Zadown

She could feel the birds now, very faintly and in a way that suggested he could hide their faint traces if he wanted to, but didn't out of mere courtesy. One of them was perched on his shoulder, its eyes vivid Astral blue even in the darkness of a spring night as it stared at her over the flames of a campfire. "You sure they won't see the fire?" "O' course they'll see it, m'lady - th' thing is, they'll believe it belongs t' their patrols. An' if they'll head this way, which they won't during a night, my birds'll see them before they are anywhere near. Have no fear, Li'tl' Princess, I'll watch over ya this night." "I told you not to call me that, uncle." Jankiize smiled faintly right after her admonition, sounded more amused than offended. The Dreamer did not deign to comment and smiled back, his eyes far paler than those of his crow. "Ye've come up with a way t' send th' army home without excessive bloodshed, yet?" She sighed and shifted her position, hugged her own knees while staring at the fire. Deep inside the flames danced visions from the past - fiery explosions sundering steam-powered warmachines apart, the golden fire of the Grail clinging to dying angels, a maul of flames smashing against a door enceased in primal ice. "I'm not sure, uncle. I've seen armies of men crash against each other, not breaking when they should ... far too many times. Sure, these are no zealots, but ..." Her voice trailed off, her mind chasing after the elusive idea of finding something terrifying enough that could break the spine of an army without crushing its whole body in the process. "Ya know, in th' elemental plane of Iekkha, a realm o' wind an' stone, exists a particular kind o' giant. 'Tis all bluff an' bluster, a creation that'd barely be able t' kill a mortal. But they are tall an' fearsome, sand swirling around their body givin' them an illusion of solidity an' power. I may not be able t' be as feeble as them, but I could try posturin' as one, a Hulkiljael. Ye'll just 'ave t' summon me, o' mighty witch o' Jalar." The title made her jerk sharply away from her thoughts. "How did you hear that!? Nevermind, I can see from your smug grin you are not going to tell. Yes, they call me that, The Witch of Jalar. I somehow prefered the Bronze Lady." "So, ye'll do it then, m'lady? I'll take care of th' light effects, 'ave no fear." "If you think it is the best way, uncle. What exactly you want me to do?" "Whatever'll do, wave yer hands an' recite some generic summonin' an' bindin', an' I'll come out as a whirlwind o' sand an' nearly but not quite lethal strength. I'll stay beside ya, invisible, until then." "You really think it will work?" The Dreamer's eyes flashed white, like two full moons in the dark. His mouth twisted into a grin. "If it shan't, I'll kill those who it doesn't work on until it does work, ya. Those exceedin'ly stupid an' reckless should never be allowed t' breed - 'tis a favor to these Thalkemians, this cullin'. Now, what'd ye do if a giant taller than these trees'd attack? Surely ye wouldn't stand an' fight." "No, I wouldn't. I'd call my uncle for help." The twin full moons shone a little brighter, for a while. She curled up inside her travelling cloak, uncomfortable and tired, aware that any sleep she would be able to get might do as much as harm as good on the uneven, hard ground. Despite that knowledge, Jankiize could feel her eyelids closing. "Uncle?" "Ya?" "Why are you doing all this, if you are as busy with the Eternal War as you say?" She tried to imagine his eyes, but could not bother opening her own, too comfortable in the warm dark. Suddenly a memory came to her: herself as a little child staring at a mirror, trying to make her own eyes alter their color. Her ever-present guardian warrior standing somewhere just beyond the scope of the memory, in that flimsy armor that could not deflect the blows of any planar beings, silent with a reproachful air. They can't glow white anymore. I haven't seen his eyes to retain that color for a long time, ever. Clear, dark and deep blue of the Astral, perhaps, or emerald green - or grey, if he thinks my question is foolish. "Ah, why, ya? That's a question th' mortal in ye'd know th' answer to, easily. Good night, Li'tl' Princess."

