Zadown

I get my anime reviews and info from AnimeSuki and AniDB, so talking about it here as well gets a bit redundant for me. I'm more than willing to discuss it on IRC though.

Epilogue Half of it in the care of a Devourer of Abyss, one-fourth in the hands of my old employer, one-eight stored away by the wisps, one-sixteenth stolen by the Law - ha! I want to see what hero will combine these bits and pieces back to the full Blue Flame. Last part of the Blue Flame in his possession burned inside a small glass vial, a thin and sickly spark that looked like it was about to fade away and turn to smoke. It still had the power to color everything near it blue, but when examined with the mage-sight, it vanished, turned invisible. It does not radiate heat or magic, does not bend laylines or carry an aura of any kind. It doesn't even carry the taint of elemental fire that all normal flames do. And it does not grow or diminish, does not devour anything or die from lack of fuel. The Dreamer twisted and turned the vial around, looking thoughtfully into it, seeing his own thoughts more than the actual blue spark. Suddenly a smile appeared on his face that had held a worn, tired expression, and he gestured to the nearest angel. "Óellaeh-Ân, bring th' mortal. 'Tis time t' send 'im home, ya?" She nodded and hurried away, towards the part of the Astral Harbour that had housed Jankiize years ago and where Marchello now waited his master's next command. This last spark might be handy, some day. He indulged himself with a smile a moment longer, then started burning runes of protection, misdirection, undetectebility and resilence into the already hardy surface of the glass vial, muttering the appropriate spells with impassive face.

Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl stood near the tip of the stone pier pointing towards the endless depths of the Void, his tiny angelic retinue standing mostly behind him, the flag carrying herald of the Herald of Law being the only exception. Atyaer was clad in all black silk, the cut of his clothes severe and simple, his posture almost geometrical in its absolute rigidity. He had black leather shoes that gleamed in the blue light of the Dreamer's runes but wore no gloves, bore no visible arms or armor. Atyaer exuded unshakeable solidity, the raw Law pouring out from the core of his being making the Dreamer's usually shifting eyes itch and stay green and Pain's fickle blade freeze. His eyes were shadowy, his clean-shaven face narrow and old, a black fez with a red braid on his silver hair. It was hard to see if he had any scars - his skin was dark and wrinkled, showing his exceedingly long lifespan even among the immortals. When he spoke, his tone was dry and dead, the words of Old Planewalker Prime pronounced carefully and slowly, flawlessly. "M'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima, of the Scales, I presume?" "Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl of the Law - an unexpect'd honor, m'lord." Atyaer nodded and the Dreamer bowed, slightly deeper than usual. Even among the equal and free some were more equal than others, had either more personal power or more influence than others, and a Herald of Law was perhaps even more important position than High Commander of the Chaos Armies. Law did not shift constantly, and anybody given an important rank was expected to keep it, to still be there a century from now, perhaps a millenia. Atyaer had been a Herald of the Law for over three thousand years. "I am sure this will not come to you as any great surprise, sir, but the matter I am about to discuss is not an exceedingly pleasant one from your point of view." "Aye, though I must admit I'm not aware o' any way I've had cross'd th' ways of th' Law, lately." "If it was such a matter, a clash against single one of Law's captains, I'm sure the person involved would settle the issue in the usual planewalker ways. But no - I am here in official capacity, and that means I speak as Law, something that goes beyond such trivialities." The Dreamer made an impatient gesture with his left hand. "Well then, m'lord. What th' Law 'as t' say?" Atyaer coughed closing his eyes and covering his mouth with his delicate right fist, then proclaimed in a voice slightly different than before, more majestetic, alive. "Hear the Law! It has been decided that the combined forces of the Planar Armies of Law give the following ultimatum: one Lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Scales is hereby expected to produce an item in his possession and leave it at the hands of Law's representative, to wit: a spark or a flame of the Blue Flame." A silence fell. "An'?" "Ah. I was expecting somebody who has enjoyed a high position in the past should be familiar of how these affairs work. We could have bypassed going into the crude details, but obviously my expectations were set too high. Let me satisfy your curiosity considering "or else", then, m'lord." Atyaer made a tiny, non-threatening gesture, something that did not trigger a prepared doomsday spell or summon a sudden army. Instead, his standard bearer lifted a trumpet to her lips and sounded a short, exact series of notes, typical for the army of Law. In the distance, just beyond easy detection range, a planewalker made his or her signature wards flare with excess energy, something that's only use was in showing who awaited there in the coldness of the Void, past the traps and patrols any sane planewalker had surrounding his fortress. Then another set of wards flared in the dark, and another. The Patriarch ... Sir Khalear ... Lady Onagjina ... Count Lwyfn. And some I can't recognize. If they all have brough their usual armies as well, that's a significant part of Law's strength at my doorstep. And ... Countess Faaye Khantius!? But that's not her normal ward set - out of all the planewalkers I'm aware of, only Khalaer, the late Myrmidon and me use Raex's Bands of Planar Steel. Outwardly, the Dreamer seemed impassive, the only sign of his inner turmoil being his grey eyes. They still itched, but Atyaer's aura of Law had merely hindered their change, not completely made it impossible - not here, in the centre of the Dreamer's main fortress. "Impressive, m'lord. As ye seem t' prefer this t' be done quickly an' without undue hassle, let us skip a few acts of this play." He reached inside his white robes and produced the glass vial that held his spark of the Blue Flame. The light it shed made the Dreamer's eyes seem almost blue, deepened the black hues of Atyaer's silk suit, gave the bright white feathers of the angels surrounding the two a sad tint. The Dreamer held the item on his open palm, extended his hand towards the Herald of Law. "Here it 's, then. Th' Blue Flame."

"An' ye do not feel in any way diminish'd? Mortal souls are such fragile things, 'tis hard t' bind them without breakin' them. Most who try end up creatin' mindless half-corpses or even zombies, truly useless things that are far more easily rais'd and commanded via th' usual necromantic spells." "No, Master, the only thing that is feels odd is the way I need to obey you and add Master after each sentence if I wanted it or not." "Very good, mortal." The Dreamer frowned and turned abruptly to face the approaching angel. "Ya, what 's it, Herald?" "A herald, Master. She is carrying the blue flag of truce and a white pennant featuring a mage sigil that consists simply of two triangles within each other." "This sigil?" The planewalker gestured and the simple design the angel had spoken about appeared, floating in the air. His numerous battle scars begun to dance around like a nest of antagonized centipides, his eyes suddenly burning with yellow flames. His face looked like he was missing what most of us had, the mask of skin, that his was torn away during his countless years of strife. The chaos he had gone through was embedded into him leaving only his eyes untouched, the twin windows to his burning spirit showing the scars left in his soul instead. "Yes, Master. That sigil." "Only th' elders use sigils that simple. Ye have any idea why Palgrave Atyaer'd be interest'd in meeting me, Herald?" "No, Master." The flames burning in the Dreamer's eyes turned darker and were doused, his face turning into a bleached, scarred skull with black, empty holes where his eyes had been. He grabbed empty air and Pain materialized into his waiting hand, its spectral blade moaning softly in anticipation. Last audible words he muttered as he walked away from the mortal were: "We'll just 'ave t' see then, aye?"

