Zadown

"You look tired, Marc." Marchello dipped his bread into his bowl of soup and nodded slightly, muttered his reply with his mouth half-full moment later. "Mmhm. Haven't got much sleep last two nights." "The duel?" He nodded again, warming his thin fingers in the fading warmth of the soup bowl. Finally raising his eyes from his breakfast to Fionella, he noted she had paused in the middle of eating, concerned look on her face. "It's over now, Fion. Nobody ... nobody was left dead at the end. In a way, I'm relieved now. It could've ended worse." "I heard other students talk about the fight during my evening class. Did he really use daggers to win?" "It was conjured weapons, made of force - similiar to those blades summoned by Azgaeth's Spinning Destruction, or your average Force Axe spells and such. Technically he did everything by the book, even if many were of the opinnion his style went against the spirit of the duelling laws, if not against the letter. I doubt ... the outcome would have been any different if he had used a more traditional means to win." Except, perhaps, there had been no mere mortal injury to heal with a quick incantation, but just a charred pile of ash, blown away by the wind. The mental image made Marchello's heart beat faster as if he had been in acute danger, himself, the dull pain of his two-day stomach ache stabbing him with renewed vigor. Fionella continued her breakfast, satisfied with the explanations. She gestured with the half-eaten vegetable in her hand. "So, he just rushed in and opened Fal's jugular artery? He should have known that his modest ways would draw a challenge - there's always some young hothead ready to show they have learned in half a dozen years more than the teachers in a lifetime or two." He hesistated before speaking. "He is older than that, Fion. Much older. Falgondi's not good enough in Classic Chaman to realize that, though - one more reason he wanted to pass the way he did." "He is? There aren't many liches that old, they tend to get unstable after a few hundred years." Marchello mumbled a vague affirmative reply and stood up, leaving the remains of his breakfast for the servants to take care of. He waved over his shoulder and left the room before Fionella, her senses far too acute when what he was thinking was concerned, would have noticed his rising agitation, seen the faint lines of fear sketched over his face. It is as if that creature, that Dreamer, was the eye of some huge storm, tugging and tearing us mortals while standing in imperturbable peace in the middle, watching the chaos he creates. Eyes blind to most of us but seeing me...