Any practitioner of the Art would have seen through the green camouflage she conjured with ease. It was a hasty spell, maintaned more by sheer strength than any finesse, sending out a tall, bright mana flare for all those who had the second sight to detect. The Thakelmians had no mages, however, and they only stopped because their horses whinnied, were nervous of the metallic taint in the air, the side-effect of poorly controlled magic. Jankiize grimaced as much as she could while whispering the words of yet another spell, the strain of upkeeping an enchantment while casting sending a few errant drops of sweat down her face. She pointed at the eight mounted soldiers standing on a ridge, sent her soft thoughts forward. ... this meadow is boring, best to carry on ... ... nothing to see here, nothing at all, but over there might be something ... ... all is well ... "Leave. Please." The hoarse whisper was part of neither the spell or the enchantment, quiet enough that even the Dreamer wouldn't have heard it had he been a mortal. A wan smile appeared on his face, light hues of green and blue flickering in his observant eyes. He stood still, gaze fixed on the restless scouts. They looked around, puzzlement and boredom on their faces. Then the leader said something and they started moving again, bypassing the two of them near but remaining oblivious, riding on. Jankiize sighed in relief. Later when they were riding again the Dreamer spoke, his tone casual, his eyes set forward instead of turning towards her. "Ye didn't learn those incantations from me, ya. An' 'twasn't 'xactly what I meant, showin' that ye'll do yer part. We are 'ere t' crush th' invadin' army, neh?" "You sent me a lot of books, uncle. I read those that seemed the most useful, first - I'm sorry I didn't consider learning a thousand ways to kill my fellow human beings as constructive use of my studying time." Jankiize's words were caustic, their sharp edges carrying the weight of her nervousness, the tension she felt still growing inside her. The Dreamer smiled at her anger, above and beyond the barbs her sarcasting words contained. "Ya, ya. Ye should learn some offensive aspects o' th' Art, still - th' thing with great power 's that it attracts equals, both allies an' foes. An' th' day ye meet yer first angry demon hell-bent on crushin' ya ye'd wish ye'd know an ice spell or two." "If I must, I will use my sword. But ... I'm no killer, uncle." Amusement faded from his face, the same cold steel flashing in his eyes as before. "Yet ye summon me t' help, a power o' unbridl'd devastation an' death, an' ye claim t' be pure an' unstain'd by what'll happen when my blade cleaves into this mortal army?" "Please, uncle. I don't need or want you to kill them! I just want ... them to be discouraged, to go home and forget this useless crusade." The smile that appeared on the Dreamer's pale face, sent the scars writhing across his skin, was not a beautiful or even peaceful one. His eyes filled with the color of blood, the steel remaining on the background for a fleeting moment, a sword stuck in a wound. He drew Pain from its black scabbard and made his dreadsteed rear, the blade wailing in pleasure at its masters mood. The Dreamer stared at Jankiize looking suddenly like the incarnation of Death itself, demonic and hungry for violence. "An' what, pray tell, discourages th' mortals other than untimely end?" "What makes you so hungry for blood, now? Eternal War going badly, us mortals soft enough targets for your blade!?" She shook, held between her anger and fear, trembled but stood her ground. His eyes narrowed, turned into two thin lines of boiling lava. The air turned perceptibly warmer, ambient magic gushing through the planewalker, pouring out as flickering, wraith-like flames that reached towards Jankiize - a visible manifestation of godly anger. His dreadsteed reared again, the aura of rage tugging at it, the illusion concealing its true nature barely holding together. The Dreamer sheathed Pain and shut his eyes, restrained his mount. The flames died. "... ya. I've exchang'd one set o' chains to another, an' while th' ideals may be easier t' follow, th' methods allow no channels for my wrath t' be discharg'd." The words were soft and his eyes, when he opened them, were dark grey, dim. He made an empty gesture and turned his mount back towards the direction they had been going. "Ye'r right, m'lady. I suppose there'll be ways t' blunt th' attack without drenchin' this ground in a lake o' gore. We'll still 'ave t' meet them, ya?" Intense relief flowing through her, Jankiize followed the Dreamer. Instead looking forward where they were going, she watched the trembling of her fingers subside, slowly.