Marchello blinked and opened his eyes, immediately wishing he hadn't done that. The nearest thing was a hideously scarred face with two eyes like blue stars shining in the eyesockets, the creature that face was attached to crouched over him like a curious vulture. Far behind it were blue glowing runes against a background of pure darkness, below them both a wedge-shaped pier of stone pointing towards the endless night. Above floated a series of things that seemed like windows or portals, each of them tugging his mind in an uncomfortable way. He realized he was lying on his back on the uneven chilly stone and that his body seemed in better condition than what he had usually associated with conjuring spells gone horribly wrong. Something else was not right, however, a pulsing, stabbing, tearing pain waking up somewhere inside his head and along his spine. He sat up shuddering and coughing, almost gagged from pain. "... ye awake, ya? Are ye? Can ye hear me?" The creature spoke Chamanian with a dialect that mangled the beautiful language into barely understandable growl, but understand them he could even if the surging pain made it hard for Marchello to shake his disorientation. "Bwhl? Huh?" "How much 's four times four, mortal?" "Um .. sixteen. Did you ... drag me through reality to answer that, demon?" The long sentence drained his remaining strength and Marchello fell down again, curling into foetal position. Hugging himself made the pain feel less bad, an alleviation that only lasted a fleeting moment before the tall, pale creature dragged him upright. Its hands seemed hot and misshapen even through the robes, the grip unyielding and strong. "Ye 'ave time t' rest later, mortal. Now, tell me - how do ye feel right now? Describe yer sensory perceptions in such a detail as ye can." "I don't ... feel like..." "Alonque!" The single word set every one of the imaginary blades tearing at his spirit and causing all that barely bearable pain on fire. The world flashed and almost went black - he could feel his toes curl inwards and his teeth try to grind each other to dust from the agony, somewhere far, far away. He was sure he would die of the shock and was ready to welcome the release, but the fiery torment faded with a slowness that left him guessing if he was getting used to the pain or if it was lessening. "My apologies, mortal. 'T seems ye can't withstand yer true name in th' heavy speech. Ye still among th' livin' and th' thinkin', ya?" "... yes." "Most excellent! Now, do ye recall what I ask'd of ya? Please do describe yer sensory perceptions in such a detail as ye can." "... it hurts." "An' what'd be four times five, mortal?" Marchello gasped for breath, trying to make sense of the words before a new searing wave of pain would be his reward for tardiness. Even like this, consciousness nearly shattered by the torture, he thought something was very wrong in a way he could not quite pinpoint, as if there had been another him inside this body trying to answer the question because it was asked, not because there might be consequences in not answering it. He turned his face upwards, the face of his tormentor a wavering white blob above him. "... twenty?" "'Tis acceptable answer, mortal, an' it tells me ye 'aven't lost yer sentience as many test subjects do. Ah, 't seems ye may need a rest before we continue. Ye'd do well t' remember th' exact feelings ye are passin' through at th' moment, however - I shall enquire 'bout them later." "... yes, Master." His last thought before he fell into something between unconsciouness and sleep was the cold realization that part of him meant it when he had called his kidnapper master. * "AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhh!" Marchello shook his head and clawed the air, a terrible weight crushing down his heart. 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? He cleaned grime away from his eyes, feeling slightly better. When he managed to open his eyes properly the weight that had crushed him in his dream returned back in force. He wasn't in his own room. Breathing deeply, he looked around the room, trying to stay above the panic that loomed just below the thin veneer of calm he was able to retain. He was in large but short bed, barely long enough for him and clearly not long enough for the creature that had dragged him through the gate. The room was dimly lit, almost dark, but pleasantly warm, the walls stone. A faint fragrance of flowers hang in the air, something that made him pause. Flowers? Who has ever heard of a demon who has flowers in his fortress? Or who puts the mortals he captures into a proper, neat bed? Marchello pinched himself, knowing this wasn't a dream but too confused to think of any other alternatives. A small light the size of a candle flame flared up at the other edge of the room, revealing the face and hands of a beautiful woman clad in white loose robes, a calm smile on her face, the rest of her hidden by the sudden shadows. "You are awake then, m'lord? I shall tell Lord Dreamer. Feel free to refresh yourself, but be swift as he will most likely require your presence soon enough." "Huh?" The woman bowed and released the light which begun to grow brighter, almost blinding his eyes that had adapted to the dark. He could see the woman move out of the room but not much else, frowned at the odd noise that sounded like a huge bird. When he could see properly again, the sound had ceased, the woman was gone, and he realized there was various foods and water set on a low table near the bed. Marchello got out of the bed, tried to smooth out the creases his robe had gotten during his sleep to no avail, then gave up and started eating. That pale demon could've slapped me dead yesterday, makes no sense to poison me now. * "Greetings, mortal. Do ye feel better now?" The kidnapper did not seem as terrifying now, even if his name was still a map of scars and even if he still was taller than anybody Marchello had ever seen. The eyes seemed vividly yellow, something that clashed again his memory of bright blue eyes. He glanced nervously at the angel who had brought him here, not used to seeing those white wings on what otherwise seemed a beautiful human. "Yes, thank you. Um ... is there any chance for me to get back, Master?" The last word leaped out of his mouth automatically, spoken by the part of him that had born yesterday under that torture, and both the involuntary title and the memory it brought to him filled him with sudden dread. The Dreamer did not notice or did not care, spoke with a thoughtful, pondering cadence. "A chance? Aye, maybe. Given ye mortals are suicidal enough t' use th' portals, 'twouldn't be much of an inconvinience to deposit ye somewhere near th' place ye were, though I doubt I'd bother punchin' through th' layers of protective enchantments yer school 'as against th' terrible dangers of planar beings." "So, if it is not too much of a bother, then, Master ...?" "Naw. Did ya think I drag'd ye 'ere by accident, mortal? We still 'ave work t' do, ye an' I, ya?" The Dreamer grinned, his eyes visibly changing color from yellow to white. Suddenly the human was too terrified to speak, the voice of the planewalker resonating deeper inside, somewhere in his spirit or soul. "So, Alonque, can ye tell me exactly how ye felt after I bound ya? 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..." The razor-sharp chains around his soul tugged and nudged him, giving him no other options than to comply.

The room was sturdy, made of metal and hard wood, reinforced with enchantments to such extent there weren't many forces in the whole multiversum that could have broken the walls or the doors. Some faint scars in the walls, in the ceiling and the floor were reminders of times powerful beings or uncontrolled magics had tried to sunder the place apart without succeeding. "... and that concludes the principles of minmal safety measures when conjuring a random gate. Of course, sometimes none of these are sufficient, but if we would fear the way the lead coin of Fate lands, we would not be here in the first place." The teacher ceased his lecture and turned his small, piercing eyes from the chalked glyphs towards his few pupils. He was a short, faintly purple-skinned man in modest red robes with black markings, the colors declaring him as a teacher who had not yet attained archmagedom. A large burn mark decorated his left cheek, a memory of some spell or conjuration gone wrong. He seemed old, but his hair was still jet black and there was no feebleness in his gestures or posture. His voice was stern and strict, the words pronounced carefully. "I assume you have all studied the proper words of the True Language and the gestures needed. There is no need for any of you to accidently eviscerate himself by getting it wrong - tell me now if you are not ready for this test." His intense gaze swept over the twenty or so young people in front of him, looking for hints of nervousness. The pupils were mostly in their late teens, a few older ones studying their second or third area of occultism, one or two younger ones too gifted to keep them with those born on the same year. "Good. Lazy or easily distracted people should not try these higher aspects of the Art. You do remember what happened to Tessae, I hope. Marchello, show us how it is done." One of the pupils turned paler, with several others sighing in relief. He was perhaps almost twenty years old albeit shorter than most of his classmates, his skin the same pale purple color as the teacher's. His robes were three different shades of grey with red markings, declaring him to be an elder student in demonology, a dagger hanging from his belt finishing his attire. Marchello had black, short hair, brown eyes and small round nose and ears that made him seem vaguely rodent-like, harmless. He walked past the other students and the teacher unconsciously rubbing his hands together, pausing finally in the middle of a magic circle made in the middle of a protective triangle, both of them surrounded by two circles. Runes and glyphs were engraved here and there, very clearly marking the barrier between the inside and the outside, the protective spells lazily blooming into life as Marchello stepped over the various lines. Air rippled between him and the others in places the wards were ready to repel whatever would appear, be it a demon lord, a wild flow of random magic or an angry demi-god. Marchello paused at the last circle, the one meant for whatever he was summoning, and activated its spells of protection himself, the easy routine calming his nervous mind. Diving into the lightest of trances, sinking into that tranquil space just below his everyday anxieties and fears, he started pronouncing the words of the True Language loudly and clearly, his voice crisp and sharp compared to the way he normally spoke. Burning runes flashed in front of his mind's eye, forcing all mundane things away, the spinning symbols controlling him as much as he controlled them, his fingers shaping invisible glyphs into the air as the Art commanded. The ritual seemed to last forever and no time at all, but finally it was done and Marchello uttered the last crystal-clear word, made the last required gesture and ripped the skein of the world open. A shimmering circular gate appeared inside the inner-most of the magic circles. It hung suspended in the air ... waiting. Then a pale, scarred hand shot through it and struck the single imperfectly prepared rune of the protective circle, breaking it. Before anybody had time to react, it snatched Marchello by his lapels and dragged him in. The gate vanished amidst shocked silence.

