Zadown

Found him! The Dreamer grinned, then let the exultant expression fade as he surveyed the constellation of bright auras between him and his target. They were all mortals, more or less, their wards paper-thin, their attacks feeble, but there were so many of them. He had never enjoyed killing those who practiced the Art, either. They were comrades in some way, on the right side of the gods against the users of magic divide. A few whispered commands passed to those seven of his mirror images he did not need for the search any more, the resourceful locals having actually managed to destroy two of them already. He glanced quickly at the still burning patch of the gardens he had blown up, the roaring fire painting his pale face with warm hues. Then he lowered the shutters around his spirit again, dimming the supernova that had signalled his presence to any mage within miles, the brightness of it visible all the way to the dark recesses of the Void to those who had the skill and power to see through the planar crystal. He waved to the closest mirror image as it appeared from the gloom to his right, the blaze and the university being to his left. For a moment they both had the same sort of dim, nebulous aura of indeterminable power, then his own faded to mere embers and the aura of his mirror image flared up. His bright copy veered away again, disappearing to the right with a tail of mortal followers, and he muttered words of night and invisibility, shrouded himself with a cloak of shadows and veered left, towards the tavern he knew Marchello was in. They aren't all this stupid, of course. He accelerated, knowing the speed would create its own problems with maintaining his cloak of shadows. Time wasn't really on his side, however, and he hurried on at a speed that created his own wind. The fastest route forced him to go straight through most of the campus, muted and wavering auras of mortal mages flashing past him on both sides. Lichs, too. Vampire or two. Remarkable tolerability - most mortals hate and fear those who have travelled past death's door. The Dreamer's hooded eyes cleared and gained the beautiful, deep blue color of the depths of the Void. Then he blinked and that immortal gaze was gone, replaced with muted, dim green eyes that would have fit any mortal face, the tamed color remaining neatly inside iris as it should have. ... of course, they tolerate anybody who wields the fire stolen from the gods here in Chaman, as they've done for thousands of years. I knew that, already. His step faltered and he slipped on the smooth stone he was running over, falling down. He rolled forward, losing his concentration on the cloak of stealth but managing to regain his footing with his unnatural swiftness and nimbleness as soon as he regained his inner focus. When he continued his running, aware of the amount of attention his tiny lapse in self-control had caused, feeling the majority of the puny mortals once again shift tracking the correct one of the eight planewalker images, he couldn't help cursing aloud. Well, too late now to act in diplomatic manner and declare myself a Master of the Art. A featureless mental fog cleared his mind of further thoughts for the short remaining time before he reached the door of the Burning Times, crashing in with such inertia the heavy-set door that had survived many a brawl, demons and rogue magics, was torn off its hinges and thrown to the floor. A short nod and a minute gesture were enough to convey the order of guarding his back to the mirror image who had found his target. "Ah, here ye are, mortal. Now, do stand still - this won't 'urt, much." All vestiges of the brief lapse of concentration gone, the Dreamer's eyes shimmered in blue and yellow colors as he extended his right hand towards Marchello. "Only over my dead body, fiend!" The young man next to his target stepped forward and wove a spell of planar protection between the three mortals and him. He noted its crude structure, the weakness in both the execution and sheer power, and could not help the wan smile that appeared on his face. Unbidden, last traces of the fire-aspected mana he had been drawing gave birth to a small, bright flame in his right hand, ready to be thrown. In the harsh light the tavern looked old, dirty and ugly, its every shadow exposed, the light giving similiar unfriendly treatment to the Dreamer's visage, bringing the cold and cruel face into far too clear view. "If that's yer wish..." "NO!" Marchello shouted and pushed his friend aside, coming out of the area the feeble spell of protection. "Then do not move, mortals!" The flame disappeared, the planewalker channeling its full power into his heavy speech, his words burning into the minds of everybody within hearing range. Knowing the command would hold the trained minds of students of the Art only a fleeting instant, the Dreamer reached towards Marchello with his again empty right hand, it disappearing in mid-motion. It was gone only a blink of an eye before it reappeared, holding a small glass vial with a flickering, tiny Blue Flame burning inside it. Both the vial and the Dreamer's right hand were dripping blood, same blood that Marchello coughed out as he dropped to his knees, a bewildered look of unexpected pain on his ordinary, unremarkable face.

"Um... m'lady Yui Temae?" The addressed woman raised her gaze from the book she had been reading and saw the slightly worried face of Zadown of Old hovering far above her. He was clad in his customary green robes, a sheathed katana hanging from his cloth belt. There was a wooden box in his hands, large enough to hold a cake or a book, that he held in front of him almost like a shield - or an offering to a capricious god. "Yes? What is it, Zadown-san?" "Although this is really late now, I was ... hindered at apologizing about my involment in the incident that happened back then with the Dreamer. And I never got the chance to properly thank you about the time you came to rescue me from my ... err, travels. That island there in the low-magic world, whatever it was." Yui smiled and nodded. "Alcatraz Island. Bad place to end up stranded at." "So ... I wish you to have this." He offered the box to Yui who stood up and took it, a quizzical look on her face. The box was made of some scented wood and was quite heavy, but there didn't seem to be anything inside it. Its cover was engraved with stylized pictures of birds and trees, a different tranquil scene from nature etched into each of the four sides. When she moved as to open it, Zadown quickly made a forbiding gesture. "No, no .. don't open it quite yet. Through our link ... well, he wasn't called the Dreamer for nothing, at least when you named him. We learned, or gained, some skills with dreams, skills he never himself really used as those immortals he spent his time with do not sleep, mostly. So. The box contains a dream seed, a dream of summers and forests and warm sunlight, nothing much else. Open it and breathe the scent of dreams inside when you are stressed and can't sleep. It might help, I hope." "Thank you, Zadown-san. I look forward to using this, then." He bowed and she reciprocated the gesture. He left with a lighter step than he had walked in with, a faint happy smile on his bearded face. - Wyvern "If it Gleams it is Gold" Almostadragon gets one of my dares and the other dare goes out to Valdar "Fear the Ears" Twiceborn.

The Burning Times was full of students and younger professors, so when the first shockwave of the planewalker's revealed aura hit, most of the patrons turned towards the university as one, their faces showing a mixture of surprise, alarm and excitement. Soon after, a clamour of loud voices arose: "Ritual breakage spike!?" "No, no, that's too controlled. It's a lich, channeling above its skill as a challenge." "Yet another mad one?" "Could be Green Witch of Lam-Roo, possibly ... no, it's getting fire-aspected." "Eight Circle breakthrough, then. I knew demonologists were up to something mad again, one would think they'd learn!" "SILENCE!" They all turned to look. It was one of the university's archmages, who had been sitting incognito in one of the darker corners of the room. Now he had taken off his big, floppy hat leaving his stern, concerned face to be illuminated by the warm light of the fireplace. "Every occultist to the defense of the Alma Mater! All students are to remain here, with the exception of those capable of significant healing magic. These are not suggestions, fellow practitioners of the Art - they are orders!" The muttering and grumbling was fairly muted, so commanding had been his voice. Slightly less than half of the customers left, Ultar leaving with them as his secondary studies had been about emergency field medicine and the relevant magic. He waved as he joined the group of mostly older occultist, a big grin on his open face - he had never shied away from danger, the Aefian ideals of courage and valor etched deeply into his nature. They were barely out of the door when the windows facing the university turned bright with yellow and red light. Marchello felt detached from his body when he realized he was grabbing Fionella's arm and trying to force her to duck, his mind hopelessly slowed down by the rice wine. Then the real shockwave hit, rattling the windows and shaking the building but doing nothing deadlier than that. "Oh, um. I'm sorry Fion, I was thinking it might've been a bigger explosion." She smiled at him and moved as to remove his hand, but her expression froze and she gripped him instead, staring past him. With a hollow feeling Marchello turned around, the same detachment he had felt earlier descending over him like a heavy veil, the world slowing down more this time. He saw Alberto launching a quickened ice spell at whatever stood in the doorway, the frown that appeared on his friends face at the same time he heard the obscure but to him unmistakable sound of two spells conflicting, forced himself to turn faster in the syrup air had suddenly become. The explosion had receded, but flames still burned at where it had happened. In the far-away light of that conflagration and in the light of the smaller but closer flames in lanterns and candles, the robes the creature wore seemed almost red and yellow, his skin less pale than he knew it would be. Grey orbs filled with mist were its eyes, a shimmering, ghostly blade pointed at him its weapon. Small shards of broken ice were scattered over the floor in front of it in a semi-circular formation, showing where the invisible boundary of its wards were. It grinned, the scars dancing across its hideous visage. "I've found ya, neh? Stay put, mortal." But ... it doesn't radiate power, not as much as it should. Next to him, Alberto started weaving another, greater spell. He wasn't the only one. Those still remaining quickly realized the stranger was not wearing the robes of the university, that his aura of power was strange, nebulous, and that he was pointing a sword at their fellow student. Unforgivable faux pas, that, especially here in the Burning Times with the history this tavern carried. Men had died for less, died burning or crushed, slashed by conjured beings, died when their mind was torn apart or their blood transmutated into something burning or acidic. Lances of unreal material appeared and tore through the air, only to shatter themselves on the same wards that had so easily repelled Alberto's icy missile. The creature glanced to the side the attack had originated from and leaped forward with unnatural speed, its long-limbed form fading into blurred lines. The spectral blade it swung was even faster, invisible in its speed. The creature was back at threatening Marchello with the weapon when the fountain of blood it had just opened was still bursting upwards, when some life still sparkled in the surprised eyes of the dead student. It did not look around, but spoke as if the words had been meant only to him. "Ye'd do well, m'lord Marchello, t' keep yer fellow practitioners o' th' Art in check, as well as ye can. That'd diminish th' amount o' coffins needed, afterwards." The words pried at the cold fingers of fear paralyzing him, releasing his tongue. "Stop! You heard it! It isn't a man or a demon, let it be!" Alberto's fingers held a shimmering sphere of concentrated cold that radiated chill to every direction, but he did not release it. Fionella ceased to mutter whatever spell she had been whispering even if her face kept the guarded, hostile look that had appeared on it. All around the tavern spells were left on hold, staves lowered, hands that had crept towards a wand stopped. Occultists could govern the world and twist the Fate itself to new shapes, but underneath their bravado and contempt for those not of the Art, most of them feared physical violence. A naked blade or a gleaming axe were an anathema to them to the same decree they was cherished by the Aefian knights and the hunters of Phoenix Isle. And this one had been so fast, so blindingly fast... "What is it, then?" Fionella's whisper was loud in the tense silence, making a few of the closeby students to turn their stares from the immobile stranger to the three of them. She did not look at Marchello when she spoke, but he knew the words were adressed to him. "I ... don't know, Fion. But that thing out there is no Eight Circle breakthrough, no lich or elementalist." He spoke softer than she had done, but a wide grin appeared on the mirror image's face the moment he had finished his sentence. "Aye, yer quite bright for a mortal, ya. That thin' out there 's th' same thin' as me 'ere, ye might say, neh? An' th' thin' out there that's th' same as me, well, he'll be 'ere soon enough t' end this little incident. We do apologize for any an' all inconvinience caused, mortals." It executed a neat little half-bow, keeping its sword pointed unwaveringly at Marchello.