The land outside the walls was green and tranquil, empty of people. Birds sang and sun shone - an unlikely background to a war. The Dreamer and Jankiize rode away from the city with a speed that revealed how much they both wanted away from the boorish guards and staring merchants, exclaiming ladies and posturing nobles. Once they had gained some distance, they slowed down. As they rode, Jankiize glanced at the planewalker from time to time, openly curious - in her memory, the Dreamer had always been either in a frantic haste or in a state of static contemplation, rarely going anywhere slowly like this. He did not seem to notice or mind the scrutiny, his eyes staying as two still pools of Astral wisdom, their blue far darker and deeper than the merry azure of the sky. His gaze was not fixed and immovable, however - he looked around, watching the landscape with interest. "Uncle?" "Ya?" "You know where the Thakelmian troops are?" "Ya, of course. At this speed we'll meet 'em in two, three days. We could, o' course, be there in a few moments if we'd like." He shrugged and looked directly at Jankiize the first time since they had left the city. Her mouth felt dry at the thought of what would happen when the Dreamer and the Thalkemians would meet, a nebulous pain stabbing at her stomach. She could not hold his gaze and looked aside, old memories of Ârkstad and other battles tugging at the corners of her mind. "I hope you don't mind this pace, uncle." "Naw, I'm not in any kind a'hurry, m'lady." There was something in the tone that made the words seem less than sincere. The Dreamer had turned to face forward again, a crooked, faint smile on his face, the blue in his eyes the clear, bright hue of dawn sky. Whoever he was smiling at wasn't present. Of worry or anxiety there was no sign - dead mortals did not give nightmares to him. They rode onwards, the nebulous pain that had subsided when the Dreamer had agreed to their current speed growing again slowly, gnawing at her from the inside. The surroundings were still peaceful, almost happy, nature exulting in the return of warmer times, but her own eyes were seeing blood already, a return to the frightening, terrible days of war. She had been calm at the meeting, drawing confidence from the nervousness of her own husband and the commander, but now she only had the Dreamer for company. The Dreamer and her own, unquiet thoughts. When a large, pitch-black crow landed on the planewalker's shoulder she flinched, startled by the sudden sound of wings. It glanced at her over its shoulder, eyes Astral blue, and she recognized it as one of the Dreamer's minions before it vanished in front of her eyes. "A scout patrol headin' this way, m'lady." "Can't we bypass them?" "Naw. There'll bound t' be patrols t' every direction, an' while I may not be in a unsurmount'ble haste, I do not 'ave all th' time in th' multiversum for this jaunt. We'll meet them, soon." Jankiize swallowed, her sweaty hands checking that Winter's Touch was still hanging from her belt - a nervous gesture she thought she had gotten rid of by now. "What .. what are you going to do to them, uncle?" "Nothin'. There's mere eight o' them an' it is yer war, neh? I'll watch what ye'll do t' them, my ward." Expecting a refusal or an objection, his words were spoken with a tone of steel, his eyes flashing with blue and grey. It was as he had been at the brink of using the heavy speech with her, every word pronounced slowly and as precisely as the planewalker accent allowed. He had stopped his mount and stared at Jankiize. In her imagination the air between them rippled with the force of his personality, the whole of his will aimed at her. "But..." "Naw. 'S yer war, mortal, yers. Unless ye show ye can shoulder yer part o' it, I shall leave ye an' rejoin th' Eternal War, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua." Imagine what will happen if they break through the wall and get to your tower. Imagine... She wasn't sure if the idea was hers or if he was trying to implant thoughts into her head, but she nodded. And checked, nervously, if Winter's Touch was still there. The price of asking help from him is to become more like him, more inhuman, less mortal? She shivered in the warm spring weather, chilled to the core.

They rode through the town in silence after a servant had brought Jankiize's horse to her from the stables. Jugatt wasn't build for war: the walls were partly wood and did not circle the town completely, leaving the side towards the mountain open. More people than usual were wearing armor, but the guards, mercenaries and merchants were mostly protected by leather and chain. Many gave Jankiize curious looks, her enviable armor standing out even more in the current situation than the Dreamer's odd appearance. Jugatt was a lawful town, however, and looking was all they did. The gazes irritated her nevertheless and she realized she was hurrying her horse forward. She had worried at first that the Dreamer's steed would make her own horse shy, but it seemed the illusion covered all the senses and her mare was as calm as usual. Now, how calm will she be on a battlefield? Or rather, on a field of massacre... Jankiize turned to look thoughtfully at the Dreamer, whose face was as impassive as usual, the muted green of his eyes showing he was amiable if bored. He looked this way and that, assessing the military might of the town even if he doubted the information would ever be useful. Jankiize drove her horse as near as she could so she wouldn't have to shout. "Uncle?" "Ya?" "Have you got a plan, yet?" "Sshh. 'S too noisy 'ere t' discuss such things, m'lady." He waved his in dismissal and tugged at the reins of his dreadsteed with the other hand, making it first rear and then leap forward with a speed not safe even on the wide streets of this open town. People yelled in alarm and for a moment Jankiize thought she'd have to let him go and catch him later, but then she saw the wild grin on his face when he turned around for a fleeing moment, beckoned her to follow. She couldn't resist the call and urged her mare forward. If they want to stare me, better give them something to really stare for, then. They did not stop before the city gates. The pikemen there wore metal cuirass and steel helms with shortswords hanging from their belts, some archers with longbows practicing nearby. A line of people were coming in, guards checking them to try to prevent spies from getting in, but hardly anybody was leaving. Seeing the two of them, an officer of the guard left the archers to their practice and came forward, a frown on his face. "What do we have here - Thakelmians leaving now that you have gotten all the information you need? Watch them, guards. Now, what is this?" As the nearby guards gathered around them, Jankiize glaced at the Dreamer. She was dreading what look he might have on his face, but to her surprise he was smiling, his eyes pale green. When he noticed she was looking, he gave a little nod and gestured towards the officer in a way that made it very obvious the mess was all hers to clear. "Guard captain, you should know the nobles of this town by looks. I am Lady Jalar and this is my foster father Sir Wodzan Xe Chanima." "Mmm, mmm, I heard Lady Jalar gave birth a few months back. If it was any of my business ... well, papers, then. You do know even the merchant nobles need a written permission to pass." "Of course, captain." She produced a thick letter from her saddlebags and gave it to the captain. The guards who had looked excited at the promise of something happening started to look bored, the weapons mostly pointed away from the pair of them. "Akalmas' signet, I see. I can't stop you then, if you decide to leave before the storm hits us. It is hardly safe out there, as you must know - you still plan to go without an armed guard?" "My foster father's mercenaries are camped outside the town, captain. We'll be fine." The morning sun was reflected on the steel helm of the captain, sparkled on the blades the guards had and on the arrowheads of the archers, and suddenly Jankiize felt detached, aloof, as if none of this had nothing to do with her. The guards looked exactly the same they had a moment ago, but their forms and features seemed new, cruder to her. Mortals ... this must be how uncle sees us all. The feeling passed as quickly as it had come upon her, leaving behind only a nagging hollow feeling, too insubstantial to speak about, too persistent to ignore. The captain gave her a sharp look - he had possibly noticed something odd, but said nothing and gave the letter of passage back, nodded to her and waved the guards away. They were free to go outside, past the guarding walls.

