Zadown

He woke up from his new trance startled, disoriented for a moment. There was a presence approaching, something huge yet somehow friendly, like a warm glow. The Dreamer opened his dark green eyes and glanced around before turning to look at the stairway. Sun had almost gone down and long shadows shrouded the room into semi-darkness. The sky outside was full of colors, from the bright orange near the setting sun to very dark purple on the other side of the horizont, first stars starting to appear in the wake of the sunlight. Below in the darkening city some lights were lit, humanity's own field of stars getting ready for the night. I am not supposed to feel anything through this circle; it should stop everything not of nature without exception. They could lock a god up in here, or a whole host of angels, and as long as the circle remains intact it should be a unsurpassable barrier. He frowned and stood up keeping his eyes on the stairway, gripping his useless sword's hilt tighly. He could hear footsteps, and the force of the presence he had felt grew stronger, came closer. The Dreamer brushed away some of the dried blood on his arm and noted his armor had regrown to cover the new scar he could feel itching below it. He straightened up to his full height of 6'6" and gripped the hilt with both hands, holding it before him blade downwards and waited. First thing he saw coming up the stairs were two warriors, both wearing mismatched and obviously several times repaired plate, a selection of weapons hanging from their belts and on their back. Their eyes were shadowed by their full helmets. but he could feel their gaze on him. They were wearing no tabard, but they had small bronze badges with engraved picture of a goblet. Adventurers or heroes, seemingly succesful ones too. These are no city militia. The planewalker nodded to the two warriors, acknowledging their presence. One of them nodded back, then they moved aside to fade into the shadows near the corners of the room. Behind them came a young page carrying an engraved wooden chest full of symbolic pictures that were hard to see in the twilight. The Dreamer could feel the power pulsing inside the chest, taste the raw essence of chaos in it, warm and welcoming to him now that he had truly chosen his side. He grinned in delight showing a full set of white teeth, making the page shy away from him and almost drop the chest. He winked to the page and turned to look at the last member of the retinue, Mistress Sherishsen. She looked as lovely and beautiful as always, despite her grim and determined look, and the Dreamer nodded almost as deep as his upright pose made possible. "Good evening, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths. I see ye have a never-ending supply of suprises for poor old me." He nodded towards the chest and smiled. "Evening, demon. This is your last chance before I rip your true name out by force. Just give it to me now before I have to do that and we'll be both spared a painful experience." She obviously didn't expect a surrender but still waited for a few seconds, looked the Dreamer in the eye with the oddly pleading look on her face. The planewalker made a dismissive gesture with his right hand. "Despite whatever ye have in that chest, I doubt ye can rip anything out of me. I grow tired of this empty talk; let's see yer cards, Mistress." Without a further word she turned her back to the Dreamer and stepped forward to the chest. She muttered something under her breath while touching different spots of the chest, clearly disarming and unlocking the container. Her motions were swift and sure, showing that she had done this before many times. Still, when the chest opened and the golden glow of what was inside flooded the room, almost like liquid transparent fire, she stopped short fingers outstretched towards whatever shone inside the chest. The room lit up with the light: it climbed up the armor the warriors wore, made radiant angels out of them both; it surrounded the circle the Dreamer was trapped inside of, but did not enter, drawing a circle of fire around him; and it expelled all the shadows, flooded the room with light more pervasive than any sunlight. He could feel the raw, undiluted chaos of it even through the circle, saw how it tried to reach him, saw how Sherishsen's eyes had lit up and he shivered unvoluntarily. There are only a few things in the whole multiversum with this kind of power. Oh the irony of this all, if it is what I think it is. To find what you are looking for this way ... I am sure the Fates are laughing themselves to death over this. The mage finally overcame her awe and reached forward, her hands sinking in the golden radiance. She gripped the shining item with both hands and raised it out of the chest, allowing its light shine even more brightly, making the tower a lighthouse, and she couldn't help smiling triumphantly at her prisoner. "This ... is my card, demon. The Holy Grail."

"Wake up, demon." The words penetrated his idling, languid thoughts. With infinite care and equally infinite lack of haste, he opened his cerulean eyes. The room was well lit now, sunlight streaming in from the numerous tall windows, reflecting from the polished rock with painful (to any mortal eye) intensity. Overriding the gentle scent of corruption, waste and general urban living from below was an expensive perfume and a faint smell of honest human sweat and oiled steel. Dust motes danced in the brilliant shafts of sunlight, distant sounds of pack animals and shouting humans drifted in from the city. All these details the Dreamer noticed before he even tried to turn his head to the right direction. He finally opened his eyes fully. Before him stood his captor in bright blue robes, escorted here by two soldiers in blue livery with unwieldy looking polearms. The soldiers looked ill at ease, avoiding his darkening gaze and obviously tried not to fidget. His captor ... well, she looked just angry. "Good morning, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths. What brings ye here to my humble abode? I'm afraid I can not under these circumstances show the hospitality I am accustomed of showing." The Dreamer smiled mockingly and bowed to the mage. She was carrying the same staff she had had when they first met at Castle of the Birds. Same dark skin, dark eyes and black hair, skin still sculpted by magic against the ravages of time, but there was some quality, something that was different now. He shrugged in his mind - humans had never been his speciality. "You know why I am here, demon. I am no longer fooled by your appearance so you can cease your mockery, and I already told you the only way you'll ever leave that circle. Now, has a night of imprisonement made you any more reasonable, demon? You know full well there is no escape from a binding, no matter the power you might have." He had been waiting for something on those lines, but the tone was unexpected, oddly pleading instead of gloating. He himself never wasted time talking to the things that he bound, but then again he never tried binding anything far more powerful than he was. He yawned rudely, feigning tired, and turned his sleepy black eyes at Sherishsen. "I am not a demon, mage. If ye intend to stay alive during yer little jaunts in the sky I'd expect ye to have studied the lore of Astral a bit more. Ya, ye might've caught me like a demon, since I was foolish and needed a way out - but that is where the similarities end, m'dear. As for the proposition, giving away my true name is something I'll never do. Dying would be far less of a hassle, and I generally try to avoid that, as well. Ye can keep me here, ya, and I can keep my true name to myself, ya? Nobody wins, at least not until this tower falls of old age and I regain my freedom after a thousand or two thousand years of vengeance in my mind. I can catch yer soul after yer death, I can destroy yer family, yer relatives, yer descendants and yer whole culture if I want to, all the cities, towns, villages, hamlets and small houses to the last lame cat. I can burn them with hellfire with yer pitiful soul forced to watch it all, watch me reanimate the dead corpses and bind everybody ye've ever loved or fought for into them and watch them shamble around the burned, dead cities mad with their own undeath, their flesh rotting away..." She finally interrupted his low, threatening voice. "Enough! Rot here then, demon. You win nothing by those threats. If you will not give your true name of your own will, I will take it with power." Saying that she turned away, her robe swirling around her, and marched out of the room without a further word. With power .. with what power? She might wrestle the name of a demonic footsoldier out of it ya, but even a lowly demon lord would blow her head off if she'd try anything through the circle. The Dreamer scratched his head and frowned. Since she is still alive she can't be that stupid ... so these things don't quite add up. Hmmm. The planewalker turned his eyes away from the empty stairway he had been left gazing and looked through the windows, straining to see all the way down. The city seemed pretty normal as human cities all around the multiversum go: bigger and smaller houses, smoke from the chimneys, people going around their business. Soldiers here and there in blue tabards, a score or more them on the far-away walls. Some horses and carts, children running around, lots of ordinary mundane people with a mage or two - he could tell the difference easily, even through the impenetrable wall of the summoning circle. The sun was up and shone in a blue sky, lonely clouds dotting it but not obscuring the golden light. A nice, warm day on a material plane ... too bad he had to spend in locked up like this. He sighed. Well, if she truly is mad enough to try to force me tell my true name, I'll be free as soon as she tries. She might end up dead, but that's how this game is played...