Heh, it's always somewhat relieving to hear others have the same sort of problems sometimes. I tend to add more and more description to already bloated sentences (you know what sort of multi-comma -monsters I write), realizing at some point that enough's enough. Then when I chop that sentence to half, a domino-effect cascades forward and I end up altering sometimes almost every sentence in a paragraph. My verb-tense problems are kinda rare, but I've had those and they are irritating, especially if I happen to notice it way too late. Sometimes I also notice that I've referred to a he as it or it as he or he as she or whatever, a fault that comes from the fact it'd be something that would work in Finnish. In Finnish spoken language (at least in my dialect area), referring to people as "it" is far more common than using the Finnish "he/she" word. The more I write, the more common the former problems are (as I pay more attention to the rhyme of the sentences) and the rarer the latter problems are. I sorta know how to write english, these days.

He could hear the rustle of his deck of Chárôt cards, their blurred pictures gaining focus and shifting, flickering between different possibilities. Fate is present. All these different paths - like gazing into the eyes of Lady Chaos, only less wild, less disruptive. The Dreamer gave the Lost Paths behind him a cursory glance, even though he knew what he would see. Bright sparks of Law's hounds all but covered the darkness of Void, some of them forces that weren't actually on Atyaer's side. Knowing where to look and what to look for, he could sense a far-away cloud of Chaos, a strong regiment of demons most likely. And one or two auras so obscure and atypical it was hard to tell who they belong to. Vultures, inquisitive creatures, gods or other things, nobody claimed to know every kind of creature capable of travelling through the Void. None of those entities were close - the Dreamer stood alone next to a globe of planar crystal, the pearly sheen of the planar shell illuminating his pale face. Now, this is something I could not have done with Melyme's essence still tainting me. Should help with the various defenses they have, accursed paranoid occultists... He smiled wanly before beginning a long chant, wrote a series of runes on the empty canvas of the Void. One by one, transparent copies of him appeared, clad in the same way, carrying ghostly copies of the spectral blade Pain. Their eyes were dead, unfocused as they stared at him, their bodies silent and still. The Dreamer finished the chant and grinned again without humor at his ten new brothers. He walked to the closest one and touched its forehead almost gently, blinked once as a tiny memory left him and entered the clone, lost forever. The touched clone replicated the blink, closing dead eyes but opening its eyelids to reveal a living if grey gaze. It winced as the poisonous, discarded memory suffused it, then nodded to its creator before running to the planar crystal, its structure growing opaque and solid during the few steps it was in sight. The mirror image entered the plane and was gone. The best way to counter Law is to create Chaos, ha! * "Kâpp!" They all lifted their cups to the archaic call for drink and drank deep draughts of Tyurunian rice wine, some deeper than others. Marchello placed his almost full cup on the table and blinked a few times, trying to feel if the state of nausea he was prone of was getting too close. "So, just how was it to be the summoned instead of the summoner, Marc? You still haven't told us. Did you wet your pants?" "I was in too much pain to notice such little details, Alberto. I'll take notes next time." Fionella placed her cup on the table as well, frowning in concern at his direction. "Pain? But there weren't any visible injuries on you when you were returned." Marchello grimaced, not sure if he had made a mistake in mentioning it. Now they all were watching him closely, and he knew they were better at detecting his lies than he was at lying, even if they were more drunk than him. "Well, yes, no visible injuries. I think he was a powerful mentalist, however. He tried some mind control experiments on me." "Yet the archmages let you go. They usually are suspicious of embedded enchantments and such, good luck they didn't keep you locked up longer. To good luck! Kâpp!" Ultar raised his own cup to his words first, openly satisfied at finding an excuse to have another drink. The others followed suit with Marchello lifting his own cup last, uneasiness tugging at the edges of his mind. I got away too easily, didn't I? * Images flooded his mind, each of the clones sending him all they saw and heard - a stream of sensations that taxed his mind and made him irritated. They copied the yellow flare of his eyes, eleven pairs of eyes turning into little suns in the darkness of local night. He may be untrackable, now, but he will not be invisible. Now, to give my searching minions some time to find him ... The Dreamer removed the shutters he was accustomed of keeping around the inner blaze of his spirit and drank in the rich ambient magic deeply, without restraint. To a naked, untrained eye, the only effect was the emerald translucent glimmer of his wards manifesting itself around him, his blade coming into clearer focus, the yellow glare of his eyes burning with actual little flames - an aura of intimidating power bringing him into greater focus. For those using the magesight he went off like a sudden supernova, nearly blinding dozens of students who stared at his revealed might with open, unshielded eyes. He sent thin, immaterial tendrils to every direction, grimaced as they added to the already wide flow of information he was receiving. Ah, yes - a fire-aspected hell, so close, so easy to tap into. They will see me all way in the Void, soon. He ran away from the university in a semi-circle that would bring him back towards the campus in a few minutes, small embers and growing flames dancing around his swift form. A strong spark of elemental fire appeared in his free hand and Pain's blade caught fire, the deluge of brilliance his aura was sending into every direction gaining a fiery hue as he aligned his spirit with the local hell. Behind him, the brave and those fleet of mind had already started pursuing him using various magic means, their protective spells like spheres of delicate gossamer to the Dreamer's eye. I will have to discharge some of this fire before long. In the glow of the burning Pain the Dreamer's expression twisted into a feral grin, shadows and scars dancing across his ruined face.

The glazed, dim eyes of the angel stared into the depths of the Void, their unfocused stare turning and turning at the same rate as the dead piece of celestial flesh they were affixed into spun around. Small frozen globes of bright blood drifted along with the remains of upper body like marbles surrounding a broken doll. Maiden of Dagger's bright red lips parted in a wide grin, revealing shining sharp blades instead of teeth. There was elemental hunger in her radiant visage, bloodlust glinting inside her narrowed eyes. She shreddered the stained parchment she had been holding with her sharp nails and hissed happily. "A pawn of the Fates pleads? Runelords and keys, oh my. Oh ... my." Her voice was a honed blade wiped with silk, sharp and soft, deadly and thrilling. She hissed again as she stretched her naked body luxuriously, a well-fed cat ready to play with her next prey. Two thin daggers appeared into her hands that the stretching had left extended and she spun around once, the blades cutting the emptiness of the Void. With a metallic laugh she ran forward, leaping and spinning, three vast haloes of flying daggers crowning her as she went. * A field of dull grey surrounding the massive sword faded with a soft sigh, revealing the long, thick blade. Sir Owiric of Chaos lifted his weapon effortlessly and placed it on his well-armored shoulder, surveyed his handiwork before turning around, in no hurry. Around him lying on the sand surface of the arena were a full dozen of demons from the inner circles of various hells and abysses, stunned, incapacited or just injured, victims of the burly warrior's passion for warfare. He eschewed training static forms to keep his martial skills honed, preferred instead to go against his own soldiers in various mock battles. Finally, he struck the blade downwards and leaned on the tool of war, glared at the majestetic angel before him. "Yer th' last planar creature I was expectin' around 'ere, Herald. What are ye doin' so far from yer master, slave?" "Conveying my master's message to m'lord Owiric of Chaos, if you wish." Herald's handsome face was impassive, his words as well modulated and polite as ever. On his back was a short pole bearing two long banners, the first silver, the second red with the Dreamer's mage sigil: two arrows of Chaos attached to the broken triangle of Law, a bowl-shaped flame with a brighter centre burning inside the triangle. "He dares t' use th' red of Chaos, still! Th' cur! Does he think that'll make me more amiable t' his impossible, ludicrous requests, hmm?" "I cannot say, m'lord." Owiric grabbed the forehead of his heavyset helmet and tore it off, something he rarely did. The revealed face was almost fully covered by a dark red moustache and beard, sweaty braids of his thick black hair spilling out of the removed helmet. His eyes were set deep into his craggy face, giving him an appearance not unlike some of the dwarven races. Owiric shook his mane and tossed his helmet aside, made a grunt that seemed to convey no real message. "So, crane, what is he after this time, aye? An army o' thousand archdemons, per'aps? Forgiveness from th' Lady Chaos, hah!? How's he goin' t' make me look bad, this time 'round?" Silent, Herald offered Owiric a sealed parchment adorned with the seal of the Dreamer. * A perfectly white, perfectly round table stood in the middle of a white room with four Chárôt decks, four planewalkers in gleaming white robes seated around it. Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl's form, standing nearby and clad in black silk created such a stark contrast against the absence of color you could have gotten a headache from watching the scene - or perhaps the dry, cold, unnaturaly calm air permeated with the thick taint of Law would been enough to create such pain for any mortal. The motions of the four oracles were almost mechanic, the strong presence of Law influencing every action, every aspect in the room. One of the four was finishing his (or hers, it was hard to tell with the loose robes and the featureless faces) reading and drew the last card but paused with it in hand instead of completing the pattern, turned around on the chair towards Atyaer. The sexless voice was carefully modulated, and while the words were not in Old Planewalker Prime, both the influence of Order present and the speaker's sheer will kept the planewalker accent almost completely away. "Your Exactness. Sir." "Yes, what is it, oracle? Something that requires my attention?" "Th' .. the crystal clear certainity of the plans is wavering to mere strong possibilities, Palgrave. Chaos and Balance are ascending, and while Law still reigns supreme in the spread of possible futures, the probability edges are losing the sharp focus. And the latest reading, sir, provided this as the focus card, your Exactness." The revealed card showed a robed figure grasping the stem of the Grail, golden fire blazing forth in a wide cone that disappeared upwards to the darkened heavens, gold the only bright color present amidst the dim, nocturnal general tone. His forehead rested on a white pillar, a thoughtful look on his downturned, horribly scarred face. Wind blew ashes and burnt remains of bigger objects past him, made his robes billow. "The Hermit. Well, well. I doubt he has the will to oppose us again, as demonstrated by our latest meeting." Atyaer removed his hands from behind his back, his right hand holding a thick, long ivory sceptre. A thin smile appeared on his face. "This time, we shall crush him."