Spring had cleared the skies, leaving only a few errant clouds drifting across the vastness of azure blue. The Dreamer was staring upwards, his body unnaturally still and relaxed. Most mortals never actually noticed he did not breathe, but the fact seeped through their mind as growing uneasiness, especially when he remained as still as he now did. A light breeze tugged at his thick white robe, had more success with disrupting his grey hair. Jankiize spent a silent moment watching the planewalker, a leather rucksack on her shoulder, heavy saddlebags dangling from her right hand before she let them fall softly on the packed earth. "Uncle?" The planewalker turned to face her, and for a brief moment his eyes were like round pieces of the sky, errant wisps of narrow white drifting across them. Despite having seen a thousand different variations of his gaze, she couldn't help shivering slightly at the sight. The Dreamer blinked, the eyes revealed by the opening eyelids emerald green, a more familiar color. "Ya, Janki? Ye ready t' go, neh?" "Yes. Do you need a horse, uncle? Never seen you ride one, but it is a long way." "Naw. If ye think I should 'ave a steed I can get one myself. Animals can't really stand my touch, ya." "Oh, right. The heat ..." He nodded. "Th' heat, among other things." At the same time he was speaking, he already whispered words of conjuring, of beckoning, the two voices entwining around each other. The breeze whistled over him, suddenly enraged, trying to tear his robes away from his frail frame and creating a flowing banner from his unruly hair. Its first savage burst sapped its strength - as it started circling around the Dreamer, an ad hoc conjuring cirle drawn with insubstantial elements of air and wind, its power was more subdued. The circle constricted, gathering dust, rotten leaves and dry twigs, faint sigils appearing and vanishing inside the tamed whirlwind. The conjuring was supernatural, eerie, but to the planewalker it was as natural as breathing was to mortals. On his ruined face were traces of concentration and exultation in the Art as well as indifferent boredom at how trivial this particular ritual was to him. For an instant the circle and every one of the ephemeral sigils that had appeared earlier came into total focus, their outlines burning on the dark earth with red fire. Then a neighing roar and a sound like fire raging startled Jankiize who was watching the Dreamer's magic almost hypnotized. Where the circle had been the earth smoked gently before breeze cleared the smell of brimstone and ashes, and on the smoking earth stood a black stallion, its red eyes locked with the burning eyes of the Master of the Art, Wodzan Xe Chanima. A glare and a whispered true name later the dreadlsteed was bound and shackled, a satisfied grin flickering on the Dreamer's face the only thing showing there had been a contest of wills at all. He made a minute gesture and an illusion settled itself on the demonic steed, changed its spiked, armored appearance into that of a normal black horse. "Now, he might not like me much either, but he'll be ... compell'd t' carry me, however he may think. How'd yer talk with th' mortals go?" Jankiize looked down, at the grass and earth, then lifted her gaze back to the impassive face of the Dreamer. "Not too good, to be honest, uncle. They don't care about you, given you are a complete stranger to them, but I had to say some harsh words to be able to ride with you." She sighed and glanced backward, then looked at the sky. "Nice weather to ride." "Ya, I suppose so."

Character Generation is disabled when there is a queue, neh? You can still create characters on the server if ye do it during the off-hours, as far as I know.