That could've ended better ... or worse. At least they will not find me here, that temporal shift should have done the trick. And this reminds me why I never teleport from place to place, far too easy to do ... this to me. The Dreamer gestured at his surroundings in response to his inner monologue. The room wasn't large, at least not for the planewalker who was used to open spaces and the vastness of the Astral, but it wasn't small either. The floor and walls were made of brown stone, polished to almost mirror-like quality, the edges of the stones barely visible. In casual glance it looked like the place was cast out of bronze, especially in the gloomy darkness that blurred the lines between stone and metal. There were only a few objects breaking up the beautiful simplicity of the room: two candlesticks, heavy and baroque in style; a bookstand made of massive black wood, bearing a thick grimoire; and a single chair of simple wood, seemingly out of place here. All those were near the edges of the room, near the arched windows, tall but nevertheless not tall enough to reach even close to the high roof that vanished in the darkness. The middle of the floor was cleared of obstructions. Only things there were a thrice-reinforced magic circle, engraved with the usual runes of protection, imprisonement and warding, done without a single flaw. And the Dreamer, standing in the middle of the otherwise empty circle: a tall thin man in tattered and now blood-stained robes of indefinable color, a chaos of leather, chain and plate-armor showing under the remains of the fabric. His right hand held a faintly shimmering spectral no-dachi, formed of mist, pain and memories - his left hand was empty and formed into a tense claw. His eyes seemed to change color on their own volition - now they were dark, bleak grey, night-black shadows drifting over the lighter background. The planewalker sighed. I guess I knew this could happen. This is why I always take the long way, run the lost paths like everything that has half a brain. Instant transportation means you invade a reality, are considered an outsider, a planar force. And that binds ye in the moment of translocation, shackles ye in chains heavier than whole worlds swimming through the space. He reached forward with the look of somebody who is going to get hurt, carefully thrust his left index finger forward. Where it would have passed over the runes, it just stopped. Air turned darker, almost red, in a small area around his fingertip, and there was a muted crackling sound. The Dreamer leaned into his finger, let it turn white from the pressure, but nothing much happened. He retracted his finger and stared at it thoughtfully. After a pause he shrugged almost imperceptibly and clumsily sat down in a lotus position. Ah well, at least I was trapped by mortals. In the worst case their buildings will wither and die, their immortal mages taken out by ennui, their soldiers die and steel rust. As long as they do not call Law here I will be safe. Still ... so embarassing. Sparing one last glace to the large city outside the tall windows he shut his eyes and fell into a deep trance.

Step backwards, a parry, a dodge - the Dreamer was only barely aware of the fight. He forced himself to forget the the possibility there'd be a blow that'd crash through his defenses before he'd even notice it and let his mind flow, probing the walls of the prison. Strenght of the Law infused the walls of the chamber, strong and immutable, shone tauntingly golden to his sixth sense. It blocked the way out and the way in, resisted his feeble attempts at smashing through between parries and sidesteps. The bastard must've written runes all over this chamber. Runelord of the Law or not, they are not supposed to be able to anchor me into one place. Or perhaps this is the price of losing neutrality, turning as helpless as those agents of good and evil I love to bind to my own uses. So. Trapped here with an opponent I can't wound, but who can wound me - unable to break out with my own magics, can't keep this up until entropy tears this place apart. Hmm... The Dreamer parried and slid back more than was necessary to gain a free second, used it to blast the runelord with a stream of psychic energy that would've fried a whale. The attack dissipated without a trace when it hit the horned helmet. He dodged the next blow and leaped closer to the metal behemoth to slash it, Pain wailing but failing to scratch the armor. Runelord's next few slashes and thrusts almost connected, then a ferocious sweep managed to nick the planewalker's left thight. More blood sprayed over the already spattered walls. That didn't quite work, as I thought. But if I am shackled here by my alignment, might I not be freed by it too... Dodging a few more blows that carved new grooves on the floor, he concentrated, let as much of himself as he dared stare inside him and ignore the defensive struggle that went on outside his mind and body. He had felt the chaos inside help with a few things before, first time ages ago when he had found a way to finally break through the defenses of a god, then again from time to time, especially after he had pledged himself finally to the cause in exchange of getting the Mark of Kali removed from him. The tip of the runelord's sword punched through his right arm, scraped armor and bone with a sickening sound. He ignored the wound and jumped backwards, parried and parried and parried blow after blow, robe turning heavy and black from all the blood it soaked. Chaos inside him woke up and suffused him with a nervous energy, made his eyes jump from color to color without logic. Despite the wounds he had suffered, defending himself seemed more easy now as he capered around, melded different fighting styles together in a confusing manner. Still he concentrated deeper into himself and the chaos inside, less concerned now with the fight his body was engaged in somewhere far away. His awarness flared with the new power as he dived deeper into it. Detached, he watched as a knight and a beggar duelled in a golden cage of runes. He saw the spell now clearly, its structure revealing itself as his more chaotic nature could sense the workings of its ancient enemy Law better and better. There were gaps and holes in the net, he now saw (and he parried and dodged somewhere far away, feinted and leaped) and he could .. almost .. reach .. the Paths. Somebody is calling me! In the middle of the room the Dreamer suddenly froze in place, avoided a swing by the sheer speed he had stopped his motion, and gazed somewhere far past the floors and walls of the chamber. Just as another blow was about to slash him open, he stepped forward and vanished, leaving the runelord alone in the ravaged Castle of the Birds. ... and appeared somewhere else, smug smile wavering on his face a second and then fading into a look of frowning disbelief. "You!?" To be continued ... in Purgatory!