When he woke up, at first he could not understand what, exactly, he was seeing. The bed felt familiar, the reassuring and enticing warmth and weight of Fionella next to him, the room's shape and contents as he remembered them. Then he saw the taint on everything, the normal darkness replaced with different shades of dark blue, and a painful deja vu constricted his chest. Marchello leaned forward to grab his own stomach, paled even if it was not visible in the unnatural light. The panic's stab was deep but short - it didn't take long to see the glow was being emited by a small bird perched on the edge of the bed, it's eyes two stars of blue brilliance. He whispered, not wanting to wake up his girlfriend. "... Dreamer?" The little bird's head bobbed up and down, once. It hopped down and started to progress towards the front door, its journey easy to see in the light of its glowing eyes. Marchello quickly put on his slippers, grabbed his dressing gown from a nearby chair and hurried after the bird while tying the gown's belt, nudging his mind to wake up properly. What does he want of me, now? And why am I answering to his call - it's not like I owe anything to that monster. He paused. The little bird stopped as well and turned to look back, sending a wave of blue light to his direction - light faint enough to be invisible during day but almost glaring in the dark. Bed waited behind him, but somehow it felt like going back would have been a surrender, an escape. He shrugged at the hazy feeling, raked his hair with his fingers and trailed after the bird, somehow calmed down by now. If he'd wish me harm he would hardly send a little bird as his messenger ... I hope. When he opened the front door, the little bird leaped to the air and landed on the Dreamer's shoulder. The glow of its eyes was barely noticeable out here, under the red moonlight and with the numerous enchanted lights scattered all around the streets. The Dreamer nodded at Marchello. "My apologizes for wakin' ye up, m'lord. May I enter?" "What do you want of me, Dreamer?" Marchello yawned with dedication, closed his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand, then blinked a few times while rubbing his cold hands together. "I don't want to wake Fionella up so I'd prefer to stay right here and hear what you'll have to say." "Walls of silence are elementary creations, aye - I can guarantee she'll not hear a thing." The mortal mage stared at the unreadable lenses and illusionary visage, was unable to find any clues from the snarling, accented speech, and gave up despite the deep feeling of unease he had. Marchello stepped aside and gestured, the Dreamer walking past him with sure step. He found his way to the living room unaided and sat down on a short couch like it had been his house and Marchello had been the guest. Marchello stayed standing a moment longer before depositing his tired body into his favourite chair. The situation felt unreal, absurd, and he had trouble breathing evenly. "Well?" The Dreamer carefully removed his colored lenses and placed them on the table next to him, closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were as he had seen them previously: ordinary and green, immutable. "What 's it like, m'lord ... t' be human?" "You wake me up in the middle of the night to ask that? Me! Why don't you go ask Alberto, I'm sure he'd love to discuss anything, anything at all with Your Excellence." The target of the outburst smiled in an amused, tolerant way and leaned back. "I'm sure he would, ya, if it'd be him I'd wish t' converse with, m'lord Marchello Opulanti. T' be honest, his attitude towards power an' humanity is not one I wish t' explore in further detail - his words are merely rougher echoes of those I can hear from any a lich or a vampire. Those discussions I have gone through already a hundred times an' they shed no further light t' the problems I try to solve." "You do realize that's an impossible question to answer? I've always been a human - there's nothing to compare against. If somebody asked you what is it like to be an immortal, would you be able to answer?" "Eternal existence is cold and exact, m'lord. Clear, flat and unexciting, with the dogs of ennui snapping at your heels. It takes iron self-discipline to merely exist, much less to function. Infinite time gives infine oppoturnities to procrastinate and dawdle, mortal - with no death there are no deadlines, if ye excuse my terrible pun. Those of us who fight in the Eternal War constantly are merely th' tip of an iceberg. For each one of us, walkers of th' planes, there are an uncountable numbers of those equal in power but without purpose, lost t' pleasure or madness, most vanish'd beyond saving or finding, some so well hidden only those who know where they are can find their hideouts." Part of the Dreamer's accent had faded, leaving behind a tone as bleak and joyless as his words. "Gods are born with a purpose, a niche that defines them from the very beginning. One more reason t' hate the parasites, aye." "If you can define immortality with such clarity, shouldn't you be able to define mortality as the opposite of that definition? It sounds almost as if you've been a mortal once." Marchello opened his mouth as if to continue, but something in the Dreamer's face made him stop. The perfect, youthful lines of his illusionary face had shifted minutely, from impassivity to something he could not quite decipher. What he could see was it was not a friendly expression. "Me, a mortal? Many a planewalker would 'ave eviscerat'd ye with their blade if confronted with such an insult - quite a faux pas, m'lord." The planewalker suddenly grinned, his face clearing up from the darker clouds. "But aye, of course I was one of ya, ages ago. Somewhat of a recluse - I let go of whatever tenous grasp I 'ad with humanity very fast after my Ascension. Now, after these thousands o' years an' long slumbers, th' travails o' th' Lost Paths an' th' Eternal War, after bein' exposed t' th' corruption of Chaos an' th' harsh super-reality of Law ... th' hazy remains of memories of time long past are but shadowy wisps near th' edges o' my mind. No 'ardship, until now, has encouraged me t' grasp that part of me tighter. On th' contrary: survival has required, more than once, embracin' my immortality an' its gifts." "Mortality ... or rather humanity, is all about emotions, I suppose. Anger and love, ambition and curiosity, depression and manic toiling ... but surely you still feel at least most of those, Dreamer? If not, you are acting them out rather well." "Th' more negative emotions survive th' vacuum of th' Void easier than their softer counterparts, m'lord." A momentary silence stretched between the two unlikely conversationalists. Marchello yawned again, but his face was thoughtful more than just tired. The Dreamer kept his eyes on the young occultist, not letting his attention drift. "In any case, even with your definition of what it is like to be immortal, I can't give a coherent explanation at this time of the night. Why now? And why me?" "T' anybody else I would 'ave t' explain far too much, an' then wait for them to digest that information." The planewalker shrugged. "As for why now, I doubt yer all that curious t' learn th' details of how th' Eternal War progresses, or what I 'ave been doin' lately. Let's just say a number of paths are open before me an' I need th' opinnions of others so I may disregard them an' in their light see th' way. Sometimes talkin' clarifies one's thoughts better than deep meditation." "You haven't told me these different paths you are choosing one of." "Naw. There's a limit in how much I'd tell t' any mortal, m'lord - my enemies can divine my way from th' cards or th' bones, but givin' them th' oppoturnity t' easily torture my plans out of a mortal is neither in th' interest of me or ye." "There's a limit in how much I can help, then." "Talkin' can be like takin' a walk on th' Lost Paths t' push one's mind out of th' rut it is stuck in - th' changin' scenery, be it mental or real, bringing new elements t' th' mix of different thoughts." "Ah. To be honest, when I saw you at the door I thought that this would be about the duel at first, not about philosophical ponderings about humanity and lack thereof." Clearing that issue up might have saved a life. I should hate him for this, for first experimenting on me, making me end up in the quarantine, killing a fellow student and yet now being here, asking my help ... but it's hard to hate that impassive face, those mild words and that cold intelligence. It seems so futile, like striking a mountain with my bare hands. "What duel'd that be, ya? I hope no student o' mine 's foolish enough t' invoke th' old rule of Sorcery department, about a student bein' able t' pass a course by bestin' th' teacher in a formal duel." "That's exactly what it is about. You haven't heard of it yet, then? It is polite to inform the teacher beforehand, but guess Falgondi does not feel like extending the usual courtesies to an outside like you." The slanted grin that appeared on the Dreamer's face was an unsettling sight.

