing through and wolf attacks, and certain members of the Expedition resolved to investigate the matter in the time we had set aside to spend at the Nisanci estate, while others thought to examine the Vossath Nor ruins near the estate.
  
  The next morning we discovered that D. had left his room early in the morning and had not returned, but made little of it at the time. We went about our various activities, L. and U. going to visit the Vistani encampment, O., T. and Kh. to visit the wolves (I realize, looking over my last missive, that I did not mention this detail. O. is now able to speak with wolves, and is responsible for their welfare, after a bizarre encounter with a fey creature directly after our putting an end to the grave-robber Stefan in Ravnika.), and C., K. and T. to visit the Vossath Nor ruins. The Vistani provided L., in particular, with a wealth of information regarding the missing children, as two of them had been taken from that very company—one some four and a half years previous, and one that very week. The raunie of the caravan also gave L. prophetic instruction intended to guide us, which I will reproduce in full:
  
  
  • I see an old magic, a great magic, but it is tilted, and cracked, and the Colorless One chips at it as a man with a chisel, believing power within. The Red One has answers, the Blue One has questions.
    
    Seek your answer in song.
  
  
  L. also learned that O.’s foster son Kemal had actually been kidnapped from that very tribe of Vistani four and a half years previously, and that Red Wizards of Hazlan had appeared to take the boy—in the course of which the lad was killed. Meanwhile, the wolves informed O. that they had had troubles with a colony of phase spiders in the neighborhood (only in Hazlan would people consider phase spiders good neighbors, but so Rishad Nisanci seemed to think them) and asked him to get them to cease their depradations. Some of those visiting the Vossath Nor ruins entered an arch found there, to varying effect (the arch seems to be empowered to introduce those who pass through it access to what Dr. Illhousen would call the “unconscious mind”).
  
  On our returning to the estate, we were alarmed to discover that D. had not returned, and set out immediately in search of him. We succeeded in tracing his scent to an abandoned windmill on the Nisanci estate, where we discovered him chained to the millworks beneath an elaborate magical trap. After some effort we succeeded in freeing him and learned that he had been lured to that place by a masked and cloaked figure identical to that which had appeared on the roof in Port-a-Lucine and had forced Kh. to murder Stefan in Ravnika. At this point it was decided (I no longer remember how, or by whom, although I think it was strongly advocated by L.) that we return to the Vossath Nor ruins in the hope of discovering the missing children there. It was at this time that C. drew a connection between “finding an answer in song” and the Singing Mine, on the estate of Cevdet Tarik, a nobleman of a neighboring estate, and the party resolved to visit it as soon as was convenient.
  
  Children there were none, but an unexpected friend (if I may use the word) did find us there. At the arch all was quiet until we made to leave; then, suddenly, it became active and drew a number of us within! Those who were not caught up in the gale and forced through the arch saw the Anubite standing atop a monolith overlooking the scene; C. circled around behind the masked figure and shot it, dislodging its mask and revealing it to be…a beautiful young woman, who gestured us toward Ghostdeath Knoll, the home of the phase spiders mentioned previously. She then promptly disappeared, and the arch disgorged its captives, who went home sadder in some cases, wiser in others, and positively ebullient in yet others.
  
  With this bizarre portent to guide us we set out the next morning to parley with—or combat—the spiders. After wandering the Knoll briefly we contacted them, and succeeded in establishing rudimentary communications to the effect that humans were interfering with the Ethereal Plane in the vicinity, and could we please get them to stop? (This last more of a command than a request, and leaving us fearful of being eaten.) With this information we beat a hasty retreat and consulted with Rishad Nisanci, then set off to the Tarik estate. Because of the Vistani prophecy, the fact that the disappearances began after his arrival, and from a lack of any other obvious suspect suspicion had largely attached to Master Tarik, and our interview with him at his estate was a tense one. After learning of our purpose, however, he allowed us to visit the mine and sent his apprentice Nizam to guide us.
  
  Alas, we were (with the notable exception of L.) sadly credulous in accepting his “guidance”; on our entry into the mine Nizam, saying he acted on fear of his life, collapsed the mine entry behind us. Thus trapped, we were forced to find other means of egress from the mine. After lengthy and tedious explorations we made our escape through a flooded (and trapped) shaft into a cavern under Ghostdeath Knoll itself, where we found Tarik and Nizam experimenting on the kidnapped children (all of them, thankfully, alive and well, save for being in captivity). With O. seeking vengeance for his lost son at our forefront we went down into the cavern; Tarik resisted fiercely, but in vain, while his apprentice, shocked by his evil deeds and freed of the fear for his life which had paralyzed him, turned against him and aided our cause.
  
  Having slain the miscreant, we restored the children to their families and arranged for Nizam (now heir to his master’s estate) to become apprentice to Rishad Basler. In gratitude, the Vistani offered to assist us in the next leg of our journey; we depart immediately, and I therefore hasten to close.

June 13th, 761

Khorvash ibn-Ormazd was tired of this idiotic mission. Very well, the Faceless Murderers had escaped the city, leaving a number of victims behind them. But they had ran for the desert of Sebua, at which point, Khorvash considered, they really weren't Pharazia's problem. Let the desert kill them. Khorvash was tired of riding the length and breadth of the Pharazian-Sebuan border.

Of course, for all that ibn-Ormazd was a Sipahi in the Pharazian military, a knight of sorts, this didn't mean he had a great deal of influence when it came to orders. The High Confessor had ordered ibn-Ormazd's squadron to patrol the border, and that was what Khorvash was doing.

He was also bloody tired of doing it.

"Three weeks.... not one, not two, but three weeks." Khorvash groused. "By the Prophet, I think I have forgotten what it is not to have dust in my beard."

Mehrdad snorted, clicking the reins of his desert horse as the group of armored Sipahi rode along the border, perhaps a mile past the Pharazian border. The God-Storm had quieted now, but Khorvash still disliked being in Sebua. This was the ghost-land, where foul spirits and worse men dwelled. Granted, there were very few things, mortal and not, in the world that would like to face a dozen armored Sipahi.

"Be at ease, my friend." Mehrdad calmed his officer. "Three more days and we may return to the City of gold."

Khorvash grunted, but his aide was right. Then the officer paused for a moment. "Mehrdad, what is that upon the hillside there? See? The sparkling?"

"Where?" Mehrdad withdrew a little spyglass and peered through it. "Effendi, I do believe it is water."

"Here? We're forty miles from the nearest oasis." Khorvash raised both eyebrows. "Best investigate, I suppose."

"Yes, Effendi."

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The Sipahis rode hard, their lightly armored horses covering the distance with a ground-chewing canter. What they found was decidedly odd. A waterfall coming from a ruined stretch of walls, and a small, fresh-water pool beside it.

"Are you sure there are no oases upon the map?" Khorvash asked again. After all of these years, the Pharazian border was mapped about as well as anything could be, though the idea of 'border' was a fairly fluid, and largely useless one in the desert.

"Yes Effendi. There are some ruins here, that is true, but no waterfall, that is certain." The aide was almost as perplexed as his superior, but hid it better. He was a thinker, whereas Khorvash was the warrior.

"Well, so be it. If nothing else, let us investigate and perhaps stay the night here. I doubt we will find a better spot to camp." Ibn-Ormazd ordered.

"Yes Effendi."

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The desert night came fast and frigid, the temperature dropping some sixty degrees over the course of an hour. Nevertheless, three guards stood at attention throughout the night.

The Sipahi were the elite cavalry of the Pharazian military. Armed with lances and scimitars, they were also first rate bowmen and clad head to toe in scale mail. Minor noblemen all, they were the flower of Diamabel's army. They were not, however, the most observant soldiers in Pharazia. It was during the fifth hour of the night that Mehrdad heard the clicking of stone upon stone, not far from the cliffside camp the Sipahi had set up.