90% Basher, 10% Swooper here - I do tinker with my stories to some extent after I've first written them, but mostly I produce "perfect" text (ie. as good as it is going to be, anyways). "Big part of why I write, however, is to find out what happens myself, set in stone all the whirling pieces of visions dancing around my head, mutating and changing. After I've found out which of the mutable realities floating inside my imagination was the one that survived to be the reality, my interest in working with that particular story wanes rapidly and steeply." -- Zadown, in a PM In theory I can imagine rewriting stuff, but in practice I always prefer to write (and thus, read) another story instead. I want to know what'll happen, not a less blurred, enhanced version of what already happened.

Rage The ground convulsed, shook as a dying beast. Muffled roar of explosions rode the shockwave, the only sound that could penetrate the length of packed earth and worked stone. Screams of dying and shouts of command, the metallic shrieks of swords against shields and the cruel whistle of crossbow bolts were all filtered away, left on the surface. Both planewalkers facing each other off grinned, breathed in the taint of chaos that flowed along the laylines, permeated the local ambient magic. There was no joy in the grin of either of them, just black delight of the destruction going on above, anticipation of the fight ahead down here. They were standing in absolute darkness, the tunnel manmade and reinforced but not illuminated, not that it hindered either. The first was a grey-eyed little girl, barely into her teens. Her ordinary, vacant face bore half a dozen cruel scars, a streak of white in her spikey black hair marking the location of one scar on her scalp. The girl's clothes were red and green with flower pattern, loose to not hinder her movements, a wide green cloth belt around her waist. She had leather sandals and strips of leather wound around her hands to keep her grip on the massive sword she carried. It was dark with red runes running up and down its length, so omnious and foreboding in design it would have seem ludicrous if it had not radiated malevolent sentience. The sword was taller than its wielder, and the tip of its blade was lying on the floor behind the girl. The second was a tall man, wearing blood-red armor that shifted constantly, the pieces of platemail drifting across a sea of chain, silk and leather. Dark purple boots, a crown of black iron and torn, burnt grey cloak finished his attire. On his hideously scarred face two red eyes burned with such intensity even a mortal could have seem them in the otherwise total darkness. His blade was as long as his opponent's, but its blade was spectral, its design oriental. The tunnel shuddered again, small bits of earth and little stones falling down from the ceiling and falling down on the floor and bouncing off the wards of the two planewalkers. "So, ye found us before we ye, ya?" Her voice would have clawed at the guts of any human hearing it with cold talons of complete fear: it was metallic, distorted and old, and despite her sneering lips moving the voice seemed to come from behind and below her. He nodded and spoke, speaking with the same accent but with otherwise almost normal, deep voice, even if every word, every syllable was snarled. "Let's get this done, mercenary lowlife. I'll aim for ye an' not th' doll that carries ye, sword." The black sword laughed when the girl carrying it charged. Author's notes: Not very good one for this thread (and I feel bad about breaking the chain of real world stories), but at least it was completely inspired by it, having otherwise being left unwritten. Consider this an interlude if you will. Next word: Love

"An' what are ye going t' do now, m'lady?" He lowered his eyes from her ruined face, then turned their gaze past the rim of the floating structure, watched the distant giant of light wander seemingly aimlessly over the monotonous surface. His face hardened, the scars freezing into rigid positions - lines of cold, set anger, creating something akin to a series of rough lightning tattoos in a row, all pointing from the back of his head towards his face. "My course 's clear. They are actin' both against Balance an' against Chaos, an' in their hunger for power they are aimin' to 'ave an age where no planewalker shall roam free, unfetter'd by th' chains of Law. But ye?" "Do ye think I would ask after yer remainin' pieces o' th' Flame to turn them over to Palgrave Atyaer, ya?" Faaye was silent before speaking again. "I do not want 'nother Grail War, m'lord." She dropped her wards, their powerful weaves of magic dissolving, the local leylines of ambient magic shining faintly for a passing moment when they had to accommodate the excess mana. It was a gesture more absolute than a knight taking off his plate helm or a wolf baring its throat, a sign of high trust - or black desperation. Purple haze faded from the Dreamer's hooded eyes at the same rate as Faaye's magical protection dissipated, left them colorless and transparent, utterly inhuman and devoid of expression. She offered her hand, the white leather gauntlet smeared with her own blood. The Dreamer laughed. It was open and loud sound, abrupt in both its start and subsequent end. His eyes sparkled and turned white, and his wards designed to withstand the blows of angry gods and strikes that could devastate small towns flickered once, twice, and were gone. He almost leaped forward and shook Faaye's hand a grin on his face. "Welcome t' th' side o' Balance, sister - we 'ave much work to do, then." Faaye's answering smile was lopsided and did not quite reach her eyes. The two planewalkers withdrew their hands and started reweaving their powerful protection spells, both quietly concentrating on the task. Once the wards were again securily in place, the two planewalkers again separated by the invisible spheres of force, they nodded to each other and sat down. "So, ya think he'll figure out where th' last fragment o' th' Flame is, m'lady?" "Th' wisps brought their doom on themselves, given they were th' ones that told us about th' Blue Flame's return. But what of Midthgelmërch? There was a part o' th' Flame in that direction, ya?" "Aye. Secure 'gainst any normal assault, ya, but even th' devils can't withstand th' rage of such a large part of Law's judgin' fist. Ah, I wish I'd been there t' see th' devastation." "So, do they hold all parts o' th' Flame now?" He blinked slowly, stared through her, then shrugged and refocused his blue gaze. "I can't say, this way or that - I 'ave no way of knowin' whether or not they 'ave reached th' part guarded by th' Devourer or th' last, tiniest an' hardest t' find piece. Goin' to get th' piece from DeMorneer's maze would be a fool's errand - th' forces of Law would track me an' pin me down, then overpower th' Lord o' Abyss and get th' piece, easily. They can do their own work, as far as that part o' th' Flame's concerned." Her voice was softer than normal, tentative. "An' th' last piece, then?" The Dreamer grinned and tilted his head, gave her a sharp and amused look. "Ya, th' last piece, aye ... I could get it. But where can one store it against th' wrath o' half th' Law's forces?" "Why store it?" He frowned, his scars dancing across his face. "Ya?" "Why store it, m'lord? As ye said, there is no place we can go that has walls thick enough to hold 'gainst th' storm of Law's fanatics. We should douse it, not store." "Ye know a way t' destroy one o' th' keys to th' Parallels? An' ye think we should?" "It is a Flame, neh? Do ye think it can survive in Wesmual?" "Assumin' it does survive th' primal waters, th' freezin' cold and crushin' pressure of Wesmual, an' that ye watch it burn merrily in th' dark depths as th' vanguard of Law closes in - what would ye do, m'lady Faaye Khantius of Law?" Her smile still had no joy to it, the movement of her facial muscles tugging at the drying blood. She rubbed her cheek and winced, then let the rest of the blood be. "Why, I'd take it again an' run with it, an' none of those sluggards would catch me. They have nobody quicker than me, m'lord, as ye well know." "Ya, I can see from yer un-marr'd face ye've never been caught on th' Lost Paths, Faaye th' Swift." She glared at him, but his face held an amused, superior look that was saying more than any few words could convey. It together with the dry, almost sardonic tone he had used told her this was the price she would have to pay for his trust - that he was mocking them both with his comment, aware that he was overextending his trust, consicious at the risk they'd both be taking. A mask, an illusion of amused nonchalance, underneath which lurked the threat of the last, final and utter Death for them. All that and more she could see in that one fleeting moment when her angry glare was dismissed, and she conceded the point to him with a thoughtful nod. "Ye know of a better way t' stop this, Scourge o' th' Planes?" "Naw, I don't." Or perhaps I do. Perhaps...