The room was almost empty. It had a large table and three chairs in the middle, towers of heavy tomes rising from the thick wooden surface, parchments littering the few narrow canyons between them. The walls were bare, only swirls of dust occupying all the copious space between the table and the edges of the room. The Dreamer sat on one of the chairs going through a stack of written reports, his colored lenses obscuring his eyes, the rest of his illusionary face as emotionless as always. He paused in the middle of placing the report he had been reading to a pile, freezing to absolute stillness for a moment before finishing his motion. A tiny wave of his right index finger made the door open. A man stepped in, clad in grey voluminous robes, carrying an adorned staff of stone in his left hand. He was bald, the mark of scales branded on his forehead, the tranquil mark of unruffled Balance visible in the depths of his light blue eyes. The Dreamer dragged his chair around, not bothering to stand up. The mundane sound of wood on stone broke the silence and the feeling of unreality any mortal observer would have felt. “An' what'd ye want o' me, grey emissary? Th' Balance lackin' th' services of this particular Knight o' th' Grail?” The monk of Balance bowed to the Dreamer, slightly deeper than an equal to an equal, before shrugging. “I'm not here by any order of th' Lady of th' Scales - to the contrary, Arbitrator Faaye Khantius forbid me t' bother ya. I felt, however, that ye'd want t' know what is happenin' before ye decide whether t' give up th' war or not." The Dreamer waved his right index finger again to close the door, then removed his colored lenses. A blink and his ordinary eyes deepened into infinite wells of Astral blue. "Arbitrator, aye? 'Twas fast, even for her. She was officially one of Law's when we last met, still." The tone of annoyance in the Dreamer's words faded away as it met the impeccable calm surrounding the monk. "Ye know more than most how Balance works an' how it choses its agents, former High Commander o' Chaos Armies. In th' end, everybody works for her." "Even my twin from beyond th' Parallels, filled t' th' brim with th' acid of th' most corrosive, most volatile raw Chaos? Even Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl of the Law?" "Those two counter each other, leavin' behind..." "Do not think I am a fool, monk! If everythin' would balance everythin' else out, there'd be no point in being at th' equilibrium of th' multiversum, no goal t' work towards. We could all teach th' mortals, sit around immortal lands sippin' nectar an' angel blood or meditate th' centuries away if that'd be th' case." "And yet, m'lord, yer th' one 'ere an' I'm out there, gathering th' forces of Balance t' counter th' threats of the extremities o' Law an' Chaos. See th' irony, Knight o' th' Grail?" The Dreamer's eyes were set afire by the words, yellow and red intertwined with each other in the flames. His frown doused most of them, leaving behind only smoking embers of yellow and black. The effect was even more inhuman than normal, the stark contrast between his youthful, unmarred face and the braziers of his flickering eyes surreal, disgusting. "Ya, I see yer point, erudite. Now, did ya come 'ere t' insult me, or t' tell me something I do not already know?" "I apologize for my words, m'lord. An' I see ye've already learned of yer twin, making this intrusion of mine rather pointless. At least yer now aware that should ye return t' the Eternal War, ye no longer have t' fight alone - th' Lady o' Scales is callin' her own, forces long dormant." "If th' War turns into a conflagration again, I shall notice it without needin' a messenger. Despite th' prodigal number o' my scars, I have not yet begun th' journey towards th' last Ascension - I'm not quite blind or deaf yet, monk." "As ye say, knight. Enjoy yer peace, m'lord." With those words, pronounced with all apparent sincerity, the monk bowed and sidestepped into the Astral, was gone. Left sitting alone in a room slowly turning darker as the winter afternoon progressed, the Dreamer's eyes faded from their bright purple to a wan grey with glacial slowness. Finally the night fell and soon afterwards his illusion settled over his eyes again, painting them with a mortal tone of green.

