Zadown

"That's it. The Treshold." "That's all? I thought it'd look more impressive." "Ah, but that's exactly the point. It's the end of impressiveness, the edge of the world. Nothing to see here, you have reached the end of the net and all that." "Hmmm." She lifted her hand and stared at it, felt vaguely nauseous when she realized she could see the pixels without zooming. Their sense of smell had already vanished at the boundary of 4.0 Wolfpack and 3.2 Bluecoat, one layer back. Even with pixels what they saw had degraded the least - it was almost silent this deep, and the few objects they had touched on their way had given out granular sensations. She waved the offending hand in jerky, lagged motions towards the next layer. Or towards the lack of a real layer. "So what happens if you downgrade here?" "You'll log off or get a greyscreen. I've surfed enough history to know 1.0 Misty Mountains was never meant for humans. It's just sub-AI underhead zone ... like a set of service tunnels for the reality. You could say we are under the ground as it is." They stood there in silence for a moment, watching the green sparkle of distant packets hurrying far below them. The view into the abyss was not as nondescript as they had complained, just lacking in obvious majesty. After a while she grabbed a lost packet and threw it through the layer. When it hit the treshold it lost its dimensions, its weight and color, and tumbled downwards as a raw, abstract piece of code. "Ever done it?" He turned to really watch her the first time since they had entered this layer. She was a caricature of what she had been, most of her sexy animations lost somewhere on the way, her jagged edges and limited color palette making her seem like some ancient flesh-age ancestor of theirs taking her first steps in the elevated reality. Changes to avatars were nothing new to either of them, but this simplification bothered him on some deep level. He knew now that they should not have come all this way, no matter how bored they were with the current trends at the top layers. A stab of panic shot through him as he wondered if they had come too far to sustain proper simulated personality, if their souls were now irrevocably as pixelated as their current avatars. "... what? Done what?" He could not read her face any more and their voices were stale and flat like those glyphs used somewhere to store communication and information. Stale as text, yes, that was the archaic word. His panic blossomed like a flower of blood from a gunshot wound, a half of him going that way. The other half detached itself, muttered about backups and previous saved setups, whispering patiently into the first half's ear a constant stream of becalming platitudes. "Why, ever logged off of course." Madwoman. He had come to the Treshold with a madwoman.

The surface underneath him was slippery. Blood or putrescent bile or something worse, but he could not turn his head downwards to look. At the lower edge of his vision still figures lay down on the floor, frozen into their last posture of twisted agony. He kept his eyes averted. Do not look! Zek swallowed empty air and gripped his bolt pistol so hard his bronze skin was pearly white underneath his flak gauntlet. The golden aquilla on the gun's side gave him some degree of assurance, but the faint feeling of warm certainity melted as soon as he lifted his gaze and saw something moving in his peripheral vision. Do not look do not look! He felt the weight of his other weapons, each one of them a reassuring burden, a tool to cleanse this vast universe from its innumberable taints, one flaw fixed at a time. The Emperor's work. But a formless creature was rising from the field of corpses, making a sound like a thousand maggots devouring a rotting body at accelerated speed, and Zek's faith shook. A short glance at the aquilla to steady it ... and all he saw was a skeletal vulture etched to the side of his bolt pistol, worms staring at him from the eye sockets, black filth pouring down over his gun, over his fingers. "AAAAAAAAHHH!" He turned and saw the same maggots that had defiled his sacred gun standing upright in the guise of a man, pointing a disgusting abomination of a gun at him, maggots writhing where its face should be, maggots swarming and squirming everywhere a man, the only perfect being in the universe filled with xeno-filth and warp corruption, would have skin. His finger convulsed on the gun's trigger, but the decomposing weapon failed him. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!" * For a moment, the horrible face was still superimposed upon his vision, its eyes stars on the sky, its worms the thin wisps of dark clouds, and he could hear it whisper "I am your Nemesis" before reality banished the dream. Waves struck the sides of the small ship and the crew muttered to each other in the local dialect of Low Gothic, their sailing jargon almost incomprehensible. The wind smelled of brine and rotting kelp, his senses giving up on the dream one by one, the painful thundering of his heart dying down with excruciating slowness. Zek removed his scratched flak helmet, worn from the inside to be as comfortable as the best pillow, and ruffled his own sweaty hair. Prone shapes similiar to those in his dream all around him but sleeping instead of dead, Wollsey awake and watching the dark sea with photovisors. Zek took a sip of water from his canteen and coughed faintly. "See anything?" "Not really. A fishing boat far away a while ago, nothing else. Looks like we have broken through the siege as easily as these smugglers promised." "The Emperor protects his chosen servants." Wollsey nodded and resumed his watch.

A scent drifted through the hall. It was a mixture of moist flowers and dry spices, pungent and sweet, a smell far more vivid than the pale colors of the hall, far darker than the soft, all-encompassing light of the multitude of candles. Most warriors ignored the intruding perfume, some pausing for a short moment with an unreadable look passing through their perfect countenances. Shields were being polished, swords sharpened. There was no time for being interrupted with things that did not touch the areas of their duties. Only one of the host of angels lifted his young face from his work and frowned before turning towards his nearest veteran companion. "What is that?" "What is what? Is it a call to battle, a tug in the chains that bind our true names, an intruder or a messanger? Do you see the Herald with his trumpet, hastatus?" "No, but ..." "There is no 'but', young one." Exasperated, the older angel pointed at the direction the irritating diversion was wafting from with his broad longsword, taking the opportunity to admire his godly reflection on the bright blade. "That way lies our leader. Nothing he does or does not do is within our limit to question. If he feels like dabbling in alchemy at the eve of a battle and produces clouds of exotic vapors, that is good. If he does not, that is also good." When the old veteran turned his gaze on the younger warrior his look turned stern. He sheathed his blade and pointed a finger at the youth. "I have no idea - and no, do not tell me! - whose servant you were before our Lord caught you and bound you, but here is a friendly advice, the adage of angels: exult in your existence within its limits." "Of course, elder." "Or ... you could just follow the advice of our Lord. Most planewalker Lords barely notice the armies they command, and to gods we are but a cog in the great machine, but our Captain knows what is it like for us." "He does? I mean, he is not of the Law, and ..." "Ha! I see you truly are freshly caught." Their conversation was interrupted by a wave of metal and muscle standing up as their planewalker captain appeared in the doorway. The sound was like a sea of armor crashing against a shore of shields, the innate sense of harmony of the angels suffusing it so it was a triumphant song of battle instead of a jarring cacophony. Their captor, master, Lord and captain nodded to his army, his satisfaction seen less in that tiny gesture than in the blazing silver color of his shifting eyes. He was wearing robes of creamy white, the dark hilt of his greatsword jutting from behind his narrow shoulders. Even though tall, amidst the noble and heavenly warriors he stood out in his scribe's garb. There was nothing soft in his voice, however. "My warriors! Freedom in death or oblivion in bloodlust! RAH!"

Epilogue "I feel ridiculous in this armor." Jankiize tried first to tug her adamantium scalemail to a better position, but it was too smooth for her gloved fingers to find purchase and so she shook herself instead like a wet dog, making the scales chime against each other with harmonious jingling. The gloves were of black dragonhide, as were her boots. She was not sure what material her scabbard was but it was black as well, ornamented with blue engravings of oriental dragons, bringers of luck and prosperity. Jankiize wore no helmet, the additional runes of protection engraved on the thin gorget enceasing her head within a sphere of defensive magic. "You do not look ridiculous, m'lady. And to the second sight you are like a fortress of one - we did not have any suits of armor that well enchanted even in Chaman. About the only thing even I could harm you with right now are words, if those." Marchello grinned, pleased like a little boy at the sight of the impressive armor. "I just wish I had even a fraction of that protection over my fragile flesh, really." "You'll have your 'friend' soon enough." "Haven't found one that is good at catching crossbow bolts yet ... but yes, I suppose my best defense will be overwhelming offense." He looked anxious despite his cheerful words, blinked a few times staring at nothing as he banished whatever visions the conversation had brought to the surface of his mind. "I'm sorry I have to ask you with me, but I do need at least one guard I can absolutely trust to watch over my sleep. My enchanted armor won't do me any good if I'm caught out of it, or if ..." "Yes, we talked about it. I'm not going to sit in the tower forever just because what happened last time, Jankiize. Let's go out before they think we have cold feet about this deal." "Yes, let's."