The Dreamer was doing experiments on binding mortals by using their true name: "[..] Bindin' mortals 's a waste of time, usually, given that th' taint of the one doin' th' binding renders such mortals unsuitable for most of th' rare tasks mortals are more useful than planar soldiers, but oft' what is useless teaches us a lot about what is useful..." Of course, by the end of the story he found other uses for poor Marchello. Part of his presence in the story was to show what the Dreamer does (and what most planewalkers do) when he isn't actively entangled with the Eternal War and the planewalker power struggels - they research and experiment, hone their skills in whatever field they are interested in. The Dreamer is a acknowledged master of binding, and as such he endeavours to keep his skills sharp.

"You seem pretty calm about this." "I've already faced death, this can't be much worse." The guard who had talked turned his gaze forward again, chuckling at his comment. There was two of them, both wearing crimson loose clothing with golden ornaments, the uniform of the university guard. Both had heavy, fingerless leather gloves as well, old weapons that had been crafted ages ago during the age of magic, now tarnished almost black. They demonstrated their effect to each new age group. He could still remember the look of pained shock on the face of Ultar just before he passed out - he had volunteered without really knowing what would happen. Most of the locals had heard the stories from their relatives and were snickering covertly even before the actual blows landed. They reached the gates leading out of the quarantine ward, the heavy grinding sound of massive block of stone moving sideways bringing Marchello out of his reverie. Security was something that was taken seriously everywhere magic was being taught, a hundred true horror stories illustrating what happened if magic got out of hand. Several of them were parts of the history of this particular university. Even enchantments, steel and tcha-wood weren't always enough to contain the most spectacular failures ... and the most spectacular successes. "Well, good luck, boy." The same guard who had talked to him earlier finished his comment with an encouraging hand gesture miming the flipping of the Fate's coin that meant wishing good luck, then opened the heavy, reinforced door and stepped aside to let him pass. Marchello rubbed his hands together and smiled nervously, suddenly not so sure if this was easier than being yanked through a gate by a scarred demi-god. He straightened his robes and walked in, right into the crossfire of the Magical Incident Containment Committee member's glares. * First thing he saw when his eyes worked again after entering the bright daylight outside was an exaggarated look of mock surprise on Alberto's face. "Oh look, they let the demon loose!" A few of the more elder occultists passing by gave them a cursory glance, then dismissed the shout as a youthful joke and ignored them. Marchello looked faintly embarassed even after nobody stared at them any more. "Better not cry wolf too many times, Alberto. Some day you'll summon a demon sorceress of the seventh circle by accident and when you will cry for help, everybody will think you are joking." "Oh, pff, I can handle those things. Only fair maidens akin to our dear friend Fion have anything to fear from their tentacles." "You've been listening to Yamir's or Berthelloe's stories again, haven't you? I swear, their brains are getting moldy already." "Very nicely said, that. I'll remember to tell that to them next time I visit the library, I'm sure they'll be delighted to hear it." "Um no, don't bother." "Haha! So, how does it feel to be free, now? Ultar and Fion had important classes, they couldn't come, but we'll have to celebrate this tonight, properly. That doesn't mean reading books or calculating magical matrix interaction coeffecients, if you catch my drift dear friend." "Yes, well, I was able to read the Theory of Magical Matrixes during my quarantine quite enough. I guess I could be convinced to do something else, this one night." "Splendid! We shall come drag you out of your room around eighth bell, then. Be prepared!" A wide grin appeared on Alberto's face and he waved melodramatically before hurrying off towards one of the various buildings that the university consisted of. Marchello paused to watch him run ungainly in his robes, several other occultsist and students also giving Alberto various looks of amusement or disapproval, depending mostly on their age. It was a great day, warm and bright, as it always was - the weather rituals took care of it, allowing rain only during the night, regulating wind and sunlight. People walked around in robes that declared their rank and school of magic, in small groups and alone, some discussing what they just had learned, some talking about their research or the news from abroad. Most were Chamanians, their skin tainted purple by some event so deep in the mists of history nobody knew the story any more, some students from the other countries - Aef, Red Theocracies, Tyourun, Ghamaast, Lam-Roo. He even spotted a lich deep in discussion with a student and a small group of Wanderer elves sitting on the grass in the shadow of a tree, their multi-colored clothes very different from the robes almost everybody else wore. Air was full of the heady perfumes of flowers, the gentle breeze bringing hints of the familiar, dry smell of old tomes, the exotic fragrances the elves used and other smells, harder to identify. Marchello breathed in deeply, happy to be out of the boring cell, then shivered without knowing why.

Palgrave Atyaer's voice, dry and dead, exact and crystal clear, cut through the silence. "As you all are aware, our loss in the last great war was merely the result of Grail's meddling. What is not in the general knowledge, however, is that even that vessel of Fate requires time to recuperate - that it's reserves of golden fire are not endless." The auras of so many powerful planewalker captains made the atmosphere oppressive, their combined presence creating an area of concentrated Law. It turned the air in the room dry and silent, muted all unnecessary movement. Atyaer's gaze swept through his twelve elite followers, seemed to tarry on Faaye's apparently innocent visage. "Thus, now is our time to truly strike against the twisting, vile Chaos. Now as they argue about the last war and believe themselves safe, now that their Scourge of Planes has turned to Balance. Now that we finally are beginning to reclaim what was ours." He showed a vial of Blue Flame to the planewalkers, who roared their approval in flat, monotonous voice. * She appeared high above the perfectly level plane, ready to discern her position by observing the ground from far away, to see which rune she had landed on. As soon as she had sidestepped into the Prime, a faint shock rippled through her body. A frown of uncertainity and disbelief shadowed her beautiful, open face. A taint of ... Law? Down below thin lines of smoke were rising directly upwards, unnaturally rigid. * A switch from magesight to normal vision showed a bright cloud of brilliant auras marching on ahead, not very far. Faaye shaded her eyes with her hand from old habit and surveyed the force. That's quite an army. One ... two ... five ... eight ... eleven planewalker captains? And over a thousand archangels. Just what target they are going to hit in Midthgelmërch? First will-o-the-wisps, now devils? She dashed forward, quickly accelerating to a speed only a handful of known powers could match. * The vision was half drenched in red and pain, the form of an armored giant a vague silhouette ahead. Sparkling, gleaming runes danced around the edges of the armor, golden eyes burned in the shadows of the helmet, a long blade dripping planewalker blood was pointed towards her. "This is the mercy of Law, Countess Faaye Khantius of Law. Examine your actions and repent while you can, walker of the paths." She grimaced and backed off, lifted her own bright sword between her and the runelord. The runelord ignored her and turned away. * The images faded and the Dreamer opened his purple eyes. "Th' fools. Dangerous, deadly, insane fools." He growled, too angry for words.

The Dreamer stopped, tuned out the voice of the hound archon slightly ahead of him, the caretaker who was explaining the current state of this fortress. The two of them stood in the cavernous main hall of the stronghold, a massive room that had no practical purpose. Its far-away roof was filled with green crystals reaching downwards, delicate and transparent fingers of the earth, the bright light from the multitude of magical lanterns glinting and gleaming on their surfaces. The walls were rough, uneven, half of the lanterns fixed into the various niches and holes, their light reaching the room only in reflected form. The floor was even, mostly empty. There were some tables and chairs near the edges of the room, a few angels standing guard with a detached look on their perfect faces next to the few doorways out. The hound archon, Muskhe Resharn, noticed that his words were being disregarded and fell silent, turned his grey wolf-like head towards the planewalker to see when his master would require his explanations again. The Dreamer was staring at the crystals above them, his eyes matching their dim green hue. After a while, something made him frown and blink, and when he turned to look at one of the doorways his eyes were the dark blue of nightly sea, black tendrils creeping through the already almost black background. A short moment later an angel flew through the doorway he was staring at, the mode of travel indicating utmost haste - angels did not enjoy flying in such cramped quarters even if it wasn't already strongly frowned upon by their masters. The planewalker strode forward, Pain appearing in his empty hand already moaning in anticipation. The archangel landed ungainly in front of the Dreamer and bowed hastily, an uneasy look on his face. He was the one who had been guarding the portal, the crystal key was hanging from his neck, the intricate thing shining in the light of the constellations of magical lanterns. "Ye call this guardin' th' portal, soldier?" "Forgive me, Master - she convinced me her mission was urgent, and for better or worse, my lord, I believed her." There had been a storm brewing in the narrowed eyes of the planewalker and now it broke out, red and yellow lightning flashing in the depth of darkness. He snarled and stepped forward, lifted the angel effortlessly up with his left hand. "Ye were convinc'd t' leave yer post!? By whom, pray tell! I may be short on angels, fool, yet fail t' answer me properly this once an' I'll be one more archangel short." "Lady Faaye Khantius, my lord. She was gravely wounded and in great haste, and ..." He growled, but his wrath-filled eyes were lifted upwards and were not fixed on the shivering angel any more. Tearing a strip of the angel's enchanted scalemail with him, the Dreamer sidestepped away into planar Astral. A few moments later he reappeared as close to the floating tower holding the portal to Syvkiv as he could, leaped through the Astral once or twice and eventually landed on the white floor of the flying structure. He quickly took in every detail, every shred of his attention in the present, his mind uncharacteristically focused. Below, the green ground was dark except near a wandering sun-strider, a skinny elemental giant of fire and sunlight, taller than ten men, who illuminated an area of the mossy stone around it. The sky was uniform and dark, no moon and no stars, the nights here absolute in their lack of heavenly lights. Before him, her suit of white leather and plate smeared in planewalker blood, stood Faaye, turning towards him slowly. On the white floor of the tower were drops of the same blood, black against grey in the low illumination. Faaye's curly hair was matted with sweat and there was a determined, bitter look on her normally friendly and open face, her lips pressed into a line instead of the usual smile. She lowered the tip of her gleaming, clean longsword as she saw him, but her grim visage did not change as she kept on turning, finally showing the injury she had received. A vertical cut had cleft the left side of her face in two, the wound geometrical and exact in form, reaching from her eyebrown to her jaw, the eye underneath the slash milky and dead. The stillness she saw in the Dreamer when he saw the injury made her face tighten, the bitter grimness deepen, but she remained silent for a moment longer. Then she sheathed her blade and grimaced, the pain that movement of facial muscles inflicted showing in her single remaining eye. "This is th' mercy of th' Law ye see, m'lord Dreamer. Th' mercy ... of th' Law." "An' just who of them 's capable of such mercy, m'lady? Unless ye've managed t' wake up th' champions of yore, those of th' Zealots who sleep waitin' for Law's last triumph or loss, I know of no single planewalker who'd be able t' cut such a blow against ya in fair combat." "Tchaa, th' Zealots? We may yet see them, aye, but this was no planewalker. A runelord, rather. An' a merciful one at that." She laughed without humor, angry. "'Tis a story that can wait - what can't wait, m'lord, 's reclaimin' th' other pieces of th' Blue Flame. Ye 'ave no idea what ye've set in motion this time, Scourge o' th' Planes - nobody has, I'd wager." "Urgent or not, I can't let ye in this fortress, m'lady." "Unless ye hold any more pieces of th' Flame there, neither o' us need t' go there. If yer willin', I can show all I've seen regardin' this matter, given my psionic skills aren't as lacklustre as yers. Open yer mind, Wodzan Xe Chanima. See what a mess ye've created." He lowered the wards that protected him against psionic assaults. And the images flooded in.

