Zadown

.... the world ended. It was a small, local thing, barely the size of a medium-sized supermarket, but nevertheless the Four Mice of Apocalypse (Squeak, Squeeek, Squak and Squeuek) who had made it were quite proud of their accomplisment as they rode on to sunset on their domesticated dogs. Without actually looking back at the fruits of their work, at the area which was not quite completely destroyed after all, since ...

Bwhahaha! That was funny. Do ye think that thing ranks as a Doomguard or one of those elite Infernals, or is it something completely outside WoW?

Thanks for taking the time to go through my story and write yet another review, Wyvern. As usual, I agree with some of what ye say and don't quite feel the same way with some other points ye bring up. While Melenar and the Jalar family might lack the rich history the Dreamer and Jankiize has, it's a bit difficult to give out all that information easily in story without using very clumsy writing. I tend to use the same system with most side characters - give out information about them slowly, keeping them two-dimensional at first and fleshing them out later if I keep on using them. The scene where the Dreamer spies on his and Jankiize's conversation is closely modeled on a real-life conversation straight out of my own history, so for me it's hard to see it being "unreal". Either it is one of those things you don't get unless you've been there or my written version is faulty, or both, but now that I read it again it still resonates very strongly with the memory of the real-life conversation I had. *shrug* The side-story about the lich I was somewhat unhappy with myself, also. I wished to portray what happens with the Dreamer's blank-outs where he just stares through people with an Astral blue gaze. It got perhaps a bit too long as I tried to add some highly visual ideas that had been haunting me. In the end maybe a few lines of text in italics would have worked better. As for using Jankiize's point of view - I might've done that if the story had gone on longer, but as it was, I felt no need at any point to add such a segment.

Just saw "Sin City", a movie I've been waiting a long time since I liked the comics it is based on a lot. I've never seen a move that has been so faithful to the original media - it was like reading the comic while being so high on something that the panels would move and talk. Especially the on-screen Marv was frighteningly close to his comic counterpart. In a way, it is very shallow movie, especially if you have already read the comics and know what happens in all the stories. At least for me, that didn't matter however: the fact the characters of one of my favourite comics have been woken up, the very unique amalgam of comic and movie, the original use of black & white with some colors added in (yes, I've seen it used before - nevertheless!) and all in all the sheer boldness of how it all has been done made it a memorable movie experience for me. Because of its excessive violence and lack of certain depth, I can't recommend to everybody. A friend of mine said that it was "a series of escalating acts of gratuitous violence with no real plot", and I can't really refute him. It was still worth the ticket to me, very much so.

Epilogue It was again a bright summer day, the coolness of the night giving in quickly to the rising heat of the day. A priest, or somebody clothed as one, stood at the doorsteps of the great House Jalar, the mistress of the House standing there talking to him. An unusual sight, after what had happened between the Jalars and the Faith, but people were used to unusual sights where she was concerned. Her voice was perhaps sad, perhaps relieved, it was hard to tell – his was deep and odd, the words coming out of his mouth mangled, somehow, even if nobody could understand the language the two spoke. Curious, that, that a priest would know the language of her distant home. “There is something I'd like to ask you to do, a favor, if you could?” “Ya, m'lady? Ye know what ye can ask o' me, neh?” “Um. Could you ... could you send a servant of yours to bring me a few books, so I might continue my studies, uncle?” The planewalker's eyes were hidden behind the colored lenses, and his face was impassive as always, his posture too rigid to tell anything. Jankiize could not tell if he was watching at her or through her, if he was lost in his thoughts or merely thinking what to say. Silence stretched longer, the soft murmur of background noises swirling past their immobile forms. Silence, peaceful, relaxing silence – and she felt a smile appearing on her face, a jubilant grin she didn't want to suppress. When he spoke, she knew the words before he said them. “Ya, of course, Li'tl' Princess.”

As soon as he managed to sit down in a lotus position, he sent his senses wandering outwards. He was not worrying about planar threats or plotting Chaos planewalkers as the tentacles of his perception slid through walls and encircled the whole house. What he wanted to do was to listen. “... and you can't say I have not been tolerant of the fact you have no past, no allegiances to count on. I married you against the wishes of my relatives, as you know. But you can't say this uncle of yours is exactly a normal foster parent, can you? Can you blame me for asking about him, hmm?” “No, no. You are right, but ... it's a tale I'd rather forget than tell. My past is nothing I'm proud about, but it will not interfere with our lives, Melenar.” “You don't count this person appearing out of nowhere and breaking our kitchen table while encouraging you to continue pursuing some age-old art as 'interfering with our lives', then? Can't you see how confusing this all is to me, love?” “Yes, and I'm sorry of it all. I'll send him away tomorrow, as soon as I can.” “What art was he talking about in the first place? I wouldn't mind getting one definite answer – I feel like every one of my dozens of questions I've asked today has been deflected away, as if there was something too terrible to tell me in your history, Janki.” “You really want to know about what Art I studied when I was young? You really want to know that, even if I plead you not to pry that information out of me?” Silence. “Yes, my love. Answer me this once, tell me what is so terrible about your history you can't share it with me as I've shared with you all of mine.” “My 'uncle' Dreamer taught me ... magic. That is the Art he refers to, and that is what I've abandoned now that I'm here.” “Magic? You are ... not joking?” He felt the tiny tug on this plane's weak but still usable ambient magic, heard the soft whispered words pronounced perfectly as there had been no pause in the studies, no gap of years to bridge. It was one of the first cantrips any novice learned, a simple calling of minor light, conjuring of a mageflame. The Dreamer felt his face twist into a wry smile. Rarely magic so faint has been used for so great an effect, I'd wager. “That's only a minor trick, Melenar. I can do a lot more than this, if I want to. My father ... was a warmagus, and my mother a spirit-raiser, it is in my blood. This ... place doesn't have a very strong magical field, so ... I doubt there are any other wizards or mages or witches. I still can work my magic here, if I'd want to. But I wanted to leave that behind me, Melenar. I don't need any of this any more!” “I ... see.” Silence, again. “I think I will go for a walk. I need to clear my head, think this out by myself.” “I love you, Melenar.” Soft sounds and sounds of opening and closing a door, then silence. Long, uninterrupted silence.