Sunlight danced on the white columns of wood, touched playfully on the small green leaves sprouting from them. A mild breeze blew through the large, airy hall, carrying notes of playful birdsong from the inner court. Two figures sat on red couches near the middle of the room, a small round table made of darker wood partially between them. On the table were two tall, thin glasses filled with pale yellow liquid, almost like the color of sunlight on the white carpet in the exact middle of the room. The tall planewalker with his back towards the inner court was clad in thick and coarse robes and trousers the color of cream, the wyrmskin boots on his feet glistening dark purple, his hair grey and unruly, same color as his slightly neater moustache and beard. His usual weapon was nowhere to be seen and on his face was a tranquil expression, his eyes deep, vibrant green, his scars immobile. She was clad in pure white, the color of Law almost blinding with its intensity, making her tanned skin look darker than it was. Her curly hair was black, reaching her shoulders, and she had a black belt of loose fabric that kept her robes in place. Her smile took any observers attention away from her three modest scars, reaching all the way to her friendly eyes. She was shorter than the Dreamer and not especially muscular or threatening, but under the harmless surface, somewhere deeper, was a core of unyielding steel. Vague hints of that were in her every motion and gesture, in her assertive tone and in the air of self-possession she projected. At the edges of the room stood six servants wearing more muted white with light green underneath their robes, the bright sunlight drowning their shapes, turning them into mere blurred forms. Their pointed ears and graceful, slender builds marked them as elves of some kind, and he had not noticed any reason to believe they were planar beings in disguise, so he had dismissed their presences as irrelevant. "Intriguin' fortress ye 'ave here, m'lady Faaye. Isn't it hard t' maintain th' needed amount of portals this deep in a full-sized plane's Astral field, neh?" "'Tis not a fortress as such, m'lord. I keep nothin' worth takin' here, something I hope ye do remember if ye ever go back to yer Chaotic ways, Sir Dreamer." "So, th' meaning of th' place is?" "It ... reminds me of my origin, if ye don't mind me breachin' th' subject. I am not sure, after all, if I should've brought ye 'ere." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she reached forward and lifted her glass, took a sip of the elven wine. The Dreamer shrugged slightly, white pinpoints of light appearing in his green eyes. "No need t' worry, m'lady - if ye do not wish this place t' be discussed outside th' present company, I shall be silent as stone. I doubt Chaos would welcome me, whether I'd bring notes of yer harmless villa or not. Even yer head would most likely barely suffice, an' I hold no illusions 'bout my capabilities in succeedin' in such a venture, here or elsewhere, m'lady Faaye Khantius." He grinned and took a sip from his own glass, his tone amused and light. "Quite amusin', m'lord. It pleases me t' know ye rank my martial prowess so highly. Now, as impolite it might sound - may I ask what brings me th' pleasure of entertainin' such an eminent guest as yerself, Sir Wodzan Xe Chanima o' th' Scales? Ye seldom run along th' Lost Paths for th' mere enjoyment of th' speed as some of us do." The Dreamer nodded. "I might enjoy th' speed more if I was as quick as ye are, m'lady - not many can match ye. Ah, but enough of that, ya. Ye inquired as t' th' reason I visit this time, an' a reason there is, as ye so acutely foresaw." He stood up and showed his empty hands once again in the ancient gesture of peace, then slowly drew a glass tube from the depths of his robes. Inside it burned a blue spark, faint but nevertheless powerful enough to tint the whole room azure, fighting against the yellow sunlight and the reflected green hues of the leaves. She exhaled, eyes big out of wonder or surprise, and left the couch she had been sitting on as well. "Heeiii-ii, is that the Blue Flame? I 'eard th' Law had it, aeons ago, before my Ascension." "Ya, 'tis a spark of th' Blue Flame, an' from where I found it I can surmise 'twas held by Law but lost around th' Anvil's Drow Exodus. Ye know anythin' 'bout it, then?" Faaye reached forward the small vial that was in the Dreamer's hand, a questioning look on her open face and a reserved, almost sullen on his scarred face - but he did let her have it after the tiniest of hesistations. She smiled over the vial at him, then, grinning like they had just shared a secret, before giving the blue fire her full attention. "Hmm. There was somethin' about it I knew..." Her face gained a dreamy quality as she dipped into her deeper memory, her eyes almost closing, her head nodding downwards. When she spoke, her voice was faint and far-away, not quite her own - it lost the planewalker accent and was clear if ethereal. "... the three keys to the three philosophies, the three ladies demanding allegiance. The Shield of Skein for Chaos, an impossible web for the Mother Spider to disentangle; the Silver Tears for Balance, an endless river shed in memory of those caught between the two Scales as they clash - and the Blue Flame for Law, a light that will taint the uncompromising white sky blue. These open up the Nine Gates between places, the doors that go through the Impenetrable Wall and connect all the Parallels." She lifted her head slowly, blinked a few times and lifted her eyebrowns at the Dreamer before giving the vial a new and even more respecful look. "So. Ye've found one of th' keys to th' Parallels, have ya?" He nodded, the nod shifting his eyes from green-and-white to deep blue instantly. There was no amusement or lightness in his voice left. "Ya, this all affirms what th' wisps already told me." "Ye already knew what it was, then?" "Would ye trust th' wisps, m'lady? After th' incident with th' Scrolls o' Armageddon, I've considered everythin' they say carefully before acting on their words. They may seem paragons o' Law but they are as inhuman as things go." "I can see what ye mean. Th' Scrolls o' Armageddon..." Faaye shivered, even though the room was warm, and a shadow passed over her downcast eyes. "'Twas an unnecessary cataclysm, it was." She handed the vial to the Dreamer, who put it back into the depths of his white robe. It disappeared into some deep dark pocket, the blue tint it had given to everything nearby vanishing with it. "What do ye think, m'lady?" "Yer asking me what to do with that? I'm no expert in the ways of th' Parallels - even if nobody can claim t' be master of that knowledge, there are planewalkers who have studied th' subject, some for hundreds o' years. I do not even know what that spark is for, even if it is named as a key." He nodded and shrugged, sat down and took another sip of the elven wine. She followed his example and an amiable silence fell on the two, both submerged in their own surface thoughts, words abandoned as unnecessary for now. The immortals did not need to fill every short moment with speech or motion, comfortable with time flowing past them. After a while a narrow portal the size of a small window or a portrait opened in the corner of the room, the portal's open surface facing at the corner. They both glanced towards it, annoyance on Faaye's open face, wariness in the yellow eyes of the scarred Dreamer. She stood up and walked to the corner, sighed silently when she recognized the face on the other side of the contact. "M'lord Atyaer Ra Jahl." "M'lady Faaye Khantius. Are you free to talk, Countess?" The voice that entered through the portal was dry and dead, devoid of the planewalker accent or anything else. It spoke in Old Planewalker Prime, a language most older planewalkers understood without the translator enchantments and that some of the eldest could even speak fluently, a relic from the times before the enchantments had gained wide-spread use in all the different camps of the immortals. Herald of the Law, Palgrave Atyaer? I wonder what that ancient would think if he'd see who Faaye is talking with right now. "Naw, I have a visitor regretfully. I shall contact ye soon enough, m'lord." "Who are you entertaining? This urgent matter may pertain him or her as well - I've had trouble locating some of our captains." Faaye grinned, her face lighting up in a way that made her seem mortal, weaker and softer than she was. "He's a High Commander o' Chaos Armies, I doubt ye have anythin' urgent t' say to him, ya?" "If you wish to conceal the identity of your visitors, I am sure you could do it with less unseemly manner. Do contact me as soon as you may, m'lady - I dislike reaching so deep into Planar Astral, so perhaps it is after all better for you to do the work, so to say." "See ya, m'lord." The portal shrunk into a little dot and vanished, taking Faaye's gleeful look with it. "Somethin' is happenin', m'lord. Perhaps it'd be better if we should continue this conversation later, ya?" The Dreamer stood up and bowed, a faint smile on his face. "Very well, then. I'll be expectin' ye t' keep my secret as well as I shall keep yers. Until next time." He sidestepped into the Astral and was gone.

Some of us never visit these places, never step outside the comforting, familiar sphere of planes inhabited by humans and their ilk, and I can understand why. But they do narrow their field of knowledge. The Dreamer landed softly on the absolutely level plane that stretched infinitely to every direction, no haze, vegetation or building blocking the vision. The landscape, if such name could be used for it, was white, the plane illuminated by ambient light that was tinted slightly blue. The planewalker seemed out of place here, a blotch of soft, random shapes staining the peerless purity and simplicity. The Dreamer was clad in his white robes and trousers, Pain resting in its scabbard on his back. He had a short beard and mustache, relatively well trimmed compared to the unruly chaos of medium-length grey hair that did not quite reach his shoulders. He had his wyrmskin boots on his feet but no gloves of any kind, and all the bare skin that was showing was crisscrossed with battlescars long and short, wide and narrow, marks that could've been left by large fangs and marks like healed burns might leave. He looked around but was not surprised when he couldn't see any landmarks to any direction, a faint smile appearing on his face. With practiced ease he let his awarness flow out and drift higher, lifted his point of view high enough to see the plane he was standing on properly. When his own body shrunk to a mere dot, a slight imperfection on the perfect surface, he could see the rune-like marking he was standing on. Ah. So that's where I am. Rejoining his body swiftly he started running towards the right direction, or that had at least been the right direction last time. His loping gait was the same he used on the Lost Paths, fast if ungainly-looking, his eyes fading from harsh yellow to the same light blue the local ambient light was. The Dreamer fell into his travel trance, let his legs do the work somewhere beyond his awarness. This might ... take a while... * The emergence from the trance was soft and slow, pleasant, aided by the tranquil surroundings. The memories and dreams, vague omens and hints to the workings of the Fates he had been going through flickered and faded one by one, the outside world emerging and intruding on his vision as if it had been rising from blue mist. Not much had changed: the landscape was still white, the sky still shining pale azure. Ahead something brighter than the ever-permeating ambient light shone, however, and objects floated above the level plane. The Dreamer eased his high speed as he got nearer, eventually coming to a halt to survey the sight before him. A constellation of globular blue lights danced around themselves in the heart of this set of anomalies, hovering well above the white ground. Various darker objects were arrayed in a circle that surrounded these lights, a few avenues left in it so the lights were not completely encircled. The objects were simple geometrical shapes: balls, cubes, cones - all staying absolutely still in the air without any visible means of support. In contrast the dancing lights shifted their position constantly, moving in jerky, hypnotizing motions. He could feel their magic trying to tug his mind this way and that, whispers of the raging storm it would've been without his wards dampening most of the effect. This was their home plane and their power here was manifold compared to what their manifestations had when they ventured into normal prime material planes. The Dreamer grimaced, his eyes turning dark grey. Good thing they are practically colorblind. The planewalker marched forward, slowly and resolutely, showing his empty arms out of old habit. Their dance shifted, barely perceptible change from idle speculation to alertness and alarm. Their voice, when they spoke, was almost as shocking as it had been the last time, and the time before that, and all the times before that. The will-o'-the-wisps crackled and hissed, their collective voices tangled up in a painful electric mess that would have been impossible to understand without the masterful translator enchantments every planewalker used. "This you. What now? What you?" "Greetings, esteem'd entities. I was told ye might hold some knowledge pertainin' t' a certain item I 'ave aquired durin' my long travels." "Many facts. We know. Many we. Show!" The jagged, clipped voices the wisps used made the Dreamer deepen his grimace, his facial scars rearranging themselves to a more threatening configuration, his eyes turning almost black. His actions showed nothing of his unease as he carefully withdrew a glass vial filled with blue fire from the depths of his robes. The dance of the wisps ceased. Never having seen that particular reaction before, the planewalker's eyes flared bright yellow, his relaxed stance tightening into readiness for battle. As the wisps started moving again, dancing in slow, dazed motions, the yellow fires died into grey ashes again. "Well, esteem'd entities? Ye rec'gnize this fire, ya?" "Yes. Yes. Yes." "An'?" "Give us a spark. Spark only. Small flame. We will show. Notes and words. Show notes." I never really expected to get anything for free, now, did I?

Well, to me it sounds like you spend a lot of time and effort to keep your RP threads going and that you are genuinely concerned about getting it right - that's already a lot in my books. As long as all the relevant "rules" are mentioned beforehand and the players know what they are signing in to, I don't think you are being too restrictive. Personally I've sometimes felt somewhat at loss with what my character can do and what he can't in a RP thread, especially if I'm using my *ahem* quite powerful main character. Those chapter outlines that'd give me framework within with to plan my actions sound like a good thing to me. I remember a time when I killed off an opposing warrior who was supposed to live until the next encounter, giving my GM some retconning to do. I've had some experience with strict control in both tabletop RPG and live-action roleplaying games and my opinnion is that it shifts the responsibility for the quality of the game more towards the GM. If you have an excellent story to tell and you are confident in it, tightening the leash of the players can result in a better roleplaying experience for all involved. Great players will be great even with the tighter confines and nevertheless create rich stories with their characters, slightly less great players have their job made easier, they'll have more direction and clearer goals and thus the quality of their participation can get better. The price is not getting surprised by the player actions as much, more work and heavier personal responsibility for the GM. I'm sure these lessons I've learned can be applied to written roleplaying as well. I personally haven't been a GM to a planned written RP but I hope that's the sort of ideas you were looking for.