"Aaaaaaahhh!" Marchello shook his head and shuddered, a terrible weight crushing down his chest. He blinked rapidly a few times, trying to sense where he was and what was happening before he realized he had just woken up. That gate spell, smashed circle of protection, the scarred, pale giant - all a dream? ... or just a déja vu? The realization of where he was seeped into him slowly from the dark, dry air, easing the tight knots of panic, the sharp angst ameliorated into dull ache of worry. His body relaxed and he turned around, thinking for a short moment he might be able to regain the elusive sleep, then gave up and sat up. The demon had better bed than this. I guess most beings kept in this quarantine cell have more acute worries than how soft or wide their bed is, though. He rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation of blood in his numb fingers, yawned and raked his short hair once, absently. His latent magesense started probing at his surroundings and came to the same conclusion as always - this place was sealed and devoid of mana, a zone of dead magic. As always, that feeling hit him like a tall wave, gave him such a sense of claustrophobic terror he had to regulate his breathing to keep himself from hyperventilating. Marchello didn't care about the physical cage, but the absence of magic, an empty hole where his Art usually was, sent cold sweat trickling down his skin. He yawned again, found his candle, almost tried to ignite it by the magic he lacked before managing to drag his daydreaming mind back to his current space and time. It took a while, but in the end he got it lighted with the flint and steel he had been provided with. The wavering light of a beewax candle was enough to illuminate the pages of the one book he had been allowed, and he let his grip on his daydreaming mind loose, floated beyond this time and place to the world of theory of magic. "... Marchello! Marchello!" "Huh?" "I'd pour a cup of water over your head as usual, Marc, but you are too far inside your snug cell! Now, stop daydreaming and come here, I doubt we'll get to visit you again any time soon after this." "How are you, Marchello?" "Quit worrying, Fionella, he has a book so he is alright, right Marc?" Three familiar voices: his fellow students Ultar (Aefian oaf, people called him, and it was easy to see why with him being so loud and open, so tall and wide, his pale skin a rarity), Fionella (short and slim, possessing an inner fire that only manifested itself when she was working on the Art, made her beautiful during those moments when she bent the world to her will) and Alberto (tanned so dark the purple hue of Chaman was almost invisible, mercurial in nature - hovering between existential angst and sublime ecstasy, black brooding and bright mania). Sometimes he wondered why they chose to associate with him at all, what there was in his character that was worthy of such attention, or any attention for that matter, but mostly he just accepted them as one of the more positive aspects of his somewhat grey existence. Marchello carefully marked down the page he had been reading, put the book away with quite a bit more tenderness than the heavy, reinforced tome really needed, and walked the short distance to the cell door. The lead bars were engraved with sigils, most of the door's strength in the enchantments cast on it instead of in the actual resilency of the lead bars and tcha-wood door. The gaps between the bars were rather wide, wide enough for him to clasp hands with all of his friends, one by one. If he had been a planar creature, the wards would have blocked him, but as he wasn't most of the enchantments, runes of warding and protection and sigils of containment actually did nothing to keep him in here. "Your hand is ice cold, Marchello. Are you sure you are feeling well?" "My hands are always cold, Fionella. And yes, I'm alright, just bored in here." "His hands are for caressing the delicate pages of beautiful books, they do not need to be warm. You can give up on him Fion, he is already married to the library." "Hey!" He smiled, half embarassed, half pleased by Alberto's jest and Fionella's reaction to it, rubbed his hands together again. An old habit, that.

Now there's something I can completely agree with and sign, even if actually living by it is sometimes hard for us imperfect creatures. Live and let live!

The heavenly chariot carrying the Sun raced upwards spreading clear, strong light everywhere. Far below it spread a vast field of green, the details of the terrain impossible to see from as high up as the lone archangel gazing down was. He was sitting on the floor of a small floating hexagonal tower made of wood painted white, the glass in its every window glinting in the sunlight. The gleaming scalemail the archangel wore reflected light even more, seemingly golden. He absently touched the intricate crystal key that hung from his neck, then pushed himself backward from the drop, his armor jingling and sending small rays of sunlight to every direction. A pleasant, tranquil smile appeared on the archangel's beautiful face and he closed his eyes for a short moment, savouring the warm touch of the Sun. After a while he opened his bright, blue eyes and reached backwards into the small structure, his searching fingers finding the book lying on the floor fairly quickly. His smile widened and he started dragging the heavy book towards him, still staring outwards at the scenery of wide blue sky, limitless green ground and the lone exception to these two featureless backgrounds, the brilliance of the Sun. Right then somebody stepped on the book, pinning his unprotected fingers under it. Startled, the archangel almost fell at first, then tried to turn around to see what was exactly happening. "Say, aren't ya suppos'd t' guard this portal, ya?" Obscuring his view to the portal itself, one wyrmskin boot firmly on his beloved book, a scarred face thrust towards his surprised visage, was the Dreamer. The planewalker looked half pleased with himself and half angry, his eyes dark, dim green. "Master! Yes!" "Quit daydreamin', then, soldier." The planewalker released his boot from the book when he stepped forward. He dragged the planar soldier up, lifting him effortlessly until his white leather boots were at the same level as the tower's floor. The angel was almost as tall as his master was, clad in white and shining metal, even his hair white as snow. When he realized he was staring at the Dreamer's face, the angel lowered his gaze and bowed deep. "I gather 's been peaceful 'ere, then. Who 'ave been th' last three t' use th' portal?" "Um ... the demon Êzkhael Khâ, carrying a large stasis chamber was the last to pass, three days ago. Before that ... Jíanlael Alh, bringing in a crate full of weapons from Tultuul, twelwe days ago, and ... er. Óellaeh-Ân thirtyfive days ago, acting as the Herald's messenger. She just examined the fortress for the Herald and returned right afterwards, Master." The Dreamer's eyes narrowed. "Passable, soldier. Why didn't ya break th' key when I stepped on yer book, however? Ya know th' rules, yer main concern 's to not to let anybody claim th' portal intact." The archangel allowed himself to show some indignation, stood up straighter. "Master, no angel, even less a demon, could have snuck on me as you did. And no planewalker uses portals." A grin appeared on the planewalker's face, the scars shifting across his torn face. "So ya say, so ya say. I'll accept that answer for now, soldier. Carry on." "Yes, Master." The Dreamer walked to the edge of the tower and right over it, falling towards the distant ground. The archangel could not help himself and walked after him to glance over the edge. Far, far below, nearer the ground than the tower, a small white dot descended rapidly, then vanished from sight. I let him off easy. This fortress is supposed to be my most heavily guarded one, the place that could in theory hold off an assault of a planewalker captain without me here defending it. Ground surged upwards to meet him, the uniform green below starting to turn into detailed fields of stone covered in thick moss. He made a slight gesture, muttered a few words in the True Language, and his descend slowed down abruptly. When his feet touched on the surface of the plane it was a gentle landing, softer than stepping down the last step of a stairwell. This close the surface looked curious: the stone formed spirals and snake-shaped formations, the ground uneven and full of holes. Some parts were like remains of huge pipes, the surface of those pipes made of separate threads of stone, spiralling around an empty core. The stone was all different shades of grey, the moss vibrant, moist green - those colors and their limited hues the only ones present if you excluded the colors the Dreamer had brought with him: his cream-white robes and the white of his pale skin, the black scabbard on his back, the dark purple of his boots and the grey of his hair. A look of mild concentration appeared on his face when he walked along the thick beam of stone he had landed on, but otherwise he didn't seem to care about the treacherousness of the surface, the various pitfalls and holes the uneven stone presented to the traveller. Rather it seemed to merely show his immortal grace. The beam of stone he walked on ended, the Dreamer standing at its very end with an unconcerned air, below him opening a deep fall into the skein of stone. He stood there a moment, watching the cavity below him. Then he leaped down, using his Art to land softly where a normal mortal would have had every bone in his legs crushed and cracked. Up on the surface a fresh wind had swept over the moss and stone, making most odours dissipate. Down here the air was almost still, the layers of moss in the few places sunlight reached at all thin and sickly, a musty, organic smell in the air. Despite the walls of the cavity blocking the Sun, it was warmer here and there was a hint of vague scent of sulphur. With a wan smile the Dreamer snapped his fingers, using that loud noise to summon a small green mageflame to light his way. He glanced around. The stone down here was similiar to that on the surface, consisting of spiralling formations of stone forming empty pipes. It was easier to see their exact shape without the cover of moss, but the Dreamer didn't seem to be interested. His gaze swept across the large natural-seeming space before he found out what he had been looking for. On one edge of the space was a dark doorway leading out- and downwards. A-ha. He walked slowly to the doorway, paused at a certain point to send a certain arcane signal to the waiting traps before continuing onwards. The corridoor was tall and wide, big enough for a small army or a stunted giant, its floor gradually shifting from the porous mess of stone cables to a more solid, normal rock, its color darkening as well. The Dreamer blew towards the tiny mageflame and it burst into brighter flames, grew until it was the size of a fist and strong enough to fully illuminate the surroundings. Even reflected sunlight could not reach the swiftly walking Dreamer any more, leaving the mageflame a free reign to taint everything green. The tunnel turned steeply downwards soon afterwards, making it only suitable for climbing or flying. The Dreamer leaped again, falling towards the depths with the green comet of his mageflame by his side. Even with the air rushing and the uneven stone walls whistling past him at alarming velocities, his face was impassive, his eyes dim. He held his arms stretched towards the far walls of the tunnel, but there were no conjured wings that would have slowed down his long fall, no outward reason for his odd pose. Then, reacting to some invisible mark, he muttered words that were lost in the roaring wind, made faint gestures with his outstretched hands. He landed softly, once again. Now, the fun part. Round tunnels lead to every direction, their surfaces crawling with garbled runes when examined with the magesight. The traps and mind-effecting enchantments all looked the same, the visible manifestations of the spells changing shape, altering a trap to a rune of bewilderment, a rune of misdirection to a rune of obtuseness. Every tunnel seemed covered with such a selection of magical hazards disarming or bypassing them would take ages. A wan, proud smile appeared on the planewalker's impassive face. The Dreamer sidestepped into the Planar Astral. Everything took on a blue hue, the surroundings distorted, all other senses except vision shut off. To walk here was useless folly, given there was no way to find anything except the way out altogether, an exit to the Void. He took a careful step directly downwards, towards the fiery heart of the planet, ignoring the alarms such a move set off throughout his mind. There, the buoy, right where it should be. Below him, too far to be detected from the labyrinth above by any means, shone a bright azure light. Everything else was dark and gloomy blue, the color of sea down where the light at last gives in and darkness wins. When he concentrated on it, he could barely discern the sigils he had written on its surface. Another step down brought him right next to the buoy, deep enough to see through the confusing, mind-twisting layers of the Planar Astral into the well room below. Last step downwards and one sideways, and he exited the Astral in a small, crude room filled with poisonous gases and unbearable heat, the lava bubbling in the large well giving off red light. He paused, nodded to the two bound earth elementals hiding in the stone on both sides and searched the surroundings for the telltale aura of some other planewalker or a planar creature of any kind, certain none could be near but paranoid as all of his kind. Satisfied that he was alone, the Dreamer took down some of the least useful of his wards and replaced them with enchantments that protected against fire and pressure, lava and stone. He took his time, going over the incantations and gestures he rarely used with meticulous care, casting the spells with a slowness that would have been impossible for a mortal mage. When at last he muttered aloud the word that activated his wards, they had a deep blazing purple color instead of the usual coruscating emerald green. A satisfied grin appeared on his face and turned his visage into a grinning demon, the purple of the wards and the red of the burning lava coloring it with their unnatural light. Pausing no longer, the Dreamer leaped down to begin his swim through lava to the Fortress Syvkiv.