"Ye do realize what yer askin', m'lady?" "Yes, yes I do." Jankiize nodded to emphasize her words. It was like a scene of some history book's illustration - the soft evening light soothed away the impurities, hid away scars and scratches, dents and tears. The Dreamer stood alone near the table, a map covering most of the gleaming, expensive wood. He wore his cream-colored robes and dark purple boots, a simple hemp rope acting as his belt. Jankiize stood opposite of him in the medium-sized stone room, two heavy bookshelves as her background, wearing the suit of scalemail he had made for her so many years ago. The fading sunlight and the candles made it shine and shimmer, adamantium looking like it had been alive, bronze scales of a fish or some two-legged naga. Her katana, Winter's Touch, was hanging from her leather belt, the sword slender and short but appropriate for her. Jankiize's gloves, also hanging from the belt, and her boots were both black dragonhide. Her blond hair was tied to a ponytail and while her face was undoubtedly female, her overall appearance was that of a young prince ready to go to the war for the first time, clad in finesse that told of his station but not of his prowess. Next to her stood two of the local merchants, Melenar Jalar, Jankiize's husband, and Regher Akalmas, the commander of the militia. Melenar was wearing chain and leather, armor that was comfortable for long trails but provided limited protection especially against arrows. Regher's steel scalemail was slightly more impressive, but his stance told the Dreamer he was not as used to wearing it as his position might have required. Both were muscular with Melenar also nearing the Dreamer's prodigious height, Regher being closer to average. Their faces held similiar looks of uneasiness, hope and disbelief warring over them as they watched the young woman and ageless planewalker. In contrast Jankiize's face was calm and sad, the Dreamer's face absolutely impassive, rigid. They hardly paid attention to the two others, many unsaid things riding the few words they actually said. "Yer comin' t' observe what devastation yer words bring, then." It was a statement, not a question or an ultimatum. "If you say so, uncle." "Now wait a moment, you are asking my wife to leave her young daughter and follow you to war? Are you two insane!?" The Dreamer smiled wanly and turned to look at the books behind the three mortals, at the paintings and the old trade contracts hanging from the walls, as if the question would have been boring, not worth his time. "Naw, m'lord Melenar. Yer merely bein' blinded by yer incomplete view of th' reality o' th' situation, as it is. She'll be safer with me than she is at home at a time o' peace, assumin' no greater power interferes with us." "And the little baby? Are you taking her with you too?" Jankiize glanced at her husband before talking to the planewalker, her voice composed and calm where his had been angry and demanding. "Âlh-Âenna still with you, uncle?" "She gained her freedom in a skirmish 'gainst th' drow when I was helpin' Phacyra. Óellaeh-Ân should suffice t' protect yer baby, neh?" "Yes, she is fine." Melenar frowned at the unfamiliar words but managed to calm down, tried to force the conversation back to a direction he could understand with a more reasonable voice. "What sort of help exactly are you bringing, sir Chanima? Do you have a personal guard company with you?" "I shall not need my guards, m'lord. 'Tis somethin' me an' Jankiize can do - ye said an army o' mere seven thousand mercenaries an' merchant princes, ya?" "What?" The planewalker sighed loudly and glared at Jankiize with yellow-green eyes, waved his right hand in an empty gesture of frustration. "Yer th' expert on how t' talk t' mortals, m'lady - tell yer kin what'll 'appen." "You aren't bringing in your army, uncle? But I thought ..." His tone tightened, the yellow consuming the last green in his gaze. "Th' Eternal War continues, as th' name implies. With all th' help I've given, lately, th' way I've been dragg'd hither an' tither t' keep th' delicate Balance intact, I 'ave no spare soldiers for somethin' I can very well do by myself." She moved closer to him, stepped over the invisible boundary dividing the immortal and the mortal, to be able to whisper so the merchants would not hear. In response the two men turned towards each other, saw the same view of perplexed disbelief, rising anger at how they were being made fun of being reflected in each other's face. The pairs were now the Practitioners of the Art, those who walked the unseen paths, and the Sleepers, the mundane mortals, content with what they saw and experienced directly. "Uncle, can't you conjure an illusion at least, something that makes the explaining easier? There's no way to make them believe you can take care of the problem, all by yourself!" "Ye should've explain'd to them before I arriv'd, m'lady. I will not conjure magic tricks t' act as a jester for mortals who cannot comprehend bare truth when they see or hear it! Ye 'ave magic of yer own, should ye wish t' resort to such entertainment for th' sleepin' masses." "But..." "No."

Valentine's Day has no roots here in Finland, there's no real traditions attached to it - it is mainly something the shops and such try to promote to get us buy more. So I hate the Finnish version (same as I hate the Finnish version of Halloween, which is rootless here as well) and can't say anything about the US version. All in all: meh.

Shadowknights slash, stab sustainably - stalkers shoot sometimes, seldomly. ... at least that's how it was in EverQuest back in my day, dunno if they have given rangers autoshoot yet.

Gushing, gargling gargoyles gorged - ghastly goat goulash grub.

"KENA!" Zadown of Old raised a glass of cider towards Madoka and drained most of it in one go, winked to his old friend. "Happy new year to ye as well, Madoka-san."

Zonked zulu Zadown zeroes zestful zombies. Oh yes, it's yet another previously unseen brother, who through the link to the Zadowns of Terra has also been immersed in Zombie Club activity. Too bad the zombies got too zestful and had to be exterm... zeroed. With a spear, yes. It all makes perfect sense, eh? http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif

Time to be consistent again! 1. coruscating emerald hue 2. mortal 3. the Dreamer 4. rune-adorned 5. conjured 6. artificer 7. By the Three Fates! 8. eldricht 9. blade 10. scars 11. ward 12. bewitched 13. skinning angels 14. Chárôt-card 15. crushed 16. Faaye 17. crossbow 18. 2768 19. glimmering 20. hideously

Nightly, nay, nocturnal - narrow, nondescript niche.