The three of them were sitting in the living room, the remains of an afternoon tea on the small table in the middle of them. There was a half-glass of wine in front of the Dreamer, but his plate was clean. Jankiize had not eaten much either but had drank a few glasses of wine, Melenar eating enough for all three but taking only small sips of the almost black liquid. The small talk they had centered on the business transactions Melenar had had, the planewalker managing to almost sound like an interested mortal. He was still wearing his colored lenses, and his accent was still thick and alien, but Melenar showed no signs of being rude enough to ask questions about either detail or about the scars the planewalker bore. Jankiize hadn't said much beside some polite words after the introductions, her feeling of anxious unease flickering through her beautiful face whenever she thought nobody was watching. “... and I must confess that particular caravan line has been less of a success I had hoped for. But, say, I hope you don't mind me asking what brings you here now, sir Chanima? Jankiize's due time is not in several months yet, you know?” “Naw, I did not know.” Something resembling a genuine smile appeared on the Dreamer's face as he shifted his gaze from Melenar to Jankiize and back. “Congratulations! To easy birth an' healthy baby!” He raised his glass and Melenar his, Jankiize joining the toast after a short pause when she had tried to find the familiar sarcasm from the planewalker's tone and failed. She smiled also, shaking loose some of the apprehension she had felt since the Dreamer had stepped into her home earlier today. “Do ye still wear th' amulet I gave ya, m'lady? It may help even with th' rigors o' yer childbirth, though I'm no expert in those matters.” “She never takes it off, heh, not even when ... never, that is.” Melenar blushed slightly and a brief grin appeared on Jankiize's face, the grin fading when she looked directly at the Dreamer for the first time since their conversation in the kitchen. With her right hand she lifted the crystal amulet from inside her robes, holding it by the chain made of raw magic. The crystal turned this way and that, reflected and refracted the sunlight pouring through the big windows. The light bent around the runes, creating hundreds of minuscule rainbows that sparkled inside the crystal. “I still wear it, yes.” “Excuse me if I ask a stupid question, but what did you mean by it helping her? It's just a very well crafted piece of jewelry, is it not?” “Ya, I suppose yer right. 'Tis nothin' but a pretty bauble, yet th' people where I come from do think th' inscrib'd lines of luck an' blessing on the crystal do make a difference. A superstition, if ye may.” The planewalker grinned to his own private joke, sarcasm creeping into his tone. “Where you come from, then? The design of those runes seems alien to me, and I fancy myself somewhat of an expert in the different scripts of this world.” “Alien, ya.” He nodded thoughtfully and examined his old work, leaning forward to see the runes better. Jankiize didn't seem to like the direction the conversation was heading, and she put the amulet back inside her robes, making the Dreamer first frown and then lean back. “You must be tired after your very long journey, uncle. We have a spare guest room you can rest at, and we can talk again tomorrow before you leave.” Her voice was exact, commanding, and even though her words made Melenar look at her questioningly and the Dreamer's frown deepen, neither contradicted her. The planewalker nodded to both of his hosts and stood, jostling the table loudly as he got up. “Thank ye for yer hospitality so far, m'lady, m'lord – I shall withdraw t' my room to meditate, then. I hope ye go through what I said earlier, m'lady, an' look at th' wisdom they contain with unbias'd eyes.” With his long stride he quickly disappeared after a servant towards the guest room.

“How are yer studies comin' along, m'lady?” She blinked, lost in her own chaotic thoughts, not understanding the words she clearly heard. “What?” “Yer studies, m'lady.” Jankiize turned back to see if the Dreamer's face held some hint to the reason of the question, but the scarred face was impassive, the eyes blue. “My studies? I have quit them, uncle. I have no need for that kind of knowledge here, in my new life.” Now the planewalker frowned, the scars dancing around his face like snakes ready to bite. Behind Jankiize, a muffled cry and the crash of a broken dish marked the baker finally seeing the visitor's terrible face, but they both ignored the noise. Jankiize made a soothing gesture but did not turn her head, held hypnotized by the darkening expression on the Dreamer's face like a rabbit staring in the open maw of a predator. “Ye 'ave ... quit yer studies, m'lady? Do ye perchance know what 'appens if ye fail t' reach a certain point in them before a certain age, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua?” “Do tell me, uncle.” Her voice was not as terrified as her paralysis might have lead to expect, and her face hardened as she readied herself to argue against an immortal. “Ye die, m'lady. If yer fortunate, that is. If ye cannot resist th' lure of th' Art when at Death's door, ye decay while yer soul's still bound t' yer rottin' body, an' ye go insane.” His eyes were dark grey and his face held a look she had never before seen. She had to swallow before she could speak, but her voice held steady when she did. “I know I will die, uncle. You may think we all desire immortality, but if that leads to being like you, I'll take my one and only life, thank you very much.” The crack of the kitchen table splitting in two under the planewalker's fist was painfully loud. Jankiize shuddered and pushed her chair backwards, her eyes moist and her hands shaking, but the Dreamer barely noticed. Eyes like black holes stared from his white, ravaged face, and his voice fell to a low, cold whisper that only she could understand. “Ye know nothing, mortal child! 'Tis not my immortality that shaped me thus, this is me! Yer path is different – none o' us immortals turn into anything because our extended existences, we merely become more of what we already are!” He stood up, sneering at the now silently crying woman, his gestures violent. “Do ye really think ye can escape what ye are, m'lady? Why is yer house round? A mage tower, hmm? How well do ye sleep with all that ambient mana flowin' through ya, unspent?” The kitchen door slammed open and a young man in simple clothes of fine quality appeared there with a naked blade in his hand, a furious look on his face. He took one look at the scene and rushed towards the Dreamer, pointing at the planewalker with his curved sword. “Move away from my wife, you fiend!” An astonishing, swift change swept through the planewalker, clearing away all the signs of his rage. He turned his clear-blue gaze at the young man, made a gesture of peace and put on his colored lenses with his other hand. When he spoke his voice was softer than normal, almost alluring. “My apologies, m'lord. I was urging m'lady t' continue 'er studies of th' Art, an' lost in th' argument act'd with too fiery a temper.” Jankiize regained her composure with commendable alacrity, blew her nose on a handkerchief which she also used to surreptitiously to wipe away her few tears, and moved to stand next to her husband. He was wearing a puzzled mien, still holding the sword but pointing it downwards, and stared at her with a questioning look. She nodded, then made the introductions, her voice almost stable. “M'lord Duke Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Lost Paths, may I introduce to you my husband, lord Melenar Jalar, head of the House Jalar. Melenar, this is my foster father I have spoken to you about.” “Duke no more, m'lady. An' of th' Scales.” The Dreamer smiled wanly to the young man, who seemed more confused after the introductions than before them. “Love, you haven't told me much about your history at all. You could have warned your father is coming to visit so we could have prepared a proper welcoming.” Melenar realized he had a sword in his hand and was embarrassed, waved it around. He was quite a lot taller than his wife, his hair and eyes brown and his skin tanned. Melenar's legs and arms were muscular and his build overall solid, almost stocky – he looked like a rich farmhand, but there was a glint of intellect in his eyes. He did not move with the graceful, wary motions of a warrior and the Dreamer's wan smile grew wider when he realized Jankiize must be by far better with a blade than her husband. “She prefers t' call me 'er uncle, m'lord. Uncle Dreamer.” Jankiize's face hardened again and she shook her head very slightly, telling the planewalker that long tales of her childhood would not be a wise idea. “So, which art were you referring at earlier, sir Chanima? I was not aware she was interested in any of them expect cooking.” The Dreamer grinned, showing his white teeth.