Hefting the stout, sharp-bladed spear, the officer's aide whispered for his fellow guards. Sohrab, a stout fellow with a bristling beard to his waist, drew his scimitar, while the reedier Payam drew his bow and asked. "You hear, something, Effendi?"

"The shifting of pebbles, perhaps." Mehrdad whispered, peering into the dead-black night. He cursed the tiny sliver of moon briefly.

"Was just a desert jackal, I think." Sohrab grumbled. "Begging your pardon, sir, but we are in a wild land."

"Yes Sohrab, thank you for that insight." Mehrdad said sharply. "Wake ibn-Ormazd, I do not like this. It is never just a desert jackal."

The attack came almost too fast to be believed. From out of the desert night, a demon of bone and speed rushed the Sipahi, a bloodcurdling screech coming from the grating of its jaws. It was huge, larger than a horse, and like no thing Mehrdad had ever seen in his life, like a great cat with fangs the size of sabers. That said, the Sipahi did not recieve their reputation for nothing. Mehrdad ducked, jabbing his spear at the thing's skull.

The skeletal demon didn't even notice it. Sohrab charged it, swinging his scimitar swiftly, a prayer to the Prophet on his lips, even as the great cat shook its head to dislodge the spear in its eyesocket. The scimitar scored a long mark on the bones, but Sohrab might have been trying to chop through stone. Dismissively, the bone-demon lashed at the warrior with its talons, shredding his front with a shower of blood.

Mehrdad's blood ran cold as Sohrab collapsed. But he jabbed the spear forward again, all the meanwhile trying to think of something, anything to hold the bone-demon back. Then, a brief idea formed in his mind.

"Prophet protect me." Mehrdad murmurred, before dropping his spear and rolling towards the armorer's kit they kept. The bone-demon was busy with Payam, the poor man, as the officer's aide searched the kit for a hammer to use. To pierce the thing was impossible, not with those bones, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could crush its skull.

Other Sipahi were coming from their tents at the commotion, but they were not armored, merely carrying their weapons. Mehrdad saw ibn-Ormazd yell a battlecry as he began to surround the bone-demon. Then, the soldier spotted something else.

More skeletal cats.

Three more of them padded from the shadows, far quieter than anything made of bone and dark magic had any right to be. It was now that Mehrdad knew that he would die. Very well then, he would at least take some of these agents of hell down with him.

Finding the hammer, Mehrdad melded into the shadows of the cliffside, waiting and hoping and praying that his mad plan worked. The lone bone-demon at the one side of the camp was starting to feel harried, as a half-dozen men with long spears held it at bay. But this was a military-style operation. While the first foe distracted the group, the others attacked from the rear.

Then, the bone-demons were past the Sipahi officer's aide. With a whispered prayer, Mehrdad jumped from the shadows, swinging the armorer's hammer at the spot just below the nearest cat's skull. A good blow there....

It worked. Something about the angle, something about the weight of the mallet broke the spine of the skeletal demon. The heavy, malevolent skull fell to the ground, and there was a brief moment when all seemed well. Dark energy poured from the bone-demon, the bones shattering one-by-one into powder.

Leaving Mehrdad without the element of surprise, amongst two very irate skeletons. The officer's aide barely felt the blow that raked sharp talons across his throat, severing his neck almost to the spine. Mehrdad was dead before he hit the ground.

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This didn't keep him from riding out with the rest of the Sipahi squadron later that night, into the heart of the desert.

Into Sebua.

It was some week out of Dezbar, and the linguistics student had set himself up for an evening of studying Pharazian verb forms. He'd found a fairly good rock that provided shade, and also a noise-breaker from the rest of the Expedition.Within moments, a dense fog seems to rise out of the sand between Remy and the camp -- a fog that sighs.

"Remy," the fog says. "Hear me." A shape starts to coalesce in the thickening fog.

Lessard blinked, closing his book very slowly. Equally slowly, he put a hand into his pocket as he turned around to look at the fog. His face was curiously expressionless.

"You understand me?" the figure in the fog sighs. "You see me clearly?"

"I do." Remy stood up, his eyes scanning the fog carefully.

"There is a darkness inside of you," the voice says as the fog slowly burns away, revealing what looks almost like ... a monk, or someone else who wears heavy, body-covering black robes. "A darkness in your heart."

"Who are you?" Remy said sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"There is a blackness there," the figure repeats, pointing at Remy's chest. "I have seen it. In Dezbar. If it is of the flesh, you should seek help. If it is of the spirit ... break away. There are other paths to walk besides the one you are on, Remy Lessard, étudient to Marchand-Renier, who is savaged by many rats."

Lessard stared at the dark fog for a while, his emerald green eyes sparkling lightly in the evening light. "I see..."

"Seek help," the entity repeats, not unkindly, "or seek freedom. The future yet lies open -- and many things walked free when Dezbar fell. There is no reason why you should not ..." The fog starts to rise again, enshrouding the figure.

Remy moved then. He wasn't terribly quick, not like Samael was, but the pistol that appeared from his pocket was of fairly good size. "Let me ask again. Who are you, and why are you following us? This is one of Cavendish's tricks?" The linguistics student's hand was shaking a bit, but his voice was steady enough.

"This is not one of Cavendish's tricks," the voice replies, sounding extremely amused. "No, indeed. I would spit on Cavendish, had I lips. And spit. And I shall follow you no more after this -- my time in this place grows short, and if you see anything like me again, well ... It will not be I. I am only here to offer you an honest chance at life. Not everyone gets one of those, boy."

"Right... mysterious cloaked figures in the mist telling me I'm doomed and offerring last chances." Remy's voice was thick with sarcasm. His hand was still shaking though. "Don't make me shoot you."

"Feel free," the voice replies, sounding supremely unconcerned, and yes, still amused. "And I said nothing of last chances, I only said I saw a blackness. Perhaps you have a canker on your heart, or else you are overburdened by an unkind taskmaster. Perhaps you simply had indigestion when I saw that blackness. "No, indeed, feel free to shoot. And as for my name ... I am no one, now."

"Uh-huh. Professor Pelletier taught us about mirages and ghostly-tempters spinning lies. I think I'll pass." Remy started to lower the gun. Then suddenly jerked it back up again and fired.

The bullet passes through the ghostly image, which just laughs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Snap!" Tomas exclaims, looking up from his scribbling at the gunshot. He grabs his shield and sword, stumbling onto his feet and rushing towards the disturbance.

Charles drops his pencil and turns, moving quickly and quietly toward the sound.

Several others were rushing towards the sound of the gunshot. It was behind a rather large stone that was at the back of the camp. As you arrived, you saw Remy was standing behind the stone, a smallish pistol drawn and white as a sheet.

"Trouble?" Charles asks.

"Remy!" Tomas exclaims as he tries to slide to a stop in the sand. "Are you allright? You were-oh, Remy, that's never the answer mine freuind!"

"What is going on?" the others can hear Lia's testy-sounding voice coming from camp. "Are we under attack, or has someone gone and gotten their fool selves drunk while holding a pistol?"

"Don't overwhelm us with optimism, libchen!" Tomas said.

The linguistics student looked at the gun as though he wasn't sure what was going on. "I think.... I just had a vision. Something came out of the fog and started warning me about darkness."

Lia comes stomping up, grumbling all the way. "I was just getting ready to sleep," she grouses. "What happened, you say?"

"It's been following us since Dezbar at least, and I think its a mage...." Remy said softly. "I tried to shoot at it but it just disappeared."

"Heck of a way to go to sell insurance." Tomas observes, mid-adventure paranoia seeping in as he looks about.


"You shot at a vision?" Chalres says. His jocularity covers what might be just a hint of apprehension. "Been drinking absinthe, my friend?"

Lia grumbles again, then mutters 'Occultum video', making an odd pass in the air as she casts Detect Magic.