The Burning Times was almost deserted at that hour, the thick, pale lances of sunlight striking through the windows to expose the dirt and wear of the tables and the chairs, the obsceneties and greetings engraved on the walls with ceremonial daggers, the wine stains on the floor. Marchello walked past all of it with unseeing eyes, his face pale. He ordered a bottle of unmixed white wine. Only then he, the bottle and a single glass in hand, looked around to see where he should sit. He was startled to see a languid hand beckon to him, had trouble seeing who it was as his eyes were accustomed to the relative brightness of outside's wintery sunlight. "Ah, Alberto. Didn't expect to see you here at this hour." His own voice sounded strange, colorless. Marchello walked to the dark corner where Alberto was and sat down, placing his burdens carefully on the small, already cluttered table. "I am here, now and then, at these hours ... when the sunlight seems too harsh and the world too cruel. But you, you are never here, never buying a whole bottle of wine. What ails you, Marc? Your face is pale as an Aefian's." Alberto's words were slow, and as Marchello's eyes slowly grew accustomed to the shadows he could see his friend was almost lying on his bench, his hair dirty and his eyes lustreless. A smell of old booze drifted to his nose, accompanied with the odors of beer and unwashed clothes. He wrinkled his nose and sighed inwardly while pouring himself a glass. "I had been wondering where you have been, lately." "Don't ... just don't start." Alberto sounded tired, but he lifted himself up a bit to a nearly sitting position and started going through the various cups and mugs in front of him. After finding an empty one, he poured himself half a cup from Marchello's bottle and downed the wine with a quick gulp. It gave him the energy to sit properly at last, and when he brushed aside some of the dirty hair that obscured his vision his eyes seemed almost alive again. He leaned forward and stared intensely at Marchello. "You were evading my question, Marc." Marchello drank half a cup in one go, then coughed and put the glass down. "Yes, yes I was. You remember what happened here, back after I got released?" "Of course I do. What of it?" "Heard of the new teacher who teaches 'Advanced Applied Sorcery In Extended Context'?" "Some rumours - a lich, using crude illusion. Looks like a young Aefian noble from a thousand years ago." Alberto blinked once as his quick mind swiftly calculated what the two questions equated to. "Are you telling me he is that scarred guy who kidnapped you and hid that vial of blue fire inside you?" "Yes." "A person who can run around our archmages in circles, crack our Astral wards and channel enough mana to make anybody besides the gods look weaklings is teaching you magic and you look depressed about it!?" A deep frown appeared on Marchello's face and he downed the other half of his cup of unmixed wine, grimaced at the strong taste. "I'm starting to see what he meant about us worshipping power." "What! Don't tell me you confronted him about the minor trouble of his last visit, you fool? You know how liches and vampires act like when they are pestered too much, and this ... person is far beyond their levels of inhumanity and strength." Alberto hit the table with his fist, the effect of the gesture largely spoiled by the fact he slowed his hand down just before the impact to avoid sending any cups to the floor. "I can't imagine how anybody as naive as you is still alive, here. Get a grip, for Fate's sake, what do you think I'd be able tell Fionella if I had to bring her your smoking remains after some thousand years old thing had blasted you for insulting it?" "Not sure, but you could engrave 'At last his hands are warm' to my gravestone." Marchello pointedly rubbed his hands together and both of them chuckled, the joke, no matter how feeble, breaking the tension between them. He poured both of them a new cup and they lifted them in a silent toast, then drank deeply. * "... which was completely different than how Umbargozzi teaches it. You know, it is pretty hard to connect the words of wisdom he speaks to his youthful appearance. At least he had the decency to make the illusion crude enough." "He teaches in classic Chaman, eh?" "Forget it, Alberto. The course is full, you aren't even a sorcery student and your grasp of the classical version of our own language is even worse, if possible, than that of Ultar. I can loan you my notes afterwards, perhaps." Alberto leaned backwards, a dreamy look on his by now inebriated face. "All that skill ... can you imagine what'd it be like, to be so far above and beyond the life of mere mortals the likes of us two?" "No, I can't, and I don't want to. He doesn't seem to live in a state of continual bliss from what little I've seen. As much as I'm enticed by the deeper mysteries of the Art .. kâpp!" They both lifted their cups and drank, the original bottle long since gone, the new one cheaper and more vile liquid. "Ah, yes, as much as I love the Art, I'd rather study it as a mortal. What use is such raw power if the power is all you have ... hmm?" Alberto didn't seem to be concentrating on listening to him, but was watching something else, his gaze fixed to the direction of the bar. He waved, then turned slightly and motioned Marchello to make room on the bench, a wide grin suddenly on his face, whispering a few words before the new guest reached them. "Let's ask him, shall we?" Marchello first frowned, then paled and turned to look at the person approaching their table. The medium-height form, impossible to see properly in the dim light on the ancient tavern, could've belonged to anybody - the quite distinct voice speaking modern Chaman with a snarling, thick accent was, however, unique. "Ask me what, ya, m'lords?" "Um. We were discussing what good is ultimate power if the price is humanity ... or something along those lines." The Dreamer put down a tall and narrow straigth bottle that was glowing with the warm red light of its contents, taking exaggerated care to place it on the table. He then nodded to both students and sat down next to Marchello, who had paled even further and was now leaning on the wall of the tavern as far from the Dreamer as possible. The planewalker produced a glass, similiar in shape as the bottle, from thin air, opened the bottle and poured a full glass to himself, focusing on the task fully. He then lifted the glass and stared at the liquid glowing within with a thoughtful air, both mortals watching him silently - one fascinated, one afraid. "'Tis a good question, one ye'll be faced with many a times durin' th' long years of yer carreers, practitioners o' th' Art. An' as any good question, there'll be no easy answers t' it." He took a sip and sighed in pleasure, tilting his head backwards a fraction for a moment. "So, t' what conclusion did ya come? Would ye pay t' price for th' power - or pay th' power for th' price?" "Marchello would rather stay human, but me ... as long as the exchange rate would not be too poor, I would willingly lose some to gain some. I haven't met a lich yet who'd be sorry about their ritual of transformation." "Mmm, liches - rather a poor way t' survive, with yer old vessel rottin' from around ye. Most cling t' their existence with a fervor that negates all real internal dialogue of humanity versus power, an' they lack th' means to go back t' what they were to even make such ponderin' meanin'ful. Now, m'lord ... ?" "Alberto, Alberto Tanaz, at your service." "Alberto, then - what'd ye do if ye'd get whatever powers I hold right now? T' what ends would ye use th' strength t' sunder cities an' armiers, to create fortresses an' bind angels and demons to yer will? Remember, m'lord - no fantasies that involve any human delights, ya." The interrogated student brushed hair aside from his face, was about to say something but then fell silent, a more thoughtful look replacing the boyish excitement that had flashed on his face when he had beckoned the Dreamer over. As the silence grew, a wan smile started to appear on the planewalker's face, not fading even when he sipped his drink again, not even when Alberto finally found an answer. "There must be some inherent joy in the power and Art itself! It can't be as bad as the picture you are indirectly painting, master - something does keep you in motion, yes?" "Ya, I do 'ave my motivations, some base an' some noble." He glanced at Marchello, his smile growing a fraction, then turned back to present the two circular colored lenses towards Alberto's face. "They were not easily found, I think. Not bein' partly ruled by th' humours of mortal bodies is a two-edg'd blade, m'lords - th' clarity it gives ya can be maddenin'. Add t' that th' rottin' of yerself an' 's no wonder the liches fall into insanity more often than not. I would not recommend that way, far as it lays ahead t' either of ya." He frowned and sipped his drink again.