Even though he had been ready for the sensation, he still shivered when he stepped in from the Astral. Where planes of low magic felt like a crushing weight falling down from great heights on his shoulders, a vise squeezing his head, this place was like stepping into a hot bath and getting quite drunk at the same time. Raw magic coursed through him, through his wards that manifested as an almost opaque sphere of emerald glass around him, through Pain which bloomed with black and purple flames of tormented souls, wailing with pleasure. Frowning at the cacophony, the Dreamer threw his blade away without even a glance towards the spot where it disappeared to the Astral. The distraction gone, wards fading to a more transparent shape by his gesture, he was able to spare a proper look at his new surroundings. Behind him was the pearlescent planar wall, a short gap separating it and the stone pier he stood on. To his left, a massive ochre breakwater made of worked stone was half submerged in golden-red crashing waves of concentrated mana striking it violently yet silently, without reprieve – to his right, a road that lead forwards toward, then ended next to a stairway leading upwards, to the top of the pyramid. On the face of the pyramid, between the stone pier and the wide stairway, was a wide belt of tightly interwoven runes, the area they covered a perfect rectangle. Air hummed with energy, an electric but not entirely unpleasant sound. “Who intrudessh!?” The voice reminded him of a whisper with its softness, but it was loud and easy to heard. It ended in a fading sibilant note that joined the hum and was gone. The planewalker turned upwards to look at the top of the pyramid, even if it was impossible to see from his vantage point, and drew a deep breath, ready to raise his voice. “'Tis but a visitor, m'lord Azkhael Raerzaven – will ye permit me t' approach?” For a long time the only answer was the ambient hum. Then the soft, loud voice rang again, reluctantly. “Come, then. I sshall shee you, thiss once.” The Dreamer nodded to the empty air and quickly walked to the wide, steep stairs and started climbing them without hesistation. Midway, he paused momentarily and looked down to see the ocean of red-gold below him, the constant stream of raw magic crashing against the ochre stones of the building. There was nothing else to see inside this small demi-plane, so he resumed his climb. The top of the pyramid was bare. Faint blue runes hung in the air, marking the storage locations of various treasures, but none of them were in sight. His back towards the planewalker, leaning limply against the parapet, was a lich. It was clad in tattered robes that still bore remains of extravagant richness, the bones that showed through the gaping holes translucent, almost ghostly. On its head was an iron crown: a simple, unadorned, not very thick band of black iron with spikes, one longer spike at front, shorter spikes at sparse intervals all over the band. “M'lord?” It turned its skull, the only part of its skeleton still looked wholly solid, and kept on turning it until it could stare the planewalker, something that would have been impossible to a living man. The skull was of a slightly dirty ivory color, the permeating light from the violent sea of mana illuminating even the depths of its eyes, the two red stars burning in them hard to see. “Yesss? Have we met, planewalker?” “Ya, m'lord Raerzaven. I was here a few hundred years ago, shortly after ye had this fortress built.” The skull whirled back to a more natural position and the lich stood upright, turned to face the planewalker properly. “Ah, yess, lord Chanima, here to see what happenss in the end. It may not come asss any great ssurprisse that we were wrong. If the corruption can be sstopped, it iss ssomething beyond my sskilss, even here.” The Dreamer's eyes turned abruptly yellow. “What yer sayin', m'lord, 's that I should be gone an' never t' return, ya?” The lich grinned and tilted its head slightly. “Yess, begone. BEGONE!” The oppressively powerful ambient mana flow bent towards the now sneering lich, brilliant blue lightning encasing both of his spectral hands without any gesture or spoken spell. Whatever happened next, he wasn't there to see it.