"I'm NOT DRUNK!" Remy suddenly yelled, waving the gun a little bit more than was healthy. "For Ezra's sake, I've just been confronted by god knows what, and all you can do is joke!"

"I am not joking, I am trying to concentrate!" Lia snaps. "All of you, shut up!" She looks around intently, checking for magical auras.

"That's all to the good," Charles says drily. "Calm down a bit and tell us exactly what happened, and we'll see what to make it."

"Calm down, easy for you to say." Remy snarled under his breath. Still, he took a long breath. "Something... called up a fog. In the desert. It came out of it dressed in black, with a hood up and everything. It said something about seeing a blackness in me, back in Dezbar, and then started sounding like an Ezran preacher, you know, repent now...."

"Illusions," Lia denounces his words. Lia stomps over to a particular piece of sand and draws an X in it with her foot. "No, I am not saying you imagined it, but something whipped up a fairly complex illusion right ... here."

"I remember reading that some priests of Ezra can call up the mist and fog." When did Tomas draw his sword?

"Hum. It saw a blackness in you, back in Dezbar," Charles says. "That's...intriguing. As I recall we all looked rather different when viewed from the Ethereal... Perhaps this is a message from someone who saw you then?"

Tomas smiles cheerfully and procedes to poke the x with his sword. "You guys never told me what I looked like, you know."

"I don't recall," Lia replies, throwing her hands up. "Is it important? Figments of perception ... I am not even certain I saw you, back then."

"Perhaps just figments," Charles says. "I'm surprised to hear a woman of Mordent disparage the vision of the Other Side, though. But it's neither here nor there..."

"So.... this thing's been following us in the Ethereal since Dezbar....?" Remy's coloration was still not even in shouting distance of normal.

"In the penny novels, such things always end up being important. It's...foreshadowing." Tomas grins at Remy in a strained, I'm not crazy really sort of way. "Excercise always helped me when I was a young man, Remy."

"Who cares?" Lia replies bluntly. "There are things in the Near Ethereal anyway, all the time. Most, you'll never get to see because they can't touch you."

Charles is about to speak, stops, exchanges a look with Lia, and shrugs.

"Honestly, I'm tired," Lia sighs, rubbing her eyes. "Why can't this kind of nonsense ever happen when I'm wide awake and well-rested?"

"Well excuse me that something tried scare me out of my mind during your beauty sleep." Remy snarled again.

"When would that be?" Tomas asks, his eyes closing as he ribs the bridge of his nose, "For future schedule consideration. Do not take offense, Remy, our Lia's tounge is her preferred armor."

Charles gives Remy an odd look. "Well, a wizardess needs sleep for more than beautification," he says placatingly. "I confess, it's quite the bizarre event. I might have done likewise in your situation, Remy. Shot first, and asked questions afterward."

"Calm down," Lia sighs. "Did it actually try to hurt you, or did it just talk? There are plenty of stories of phantoms that only want to talk about things, are there not? I'll apologize for my usual acid tongue," Lia suddenly says, yawning. "Tired ... Not to mention ill-mannered."


"Gods..." Remy leaned back against the rock, rubbing his forehead. You noticed that his hand was shaking. "What did it say...I accused it of being one of Cavendish's tricks, but it just laughed at me.... it laughed at me when I shot it too.... It said something about Professor Marchand-Renier being savaged by rats... Oh god." Remy's eyes went wide. "We need to check on the professor.... it might be going after him right now!"

"Well, it can't hurt to look in on him," Charles says. "Shall we?"

"I don't hear him berating anyone," Lia says, exaggeratedly miming listening to distant noises, "so I doubt it. But still, let's get you back to camp, yes? You need a drink."

"Though this is way too scattered to be a ghost or anyth-" Tomas blinks at this, and nods at Remy, running off towards the Professor's tent. The guy hates him anyway.

"Yes. No absinthe!" Charles says, grinning and slapping Remy on the shoulder.

"He's just worried about the Renier," Lia yawns as she pats Tomas on the shoulder. "Don't look so distraught."

Professor Marchand-Renier was writing in one of his notebooks as the group of students approached, examining the phonetic transcription again. He looked up as the quartet approached. "And what do we have here...?"

"A haunting," Lia replies, sitting down without being invited. She yawns again. "Or something similar."

Charles gives Remy a look that says, Don't go overboard here. "Remy had a sort of spectral visitor, which spoke in such a way as to make us think it might visit you as well."

Tomas keeps to the back, both to look out for any giant rat monsters and to not get glared at by the Professor.

"Yessir.... I think.... I think I just had a vision. And it said something about you being gnawed upon by giant rats...." Remy said softly.

Sebastian Marchand-Renier's eyebrows went up a quarter-inch. "Really now. Anything else?" His tone of voice seemed to be saying 'Here's the rope, here's the tree, here's the horse, now have fun.'

"Yes, actually," Lia says calmly. "Someone or something did discharge a powerful illusion effect where Remy says he saw this spectral creature. At the very least, you may do him the courtesy of not denouncing him."

"Miss Mournswaithe, I do not recall asking you for advice on how to teach." Professor Marchand-Renier said mildly, though there was a slight edge in his voice. "Now then, let me repeat, was there anything else?"

"Only the illusion effect, as far as I could tell," Lia replies with a shrug.

"I see." Professor Marchand-Renier said slowly. "Well then, if the illusions bearing omens of doom and rats are done for the evening, I shall return to my work."

"Fair enough," Charles says. "Well, I have some work of my own to do, but we'll talk later." This last is directed at both Lia and Remy.

"Try not to get attacked by any visions on the way to your tents, alright?" Marchand-Renier said lightly, before returning back to his work. Remy's face had gone from pale white to a little over-pink.

"And I will be returning to BED, gentlemen," Lia yawns. "Wake me if something interesting happens. For the record, Remy? I believe you."

"Oh wonderful...." Lessard grumbled as he headed off to collect his book and go back to bed. "Just what I need...."

June 20th, 761
Quartier Ouvrier, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu

"Seconds, James?" Mrs. Bisson asked, reaching for the ladle.

"No thank you, ma'am, I'm full to bursting." To demonstrate this, James leaned back, patting himself happily on the stomach. He rather liked his landlady, and wanted to do nothing to hurt her feelings. Besides, Mrs. Bisson's beef stew was delicious.

"Well, alright. I'll leave the key under the welcome mat, in case you return before I wake. And do be careful, you're out all hours of the night and I worry about you." Mrs. Bisson's plump, grandmotherly face furrowed with worry. After her husband died a few years ago, she'd taken in a succession of lodgers to make ends meet, as the pension Bernard drew from the Merchant Marine was cut off upon his death.

Of all her lodgers, she liked James best. He was clean, always polite and friendly, and paid his rent on time and in cash. Plus Mrs. Bisson felt safer with a tall, imposing gentleman living on the premises. And so she worried about him when he went off to his night watchman job.

"I'll be alright, ma'am, don't worry." James said soothingly as he rose from the table and went to his room, donning his coat and cap as he returned. "I'll stop by the fish markets on my way home, that alright, ma'am?"

"Thank you James." Mrs. Bisson smiled gratefully. "Now off with you, you musn't be late."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sweet ol' biddy." James murmurred under his breath as he left Mrs. Bisson's old house. She reminded him of his grandmother, in a strange fashion, so he played along, and it was a much cozier existence than his previous one, in many ways. He'd regret it when his duties would take him elsewhere.

Besides, she was actually worried about him. It was touching, if a little ridiculous. James was a tall man, well past six feet in height and broad across the shoulders, if a little lanky of frame. His brown hair was a bit greasy, but cut short and mostly hidden under the old cap he wore, and he strode through the Quartier Ouvrier with the stooped shoulders and quick pace that is the hallmark of the downtrodden masses everywhere. In fact, the only thing even vaguely peculiar about James was that when you looked at him, there was none of the fear, none of the worry that marked the rest of the populace. There was a flicker of a predator in James' cold, yellow eyes, and nothing of the prey.