"Lady Jankiize." She returned to consciousness slowly. It took some time for her to realize she had actually fallen asleep in her chair out of sheer exhaustion during the hour of the wolf, before dawn, and that it was almost noon now. The cold contempt in the voice that woke her up helped to tear the curtains of sleep from her eyes. Before she stood up, she looked at Melenar and only then turned her attention to the person who had woken her up. "Galle Jalar." He was a young man with blonde hair longer than the custom was wearing neat, well-cared clothes of black and scarlet, the colors of House Jalar. Galle had a grim expression and he stood his ground with the air of somebody who owns the place, both signaling Jankiize this was not going to be a pleasant talk. She stood up, not wanting Galle to completely tower over her, and resisted the urge to go through any nervous motions striving for an illusion of calm superiority. "I came as quickly as I could, and now that I'm here, I will salvage as much as can be salvaged. Please hand me the signet of House Jalar and then go pack whatever you and your daughters will require. We'll have to keep this ... tower as our headquarters here in Jugatt for a while before we can tear the disgrace down and start thinking of building a real house." "What!?" "Still not properly awake? Usually it is the habit for the widow to spend the night in quiet contemplation and mourning instead of sleeping, but given how you delight in acting against our customs I'm not surprised we found you soundly asleep. I've been told the grand signet was in your care - now, where is it?" "You are gravely mistaken if you think you can just stride in here and take it! Or evict us from our home." Galle sighed and it was only then she noticed the two burly mercenary guards behind him, their manner alert, both with swords hanging from their belt and clad in chainmail and cuir boulli. "If you will not listen to reason, I will have to throw you out of here with force, as much as I hate scandals. Algar, secure lady Jankiize. Khemil, go find the grand signet of House Jalar." Jankiize's lips curled up, showing her teeth, and she growled sibilant words of nonsense from between them. Without pausing to think she pointed at the guard walking towards her with two fingers of his left hand while drawing her blade with his right. Algar's eyes unfocused, he took one faltering step and then just stood there, face vacant. Khemil first turned to look at his companion in alarm, then towards Jankiize, but she was already muttering another incantation. This spell sounded harsh and heavy, words of stone and earth, and when she pointed at the second guard the conjured power flung him back with brutal force. Khemil hit the doorframe with a loud crack, his momentum carrying him out of sight after the collision. "Well, well. I did not believe the stories of witchcraft, but looks like I should have paid them more attention. If you try any more tricks like that I will have to cut you, lady, and there will be nobody who would blame me from doing so." Galle's longsword was pointing at her, but Jankiize had her own blade out as well. Somewhere far away in the background they could hear sounds of alarm and chaos. Neither of them paid any attention to the rising commotion. "And what about the stories of how exquisite a swordswoman I am? Despite what you all may think, I've never carried this blade as an ornament or a keepsake. It's as sharp as my mind, m'lord, and I'm ready to use it." He attacked, having no more to say. She moved aside and parried his heavier weapon further away, the impact sending a shower of snowflakes and icy mist to every direction. Galle would have most likely dropped his sword right then had he not been wearing gloves, so cold it was after just one short embrace with the Winter's Kiss. Cursing softly he made a clumsy attempt to attack again, but she moved closer and aimed a blow at his longsword which promptly shattered. He dropped the broken hilt that was trailing frigid mist, its icy surface burning his fingers with cold even through his leather gloves. For a moment it looked like he would draw his knife, but he was nothing if not rational, a trader and a trader's son, and in the end he knew he had been bested. Galle spread his arms wide, showing he was now unarmed. "You've won, then, woman, and you can keep both the grand sigil and this house .. for now. But think about it, if your mind indeed is as sharp as your uncanny blade - who will trade with the Witch of Jalar? How will you make a living? With your sword, lady?" He bowed and left, his stunned mercenaries struggling upright and then staggering after him. * "... and then he left. As much as it pains me to say so aloud, he was actually correct. There is no way I can hold on to the net of contacts Melenar made - even those traders who do not abhor my foreign ways would be careful to not catch the taint by proximity. With Melenar they were once removed to begin with, and had no trouble trading with a son of the city. But I am a woman, and a foreigner with dubious rumours circling above me like hungry vultures." Fionella and Marchello were both listening, their teacups and small plates forgotten. The girls had been sent to their room to be out of the way and servants were busy downstairs getting ready for the funeral. By a silent agreement the women had chosen to forget what had happened during the night, and when Fionella spoke the only note discernable in her voice was that of genuine concern. "How long until you start running out of money? You have been in charge of the house and its expenses, right?" "Oh, we still have quite a while if we tone down our spending slightly. That does not change the fact the situation will be untenable. I can't just throw money away every day and wait for some salvation, or to beg the Dreamer for icy gold. I'll have to come up with something ..." "We have to, you mean." Marchello nodded emphatically to agree with Fionella's words, an uncharateristic look of determination on his face.

Melenar looked like he was asleep. The crossbow bolt had not done much damage, merely enough to kill. Just business, nothing personal. Around him was four colored lanterns, their hues corresponding with some local religious thing. She had never really looked into it, not with Melenar disliking the Order, not with what the Dreamer had thought of gods and stupid mortal beliefs. Some servant had set them there, muttering something about "the proper way of doing things" with an apologetic tone, as if he had been setting on her toes but could not help himself doing it. Jankiize could not remember who it had been. Perhaps even one of the side-branch Jalars - there seemed to be far too many people in her tower, mouthing hollow ritual words of condolence, of shared grief, asking how she was. How in the name of the Abyss did they THINK she was!? She trembled from the force of her angry sorrow but stayed silent, composed. It was in the middle of the night, that much she was aware of. Mustn't let the children wake up. And to be fair, not all of the visitors were malicious. Jankiize did not think there was any fairness left in her or in her world right now, though. Somebody coughed and she turned her head, aware that time had passed since she last had had a coherent thought within the dark she was travelling through. With tired slowness she turned around, reeled most of her spirit back to the real world. Fionella stood at the doorway, watching the room with a stance that told her she had been there a while, looking at her dead husband, at the ritual lanterns, at the flowers and at the blue curtains of sorrow. At her pure white dress reflecting all the various colors of the room, so clean and perfect in its absence of color it was almost blinding. Fionella wore her dark robes, impressive and familiar at the same time. Different than all the visitors wearing their dark blue funeral clothes, some staring at her own white dress with sour disapproval. Jankiize blinked, was not sure if she had let her thoughts drift into the colors of mourning for a second or a minute, or longer. When Fionella spoke her voice was soft, careful. "I thought I should come and see how you are coping." "Not very well." She nodded and was silent again, sat down on a chair. Her expression was far more honest than any she remembered seening on the face of any member of the House Jalar. Jankiize felt a stab of intense companionship with the younger woman through the all-pervading grief. The tears she had not even realized she had been holding back started flowing freely, like the sadness and loss had been an immense iceberg, a tiny part of it thawing and turning into tears. An uncertain look flickered on Fionella's face and she moved as if to stand up and comofort her, but that sort of closeness did not come easily to either of them. They were close in the silence however, sharing the moment without words. "You know ..." "Yes?" Jankiize dried her eyes, feeling even more tired but slightly relieved of her immense burden. That uncertain look was on Fionella's face again but this time she did not lapse back into silence but pushed through her hesistation. "Would the Dreamer ... be able to help, still? He has almost godly powers ..." Fionella's voice petered out when she saw an angry frown appear on Jankiize's face. "Yes, he might bring him back. Have you ever discussed resurrection with him? It is something he loathes to do, and for a reason. Not because of some arbitrary distinction between mortal and immortal, not because how straining and difficult the ritual is to him, but because how it always ends up being a mistake. Nobody wants to return, not unless they have been cast into some abyss to be a plaything for the demons." "But ... even if not for you or for him, would you not consider it for your girls? Their father ..." She sounded bewildered at Jankiize's angry reaction, obviously not seeing any way her suggestion would be bad. "Never. I love them too much to subject them to the same I had to go through." Jankiize had turned rigid, a complete change from her previous sleepy grieving. "You do not have any idea what you are talking about so I will forgive you this once, but if you ever even hint to anybody I could have returned Melenar from the dead and chose not to, I will never forgive you. The Dreamer has unthinkable powers, yes, but the price of asking his help always ends up being far more than you'd expect. Even if he himself asks for nothing." She inhaled and lowered her voice slightly, turned her gaze somewhere past Melenar's inert body. "He is one of the saddest creatures I've ever met, for all his strength ... and his prediction that I will never join the ranks of immortals one of the most relieving things I've ever heard." "But I thought you were happy with Melenar ... ah!" Fionella cried out in surprise when Jankiize leaped up and dragged her upright with one hand, the older woman's face a twisted mask of fury. "Silence!" The word tugged at her spirit like the heavy speech she had heard the planewalker use but she wasn't sure if it was merely her imagination, some sympathy to the raw emotion the shout was laced with. Jankiize paused there, one hand raised as if to land an open-handed blow on Fionella's face, the other still crushing the front of her dark robes. Fionella could only stare at the hand and at the black scabbard of Jankiize's sword sheathed on her side, striking against the white background, and wait for the blow. When it did not land, she realized anger had released its grip as abruptly as it had taken control of Jankiize. Tears were welling again in her eyes. "... please, just go away. Go. Leave us be."