Thanks for the review, Wyvern! Just a note on the planewalker slang: every planewalker uses it, it's not the Dreamer's own thing. It can be somewhat annoying to write as well, but it's one of those things that just must be done this way. There are actual lore reasons for it, not to mention the degree any particular planewalker uses it tells something about his or her age. The very, very old ones, the ancients that are over 5000 years old, speak Old Planewalker and thus have no accent if they so choose. The very young ones who have recently ascended do not use it yet either as their speech hasn't been corrupted by the translation enchantments yet (see Lil' Valdar for example). Those in between, 3500 to 500 years of age, pretty much all have their speech corrupted - unless they concentrate fully to speak with utmost clarity, in great cold rage or perfect solemnity. You could have a planewalker that always speaks "normally", but that'd be very odd and something other planewalkers would surely comment on and perhaps make fun of. Hate it or love it, the planewalker slang's not going anywhere. Phacyra's described in Sleuth at least, not sure if he has been described in the other stories where he makes an appearance: Ward, Thunder and Pilgrimage.

Beheld through the magesight, fortress Tultuul was even sadder, cruder sight it was for plain eyes. The spells used power where finesse would have worked better, had holes that would have made dispelling them almost easy for any Master of the Art. For him, a Master and the original caster, taking apart the enchantments that kept the fortress floating was a trivial task. He tugged and nudged, created a chain reaction that unravelled first the protective magics that shielded the levitation spells. A few more gentle touches created the first visible result: Tultuul started to list towards the inferno below, then slide downwards diagonally. Last pulses of dispelling magic aimed at just at the right places brought that to a momentary halt. Then Tultuul fell downwards at quickly accelerating speed, vanished quickly into the same black abyss that devoured the lava that poured over the edge of the inferno, the embers and ash the wind brought. He stood in the hot midair watching at the point the fortress had last been visible, the fiery wind making his robes billow and flutter, ambers floating past his scarred visage. Pain was in its scabbard on his back, his pale, delicate hands hanging freely by his sides. His eyes were dark blue, darker than the hues of Astral, half-closed so he seemed almost sleepy. Another batch of old memories irrevocably destroyed. Not much left of those days, now ... unless Phacyra lives. Unlikely but possible. Next to him flew Êzkhael Khâ with wings of ash and shadows, the large stasis container strapped to his back horizontally with an ad hoc contraption of blackened leather and tarnished metal, the healthy green color of it clashing against the colors of corruption its carrier was painted with. He kept his respectful distance from his master, staying below and to the left, a traditional bodyguard's place. The Dreamer turned to look at his servant. There was something so distant and threatening in that impaling gaze Êzkhael could not help but shiver and lower his head, expecting the sharp blades and barbed chains of the binding tear at his soul next. "Êzkhael Khâ?" "Yes, Master?" "Proceed t' th' Fortress Syvkiv an' ask th' caretaker there t' store that container well. I don't want it to 'ave any scratches when I next examine it, ya?" "Yes, Master." "At yer best speed, then." Êzkhael Khâ's wings grew wider and thinner, barely perceptible in the smoky air. He beat them once, leaping upwards, before he managed to pass through the planar crystal to the Void beyond.

A moment of stillness descended on the scene, the three actors frozen in their places, immobile and silent. The Dreamer in his cream-white robes, holding his spectral blade upright, the hilt near his face - a posture of reserved aggression, ready to slash or parry, fight or flee. A scowl was etched on the scarred, ruined skin of his face, twin stars of yellow-black fire as his eyes. The high priestess, Tawlyn, chains of force keeping her robed form pinned against the wall. A short and stern woman in deep blue and purple, heavy mace hanging from her belt, mouth half-open in astonishment or surprise. And the wavering image of Melyme between them, only slightly taller than his high priestess, clad in similiar colors but his clothes opulent and majestetic. His skin seemed dark brown as if he had a deep tan, a thick black moustache and beard covering most of his face, his lustrous hair reaching halfway towards his hips. On his right hand was the Glove of Slumber, a leather harness studded with precious gems covering most of the hand and part of the arm. "Yer but a spectre of what I once already manag'd t' kill, Lord Melyme." "What!? B..." The planewalker renewed his spell of silence on the mortal, the god not even acknowledging his follower with as much as a glance. Instead he bowed deeply to his killer with the slow grace of a fallen monarch. "That much is true, Lord Wodzan. What holds your blade, then?" "I dislike pointless killin'." The Dreamer let the point of his blade fall towards the floor, his eyes calming into blue pools of wisdom. "Ah, so there was a point to the previous time." "Ya, there was." Air almost rippled between the two immortals, their gazes locked into a contest of wills, the few words they said each laden with keen edges and dripping poison. They both knew how a fight would go - it would be lion versus rabbit, a short and simple affair where a slash Pain would vanquish what little was left of the god. That little consisting mostly of pride, of course. "And what, pray tell me, do you plan to do next, Lord Dreamer?" The last word was underlined by the careful scorn Melyme pronounced it with. It broke some reservation the Dreamer had had, small bright stars of white appearing in his deep Astral blue eyes as he laughed aloud, much to the dismay of the god. "Yer th' dreamer o' us two, m'lord. An' so, t' be th' only dreamin' lord present, I was plannin' to either leave ye 'ere ... or offer ye an' yer priestess a portal back to Anvil, whichever ye choose." Melyme frowned. "A portal? You do realize what madness using one of those for travelling is?" "Aye, I do." The planewalker grinned, an unabashed look of malicious pleasure on his face. "Th' other option, alas, 's even more suicidal, considerin' I will destroy this unnecessary fortress before I leave, an' I doubt ye 'ave recovered yer powers enough t' make yer way out o' this infernal plane without aid." "That does sound even worse, Godslayer. I'll accept your offer of a portal for me and my priestess, then." The Dreamer sheathed Pain, relaxed now. He did every motion with timeless tranquility, lost in his thoughts. Finished with tucking away the spectral blade he focused his gaze on the god again, his amiable mood dissipating, converted into the cold, exact air of a judge or a careful merchant. "One thing before I allow ye t' leave, Lord Melyme. Yer guarantee ye are wiser than most o' th' gods I've clash'd with, wise enough not t' try to revenge whatever 'appened, ya?" Somehow the planewalker had shifted into a battle stance, a hand reaching towards the blade he had just sheated. "This question, I assume, has two answers very much like the earlier two of going or staying." "Aye." "What was it you planewalkers say ... I, Melyme the God of Dreams and Nightmares, Watcher over Ethereal Bodies, abandon all thoughts of revenge against Lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Scales - these binding words I speak of my own free will. Satisfied, now?" "Aye, I am. Fatespeed, m'lord." A series of fast but subtle gestures dispelled the chains and the silence, raised a faint, shimmering portal from the stone floor. Tawlyn rubbed her wrists but looked subdued and said nothing in the short period of time it took for the portal to open and show a nightly view of some town near a jungle, most of the buildings entirely dark, some dimly lit by candles and lanterns. "Zanadin, Red Theocracy. I trust it suits ya two, neh?" The god and his servant both nodded, then the ghostly Melyme slid towards Tawlyn, briefly flickering superimposed over her. She shuddered as the god entered her body, her posture changing slightly but perceptibly. The possessed high priestess stretched once before walking towards the open portal, did not turn or hesistate at the treshold. After she had passed through the portal collapsed neatly. This should be the end of new shards. Peace, at last. The emptiness he felt with that thought drained the blue from his eyes, left them dim grey.