A predator usually knows others of his kind, which was how James arrived at the old warehouse unmolested, despite being a lone man walking unarmed through the Quartier Ouvrier at night.

Drawing a ring of keys from his pocket and fitting one key into the lock, James opened the gates of the fence around the old building and slipped in. No sooner than he did so, a dozen dark shapes materialized out of the shadows of the building, coming to investigate just what the matter was, and who this presumptuous intruder was.

An honest grin crossed the yellow-eyed man's features as he leaned to pet the mass of dogs. They were all large, vicious animals, the scrapings and leavings of the alleys of Port-a-Lucine, as ill-tempered a pack of mongrels as James could find. He tended to adopt dogs he found on the streets, and around him the pack of animals was like a litter of puppies, bowling each other over to try and get an ear scratched or a head patted.

Getting from the gates to the warehouse took almost ten minutes, with James having to wade his way through a pack of mongrels. They didn't leave him alone till he found the barrel where he kept the lengths of cured ham and beef and distributed it to the pack. Only then did the yellow-eyed man get to go into the warehouse.

The building was a small one, actually, originally used to store, of all things, small rocking horses carved in Mordent. It had been more or less abandoned for years when James had moved in, and for all that he'd been here four months now, there wasn't a single problem. It was really quite convenient for everything. Big enough to do work in, private and out of the way, and with enough of a run outside for the dogs.

The inside of the warehouse was simple enough. A large, open room dominated by a huge...thing... covered in a tarp to keep the dust off, a bunch of crates filled with random goods, mostly ceramics, a back office where James kept some spare clothing, a cot, and a collection of short books and such. (He was currently two-thirds of the way through The Life of Alanik Ray, by Arthur Sedgewick. He found it hilarious). There was also a work-table covered in paint and paint-thinner of all sorts, along with some tiles.

It was to this last one that James went to. Putting on an apron, James puttered around the table a bit before taking some tongs, picking up a little chip of ceramic, and dipping it into a small bowl of paint, oil, and some other chemicals....

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It was well past midnight when James was disturbed from his labors. The apron had acquired a few new splotchs of paint, and several discarded pieces of ceramic littered the floor. A bucket nearby contained a viscuous brown goo of discarded paint. There it was again, the insistent knock upon the gates.

"Now what kind of hatter is out at this time of night?" James asked, the world. The world didn't deign to answer. With a martyred sigh, the yellow-eyed man hung up his apron and headed outside, sending the dogs away as he opened the gates outside.

"What's the matter?" He asked, though a quick glance told him the shape of things. There were three of them, grim, unpleasant-looking sailor-types, strongly muscled and with a few too many knives or lengths of stout wood to come on any legitimate matter.

The leading one, a brute of a man with dark, beetling brows, was almost as tall as James. He fingered a knife that was well on its way to a sword as he spoke. "Hello stranger. Seems like you've just moved in here, and you haven't paid of the housing fees."

"Fees?" James asked mildly.

"Yeah... you know, fees for street-cleaning, lamp-lighting," The lead man said.

"Health..." One of his lackey's supplied, apparently a self-proclaimed wit.

"That too." The lead man agreed amiably. "Shouldn't come to more than a hundred lunars a month. Sound good, old man?"

"Sounds wonderful, guv'nor." James agreed, opening the gate inside wider. "Here, come on in, I'll get the 'fees' in a bit."

The four men headed inside, and James noted with a certain amusement that none of them were bright enough to leave a watchman outside. Thugs. James lifted his cap and scratched his head. Had he ever been that stupid? God, he hoped not.

"Here, the cash is inside." James said as he fumbled the key to the latch of the warehouse. Judging the distance enough, he promptly dropped the keys, and as he did so, put two fingers into his mouth and whistled. Loud.

From their kennels on the other side of the warehouse, a full dozen large, sharp-toothed canines rushed to their master's call. Some looked almost like Rottweilers or Alsatians, while a few were no mix of dog known to kennel club. All of them, however, had lots of muscles and lots of sharp teeth.

One of the thugs snarled a curse and drew a knife, only to be over-born by the weight of a dog only marginally smaller than him. He slashed at it, and canine blood ran across the hound's chest. Before he could do more, however, a second hound snapped at his face, drawing sharp teeth across his nose and eyes. He screamed for a few seconds, until a crunch on his throat ended that.

The second man tried to make a run for it, seeing his companion's fate, but there were simply too many of the dogs, and he was too far away. He got within a few yards of the gate when a small Alsatian mix hamstrung him. He too, screamed only briefly.

The lead man, however, turned with a vengeance towards James. With a snarl of anger, he slashed out with the heavy knife. Faster than was humanly possible, James grabbed his wrist, holding it in a death-grip. The thug paled as James lifted his other hand, unhurriedly. The last sight the thug knew was the sharp, ivory claws ripping apart his throat.

31 May 761

• You will already have heard (I hope) something of our adventures of the last few days, assuming that our mutual friend in Phiraz has not been drawn and quartered, or otherwise made to feel the brunt of the Prophet’s displeasure because of his association with us. We have been made the victims of an imposture—the wizard Cavendish’s most bizarre and most nearly successful attempt to stop the Expedition dead in its tracks, by making us out to be his confederates (!) in the evil deeds he did in that city.
  
  As you will no doubt have learned from other sources, the city of Phiraz had been wracked in the week before our arrival by a series of bizarre and grotesque murders in different parts of the city, the victims’ soul being stripped from their bodies by some un-dead monstrosity known as the Angra Mainyu, in reference to the principle evil spirit of the Path of Purity. Consequently, the forces of law and order were strung at their highest pitch, and all representatives of the government, from the lowest of Confessors to the Prophet himself, were exerting themselves to the utmost to bring the murderer (and its presumed creator) to justice. The relevance of this tale of horror was not immediately apparent, and at first we busied ourselves in preparing for our passage across the Great Desert—in the course of which preparations, C. and L. encountered the Anubite in the Great Library of Phiraz, and learned that the expression “to throw the book at someone” can be quite literal and fairly dangerous. They received assistance from a powerful Confessor, Judge al-Shirazi, of whom more will be said in the sequel (further information on the aftermath of this encounter will be enclosed in a missive to follow). We knew, therefore, that the Anubite was on the scene, and prepared ourselves for her interference—but trouble soon surfaced in another quarter.
  
  The morning after our arrival we ourselves were commanded to appear before the Prophet, on the most flimsy of pretexts (an encounter in the most opera-bouffe style between D. and a Confessor, in which he exerted his “hypnotic talents” and knowledge of nursery rhymes to calm the wrathful cleric after a misunderstanding involving his student). The Prophet knew a great deal about our past exploits—more than he could have obtained without inside information, I believe—and suspended all charges on condition that we act as deputies to the regular police force in the matter of these murders. It was at this time that C. noted that the High Confessor, one of the Prophet’s two chief advisors, was under the influence of enchantment. Suspecting that Cavendish was before us (correctly, not that it did us much good in the event) we therefore did our best to make arrangements for our information to be passed through Judge al-Shirazi rather than through his presumably-compromised superior.
  