No training ever prepared you. Melenar fell down, wounded most likely. It was hard to see who were on their side and who were enemy, both side wore the same sort of mishmash of leather and chain. His hands were wet again, mouth dry. Birds silent. One was running at him, sword glinting in the sun. Something almost relaxed in the enemy's pose, enough to make him angry. Where he came from people in robes were scary, first targets, not something to mop up as afterthought ... and for a reason. Few words of the true language, abstract constructions whirling in his brain, a ritual gesture, and the mercenary was knocked back. Disappeared behind an expanding cloud of blood, far flashier than what the crossbow bolts and swords of the ordinary people had done so far. This time he did listen to his own voice of caution. It told him offense would get him only so far, and he scurried into the cart. A bolt flew through the canvas walls, perhaps aimed at him, perhaps missing somebody else. Think think think! He could use a friend. Almost a bad idea, sending a wild, unmodulated call into whatever abyss was nearest, only the abstract bracket of power specified. A brief stutter there when the cart shook and he could see the feral triumph in the manifesting demon's fiery eyes. It did not feel its leash, flexed, luxuriating the potential freedom right when the chains he conjured grappled its true name with steely claws. Anger, then, so much the chains almost broke. Almost doesn't count, of course. One of the enemy mercenaries (he was unsure how many there were ... 5? 10? 20?) leaped in and helped him by giving a legitimate target for the conjured warrior's wrath. His body stayed inside but his head flew back, a surprised look smeared with blood etched on it. At least Marchello hoped it had been an enemy, quit feeling sorry for others when another bolt punched through the cart walls with terrifying, lethal power. He steeled his will, poured all the excess mana he had into the bindings, had no idea what sort of being he had called. A short glimpse of it gave him the impression of a red humanoid fox with a lizard's head, but he ducked when the demon spat a roaring cone of red fire. Two screams, right afterwards, tearing sounds as his new guardian made a new doorway, cart shuddering when it leaped outside with claws extended and savage hunger. Many, many screams then. * Jugatt quieted down as they passed through it, a sombre procession of wounded men and torn carts. Those two mercenaries and two drivers who had survived the attack refused to meet his gaze and he knew the story would spread like a wildfire through the city very soon. That trouble could wait. Right now Marchello was just happy he was alive, ashamed to feel so with the bodies they were bringing back weighting the carts down. Despite the time that had passed, his every sense was still heightened, or perhaps he just had been shocked out of the mist he used to perceive the world outside his precious books through. It had been a near thing, even with his "friend" - the Thakelmians had been out there in overwhelming force, and if their morale had not broken so swiftly, they might have won. One of the two mercenaries had taken a bolt through his left arm, the other wounded several times by swords. And Melenar was dead, of course. Marchello felt anxiety constrict his chest, was not sure what to say, how to act, when Jankiize would come out of her tower to meet them. Despite there having been nothing he could have done, not with those schools of magic at his disposal, he felt he had betrayed both of their hosts. At the same time a fierce joy was kindling in his mind, a fire akin to the joy he felt from being alive. He could see his wife, he was returning to her now. No stranger with serious, awkward expression on their face to bring a message of grief to Fionella. The caravan spiralled upwards, towards the merchant houses. Nobody stood up to bar the way, even though carts were banned on those well-maintained roads without a special permit. They could see what message they bore. Those who were more religious than their brethen muttered small prayers, hardened men narrowed their eyes, thoughts of steel and fire striding through their heads. Loud children were hushed into restless silence. Many had not liked the House Jalar, but none had disputed the fact they were of Jugatt, same blood. Everybody knew already the overall story even if details would not be revealed until after the mercenaries would leave the caravan and wander off to the taverns, their every drink paid tonight, their every word heard and weighted. It would be an uneasy evening, down where the mercenaries drank to forget the blood, uneasy evening with a crowd of cloaked trade nobility walking the streets incognito. Marchello could not see that far into the future. He just felt the heavy mood, saw the people gathered to watch them pass, more obvious here than in the crowded lower city. The middle and lower classes did not care as much, down there. Here the rich traders watched, some struck by grief, others gnawed by worry, some wondering if they should invest in weapons and armor. Their faces all almost the same, of course. Ahead, the tower of House Jalar.

Birds were singing all around them, and even though their songs were all alien, the overall effect felt familiar, comforting. The road they were on was a narrow cart-track, trees crowding so close that during the summer, when the branches would have full-sized leaves, the road would be mostly in the shade. It was their third day of travel, and while it had come as no surprise to either Marchello or Melenar he was uncomfortable with the rough outdoor life, he still felt elated, somehow. It felt good to be travelling. There were four loaded wagons in their caravan and three armed men on horses. Marchello was no expert on the local trade but even he knew that was a lot more protection than usual. They had not seen other travellers in the last day, either. "Quiet road, eh? Except for the birds, of course." Melenar, who was sitting next to him on the driver's bench of the leading wagon, glanced at him with a preoccupied look. He was wearing an assortment of chainmail and leather armor, armor well suited for prolonged wearing without chafing its user too badly, or crushing him under its weight. On his head he wore a ridiculous leather cap with corroded coins sewn on it for added protection, its looks going perfectly with the paranoia on his face. "As long as the birds are singing, yes, quiet enough road for us. If they stop ..." Melenar shrugged, his armor and sword jingling as a sort of continuation of that sentence. "What sort of trouble are you expecting? Do the bandits really attack protected caravans here?" "Bandits? No, no, they don't." The trader scratched the side of his head, thinking about how much to say. "It's Thakelmians, actually, traders from the nearest bigger city state. They would like to have a monopoly for this liqueur, aqmaranth, these monks up there in Stepl Hills make. It's an old recipe, made only in a few places belonging to the Brotherhood of Autumn ... they had a monastery here since my grandfather's days, but it isn't until recently they started brewing and distilling here too. Before this, all the distilleries were in places fully under Thakelmian control. This, now ... this is borderland, something we can dispute. But dangerous, maybe." Melenar did not look at Marchello when he told the story, watching the forest and the road instead. He had been far more relaxed back when they had been on bigger roads, but he was visibly uneasy now. "Is it worth this all then?" "Oh, sure! We can't give way to them on issues like this. It's not just about profit, although that'll be hefty too, but about areas of influence, where we can trade and where we dare trade. You can't just beg for mercy if a bully pushes you - you'll have to push back, or they'll push and push until you are in a tiny corner with no way out." Marchello nodded, feeling at the same time slowly infected by the same unease that was shaking Melenar. "So, Marc - what can you do if something does happen? My wife said something about you being a sort of archer?" "Heh, um. I guess that'd be one way of putting it. Let's see ... see that small tree, over there ahead of us?" "Sure." Marchello stood up, swayed once to keep upright as the cart stumbled forward on the uneven track. A part of him knew open flaunting of his powers might be foolish, but the part of him that craved to do magic instead of just reading about it endlessly overrode that small voice of caution with ease. He muttered words that seemed to be nonsense, hissing and growling sounds that sent a shiver through Melenar's spine, an odd squint of concentration on his plain face. Then a tiny gesture that might have seemed silly if the tree had not split asunder with a booming crack, spewing splinters to every direction. The horses did not like the sudden sound, one or two of them neighing and rearing, but as there was no new scary noises or any scent of a predator they quieted down quickly. Melenar calmed the horses down with distracted air while looking at Marchello with a mix of respect and alarm. "Whoa, whoa. Can you ... um, can you do that to something living?" Marchello sat down carefully, trying to ignore the looks the hired swords gave him. "Trees are alive. But yes, if necessary I can do that to a man. Other things, too, but that was the easiest one to demonstrate." "Guess you are not just along for the sightseeing then. Hey guys, stop gawking, let's get this caravan moving again!" The caravan lurched into motion with a few more hard to read looks from the mercenaries. None of them had said anything, however. Marchello wiped his hands on his robes, realizing that his heart was beating too quickly. "You people are unusually placid about these things, you know. I'm not sure what I would think if somebody demonstrated powers I wouldn't be able to understand." Melenar shrugged, looking around again instead of looking at Marchello. "It's a trader thing, partly. When you do long journeys you see weird things and if you can't cope, can't just smile and nod and get back to business, you won't do trade. Sure, some old houses don't like my wife, or would not like you two if they knew better what you can do, but ... 'In a house, do as your host', the saying goes. We have adopted customs and clothes and armor from others. There's no strict Jugatt way, in the end." He paused there and they both listened to the birds, the squeak of the wheels and the muttering of the other men for a short while. "Some say that puts us at risk, gives us an empty banner to gather around. Thakelmians have their ways, and they almost crushed us because they should've been able to. ... and some say we won because we embrace differences, because we had the Witch of Jalar and did not scorn her. Not sure what to think of it, as her husband. I only hear this talk in a roundabout way, of course." "Of course." "It's all ... it's all rather academic to me. From my point it is all rather simple." Melenar waved as if to wave away mosquitoes, kept his eyes on the road and in the shadows under the trees. "I just know I love her." The birds had gone utterly silent.