Epilogue The hollow clink of the black iron crown landing on the shelf in Phacyra's office sounded loud in the dead silence of the hideout. The Dreamer looked around, a still expression on his scarred face. Everything was as it had been: the unadorned, nondescript furniture, the gouged and pitted desk with a dagger stuck to it, the fireplace filled with grey ash, still warm. Only Phacyra was missing, his usual chair empty behind the large desk. He could already feel the whole hideout getting colder ... and sense a planewalker getting closer. He turned but did not draw Pain, recognizing the aura of the approaching person before seeing the woman clad in grey, stained robes. "M'lady Tanjako Awo." "M'lord Dreamer. So, we lost? Was it th' weaver?" "Th' weaver ya, but more than that th' mistress of th' weaver. She managed t' stun me, an' when I came to Phacyra was gone." "Stun ye? Th' former High Commander of th' Chaos Armies?" There was disbelief in her tone, even if her face was impossible to read. Tanjako was leaning on the wooden frame of the door to the office, visibly exhausted even if her wards were again in normal order. Wisps of the yellow fire she had used still floated around her bare hands, but her shoulders were slumped. The Dreamer shrugged, wondering for a brief moment how he himself looked, his motion making his scalemail hauberk chime and tinkle. "Former, very much so, m'lady. As I lost th' favour of Chaos, I lost th' raw power she had loaned t' me as well. I'm as feeble as a lemur, these days." His slanted smile and scornful voice made it hard to gauge the true meaning of his words. He made a frustrated gesture, turned his back to Tanjako to glare at the crown lying on the shelf. It was a dead and crude thing to normal vision but still blazing with energies of Chaos and war to his sixth sense, the colorful aurora of mana blazing above it a seemingly merry sight. After a moment of contemplation, gaze still fixed on the crown, he spoke again with a tone more reflective than bitter. "'T seems that th' Balance teaches us weakness, an' not much else."

The staggering Dreamer blinked, a wall of golden fire fading in front of him at the same rate as he regained his senses. When he finally was able to see properly, the circular wall around him was but a memory. ... the Grail? He blinked again, his eyes dim yellow, and turned in a wide circle to observe his surroundings. Herald was near, crystal sword held in his hand, wings spread protectively, his angels clustered around the most powerful of them. His demons were scattered around the battlefield, a few having had ran off during his blackout. The drow were gone, the fortresses and the armies, the living and the dead - the only corpses he could see were those of planar beings and the far-away floating remains of Overlord Ghael, already a dark cloud of Veil's predators and scavengers converging upon this great prize. The faint mana trail of Countess Tanjako Awo faded into the depths of the Veil, but he was sure she would manage herself - or if she would not, she'd be too feeble to be a planewalker in the first place. Phacyra was gone. So, we lost the battle. She was always far better than him in battle, and I ... I was weakened by fighting that hideous spider, weakened by giving away those powers Chaos had lent me. They never told me the price of Balance is this. His eyes turned darker, the yellow corrupted into shades of grey and blue. He flicked the gore and shattered dreams away from the slick blade of Pain, nodded at the questioning look of his Herald. The magnificient angel raised his trumpet and played one long, sad note, a wailing tribute to the dead. The Dreamer's army's retreat signal.

The end, when it came, was swift. A sense of great pressure, a vast threat above and beyond the powers of planewalkers, struck first. The warning it gave was short and vague, not enough to save anybody. Out of nothingness, without giving out any aura to detect, the dimensional weaver slid from whatever unreality it had traveled through into the Void right behind Overlord Ghael. It was a massive transparent arachnidic creature, every one of its eight legs almost as thick as a human, its colossal round abdomen pushing and smashing the abyssals and drow alike. Its front legs pierced the smoky globe of Ghael's wards as if it had not been there at all, then they pierced Ghael himself, waved his suddenly limp body around like a flag before the spider tossed him aside. If that thing is not dealt with at once, the army will crack, its morale broken like a dry twig. The Dreamer wheeled around and begun to fight his way towards the creature. He was mired in the thickest center of the battle and could not disengage fast enough, however. Pain wailed, sensing its master's displeasure, but neither that or the infernal red-yellow fires blazing in the Dreamer's wide open eyes could force the drows to make way. His old guard continued towards the drow fortress, too submerged into bloodlust to cope with a change of direction. Still struggling forward, towards the fat spider that leisurely speared one abyssal after another, he could see a bright line streak through his field of vision. It impacted on the spider's body creating a brilliant flash that obscured the spider for a short moment. When the view cleared, the weaver was rearing up on its hindmost legs, the front legs each rapidly stabbing downwards at the nimble figure of Countess Tanjako. Her hands held the same bright yellow fire the earlier bright streak of flames was made of and her eyes were now fully open, intense concentration etched on her mien. She dodged a score of blows before leaping upwards carrying a concentrated ball of yellow fire in her cupped hands. The weaver swatted her down from the flight, using such force her wards bloomed open and broke in the same instant, the blow sending her stunned body flying through the Void. The Dreamer glanced backwards at the vanishing figure, saw the emergency wards open before the tiny dot vanished even beyond the range of his vastly enhanced eyesight. She'll live. That sight was enough to make some primal blocks shift deep inside his complex mind, some permissions to be given, some barriers lowered. Briefly a black mist covered his eyes and he stumbled once, not sure if he was going to step into an ice-cold battle trance or let himself go, surrender to the howl of the berserker wind inside him. RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! Dimly he sensed that the Herald was beside him, parrying blows meant for him with his long wings, striking at those who tried to get too close. Then he opened the dams that held his inner mana reserves in check, too angry, too deep in chaos and rage to form structured spells but enough a creature of magic and a master of Art to channel pure force subconsciously. The essence of night flowed from his open hands, and the drow squadrons right in front of him were drowned in a black, twisting nether, those few who did not sink immediately being dragged in by the eerily singing tenebrous tentacles. The horror flickering in the eyes of the tormented drow would have amused the Dreamer, if he had been in any state to notice. Instead he merely ran through his own spell, the wailing tentacles making way, the treacherous surface that swallowed the dark elves whole solid under his hurrying feet. The Herald leaped up and flew after his master. Both of them sped through the following gap in the general melee, eyes fixed to the gigantic monster in front of them. It was deflecting daggers Phacyra was flinging at it now, two, three or four at a time, every attack as trivial for it to foil. None of the deadly missiles reached its body, its swift legs slapping them down or striking them aside from flight. It hardly paid attention to the thin planewalker in demonskin jacket even thought it kept on parrying all of his attacks, as it twisted its smooth head filled with luminous globes that seemed to be its eyes towards the charging Dreamer. For a moment it seemed as the scarred planewalker would run right into the dimensional weaver, but he roared aloud words of the one true language as he ran, slowing down slightly while the Herald abandoned shadowing his master, accelerating and gaining altitude. Phacyra gave up on trying to score a hit with his daggers at the exact same time, flinging a wide swarm of conjured shards at his enemy instead. Herald copied him, raining knives of light from above on the wide back of the spider while the Dreamer continued to shape the copious amounts of mana he was drawing from his inner reserves. A crackling sphere of energy appeared above the planewalker's head, a suspended bolt of primal energy woven out of raw mana. The weaver smashed most of Phacyra's missiles with a sweeping parry of one of its legs, Herald's attack having slightly more luck even if the visible effects of the attack's success were lacking - most of his knives sunk into the spider and vanished. Then the Dreamer unleashed his spell, an attack meant to wound a god or shear the wards off a young planewalker in one go. It sprang forth as a lashing two-pronged tongue of living lightning, too bright to look at, too loud to hear, and struck a leg the weaver put between it and its body. It screeched, the sound even more horrible than the louder crackling boom of the Dreamer's spell. It made bones reverberate, blood shake and armor rattle, it broke elvish eardrums and made angels kneel in agony. Even the planewalkers winced, Phacyra dropping a dagger, brown pulsing briefly in the Dreamer's wild eyes. The spider vanished, letting the unreality wash over it, leaving behind it shaken armies, an involuntary truce. * Ah, ye force my hand, m'lords - I'd wish'd that my pet would make my own appearance an unnecessary evil. This time, he could sense the aura of a powerful planewalker, see her speeding through her armies. It didn't help when she lashed out, channeling a staggering amount of psionic power into a blow that overwhelmed his surviving wards, smashed against his inner shields and blacked out his vision in one go. I should've ... left ... some reserves ... to tap ...