"... to summarize my elaborations, we will concentrate mainly on the primary role of sorcery. Everyone here should already be unquestionably proficient in the actual execution of the spells themselves, but what I shall teach you is how to employ those tools of destruction on the fields of war, in combat and in various other, rarer hazardous encounters that require the lethal force of the Art." The teacher smiled wanly and adjusted the colored lenses he wore. The contraption was as outlandish as the rest of his attire, and the language he had chosen to hold his lectures in. He wore rich merchant's loose clothes, the style as ancient as his flawless, archaic speech. A crude illusion, easy for anybody to detect but impossible to penetrate, masked his true features. The face he chose to show was young, the skin white, hair brown, his body slim and medium height, everything so mundane (even if the resulting look was Aefian and not local) as to seem carefully calculated. The whispers that had circulated around near the beginning of his lecture made it clear most of the audience were quite sure that he was a lich - very soon, however, everybody had been so engrossed with the lecture itself the whispers had ceased. "You would be surprised to learn how many sorcerers die during their first real combat. No matter how well this university teaches its students to stay clear-headed even when in pain and shock, the first arrow piercing one's flesh tends to jar those teachings out of one's mind." He grinned, an expression that was contradicting his words. "As theory will only take us so far, towards the end of semester we will go through some actual combat. If there are still practitioners of the Art here who lack the stoicism to withstand agony and mental hardship, I would like to encourage them to leave now. Final, unrecovarable death will be unlikely - I would be quite disappointed in myself if I allowed this course to reduce the numbers of fellows in the Art." A pause, and he surveyed the listeners - roughly half of them were students from fifth year up, the other half consisting mostly of graduated occultists, one or two archmages and a small cluster of Wanderer elves. Nobody made any move to leave, of course, even if many did mutter or whisper to those near them. "That will be all for today, then. Do ponder what I just said, and if you feel like you require my assistance with anything sufficiently advanced aspects of magic to make it worth my time or if you wish to discuss the actual elements of risk associated with going through this whole course, I am ready and willing to help. Not today, however - class dismissed." The crowd started to flow out of the room with a slow, ponderous pace. The teacher stayed at the podium, gesturing those people to leave who tried to talk to him. It was impossible to see which way he looked with the colored lenses covering his eyes, and his pose was utterly still like a statue's. Finally only one person remaind in the lecture room besides him - Marchello. The teacher glanced upwards at him and beckoned him closer, no surprise showing on the face of either of them. Marchello reached the bottom level of the lecture room, looked around nonchalantly and fixed his stare on the opaque lenses. "You can stop pretending, now. I know who you are." The Dreamer grinned again and took off his glasses, revealing perfectly ordinary green eyes. His gaze rested on Marchello's face for a fleeting moment, then he looked right through him at something behind and above Marchello's head. When he spoke it was in modern Chaman, his thick accent twisting it in a familiar way. "Yer not th' only one, m'lord. Ye think th' archmages are fool'd by my illusion, ya? Now, th' answer t' that does not interest me - what I'm curious of is what ye plan t' do with yer extraordinary knowledge, mm? Ye realize, I hope, that I hide who I am not t' gain more students but t' staunch their flow." "But ... you killed a student, back during the Burning Times incident!" The planewalker nodded at whatever he was studying, then shifted his attention back to Marchello, looking smug. "Ah, 'twas an accident, a mirror image spell runnin' amok." His green eyes narrowed and he frowned, looking suddenly almost angry. "Look at th' water yer swimmin' through, fish. I should not have t' tell ya yer society worships power. I am a Master o' th' Art an' yer a lowly student - I am as immune t' yer words as my wards are immune t' yer spells. Did ya think I'd melt away like a phantom o' th' night when accost'd?" Marchello flushed bright purple. He opened his mouth to speak, pointed his finger at the smirking Dreamer - and froze, paralyzed in place. The air thickened and time slowed as the Dreamer's earlier focus of attention on the seventh row, behind Marchello, let his spells of non-detection, invisibility and stealth fade. The last enchantments still kept him in their thick shadows when he already clapped his hands slowly together, the sound loud, crips and insulting in the empty lecture room. "You still have some backbone left then, Sir Brightblade. I would not have been surprised if, in fact, you had ran away. That's what you have been doing the last years, after all." The words were spoken in ancient Aefian, impossible for Marchello to comprehend, the language so elaborate and old hardly any living Aefian could have understood it either. The last of the shadows flickered and were gone, revealing a tall, thin form slowly rising up from a chair. He had a heavy black iron crown on his skeletal head, the curved spikes growing towards the heavens like the talons of some deadly predator. In the deep, sunken eye sockets two sparkling, hissing rainbow stars pulsed, changing color with such wild speed they seemed to be on fire. The speaker was clad in a confusing array of wine-red armor, plates of steel, chains of iron, patches of leather and silk swirling above his bony frame as if they were on orbit around him. It was hard to see if he had any skin and muscles left as his skeletal body was mostly hidden under the armor, and what of it was shown was blood-red. From behind his back the hilt of a long blade showed, same color as his tattered boots and the crown - black as the Void itself. The Dreamer smiled wanly at the planewalker but did not nod or bow to acknowledge his existence, spoke back in the same flawless, deep voice reciting words that had died of old age hundreds or thousands of years ago. "So they truly broke the Nine Gates ... well, I do know what I have been doing, lately, but what of you, dear cousin? What brings you here?" "I am here to remind myself of something, illusion. Of the weakness that lies at the end of the easy road, of the pitiful state one can end up in, lacking the strength to do what must be done. You disgust me, Sir Knight." He did not raise his voice. He did, however, draw his sword and point it at the Dreamer. It was an almost exact copy of Pain if stronger, radiating a visible aura of corruption and death, the spectral mist that formed the blade itself almost black instead of silver. The Dreamer's smile grew wider and spread to his mortal eyes. He showed his open palms and bowed slightly. "How very amusing. Surrendering to given power was the hard road, Scourge? Well, do not let my words detain you from proving your supremacy - I must admit I am intrigued by the concept of how I would fight, submerged so deeply into the taint of Chaos as you have sunken yourself." A moment passed like that, a planar chaos knight pointing an artefact of death at the face of seemingly unarmed, young man, then the sword was sheathed. "Ah! That flippant calm, cousin, that brings back memories. Perhaps there still is something in common with us, even if what is left of me, here, nauseates me nevertheless. No, there is no fight to be had - we are but poorly made mirrors, you and me, cousin, and while I could smash the mirror with my fist and cut my skin on the shards, that would amount to nothing." "I reached that conclusion before you even lifted your sword - but Chaos degrades the mind with the white noise of countless voices at the same time it gives you the power to follow the more violent impulses those voices whisper to you. Go, then, and find something real to destroy - perhaps you could reduce the number of Law's Kalash while you are at it." A spark of red and purple crackled around the chaotic planewalker's raised fist. For a moment it looked like he would jump over the chairs and land next to the Dreamer only to aim a crushing blow at him, strike his insolence down with a gauntlet studded with shifting spikes and flashing magic, then he opened his fist and the energy dissipated. "You know me well enough. Still, no more barbs, cousin. I hope we will never see again, Sir Brightblade." The planewalker sidestepped into Astral and was gone, releasing the terrified Marchello from paralysis and leaving a wide grin on the Dreamer's face.