The whole town was suffused with bright summer sunlight, making the bright colors of merchant house banners glow and giving the view an almost unreal clarity. Most of the houses in this corner of the town were two-storeyed, made of wood and stone – big, impressive buildings for the rich lords of the merchant class, each of them surrounded by a yard or garden, the wealth evident in that as well. Trees grew here and there, all of them a particular species that had so light grey bark it was almost white, their trunks thick, short and twisted, their light green leaves rustling with a soothing sound even in the barely perceptible afternoon breeze. Not many people were about, the oppressive heat keeping locals indoors during these hours near noon. Some children played in the shadows the trees provided, servants wearing light colors watching over them. One or two of the biggest houses had a guard standing under a canopy, their cuir bouilli armor making them sweat profusely while they stood in attention. One of the houses did not share the simple rectangular form of its neighbors – it was a squat tower, not much higher than the other buildings but so wide it seemed as a base for a taller structure rather than a finished house. Instead of flying one house banner like all the other merchant houses, this one had two different ones: the first one similar in design to the various other banners, a narrow wedge-shaped banner that had a black trade-sigil on a scarlet background, the other a short rectangular flag that had a stylished tree of brown and green on a white background, something written with black runes on both sides of the tree. At the doorstep of this unusual house stood a young man in clothes similar to the ones the servants watching the children wore but of a better quality. He had a wide-brimmed white hat and thin, pale grey robes over black shirt and trousers. On his face he had a peculiar contraption made of wires and ruby-colored glass that hid his eyes, further making his already impassive face hard to read. In his left hand he held a smooth, short staff of white wood. He stared at the front door a long time, standing very still, before taking a short step forward and knocking it hesitantly. A moment passed with no apparent reaction, then noise from the inside made it clear somebody had heard the knocking and was coming to open the door. The young man took a step backwards and put both of his hands on top of his staff to lean on it. Right then the door opened, revealing a young woman. She seemed as out of place here as the building and the odd banners, the bone structure of her face more delicate, her eyes narrower, her skin a different hue. She was beautiful, the two scars on her symmetrical, oval face old enough that a more merciful illumination would have concealed them easily. The woman's light summer clothes were alien as well, made out of the same fabric as everybody else's but the design was unique, the style barely a distant cousin to the general trends. There was no recognition on her face when she tilted her head upwards to talk to the stranger and her tone was neutral, devoid of both hostility and warmth when she spoke. “Yes, what is it, Reverend? You should know by now we aren't too keen to see your kind here in the House Jalar.” A wan smile appeared on the man's face and he removed the lenses that obscured his eyes. His revealed gaze was the deep, dark blue of untamed Astral, both immeasurable age and vast wisdom evident in it. “Ye've forgotten yer ol' teacher so quickly, 'ave ye, Li'tl' Princess?” “Uncle Dreamer! What ... what are you doing here?” The shock made Jankiize's knees weak and she almost stumbled before recovering. On her face surprise reigned supreme, giving no other emotions any room. The Dreamer glanced downwards and tugged the brim of his wide hat to keep his unnatural eyes hidden. “May I come in, first? 'Tis uncomfortable t' keep up this illusion, aye.” “Oh. Of course, come on in, it must be hot out there.” She blushed slightly right after she had let those inane words out of her mouth, still suffering the lingering after-effects of her shock. The smile on the Dreamer's illusionary face deepened a bit, turned wry, but he did not say anything when he stepped past his old student into the house. She glanced out to see if anybody had noticed their guest, then turned back to see the planewalker in his normal guise: tall, thin, pale and hideously scarred, his medium-length grey hair free of any bounds, wearing the same clothes as he had in his illusionary form sans the hat. Beneficial Dragon was hanging from his belt but Pain was nowhere to be seen, and there was some other quality in his attire that seemed wrong to Jankiize, something she had trouble putting her finger on. When he turned to admire their hallway and she could see his bare neck, it suddenly came to her: he was not wearing his wine-red, constantly changing chaos armor. While Jankiize shut the front door, the Dreamer let his gaze travel over every little detail in the room, memorizing everything with peculiar intensity. He marked down the framed parchments telling the tales of ancient coups, deals so brilliant they were turned into long tales by now, the sturdy stairs leading upwards and the thick rail made of gleaming, polished wood. The two narrow windows on both sides of the front door were made of colored pieces of glass and thus the light they let in was yellow and brown, red and green, the harsh sunlight tamed into house trained, dim and gentle illumination. A door was half-open to some other room inside the tower with clear windows, the doorway spilling white light into the otherwise rather gloomy space. Guarding the sides of that door were two large vases, the left one holding various umbrellas made of wood and silk, the right one empty. There were two more doors, both small and camouflaged in such a way as to almost blend with the brown walls, over them a pair of old paintings depicting some caravans possibly linked to the tales of the framed parchments. She let him go through his inspection, not knowing why he did it but knowing better than to interrupt him when his attention was elsewhere. Jankiize felt nervous and clasped her hands together, feeling suddenly out of place in her own home, fearing what the Dreamer would perhaps say about the house and realizing how absurd such a feeling was at the same time. The brown, small door to their left opened and an older man in simple clothes stepped through, looking already worried when he did so, the worry deepening when he saw the Dreamer's scarred, alien visage. He coughed softly and turned a questioning look at Jankiize, who felt slightly reassured by this reminder of her status as the mistress of the house. She signaled with a minimalistic hand gesture that everything was alright. A mild frown appeared on the man's face, but he shrugged almost imperceptibly and withdrew back through the door. The planewalker gave no signal of noticing this exchange at all, but shortly afterwards he nodded and turned back to face her. With relief she noted that his eyes were sparkling emerald green, glowing in the dusky room with verdant warmth. “So ... you didn't tell why you are here, yet.” “Ya, 'tis true, I didn't.” A moment passed, and so friendly were the planewalker's shifting eyes she could return the unblinking scrutiny he gave her, the gaze lacking the usual unbearable strangeness of immortal age and Astral chill. She tried again. “Could you tell me why, then?” He nodded. “One o' th' reasons I am 'ere, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua, 's th' fact I owe ye an apology for th' recent incident. So, I, Wodzan Xe Chanima, do apologize fo' usin' ye as a conduct for th' powers o' th' Grail slightly over a month ago – these words I speak o' my free will.” The planewalker's face was utterly serious when he spoke, the words formal and grave as if he had been pronouncing an unbreakable oath. When he was done, he bowed low, not as to an equal but as a lesser lord to a greater one. She nodded back, not knowing what else to do. “Oh, apology accepted. Did you come all this way for that, uncle? Not busy with the aftermath of the Grail Wars any more?” A grin appeared on the Dreamer's face. “Th' answers t' yer short questions are long an' complex, ya. Such tales are better told not standin' here in th' gloomy hall, would ye not agree, m'lady?” “Yes, yes of course.” She opened the heavy door to the combined dining room and kitchen, letting the bright sunlight invade the hall. Between them and the tall, colorless windows was a large round table made of wood that had been polished at some point but was now worn and dull. Six chairs surrounded it, their surface looking less suffered and more shiny, and a small vase full of scarlet flowers was sitting on top of it, near the middle. To the left was the kitchen, the oven and stove at the far corner of the oddly-shaped, almost round room, one row of worktops following the outer wall of the tower, another similarly curved row segregating the kitchen area from the dining area. A young woman wearing drab clothes, her hair hidden inside a headscarf, was baking something. The room smelled of spices and cooked meat, baked bread and the fragrance of flowers. They sat down in silence. The planewalker dropped his hat and lat his scarred hands on the wooden table, the sickly color of his skin even more pronounced by the contrast. He studied his ward with eyes that were shifting back to Astral blue color. She glanced back, then averted her gaze slightly when she realized her old foster father was slightly detached from this world again, immersed in some memory or thought.

Enough! The Dreamer snarled wordlessly after his shout and stood up, drawing Pain without a thought. He was still wearing his scale mail and the gauntlets of grey metal, his eyes burning with a yellow fire. In front of him he saw the shard that had tried to drain so much of him and paused, feeling so intense wariness it might well been fear. The thing was a pulsing shadow, a creature of darkness and gloom with a few unflickering parts that jutted out of the dark central mass like sticks out of some child's mud statue. Its large maw was filled with sharp, misshaped teeth that would have made a crocodile proud and its elongated paws bristled with long, gleaming claws. It was an eerie juxtaposition of physical threat and ethereal presence, a slowly yet surely strengthening aura of supernatural terror obscuring its precise nature. Having drained far more of his essence than any of the previous shards, even any of the archmages, it was already a powerful thing. It shrouded the whole room with an ambiance of doom, fledgling spectres which acted out the planewalker's worst fears waking up inside the shroud. The new shard bellowed in defiance and challenge, a terrifying birth-shout of raw animal rage. A grimace rearranged the various scars writing on the Dreamer's face. The planewalker growled in distaste, the fading clutches of the dream robbing him of words to express himself, before he roared aloud the runes of the first destructive spell that came to his mind. A bolt of crimson and black hellfire connected the progenitor and the shard with a short-lived umbilical cord before the abomination that had clawed its way out of his head exploded into ash and pieces of shredded spirit. The preternatural shadows turned shallower and the cloud of mad, dark rage that had hung in the air dispersed, impossible to notice before it was gone. Still grimacing, eyes darkening at the same rate the room turned from a demiplane of terror to its old, dusty self, the Dreamer stared at the scattered, charred remains of the dead shard. His eyes narrowed, almost black now, reflecting the fact he was draining back all that he had almost lost, all the darkness and gloom that had created the creature swirling on the surface of his mind. That was careless of me, even if I am wounded seriously. Perhaps I should find a way to finally kill that last piece of dream god's essence deep inside me. Perhaps, indeed.