Immersing idiots in ichor is instructive.

Rustling reeds reveal rustic rabbits. (Pfff using names is cheating, cheating I say! )

It's no secret that I write, though I usually am a bit reluctant to actually show what I've been writing. Mmm, my relatives bug me about when is my book going to be out...

Lopsided, leery leopards leap longitudinally.

Epilogue "If you aren't just another dream, buy me a drink." She muttered the words so softly they almost vanished in the muted background noise of the smoke-filled steamhouse. Shanna leaned on the low table in the pose of a drunk in the last stages of activity, just before the fall into blackness. She was wearing a highly ornamental white shirt and trousers of black satin, a rapier and a dagger lying on the pillows near her, within easy reach. Her crystal pendant woke up and pulsed red on the table next to her narrow amber eyes in response to his presence. The Dreamer came back a moment later, deposited a large bottle of oddly organic, soft shapes on the table, and sat down in a lotus position on the pillows opposite of Shanna. The noise the bottle made against the table was faint, but the effect the sound had on the half-demonic woman was immediate. She sat up and brushed some of her hair from her eyes, produced a dark blue ceramic cup, low and wide, from somewhere and poured some of the dark, viscous liquid on it greedily. She paused bringing it to her lips, an intense look of exaggarated concentration on her dreamy face, and examined the gleaming liquid in the diffuse light the lamps provided in the misty air of the steamhouse with a critical eye. Shanna placed the cup back on the table and seemed to really see the Dreamer for the first time. "So, it's you for real - no ghost would've bought me undiluted, first-grade nightoil. Why?" "There's not many others t' drink a glass with, t' be 'onest." Her short laughter was bitter. This time she did not pause when she lifted the cup to her lips and drank it empty in one go. At the same time the scarred planewalker produced another bottle from his robes, this one tall, narrow and straight, glowing with the warm red light of its contents. He placed a glass similiar to the bottle next to it and poured it almost full. She poured herself another one and coughed, once. "You and me both, then. You and me both." "Ya?" "Shadowdiving was never safe, you know. We aren't all demigods and juggernauts of unstoppable power, Lord Old Man. I'm not sure if they were still angry of what you did and took their anger out on us, planned on ambush, or if it was just bad luck. Bad luck ... hey, can I have a glass of whatever it is you are drinking, or would it kill me?" His answer was a wan smile and another tall, narrow glass miraculously appearing in his hands. He poured it half-full and offered it to Shanna, holding the stem of the glass. She took it and sniffed the angel blood, the dreamy slackness fading from her round face, her long ears perking up a bit. She swallowed empty air once and glanced at the unreadable face of the Dreamer before taking a sip. A shiver ran through Shanna and she closed her amber eyes, placed the glass on the table very carefully before opening them again. "Mmm, yes, bad luck. Manchev died, Andrej injured so badly he'll never walk again. Breshol was shocked by it all and withdrew from the business, went as high, as far from the Night as he could ... and he could, he had the connections." The Dreamer nodded and took a sip from his own glass. Shanna took a look at the two bottles, at the glass and the cup, moved her hand towards the glass but then clasped her hands together instead. She didn't look at him when she continued, her words soft, self-pity bleached out of the old memories - only washed out sorrow and watery bitterness left in them. "No other shadowdivers wanted me, as I knew. They didn't want me even before you came here. Why take a halfdemon to fight demons, of course." Shanna brushed hair away from her face and leaned backwards, stared at the ceiling. "There's work for old shadowdivers however, some merchants and such want bodyguards. And I'm ... exotic, always some work for me with rich men who ... nevermind. So, there's my sad tale, more than that you won't get even with that bottle, Old Man. How's your own tale of woe, then?" "Ah, ya. This'll ... take a while." Shanna took a more comfortable position on the pillows and opened her amber eyes wider. The background started to fade into darkness around the two, the minute gestures of the planewalker creating a flickering illusionary canvas next to him. "Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 2476 after Anvil's drow exodus, when 't look'd like th' disorder followin' th' Grail Wars would finally subside..."

Cleptomanic cherbus cause constant chaos!

Vampire vaporizes villaneous vassal. ... so Gwai can do X.