We underestimated her. Pain wailed as it clashed with a darkwood blade, the enemy not impressed or intimidated by the Dreamer's black reputation or his obvious martial skill. The Dreamer grimaced, leaped upwards to dodge a sweeping blow and sunk the whole length of his spectral nodachi into the drow, the blade entering from the neck and exiting from a gap in the greaves. He leaped further upwards dragging the gore-drenched weapon after him like a grotesque tail of sorts. A short moment of intense concentration, a few muttered and roared runes of power afterwards the planewalker rained down brilliant, insubstantial arcane missiles in a circular shower to keep the ranks of drow away a moment. That bought him enough time to look around him, to see the dire shape they were in. He was where the fighting was most intense, near the gates of the biggest of the floating drow fortresses. It was a massive black tree on an island swimming through the empty void, a living building made of darkwood, its vast base surrounded with a complex of grey stone buildings. Between him and the tree fortress was an army of drow, the mortal elves clad in platemail of wood, wielding blades dripping poison and blackened shields, clashing with the planar beings and giving up no ground. Warriors held the front with archers raining enchanted arrows into the angels and demons alike, mages and conjurers supporting the combat from behind. A deadly, oiled machine, greater than the sum of its parts. Part of its success lay clearly in the state of confused embarassment the planar beings were thrown into by having to fight mortals that did not give way, did not break and flee. "Stand fast! They are only mortals!" Red flared briefly in his eyes as he yelled, then their color dulled to dying embers, black and yellow and red together as he turned his gaze to survey the rest of the battle. To the right, Tanjako Awo fought without a weapon, dancing through the drow with an immortal grace, her hands moving so fast they could only be seen in the still moments, during the pauses she did after dispatching an opponent. Even then they were shrouded in blazing chi-energy that allowed her to punch through platemail, to sunder swords and break shields. Her eyes were narrowed to see as little of the displeasing sights the battlefield offered her, her robes drenched in blood. The angels she had brought did not fare as well, but her part of the fight was not under as great a pressure as the center and her troops held their ground. To the left, Overlord Ghael Khar Zham and his abyssals were having even more trouble. The drow were used to fighting things as evil as they were and were unfazed by the creatures from nightmares, rarely succumbing to even magical terror, cutting into the disorganized horde with effeciency born of centuries of practice, showing the true colors of their warlike culture with relish. Phacyra, alerted by a short and wordless mind contact, was already moving to bolster that side with his small band of elite demons and some of the Dreamer's old guard, those Fallen angels he had kept in reserve through all the battles of the Grail Wars for something like this. Let them gain their freedom here. Poor things, from one extreme to another. He blinked to dispel the unnecessary thought, quit holding himself above the path and fell fast, landed gracefully. Despite his perfect landing a quick drow hero managed to strike his wards, the enchanted darkwood blade powerful enough to weaken them slightly. The Dreamer snarled and dashed forward to eviscerate the offending soldier, then backed off a few steps and gestured to the Herald. "Blow the notes of my old guard, Herald. Clear and loud!" "As you wish, Master." The majestetic, tall angel readied his beautiful trumpet, paused and raised it to his lips. Its call rang through the Void, an aggressive note of defiance and rage, almost like the roar of a challenged dragon. It cut through the noise of the battle like a knife, strengthening the arms of the Dreamer's allies and underlings and making even the stalwart drow hesistate a fraction of a moment. Another shorter and cruder sound answered the call, still filled with similiar defiant anger as the original. The last of the Dreamer's old guard saluted their master and the Herald with their notched, worn blades before charging forward with suicidal glee. They howled the battlecry of their leader, the words distorted but discernible: "Freedom in death or oblivion in bloodlust! Forward, slaves!" The Dreamer grinned at the frenzy of his old guard, a wild look on his face. After saluting them back with howling Pain, he surged forward to deal with the few drow that were converging on him, a squad of dark elves determined to take down the commander. Almost as soon as he crashed into them, his Fallen angels caught up with him, dispatched the few drow heroes present and begun to drive a wedge forward through the heaviest opposition. The Dreamer, thus released from the thickest melee, paused to observe their work with an apparent satisfaction, broken dreams of drow warriors flowing down the length of his spirit-cleaving blade. He jerked forward as if to join the old guard, now fully engaged with the enemy, then stopped and turned to stare at his lieutenant. "Herald?" "Yes, Master?" "Ye may kill at will." The words seemed to have some special meaning to both of them, with such a gravity they were spoken and received. They both stood like that a moment longer than necessary, the Dreamer with a hungry look on his pale, scarred face, looking backwards over his shoulder, the Herald with his mask of supreme subservience and serenity starting to crack, to reveal something fierce and alive underneath. Then the master dashed forward holding his sword like a standard of war. And the servant leaped upwards, spreading his large, majestetic wings. They unfurled to their fullest length and then kept on unfurling far past that, a ghostly wing-shaped phantasm that sheathed his real wings into a white brilliance. The light turned into a rain of knives, their insubstantial blades cutting and piercing the drows below, passing harmlessly through the Dreamer's own troops. The Herald roared, his trumpet forgotten somewhere, this note of defiance his own, not rehearsed. The glorious angel flapped his vast wings once, the whirlwind it created sending even the enchanted arrows the drow had aimed at him astray, pulled a crystal sword out of his scabbard and then dived downwards like a thunderbolt - or like a peregrine falcon seeing easy prey. The Lost Paths shook from the force of the impact, a fraction of a moment later.

The army stood ready. Row after row of angels in gleaming mail, in silver shields, wielding bright swords next to some of the Dreamer's old guard in corroded, black plate and red shields, wielding wailing felblades, their grey wings and haunted, dark faces showing the marks of the Falling. A gap, and then the strange things the overlord had dragged away from their natural abysses: things that seemed like goats or wolves but with malevolent intelligence burning in their fiery eyes, taller creatures carrying weapons that dripped acid or poison or flared with unholy auras, faces hidden behind grotesque helmets. Yet another gap, and the demons, the swordfodder of the Chaos - red, oily looking skin stretched taunt over bulging muscles, nostrils spouting flames, fire-blackened polearms and axes swaying in taloned hands, the violence kept in check only by the sheer force of will of the planewalker captains. The presence of their underling had different effects on four planewalkers present. Overlord Ghael held himself upright now, the faint hints of apprehension gone and replaced with omens of future bloodlust, his mouth hanging half-open, revealing glistening fangs. Countess Tanjako stood away from the other three, perhaps feeling embarassed about the company she had to keep here. Her brown eyes glanced warily at the unpredictable soliders of chaos and evil, not sparing even the angels the Dreamer had summoned, no matter how many of them still seemed pure and white. Phacyra was quieter than usual, playing with his daggers nervously. Only a minor part of the demons were under his command, and even that seemed like too much of a burden to him. His face was tense, drawn. Lastly, the Dreamer - perhaps the least perturbed or changed by the presence of his own troops: as a master of binding and erstwhile High Commander of Chaos, reviewing warriors before a battle was natural to him. He wore the crown again, his grey mane captured under the black iron band with few unadorned sharp spikes. The white robe was discarded in favor of a more martial attire, a shimmering scalemail hauberk. On his hands he wore partial plate gauntlets that left his fingers free but protected the backs of his hands. A scale was engraved on the left gauntlet and his own mage sigil, which also appeared on the two big battle standards carried by his angel and demon armies, was engraved on the right one. Wyrmskin boots and scabbarded Pain on his back finished his war outfit. Those who saw him there had no trouble believing he had been at the forefront of the Grail Wars, commanding the whimsical hordes of Chaos from the vanguard, cutting through the lines of Law with sweeping blows of his spectral blade. "So, brother - may I take command of th' army?" Phacyra grinned, some of the tension fading from his expression. "What, did ya think I'd order this irregular force around with any success, m'lord Wodzan? Naw, be my guest an' assume command, see if ye can get Law an' Chaos work together this once, ya." It was hard to see if the Dreamer's eyes were grey or blue. Their normal vibrant glow had dimmed and the scars criss-crossing his ruined face were still, his whole posture impassive. He nodded to Phacyra, then looked questioningly at both Ghael and Tanjako. "M'lord, m'lady - do I 'ave th' consent of orderin' yer vassals durin' the next battle?" Ghael grinned, showing his rows of fangs more clearly, a feral sight. "Ya, Lord Dreamer, we'll kill on yer orders today, willingly." Tanjako Awo turned to look at the Dreamer in silence, then after a pause nodded. "I hope there is more Balance than Chaos in how ye treat my angels today, m'lord. I'd prefer to see as many of them to survive as possible, Sir Dreamer." The Dreamer nodded back but did not acknowledge the words more than that. He turned towards the door, drawing forth Pain with the same economical movement, breathing in and closing his eyes. "Very well." He opened his pink eyes, a sudden savage grin twisting his facial scars to a new formation.

Two angels stepped in through the white portal with the gliding gait charactersitic to their kind. The soft ambient light they emited lightened the dark room further - the place would have been pitch black without the score or so angelic soldiers already present, some of them in the loose peacetime garments the celestial folk preferred, some choosing pieces of armor from a big pile and putting them on, some already clad in metal and protective enchantments. Their faces were impassive, beautiful, perfect; their weapons and armor an odd collection of angelic armaments of silver and shining steel, blades and shields of dead heroes fished from the Void, no two the same, and some rare blades demons had wrought, black and wicked. An expert of celestial lore would have realized the angels were from various different cohorts, planes of origin and levels of comparative power, some of the bound warriors servants of the Dreamer even before his long slumber, some recently pressed into service. The veterans had a harder look to them, old echoes of the Dreamer's battle shout "Freedom in death or oblivion in bloodlust!" ringing in their ears even before the battle had started, and ringing true to them. The newer recruits still seemed slightly confused, slow and hesistant to some of their movements, the wounds the binding had made still fresh. The Dreamer made a slight gesture and the two new angels headed towards the makeshift armory while the gate they had entered through shifted and flickered, showing soon a new celestial plane much alike to the first one. "Ya know, Phacyra, ye could just step through an' forget all 'bout this confrontation with yer former partner, aye?" The shorter of the two planewalkers, clad in his trademark demon-skin jacket laughed out loud, his merriment almost drowning out his underlying bitterness. "Ye tempt me, Wodzan, but ye should know better than most why we never do that. Never - for even if I trust ye as much as any of us trusts another, th' fact is these gates aren't safe for us. Not unless we want t' be bound like this army of yers, whisper'd words of bindin' a shackle around their true names. Even if I'd get through safely, an' survive across th' glarin' white pureness of those places ye call yer angelic armies from, in th' end she'd just find me again, this time out there on th' open." "Think our presence is enough t' overcome th' advantage she 'as gained in fortifyin' an' entrappin' th' local Void? Ye might still be better off, fighting her somewhere on an open field." "Her an' a weaver? Some of us are more immortal than others, my brother, an' I do not 'ave that map o' scars to deflect every blow struck againt my body. Now, call yer army as fast as ye can, these an' those of yer demons ye trust not t' cause unnecessary havoc before we start, an' shut down this portal. I feel uneasy with such a glarin' hole through my spells o' protection around this hideout, almost as naked as if my wards were sunder'd." "I am proceedin' as fast as I possibly can, brother. So cease yer naggin' an' let me do this, ya?" "Ya, ya, don't tell me a lil' talk 's enough t' distract th' mighty Master o' Art in somethin' as trivial as controllin' a single portal?" The Dreamer merely glared at his comrade with dark blue eyes tinted with purple before making an exact, precice gesture. It shifted the target of the portal from Alhavianna to Chaêlum to drag even more of his bound soldiers to active service. So many of them will be freed, this time. Their doom hangs in the air, apparent to me and them alike even without the usual auguries. A memory flashed in front of his mind's eye, appearing unbidden: a vision of the single Chárôt-card he had drawn from the deck earlier today, on the eve of the battle. A fiery-eyed Balance was riding a black cloud of despair across a dark, moonlit sky, her perfect dress torn and her naked flesh bloody, in her left hand the scales, in her right a long slender sword she had trust downwards. Impaled on her instrument of vengeance were an angel and a demon locked into deadly embrace even past their deaths, the sword drenched in the gore of both Law's and Chaos' most basic pawns, it's point striking all the way down to the broken and barren earth that was cracking open by the power of the blow. A great host of both celestial and abyssal warriors were mired into a disorderly melee under the threatening cloud, the faces of the angels so twisted by fury and the faces of the demons so illuminated by bloodlust it was almost impossible to separate the two. A dark mist hung over the whole scene, giving the viewer the impression the eternal war continued to infinity in every direction. The Judgement, reversed. Death - death, and loss. Never has the fate been clearer...