Prologue I have seen this dream before. A crimson sky was above him, made of still flames, narrow grey clouds hanging below it. The clouds ignored the wailing wind that blew past the tall metal towers and whipped the chaotic, multi-colored sea – purple, blue, red and yellow all mixed together, their hues vivid and deep. The powerful wind keened when it hit the tattered, torn towers, the sound rich and varied, not the thin, disappearing keen of a desolate winter wind. He was different, here. His skin was less pale and completely unscarred, his hair brown, eyes green. Clad in silk and satin, all black, the sheathed Beneficial Dragon strapped to his belt. Not knowing why, he raised his hands up in a wide gesture of benediction before glancing down. He was standing on top of the highest of the worn metal towers. Far below him cruel, twisted spikes jutted from the chaotic sea, each adorned with one or several trashing corpses, their wounds too grievous for them to live but their motions clearly not the work of the violent wind alone. The view was ghastly, but he felt oddly disconnected from it, despite the fact it seemed at the same time very familiar, something that was part of him in some hard to describe way. He lowered his arms and shaded his eyes with his freed right hand to see further away, beyond this ruined but beautiful decaying and tortured city. Lances of red light rained down from the crimson sky, altering the already surreal landscape with the patterns of light and dark, shadows and reflected red glow they created. He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the phenomena, to see past it, but without much success. ... wait, why am I even dreaming, now? The very last thing I want is another shard. His thoughts had no impact on the dream. It pushed him upwards to the effortless and surreal dream flight, the tormented landscape below him fading and making way to a new view. He was suspended above a lush if odd forest, the tall trees twisting upwards in a manner that reminded him of the rusty, horn-shaped spikes he had seen earlier. These trees had no crowns of corpses, however, just thick, wide leaves. A sense of calm peacefulness washed over him and he let himself descend slowly to the middle of a small glade. That did not last long before a wave of unease washed through him. It was all breaking down – the things he saw were blurred shapes, identified more through his dream-sense of what he should be seeing than their visual form. All the motions were jerky like a cheap illusion, even his own self-image starting to detoriate into an indistinct shade. When he raised his gaze, his back to the city of rust, he saw that the dreamscape was vanishing in front of him so completely there was only bright, empty whiteness left, whiteness spattered by bright red smears. The trees and lesser plants twisted into nightmarish shapes, appearing one vanishing moment as thorny, corrupted versions of themselves before being eaten by the spreading emptiness. Enough!

So. Slash a deep enough wound and he can port himself out, even here. The Dreamer studied the crimson portal rippling in front of him where his adversary had stood only a moment ago. He could see with his sixth sense that it would be futile for him to try to enter - after sending Zadown to his wherever he wanted to go, the door was now shifting its destionation constantly. The red in his eyes faded at the same speed the portal dimished, the gateway collapsing into a pool of blood at the same time his eyes were blue again. He flickered the remaining gore off the spectral blade, sidestepped into the Astral and was gone.

The two blades met inside a cloud of sparks. Zadown danced backwards, parrying two more swift blows. At least I won't hit a tree. They are so long gone I can barely hear their spirits. A tiny, sardonic smile appeared on his face as he deflected another deadly blow and took another step backwards. The ocean, now - that I cannot avoid if this continues. Or one of those stone ... things. Despite hindered by the low magic, crushed down by the impossibility of his immortal body here on a plane lacking mysteries, the Dreamer was still faster than any human. His almost invisible nodachi swatted aside Zadown's metallium katana and slashed through the samurai's silk clothes, spraying blood on the sea breeze. Zadown blocked the rest of the swing with only right hand, his left leaving the hilt to catch the spreading blood. With two outstretched fingers he painted shimmering runes of power on the air, worked his Blood Magic through the savage pain. Even this barren world must have some benefical spirits! The thin spray of crimson twisted suddenly in the air with a new life, the samurai's life blood turning into red two-dimensional outline. It painted an oriental dragon on the air, the creature briefly glancing westwards over it shoulder to its distant home. Then it opened its maw and rushed towards the planewalker. It proved a distraction and Zadown changed from retreat to offense, his unnamed katana meeting the Dreamer's perfect, impeccable parries at the same time the immortal used his long blade to keep the dragon away. Seeing an opening, the samurai lunged at the same time the dragon swooped down. Both struck empty air. Only the weight of this low-magic world crashing on the Dreamer's shoulders as he re-emerged from the Astral saved Zadown. He had time to turn around, to block the keenest edge of the attack, to step backwards. Nevertheless Pain struck all the way to his flesh, blood soaring even higher this time, the second part of the blow dispatching the conjured spirit. When Zadown raised his sword to ready position, his face was deadly pale, his robes almost black. In one of those clear, still moments that come before possible end, he smelled the cool salty wind, heard the distant sounds of people, saw every little detail of his scarred, pale adversary standing on a sea of grass. He drew a deep breath, savouring the sweet feeling of oxygen filling his straining lungs. The Dreamer grinned at him, pale red eyes shining in his ravaged face. “Give 't up, Shard. Yer blade may be keen, but yer not fast 'nough t' best me, even 'ere, ya?” “Hah, give up and get a swift death on this far-away island? Now that ye've given me all the advantages? I'm afraid I have to refuse, m'lord Dreamer.” A wan grin on his face, Zadown dipped his left hand into the blood flowing from his wounds.

Congratulations reverie, about time! All the languages? Where's Finnish!?

MINE!

You cannot escape me this easily. The Dreamer stood at the beach, his pale, scarred feet in the ocean, a heavy cream-colored robe covering most of him. His eyes were deep blue as he looked around. Behind him, beyond the small strip of sand, rose imposing cliffs of rugged stone. Before him the turquoise, warm sea. This place, Kythira, is where he landed first. But I can sense another disruption in the weak magical field of this plane - he must have been forced to gate again. Out of nowhere Pain appeared into his right hand, shimmered and wavered in the air that was just beginning to get hotter after the night, it's spectral blade almost invisible in the low-magic field. In his other hand the planewalker had as suddenly a long piece of brown ribbon. He raised the items high, aware that this place required as much ritual as possible for even him, a master of the Art, to work his magic properly. The Dreamer grimaced and sent his hungry fingers forward to steal the weak ambient mana, to rob the sword of its inner furnace of power. Sweat appeared on his white brow as the tracking spell proceeded ponderously, creating a faint glow around the ribbon that was waving in the morning breeze. Not ... just ... one ... jump. He growled aloud the last words of the spell, strained to manage the trivial spell under the heavy weight of this plane. A flare of light burst around his left hand, green motes and red dots of coruscating brilliance swirling around the runes being burnt on the narrow ribbon. Pain all but winked out of existence, it's blade a ghost of a ghost, and the Dreamer had a tortured, exhausted look on his cadaverous face, his eyes dim. But the spell was done. I shall find you, Zadown of Old. And this time, there will be no interference. The Dreamer's eyes turned black as he sidestepped into the Astral.