  After a day of investigation, largely without profit, we were awakened in the middle of the night by news of a bizarre and horrifying murder on the grounds of the University. Hastening to the scene, we found that Cavendish (for it was he) had animated several large skeletons on display there and replaced them with murdered victims representing various methods of suicide. He made us a little speech and then commanded a bizarre cat-skeleton to attack us—an assault which ended in the death of U. Much sobered by this tragedy, and unable to track the skeletons (the resourceful Cavendish had marched them under the lake, preventing us from discovering his lair immediately) we retired to lick our wounds and plan the next day’s excursion. Hoping to get a drop on the miscreant Cavendish, we enlisted (as we supposed) the help of Judge al-Shirazi and two of his fellow Confessors for our trip to the city necropolis, where we soon learned that Cavendish had indeed made his lair there.
  He was even closer than we had anticipated, in fact. On our arrival the supposed “Judge al-Shirazi” dropped his disguise and revealed himself to be none other than Cavendish, in the company of two undead freaks! He launched a taunting assault on us, culminating in the arrival of none other than the Prophet of Purity himself, who accused us of consorting with Cavendish to extort money from him by driving away the “menace” who was actually guiding our actions! Apparently Cavendish had been some days in setting up this subterfuge, and we willingly placed our heads in the noose—having trusted in our detecting the High Confessor to have allowed us to put our information in the hands of the proper authorities, when, by confiding in “al-Shirazi” we were actually communicating with Cavendish himself! It never became clear when the exchange had taken place—if the person we first met as al-Shirazi was the real judge (we saw him imprisoned in Cavendish’s lair, but were unable to ask him enough to learn when he had been captured) or if our interactions, first and last, were only with Cavendish all along.
  
  At any rate, Diamabel (showing an excellent grasp of priorities, if a sadly credulous nature) went for Cavendish hammer and tongs, leaving us to be captured by his followers. Not much caring for this plan, we made our escape down a series of tunnels leading to the Ousserd, near the spillway of the great dam, and were at last able to outdistance our pursuers. We also saw the finale of the duel between the Prophet and the necromancer, although it ended in such a way as to leave us in doubt of the victor—or even if there had been a victor, for it appeared to us that the two were immolated, in the end, in a single fiery burst of energies. Sad experience teaches me that we are unlikely to be so fortunate, but as of this writing we have not had a further encounter with Cavendish.
  
  This is not to say that all has been tranquil. Far from it, in fact; for, in the first place, we were fleeing from the armed might of the Prophet’s armies, and toward the depths of the Pharazian desert and the strange phenomenon known as the God-storm—a stationery sandstorm fabled for its destructive power. We were, however, fortunate (?) enough to find a gap in the fabled storm, in a ruined keep on the border between Sebua and Pharazia, where we sought shelter—and learned that our trip would be delayed by the illness (some have bruited the idea of poisoning) of Dr. Pelletier, who collapsed in the moment of our arrival and was adjudged by K. to be simply incapable of continuing without several days of recuperation. Accordingly, we resolved to make the keep our new home away from home.
  
  And what a home it proved! I hardly dare to hope that the remainder of this narrative can be believed, but all these things I experienced personally and can vouch for. We soon learned that the keep was haunted, and not in the “normal” way (if that phrase has any meaning when applied to supernatural phenomena); rather, the spirit in it was of the sort that inhabits inanimate objects and causes them to move and act. It was also (I am not sure if this was a separate phenomenon) subject to bizarre spatiotemporal distortions, had a magician’s lair behind a riddle-trap in the tower, and (at this point I fear my story becomes totally incredible) a demon of Hell in the oubliette situated in the keep’s dungeon. It was also home to a haunt of a slightly more normal sort—a flayed man who had been kept beyond the limits of life after his murder at the hands of his jealous overlord (said overlord was responsible for summoning the aftermentioned fiend, and presumably for trapping it in its prison in the keep). After a series of misadventures in which we popped into and out of the Realm Beyond rather at random, causing no end of confusion, and were attacked both by the animator and the flayed man, a small group encountered the demon princeling in his subterranean prison and were induced to encourage the rest of us to pay him a visit.
  
  On our appearance before him he offered inducements—information, wealth, and arcana—if we would restore a book belonging to him to his possession. One may speak in jest of bargaining with the Devil, but when confronted with the actuality even one’s self-interest revolts against the sheer unspeakable evil apparent in such a creature’s demeanor; we temporized, so as not to offend the princeling while in his very presence, but resolved to do our best to destroy his prized possession and flee. From information obtained from the flayed man (!), who bore the demon a grudge from his days of life, we learned enough to know to search for the book in a cistern (actually an underground lake) beneath the keep; unfortunately, said cistern was occupied by a sea-serpent (cistern-serpent?) who was rather territorial and not at all inclined to allow us a friendly exploration of his demesne. We were obliged to force the matter, in the course of which the Pharazian tribesman I. (hired as a second to Kh. as a desert guide during our time in Phiraz) proved his mettle in the most dramatic of fashions, doing more damage to the creature than the rest of us put together and giving it its quietus. In its downward plunge it dragged C. to the bottom, where he discovered the book and returned with it to the surface.
  
  The demon prince knew of our obtaining the book almost immediately and demanded its return; we did our best to forestall him while endeavoring to find a way to fulfill a rhyme revealed to us which we hoped would result in his entire destruction. He created weird fire-men to pursue us and retrieve his book, but ingenuity and sheer bald-faced luck carried the day; with not a moment to spare we succeeded in deciphering the riddle which would destroy the fiend’s soul (the very book he had sent us to retrieve, binding his anima in corporeal form) and ended by burning it in the very heart of one of the firelings sent to destroy us. On his death the magics with which he had maintained the keep for long centuries were annulled, and the entire edifice collapsed, leaving us to flee as we could into Sebua—from whence I write this letter, hoping for a respite (however brief) from so much excitement.
  
  To recite events in a bare narrative leaves out a great deal, of course; in a more propitious moment I will write a little bit of a “break in the case”. I have had contact from not one but two potentially invaluable allies, and hope that we may soon have the back of this particular serpent broken.

July 7th, 761

Charles woke up early, as was his habit. Dawn was unpleasant enough as it was that he never liked to go through it asleep. Besides, waking up so early also let him get a few more pages done on his book before Andre returned. The Terrible Tombs of Har'Akir would be a best seller, Charles suspected darkly, a thought that gave him little pleasure. Every time Charles published a book, he got a rash of visitors.

Still, this one was going to be interesting, even if the Government would censor two-thirds of it. Charles finished scribbling a few more words into the manuscript as Andre returned from his nocturnal voyages. Charles would have to ask where his roommate left for each night upon the moonbeams. Then again, Andre was being strange these days. He tended to drip on Charles when he got too close, for one thing, and the forked tongue was disconcerting. The third eye, Charles was used to.

===============================================

"Good morning, Prof." Michel asked cheerily, waving broadly towards Charles as the latter sat, pondering a good synonym for 'Eidolon'.

"Er.... Good morning Michel." Charles said hesitantly. He always liked Michel, but he felt sort of sorry for him. Those black threads veined throughout the skin must have hurt.

"What'd you like for breakfast?" The Dementlieuse man asked, fiddling around with the skillets and enchanted provision boxes. Charles sometimes wondered about them, really. The scorpion motifs on the third one was disconcerting.

"Um.... toast please..." Charles said, watching the massive, black-bodied eagle landed on Michel's shoulder. The Dementlieuse man continued joking and laughing, even as the bird leaned in and began to pluck out Michel's entrails.

"Will do. How's the book coming along? Making us all famous?" Michel asked, ignoring the fact that he was getting his liver over the toast. When Charles got it he only nibbled.

"Er.... I suppose." Charles ventured, wondering for a moment if the fact that the eagle wore a chain of office was significant. He probably wouldn't put these daily avian visits into the book. Charles had enough trouble with the Government as it was.

===============================================

Eidolon, eidolon, eidolon. Charles scratched his head as he tried to think of a better word. It was really very annoying when you had only one word for something you used repeatedly in the text. The jolting of the camel's gait wasn't particularly helping Charles's intellectual processes either.

A rider came up beside Charles, a hunch-backed figure wrapped in a poisonous-green robe. It's face was a mask of copper, representing a figure that was part insect and part ape, something unnaturally hideous, vicious and vile beyond belief. Tentacles held the reins of its pure-white steed, though this horse had no eyes and no nostrils, nor mouth or ears. It lisped horribly, sounds issuing from mandibles that were not crafted for human words.