There was a fraction of a moment of silence. The planewalker falling, bright red drops of blood flying through the air to splash on the wall - the opaque white sphere of the explosion rushing forward, making a noise that was bigger than the world, too loud to hear. The Dreamer fell on his back in a relaxed manner, the sword's point hitting the floor and pushing the whole blade out of the wound with a metallic sound and a new spurt of blood. Over his prone form washed the shockwave of the explosion, sound finally falling from unnaturally loud to merely painful and deafening roar, obscuring the second metallic noise as the sword's hilt hit the floor shortly after the blade. The chamber, bent out of shape by the magics and the explosion, was filled with white blinding light, painful deafening noise, smell of burnt metal and the greasy, slightly disgusting feel of too much magic in too small space. The Dreamer's spirit floated in that chaos, drew it in like a life-sustaining liquid. He had burned the taint of Law away, for now, and that alone gave him a faint but tangible confidence. Smiling faintly he bounced to his feet, let the sudden motion sprinkle the surroundings with more blood. There'd be a scar, a deep one this time, but he ignored that thought and chose a fighting stance while he tried to see what had happened to his opponent. He had no illusions about the spell. He was sure the runelord would stand up and challenge him again. Still, his faint smile vanished when an almost unscathed knight rose up from a pile of half-molten rubble, in a chorus of crackling sounds of stones cooling down. The runes burned now with angry red flame and the runelord's eyes deep inside the helmet flashed briefly as it turned to gaze at him again, but the armor was unmarred. Without a word it extended its hand, without a gesture the sword flung itself through the room to the waiting open gauntlet and without a noise the runelord moved towards its prey. There was a chilling finality, a courage-stealing certainity in the armored knight's step as it moved, the weapon that had already annihilated planewalker's magical defenses, already tasted his blood, held unwaverningly in its hands. Uh oh. The Dreamer took a step backwards to buy time and released his mind from the battletrance. It spread to every direction, probed the doors, quested towards the enemy and was swiftly bounced away, poked the walls created by the runelord's Word of Isolation. The results looked almost as bad as the approacing metal-enceased behemoth - the area was sealed with the power of Law itself, with the same power that had been written in runes of power all over the warrior getting closer and closer. The planewalker tensed, shifted his stance slightly. A swing, clear in its intent but fast and powerful. He danced away from its way, heard the crash when the blade broke through the floor right next to him and slipped past the runelord while slashing with Pain. The blade scratched the top of the armor instead of slicing past it and the Dreamer could hear its angry wail, impotent shriek of rage. He turned, not relying on his sixth sense to sense the runelord and barely dodged another floor-wrecking blow. Grimacing he leaped forward holding Pain as a lance. Runelord's blade swung with frightening alacrity through where he would've been if he had tried to dodge, tearing a new horizontal wound to the wall. Pain wailed and scratched a groove in the breastplate of the knight, point of contact sparkling where the two artifacts met. The Dreamer tumbled, stood up and brought Pain up for a parry that threw him backwards stumbled three meters. Pain held, despite being transparent and only a ghost of a sword; and the planewalker's balance held also, leaving him into ready position to parry another deadly swing, and yet another. Unrelentless assault was met with fluid, desperate defense. The planewalker knew he could not wound his enemy, not without weaving a series of complex spells, and the extraordinary swordplay he was engaged in to survive left no room for that. Jumbled thoughts drifted in his head during the short periods of time he had room for them between the old swordplay lessons, practical lessons after that and the concentration needed to channel a stream of chaos to keep his style unpatterned, uncapable of being anticipated in a deadly way. As the fight continued, a flickering Pain wailing now for its own agony, blood flying from the open wound and smearing both combatants with rust-colored stains, he gradually let his eyes turn blue, let go of the battle-trance to find a way out of this cage. Knowing full well that every step toward thinking was a step towards death and final oblivion, realizing how much both the fight itself and the key to the cage were taxing his mind. Have to ... vanish ... without a ... trace ...