"Oh thank the Fates you found me, Yui! I hope yer not mad anymore about the little incident that happened last time we saw - in any case, I am happy about the fact I can finally throw this piece of wretched, thrice-accursed magecraft away, I was just keeping it in case I'd have no other chance than to try using the malfunctioning portal again..." The green-clad mage quit his relieved, uncharacteristic rambling and pulled something that looked like a saucer-sized pocketwatch out of his robes. It had a long loop of dark beads connected to it, long enough to allow its use as a necklace. Discordant magic flowed out of the slightly open jaws like invisible smoke, weak in this low-magic world but noticeable. Just as Yui was about to open her mouth and say that she had forgiven Zadown and everything was alright, the artefact let out a loud, mechanical click. Time seemed to slow down as the two mages watched, horrified, the pocket-portal opening its jaws. It drained whatever magic it could find, creating a gossamer web of coruscating ley-lines that were only visible to the mage sight, before it regurgitated all that and whatever reserves it held inside it in the form of two swirling portals of transportation magic gone wrong. The portal made a sharp cracking sound during the same tiny slice of time Yui saw to her horror the Almost Draconic logo clumsily engraved to the dying device. The device shattered. Yui and Zadown vanished, swallowed by the random twin portals. And the Norwegian toursists stood there, mouths open, eyes wide. Until one of them woke from his stupor and turned to his friends: "<Did you get a picture of that?>"

I should've stayed where I was instead of trying another teleport. Zadown stood up and looked around - desolate, empty buildings, sea all around. He felt confined, the few ghosts lingering here whispering about violence, boredom and yearning for freedom, very faintly. Far away, past the shores of the bay, huge towers of steel and glass gleamed red and orange in the light of the setting sun. Perhaps there will be a ferry in the morning. The only other option is trying the gate again. He sighed and sat down to hone his already impossibly keen katana.

Zadown of Old let his gaze wander across the panorama of white, square buildings. Of all the possible places where that broken gate could have thrown me... The raising sun glinted on a golden dome, climbed almost directly upwards with a speed that told him it wouldn't be even remotely cool for long. He could see the city with his mind's eye trembling in the haze of intense heat, the white walls radiating back some of the harsh sunlight. Square houses, walls that pointed out where ancient strife had been dammed, tension in the air that spoke of current hostilities. The sun leaped upwards again, set the various religious symbols set on top of the different temples on fire. At least they know my name, here, even if it means “arrogance”. He fiddled with his green robes, adjusted them to protect him against the sand and the sun, and started walking towards the waking city.

Just saw "War of the Worlds" in a theater, and I must say I was positively surprised. For a Spielberg film, it was far darker than I was expecting, some of the ghastly visions easily rivaling Romero's "of the Dead" trilogy and the new "Dawn of the Dead" remake. There were some small things I didn't like (Hollywoodisms and such), but they were mostly balanced by small things I especially liked (the "They will not drink my blood" -scene especially, and the "I told you not to go out of my sight" -scene as well). It even somewhat followed H. G. Well's book. I can recommend it to friends of apocalyptic visions and wholesale destruction of cities, cars and other assorted artifical things.

Epilogue All around him was pure whiteness, a canvas for his thoughts. The Dreamer floated in the empty space as he always did at the beginning of his meditation before the visions he conjured woke up. He pointed at a point in the nothingness and a memory sprung to life, clear and three-dimensional. Pain surged forward hungry to kill and skewered Zadown of Worms with little effort. That did not slow down the armored ghoul, however, and an instant later Zadown's nicked, dull broadsword clanged against his wards, the impact injecting a destructive degenerating poison into them. The Dreamer danced backwards, surprise written on the face for those who knew how to read the map of scars. His adversary cackled and did not press his advantage at once. “Ye really thought Pain would hurt me? That blade of decay and sufferin'?” With disgust he threw his spectral nodachi away. In the same instant it vanished into the Astral he drew Benefical Dragon out of thin air and wordlessly pointed its green blade at Zadown. The scene froze and he frowned, pointed at another empty spot to conjure another vivid memory. His jade katana and the nameless, worn blade of his shard struck each other, iridescent sparks flying when the enchantments on the blades fought for supremacy. Both immortals launched a whirlwind of attacks and parries, counterattacks and feints at each other, the air between them full of blurred, sharp shapes and floating embers, the movements far too fast for a mortal eye to follow. The Dreamer's face was almost blank with a hint of anger in the set of his mouth, his eyes two endless black pits on his pale face – Zadown's full helm did not show even that much emotion, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. Somewhere in the background, utterly forgotten, were the mortals and demon lords captivated by the battle of the titans. The planewalker was the first to break the dazzling monotony, striking a powerful blow that sent Zadown backwards, the ghoul's parry perfect but his armored boots lacking the needed friction to stay still. He followed up with a hastily conjured ward which blocked Zadown's counterattack, his other hand already going through the motions of another spell. Zadown's next blow met Benefical Dragon's thin green blade again, the katana held in one hand. A writhing stream of tiny blades appeared entwined around the Dreamer's left arm. They had time to make a short sound like a metal snake slithering over stone floor, then the planewalker lashed with the living whip at his opponent. The keen blades plunged forward, most of them deflected by Zadown's circular parry but some gouging and cutting the already torn platemail the ghoul wore. Zadown laughed and rushed forward. The Dreamer let that memory halt as well and studied the inexpressive mask of his opponent's helmet in silence. He lifted his hand towards the still vision very slowly, lost in his thoughts, then abruptly made a gesture of dismissal and the vision vanished, leaving a white canvas ready to be filled by another fragment of the memory of the battle. Another gesture, another recalled vision. Both combatants aimed devastating blows at each other, the swords meeting in the middle with a thundering crack. Both of them took a step back, created a lull in the long battle. They lowered their blades. “Yer strong, I 'ave t' grant ye that, Zadown o' Worms. But yer strength isn't temper'd by the passin' of years – at best ye can defend yerself, but ye can't win 'gainst me, shard.” The ghoul picked a worm that had burrowed through the grey flesh of his neck and flicked it away, contemptuously turning his gaze away from the planewalker while he did so. “Yer wasting yer breath, dreamer. Words can't erase me – I'm too strong to be torn away from this existence by a simple word of power the way ye got rid of some of my brothers. Show me what that pretty blade of yers can do, instead!” Zadown snarled the last few words as he charged forward, his nondescript blade held securily in both hands. The Dreamer had been ready, had been muttering a long spell under his breath even as they spoke, and roared now the last rune of sealing that conjured and shaped the raw mana he had been working with in one instant. His katana held in his left hand, he pointed with his right and unleashed a bolt of searing blue manafire. When he could see again after the brilliance of the explosion, nothing remained where Zadown of the Worms had been. The Dreamer frowned, his dim grey eyes searching the shifting shadows for his opponent in vain. Frustration written on his face, the planewalker waved impatiently and the image vanished. Silence and stillness stretched, time forgotten. He stared at the whitness with Astral blue eyes and did not move, not even here inside his own mind. When he stirred, he moved from total stillness to jerky, rapid movements with no pause in between. His clumsy gesture conjured new images on the white canvas, but these weren't moving memories any more. They were pictures of his endless shards, powerful and weak, vivid and fading, the least important of them barely sketches in the background. Nearest and most colorful, most lifelike were the images of those who had stolen enough to be independent, perhaps even to move between planes. His gaze travelled over a lynx, almost completely white with scarce spots of black where needed: nose, eyes, the tips of his ears. The whiteness of the creature was natural, the dirty white of snow and ice, of wintry rabbits and drifting clouds. The Dreamer's eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and turned his attention to the next shard. A vision of Zadown of Old stared back at him, his hand grasping the hilt of his metalium katana so hard it was almost white, a striking contrast against the simple green robes he wore. His eyes were green as well, though not as dark as the robe. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Dreamer's eyes turned bright yellow.