• Nature rejects the monarch, not the man;
  The subject, not the citizen; for kings
  And subjects, mutual foes, forever play
  A losing game into each other's hands,
  Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man
  Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
  Power, like a desolating pestilence,
  Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
  Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
  Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
  A mechanized automaton.

"Er.... thank you." Charles said politely. He scratched his head again briefly. He really disliked writer's block. "Er.... do you know a synonym for 'Eidolon'?"

"Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes — are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry." The creature hissed, the mandibles of its mask moving in time to the sybilant sounds issuing forth. "Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. "

"Idol!" Charles grinned like a schoolboy. "Thank you...um.... very much, sir!...er...madam....personage..."

Satisfied, the green-cowled entity raised a tentacle to bid Charles goodbye. For his part, Charles returned to composing his next paragraphs with renewed spirits. It was good for the soul when strangers were so nice!

===============================================

Charles never liked talking to Professor Pelletier. There was just something about the elder professor that Charles never quite appreciated. Perhaps it was the beard. Or the slightly patronizing tone of voice. Or perhaps the maggots crawling out of his decayed eye sockets. At any rate, there was something about him that Charles disliked. Probably the beard.

"....So we must all be vigilant, Charles." Pelletier was saying. Charles mostly ignored the words, watching the light shine through the professor's skeletal hands. "The Anubite may try any trickery upon us."

"Er.... of course Doctor." Charles murmurred, composing another passage of The Terrible Tombs of Har'Akir in his mind. Possibly something based on the Statue of the Faceless. He wondered if he should've told anyone about the beating heart in the statue's core. Probably not. "May I be excused now?"

"Of course Charles." Professor Pelletier waved a hand, a bit of decayed flesh falling down to the sand, a fat, white maggot crawling out. "But be on the alert."

===============================================

"You alright, Professor?" Harris asked, worried at Charles's silence after supper. The little lamp that always flickered above his shoulder wavered a little in the wind. Charles sometimes wondered about the blood-red wax, but he figured there was a reason. Anyways, so long as it stayed lit, Charles was safe.

"Er... fine, just...um....distracted." Charles said carefully, casting a look at the sky, passing underneath the four, chained wizards circling the moon.

The stood back to back, arms chained with coils of silver and gold and heavier, more lethal metals. One was clad in the robes of a prelate, another in furs, a third in a silvery suit, a fourth only in a cape of ermine. Two men and two women, their faces alien, their eyes glowing with a brilliant white light, they chanted in unison.

"....Law of Contagion declares that what is in contact is always in contact...."
"....By the Seal of Korefaless, I Summon Thee, Prince of Lower Air, come hither...."
"....The icosahedral prism causes an increase in the Cherenkov radiation, invoking...."
"....A drop of murderer's blood, the eye of a wattled frog, ashes of a wolf's pelt...."

"Er...sorry..." Charles murmurred, turning his gaze back to Harris, pondering the network of sigils over the other man's body only briefly. Heart, head, hand, stomach, throat, all bound up in the blood-red, acrid signs. They must've taken a lot of effort to set up, Charles wouldn't wonder. "I'm just...er...a bit tired.... think I'll head in for the night."

"Right, professor. Sleep well." Harris waved lightly to Charles, the network of blood-red lines contracting slightly.

"Er....good night."

July 14th, 761

• Engagement today on the southern end of the ‘Jackal’s Ruse’, 119 days out of Port-a-Lucine. Were ambushed by undead, estimated strength of ~200, subdivided by Prof. Theroux into zombies, ghouls, and what is termed a ‘ghoul lord’. Kuzan confirmed. Most of the party wounded, none permanently, seven camels lost, two wound----

The pen chose that moment to let loose a large, ugly spurt of ink onto the page of the Expedition’s day-log. Samael swore tiredly, placing the pen down and carefully tearing the page out of the logbook. He was simply too tired to get more upset over one more minor disaster of an Expedition that was filled with them.

Samael Maleagant looked up at the little oil lamp by the makeshift table and doused the floating wick with a finger, plunging his tent into darkness. It was well past midnight, but so be it. He’d write up the day log tomorrow. It would keep.

The truth of the matter, simply, was that Samael was tired. He was a high-strung man, and here the Expedition was picking him up and strumming him like a mandolin. Funny image, that, Maleagant thought for a moment, sitting in the black darkness of his tent. It was true though. As best Samael could gather from his clothing, he’d lost weight on the Expedition, and his sleeping habits, never very good to begin with, had turned to full-blown insomnia. At least his hands were free of tremors yet, but once that happened Samael may as well retire.

Assuming I live to retire. Or even to get out of this desert. That, Samael had to admit, was the heart of the problem. Maleagant was willing to admit to himself, here, in the dark, as he undressed and entered his cot, that he was patently terrified of death. When he was maybe ten years old, his mother had taken him to watch convicts being buried in the potter’s fields of a Port-a-Lucine’s main cemetery. An object lesson, if you will. Samael still got a shudder in his soul when he contemplated those loose-limbed, wretched bodies. Like life-sized dolls, almost. Never that. Anything but. Samael promised himself. His will, a copy of which was logged with his lawyer in Levkarest and a copy of which was in the Expedition records, instructed that his remains to be cremated. Samael would do anything to avoid becoming one of those limp corpses in the potter’s field.

Except….I was. For a few seconds, anyway. Samael admitted to himself, staring up at the blackness of his tent, his eyes gradually growing accustomed to the dark. For a few short seconds, Samael had been dead. Then Andre’s little spell had caught his spirit and thrown it back into his body. Samael didn’t remember a thing, really, just the cold slicing of metal into his flesh, then he was awake on the ground, and rolling the hell out of there. But of that brief moment in between, Samael remembered nothing.

Now….. interesting theological question. Is it because whatever was there was so horrible I can’t force my mind to remember it, or because there is literally nothing to remember, and after death you just have oblivion? Samael thought. He wasn’t really certain which possibility terrified him more. The end of existence, or a tortuous existence? But as an atheist and sinner, those were the options available to him. Except… well, religions promised all sorts of things in the afterlife, provided you had lived a good life on earth.

Right, that and two pence will get me a cup of coffee. Samael smiled a little bitterly into the shadows. The Ezran religion is founded by Yakov Dilisnya. You can’t convince me that’s not a con. And when was the last time you saw a church hierarch who was poor? Biskop Kadri certainly makes out quite nicely with the Lawgiver’s faith, and I don’t recall Julisca grubbing in the dirt in Ravnika. Kuzan’s got himself a cozy little niche as Expedition medic too.

But most of the known world believed in some kind of faith. That many people can’t all be wrong? Well, yes, they could be. If people weren’t gullible, half of academia and all politicians would be unemployed. Samael thought darkly. The little scuttling sound from outside the tent went unnoticed.

Still…. They all agreed on the idea of good faith and good works being required, even if they were fairly confused on what constituted good deeds. Maybe there was something to it after all. After all, say you try some of that good faith and good works business, and it fails. How are you worse off now than before? And if it succeeds….

On the other hand, is it a good deed if you’re doing it for purely mercenary motives? Samael rubbed his temples, a purely nervous gesture that seemed to be happening more and more often. Why do I not think most people have this much trouble figuring out how to be good. Then again, most people didn’t have the benefit of a skeptic’s education in the University of Dementlieu, combined with Samael’s extraordinarily deep-seated cynicism. Lucky them.

Maybe it was worth trying, though. Faith, Samael didn’t think he could manage. But works… how hard was that? Maybe he’d spend some of his money from the Expedition to found an orphanage in Port-a-Lucine, or maybe a free hospital. Those were usually considered to be ‘good deeds’, regardless of religion, right? Hells, why not both? Samael thought, cynically. Double-credit. Maybe I’ll even start attending church, if I ever figure out which religion isn’t a get-rich-quick scheme. He wondered briefly if he could persuade the other members of the group to chip in. This led to an image of Jervis at an orphanage, at which point Samael’s imagination mercifully failed him. Probably not.