The Dreamer ran to the door again, boots threading the empty void above the creamy pale surface of the seal. Without a pause, he pulled the double doors open and stepped lightly in, closing the door as he went through it. And there he paused. He knew that the seal watched outwards, that on this side of the doors magic was free to flow, and he let his enchantments unfold, his defenses bloom into deadly sparkling half-visible spheres around him. All this happened in a fraction of a second, before he had time to fully see what was in front of him, this time ... and what wasn't. The stone shelves were still there, encrusted with white guano and a few lonely feathers, but nothing else. There were no birds in the vast empty chamber, nor was the decaying body of the seer any more chained in the middle of it. Instead a knight stood in that spot, long two-handed sword in his armored hands. He was tall, slightly taller and heavier than ordinary humans but proportioned the same way, wearing an excessively massive suit of full plate and a horned helmet that only had thin slits for eyes, third in the middle in front of his mouth to form a T of darkness. All over his armor and his sword a multitude of runes writhed and glimmered, mainly marching in orderly lines around the edges of the metal plates but in some parts there were larger runes etched in the middle parts of the plates. He had an aura of solidity around him as if he weighted enough to have his own gravity field; an aura of law that simplified everything around him to the basics, stripped all complexities and chaos out of the world. The Dreamer felt his eyes freeze and falter, a painful experience, and he realized they had ended their endless change, had turned dark green out of all colors. This was Law embodied, one of the greatest playing pieces the other side had - one of the six Runelords. Behind him, the planewalker saw a fixed portal, perfectly square as Law's portals often were, and he knew where the seer and his birds had gone. He supressed his need to shiver and instead nodded politely to the runelord, raised his left eyebrown in a questioning manner, not saying anything. The runelord turned towards him like an ice age changing its course, slowly but with inescapable certainity. Its golden eyes flashed inside the shadows of its helmet as it spoke with a booming, metallic voice: "So, the fish takes the bait at last. Welcome to your doom, Dreamer of Chaos. You have tainted this world long enough, stirred the lower powers into unseemly patterns, broken down established ways and shattered the status quo once too many. Farewell, walker of the paths." With the last words the knight lifted his huge sword with dizzying speed, roaring a word of power. The Dreamer lifted his ghostly blade in response, muttered a rune he never said aloud, a trigger signaling the most dire need for protection and assistance. The magics clashed around the two, the knight's Word of Isolation and the planewalker's call for his own private army of enslaved planar beings. The planewalker could feel the chamber being shut off of the Void and he saw the portal wink out, but his nearest bodyguards were never far - they were bound directly into the small trinkets he always carried, and thus they managed to answer the call. On his right side appeared an angel, shining brightly with celestial fire, on his left a hulking demon crackling with dark flames of the abyss. Both were lieutenants of his army, impressive by their own rights, named by their masters ages ago, wielding weapons of great power. He knew they were mere distractions in this fight. Around the Dreamer himself a vibrant green shield now coruscated, runes of protection, misdirection and harm pulsing all around him, rotating him in a whirl of sigils. The knight answered in kind, shouted words of a spell in anger as it charged toward him and his two now cowering bodyguards. A triangle of golden fire flared up around the runelord's feet a brief moment before he swung his great blade towards the planewalker. Who wasn't there. The Dreamer flew through the air, ordered the useless planar soldiers to attack and landed in a crouch behind the metal-enceased behemoth. He bounced forward .. and struck his sword into the defensive field of the runelord, wailing Pain scratching and tearing at the enchantment but unable to cut its way through. The runelord glanced at the planewalker as its sword smashed through the demon, incapaciting it with one mighty blow. Undaunted, the Dreamer slid backward and used the second his demon bodyguard had bought him to study the protective field surrounding his enemy. Feeling something chaotic surging inside him in response to the thick taint of Law smothering him, he channeled that power through him into Pain as he danced forward again. Unafraid now after noticing the Dreamer's sword didn't cut through even his first shields, the runelord swung his sword again this time cutting the angel in half. That gave the planewalker plenty of time to thrust with Pain. The sword wailed as a banshee as it surged towards the faint golden light marking the shield of the agent of Law, then the sword multiplied itself just as it was about to touch that barrier. Swords, daggers, flails and maces, all shadowy and transparent, all wailing and vengeful, hit the golden shield at the same time, smashing through and landing a blow on the armor of the knight that actually made him stumble slightly. The runelord turned to face the planewalker fully, eyes now afire with gold. The planewalker gazed back with eyes simmering with the color of boiling blood, red again and free from the freezing aura of Law in the room. The moment of peace was deceptive - the Dreamer was channeling mana in rushing rivers while faintly aware of how his opponent was appraising the planewalker's own defenses. Muttering, he started to shape the inrushing mana to a powerful spell, one he had never used. Wind woke up in the chamber empty of air, drove ghostly figures in a spiral around the now chanting planewalker. Abandoning his musings about the runes and enchantments surrounding the Dreamer the runelord rushed forward holding his sword in both hands. The Dreamer's voice turned into shout as he thinned the reality around him, wore away at the barrier between real and unreal, cajoiled creatures that were beyond even the Void. The runelord smashed its blade downwards, shouting something incoherent over the Dreamer's frenzied chant. The runewarded blade sliced through runes and dispelled enchantments but was deflected by them enough to crash through the floor next to the planewalker, not cleaving into him as was intended. The blade rose again even as the unreal wind tugged it, tugged the runelord himself and almost tore the planewalker's dirty robe off his thin body. Keening of that ghost wind merged with the now thin and inhuman wail of the franticly gesturing Dreamer, the sound climbing upwards only to vanish into the ultrasonic frequensies. In that silence, the roar of the runelord seemed overly loud as he swung his deadly blade downward again at the same time the Dreamer finished the spell with a single, almost normal-sounding word. Time slowed down. The storm died in between heartbeats, vanished to the realm it was called forth from. The planewalker, now utterly still in this time between the ticks of a clock, pointed his bony pale finger at his enemy. The runelord put his power behind his blow, aimed at the frail-looking Dreamer opposite him planning to split him in half from collarbone to groin. The sword forced its way through the remaining protective enchantments, sliced the last runes off the air and landed where it was aimed, crushing through the clavicle with terrible force and embedded itself there, lacking the power to cut immortal flesh more deeply than that but bringing the planewalker to his knees with the weight. In front of the Dreamer's index finger, a star was born. As his knees thudded on to the floor, the fiery brilliant pinpoint of light jumped forward and hit the runelord with astronomical velocity. The Dreamer toppled slowly backwards, planewalker blood spraying from the deep wound, the huge sword still stuck in him. The runelord, curled around the deadly fire, hit the far wall and vanished inside a huge, searingly white explosion that rocked the whole fortress. ... ouch ...

There was an awkward moment of silence. Sherishsen gasped for breath while the Dreamer stood mute and contemplative, staring at the spot where his mirror image had faded away. On the female mage's face shock was slowly but surely changing into indignation but the planewalker seemed to ignore the gathering storm, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts. His thin hands still gripped his no-dachi, but the spectral blade was aimed towards the floor, his stance passive. From that seemingly relaxed, unwound position he once again snapped into a flurry of motion - the sword tailed him, half-forgotten in his left hand as he leaped towards Sherishsen only to plant his right hand's index finger on the mage's lips. "Ssshh m'lady, ye wouldn't want to mutter any words of magic here. This place is protected by a god-imbued ward." Her look of incredulity at this new affront of etiquette was almost comic. She removed the planewalker's hand from her lips and slapped the Dreamer's face hard, an action that might've been fatal if his defensive enchantments had been active. Instead of reacting in the proper manner the planewalker didn't seem to notice the blow at all. His face didn't even tilt - it had been as if she had slapped a stonewall. He lifted his left eye-brown slightly, eyes turning dark green. "I thought I told ye to vacate the area, m'lady. 'Tis not safe for lesser mortals. It is Law and Chaos that clash here, not any of the lesser forces of the multiversum like evil and good. Ye can't even block a single swing of my sword, human." Despite the harsh words, his note was gentle if condescending, his face as devoid of any hostility as it ever could be. In response, Sherishsen's face grew livid with fury. "Don't you dare to use that tone with me .. . Dreamer, whatever that is! I know the secrets of life, I have cheated death and remade myself, I have aquired the secrets of Zayamiq the Mad and walked between the worlds!" She knew she was out of her element though, and the anger in the words were tinted with undercurrents of fear. She had long since grown past of others near her in power, lost the social skills of avoiding a loss of face and was unsettled by her near brush with death. She said the words, knowing that they were the wrong thing to say but locked in her anger, helpless to back off in time and waited for the unbelievingly powerful creature to slash at her again with the deadly blade. Instead the Dreamer smiled. "Ya, so have ye done, and I must applaud yer skills in the Art. Nevertheless, there is a rule to learn here in the Lost Paths, in the depths of the Void, between the Worlds. And this I give ye free, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths, since I am benevolent on my rare good moments, this small but vital tip: appearances can be deceiving out here, an angel can be a devil and a devil an angel, a beggar a king and a king a fool." And in that moment she saw him clearly; not his aura nor his powerful magic, but the countless ages written in the scars of his face, the deep inhuman wisdom residing in the shifting, multi-colored eyes. Her anger drained out of her, leaving her weak and muted after the shock, voice shaking. "Very well then, m'lord Dreamer. I suppose I should thank you for gifting me this knowledge free - I feel under other circumstances some other being might have been less friendly with the lesson." The planewalker nodded, suddenly looking very grave. "Not some other being, even. I did kill ye here, impaled your mortal body on my memory of a blade, bled all that is ye away through the wound. And if a reading of Fate says there is no future ye are reading the Fate of the other ye, the one lying dead and cold on the floor of this room. Consider that, whenever running along these paths. Consider it well and deep, m'lady." His grave look turned distant and his gaze drifted upwards, his voice changed to deeper and louder one, prophetic in its utter calm seriousness. "And now if ye would be so good as to heed my warning this time, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths - there will be a battle, I can sense it in the flow of time, and it shall not be small in its scope or short in its duration. Law and Chaos shall clash and the world around us shall be rent asunder; this Castle of the Birds may vanish, or shatter, these walls bend or melt. No mortal can survive the fires let loose, the energies unleashed, the true words spoken aloud." He blinked, focused his eyes to Sherishsen again but said nothing. After a short moment she spoke again, with almost normal but somewhat resigned voice now. "Farewell, m'lord. May the Twins be on your side." She bowed, slightly as to an equal, and moved away in the ungainly manner of one not used to low gravity but still trying to preserve one's dignity. The Dreamer watched her float away and waved almost unnoticeably with his free right hand, sighed deep once she was gone from his sight. Mortals... and I guess killing her would have not changed anything. I have killed dozens, hundreds, thousands of them .. but there is something lost if I can't control myself. If I kill others of the paths without a cause, just because my chaos outweights my discipline. My twin said it best, too bad he faded away so soon... The planewalker shrugged at the empty room, took a proper grip of his sword and turned to look at the double doors again, this time with oddly relaxed air. He narrowed his dark grey eyes and raised his long blade to point forward, smiled a rueful smile. Law and Chaos shall clash. So said the prophet, and despite the prophet being me, I doubt he is wrong. Guess that finally marks me as one of the Chaos, too...