Weak light spilled down from the windows near the distant roof. Some other building would have seemed dark, but this one was built to utilize every last drop of sunlight, reflect it endlessly from one white surface to another, and was thus spared from the gloom of winter day. The reflected light ended up illuminating the numerous colors on the robes of the huge mass of students covering every inch of the circular room - fiery red for demonology, turquoise for meta-magic studies, vibrant green for verdant magic, flashy purple for mentalism and so on, every color of the rainbow denoting some tiny niche of the Art. A complicated system of stripes and different cuts further gave away the rank and seniority of every occultist present, making the social pecking order absolutely clear to those who understood it. It was the first day of the spring semester, and there were the traditional scuffles and jostling as everybody tried to fit their name on the lists of the courses that took only a certain number of students. The chaos was the worst near the south end of the hall where the noticeboards mostly had courses for second to fourth year students. Marchello grinned as he watched the disarray, a half-nostalgic, half-relieved look on his face, before he turned to look at the advanced studies available. He was wearing the red robes of a demonologist with simple black ornamental patterns, the robes far more menancing than their small, harmless-looking wearer. Thin stripes of turquoise and bright yellow told any observer his two secondary fields of study, meta-magic and sorcery. Most of the lists he was glancing over were almost empty, the fifth to seventh year students lacking both the dilligence and motive to appear at the university so early - they knew there'd be plenty of room in the courses they'd be interested in. Marchello nodded absently to the various titles and started to wonder where his quill was when something caught his eye. A long list but almost full already, the title of the course reading "Advanced Applied Sorcery In Extended Context". He frowned, rubbed his hands together and touched the parchment lightly with his right index finger, going through the list of names. A powerful smack to his shoulder interrupted him and he turned around, knowing before he saw him that it'd be his friend Ultar. "Morning! I see you have heard the rumours as well, otherwise you wouldn't be here this early. 'Advanced Applied Sorcery' - doesn't sound like much, but look who have enlisted already!" "What rumours?" "Oh, don't give me that innocent look, Marc. The rumours of the new teacher of course! They say he is some really powerful lich from the mountains of Aef, been buried there for hundreds of years. Or that he is a Skybreaker, even. Whoever he is, he isn't from around here - see what the language the lectures will be in?" "Hmm?" Marchello leaned forward to see the text properly, the script large but too ornamental to be easily readable. Ultar towering over him and eclipsing the sunlight did not help, but eventually he could make sense of the words. "Classic Chaman, eh? I won't have trouble with that, how about you?" "Oh, I'll manage, I'll manage. I'll just steal your notes afterwards if I can't understand what he says." "As always." He sighed and Ultar grinned without restraint. Something else next to the language caught his eye. "Two skulls?" "Yes, that too. Not dangerous, lethal - my kind of course! I've only ever seen the planar expedition courses get that rating, never a sorcery one. Did you read the names already?" "Some of them. Hardly any seem students - Achael Myanezzi, Uvae Ichnoggio, Xoltriz Axolzoak ... these are all sorcery teachers. Xoltriz is an archmagus, even. What can it be about for them to take interest?" "Beats me - you are the bright one out of us two, you tell me what 'Extended Context' is in this context, Marc. And loan me you quill, I'm signing for this one for sure." "Not before me." He wasn't sure if it was excitement or terror that welled inside him, but he knew he could not stay out of this challenge.

Prologue The dream felt frighteningly real. More real than the waking hours, to be exact, as if he slept through his days and had woken up when he closed his eyes. Marchello's point of view rose above his sleeping body. Below he lay on Fionella's large bed, his back against hers, one slack leg peeking out from the protection of his blanket. They both looked younger when they slept, more vulnerable and somehow innocent, almost like a brother and sister still young enough to share a bed. If the oppressive feeling of being too awake, of every sensation being so clear they became unintelligible, the view would have brought a smile to his insubstantial face. Even the voices whispering just beyond his hearing range were crystal clear, sharp as needles puncturing his ears, exact and indecipherable. The first one was a sultry, low woman's voice. As he concentrated on it, he felt it spoke a language he should know, but just as it started to make sense, it was interrupted by another voice, commanding and unyielding, loud. "Nevertheless. He is a hinge, a pebble on which the first man of a column stumbles on and brings the entire company to a halt. Face it, sister, your ways rarely influence the world." A third voice - whispering, dusty and husky, but somehow even more intimidating than the previous one. "She is right, and now he is affixed to the web of Fates, sisters. We shall win this one." "We always win, dear sister." With a sound like the first voice laughing, the voices vanished abruptly. They took away the sensation of super-realism with them, the difference between that and the warm, surreal fog of normal dreaming hitting him with such force he was startled awake, blood rushing through his veins, heart pumping with unbearable beat. No matter how he tried, his mind could not hold on to the details of the dream - he remembered it all, but it flowed through his grasp like too fine sand, the memories vaporizing one by one. When his violent movements finally woke Fionella, she opened her eyes to the view of Marchello staring at a few drops of blood staining the linen with a complete look of incomprehension on his sleepy, flushed face.

Advertising accumulates aboundant and alluring adverbs - all's allowed, assure asinine advertisers.

I also saw "Brokeback Mountain" and liked it - there's been enough said of it already so I'll just add my voice to the chorus of recommendating. The movie I saw last was "V is for Vendetta" however. It's always tricky to go see a movie that's gotten so good reviews, as it is hard to be surprised pleasantly and easy to be disappointed. It was slightly different from what I expected from the Matrix brothers, less action and more drama, the liberty of sciece fiction very sparsely used. It could have been present day London, mostly, just the invisible totalitarism permeating the air. Computers, cars, TVs - all looked normal, somehow underlining the message of "most of this could happen for real". I liked it a lot even if there were some details that could've been better and I can recommend to anybody who wants to see an utopia-gone-wrong movie. Even Natalie Portman doesn't spoil the film.