Samael dozed a bit, pondering just how he’d set up his orphanage. In the Quartier Marchand, most likely, since the real estate wasn’t too expensive, and because it was a better environment than the slums of the Quartier Ouvrier. Merchants and tradesmen instead of criminals and paupers. Yes, much better. Possibly set up some sort of self-perpetuating fund to cover the operating costs, or maybe give them real estate to rent out.

There was a quiet, yet somehow rough, scuttling sound from just inside his tent. Samael took a moment to process this. Probably just the wind… Samael realized what he’d just thought. It is NEVER just the wind. Purely off of reflex, the Borcan rolled aside.

The shadow-scorpion was the size of a terrier, almost invisible in the dark tent. It was crafted from animated shadows and darkness, given form and purpose by a thin shell of raw magic. This purpose seemed to include stinging the pillow where Samael had been about two seconds ago.

He could yell for help, but in a small tent people would just get in the way. Not to mention with his luck, someone would collapse the tent and leave Samael wrapped up with a highly irate scorpion. I’ll pass, Samael thought irrelevantly, snatching his clothing off of the chest on which he’d folded them.

The shadow-scorpion scuttled forward now, abandoning stealth for speed, even as Samael desperately searched through pockets for some kind of weapon. Gods, I am getting old. No knife under the pillow… Except that if Samael didn’t do something, he wasn’t going to get older. Found it!

A knife!

A scorpion!

Samael threw his shirt onto the massive construct, dodging aside as it shredded the black shirt with claws and tail of shadow-stuff. I liked that shirt… Samael thought, waiting for the perfect angle. The scorpion lunged forward, snapping its claws menacingly. Maleagant waited for the last possible moment, then lashed out with his dagger.

It skittered along the hard chitin carapace of the construct, even as the sting-tipped tail grazed Maleagant’s arm. Samael swallowed a yelp as hot venom coursed through his blood. Knives, it seemed, were less than useful against shadow-construct-scorpions. Samael needed a different weapon. Quickly.

He had…. Two chests….about a dozen daggers…. Some sadly tattered clothing… pistols which he’d never load fast enough… a cot…a heavy blanket against the desert chill….

…

…A heavy blanket against the desert chill.

Samael ducked back towards his bed, pursued by the stinging, magic-wrought insect. Grabbing an end of the blanket, Maleagant waited, beads of sweat clouding his brow. The shadow-scorpion scuttled towards him, crossing over the cot. That was enough. Samael lifted the blanket rapidly, cracking it towards the shadow-construct and sending it flying. It was fast and poisonous, but not very heavy. Also not very aerodynamic.

It hit the edge of the tent and fell, upside down. Before it could right itself, Samael was on it, enfolding it in the heavy blanket. The thing struggled, but lacked the force or leverage to pierce the thick, woolen cloth. It didn’t stop struggling till Samael shoved the entire wriggling bundle under one end of his large chests, and then let it drop down.

When a few minutes later, a wary Maleagant withdrew the blanket, there was no sign of a scorpion. Crafted of shadow, it had returned to shadow.

May 29th, 760

Charles was having breakfast in one of the little side cafes of the Quartier Savant when dawn arrived, heralded by the loud, brazen trumpeting of the angel atop Ste. Mare des Larmes. Charles glanced up from his bit of toast and weak tea.

It was a rather beautiful angel, by any objective standards. Standing at thrice the size of a man, it was androgynous yet oddly beautiful, and wearing a magnificent cloth-of-gold robe and a brass trumpet with which it greeted the day. It stood atop the bell-tower of the cathedral, proudly sweeping its gaze across Parnault Bay.

Must have been a holy day on the Ezran calendar, Charles decided, as he finished the little bit of toast and headed over to the counter pay his bill.

===============================================

Charles didn’t have to give any lectures till just before noon, so he decided to walk to the University today, breathe some fresh air. As always, Port-a-Lucine’s busy streets were swarming with people, and some things that only looked like people, even this early in the day.

“Good morning, M’lady!” Charles said politely to the well-dressed matron walking her pet in the morning air. The old woman gave him a warm nod, though the foot-long spider just glared at Charles, annoyed at the interruption. Charles regretted not having a cookie to give it.

“Good morning sir!” Charles waved to a well-dressed young man who was also taking a brisk walk in the chilly air. The young dandy smiled to Charles, showing fangs, before continuing on his way.

A few minutes later, Charles came across a trio of small, fur-covered men dragging a huge sack through the street. They were each no more than three feet tall, and covered with black, bristling hair that stuck up in great tufts and spikes. Two large, luminous eyes peered out of the black hair, but all other features were obscured, just the great pair of eyes, the size of tea saucers set in a child’s head. The sack they carried moved and twitched, and leaked a dark, crimson fluid periodically. They seemed to be having some trouble moving it.

“Er… excuse me… um… need any help… you seem to have a problem…” Charles offered hesitantly, looking at the little furry men with curiosity.

The trio consulted with each other briefly, whispering in a clicking language that was entirely too far from human speech to be comfortable, sounding more like the soft whispers of moth wings or the tapping of fingers against a window pane. Then they nodded to Charles, indicating a door made of black crystal in the middle of the pavement.

“Er… certainly.” Charles went over and opened the door, taking care not to fall into the chill void beneath it. The three little men clicked happily and took up their sack again, progressing towards the door. “Er… you certain you got that?”

The three men waved away his objections, throwing the sack underground, ignoring its anguished twitching. Then first one, then a second of them jumped down after it. The third paused, gliding over to Charles to shake his hand in gratitude, before jumping after its brethren. Charles waited a decent interval, then closed the door, shaking his head to himself.

To think that the University had denied his ‘Hollow World’ proposal funding, Charles thought regretfully. Up above, the brilliant angel began to cough.

===============================================

Charles stirred the sugar into his tea in the faculty lounge, pleased with how his first lecture of the day had gone. He really felt he had started some genuine discussion, though some of it sounded distressingly like giggling. Still, Charles was optimistic.

“Hullo Pierre.” Charles said pleasantly to the lone other professors in the staff lounge as he sat down to enjoy his tea. There was a broadsheet from Zherisia there, a few days old. Adrian had probably left it there, it had the distinctive blackened, charred look most of them did.

“Hello Charles!” Pierre said, pleased as could be with the day. “My grandson said his first word today! I’ve haven’t shown you little Maurice’s picture, have I?”

“Er… no…” Pierre had, actually, repeatedly, but Charles didn’t have the heart to point it out as the older man pulled out the small daguerreotype of the sleeping child in its mother’s arms, showing it to Charles for the third time this month.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Pierre asked exultantly. Charles looked at the babe once more. It was a small, wizened thing, and even at this early age its little knit cap was a stunning, brilliant crimson, showing even through the medium of the monochrome daguerreotype. As Charles watched, the babe opened its ageless eyes and drew a long butcher’s knife from the folds of its swaddling clothes. It made a throat-slitting gesture at the doting woman who held it, before giving Charles a knowing wink and returning back to sleep.

“He…er… looks just like you.” Charles said with less-than-perfect honesty. Outside, the beautiful angel coughed up blood.

===============================================

• Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
  Flames of futility swirling below;
  Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
  Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.
  
  Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
  Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
  Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
  Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.
  
  Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
  Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
  Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
  Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain…

Charles considered the essay before him for a while. On the one hand, it certainly went above and beyond the call of duty, and the student had taken the effort to frame it as a narrative poem. That said, he wasn’t sure that the young man had really grasped the causes behind the Terg attacks of the Barovian 2nd century.

B+, Charles scrawled in the margins, before adding some comments. Good style, and the effort is obvious, but needs more background research.