The taint of Law swirled around him as strong as ever, far more potent than a mere automaton could stain the weave of the world with. The Dreamer floated forward, over the inert but watchful cream-colored seal, past the shattered remains of the Law warmachine, and touched floor again near the double-doors that lead to the last room of the castle. His eyes pulsed, showed a stream of emotions: black of empty battletrance, blue of deep thought, red of nervous explosive anger, yellow of alertness. None of the moods managed to dominate and gain control. He was stuck there, staring at the innocent-looking double-doors, aware that something remained there, waiting for him. Terrified. His normally straight bearing started to melt, he hunched his back as his eyes turned blood red and his empty left hand clawed empty air. The Dreamer was ready to leap forward as a cornered rat when he heard a sound behind him. Without thinking, moving with the terrible speed of the immortals he turned and sprang through the room, a muted snarl escaping his lips. Blood haze clouded his eyes but he could sense the protective magics around the enemy, eviscerated them effortlessly with his no-dachi mid-stride and hurled his taunt body forward. His entire body was behind his sword, a knight bracing the butt of a lance against him as he charges. In the sliver of time before his savage blow connected, he felt the flow of time stop; fates divide, a different Dreamer connecting the deadly thrust, seeing how Pain sank into living flesh effortlessly, how terror and agony and astonishment vanished one by one from the dying face of Sherishsen ... and another Dreamer, the one he was, the real one, deflected his own blow and hit the woman with his own body instead, unable to stop so close to impact. As they tumbled together to an untidy pile on the wall, he could see the other Dreamer still. He stood in the middle of the room, long blade dripping not blood but dreams, hopes and sheer vitality of the female mage, eyes milky and lifeless on Dreamer's and Sherishsen's face alike - the other dead and the other shocked almost away from his body by the same thrust of the ghost sword. He struggled up, ignored the gasping mage on the floor, and exchanged a long look with his unreal twin: they both looked each other in the eye through the veil that separates Fates, ignoring the laws and rules by arrogance and sheer power, and the last thing his sad womanslayer brother muttered to him could be read from his lips as he faded from even the planewalker's sight. The Dreamer nodded to the empty room, at the spot his other self had been, and absently helped now coughing Sherishsen up.

The Dreamer took a few hesistant steps forward and probed the faint perimeter of Vianicius' Seal. Muttering to himself, whispering final nervous chants that smoothed the last non-existing wrinkles on his impenetrable screen hiding his magic he shifted his hands on Pain's hilt. The Seal is still there. Even Law has to abide by the laws of it, use something that does not use magic to protect this place ... thrice accursed gods, I hope it is not one of those crystal golems again. The planewalker let the laylines of mana connecting to him go with the reluctance of a seaman throwing away his only pair of oars in the middle of ocean. He touched down to the surface of the fortress lightly as his levitation cantrip wore off, then surged forward in the near-zero gravity with perfect grace. The tunnels twisted as they had done the last time, shifted and confused any traveller, but he knew the real way through now and was not fooled. Alert, eyes shining with bright yellow of supreme awarness, he flew onwards following the map in his head. His bony hands belied his uneasiness - they were deadly white, grasping Pain with vice-like grip. Nothing challenged his lonely flight. The maze was empty, a defender in itself, but it held no guardians, no champions of Law to duel. And he knew the way, had stored it deep in the less foggy parts of his memory, had no trouble with the five-way intersections, ceilings that turned to floors and floors that changed to walls. And so here he was again, at stained bronze portal adorned with engravings that depicted souls flying away from dying bodies, all in the borders of the door to join with the middle figure, a warrior in war gear, the Vulture. But Vulture he had defeated ages ago, killed each and every one of the mortal souls it had stolen in combat. He stopped, smelled the air and tasted the Void without the help of his magic sight. The woman was right; this is the taint of Law, a bland, neutral absence - a painful rigidity in the structure and thread of the world, a cold sense of lost oppoturnities. And the taint is strong, very strong... The godslayers face turned slack, the bright yellow drained away from his eyes showing deep black pits devoid of any emotion behind the color. He snarled and clawed the door open, jumped forward in mindless battle trance. A transparent fist hurled towards his flying form, but he dodged it dreamily, without effort. He sailed over the shoulder of the assailant, flipped around in the air and landed softly on his toes, gliding away from the enemy with feline deftness. The crystal golem turned its massive bulk towards the Dreamer and roared silently as it charged again, steam pouring out of its engine. The Dreamer flew over the reaching arms and stood up behind the golem, unruffled and ready. Before it had time to turn, he leaped forward rapidly and swung his sword in a large arc right through the crystal guardian. Pain wailed its song of defeat and erosion, of rust and desolation as it bit through the crystal and steel of the machine. For a moment all was silent and still: the Dreamer standing in the end position of the swing, the golem frozen in an attempt to reach the planewalker. Then the crystal cracked and the steel engine gave up to the rust, the whole golem exploding in a shower of jagged shards and sharp plates of steel, the Dreamer hurling himself backwards to avoid the shrapnel. That was it?