Thanks for another review, I always look forward to them. It was the Dreamer equivalent of a warning shot, really. He was shot with a spell and there was a number of other spells being readied in the tavern, and that mirror image of him was not quite as impervious to damage as the real Dreamer is. Anyways, I guess I should be glad I can still surprise after so many stories instead of explaining myself. The post really didn't have any role as long as the story itself is concerned as such - it's there mainly for 'sense of wonder' and a description of a fortified, guarded planewalker hideout. While the Dreamer saga may seem like a well-planned story most of the time, it really just is me painting the visions I have of his wanderings with words. Some of it is just slice of life -stuff, if ye can use such a term of an immortal: the Dreamer going on about his daily business, as far from our everyday life it ends up being. It provides background for future material if nothing else. Hmm, will keep an eye out for stuff like that then. Ye've almost caught up with me, I'll have to hurry with Divergence now.

"Guess it can't be helped. He does need it more than me." Zadown of the Old muttered the words and sighed silently. He lifted the heavy object in his hands once as if weighting it before putting it inside his robes and walking away, towards the stairs to the more frequently used parts of the Pen Keep. Somewhere above him, his target kept on snoring, oblivious. * Wyvern turned in his sleep and was suddenly shocked awake by the sound of something very familiar. He didn't open his eyelids yet, trying to remember what the sound had been like. Like the feet of a taxman? Or perhaps the heavy tread of a mob of creditors? Could it be ... the sound of ... gold!? He leaped up, scattering the bills he had been using as a blanket to every direction and sending the small packet placed on his chest to the floor. This time the sound was unmistakable - the heavy, pure sound of gold on gold. With a gleeful smile, Wyvern tore open the packet wrapped in green and found a small stack of old geld from Terra past, carrying the mark of the Legion of the White Rose mint. Underneath them was a small card with an unadorned message: "Happy Birthday Wyvern! PS. Don't use it all in one scheme"

Yay, Rune! *tacklehugs*

Saw "9-ya rota" (The 9th Company) a week ago. It's a russian movie about Afganistan war, a combination that might result in some originality I thought ... and was wrong. The director had just taken about every succesful Vietnam movie and blended them together, changed the jungle into mountains and deserts. Watching the resulting mix was like having a constant deja vu. Perhaps if it was the first war movie I've ever seen it would have been impressive - the visual side of it was well done but in the end it was a beautiful but empty shell, a movie with no spirit to call its own.

Mmm, like small jewels these are ... and that comment about spring, it's really not spring here yet. Was really amused about an outdoor advertisement that says "When winter turns to spring!", advertising waterproof shoes - in -22 C temperature. If that's spring, I'd hate to see what a real winter is like. Will see if I can add one or two myself, later.

Patronage postponed - Patricia Piper's post-modern, post-surreal portrait poorly painted piece. So I cheated with a name and post- prefix, so sue me. At least it makes sense...

Zadown of Old wanders through the corridors of the Pen, lost in his own thoughts as usual, when first Brute and then Wyvern run past him at breakneck speed. He frowns, glances at the direction they are going and then at the room they came from, and finally against his better judgement ambles inside, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his metalium katana. Inside, the altar has ceased rumbling and now steams gently, its surface turning icy. Next to the altar a wobbling gate is forming, torn between existence and oblivion, crashing against the natural Laws with the Chaos of magic. Zadown's hand grips the hilt tighter, but still he walks on and grabs the flyer, a smile appearing on his normally so serious face when he reads it. As he lifts the flyer from the metal platform, something big with four legs leaps through the portal, making it collapse, and skids to a halt behind him. Zadown turns slowly and grins at the huge lynx that now stands in the room. "Heya, Whitelynx. I see they got the summoning spell slightly wrong, as expected." OOC: Thanks Wyvie!

Holy healer has hubris: hurls himself hunter-wards, hoping huge honor. Err.. apologies to all non-WoW players, but the voices in my head made me write this. Sorry!

Eerie ettin etchings elevate ephemeral euphoria, ensuing epilepsy erases ebullience. That's what you get for reading the shamanistic scribblings of a race with two heads!

United ugly uruk-hai usher usurpers under Ungoliath's umbral unlight. Tolkien turns in his grave, but I don't care!

Red ravagers raised rusty ranseurs raucuously, roaring: "Reave! Rend!".

Mildly muttering moldy male monks manifest massive, mighty miracles. Brotherhood of the Armageddon at it again.

Epilogue "Shouldn't we inform him at once, m'lady? I'm sure he'd want to know." "'Tis but a rumor, still. An' th' Lady of Scales has told us to leave him be for now, to let him have some time off th' Eternal War." "But ..." "Hush, m'lord. We'll deal with him an' th' Kalash, one way or another. Th' Balance has always won, in th' end." Faaye lifted her left hand, then curled it into a fist. No matter how many times she would check, the eye would be gone, fingers meeting the diamond-studded surface of her white leather eyepatch. She sighed soundlessly and turned her remaining eye towards the pile of reports, written by the meticulous hands of her angel scouts. She paid no attention when the other planewalker left, mind already immersed in the impossible task of devising a plan of battle for the hazy, scattered forces of Balance.