Charles looked at the paper again, written as it was on thin slips of copper and burned into the metal. The young man wasn’t really on any of the registration lists, but Charles had long since stopped paying any attention to attendance whatsoever. People tended to wander in and out of his courses, and his papers never matched the names on the roster. This young man… Charles squinted at the signature atop the copper page. Some kind of sigil, looked like a squiggly circle with a triangle in it. Probably an exchange student.

Well, Charles considered, shouldn’t be too hard on the lad. After all, Mordentish probably wasn’t his first language, and he did have a rather nice poetical style for someone using a foreign language, even if he was a little bit light on the primary sources. Charles gazed outside his office window at the floating tesseract of black ivory in the courtyard as he thought.

Try consulting Mortansius’s Late Terg Empire, Vol II, Charles wrote. There now, much better. In Port-a-Lucine, the dying angel breathed his last.

===============================================

It was almost dark when Charles finally finished off grading papers for the day. Charles cast a quick glance outside, eyes drawn to the angel atop Ste. Mare des Larmes. The angel had rotted, feathers dropping off to float to the ground even as the worms chewed upon its delectable flesh. One of the angel’s eyeballs had been eaten already, and the other was wide and staring. Nevertheless, the rotted angel raised its trumpet to proclaim the hour.

Charles nodded to himself. Definitely time to call it a day. Putting the papers away in his desk and locking it with a key, Charles collected his coat and headed outside, giving the departmental secretary a cheerful goodbye as he left. She barely batted an eyelid. But then again, she didn’t have eyelids these days, not since she’d annoyed the President. “There are some men from the Government to see you.”

Charles suppressed a groan. Nothing good ever came of visits from the Government. “Er… I’ll see them in the lounge… er… alright?”

“No need, Professor.” An urbane voice behind Charles murmured. Charles shivered in fear before turning, putting a polite smile on his face.

As always, the Government sent three agents, all wearing black suits of the latest fashions. The leader was a tall young man, silver hair bound into a pony tail, and with an appearance to set hearts of any young woman throbbing. Charles couldn’t detect a single blemish upon him, not a single sign of anything beyond what any man would see. That was terrifying.

His cohorts were much more comforting. To the left was a young woman with cat-like features, playing cheerfully with a sharp stiletto. When she thought no one was looking, she stabbed herself in the wrist, watching the blood flow out of the wound with a thrill that was almost sexual in nature. To the right was a short, rotund man, much older than his companions, with grey skin, grey hair, grey eyes, a bloody hole in his forehead. Occasionally, Charles saw something moving in the wound, something black-green and the size of his fist.

“Now then, Professor, please, have a seat.” The Government’s man gestured to a chair, as the quartet faded from the secretary’s perception. “You must be aware, but matters are afoot. A great game is being played, and the first gambit has just occurred.”

“Er… yes sir.” Devereux nodded politely, certain that the Government’s man hadn’t come to chat merely.

“Ja-In-Se Ba-Pe-Ot Av-Ca-Se-Ad Ce-Ik Le-Ja-Av-Ym, Jo-Il-Se Bu-Pu-Ou Ax-Ce-Sa-Ax Ce-Il On-Ke-Cu-Ni-Ce-Qu. Po Hu-Ju-Ot-Qu Tu-Ie-Un-Ja-Ne-Qu-To-Ik-Pi-Qe-So Qe-Te-Nu-Is Ja-Un Se-Ve-Si-Il-Qu-Or.”* The cat-woman said with a purr, watching her blood make abstract patterns on the ground.

“Exactly.” The Government’s man said with a smile. “But that is only the first gambit, much more shall happen. And that is where you come in, my good professor.”

“Um… I do?” Charles asked.

“Certainly, my verbally-challenged fellow traveler. Unless, of course, you want the Ministry to take a closer look at your last book?” The Government’s man possessed a smile that was all teeth, blinding and beautiful and really quite disturbing. Charles nodded glumly. This is why he loathed the Government.

“Wa-Su Po-Or-Fe Le-Tu-Qu Po Ge-Ca-Qu-Qo-Ge-Su Qo-Ba-Ch-It-Ra, Pi Qa-Ba-Te-Hu-Li Ja-In Qu-Ba-Su Ou-Ee-Po-Ge-So-Ow Uk-Ni-Je-Ha Qu-Ca-Hi-So Qa-Ji Qu-Ci-Ha-Se,”** Said the cat-woman, purring richly as the heady scent of blood filled the room. She smiled, a triangular little grin. “Yo-Ji-Ta Wa-Ce-Ga-Ge Fe-Id-Je-Wo Wa-Bo-Pe-Qu Yn-Je-Te Ho-Ta-On-Qu An-Ji, Pe-Id-Am Wa-Bo-Se-It Yo-Ji-Te Ha-Ti-On-Qu Al-Jo Ci-Qu.”***

“Understood?” The Government’s man asked pleasantly, putting an elegantly manicured hand into his black coat and withdrawing a fairly average, generic pocket watch. “This should be of use to you, in any extremity.”

Suddenly, the third man croaked, and in a voice possessed of it’s own, bizarre internal harmony, began to prophecy. One voice was that of a man, but the other… it was that of an insect.

“Nbot ejs nroy ‘nkot qat neçest, xtveot kn ckgstj tytp ejs cgtehbjc pkrgp. N pljot nhi gjot ptq jrq yjo itptoq pnhi, n pljot nhi gjot pbnff gttq qbt inoehtpp jy n pljot ch jht. Pakrgs pejiqbnbts xgkks plbgg rlkj sthtjqgbtr’p egqeo, qatj paegg qat kgs paeskv xt gtq gkkpt. Ftppthti jhlt, ftppthti qvclt, n qbcoi qcgt ftppthti ux qbt onq, ux qbt lnq, ux qbt bjrhi.” There was a droning element to his speech, a buzzing somewhere beneath the surface, a mechanical quality that screeched against good nature. “Pakrgs qat xgeif akrocgepp priitts, ‘veot qat hesstjts’p ptouejq, ejs skj’q gtq abh jteo qat cgepp fjbnt. Ftppthti nanch ux qbt ptokthq, nhi jhlt nanch ux qbt dnlenf, nhi ktobnkp ux gjot pbjrfi ynqt bnst gjot ch cqp pqjot. Pakrgs qat xgeif akrocgepp nebg, qatj qat pejshej bp qat vteftpq gbjf bj qat irjjbjc iaebj. Nzrot cp itnqb, ajfi cp inghnqcjh, qbt jht bnp knppti; qbt jqbto gnx.”*

“Well then, I believe that covers everything.” The Government’s man said with a smile, rising to his feet and offering a warm handshake to Charles. “Don’t worry about anything, we’ll be right there all the time, two steps behind.”

“Pu-Ie-An Je-Id-Se Or-Qu-Se-Ke Po-Ba-Se-Po-Ax…”**** The cat-woman laughed richly, and the three agents of the Government departed.

Outside, atop the Ste. Mare des Larmes the rotting angel collapsed into a noxious sludge.

===============================================

• * = “One has died in body, one has died in spirit. A most unfortunate turn of events.”
  
  ** = “We ask but a little thing, a thumb on the scales from time to time,”
  
  *** = “You will know what you must do, and when you must do it.”
  
  * = “Fire and fury ‘fore the Façade, beware of golden eyes and gleaming souls. Should sanctified blood spill upon Dementlieu’s altar, then shall the old Shadow be let loose. Should the black hourglass succeed, ‘ware the Maddened’s Servant, and don’t let him near the glass knife. Should the black hourglass fail, then the Sandman is the weakest link in the cunning chain.”
  
  “A Score and More set out for desert sand, a score and more shall meet the darkness of a score in one. Lessened once, lessened twice, a third time lessened by the rat, by the cat, by the hound. Lessened again by the serpent, and once again by the jackal, and perhaps by more should Fate have more in its store. Azure is death, gold is damnation, the one has passed; the other may.”
  
  **** = “And one step ahead...”