He landed softly making no noise, all his spells and enchantments muted, his whole flaring aura of power hidden. And so he had time to study the unaware woman before him with eyes the color of the Void: she was tall, clad in dark blue robes that hid most of her body. She had black hair and her dark skin was sculpted smooth and ageless with magic, making her look young even though the Dreamer knew she must be over a century old. On her left hand she carried a long staff, a symbol of mages, wizards and sorceresses on many planes and shining with raw mana for the planewalker's sixth sense. Her right hand was resting on the etched warnings she was studying, written around the entrance in dead languages and ancient religious dialects. All this the Dreamer saw but dismissed as irrelevant. Instead, he used the few seconds he had to study the flows of magic around her, read her strenghts and weaknesses from the weave of enchantments around her, noted the unseen trigger runes floating around her protectively. It was an impressive display - for a mortal. He smirked inwardly as he defused her most volatile defenses, made them seem intact but in reality uncapable of stunning a squirrel. This done, he waited the few long seconds for her to notice him. When she finally did and turned around to face him, it was perhaps because of something as mundane as the planewalker's shadow. Her smooth, beautiful face went through shock and determination to a deadly calm not totally unlike his own battle trances very fast, and the Dreamer almost nodded in approval. Locking her dark eyes with the planewalker's now wan blue eyes, she tried in turn evaluate her adversary (because that's what everybody was here in no-man's land, an enemy to fight or to flee from), but could not penetrate the shroud of stealth the Dreamer had draped over himself. She only saw a dirty, grey-haired thin man half-floating over the stones of the fortress, scarred beyond all hope of ever looking handsome, clutching an eerie ghost of a no-dachi on his bony hands. No magic, no fiery godlike aura of power - just an old man with an insolent smirk on his ruined face. And somehow that was far more frightening than anything she had ever seen on these dangerous paths far-away from her home. Narrowing her eyes she took a step back, lifted her staff to ward any possible blows. "What are you? Are you another guardian of this place?" The Dreamer smiled then and paused before answering, trying to remember how the words that aren't needed in spells go, coughed slightly and spoke. "Good evening, m'lady." He bowed to the female mage with a courtly flourish, his smile almost predatory now. "I am not a guardian, just an errant traveller here to consult my birds. I must admit I am suprised to see a mortal here, so far from the traditional paths, so deep in this dangerous territory where ... anything could happen. Ye may call me the Dreamer, if ye wish." And he bowed again, with slightly less flourish this time. The mage looked unconvinced. "A mortal, you say? I am more than capable of defending myself, whatever you are. And whatever you are, I doubt the forces residing in here now will let you consult .. your .. birds. Law has taken control here and it does not employ any agents that look like you, I'm certain. They threw even me out." She looked sullen and lowered the raised staff a little. "Law, ye say? 'Tis unfortunate. Still, there'll be a way for one who looks. It might end up .. untidy, however, and I'd advice ye, whoever ye are, to move before they think yer on my side ... yes, I agree, an amusing idea." The Dreamer smile mutated, turned from predator's grin to gentelman's mild amusement, and he winked to the sorceress with deep green eyes. She seemed to reach a conclusion, took a careful step forward and lift her right hand towards the planewalker, presenting a large signet ring on it. "Mistress Sherishsen. Intrigued to meet you, Lord Dreamer." His grin shifted again, turned into boyish glee as he skipped forward and shook Sherishsen's hand, a gesture she had obviously not been expecting but was unable to avoid in time and so protested only with a look of brief dismay. "'Tis a true pleasure, Mistress. And now if ye would be so kind, I am being detained from slayings to do by our chitchat. Good luck out there, see ye around if ye don't end up dead. Oh and before I forget, do re-weave yer spells of protection when ye have time time, I was clumsy and broke them while I was examining them, I do apologize." The planewalker pointed away from the entrance and smiled his most sincere and unsettling smile. On Sherishsen's face anger and amusement fought against each other and against featureless calm look, but she had not survived all these years without some skills in reading situations and people, even when the term 'people' was used this loosely. She felt through her protective wards, realized how seriously and how stealthily they had been crippled and felt a terrible coldness well inside her. She shivered, nodded mutely to the planewalker who still outwardly looked purely like a homeless beggar with a translucent sword, and staggered out past the Dreamer. When she had walked ten feet past him, he had already let the meeting slip away from his mind. Law is here. I should have guessed it. This will be ... ugly.

The Castle was as he remembered it from his last visit, not long gone by his own time but decades or centuries away by the measurements of the grand time-line of the universe itself. It turned and twisted suspended in the empty void, a nest of massive crawling corridors all trying to reach the sheltered centre. The Dreamer relaxed slightly. His whitened knuckles loosened their death-grip on the hilt of Pain and tension bled out of his posture. The old guardian angels were gone - whoever had put them here in the first place had not replaced them. Or had not replaced them with anything clearly visible to him. Relaxing even more he let his invisible eyes, ears and arms unfurl, drifted away from the body muttering and twitching half-formed rituals, allowed his awareness bloom as a huge poisonous kraken. His mind slithered closer to the Castle, noticed a previously unseen presence near the entrance to the labyrinth and made a mental note of it, slashed through the unoccupied void without resistance. It snuck into the maze until it reached the soft and yielding but still very dangerous barrier around the Seal of Vianicius, still potent, still waiting to unleash godly wrath on any sorcerer foolish enough to taint the air around it with magic. The planewalker inhaled, drawing back all the parts of him that he had sent out. For a fleeting moment his eyes were deepest black, then a steely blue spark appeared as he directed them towards the half-hidden creature lurking in the shadows near the entrance. A visitor ... or a guardian. Too weak to stop me if what I saw was the truth; not an angel nor a devil, not celestial or abyssal, not reeking overmuch of law or chaos. So .. a trap or a traveller in water too deep. He narrowed his eyes, raised the spectral blade he carried a fraction, before dashing forward with grin. People (as opposed to pawns of any of the greater forces) were rare on the Lost Paths and especially rare this far from the commonly used ones. As he spiralled downwards aiming at the entrance, he let his shields and wards slide away from sight, turn translucent and ethereal even to the third eye, to the sixth sense. He bound the loose ends, subdued the runes normally dancing around him, carefully drew over himself the equivalent of a dark hooded cloak. Last time had been close enough. He had no desire to clash swords with Vianicius this time either. And then, done with the precautions, he landed in front of her next to the gaping hole deeper into the fortress.