His dreadsteed had been dismissed before the battle and he hadn't felt it important to summon another one, walked next to her slowly moving horse. It had gotten dark, but the grass was even and the moon was bright, and she did not feel like sleeping, so they marched on, silently. "You have enough time from the Eternal War to escort me back? You know I'd be perfectly safe by myself, with your amulet and the armor." "Th' War 'ardly misses one planewalker, m'lady. An' 'tis Eternal, as th' name implies. If I take upon me t' see every moment o' it, war'll be all I see 'till my transformation or death, whichever comes first. Death, most likely - th' war hardly gives ye th' needed tranquility an' aloofness needed t' transcend." "You've survived this far, uncle, what do you think would kill you?" She tried to make her words sound light, but somehow they didn't come out like she had wanted to, not there in the night after that battle. It was shaped as a question, after all. He turned to look into the shadowy forest to their right, frowned slightly as he coaxed details from his expansive mind. "Palgrave Atyaer, per'aps, or any of his best planewalker captains, or Faaye - she might be on th' same side from time t' time, but someday her fierceness'll will burn through an' we'll clash 'gain. Th' runelords could kill me, certainly, especially now given there's more than one on th' move, an' of course th' Maiden o' Daggers, if she ever thinks I'm thinkin' I can control 'er, ya. An' then..." "Enough, uncle. I get the gist of it." He turned back towards her, darkness hiding the scars mercifully, the eyes that showed far more about his thoughts than his impassive face glowing faintly pale green in the night, like a cat in the light of a lantern. "Hmm? Ye'd prefer t' believe I'm indestructible, Li'tl' Princess? I may be no expert on mortals, but ye should be old enough by my count t' not to rely on such illusions. I was goin' t' add th' Kalash o' Law to th' list, if th' rumours are true an' Law has breach'd th' impenetrable barriers with th' imperfect key they 'ave. Those could be a grave danger t' ya as well, if they 'ave any idea who ye've been." "Kalash of Law? From a ... a Parallel they weren't subverted by the Grail?" "Ya. As deadly as th' ones we 'ad, or deadlier, pure in their purpose. I do wonder if they 'ave import'd th' creator of those things, a Parallel Vrean DeMorneer." She nodded and rode on in silence, his long stride keeping their pace brisk. Dawn was getting nearer, dawn and her city and her husband and daughter, the life she had just saved by asking the Dreamer's help. Now, to pay the price.

Fading, fragmented fog fans fantasy's fiery flames, fuelling fascination.

The sound engraved itself deeply into her memory. Not the complaining, fading sounds of the dying and wounded - those were the same everywhere, same hellish cacophony best barred away from conscious mind. It was the howl of the sand, the sound of a thousand stone snakes slithering across each other, the sound of a hundred years of desert winds all pressed into one insane wail. She knew then, already, that whenever during the long life she could somehow see stretching in front of her she would wake up in the middle of a storm or a blizzard, she'd be transported back in time to this moment. To this one more painful scenery of chaos burrowing itself into her mind, settling next to the countless similiar memories from the War of the Grail. Perhaps all the magic in and around her was doing what the Dreamer had warned her about, slowly marking her as one of Fate's own, giving her prophetic visions from time to time. She yanked her thoughts back to the present time, wondering while she did it how she could possibly drift away from what was happening. Before her the army of the Thalkemians was quickly coming apart, the last vestiges of fighting spirit being torn to shreds by the hulking giant that was her own uncle Dreamer. Around her shimmered a faint green bubble of protection, its perimeter littered with broken arrows and broken men, Winter's Touch in her hand, bloodied and forgotten. They had never had the slightest of chances to actually penetrate the multilayered wards of protection woven around her by the Dreamer, by her amulet and her armor. She hadn't even bothered to add her own, feeble enchantments to it. What she had tried to do, the spell she had tried to cast on the enemy army, had been something beyond her skill after all. Several thousand soldiers, magicians or no magicians, resist any attempt to muddle with their minds - it was like trying to wrestle with a dead weight, even if the enemy doesn't fight back but weights several tons all the skill in the world isn't enough to force it to fall. I bet he could've instilled boundless panic on their minds, while I tried to project even a mild anxiety in vain. Of course, such spells, useful against mortals only, are nothing to him. Jankiize frowned and surveyed the battlefield. The fear and anger she had felt had gone, the crude insults the enemy had hurled at her before the fight rendered meaningless by the surreal vision of destruction in front of her. They had not broken quickly, even after the Dreamer had done his strange transformation, let his own body lose its well-defined shape and turn into the giant of sand and wind. Not even when their arrows had bounced away, when their cavalry charge had become an entangled mess (the horses didn't seem to like the noise, either) or when those few who actually reached her had hacked empty air. She felt very, very tired and sad, almost depressed. The amount of still bodies on the field showed he had forgotten how fragile the mortals were, in his haste to protect her and to end this battle, after all. Or perhaps he had not really cared, despite the conversations they had had. "Return, my guardian! Come back!" She had to look upwards as she shouted, her voice amplified by a simple spell, to see him properly, despite the distance he had advanced in his zeal to smash apart even the last parts of any sort of organized resistance. Not that there was anything meaningful the enemy could do to the hulking colossus of swirling sand carrying a stone club the size of a tree. Jankiize was not sure if the misses that did not kill soldiers but instead shook the earth were intentional or only results of the clumsiness of the gigantic form. The dark club lifted towards the sky to crush and maim once more, then paused. She sighed in relief, realized she had been holding her breath. They have been broken, uncle. Less death than you envisioned when you agreed to take care of them, I'm sure, and far more than I'd liked. And now I am the Witch of Jalar, truly and irrevocably, as long as I stay on this plane. "... on this plane." She muttered the last words aloud, the Dreamer's colossal, alien form still far away, words nobody else could hear. Saying them aloud made them seem more real, a real possibility instead of nebulous musing. I suppose ... I do not have a home, not a real one, not even here. In her mind's eye, the vastness of the Void stretched to every direction, shimmering pearls of innumerable planes shining against the black background, the Lost Paths connecting them all as a translucent skein.