Toys. I used to be even worse artificer than I remembered. He let the tray filled with flawed rings of power, weak amulets of elemental protection and other trinkets fall to the ground, the jewelry bouncing and rolling away from him joining the piles of discarded equipment already littering the floor. The Dreamer looked around the storage room, a disintrested look on his impassive face. Somebody should have raided this place and saved me the trouble of coming here. He grabbed a dusty, now empty shelf that blocked the corner and threw it aside, ignored the noise it made. Behind it stood a tall and wide shimmering green box the size of a large coffin, a rune of stasis engraved near the top. The dust that covered everything else had not managed to touch it for some reason - it looked pristine, new. The Dreamer's dull grey eyes were flooded with sparkling blue as he stared at his discovery, a smile tugging the lines of his scars to new positions. He reached forward with care and touched the cool, smooth surface of the box, stepped closer to examine it more throughly. Soon he found what he had been looking for, the mage sigil of the maker. A stylized spider standing on two of its eight limbs, the rest holding something: a scimitar, a chalice, an arrow, a pair of scales, a sceptre and a skull. Melodramatic sigil, just like her. If this had been my younger self's work, whatever was inside would most likely be ruined by now, but since she made this ... A muttered word and a small gesture made the planewalker's coruscating emerald green wards appear around him. He took a step backwards and examined the box critically again, then shrugged. Another small gesture made his active wards flicker off, the background hum only he could hear silenced for now. The Dreamer reached forward and opened the stasis container. A short woman wearing dark blue and purple robes staggered out, blinked once and saw the Dreamer's scarred face looming above her. She raised her hand and a bright blue orb of hissing electricity appeared on it, but before she had time to aim the planewalker made a dismissive gesture and the spell vanished without a trace. He duplicated the gesture or made another similiar one without a visible effect. When she tried to shout something, words of a spell or a chant or rage, nothing happened. Not fazed by her failure, she reached for the heavy mace hanging from her belt. A yellow spark flared in the Dreamer's blue eyes. What a tiresome creature. He made a third gesture and countless chains of force akin to those that connected him to his bound slaves materialized, wrapping themselves around the woman's wrists with such a force she was thrown at the nearest wall, the blow stunning her. The Dreamer dispelled his silence spell with an unobtrusive motion, then blinked in confusion. When he opened his eyes, their color was flickering wildly. A pulse like the heartbeat of a giant or a god surged through him and he swallowed empty air, fighting to keep upright. ... What? The unsettling feeling of lack of control over himself subsided as quick as it had invaded him. Nearby, the robed woman was recovering from the blow she had received when she struck the wall. She opened her eyes and glared at the Dreamer. Another pulse struck the planewalker from inside as if the world had turned first bigger and then smaller, but this time he had been ready and showed no outside signs of weakness. He growled his words through gritted teeth. "An' who are ye, then?" "High priestess Tawlyn. Let me go at this instant!" She was obviously used to being obeyed, her command containing traces of the heavy voice planewalkers used to overwrite the weaker wills of the mortals. It had no effect on the Dreamer, of course, and resisting the feeble attempt to control him made him return to his equilibrium. A slanted smile appeared on his face and his eyes turned light blue as he lazily walked closer to the chained woman. "High priestess ... of which god, ya?" "Melyme, the god of dreams." The name crashed into him like a True Name, bypassed all his defenses and knocked him to his knee. World pulsed again, fainter this time but continuously, the heartbeat of a dead god. He struggled upright, ignored the triumphant look in the eyes of the mortal and exhaled or vomited, couldn't help himself. His vision dimmed as one last pulse shook his frame, then it was as if a burden had left his shoulders, a sickness that he had carried a long time suddenly cured. In front of him, between the planewalker gathering anger and the helpless mortal, was a transparent ghost of the god of dreams he had killed, whose core he had drained and absorbed. The Dreamer growled and Pain appeared in his empty hands.

The Dreamer sidestepped in from the Void into empty air, stood suspended against the dark sky filled with embers and smoke. The fortress Tultuul was situated on a plane of elemental Fire, floating above and beyond the edge of the merciless inferno of the major planar plate. The fortress was carved out of black obsidian and grey basalt, encircled by an orchard of tall firetrees with canopies of flames and trunks of blackened coal. The small floating island it was on was brown and scorched stone, top flat, bottom a spikey cone pointing towards the black abyss of nothingness below. A roaring wind blew from the plains of fire over the fortress bringing clouds of sparks and flames and streams of ash, a choking smell of burnt stone, burnt flesh, burnt everything. He started descending, walking towards the nearby fortress with slow, precise steps like he had been proceeding down stairs of flawless, transparent glass, the fortress growing bigger in his field of vision by every step. Tultuul had four towers, the two on each side of the main gate taller, the other two at the far corners of the structure short and squat, barely rising over the level of the main part's roof. The gate was made of reinforced firetree wood and was almost as black as the obsidian, the large runes carved on its uneven surface mostly covered in soot and grime. Above the battlements two flags fluttered in the strong wind, both displaying the mage sigil of the Dreamer. Despite the burning wind, the flags were intact, their edges undamaged. A wretched place, barely protected by any enchantments or traps. I am fortunate it has not been raided so far. The Dreamer landed softly on the ash-covered ground. He studied the tall gates with a dreamy wariness, partly submerged in old memories, partly hesistant. After a while they opened unbidden, a single figure standing in the square canvas of darkness framed by the open gates. A pulse of yellow flared in the Dreamer's eyes, a sudden tension nudging his muscles into a ready battlestance, but as suddenly as he had tensed he relaxed again, recognizing his servant. A faint smile appeared and vanished before he spoke, his words unusually subdued. "Êzkhael Khâ, ya? How's th' fortress, caretaker?" "Greetings, Master. The fortress is still standing albeit empty - Herald's orders stripped it from the last of your old guard a score days ago." The lone demon stepped closer. He was wearing a spiked suit of black plate adorned with red runes, two of its three colors the same colors as his surroundings - the black of ash and obsidian, the red of fire. The spikes were bone-white, same color as his short, sharp horns. They pierced his full helm, the helm having a series of similiar horns of steel all along the middle of its back. His suit of armor covered everything except the horns and his dark red eyes, a peculiar primitive stone hammer hanging from his hip and a metal shield covering his back finishing his martial attire. Something was not quite right with his appearance, some intanglible aspect, and the planewalker's eyes were set ablaze with renewed yellow fire, his stance shifting towards possible confrontation. To his magesight the demon seemed normal, the enchanted wargear giving out the expected spectrum of radiance, but still something nagged him. His aura is not the same it was when I bound him, almost two millenia ago. It's not ... demonic. "Master..." Êzkhael Khâ got no further in whatever he had been about to say, got no second step closer. The Dreamer raised his right hand, the fire in his eyes blazing red, his mouth set into wordless snarl. A thick bundle of ethereal chains materialized in his grasp, their material more spectral and transparent the further they were from his clenched bone-white fingers and the closer they were to the demon. The Dreamer jerked the set of chains to the right and away from the demon in a downward motion, his face an enraged mask. The binding tore at the body and soul of the creature in front of him, jerked him downwards, and he crashed into a heap of metal and demonic flesh, wailing in agony. "... Master?" "Not one step closer, demon. Remember yer place." Êzkhael dragged himself upright, thick blood seeping through the armor from various places. He swayed, the soul-tearing pain incapaciting even a warmongering planar creature as he was, staggered but remained upright. The demon's fiery eyes were dim and narrow inside hia helmet when it managed to raise his gaze to his master. He is still bound, tight and secure chains hooked to every part of his soul. Whatever he is, I can let it be for now. "Yes ... Master." "Bett'r, slave. Now, give me yer report." "Yes, Master."