The astral harbour was empty now. The table and the chest with its contents had been cleared away, even the portals hum and sparkle was more muted than usual. Alone standing at the sharp pointing edge of the stone pier stood the Dreamer, gazing to the depths of the Lost Paths. His mind ran free, almost at the destination already - his thin bedraggled body was as still as it had been part of the immovable stone it stood on. Time passed, as it is wont to do; and still he stood there, running through the paths again and again to find the best route without moving an inch, without breathing or blinking, eyes milky and dead. Then, after over a day, he blinked color back to his eyes. Breathed as his right hand clawed empty air, drew forth Pain again from some crack in the foundations of the universum. With a small smile on his lips he leaped forward without a warning and started the run he had done many times already, now with his body. His grey hair and green tattered dirty robes trailed after him as he ran, leather and chain and plate moved across his body in a vain attempt to find a true pattern for his chaotic armor. As he ran he cleaved the emptiness with his spectral no-dachi, holding it in front of him as a battle standard he was forced to follow, thin fingers white. But there was grace in his moves, the beauty of a living being in its own enviroment. And the lesser things made way, hid in the background noise of the astral as the brilliant nova of the godslayer stormed past. All the forces that hunted him weren't ready for this bold move. They stumbled and failed to catch him as he sped through the more populated paths, the almost-charted parts of the planar roads. Sigil's mercenaries saw him, a few times, but always lacking the strenght of will and power to even think of challenging the lone traveller. Agents of the gods the Dreamer had most grievously injured caught echoes of his move but when they move towards the faint tracks of his moves they were left puzzled and frustrated, huddling together in crossroads with others of their ilk muttering together in panic about their fate when their gods would find out they had failed. And Chaos never showed itself openly, as was usual - it would get its due when and if it would want it. Thus he had foreseen things would go, even if the bones and cards and dice had forsaken him, and a thin worn smile never left his face, not even when he entered the shallow trance he always employed when moving across vast distances, body and face almost vacant. And he ran on past the known dangers to the unknown, to the faint and narrow paths near the Borderlands. Towards the Castle of the Birds.

Welcome back! The IRC channels have been quieter (in a bad way) without you, nice to see ye back. *hugs*

The Astral opened before him, deep and dark and tempting. He could see the lost paths nearby twisting their way away to other worlds, could smell and taste the faint old traces of the rare travellers who were brave enough to walk near his den. Above the Dreamer shone the blue fire of the runes that marked his treasuries, behind him dozens of portals glowed with red of hellfire, blinding white of heavenly orders and green and blue of material planes. He stood there, silent and in peace, lord of all he saw, eyes the rich blue-green of warm seas. The Dreamer nodded softly to himself. It is better to walk into the storm than cower and wait for it. Moving with contemplative slowness, he turned his gaze upwards to the runes, his astral vault. He reached forward slowly and did not quite touch the rune, murmured softly the right incantations and trigger words, and the table he had called floated from nothingness. The table's polished white stone mirrored the pearly stars of distant worlds, the runes, the portals, the thin figure of the planewalker as it glided through the air to rest on the stone pier of the Dreamer's astral harbour. He moved to another rune, crooned and caressed it and was gifted a small wooden chest which he reverently deposited on the table. The planewalker stood still a moment, tapped the smooth white surface of the table with his fingers, mind drifted to some far-away place. He nodded again, very slightly, and walked to a third rune to retrieve his dark wooden chair. As he directed the chair to lay next to the table, he studied the immense piece of furniture. On the edge of its broad back was engraved an ancient fight where he had fought against the forces of some god, now dead and forgotten, on a material plane. He had been the hero of the locals, a dashing champion from beyond the known world for them, then not yet that badly scarred. In the middle of the engravings his own face stared at him - or a younger, more arrogant, more immortal, more daring version of himself. His eyes narrowed and he let the chair drop the last few inches, ignored the loud noise. The Dreamer walked to the chair, sat down with an ungainly manner that belied his agility in battle. Paused again, unsure or forgetful, then he fixed his eyes on the chest in the middle of the table. Hesistating, he opened the finely crafted box and swiftly removed the contents, putting them in neat order on the table: a deck of cards adorned with gold and silver, a small pile of bones marked with burned sigils, a set of dice and a plain-looking brazier. A faint smell of smoke and burned herbs floated in the air. It has been a while since I tried these - and I doubt they tell me much, but sometimes ruined or silenced message tells almost as much as one loudly shouted. Moving again with the odd combination of quick, sure movements and clumsy pauses, eyes shimmering metallic silver, the planewalker grabbed the bones from the table and turned his face towards an empty part of the table. He mouthed the right silent words, made the required ripples in the laylines of magic. Forming the question eyes closed he tossed the bones, gave them to the Fate. What he saw when he opened his eyes hardened his mien, made his scars writhe in dismay. Ah. So that is how it is going to be? Very well...

The Dreamer stood still as his student walked away, stopped to wave with his long, sharp ears and then sidestepped off this plane, almost seamlessly now. He has grown indeed. About time - this is not a good situation for him to learn too much from me, to catch my taint of chaos. Or be too near me if they ask for their debt. It might be about time to look into that issue again, also... The planewalker turned clumsily. He grimaced letting the scars on his face dance a brief while, then his face returned to it's base state of vacant stare. Half gliding, half walking briskly he moved through the corridors of the the Pen until he reached the door to his own apartment. Dreamer's eyes flickered and changed from dark grey to deep blue and a semblance of life appeared in them as he surveyed the thick wooden door engraved with shimmering runes. All appeared to be as it should, and a miniature gesture partly here partly on some other plane opened the door without setting off the traps. This whole affair with the Grail was a loss of face. I should have known better. A legend of that magnitude will not be found by walking in it's vault and grabbing it with a bold hand. I will have to be more careful this time. Yes ... time to try out the gifts of seeing I have. Or to consult the birds. Midstep, he stopped. The train of thoughts, always vague and fragile since his awakening after his only real battle against the gods, snapped and vanished without a trace. Eyes burning blood-red he drew out of nothing his no-dachi Pain, took his battlestance with robes billowing around him, showing the chaotic disarray of mixed armor underneath it. Something was wrong. He had never been the best of trackers, but at his home he could sense the smallest intrusion. Going through ancient sword stances, he moved forward studying the astral harbour with his piercingly red eyes. He looked almost comical: scarred grey-haired man, dirty green robes swirling around his thin body, mix of leather, chain and plate showing between the robes and the scarred flesh, taking leaps forward with a spectral sword held ready. Nevertheless there hung a certain aura of power around him that would have silenced any laughter, wiped any smirk from a bystander's face. Finally his leaps measured by bygone artforms of swordplay brought him to the end of his astral pier and he stopped. Slowly he relaxed away from the combat trance, eyes cooling down to purple, then the deep blue of his most coherent mental states. Even then his face held a certain sneer, a face that said to the intruder (whoever it might have been) that he was not afraid and that he knew, was not fooled by stealth or speed, and that there'd be a reckoning. Mhmm... mercenaries of Sigil perhaps, or agents of the gods or Chaos. So many enemies these days, two new ones for every one I have outgrown in power in my madness. The thought brought a big, wicked grin on his scarred face. Time to move again.