"Thrice accurs'd gods! Seven times seven abysses an' three times three ill fates!" A silver shield gleamed in the Dreamer's scarred hands, runes encircling most of the mirror-like center. The tall planewalker was bent over the enchanted piece of armor, glaring at the last rune in the long, incomplete series of them, sibilant curses streaming from between his teeth. Red flames bloomed in his black eyes, reflected back by the shield for a brief, passing moment before he threw the item at the floor with great violence. "Imperfect piece o' junk!" Magic crackled in the air, the planewalker ordering nature with his sheer force of will, bypassing the runes and gestures most mortals needed for the Art. He punched empty air over the shield lying on the wooden floor, and something big and invisible mimicked his gesture, crushing the gleaming silver shield into ugly broken shards, the force of the blow damaging the floor all around the shield. The Dreamer drew a long, shuddering breath, the abrupt rage still twisting his features and the laylines of ambient magic still feeding his slightly depleted reserves of mana. He growled one last time, the note of angry displeasure softening, almost fading out before it was drowned under a woman's delighted laughter. "Haha! So, the stories about yer crafting skills are true, yes? Even then, I would have never expected to see a mere shield receive such a prodigal amount of m'lord's rage, given its only fault was that of its creator's clumsiness." He turned quickly, an impassive expression washing out all the remains of his earlier rage even from his eyes, leaving his gaze dim and grey like dirty empty canvas. At the door of this abandoned room very deep in the inner parts of Phacyra's surprisingly large hideout was the other one of the remaining two young planewalkers. Her skin was too white to be called pale and her hair too dark to be called with such a mundane word as black - her facial features seemed to float in an emptiness so total it hurt the eye, red lips and brown eyes under the hair that was like a hole in the creation. Her loose grey robes, inscribed with both white and black symbols, did not completely hide her feminine form, and they were slightly too short to conceal the fact she was barefooted. Even if it was impossible to read her expression due to her monochromatic face, both her eyes and her tone were playful, light, not at all concerned even when confronting an angry and unpredictable planewalker. The Dreamer blinked, very slowly, and breathed in the air he didn't need out of old habit. When his eyes opened they were green dappled with sparks of silver, a smile appearing on his face. "I'm afraid 'tis so, m'lady Tanjako Awo o' th' Law. I am oft' reduced to stealin' to get th' armaments I require for my vast personal armies, lest I doom them an' myself to defeat by th' deplorable quality o' my angel's an' demon's tools o' war." “Aha! 'Tis rare, rare indeed! Most legendary planewalker captains boast of their skills with anything and everything from swordsmithing to navigation and rune-inscribing - and here ye, one of the most acclaimed enemies of Law in the last great war, confide in me all 'bout yer ineptitudes. Truly, I consider myself honored now." She smiled and bowed too low to be taken seriously, as a vassal to her lord. "Whether or not I can craft these accurs'd things does not alter th' fact my blade, an' those of my armies, stolen or not, smith'd by whomever, will still cleave a way through any comparable force." Clouds gathered again in his eyes, his smile already faded earlier at the first mention of the last war. "Now if ye may excuse me, Countess Tanjako, for I must seek th' depths o' th' dead Void for a shield t' pilfer so none o' my angels will march to war half-arm'd." Tanjako Awo sighed and nodded slightly, this time as a planewalker to another, a neutral gesture. "Ye always were too easily offended from what I have heard, m'lord. Ah, well, I will not make any further remarks concernin' the Grail Wars. Good luck finding a suitable shield, m'lord." She nodded again, turned around and left the Dreamer descend into his trance alone, in peace. As his awarness sped into the Void it passed the area nearest to Phacyra's hideout on its way to the deeper regions of the Veil to seek some deceased hero's or defeated planar's shield, he felt the presence of something vast and vague, threatening and omnious; and the lone scarred body sitting in a dark room shivered violently for a moment as if it belong to a mortal being in the grip of bitter winter.

The dim blue eyes of the Dreamer surveyed the situation with his characteristic slow precision. On the worn table in front of him was a playing board made of polished stone, it's matrix of ten times ten black and white squares gleaming softly in the red ambient light of the room. Most of the squares were empty, but some of the held small wooden playing pieces with black and red runes painted on top of them, their sharp ends pointing to the direction they were attacking. On the right side of the playing field was a deck of Chárôt cards, a few of them in a haphazard stack, their face upwards. The Dreamer tapped the wooden table a few times, then took the topmost card of the deck and turned it face up, placed it on the stack. It showed a man clothed in heavy robes of office, standing in a temple, two men in simple robes of acolytes kneeling to him, the other holding a lily, the other a wave-bladed knife. The man himself held a staff, his other hand empty, held aloft in a gesture of benediction. Above his shaved head he had a halo of true dreams, their potent visions sparkling and glowing in constant river of certain knowledge. Behind him flickered red and yellow light, as if there was an open flame obscured by his robed form. “Th' True Prophet, revers'd. It invokes th' Age o' False Miracles, neh?” His opponent only grunted and nodded. He was a creature akin to an upright goat, his skin black as ink and his hands thin with long, sharp claws. In his narrow red eyes swam sharp yellow elliptical irises, accentuating his infernal visage further. A green, poisonous aura swirled around his somewhat short but very imposing figure. Where has Phacyra recruited this scum? Trying to show off their power with their outer form, as if that would scare anybody worth scaring. I would not bet on this spawn of abyss if he'd duel my Herald – and he is supposed to be accepted as a planewalker? The color drained out of the Dreamer's eyes, leaving behind only dark greyness that shifted and shimmered as a storm cloud or a restless sea. His scars mirrored his thoughts as well, dancing across his ruined face in a twisting procession. “Well?” The goat-creature's voice was rasping and low, the planewalker accent barely recognizable. He thought he could detect a hint of fear in its posture, a degree of uncertainty that made his twist his own face into even worse frown in his disgust. “Patience, m'lord Dreamer – I 'aven't play'd âhn-kzad for hundreds o' years as ye 'ave, an' I still need t' plan my attacks.” “A real player would 'ave already surrendered, Overlord Ghael Khar Zham. Yer ways out were reduc'd t' near nothingness with th' turn of that last Chárôt card – ye can't avoid defeat under th' Age o' False Miracles, m'lord.” “Ah. I shall take yer word on it, then. I concede defeat, m'lord.” That proves it – a fool! Instead of learning from his inevitable descent into certain defeat, he quits! Eyes narrowed, tones of purple creeping in them to mix with the roiling grey, the Dreamer stood up. Ghael remained seated, clearing the playing pieces and the cards away with minute gestures of his claws, the items sailing through air to their intended places. Looking around the dimly lit room, the Dreamer noticed Phacyra entering the room, fixing his gaze on him and tilting his head slightly, a gesture that meant he should follow. The disgust and dismay cleared from his face. A slight tap to the door of his mind alerted him that his old friend wanted to talk to him very privately, but his face stayed impassive, immovable as he crossed the room. * Ya? * Do ye think she'd manage t' actually kill a planewalker, brother? * If they are akin to th' one I play'd 'gainst in that sad excuse of a âhn-kzad game, ya, ya she would. One o' th' other two is missin', then? * Ya. Th' elf, Voil'jaellen - I sent 'im t' check th' surroundings, see if there'd been any tracks an' such, his kind retainin' usually some of their trackin' skill even after th' initiation, but ... he's been gone now far too long. * I hesistat'd t' tell this before, but I sensed somethin' movin' there, near th' edge of Veil, when I arrived. Somethin' ... vast and terrifyin', brother. An' ye do know nothin' much terrifies me these days. Knowin' her an' if such things do really exist, perhaps 'twas a dimensional weaver. * A weaver? That'd change everythin', neh? * Ya, it would. They arrived at Phacyra's small office. The Dreamer glanced thoughtfully at the black iron crown that was lying on a high shelf in a gloomy corner of the room. Everything seemed the same as the time he had brought that artefact of Chaos and war here for safekeeping: the unadorned, nondescript furniture, the friendly fire crackling merrily away in the fireplace, the gouged and pitted desk with a dagger stuck to it. "I see ye 'aven't redecorated 'ere, brother. An' that nobody has come t' claim my old crown, neh?" "Yer crown's too 'eavy for most immortals t' carry, Sir Wodzan Xe Chanima of Balance and Chaos, th' Scourge o' Planes. I doubt anybody but th' most foolish of planewalkers wants such a burden ye've shouldered when ye wore it." The Dreamer nodded gravely and sat down to the chair next to the fireplace, Phacyra seating himself behind his desk. "So. I assume Voil'jaellen to be lost, then, if we really are facin' a weaver. An' I thought that to see 'er after all these eons'd be bad enough." "With 'er I can't help ya, Phacyra - with th' weaver, perhaps." Phacyra removed the plain, sharp dagger from the table and started toying with it, a frown on his face. After giving it a moment of distracted attention, his gaze focused on the Dreamer. "Ye've been out an' 'bout, brother - do ye know what 'xactly we could do to th' weaver? How does one fight those things, an' how do they fight back? Any legends, obscure lore, tomes written by mad prophets describin' them?" The Dreamer jerked his grey eyes away from the crown which he had been staring, an emotion almost like guilt appearing briefly on his hard-to-read face. "Ye know almost as much as I do. There's even less useful lore written of them than of th' Maiden o' Daggers. I've seen some vague allusions, aye, an' riddles that flutter at th' edge of my consciousness if I try t' delve deep into what I may know of them, riddles an' ghost stories, an' some poems that are said t' be theirs. Th' Warcries o' th' Weavers, but that short apocryphal work 'ardly tells anythin' useful. Th' poem "Slaugther o' th' Immortals", not very reassurin' for us..." He shrugged, his voice fading out as he fell deeper into his thoughts, the last words muttered and barely audible. Dark blue tones started to gush into his eyes, covering the pale grey colors. Phacyra caught his dagger and stabbed downwards with it, leaving it to vibrate stuck to the table again.