“So, what happens now?” They were at the same balcony they had been back then, when she first told him how this world worked. She looked almost the same, still clothed in the dark, shimmering colors, but there was something subdued in her motions, a softness in her voice that had been mocking sharpness when they first spoke. Her amulet glowed faintly red and there was vivid tones of amber in her eyes – those were the only lighter hues on her. The Dreamer, his flimsy black cloak wrapped around him, leaned on the railing, this time staring ahead at the opposing wall with a distant and serene look on his ruined face, his eyes the deep blue of Astral. “Now, mortal? Things'll go as they've always gone, I'd surmise – th' Court o' Winter'll clash 'gainst each other an' a new Nightbringer will arise, an' the Night'll surge upwards slowly, with measured waves, givin' ye enough work an' excitement an' somethin' to complain about.” While he spoke, he turned his gaze downwards, to the shadowy depths were people still worked and lived and beyond, where the Night was slowly receding downwards. Even his sharp eyes saw no omnious creatures flying in the endless chasm between the stone walls, no inhuman cries reached his immortal ears, and after a while a weak smile appeared on his pale face. “And what happened down there, old man? Did you really kill him, this dream of yours?” The planewalker stood up and the faint smile disappeared as he turned the strength of his gaze on the half-demon. Shanna stared back, her amber eyes narrowing but not blinking, until it was clear that the Dreamer was staring through her, into some memory or thought of his own. He blinked and refocused his now dark grey eyes, made an empty gesture. “No, not really. Even his short tenure as the sovereign of th' Night granted him powers that surpass what any o' my dreams could attain by th' virtue of bein' shards of mine. He is not dead, merely banish'd from 'ere, an' I doubt he'll return to pester ye in yer lifetime. Those demons respect only power, so they will not suffer a loser to lead them.” She nodded and walked to the railing to look down into the swirling Night far below the balcony, her slender hands grasping the vertical bars. “Life goes on then, eh?” He leaned on the railing again to follow her look and nodded to the abyss, eyes cloudy. “Ya, for those o' ye who live. For me, th' existence goes on, as it 'as always done.” Shanna shrugged and started to pat her clothes to find her knife and pouch of bark. “Say, did you pass your test, then?” Comfortable silence stretched between them, Shanna going through the ritualistic motions of her drug habit, the Dreamer staring into the depths of the Night and his thoughts, his gaze unfocused. After she had descended into her own bark-induced visions and closed her eyes, he finally muttered something softly in a low voice. “Who knows?”

The great chamber lacked the layers of ice that obscured most walls, ceilings and floors this deep in the realm of the Night. The smell of winter, likewise, was fainter here, barely discernible from under the thick odor of decay and embalming herbs, a sickeningly sweet and corrupted smell. Their escort faded into the twisting shadows, leaving the five of them to marvel at the size of the room and stare at the massive throne on the other edge of the vast space. It was not really a chair anymore, as no being big enough to sit on it would have fit even this room, but it had the shape of one if not the dimensions. This far it was hard to see if it was made of blackened bones, or perhaps some less ghastly material painted black, but the overall expression was a giant throne made of bones and skulls, the skulls each exhaling a misty breath of putrid cold. That mist swirled under its legs, concealing what lay underneath its massive bulk with a greenish haze. The walls were likewise black, but not the even black of paint – it was rather as if the room had been some other color and then the countless evils that had originated here had tainted it with grime. At even intervals, there was a pillar half submerged in the wall, vines and angels worked into the stone, all black now and disgusting to look at, even though it was barely possible to see the pleasing outlines of the original art under all the disfiguring filth. At the corners the pillars were of blackened metal, and unlike the ones supporting the ceiling these were clearly not part of the original construction. They depicted various twisted demonic shapes tormenting humans, gleeful malice on their black metal faces, horror and despair etched into the faces of the poor mortals getting trampled under their hooves and crushed under their quarterstaffs. The metal pillars did not reach the ceiling at all, but each of them ended in a thin, ghoulish figure in armor perched over a mountain of human bones, pointing a worn broadsword upwards, its gaze following the point of its own sword. Across the room there was another double-door similar to the one they had entered through, but the room itself seemed empty. It was hard to see if anything stood in the shifting shadows that made the abyssal figures wrought into the pillars seem like they moved, or if there were demons or men under the colossal Winter Throne. The Dreamer digested the scenery with one quick glance, then dismissed most of it as irrelevant and strode towards the throne with long steps. His mortal followers turned their gazes away from the ruined, corrupted beauty of the big room and walked after him one by one in a disorderly procession. When he was halfway through the room, the giant chair already looming threateningly over him, the mists ahead parted as if they had been controlled. The demons seemed first as silhouettes, darker shadows in the swirling haze, before the last of it cleared away to show the Court of Winter clearly, in all of their unholy glory. The planewalker stopped and smiled slightly at the deadly lords of this particular abyss, an unimpressed expression on his face. The last of the noxious green mist swirled and shifted, then vanished as if a veil had been torn, showing exactly who he had been waiting to see – Zadown of Worms standing behind his six lords. He was much like he had been in his dream, so long ago: blackened, tainted platemail protected his desiccated, rotten body, a winged full helm showing two burning eyes but hiding the rest of the ghoul's face, a broadsword in a mundane, battered scabbard hanging from his belt. Now, however, there was an aura of power surrounding him. His decayed form did not feel like a weakness, a degradiation from some higher state of old, but a statement, a declaration of the power of corruption over the strength of immaculate, pure things. Even stronger than the vividness of his form was the sheer force of the smell that surrounded him, a cloying odour of corruption that was merely underlined by the strong fragrance of embalming herbs in the air. Zadown of Worms, the Nightbringer, nodded to the Dreamer as to an equal and the planewalker nodded back, declining his head the exact same amount. A little white worm fell from inside Zadown's helmet, wriggling on the dirty stone floor. The two paid as much attention to the worm as they did to the lords of the abyss between them and the mortals standing uncertainly well behind the Dreamer, their gazes locked into a wordless contest. Zadown spoke first, but did not turn his gaze. His voice was dry and thin, the sort of sandy whisper a mummy might use, but it carried in this room well enough with power entwined with every word. “So, m'lord, ye have decay'd as much as I have ascended if not more, if ye have to rely on mortals these days.” There was laughter and sarcasm in the words that conveyed the mocking smile the helmet hid. The planewalker's answer in turn was tired, disappointed, like a father despairing over his failed son. “Ye know as well as I do they are 'ere t' observe, nothin' more. I shall erase ye myself, my errant dream, without th' help of demons or angels, mortals or immortals.” The full helm of the Zadown of Worms tilted to one side, dislocating another tiny white worm. “Ye can try, father. But why now, Grail Marauder? Why wait until yer at the nadir and I'm at the zenith of our respective powers?” A terrible smile twisted the Dreamer's face into a mask of gleeful malice, the scars writhing almost akin to the white worms that infested the decaying Zadown. His formerly Astral blue eyes gleamed suddenly with pale white fire and his scarred hand moved up, to the hilt of Pain. “In this, I am but a puppet followin' th' orders of th' puppeteer. As she is not 'ere, ye'll never get an answer t' that question, I'm 'fraid. Ready t' cease bein', m'lord?” “I was created ready, m'lord.” The sound of Zadown's worn blade leaving its battered scabbard was surprisingly loud in the still room. It was answered by the soft, hungry moan of unsheathed Pain.