"Hey, knave! We found ye a souvenier, ya." The Dreamer paused his effort at bringing his wards back up and turned to look. It was Sir Owiric, hidden under his usual heavy armor, waving a helmet around in his left hand before tossing it towards him. It spun around as it sailed through the Void - a horned helmet adorned with countless runes, too large for a human to wear, thick and cubersome. He caught it and turned it around to examine the helmet. It was full of small nicks and grooves as if it had been slashed at a thousand times by blades sharp enough to cut the rune-enforced steel armor of a Runelord. One of the horns was missing its tip and some of the blows had cut through the metal, giving the ruined armor a haggard, torn look. The Dreamer waved the helmet at the direction of Owiric and nodded, grinning. "Thank ye, m'lord. I'll find a suitable place for 't, indeed." He looked around the Void. Things had calmed down, and where there had been a strong presence of Law here previously, now this particular tiny crossroad on the Lost Paths was firmly in the hands of Chaos. The familiar auras of demon armies filled the sky, with a brighter red flame here and there marking the presence of a Chaos planewalker captain. Near him besides his old enemy and ally Sir Owiric of Chaos were Yhelmiel and two scores of Owiric's demon guard. Yhelmiel had a lost look on his illusionary face and a thin sword in a scabbard hanging from his belt, a rare sight when he was concerned. Towards the direction of Law's domains shone the white spark of Palgrave Atyaer moving with a speed that was almost impossible to overtake. Coming back from that direction were two renowned troublemakers of Chaos, Sir Golden and Koto Mi, the pair obviously just having abandoned all hope of catching the Elder of Law - a hulking demon in beautiful white and gold platemail shrouded in transparent flames and a little, scarred girl dragging behind her a two-handed sword most grown men would have had trouble using in a battle. A frown appeared on the Dreamers face as he watched the two approach, his blue eyes darkening into dim purple. Owiric, who had walked as close to him as wards allowed, noted the change on his face and grunted, getting his attention. "Those two fought th' Herald o' Law, ya know. An' they are of th' Chaos an' yer not, so don't start on old grievances, neh?" The Dreamer narrowed his eyes but gave Owiric a tiny nod to show he had heard the words and would decide himself how to act on them. Sir Golden waved a gauntleted hand at them when still quite far, then shouted with his booming voice as soon as he got within hearing range. "Hooii, traitor! Next time yer fightin' this guy remember to bring a proper weapon, not a ghost o' a one!" The Dreamer's reply was muttered, barely discernible even for Owiric. "We all don't 'ave weapons made o' planar crystal an' adamantium, or be weapons that use a wielder instead of th' other way 'round." The two of them stopped some distance away. Koto Mi gave the Dreamer an empty, challenging look while Sir Golden seemed to be getting bored. It was hard to tell with the helmet of the armor he had given his name from covering everything except his demonic maw and horns, even his eyes. The girl raised her sword and the two spoke in unision, the girl's lips moving but the sound fitting the blade's look far better - it was cold and metallic, inhuman and old. "Ye 'ave th' price, scale-carrier? Ye'll be soon hopin' we didn't come at all, otherwise." An impassive, frozen look overran the frown the Dreamer had been wearing. He put the massive helmet he was still holding on to inside his robes, a magic trick that would surely have amused any mortal observer, and withdraw the glass vial of Blue Flame. It colored everything nearby with azure hues as always, turning the four into blue-tinted mockeries of their original appearances. He offered it to Owiric, who took it slowly, stared into its depth for a moment and then put it inside his bulky armor. "That's unlike of ya. Usually I get nothin' but grief from givin' ye a hand, Dreamer." "That small vial's concentrated grief, Sir Owiric. Do what ye will with it as long as th' Law doesn't get it - I'm done with it." Sir Golden pointed towards the depths of the Void with his mace where a single spark of white moved with grace and swiftness and shouted with his battlefield voice, unnecessarily loud when he was so close. "Hoi! What 'bout 'er, traitor?" "Let 'er be, brute. She's not one of th' fanatics." "If ya say so, sage. We are done, aye? Let's get goin' then, there's no fight left in these dismal corners o' multiversum an' that means 'tis a wrong place for me." When the four planewalker captains of Chaos left, one after another, the two troublemakers first, then Owiric and his guard, Yhelmiel lingered slightly longer. He had been silent and did not say a word now, but draw a Cháröt card from his deck and flung it towards the waiting Dreamer before making haste to catch up with his companions. The Dreamer caught the card and gave it a long look before crushing it, the card's remains exploding into flames inside his whitened fist.

"Oook, oook!" offends ogres.

Gaily gallivanting gorillas gibbered.