“To th' sunderin' of th' wards, brother?” “To th' sunderin' of th' wards, ya.” The Dreamer threw away his cream-white robes in one fluid motion, revealing the gouged and rent skin below, his pale naked chest a bizarre mountain range of old scars. One of them seemed still oddly fresh, but nevertheless buried under other, older scars – it begun from just under his left shoulder and ran all the way down to the height of his elbow, a red and ugly mark. The act of disrobing had revealed his trousers as well, their white material similar to the coarse and thick but immaculately clean fabric of the robes. As the robe, also, they were quite loose, hiding his thin body well. Into his waiting hands Pain appeared, moaning a soft challenge. Phacyra grinned, showing his stained teeth. “Ye can't 'xpect me t' follow yer example, m'lord. As ye well know, my jacket's my best weapon 'gainst scoundrels like ya.” “Do as ye wish, as ye'd do whether I'd give ye th' license t' do so or not. An' stop blatherin' if ye wish to break my wards – th' mere breeze of yer mutterings won't break 'em.” A smile wavered on the Dreamer's ruined face, extending all the way to his white, silver-dappled eyes. He let Pain slip from the ready position it had been in and started whispering a spell, the blade held haphazardly in his left hand as his right shaped half-seen runes into the air of the big, empty room set aside for occasions such as this. Faster than an eye could follow, grin turning into a mien of intense concentration, Phacyra drew three daggers out of the depths of his demon-leather jacket and threw them at his old friend. With fast, effortless motions of his blade, the Dreamer deflected two of the hurled daggers, the third impacting on his wards. The coruscating emerald enchantments sprang to life, already flickering from the first blow. Wasting no time, the Dreamer pronounced the last ritual word of his spell with the utmost clarity and pointed at his sparring partner with open palm. A thin yet broad shadow flew through the room, everything altering slightly under its touch, the changes themselves too small to see but the resulting room feeling slightly wrong, an artificial, acrid smell hanging in the air instead of the homily smell of sulfur, rank angel's blood and immortal sweat. The reality altering wave sheared the topmost layer of Phacyra's wards away, waking up the last few wards and enveloping the planewalker in his customary signature color, vivid crimson. It was as if the invisible skin of some spherical animal had been skinned away and the bloody dermis revealed to the horrified witnesses. “Ye dare t' hit me with that in a friendly match, Wodzan!? Ye'll pay th' damages, berserk!” Phacyra followed his angry outburst with a short ritualistic curse, using a large, quick gesture where he flung his crossed arms out- and upwards to conjure a burst of hellfire. Tall flames as crimson as his wards erupted all around the Dreamer, but they did not seem to faze him or to damage his wards overmuch. Leaping forward to escape the worst of the summoned inferno, he continued his momentum towards his opponent, took a firm two-handed on the hilt of Pain and struck downwards at Phacyra from air. The owner of the hideout narrowly dodged the cleaving blow and threw two more daggers at his adversary as he dashed away, trying to get more range. One dagger was deflected, but the other throw did land on the green wards, making them shake and flicker. Determined not to give Phacyra room, the Dreamer pressed on with a lightning-fast charge. A dagger held in the left hand rose up to meet the hulking nodachi, but it only slowed the bigger blade down a fraction. Pain smashed on the crimson wards, wailing loudly as it cut downwards, damaging but not penetrating them. At the same instant, Phacyra had used the dagger in his right hand to thrust at the emerald wards of the Dreamer, scoring one more hit but not breaking through either. Both combatants took several steps back, glaring and grinning at each other through the flickering, barely stable wards. The Dreamer lifted Pain back up to the ready position he was fond of using, whereas Phacyra stood in a deceptively relaxed stance, his nimble fingers ready to draw more daggers from the depths of his demon-skin jacket. A terrible light played in the faintly pink eyes of the scarred, thin ex-Duke of Chaos, his mouth set to something between a friendly grin and a deadly scowl. Phacyra's face was far more human, his grin wild and open. Pain cut the air in an obscure insulting gesture just before the Dreamer growled at his opponent, his derisive words spoken in a light tone that undermined their edge. “If that 's th' best ye can do, brother, I can understand why ye've spent yer days hidin' 'ere in safety.” “Ha! Yer wards are almost gone as well, m'lord Scourge o' th' Planes. I fail t' see how ye have reached yer current lofty position as th' arch-villain an' bogeyman of th' Paths if that's how ye fight.” Without further preamble the Dreamer roared aloud one of the words of power. Unable to see the exact result of the invocation, ready to throw his daggers, Phacyra sent three of his deadly missiles towards the other planewalker in a flurry of motions. The three projectiles cut through the air only to crash against the invisible field of force the Dreamer had called into being. The field collapsed as soon as it had served it purpose, its creator leaping through its old location and over the daggers lying on the ground to direct an all-out scything blow at the surprised Phacyra. Pain's first blow cut only empty air, the intended target having dodged backwards, the second crashing against a hastily summoned quarterstaff of crimson hellfire. Third eviscerated the faint remains of Phacyra's wards, a dagger flying past the spectral blade to strike the Dreamer's flickering wards, nearly breaking them. Nearly, but not quite. “Good try, brother. Yer too predictable, 'twas yer only downfall.” “Ah ya. It is hard to come up as varied mix o' spells an' physical attacks as ye use, cooped up 'ere in th' middle o' nowhere – though it does help t' meet th' right kind o' wrong sorta people, if ye know what I mean.” The Dreamer nodded silently and brought his wards down to get them back up again, Phacyra engaged to similar work next to him. The silence between them, not really broken by the soft mutterings of wardweaving, was comfortable, natural. “Ye think this may end well, brother?” “Well for whom, Wodzan? It can't end well for me, nay – but 'tis might end well for ya, perhaps. I haven't heard that she'd 'ave any planewalker allies an' there's five o' us, so even if she has bigger army we should be able t' prevail.” He nodded silently again, but a frown had etched itself on the scars of his face during Phacyra's words. A grey mist obscured his eyes, showing his troubled state clearly. “But why do ye of all ask such things, Wodzan? Yer th' one whose mad adventures have brought a collection of scars few o' th' active 'walkers carry. Why do ye worry, now?” “I'm not worried 'bout myself. I know I can escape her webs, no matter how long she has been weavin' them in th' depths of th' Veil. But ye can't escape 'er, ye've never been able to. An' out of yer five, only th' two of us can match her in any way – th' rest are planewalkers aye, but ones of little merit.” “I call'd all my allies.” Phacyra shrugged, picked up some daggers and inspected their blades in the red-tinted ambient light, then he sheathed two of them and let one fall back to the floor, kicked it away with his boot. He turned back towards the Dreamer, looking slightly sullen. “This is what we 'ave, an' if I call it off now, next time it'd most likely just be ye an' me. Ye know how 'ard 'tis to get even a small group of our kin together, neh?” “Ya. It'll 'ave t' do, then.” The following silence was more uneasy, darker.

The Lost Paths were busy these days, free of the fear of patrols and armies and raids. The times of war were over for now, and those who had lacked the strength or powerful allegiances to protect them during the chaotic times took the opportunity to travel. On some parts of the paths he saw even four or five others on any given day, though none of them made him pause his hurried march. Mortal sorcerers, planewalkers and angelic or demonic messengers alike, all made way when they saw his unmasked power. After a while he exited the main paths and entered the network of twisting narrow paths of the Cloud. Few ever went that way, and fewer returned - though not as dangerous as the Veil, the Cloud was still a hiding place, an even wilder part of the wilderness of the Astral, and many deadly things hunted there between the small planes without fear of retribution. A faint smile was on the Dreamer's face as he remembered the first time after his awakening he had ran these paths, over twenty years ago – still confused, his memory foggy, disguised as Sir Owiric of Chaos. The borders have moved since. The Veil grows, it's corrupt tentacles creeping into the Cloud. In a way, it is more fitting that the end to this long feud, the end to the long imprisonment of my brother should be acted in the darkness of the Veil, hidden from any prying eyes... Something disrupted his light traveling trance and he came to abrupt halt, his eyes burning yellow, Pain appearing into his empty hands. He stood in the emptiness of the Void, hovering over the invisible surface of the path. There was nothing nearby he could sense, and the closest visible point of reference was the far-away gleam of the planar crystal of some nameless, tiny plane. Nevertheless, his instincts screamed that there was danger, that somehow the translucent mists of the Cloud and the empty Lost Paths stretching to every direction around him concealed something vast and terrifying even to a being of power. Instead of slowly relaxing back to his normal subdued state of paranoia, his stature grew more taunt by every passing moment, the yellow fire in his narrowed eyes brighter. Whatever it is, either it is a master of camouflage or it is moving under the Astral in a way no planewalker or god I know can. Or it is a spectre of my old battle madness, rearing its snarling head after so many years of peace. A grimace locked the planewalker's face into a twisted expression of anger, Pain sensing its master's emotions and wailing with a soft, keening voice that penetrated the airless Void. The nameless, vast threat was still there, so close he could almost touch it, strike it once or twice with the ghost of a blade before being crushed under its weight ... and then it was gone, leaving behind only an electric, poisonous feeling of tension that permeated the whole being of the Dreamer.