Ice glittered all around the tall form of the Dreamer. His scarred fingers slowly traced crude runes etched on a stone wall that barely showed from under the frost, a look of absentminded concentration on his face, his eyes light blue as if they were reflecting the color of ice. Once he had finished reading the old writing, he turned around. “'The Winter is coming!', they say, neh? People 'ave liv'd this deep then at some point?” Shanna, leading the small group of mortals, merely shivered and shrugged, but Breshol looked interested and walked past the planewalker to examine the writing. The shadow divers were all wearing several layers of clothing, none of it meant for such temperatures, trying to substitute quality by quantity. Their faces seemed pale in the flickering magelight, the sources of the illumination small shiny globes circling both the Dreamer and Andrej. The mortals had their breath steam in the freezing air and they moved with clumsiness, worn down both by the cold and lack of sleep. The Dreamer seemed energized in contrast, more animated and focused than normal, the cold meaning nothing to him. As the human scholar moved closer to examine the runes, his companions sat down and leaned on the frosty walls. Shanna shivered again, shifted her body as if trying to in vain find a spot from the wall that was not quite that cold, and turned her amber eyes towards the standing Dreamer. “Can't you make it warmer, Godslayer? This cold hasn't been meant for living beings at all – it's a deadly thing, designed to rob the strength and will to live of anybody foolish enough to get this far.” The planewalker frowned and the color of his eyes darkened to deeper blue. He waved his scarred, pale hand around in a gesture that encompassed all the ice around them. “Ya, I could, easily. But 'twould melt th' ice an' soak ye with water vapours, an' th' blow 'gainst th' maintain'd blanket o' coldness would easily be felt an' tracked by th' demons. Not t' mention I've seen whole civilizations of yer kind live in far colder areas than this, without magic.” “Fine, then. Freezing to death might be preferrable to whatever the demons have in store for us at any rate.” “I wouldn't worry 'bout th' demons if I were ya, miss. Ye saw how I dealt with their kind, neh?” She glared at him, but it was Andrej who spoke. “It was hard to see much in that chaos, but it is clear we are not even pawns in this game. Why are we here with you, master? Protecting us must be at best a distraction to you.” The Dreamer smiled, the scars drifting across his ruined face. His eyes turned almost white as he nodded and replied with a curiously soft voice. “Ya, that ye are, a distraction, a test. Alone, with no considerations for anythin' b'sides my own survival, I am a Terror o' th' Astral, a Scourge o' th' Planes, th' Grail Marauder – most walls on th' paths I choose, I bend or break. With ye, 'tis far harder. We may yet lose.” Shanna's voice dripped with sarcasm. “Thanks for the reassurance, Lord Godslayer. I feel much better now knowing all that.” “Yer welcome. If ye'd want faery tales instead, I'd say ye t' be on th' wrong trade, miss. An' we both know there 's no way 'xcept forward, now.” A sullen silence fell, for a moment. It broke when Breshol rubbed his hands together to keep them warm and turned away from the text, nodded to the planewalker. “Yes, you were right – a commendable expertise you have in the ancient runes, for it took even me a moment to decipher these. I'd estimate they are at least 1200 long cycles old, if not slightly older. This means the Night has crept upwards far longer than I thought.” “Perhaps, but not this quickly. Without this Zadown, we would get our meager yet safe pay from the rare upward surges. One thing I don't get – how are we going to find him here, in his own territory? Do you really think he'll show himself?” Everybody turned to watch the usually silent Manchev. He spoke to his rifle he was lovingly cleaning, but the words carried. After a short pause, he continued speaking but paused his cleaning and looked around. “The way I see it, he has nothing to win and perhaps, if our scarred comrade here is speaking the truth about his power, everything to lose.” Manchev reassembled the rifle with a few swift moves and returned to his inaudible muttering. The Dreamer shrugged and turned to look forward, a frown rearranging his scars to a new order. “Ya, 'tis a good question. Th' way I see it, if he 's who he was when I dreamt of 'im, he'll confront me after I've shown myself. If he has changed, 'ere, who knows?” “So, if you want to show yourself, can't you make it warm? Warm enough to dry off those water vapours you spoke of?” Shanna's words were spoken in irritation, the questions rhetorical, an empty complaint against the bitter cold. However, they awoke a yellow and red spark in the dark blue eyes of the planewalker, made a grin appear on his ravaged face. The sparks grew into flames, making his eyes burn with light bright enough to alert the mortals, and the grin widened. “Very well. Let there be fire, then.”