I never understand what's there to celebrate in growing older but eh .. thanks I guess. Drinks a few pints of the Ole Peculiar to forget this whole aging biznez.

Snippets of an IRC log of me using Finland's very nice name search web thingy: [10:26:04] <@||`> heh, there is 23 Minta's in Finland [10:26:58] <@||`> 0 Rydia's [10:35:32] <@||`> hahaha 1 Valdar! [10:35:37] <@Snowwwwww> wahahaha! [10:35:43] <@||`> born between '40 and '59 [10:35:49] <@||`> old guy [10:40:58] <@||`> 1 Kena [10:41:00] <@||`> [10:41:03] <@Snowwwwww> WAHAHAHA [10:41:06] <@Snowwwwww> KENA! [10:41:08] <@Snowwwwww> he is the hero [10:41:10] <@Snowwwwww> she? [10:41:11] <@Snowwwwww> heh [10:41:13] <@||`> he [10:41:19] <@||`> born between ´20 and ´39 [10:41:23] <@||`> prolly dead by now [10:42:44] <@||`> 0 Numilye =/ [10:42:53] <@Snowwwwww> >< [10:43:27] <@||`> 1 Rava [10:43:31] <@||`> a woman [10:43:41] <@||`> born between '80 and '99 [10:44:02] <@Snowwwwww> lol [10:44:27] <@||`> 2 Madoka [10:44:44] <@||`> both woman, thank god [10:45:02] <@Snowwwwww> haha [10:45:15] <@||`> 0 Kendricke whee [10:49:41] <@||`> 42 Rosemary .. ya? Odd stuff... oh, and 5 Yui, 0 Peredhil, 0 Gwai(hir), 0 Aegon, 0 Orlan, 6719 Signe, 0 Zool. Finns might be weird but we aren't quite weird enough to have the whole Pen cadre of names.

Happy birthday Appy!

Day after. 22th-ish. Air is getting thicker. Suit says everything is A-OK, but it doesn't even show the proper time so I'm sceptic. Too much jungle. I hate even green lights now. Things are getting worse. They must have brought some heavier guns to bear on us. World is rippling, just like they said it would do, those who have survived this kind of thing. D.o.a looks scared. Bad sign. Still got some ammo left. End of File

21st day. Or the day after what was supposed to be 20th. Go figure. Satanist is talking again. Not that it is any good. He is talking to the corpses. Or that's what it looks like to me. I never really liked him, he was too soft for this sort of work. We stare at walls to avoid seeing him now. Or floor. Saw some empty shells levitating today. Tried to show to Sarge but it had passed by the time he turned to look. Possibly made me look bad. At least I don't talk to the corpses. Don't like the feeling in the air. I think I hear something, but the whirr is too bad for me to be certain. Asked Cherub and I think he nodded. Hard to tell with the suits and all. He hasn't made the clinking noise for a bit. Suits me fine. Monkey and D.o.a talk in the corner. They seem better off than most of us. If we lose they are the last ones to go, I'm sure.

20th day. I think. Suit comp not that reliable, the clock has always been slowing down. Can't be bothered to check real time from Sarge. Still need to talk to Monkey about the suit. Hate the whirr. Hate the heat. Hate the place. Hate the rotten smell, the slumped form of Satanist in the corner, Cherub's clink clink clink, silent radio, green jungle. But Monkey is on the other side of the room, way too far. I shift and strech myself, hard in the ½-ton suit. Never meant to be lived in for weeks, that's for sure. Even less ammo left, by the way. They tried again. The stupid bastards tried it again. Why can't they just stop?

17th day. Nothing much happens. Nothing much happened yesterday, either. Like a week long déjá vu. Satanist hadn't talked in 6 days. Today he said that perhaps we are all dead already and just didn't notice it. After that everybody was silent again. Been staring out today. The corpses .. annoy me. They are already so rotten that you could almost think they are human. Blackened limbs twisting, milky eyes, eaten eyes, missing eyes gazing up to the canopy of leaves above us. No ruined suits out there or in here. Not yet. Radio is still silent. They were supposed to pick us up almost two weeks ago. Go go army.

Clink - clink - clink - clink - clink ... Cherub is at it again, trying to break the heavy, opressive silence by tapping his weapon with his armored forefinger. I hate that, slap the side of my helmet angrily. He doesn't notice. 16th day here. We've been forgotten, everybody knows it in their bones. Plenty of food left, water is recycled, ammo is low. And the stink of dead, decaying meat is getting really bad. D.o.a says it is as bad as it is going to get. That we won't notice it any more soon, that third week near corpses is the worst. I guess he knows what he is talking about. He mutters something after that but my suit is whirring too loudly again and I miss it. I should talk to Monkey about that. I really should. Heat is bad too. Not inside the suits but it makes the air ripple. Makes it hard to see when the world ripples, when they try the mumbo-jumbo again. Been a few days, Cherub thinks they are giving up. And taps his weapon with his armored forefinger, condensing water dripping off his white suit. I check my weapon for the 57th time today. It is fine.

Yeah well, never discuss yer personal life with evil people.

It barely remembered what it was. Stripped of armies, of brothers, of power and even of sword, it lingered around its old haunts like a mere deeper shadow. Its voice had faded again, first the words, then even the eerie cry of pain that used to herald its hunts and skirmishes, that used to strike fear into the hearts of its enemies. It had been vanishing, been on the verge of turning into a ghost of a ghost ... but something stirred it, sent little jolts of pain and anger into it, feeding it. It stood up, turned from a two-dimensional splash of darkness on the ground to a transparent wraith of a tall, thin man. Its claws searched for something that was its own, that was its heart now but didn't find it. Its eyes flared, two red pin-points of rage and anger. It called. And the called thing heard its wordless order, floated through Lost Paths and known worlds, appeared in its hand. Inhumatus gripped the once-notched hilt of Pain with both hands, drew strenght from it and the odd miasma of destruction hanging in the air near Pen (where it had almost faded out), turned from a vague outline in the air to deeper, darker form. It did not know why it had awaken, or what was coming that made the air throb with death and despair, but it honored the memory of its brothers at Pen. Inhumatus would hunt again. OOOoooOOOOooooOOOOOOOoooOOOOooOOOOOoooOOOOOoooOOo!!!