The view had changed while he had been inside the plane. Most of the forces of Chaos had exposed themselves and were skirmish with various Law's troops, white and red stars twinkling between the pearly moons of the planes. Just beyond easy detection range two powerful beings seemed to be fighting, their raw auras circling and clashing - a sight that elicted a genuine smile from the tired planewalker. Even nearer was the unmistakable presence of Atyaer Ra Jahl, the purity of Law he radiated impossible to fake. The smile the Dreamer wore turned into a frown and he drew Pain, placing the vial of Blue Flame he had held in his left hand inside his white robes. Palgrave Atyaer did not reduce his considerable speed before he was very near, coming to an abrupt halt with a look of annoyance ruffling his calm countenance. The Herald of Law did not like to rush into anything. "Evenin', Palgrave. I hope yer retinue wasn't unduly hindered by th' turbulent situation on th' local Lost Paths, ya? I 'eard that th' Maiden o' Daggers 'erself was around." "Very amusing, m'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima. Now that you have shown what a droll fellow you can be I hope we can cut to the heart of the matter, as it may be." "Ya? Forgot somethin' th' last time yer honor'd Exactness chose t' illuminate my poor fortress with his presence, neh?" "Yes. The rest of the Blue Flame, if you may. Now." Atyaer drew his long ivory sceptre from the nothingness of the Void and shifted his stance minutely, a hint of a ghost of a smile appearing on his dry face. The Dreamer did not waste any more words and rushed forward, holding Pain with two hands. Atyaer gripped his sceptre like it had been a katana and cut downwards at the charging Dreamer, a clean, swift but predictable attack. The Dreamer parried out of old habit, not giving the matter much thought - and was shocked out of his battlestance by the mournful, shrill cry of the spectral blade as the two weapons met. The crashing contact pushed both combatants back, the weapons deflecting each other just before the Pain shrieked again, flickered once and faded out, leaving only the long handle in the Dreamer's hands. The sceptre Atyaer held grew longer and turned into a staff at the same time the Dreamer abandoned the useless hilt. "I will ask again, m'lord, only this once. The Blue Flame?" As a response, the Dreamer released a spell he had been weaving from the moment he saw Atyaer's approaching form, anticipating this moment. The enchantment suffused him, opened a wide channel to the hell of the the nearby plane allowing him to channel fire-aspected mana. The scarred planewalker opened his mouth and breathed hellfire on Atyaer, coloring the flames blue to add insult to the injury. Atyaer made a circular parry with his long staff, rotating it in front of him so fast it seemed like a vast round shield protecting him from the flames. Only one or two errant embers of the caustic, deadly hellfire managed to land on his wards, barely scratching them. After the jet of flame was extinguished, the Elder pointed at the Dreamer with his staff that grew again, turned into long lance. He barely dodged the attack, snarled a spell that conjured a pair of unreal daggers into his waiting hands. Atyaer handled his ridiculously long weapon with a terrifying ease, aiming a new blow at the Dreamer. His dodge was not quite enough this time, the staff smashing against the edge of his wards and dispelling a number of them. They did not choose him as an Elder by chance. There is nothing even in this fight. He blocked the next blow with his daggers, which promptly vanished. Uh oh. * "Marchello!" Fionella's cry was almost shrill, the iron self-discipline all students of the occult had wavering. She didn't see the two scarred beings disappear, her focus on the kneeling young man. Marchello coughed again and wiped at the blood on his lips, smearing it feebly over his face but staying upright despite wavering slightly. "It looks worse than it is, Fion. He just removed something I had been carrying around." "In your body!?" This time Alberto's surprised expression was not a fake. Instead of anger, which might have been the expected emotion, part of it was hinting at a sudden insight - a revelation illuminating the world Alberto saw through his eyes. The tanned student stared reflectively at the spot the planewalker and his mirror image had stood but a moment ago, an amount of respect in his voice when he next spoke. "Cruel ... but clever, I must admit." Marchello coughed again, curling around the ebbing agony. Fionella's supporting arm around him made the pain suddenly seem a very distant thing. * Atyaer's swift blow crushed yet another temporary conjured shield. He drew his white staff back and readied himself for the next attack, fury slowly gaining foothold on his impassive face. "You cannot evade me forever, m'lord Wodzan!" I hardly need forever, if the Fates have not completely abandoned me. The Dreamer did not waste time answering, using every sliver of it to drain more ambient mana and whispering cajoiling words to the spirits of protection and warding, weaving fragile, wavering extra wards to block the crushing blows of Atyaer's ivory sceptre. The Elder of Law, having been content to stand still and use the reach of his extended weapon, rushed forward unexpectedly and tore the newest shield apart with a quick slash. When he thrust the staff against the Dreamer's remaining regular wards they gave in like a soap bubble. That left nothing between the subsequential attack and his white robes, a fact that brought a grim smile on the Elder's dry face. Atyaer stepped forward once more and handled his staff like it was a whip, its tip blurring into invisible, wavering line. That ... can't be dodged ... The Dreamer tried, nevertheless. He managed to twist himself slightly from the path of the blow aimed at his scarred face. It landed on his shoulder instead, the impact sending his long-limbed body careering backwards in an uncontrolled tangle. Atyaer drew his weapon back, then sent it after the tumbling Dreamer, the staff extending from his hands like a thin moonbeam. It crashed on a golden cocoon of solid fire that enceased the shaken planewalker a fraction of a moment before the weapon would have struck home. ... Dimly the Dreamer heard a loud boisterous voice shout the warcry of Chaos, muffled by the distance and the heavy blanket of crippling pain. It gave him something to focus on and he blinked the agony away, felt the first hints of brown retreat away from his eyes. He opened his eyelids to see a wall of golden fire slowly fade away and reveal Palgrave Atyaer's new enemies.