Fionella fingered the masking charm in her sleeve nervously, a habit she disliked but had not been able to shake off. It was a crude piece of magic bound to a ceremonial leather mask the size of her palm, making her skin look as pale as the locals - the structure of her face was already close enough, closer than Jankiize's, and did not need disguising. In theory she could have walked around without the charm, especially during the day, but she had picked up the precarious situation the reputation of House Jalar already was. She would not have liked any extra attention, even if this had not been about their host. They still got plenty of it, her and Jankiize and Rakmont, most locals at least glancing at the Witch of Jalar to see if she'd do anything odd. They had been given a lesson or two about populations not exposed to magic routinely and how volatile they could be in the face of blatant shows of magic, but she had not been very interested in the subject back then and had difficulty in remembering the leathery, dry, old words of the professor. As anxious as she felt, nobody seemed openly hostile. Jankiize had spoke about it earlier, how the town had half-adopted her as 'their oddity', a village fool on a larger scale. She had also outlined most of her history with short, concentrated sentences, revealed her role in the preservation of the town earlier and how the locals did not know the real reason why Thakelmian forces had never reached the town. Speculation and tales were common, of course, and the tales from the survivors had eventually circulated here, horribly transformed away from truth ... or so everybody thought. Fionella wondered if everybody underestimated Jankiize, or if some of the townpeople had more accurate picture of her prowess. Sometimes it paid to act harmless. Nevertheless, Jankiize carried her sword with her - an unique adornment among the ladies of the city. Still, it felt good to be outside in the invigorating spring air, trees and bushes waking up, grass appearing everywhere it was not instantly trampled into mud. They walked through the mercantile district where the streets were relatively wide and safe as long as the sun stayed on the sky, various flags and metal signs advertising the products sold inside the large, sturdy buildings. Carts were banned in this part of the town during full daylight and horses were rare, giving the traffic a relaxed, slow pace. Fionella still felt nervous. Chaman had practically no crime, a controlled weather, cities so spread out and rich they were half garden, half paradise ... if you did not mind the distinct possibility of disasters of magical nature. On the other hand, the pursuit of power and knowledge had always thrown her people into places far less hospitable than this mild world. The mercantile district ended and they reached the main marketplace of Jugatt. Jankiize usually left routine matters here to her servants, but the lady of the house coming to the market occassionally was actually one of the local habits she had picked up after moving here. In a town of this size the market was open every day except major festival days, of course, but this day of the week was the market day, day when it was possible to find rare and exotic things here in addition to all the usual trade goods. Here the fact Jugatt was a trader town showed: fabrics, jewelry, art from several directions, glass and even crystal goblets, various spices from the south and furs from the north. All the amenities of civilization around them, Jankiize surveying the goods with critical eye, pausing to ask a question or two at some stalls, sometimes exchanging few words with her. An intelligent woman and almost a friend already despite their different backgrounds, a sure ally here amidst all the mundane people bereft of any skill in the Art. Fionella watched her haggle over the price of a handmirror, gestures minimal but language quick and witty. A friend, yes. No, it would not be too bad to be stranded in here with Marc ... as long as we have her as our ally. * Later, when they had returned to their friendly, round tower and had their midday meal with the girls, Fionella went through their collection of books. Most of them were from the Dreamer, impossible to understand without their enchantment, very hard even with them. References to magical theories by name that were only familiar on the plane the books were written, overlapping theories about same things and downright contradictory claims (and she had heard from their employer these books had been hand-picked for their clarity and quality), glyphs and runes not quite following the two-dimensional constraints of the medium. Most of the heavy tomes were about planar magic or metamagic, but she had managed to request books about her specialities to the mix. The most massive of the lot, "Comprehensive Arcanum Transmutationica", had become one of her all time favourites even though she was not quite sure how much of it she would dare to try to use. They read a lot but did not actually cast many spells, given the lack of a proper warded room to experiment in. She lifted it, then thought about it a bit and put it aside, sighing in relief when the strain of the massive tome left her arms. Digging through the rest of the book pile, she found one she had not even opened yet: "The Art of Light and Sound". It seemed thin enough to serve as after-lunch reading, though she knew thinness was no guarantee of ease of reading. When she opened the book, a frown appeared on her face - there was a bookmark left inside, and the treatise swung open at the marked page, revealing a double page diagram of various runes usable for permanent illusions. They would tell her nothing until she would have had gone through the easier parts of the book and she placed the book away to study the curious bookmark. It was a large card, its back so black it seemed like a hole in the air, a pair of vivid silver scales floating in that darkness of indeterminate depth. She turned it around and could not help but gasp. The card was numbered XIII and it showed a skeletal figure in blinding white robes in the middle, puppeteer's strings reaching down from its bony hands to the two men lying at its feet, in a spreading pool of blood. The first one of the two was clad in chain and leather, a broken sword in right, a money pouch with coins falling out of it in his left hand. The other was clad in the red robes of a Chaman demonologist, every little detail so exact and lifelike she felt like falling down through the card into the picture and a wave of vertigo washed through her. A cold, dread-filled wave, as she recognized the robes to be a perfect copy of Marchello's official wear. The card fell from her limp hands as she staggered away to find a wash basin to be sick in, the battle raging in the background escaping her notice. Swords rose and fell, horses neighed and reared and a lone demon capered around spreading havoc as the card slowly descended, finally ending on the floor with its face down.

The kitchen table still looked slightly out of place after all these years, at least to her. They could have repaired the old one, but she had said she wanted a new one and he had obliged, as he so often did. A little shake of his head, a frown when he thought over how much whatever she asked would cost, in money, time or his ever-dwindling reputation, and then more often than not he acquiesced. Melenar Jalar sat at other end of the table, spreading liver sausage on fresh, warm breadroll, leaning back a bit on his old worn chair so only two of its legs touched the floor. It was so early the children were not eating breakfast with them, and the Opulantis rarely woke up at this hour either. It was only him and her, the lord and lady of the household eating an informal meal: just-baked bread, butter, liver sausage, cheese and dry cake with strong tea and warm milk. Neither of them really craved the elaborate rituals some of the upper caste of traders went through on every meal, every day, both of them already hopelessly unorthodox for other reasons. It had always been one of the connecting threads keeping them together, their flagrant unconventionality, refusal to bow their head to the common wisdom. A dangerous quality in a trader, but for every rigid and disapproving old noble that refused to have anything to do with the House Jalar there were three traders who ignored such trivialities and concentrated on the essential: Melenar's credit rating and profit margin. Some called him a crazy genius, crazy to have married such a wife but genius with his trading. He wasn't a genius, not quite, but he had trading in his blood, and it made a good story. Melenar let the chair fall, the sound of two of its legs banging against the kitchen floor as familiar to Jankiize as what would follow next. Melenar leaned back when he thought deeply about something or other, and landed only when he either had to or he was about to proclaim the results of his pondering. "Those purple-faced friends of yours ... what sort of tricks they have up to their sleeves?" "The Opulantis? Why, you know what they teach." She sounded surprised. Melenar usually did his best to not even acknowledge the fact the Chamanians existed, much less start a conversation about them if possible. Melenar waved about with his piece of dry cake. "Magic! Yes, of course. But you have to admit that is not very precise, dear." "No, you are right." It was her turn to look thoughtful. Most of their talk about the Art dwelled on abstractions, on Marchello's futile attempts to master planar travel or obscure points of meta-magic. She knew up to a point what were the areas of expertise for both Marchello and Fionella, but she had been brought up to learn all the schools of magic at once, only the Dreamer's absolute mastery of all things magical as her example, and consequently she had never really thought to ask implicitly what the two teachers had mastered. She drank deeply from her large clay cup before she answered, staring into its depths like her next words were inscribed inside it. "They both can summon ... entities that are not quite native to this world. She's talented with illusions and real transmutations of matter, while he has studied under Uncle Dreamer to be ... ah, an archer of sorts, I suppose." Jankiize gave Melenar a sharp look. "Why are you curious now?" He made a helpless gesture, mouth full. After being able to speak again, he shrugged. "Might be nothing, perhaps they do not want to leave their snug room to travel with me, but if this Marchello guy can really do something more than a candleflame with his mutterings ... there's a rather risky trade route we are trying out, next. Could use one more blade ... or a wand, or whatever he waves, if you can spare him." "Just how risky, Melenar?" She felt colder than the room was, knowing how much Melenar disliked the Art and everything that had anything to do with it, remembering the huge fight they had had after the Opulantis had arrived. He noticed her alarm. "Not that risky, dear. I'll wear my chain shirt if it makes you feel better. Haven't really talked to that guy, Marc, and well ... I just thought we lads could go on our adventure, and you women could do whatever you do when we men are out there on the cold, rainy trails. Perhaps we'll find things in common, out there." "Oh. Well. If you wouldn't rather take me ... ?" "No no no, I'd be sick with worry if I did not know you had this end of our household in perfect control when I'm out there. I'll ask him once he gets up. It's not like I am going to drag him anywhere against his will if he'd rather stay home reading books." She felt a bit more reassured then, but a little butterfly of doubt had born and now fluttered around her mind, casting flickering shadows over future.