It was almost dark here, a gloom that was not meant to be penetrated easily by mortal eyes. Erratic towers of massive grimoires took most of the space, the paths separating them dusty with disuse. The space did not have the orderly shape of human architecture – only the floor was level, if not rectangular, while the walls had more organic shapes and the ceiling was lost in the darkness far above the books. Near the middle of the mishapped room stood the tall, thin form of a planewalker clad in cream-colored robes, his skin ravaged by scars of a thousand battles and his hair gray to mark the passage of over three millenia. Behind the Dreamer, deferentially following few steps after him, were two of his angelic servants, both carrying several of the enormous leather-bound tomes. This should almost do for a dozen years at least, unless she forgets everything else and submerges herself into the Art too deeply, something I doubt there is much danger of. Now, where did I store that “Sahlarra's Refined Works on Weather and Elements” ... it should be here somewhere. The planewalker brushed gently the closest of the spellbooks, feeling the angry buzz of magic chained and then forgotten radiating from the grimoire of demonic summons more acutely than the physical feeling of dust and dried out human hide. He let his fingers fall downwards along the spines of the various books, identifying the different works as much by the magic they radiated as by the runes branded on them. His browsing was interrupted by the entrance of a third angel, her opened wings making the dust whistle around the towers of knowledge. The Dreamer's eyes flashed purple as he turned to glare at the servant. “What is 't, then? Ye should know better than t' interrupt me when I'm busy.” “My apologies, master Dreamer, but a messenger by the name of Festion just came and said his letter was of the utmost urgency and importance.” “Festion? Here? This'd bett'r be important, ya – 's not like he is even suppos'd t' know of this fortress, far less t' carry any messages to me.” Unbidden, Pain and its scabbard materialized straight to his back as he strode out of the library, his eyes swirling through various colors of the rainbow, his unbound grey hair streaming behind him. His two servants, having received no new orders followed him with their stacks of books, looking suddenly out of place. I'm getting old. I should have sensed his presence as soon as he got anywhere near the tower. Finally remembering his servants, he gave a succinct gesture of dismissal without turning around and arrived to the top of the tower without escort. The stone roof stretched in a surreal way, its shape resembling that of a stylized tear-drop cut in half when seen from directly above. Above them the sky was black and starless, only spots of color the few rare flying ornithopters. Below them were the Plains of Animation, mostly dead and barren, here and there a sentient construct or a golem going about their indecipherable, silent business. From its flawless, reflecting surface rose bizarre thin and twisted mountains, equally improbable chasms appearing at regular intervals. In the absolute stillness the sound of Pain's first wail as it emerged from its scabbard was loud, and it wailed again in anticipation or protest when the Dreamer pointed it at the magnificent archangel standing near the sharp end of the roof, flanked by two of the planewalker's best guards. Seeing the planewalker Festion showed his empty hands in a gesture of peace, a wary look appearing on his perfect, angelic face. He was one of the fastest beings ever to travel the Lost Paths, his softly glowing white wings looking ungainly and clumsy now that he was not in flight. A blue robe the color of evening sky covered his muscular torso, but it left his pale arms bare, did not reach all the way to cover his naked feet. Festion carried no visible weapons, no armor or symbols of allegiance, but he carried himself with the proudness of the higher ranks of angels that gave him an aura of illusionary invulnerability. “Do put away your blade, Sir Dreamer – I am not here from my own will or to rehash past conflicts. Rather, I was sent here by Phacyra Xe Tormeyentor of the Veil.” The Dreamer lowered his blade, but his face was still set to a hostile frown, purple swirling in his blue eyes. “M'lord Festion, that is one of th' very few names that allow ye safe passage 'ere, assumin' yer speakin' th' truth. Now, if th' matter's so urgent an' if he did choose somebody of yer swiftness, let us not waste time 'ere. Th' letter, m'lord.” “It is not written down, sir. He merely requested that I would tell you the following: “'Tis time t' worry 'bout tomorrow, brother. Come, if ye can.” - he assured me that you would know what he means by it.” The planewalker's eyes narrowed when he heard the message, but the last of the purple faded away from his eyes. His gaze was the clear, deep blue of the Astral when he replied to the angel, thoughtfulness instead the earlier malice in his low voice. “Ya, 'tis true. I, Wodzan Xe Chanima of th' Scales, have receiv'd yer message. Now go, an' forget ye ever was 'ere, lest ye want a fourth scar.” Festion nodded briefly and abruptly leaped upwards, opening up his huge wings that beat the thin, unbreathable air of this plane with rapid, powerful strokes. By the time the Dreamer had finished sheathing his blade, Festion was a white, glowing spark in the horizon, then the archangel vanished from sight. It is time, then. I wonder how many of us three will survive this.

The purple hues faded from his eyes as fast as they had appeared, the storm clearing in one short instant, the glow of leylines doused as soon as he quit draining on the ambient magic. Something shook the Dreamer - remorse, exhaustion or the feeling of raw power he sometimes got after performing a work of Art. His gaze turned leaden and transparent, worn. That was pointless. That ... and this, all. He leaned on the friendly wall of the Pen Keep, looking more like a mortal man after a hard day of work than he had ever done, his dirty grey hair and creamy white robes obscuring most of the disfiguring scars. Slowly, tiredly he pried himself away from the wall and stood very still, a hollow feeling growing inside. He shrugged, eyes downcast, before sidestepping into the Astral and vanishing.

Letting time flow past him at its own unhurried pace, the Dreamer stood where Appy had left him, thinking colossal, slow thoughts. Most of them did not contain any words, only shadowy abstractions and inhuman logic, the end result again crystallizing to words that mortals may have understood. The Elders have the Lists of the Pen, but the real culprits are the two who sent the message. He frowned alone in the empty corridor, then turned abruptly around and started striding towards the AVV, taking a slightly unusual but very short route. The planewalker met nobody on the way and ended up staring at the wall of magical energy, his frown re-appearing on his face. His cream-white robes made a stark contrast to the black surface of the sparkling barrier as he stood there, a careful distance away but unafraid. Little arcs of energy leaped from the wall and earthed themselves to his wards, but he didn't pay attention to them - the wards had survived worse in the depths of the Void and on the lawless Lost Paths. His eyes, black and red to begin with, the color of slowly cooling lava, shimmered and shifted to the Astral blue color of deep contemplation. What a mess the mortals can make, when they really try. Of course, they do not have a long life to hoard. The Dreamer raised his hand towards the unstable wall and the arcs and sparkles grew more wild and agitated, constant lightning striking his outstretched hand. He narrowed his eyes and retracted his hand, shivered slightly. Self-powering magic and it is trying to wrench me away. This path is not worth the trouble, let the mortals clear their own mess - if the universum doesn't clear this for them and collapse this portal completely. I'll just go to find an Elder to clarify with them the matter of this message. He shrugged and turned around, the blue in his eyes darkening back towards the colors of cold anger.

"Hey, ya." The cold, snarling voice was followed by a bony hand extending itself from underneath the two red stars and grabbed Appy's lapels, lifting her upwards before she had chance to do anything. "An' whose grand idea was it t' pester me with that cracklin', unstable message, hmm?" "Hey, lemme go!" Appy shout had just a mixture of shock and surprise to it - seeing the Dreamer's face from close up was not entirely pleasant experience, and his grip was like steel. "As ye wish, puny mortal." A sneer appeared on the planewalker's ravaged face, the scars slithering across it to a new order. Very slowly and carefully he lowered the girl so she ended up standing on her two legs again. His eyes lost some of their brightest red glare, but the black hue that flowed into them did not seem any friendlier. "So, do tell me if ye may, m'lady, where'd I find th' people responsible for this outrage?" The words were far more polite than the tone they were uttered in. "Didn't you hear the message? It's Gryphon and Sweetcherrie, I don't know where they are!" She made a great show of rearranging her shirt and doing it huffily, but her hands were shaking as she did it. The Dreamer shifted his now almost black gaze away from her as soon as he heard the words, staring somewhere beyond this world. "I see." Appy tilted her head as curiosity took her over and she stared at the Dreamer. "Well? Aren't you going to do something?" The little girl took a quick step back and clasped her hand over her mouth, not believe she had just said that. Without waiting for any reaction, and fervently hoping there wouldn't be any, she took out her pink skippyball with a shaking hand but casual air and bounced away, in the direction of the AVV...

Ten of Chaos, reversed. Something has been ... lost? The Dreamer frowned at the Chárôt card in front of him. It showed a howling demon half-submerged into one of the fiery lakes of some distant hell, a cage made of ten twisted iron arrows holding it in place. The picture wavered and shifted, the demon rattling the bars of its prison angrily, the heavy chains that disappeared from the cage's top to somewhere past the borders of the card swaying. He lifted his scarred, pale hand to put the card back into the deck. The message hit him, loud and clear. Calling all pennites? His eyes turned red.

Went to see "Crash" (the new one, 2004 version - not the Cronenberg movie from '96) and I am happy I did as it was the last showing here. It reminded me of "Magnolia" (partly because a review I read made the connection, perhaps), in a good way - a movie about twisting and meeting fates of different people. The way the same dozen people constantly meet each other in the huge city is of course completely unrealistic, but that hardly matters: it keeps multiple stories somewhat together. I really enjoyed it and can recommend it to people who don't think drama about ordinary people is boring or who are interested in the theme of racism.