Clang! The heavy, cold sound reverberated through the room, dissipating slowly as it travelled further. The walls and the door absorbed it and it was silent again. Clang! The room was absolutely dark and bitterly frigid. Somebody with magesight could have seen gloomy, smothering currents swirl around the small space like pacing prisoners, and a thicker cloud of concentrated inky black that obscured whatever the middle of the room held. Something flickered there, lightning inside a thunderstorm. Clang! Having trouble seeing, the Dreamer adjusted his goggles, made for this single purpose only - to see through the essences of darkness. Before him was an anvil and on the anvil a sword blade, unfinished but near the final shape. The blade was straight and long with only one cutting edge, the shape angular and not round like a sabre. It exhaled cold and dark, the supernatural mist making it hard to see its exact shape constantly. Clang! He struck the blade with the sturdy hammer he held in his gauntlet-covered right hand, blue sparks flying to every direction as the blow landed. His left hand was occupied with keeping the blade in place with a pair of tongs. The Dreamer raised the hammer again but hesistated and turned towards the heavy steel door, locked and bolted from the inside. "Ya!?" "A courier, Master. Two white flags, the lower bearing a mage sigil consisting of a triangle with a stylized river on the background, a pair of wings above both." Herald's voice was barely audible through the door, but his clear pronounciation made it easy to understand his muffled words. Faaye's mage sigil. "Tell 'er t' go away, politely! I'm busy!" "Yes, Master." The planewalker re-adjusted his goggles, nudging their round lenses to cover his purple eyes better, and lifted his hammer anew. His motions got slower and slower as the hammer reached its apex, slowing to a complete halt in the point when the hammer should have crashed downwards to strike the blade. After a pause, he lowered the hammer, put it carefully on the floor so it leaned on the anvil and turned towards the door, sighing. "I said busy, Herald! What more, then!?" "Master, you still have not resolved the issue of missing troops. Our forces were significantly reduced in the last battle, especially the old guard. Fortress Tultuul is basically undefended at this point, Master." He stared at the door, immobile and silent, frowning. Reaching a conclusion, he barked one more shout through the heavy door. "I'll take care o' it, Herald! Go turn that courier away, already!" "Yes, Master." My first fortress has been stripped bare already? Nothing much there, true, except ... The Dreamer paused once more, leaving the hammer to lean on the anvil. Instead of reaching down to lift it, he walked slowly, immersed in thoughts, to a crude metal cabinet in the corner of the room. He took a long, slender box out of the cabinet - it was dark green in color, smooth and gleaming with soft inner light everywhere except where a silvery rune of stasis had been engraved. It made a soft, hissing sound when he opened it, and another when he closed it, the unfinished blade inside the stasis container. The wild darkness and unbound cold, elements the blade had leaked, faded, the room returning to its normal warm, dimly lit state. With dreamy motions, the planewalker finally put the box back to the cabinet, pushed the goggles to his forehead revealing eyes the blue of Astral watching scenes beyond this time and place. ... memories of the past, perhaps.

Heavy rain lashed down from the sky, reducing visibility to almost nothing, painting everything with a dreary shade of grey. Through the wet mist and falling raindrops indistinct shapes could be seen, some of those shapes being big square buildings with glass windows, warm lights burning inside. Some were twisting, short trees, their dead canopies the same hue of grey as the late afternoon itself, the rain striking down hard enough to tear some of the leaves down. The puddles of rain water were covered with them, the water barely showing from under the grey layer. Into this lousy weather a traveller appeared. Due to the bad visibility, it was hard to say if he had walked there or perhaps washed away from the heavens by the constant deluge of water, or if he had spontaneously been created there by some lazy god. His clothes seemed oddly dry, but the rain soon took care of that curious detail, soaking first the set he had appeared in, then the creamy white robe the first set of clothes was miraculously transformed to. He didn't seem to mind, though, showing consistency by not caring about the puddles either, wading right through. As tall as he was, the shallow puddles did not hinder him overmuch. Nobody was there to see his slow progress past soggy trees and bulky houses, past small gardens and ornamental gazebos. He seemed determined past what preservance was necessary to fight against the early winter storm, walking in almost straight lines, holding his head high against the pelting rain and gusting wind. Eventually, inevitably, he reached the correct house, almost as odd in this neighborhood as the curious traveller. It was a squat tower, not much higher than the other buildings but so wide it seemed as a base for a taller structure rather than a finished house. On both sides of the front door narrow painted windows spilled out multicolored light, the friendly glow reaching only a few feet before being extinguished by the bad weather. Somewhere above a flapping sound proclaimed the presence of at least one banner, perhaps even two - unnatural number, that, but the house was already an anomaly to begin with. The traveller paused at the door, glanced upwards at the direction of the sound, then lowered his gaze to the door itself. He stood there in the rain and strong wind for quite a while, perhaps thinking something over, perhaps afraid to knock. At last he shook his grey hair, made a few nonsensical gestures with his hands and then relaxed back to his old position, staring at the front door. If there had been an observer to all this, he or she might have seen an emerald green light pulse softly outwards from the tall traveller. Or he or she might have not, given the softness of the glow and the brief moment it flickered there in the midst of the all-encompassing greyness. A trick of the eye, most of us would have thought, even then. The door opened, showing a beautiful if a little worn blonde woman wearing expensive clothes, black and scarlet, her jewelry made of jade and polished wood. There was hard to read look on her face, two or three emotions in conflict. Wariness, certainly, a certain guarded look, and possibly a trace of friendliness and welcome - a look tailored to the soaked, tall and thin figure waiting outside, for its careful balance did not change at all when she opened the door and saw the traveller. "Evening, uncle Dreamer. I'm sorry, but this is a bad time for you to visit." "Evenin', m'lady." He bowed as one does to an equal, somehow managing to make the gesture look majestetical even when he was soaked to the skin, all his clothes throughly wet. "I'll keep my visit brief, then, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua." He shook his grey mane again, sending water to every direction, and made a move as if to move forward, but the young woman did not make way and looked apologetic, now. "I am sorry, uncle, but I mean what I said. You'll have to come again later if you have important matters to discuss. It'd be easier if you would send a message before you come, instead of appearing at our doorsteps without warning." The Dreamer nodded. "Ah, as ye wish. 'Tis yer fortress, after all. Just one thing - could ye give him this, m'lady?" He reached into the depths of his white, soaked robes and drew forth a small item, the unreal chain woven from raw mana that was connected to the object spilling out of his white hand. Jankiize frowned but reached towards the planewalker, accepted the item the Dreamer dropped into her waiting hands. It was a dim crystal adorned with countless intricate runes, the light coming through the door wakening up countless tiny rainbows inside it. She grasped the chain and let the crystal fall, examined it with a critical eye. Her voice was critical as well, uncertain, her look dubious. "She, uncle. My little girl. This ... is a twin to the one I wear? It does nothing but protects, nothing else?" "Ya, m'lady. That amulet's only purpose is t' protect th' wearer - these bindin' words I, Wodzan Xe Chanima o' th' Scales, speak of my own free will." The Dreamer seemed sad or grave, speaking with slower cadence than normal, his eyes some dark hue that was indistinquishable from black in the gloom. An inquiring shout ringing from inside the tower made Jankiize glance over her shoulder. "Um, thanks, uncle. Visit us later, then - I really have to go now." He nodded as he turned around, saying nothing more. The storm engulfed his thin figure almost instantly.

Here is a bunch of them as well. Check out Salinye's Gwaihir-poem.

The traces are already fading. I should have tried this back then. Ahead, the empty Void shone in various faint colors to the magesight, the traces and tracks of mana still painting a picture of a fought battle, some of the brightest points etched so deep into the background they'd still be there a hundred years from now for those with the senses to see them. The faintest trails were already gone, however: Phacyra's footprints were disappearing one by one, only the stain of where Overlord Ghael had died left of the fledgling evil planewalker, the remains of Herald's bright spell dimming further by every passing moment. Nearby, Phacyra's hideout was having a transformation to the different direction, it's spells of hiding and protection coming slowly and ponderously undone in a display that was almost cheerfully bright to the sixth sense, the energies stored and bent by the will of a planewalker discharging themselves to the emptiness beyond the demi-plane. The illusion that had hid the place had already broken, leaving behind a burning planar pearl, the mana flare surrounding it a funeral pyre of sorts. The Dreamer stared into the depths of the Veil, towards the heart of one of the darkest, most dangerous places on the Lost Paths. His gaze was dark blue but lustreless, dim, his posture slack and lifeless. He could still be alive, somewhere there. You can never know, with her. Slowly, with mechanic imprecision, he sat down on the empty path and struck Pain down in front of him, leaving it floating spectral blade downwards. The planewalker breathed deeply, his useless lungs receiving a mouthful of dry vacuum. And then he breathed out, releasing his spirit, his eyes turning milky and dead. His face settled into a wry grin, a challenge to the predators that lurked even here at the outskirts of the Veil, a look that said: disturb me at your peril, wake me up and die. To the spirit, the traces were slightly more clear, and he could still follow Phacyra's tracks beyond the point they vanished from his magesight. Here and there they had vanished, but the heavy tracks of the drow fortresses showed which way to go. The trail twisted towards the heart of Veil in a tightening spiral, at places almost managing to throw the tracking Dreamer off. He could sense things lurking around, see their shadowy shapes, feel those of them with the most acute senses try to locate his ethereal presence. Then nothing - the tracks ended as if to a wall in a place where the Path had no crossroads. He blinked color back into his eyes, coughed and drew in a new breath of airless vacuum. A folly, this, to entertain even a notion of trying to track her to her lair. We never were able to find her if she so wanted. At least I tried, Phacyra. The Dreamer stood up and drew Pain, made a few experimental swings with the almost weightless weapon before sheating it. When he started running away from the decaying magics of the hideout, he had regained his usual rigid, unyielding bearing. Fatespeed, brother.