"Two weeks he said, two weeks." "We've heard you say that quite enough times by now, Marc. So he is late." "Late by an order of magnitude!" Marchello threw his hands up, his voice rising almost to a shout. "What if he does not return? And don't tell me again that I just have to study these books on planar travel faster then - the set is incomplete, the required leaps of intuition and skill inhumane!" "You are starting to sound like Mandra. If he does not return and if you fail to grasp the concepts of planar magic we stay here for the rest of our lives. It was a clear risk from the moment we accepted his offer, a risk no worse a thousand of my ancestors have taken, our fates far more mild should this gamble not pay. If he offered us this job again, would you turn aside, my husband?" There was something hard in both Fionella's voice and her eyes, brittle steel that showed him answering the wrong way to this question would have worse results than merely having to sleep on the sofa for a night or three. "No ... no, of course not. I am ... just used to promises being kept. Almost done reading all the grimoires on planar theories, too." She smiled suddenly, walked past him to the window of their large room. They had been given the visitor's quarters, given visits to the dwelling of the infamous Witch of Jalar were rare and short, matters of trade with the man of the house that could not wait. There were books everywhere, but other than that the fact they were living in somebody else's tower had made the couple a bit more tidy. Two of their heavy travelling trunks were under their wide bed beside the window, one next to the bed it with its lid open. One more chest opposite of that one served as a storage for the things they taught Mandra with: wooden blocks with different runes burned on all six sides, a small chalkboard, some thin books filled with cantrips and basic magic theory, candles and other occult regalia. All the light in the room came from sturdy lanterns, both Marchello and Fionella nervous about open flames near the books, their own or loaned. Outside it was already dark, weak stars and a gibbous moon not illuminating much. The garden was below them, a mass of green very close to black with the exception of one early blooming bush filled with white flowers, a constellation of stars on their own backyard. Fionella looked down at them, her slender fingers pushing the curtains aside for a better view. Beyond the garden were the other merchant houses, the night so young still almost all of them were well lit, spilling colorful light into the spring night. She could see one group of people returning from a trip to theater, women in bright colors making the core of the party, a few men carrying lanterns and sturdy staves around them. Differences to her homeland in every detail, but the overall effect not so alien. She let the curtain close and turned around to look at Marchello. "Would it be so bad to be stranded on this plane, love? It's not a world bereft of magic, and while we would have to disguise ourselves after we have done our work here at Jalar, we would have an advantage over the locals, the sharp edge of our Art." He nodded, but without enthusiasm. "I have thought about that, of course. And if it comes to that, then at least I am thankful I am not alone here. But magic is not easy to use in secret. I'd hate to walk in a double-disguise for the rest of my life, a mask over my purple skin, another over my profession." Fionella smiled again, but Marchello could not gauge if she meant it or if the smile was forced. "All this is academic squabbling in the end. Two weeks, two months, two years - they cannot hold much difference to an immortal like the Dreamer. If he has lived for thousands of years, he will not die now and leave us here. Jankiize said he does visit every now and then, as his higher duties allow." Marchello sighed in acceptance of defeat and made a visible effort to rally his spirits. "The logic of an occultist, my dear. Who am I to gainsay your superior wisdom, then? I will quit my fretting as well as I am able, and read books about the travels of traders of Jugatt to have a break from the endless glyphs of planar spells beyond my skill." Her uncertain smile turned into a grin as he spoke, her changing mood like a sun appearing from behind a dark cloud. "Remember what Gardian used to say about margins of error and progeny? You've read plenty enough for this one night, right love?" Marchello coughed, embarassed for a moment even after several years of marriage when he recalled Gardian's frank words. Fionella's alluring silhoutte against the window was not easy to resist however, on her normally rather ordinary face kindling a sort of inner glow that rarely illuminated it. He closed the heavy tome he had been about to re-open and walked to his wife's embrace.

There's no closure as the story goes ever on. Some of the stories have somewhat recognizable story arcs (Clemency, Pilgrimage, Purgatory to name a few) while others get cut at almost random place. Story no. 40 will continue from this, that's all there is. Does it help if you'd think of them as chapters in a long book instead? Depends which ones you are interested about. Descent (28), Excision (30) and Divergence (32) concentrate on the young occultists while Serenity (26), Havoc (31) and Dolce (36) tell tales about Jankiize's post-Grail Carrier history, Ward (19) and Oblivion (20) her early life. Faaye is present in more than half of the stories after her introduction in Web (18), and Suentalv was introduced in Desolation (37). The Patriarch was briefly seen in Ward (19), a Monk of Balance in Divergence (32). Hmm... perhaps I should kill one or two of them off at one point. The theme of the breached walls to the other Parallels is an ascending theme in the Dreamer stories ever since it was first introduced in later parts of Ward. These gates are generally regarded as Bad Things by the Dreamer and his allies, but there's little accurate lore about them out.

A scarred hand appears from empty air, attached to nothing visible. It drops a shiny 5-geld coin (made from platinium, adorned with the picture of grinning Wyvern with the motto of "For new schemes!" in latin circling the picture) on the table, a colorful golden ribbon attaching the coin to a Happy Birthday card. It then grabs a chocolate egg and vanishes. OOC: Happy Birthday, Wyvie!

Just saw Rambo. Whoa. For most of the "movie" length I was expecting a "Sponsored by Rotten.com" (or wherever you can go to watch pictures of people mauled by bears and hideous car accidents these days, I'm no expert). The dialogue is horrible and unrealistic and there's only caricatures instead of characters, but it doesn't really matter anyways given the whole first hour or so is only a pretext for showing us the last 30 minutes of endless bloodbath. The screen drips gore as 50 cal bullets punch fist-sized holes into hapless soldiers, landmines pulverize peasants, old WWII explosives detonate with the force of half a dozen Fat Boys and AK-47s sing. One landmine out of five as far as movies go, but five exploding heads out of five if all you want is a high (and messy) bodycount.

"Gimme one, whatever swill you are serving!" The massive youth frowned at the barely heard question the barkeeper asked and pointed a calloused thumb towards the table he had just vacated. Noise drowned most conversations in the busy pub, but the young man's bellowing cut through it with ease. "No no, the old man there is paying ... what!? Pay now? You distrustful swine, here's your coin!" He threw a demi-throne on the bar with excessive force and walked back to the table, the swift burst of anger dissipating as quickly as it had ignited. It was easy to see war was his business: besides his large size and features that branded him as one of the feral worlders, he was clad in a worn set of Imperial Guard flak armor and accompanied by a rattle of guns and ammo as he walked. There were no visible marks of war on him, however, and it was debatable whether the six ritual scars on his bronze cheeks improved or ruined his appearance. He wore his blond hair short and it would have not been visible at all had the helmet that was on the table been on his head instead. "Now, where were we, elder? You wanted to know how Zek would be able to serve the Emperor, yes?" The man he spoke to had completely unremarkable face and absolutely average clothes, his spoken words so soft they were utterly lost in the chatter of the crowds. Despite that, Zek seemed to be able to discern what the man said and looked thoughtful after listening intently for a while, gave a good scratching to his short stubble of hair before answering. "Well, yes. I'm sure there are a dozen guys with their merc's licence in a place like this, but ex-Guards who know their primers, trustworthy men like me? I've seen the worlds too, I have, gotten through the Warp with my purity intact, and let me tell you a thing - the Emperor's got me covered." Zek nodded to emphasize his point, frowned at something his companion said and then made the sign of aquila. "He has decreed the place and time of my death. One more reason to hire me and not some random rabble - I will not be stopped by any thug or accident. This the priests told me as I stood guard over them on my home world. I was trustworthy as a lad back then and I remain so now that I'm a grown man, and that is why those missionaries taught me things the others of my people, may the Emperor bless their ignorance, have not quite mastered." He drank a long draught of the vile liquid he had bought and managed only a tiny grimace afterwards, the long words obviously parching his throat so badly the horrid taste of the beer was not an issue. His companion said something and Zek nodded, gestured with his mug. "Yes, yes. I know how to use all the weapons a Guardsman should know." Zek patted the lasgun on his back and grinned. "Not just that, either! I can drive, for that is what I ended up doing for the priests before I accompanied them here and were released from my duties. So there you have it, old man, and here you can see my merc licence. Will you hire me now?"

Snow everywhere, almost late from the winter party. Wet, large flakes, a visiting tour before spring will whisk them away. They would make a forest beautiful, not these cages of concrete and metal. Through a gap I spot an urban zombie. I doubt anybody knows where he is - his posture tells me he doesn't, for sure, brains drowning in ethanol. Nothing to see there. I still pause and watch him lurch forward, hobbled pair of steps at a time. A poisoned man walking. If he could raise his gaze and comprehend what he saw, somebody standing a level above him in an uniform of blue goretex, would he see pity in my eyes? Cruel amusement? Or merely the cold, measuring look of a writer? I shrug and continue my rounds.

Imagine, if you will, a pearl - perfect and shiny. It sits on a bed of black velvet, and is connected to others like it, as perfect and as shiny, by thin strings, hard to see against the dark background. That pearl is a whole universe, a world so vast the beings in it do not comprehend it having limits of any kind, the velvet the planar Void that separates these worlds from each other and the strings ... oh yes, the strings. They are the Lost Paths, roads for those who can survive in the airless, hostile Astral: angels and demons, scurrying here and there to do their master's bidding, mortal mages and priests who have learned just enough to travel past their usual boundaries but not enough to resist the temptation, the rare gods who feel it is their prerogative to meddle in the affairs of more than one plane. And lastly, and most importantly, the planewalkers who claim these roads wrought with deadly perils as their home. Of no single origin, they have Ascended from mortal men, born from the unions of two immortals or through some cosmic cataclysm spewing forth new life, or risen from the rank and file of planar armies. They are the immortal heroes of the multiversum, immortal, immoral, lawless and power-hungry, their age carved into their bodies by maps of scars. Chased by the dogs of ennui, they throw themselves into various projects, some disappearing from the knowledge of even their almost omniscient peers. Most find their pleasure in the art of war, however, painting their histories with blood as they strive to gain further power and to advance the cause of whichever of the five great Alignments they have sworn allegiance to: the great three, Chaos, Balance and Law, and the lesser two, Evil and Good. Thus, the Eternal War, at times burning renewed and threatening to engulf the whole multiversum with fire, at other times its embers glowing more softly but still with searing heat. These are the stories of one of the more infamous of the heroes of that war, a being most only know by the name of Lord Dreamer. Others call him the Scourge of the Planes, the Bloodclad, a Knight of the Grail, a Godslayer or even Wodzan Xe Chanima, should they know him better than most. His history, as with most of his kind, is such a convulsed, labyrinthine thing telling the abridged version of it would only serve to confuse the reader, and any one detail within it merely a drop in the ocean of his deeds and adventures. So we will have to start at the middle, like with any true story, for stories have no real endings nor beginnings. And now ... it's time to lift the curtain!

Epilogue Suentalv frowned, disturbed by the sight. A maelstorm of the Void swirling in front of him, its tendrils creeping to every direction, weakening as their distance from the unstable heart of the storm grew but doing so too slowly for his comfort. The eye of the storm was reality distorted to such extent even looking at it was painful or sickening. I have a bad feeling about this. Really, really bad. Around the dying gate he could see tiny embers denoting planewalker captains or those of the planar warriors who were strong enough for him to sense from this distance. They seemed like ants in a dying pond and no matter how he tried, he could not see if the majority of them were trying to reach the decaying hole in the reality or to escape its inexorable pull. Either way, they were all preoccupied with the catastrophe. He stood up, feeling vaguely foolish from having hidden on this piece of floating Voidship debris in the first place. Faaye will want to know about this as soon as possible, as will ... "... the Dreamer?" "Heya, pup." By the time he realized there was something very odd in the Dreamer wearing a suit of shifting wine-red armor the older planewalker was very close.

I do wonder if he rolls in his grave a lot. *cough* Much respect!

His feet were bare again, gripping the wet stone. Everything was wet by default here, the few scattered deserts of stone punching through the seas crushed between clouds heavy of rain and the ocean's colossal waves. There was not a long way to go - it was easy to sense this nexus of leylines even from beyond the planar crystal and he had landed with greater accuracy than usual. The Dreamer paused there, immune to the cold wind whipping him with lashes of water but not to the grand majesty of the view. No matter how many times he stepped through the planar veil, no matter how many times he opened his eyes under a different sun or moon or even in some sort of cthonian darkness, the wonders of this multiversum never ceased to be just that to him, wonders. The islet he stood on was bare stone, dark and wet, worn smooth from the incessant abuse of the ocean. Above was the ocean of clouds, rushing to race with the wind, the clouds much akin to the rocky piece of land he stood on: sleek, round, wet. Through that uneven mattress punched diffuse rays of blue light, now a dozen of those bright spots in the sky, now half a dozen, now just one. And then the cycle begun anew, never illuminating the drenched world properly but never allowing it to sink into absolute darkness. Natural shapes both above and below. Beyond the shoreline rose the mountains of this world, hands of the sea gods reaching towards the far-away clouds, hammering whatever rock they found with affronted anger. "Ours! This world is ours!" Deafening warcry, and a wonder there was any rock left to hammer. The waves would have smashed along the eroded rock and right into the planewalker if he had let them. He had work to do, here far away from Keava'et Aam and close to the ambiguous edges of Law's Dominion, work more important than letting the waves vent their rage, and so the waves parted when they reached for him, a flickering sphere of emerald green marking the edges of his power here. In front of him rose a marker, a sort of sturdy temple the locals must have had built. It was as dark as the stone it was rooted on and not very large, its edges smooth and shape simple. Layline nexuses this strong were rare, this one stretching beyond the confines of its own world, and he could feel its warm, magical hum without concentrating. Strong enough for mortals to feel its beguiling call, he supposed, a sacred place. No walker of the planes would have needed to mark it - to them the temple was like a tiny lighthouse on top of an active volcano, tiny light marking the location of a huge, fiery landmark. Stepping closer, he could feel an irrefutable air of Fate permeating the place, a connection to the laws set on lead for both future and past. A perfect place to perform a scrying or a divination. He dragged out a leather bag from wet air, his hand quickly dipping through the endless distances and then back. Cards were what he usually used, but they picked disturbances from whatever was the greatest conflict in the multiversum, and he had a feeling this was not it anymore. Good and Evil were flexing and posturing elsewhere, the Black and White Kings glaring at each other over their servants. He was not a tool of Fate now, he felt, and thus not as well connected to the futures the cards made manifest. A frown, a few muttered words and tiny movements of his fingers, all done while he was thinking something else entirely - but the wind obeyed and stilled inside his little sphere of comparative dryness. Out of his bag came his runed bones, simple words of the First True Language carved on dragon's talon-bones: Fire, Man, Star, Spear. Images of earlier, more archaic age, something he had not been able to use before his few years as a war-god for the people of the sea-dragons. Those times had woken up a primitive part in him. There was room inside his huge mind, and so he had let it be, and that part had not walked out of him during his long slumber. Something like his battletrance, but less angry, more elemental. His eyes were drifting through muted, earthly colors usually reserved for those rare times he was truly hurt. The Dreamer slowed down. He was in a hurry, yes, but in a hurry on his immortal timescale, and this required accuracy to be worth anything. Even this sacred, magical place did not allow him to just throw the bones and be done with it. He had to attune himself to the bones again, like meeting an old friend after ages have passed, a friend older than you. ... Dragon, Storm, Stone. Old friends, steady as rock, at home on any world still true to its roots. He wasn't sure if it had been his presence or just a coincidence, or perhaps something pre-destinated, but when he lifted his gaze from his bones he could see the waves breaking at the shore and one of the locals rising from the ocean. Behind him he saw the unclear form of another, then another, rising up to this element hostile to them in their airsuits. Sturdy constructs of brass and leather, water swirling inside the transparent mask, something like eyes looking through. The suits were ornamental, adorned with the protective pictures of the deep gods, tentacles of brass curled in a blessing gesture. The wind tugged at them and they struggled to stay upright in this alien landscape, their limbs badly suited for walking. A wave slammed into the progression and one of them fell down for a moment before they reached the deceptive calm surrounding the planewalker. His tiny enchantment, just to make sure the wind would not blow his precious bones into the ocean. A miracle of the skylord to them. The Dreamer stood up, far more inscrutable to the denizens of the deeps than they were to him. He had avoided the temple, partly because it was slightly away from the true center of the nexus, partly out of automatic politeness and wariness towards the local culture. Most locals were completely powerless against planewalkers, but even those cultures could be an irritant. It did no harm to adapt some, as long as the adapting was as easy as not sitting on top of a local temple. For a moment they stared at each other, the half a dozen creatures crawled out of the sea and the one walker of the Lost Paths out of the Void, meeting on a neutral ground. Their language must be something transmitted only through the water. This is a vacuum to them, a deadly but holy enviroment enshrouded in sacred silence. A nod was usually safe, and he did so, shallow but clearly visible gesture with no hostility in it. The first of the pilgrims bowed back in a way that made the Dreamer wonder what the locals looked like inside their cubersome suits. Only for a moment, though. Then a strong deja vu flooded him, the primitiveness in him remembering the old rituals, mortal creatures bowing to their immortal shaman or wargod. The people of the sea-dragons had been human, these clearly weren't and they were not even asking him for his prophecy. They merely were there at the right time. Props for the show, supplicants for the higher wisdom. He remembered how to understand the bones. They were heavy in his hands, heavy and waiting. * "Ye call this a hidin' place?" "It did serve me so far, ya." The Patriarch, now in his normal guise, stood up, wiped dust from the pages of the grimoire he had been reading and closed it with care. He had been sitting on a simple folding chair, his few possessions standing in the middle of the featureless desert giving it the appearance of an absurd campsite. The Dreamer glanced at a large burnt furrow passing them both, straigth and uniform, as if he hadn't noticed it before. His mouth twisted with distaste. "Yer handiwork, then?" The older planewalker did not raise to the half-hearted bait. He placed the book on a bookstand and raised a bushy eyebrow at the Dreamer. "Ye know I did not condone this sort o' warfare. Or yer summoning, for that matter. I doubt Faaye's entirely pleased with that unsolv'd manner either, even if th' Maiden o' Daggers is hardly another Devourer." "It seem'd necessary at th' time, m'lord." A nod that did not mark agreement, merely that his words had been heard. The two ancient warriors stared at each other in silence. This close it was easier to see Patriarch's many scars on his weathered face, the unyielding anger in his eyes. It was almost like looking at a mirror, their deeper similarities greater than the shallow differences. A grin flashed on the Dreamer's face. "Just hunt 'er down an' bind or kill her - I will not interfere, These bindin' words I, Wodzan Xe Chanima, speak o' my own free will." "Ah ha. Very amusin', m'lord, an' I shall do just that. Now, what was it ye really wanted, ya? Ye'd hardly go through all that trouble tryin' to bend th' cards t' yer will from the conflict they'd rather show ye t' find me if that's all ye 'ave t' say." "Indeed, th' cards ... a mighty struggle t' find ye with them, I'm sure. What I need t' know is was our effort worth th' price? I'm sure ye've felt th' balance shift an' waver even if th' word from Keava'et Aam has not reach'd ye yet." "Th' gate ..." The Patriarch dropped his intensive gaze from the Dreamer's face to a demon skull poking out of the dull brown sand, thinking deeply. "'Twas more complicated construct than I had been expectin', an' sturdier than it should be. No doubt one of th' Keys was used t' open it." "Ya, ya, we all know Atyaer's clique has th' Blue Flame. Did ya manage t' disrupt it, neverth'less?" "Now therein lies a question I wish I 'ad a clear answer, m'lord Dreamer. Observe, if ye may, th' structure..." Next to the Patriarch an illusion bloomed, painfully crisp in the Law-tainted air, showing the innards of the Parallel gate spell in runes and colors only a master of the Art could understand.

"Did they find 'is corpse yet, ya?" "No, an' I doubt he is dead. He doesn't seem th' type t' overextended himself." "He really did like this tree, he did. An' he didn't seem like th' type t' vanish, either." The Dreamer floated down from his standing position to sit next to Faaye on the burnt branch. "I promis'd him a grave here, should he fall at th' defense." "Ye did? Ye know how holy th' roots are to th' elves." "Not many things can be holier than th' still'd blood of those who have had th' strength to oppose th' gods themselves." He shrugged, though, not standing fully behind his proclamation. There was an air of absence about him, like he had burned more than just his storage of mana in the fierce fight. Even his eyes had a vague color, shimmering weakly in his ruined face like two pools of dirty rainwater after a storm. He held Pain in his left hand in an awkward fashion, forgotten all about it perhaps, and there was a stain of soot on his right cheek. Faaye's white armor was still unblemished, but her energetic personality lacked its usual sparkle. They sat there, side by side, and watched the last fires being doused. The tree was in a sorry state, though the Dreamer's desperate and reckless charge had perhaps saved it. He had heard the elder elves were already composing a song of it, or weaving it in the larger chorus of the songs of this battle - a bold, grand theme recurring through the symphony of bitter loss, countering the deepest despair and fighting the black notes of already triumphant enemy. Somehow that cut him instead of comforting him. Faaye touched his arm lightly. "Ye sure ye won't need time t' recuperate, brother? Th' elves are callin' ye 'Bloodclad', an' they tend not t' give out epithet's like that lightly." He winced and did not meet her questing eyes. The view suit his mood: from where they sat, they could see more black than green, more bare branches than living ones. More living soldiers than dead ones of every sort now, though, the piles of corpses slowly dwindling as they were sorted and dragged away. "'Twas mostly th' blood of demons, sister. 'M not in th' habit o' dyin' myself." Silence. Immortals had all the time in the world and there was no need to fill it all with chatter. "This ... this was unforgivable. An' we did not even manage t' close th' gate." "Ye said before ye couldn't ascertain what happen'd in th' heat o' th' battle. Do ye really claim th' Patriarch would leave a work like this half-done?" That made him turn, his new scar vivid on his face, eyes bleached and worn. "Ye weren't there, sister. We were better than them, so much better, yet so starkly outnumber'd like pebbles in rapids, pushed aside by a horde. Aye, I can't say for sure what he managed t' do with his few fleetin' moments at th' gate, but whatever he did he did not close it, 'tis sure." Her voice softened and shifted, turned mortal. "He was at the Sealing of the Devourer, at the Breaking of the Daggers and at the Denial of Birth. Even if he is not of Balance he will not let aberrations like these holes in the walls of reality rest, and you know firsthand how wise and powerful he is." The Dreamer let Pain drop to gesture better with his hands, ignoring its plummet across most of the demiplane, not even noticing that it disappeared into the Void when it hit the crystal. He spoke Ancient Aefian now, and sounded like an officer, or somebody aspiring to become one. "Ah! But he failed to be there when Grail made it possible to bring her back succesfully, and he has not managed to contain the Maiden of Daggers since. Listing his victories is fine, and I concede he has marked the flows of Fate with more width and depth than even me, but nobody tells tales of failures. It is easy to trust others to do the hero's work, but that trust does not equal to guaranteed success." "So then, if you are healed, you will make it sure if one hero fails, another succeeds?" His answering glare was hooded, but it lasted only for a moment before he shrugged again and averted his gaze. The soft, mortal moment broke. "Ye will search for him, then?" "Ya, o' course. Even if ye didn't ask, we do want t' know where all our planewalkers captains are an' what sort of force we can still muster. Scouts are out, harassin' and following th' enemy as far as they think they can go. Perhaps those o' them that return have a word of him, when they do. An' ye?" He floated up to stand on the now fragile branch, dislocating a small cloud of ash. "Me? Patriarch might be better at cleasin' th' multiversum o' things that should not be, but I'm better at hidin' afterwards. An' figurin' out where others may hide. I'll go meet him, wherever he is, an' ask what happened. Futile t' run after th' driftin' gate now, in any case ... unless ye 'ave a few armies somewhere I could loan." The question was so rhetorical he did not even spare Faaye a look. Pain re-appeared in his hand and he sheathed it, still looking at the damaged, ruined tree fortress of Keava'et Aam. Only at the last moment, just before sidestepping back in the Void, he gave her a short glance.

It had been a long time since he had last felt the constricting presence of emergency wards around him. Not that there was much left of even them, as late as he had retreated from the fight. Resilient, yes, but not invulnerable. Déjà vu - not the first time I am running away with a trail of angry followers, wards almost gone. This time I don't even have a foolish apprentice to blame. The Dreamer paused his extra thoughts to weave a few extra defensive spells to replace those the pursuing planewalker captains had just dispelled. He could feel them probing at his considerable defences, probing and hammering and pounding, eroding the edges away like a hungry river. Rare that a planewalker losing face by running away was pursued like this, but this was no ordinary skirmish, no prize forgotten in a few passing years. He expanded his senses to every direction, sacrificing a portion of his meagre supply of mana to gain a better look at the situation. The Patriarch is safe, veering away from Keava'et Aam with the majority of the pursuers. Never knew he could be that fast, or that he would be on our side in this. No sign of the Astral Wyrm or the two masters of stealth, but that doesn't mean anything ... and there's Aksh Avarra, finally ignored as they should have done in the first place. He wiped blood from his face, flicking the gore away into the depths of the Void where it would freeze and drift away, tiny red globes travelling the dark, lonely space forever. From beneath the red mask, a new scar was revealed along with an ancient feral grin. The Dreamer's eyes shone with white glow, illuminating the claustrophobic constraints of the emergency wards. He was extending his lead, and during that intoxicating moment he knew he had won again, if not against the still nebulous sect of gate-keepers then at least against the Last Death, the eternal enemy. The Void was still filled with angry auras behind him, sores on the velvet surface of the night between planes, but he ran faster than the buzzing swarm of bees and Keava'et Aam was getting closer with its impressive, magnificent defences of Balance's finest, most skilled defenders. Something is amiss. He had never seen such a sight before, not even during all the grand wars spawned by the Eternal War. The Void was alight with pulsing and shimmering auras all swirling around the demi-plane of Keava'et Aam, a chaotic battle more vicious than the formalized affairs of Law versus Chaos. As he spiralled closer, drawing ambient magic as fast as he could to be of any use when he would arrive, the Dreamer started to see details: elder elves fighting against demons thrice their size, planewalkers with auras so dim they should have switched to emergency wards and fled ages ago, small groups going against other small groups in fights where it was impossible to see afar which side was the enemy and which a friend. The strained laylines shone with pale blue around him like he was a winged demon swooping in from the night. Where those huge wings met, his emerald wards bloomed into renewed existence, weaker and more crude than his usual weave but best he could do with the time and mana he had. An awe-inspiring sight - and dwarfed into insignificance by the gaudy display of excessive magic already in progress all around the planar crystal. The Dreamer let his eyes turn black with a hint of blue, plotted a course for his mad amok run through the skirmish and sunk into his battle trance. "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" A demon commander's head exploded. Pain sliced through another, the Dreamer's wards taking the impact of the demon's blade without him breaking his stride. A boiling sphere of hellfire struck a formation of enemy's angels, turning every white thing it touched to grey ashes. His wings beat once forcing more mana into him, and he charged faster forward, slicing through a subcommander there, wrecking a unit of attackers here, never pausing until he was through. The tree was burning. That blow struck past his wards and made him pause there, to take the view in much in the same way his first visit had made him pause. Ashes and burning embers flew around the portable demiplane and further away, nearer to the trunk, the desperate struggle he had witnessed outside was duplicated. Where he stood was one of the calmer regions, since it was here at the gate the heaviest defences had been deployed, and here they had held. They had not done so easily, however - he could see marks of battle everywhere, from crippled angels to the sixth sense visions of the magical residue of triggered traps. Before one of the local angel lieutenants had time to approach him, the Dreamer snarled and sped forward, towards where the fighting was most fierce. This I will not countenance!

"Something is amiss." Her fingers touched the glass briefly, even if she knew that'd leave fingerprints. It breathed chill on her fingertips, winter's most bitter cold prowling just outside the glass. They might even get some snow, a rare treat this far south. She felt restless and it had nothing to do with the weather. Her sixth sense was not as keen as it had been, now that there were two other mages in the same tower with her and Mandra was slowly waking up to her talent, but even if she could not pinpoint the source of the disturbance, there were only so many things it could be about. "What is it, Janki?" Fionella was reading one of the massive tomes the Dreamer had already lent them back in Chaman, her attire so haphazard as to be barely respectable, even at this late hour. There were only the three of them present, however, and they had quickly found such camaraderie through their mutual appreciation of the Art that it had lead to an unspoken compact of informality whenever the situation allowed it. Marchello looked up from his notes concerning planar travel as well, mute concern on his unpretentious face, ink stains on his slender fingers. "It's ... a long story, but this would not be the first time he would try to tap into more power through me." Marchello frowned, trying to cut into the core of her obscure statement. "You mean he is coming, finally? He said two weeks, back then." "No, no, I doubt that. He is in danger, somewhere far away." "It is possible to draw mana past planar distances without any visible gates?" "This is a special case, as far as I know. I should tell you the tale of the Grail Wars, I suppose. I just prefer not to dwell on those years too much." Just then, before having time to start her next sentence, she staggered and almost fell. Marchello and Fionella could feel the surge, like a titan of raw mana marching through the tower. A golden light transformed the room into something from a faery tale, the beautiful moment marred only by Jankiize's distress. She went pale, cold sweat making her face gleam in the fading golden glow. Jankiize stumbled to the nearest chair, Fionella already next to her with a steadying hand, flustered Marchello pouring a stiff drink in case it would be useful, not figuring out anything better to do. In that almost silent moment, only fire crackling in the fireplace, they could all hear Mandra starting to cry in the girls' bedroom. * The Dreamer parried, felt the strain of absorbing the deadly impact of the blow and backed off to gain a precious fraction of a moment to appraise the situation. Everything has worked as they had planned, so far, but they were so badly outnumbered by the defending forces their best did not seem to be good enough. Above them all, flying through the pathless Void with speed as its only sanctuary was the Astral Wyrm, smaller but more concentrated now, easier to see and more deadly. She blasted the defenders with jets of incorporeal fire, distracting more than damaging them. Near him, obscured by a horde of enemies, was Aksh Avarra, a master such he had rarely before seen in sheer survival. At least three formidable planewalkers were trying to cut through his heavyset armor, without much success. Like a hedgehog curled into a ball. A masterful array of self-regenerating and hardened wards ... I wish I had the time to properly observe how he does it. Far away, almost at the gate, another heated battle was taking place. Zerevh and Myrkorps, both excelling in stealth and subterfuge, had gotten that close to their objective before they were mired down. The Dreamer could not quite see how they were faring now, but he could see they would not gain much ground there fast enough for it to matter. That left only him and their scout. That had been almost too much wasted time, and he had trouble dodging the next sweeping blow. If his opponent had not been incensed beyond rationality, that dodge would have been impossible. "Enjoyin' th' sweet caress o' th' raw Void on yer bared head, Runelord?" "You will not pollute this multiversum for far longer, Dreamer of Chaos, for my name is Justice!" He sneered and feinted an attack, realizing to his chagrin the Runelord was not even trying to parry his blow. Luckily his opponents vicious hack was meant to kill, not to injure. The time it took to lift the Runelord's heavy sword high enough for the required force gave the Dreamer the time to step aside. It was much as it had been the last time they had met in the Castle of the Birds. Heavy-set, human-shaped creature of the purest Law, runes etched all over its thick, cubersome suit of platemail. It handled a two-handed sword as tall as the Dreamer with deceptive ease, the blade engraved with even more writhing, glimmering runes than its armor. Seeing that instrument of war made the Dreamer both furious with anger and afraid, one of his deepest scars aching even more than usual. Only thing that allowed him to keep a level head when facing this juggernaut of destruction was its ruined head, a river of scars unlike anything that the Dreamer had flowing right over it. Scars made by daggers, an endless halo of daggers. It had retained its golden eyes, or perhaps they had been cut open and later healed, he had no way of knowing, and within those golden globes burned a fiery vengeance. It rushed towards him again, sword lifted high, face twisted into a mask of murderous intent. I'm glad I got the easy part of his plan to take care of. Of course, without Grail's earlier intervention ...

He could feel the invisible wings of an Astral Wyrm spreading through the Void while he was on his way to meet the group of planewalker captains. The local astral was disturbed by the Wyrm's passage, swirling and seething in an unusual manner. Even though he was in a hurry, he felt compelled to stop and gaze into the disturbance, to see the form of the Wyrm. A phantasmal vision superimposed itself over the velvet night of the Void for a fleeting moment: standing there, tall and proud, he was barely the height of one scale of the dragon's armor. It had wings the size of a celestial army, eyes large as planar pearls, its claws scything through the dark and its tail curling out of the nothingness. Then the vision passed and the Dreamer hurried forward. Fate did not like to be kept waiting. He had not even seen the assembled patrol before he had been conscripted to help with the skirmishes breaking out everywhere around the deceptive safety of Keava'et Aam. Despite knowing how dire the situation was, seeing how little he had to work with made his face twist with dismay. Two of the figures were wearing robes, the first one of the two clad in the ornamental black of a Void Descendant Ethereum. Dark energy crackled inside its cowl, barely contained within mummy wrappings covered with elaborate script. The creature carried a staff adorned with gold and other, more precious metals, the crystals jutting out of both ends glowing crimson. Not much different in looks from any mortal member of the ethereal race of traders, except this one had a dog-sized golden wyrm curled on its back in some sort of backpack, half of it consisting of enormous, bulky head. Its tail and both wings were useless, stubby things and it was snoring gently, giving off the air of a cute pet. For a short moment the Dreamer merely stared at the sleeping thing, trying to understand what bothered him so much about the creature. Then his second sight showed him the majesty of the Astral Wyrm again, the tiny wyrm at its heart, and he understood. The next one's robes were light and dark blue, dark and light grey, the colors drifting across the robes like clouds across evening sky. Under this cowl he spied a humanoid face of ebony, the man's eyes crackling with the same yellow thunder his own showed when he was extremely alert. White teeth shining inside the shadows showed the man was grinning in welcome. This planewalker held no weapon and had no boots or gloves, a copper belt his only garment besides the robes of storm. Last captain was only one of them wearing armor, but he had enough of it for all three. Angular platemail covered every inch of him from toes to his face, spikes, runes and engraved tales of victory and defeat crawling across the metal surfaces. His shield was taller than he was, so thick and massive no mortal man could have lifted it. On it was a short message, every brutal logogram large and baroque. The Dreamer winced as he read it, then sank the knowledge of it into the depths of his memory. They all stood there, studying him as he studied them, ready and waiting. "Greetings, m'lord captains. Is this th' whole force? An' who has th' knowledge of th' gates whereabouts?" The ethereal nodded its cowl-covered head. Its speech was surprisingly refined, almost elegant, even though it had no mouth. "Greetings, flesh-commander Dreamer. We are still waiting on the scout who discovered the gate, and, if I understood correctly, who will also join us in the assault of the Law's gate. Ah, excuse my manners - allow me to introduce myself and the other shareholders in this enterprise: I am Void Archon Zerevh Malad, my faithful wyrm calls herself Unabashed Cloudstrider of the Cloudstrider clan, and these two esteemed flesh beasts are Bishop Myrkorps and, somewhere behind all that metal, Aksh Avarra." A round of nods was exchanged. Myrkorps pointed behind the Dreamer and spoke in a mellow, utterly relaxed voice. "There's our missing scout." The Dreamer turned to look. It was hard to see a single aura against the background of conflict, marching armies and battlemagics, planewalker captains and scavenging entities all smudging the usually so clear view of Lost Paths and constellations of pearly planes against the utter blackness of the Void. Soon the scout was so close even the interference did not cloak his approach and the Dreamer could see his wards. An unfamiliar configuration, as he had expected - despite his history, he had not actually met most of Balance's agents before. But there was something tugging at the edges of his consciousness when he saw the scout run closer, an insistent voice he could not silence. Then it dawned to him, a moment like seeing the vague outlines of the Astral Wyrm resolve themselves into a dragon in front of him, except this revelation was not fleeting. What in the name of all the myriad Abysses is HE doing here!?

They say cyborgs are the future heads with protruding metal jutting pieces of digital minds. But some of us are there already our minds humming on the table silence of a cooling fan a lobotomy.