Zadown

I wonder why I bother with this - if he keeps on doing things like this, he'll be dead sooner or later, in one year or in a dozen years, a mere blink of an eye. The Dreamer paused his extra thoughts to weave a few extra defensive spells to replace those the pursuers just dispelled. He could feel them probing at his considerable defences, probing and hammering and pounding, eating it spell by spell like a pack of bloodhounds. They were good at it. But he was a planewalker. And now Lady Pain doesn't like me .. well, we weren't exactly the best friends even before this incident. The planewalker glanced backwards to ensure that the comatose body of his pupil was still tagging along after him, shielded with a coruscating green field of protection. Behind the pair of them, the master and the pupil, was just the darkness of the Void .. but he could sense the pursuit, the strong auras of those behind them flaring like supernovas in the vision of his second sight. Angels of great power and cackling demons of lower hells - all the smaller fishes had already dropped out of the chase. Some of the greater angels and demons had dropped out too, right after they had crossed the border of Sigil, old conflicts flaring up too strongly for them to fly side by side after him. He would've laughed at them as they went against each other with claws and spells, but he was way too busy then... At least he got some scars out of it. I should add one or two myself .. this is the closest to danger I've been since I killed the dream god. As to underline his latest thought, an aura of power detached itself from the flock of the other pursuers and started to gain on him. He studied the patter and shape of it for a second or two, then a name and a vision unattached itself from the deeper pits of his memory and floated to the top. Great, here comes Festion - I can't outrun him. Changing direction and gathering the last possible speed he could, the Dreamer chose a new Lost Path and sped along it, trying to get to a certain spot before battling against the archangelic paragon of speed that was after him "for crimes against the ruler of Sigil, Lady of Pain". This should be intresting...

First, everything was as it should be, fine, glorious and enchanted. We went to a tavern and drank some more, continuing what we started with the wine earlier, and we were thrilled by all that we saw: shady figures talking in corners with hoods over their faces, hard-looking mercenaries quaffing ale with the efficiency of a professional drinker, ladies of negotiable affection walking around in their revealing clothes. Zanadin's nightlife breathed in and out - it inhaled money, innocence and youth, and exhaled corruption and blood. But we didn't see that then: we had our fun there, ignoring the tavern regulars and their stares, the not-too-subtle signs that we weren't wanted, the loud mutterings. Big disasters are often heralded by their smaller cousins, and so it was that time, too. Remonar had had one or two more than the rest of us, and incited by the drink, he decided not to ignore one particularly loud comment about our party. He rose from the table, ignoring our pleas to stay seated, and walked to the bully who had belched something about elves being too frail for these neighbourhoods. The fight was brutal and short. We all had grown accustomed to having superior equipment and the aid of spells in battle, both of which weren't available in a drunken brawl. If Remonar would've been there alone, he would've met with even crueller fate, I know now. Then, we didn't think of such things, we were just alarmed and dismayed when he fell to the floor, bleeding and his nose broken and rushed to heal him. Avianne, more skilled in magic than the rest of us, quickly chanted a minor incantation and healed the wound with one gentle touch, and we then wisely decided to leave the tavern. But the damage was already done - our façade of invulnerability was cracked, both to us and to all who had been there in the tavern watching the brief brawl. So, when we continued our journey, seeking another tavern, the bitter taste of fear tainted our mood. The shadows seemed to move, and I almost suggested that we should leave this region of the city and move back to our camp in one of the parks, but I didn't wish to show cowardice in front of the others. We were bound together, a stack of twigs adrift on the river of Fate. And the shadows did move, indeed. For the denizens of this place smelled our fear, sensed our vulnerability, saw our gold and silver jewellery glittering in the darkening evening, in the lamplights. They did not reveal themselves at once: they knew us better than we did, and they knew that we would go deeper in their lair, that we would travel to the heart of the darkness. It shone in the eyes of Remonar, who lead us. Mere humans had humiliated him, and now anger banished all terror from him. He walked with purposeful steps, swaying slightly, a hand on the handle of his rapier. He was the first to fall. I remember that horrible moment even now, beyond the borders of life, as clearly as it had just happened: Remonar taking another one of his long steps and turning to look back at us, about to say something witty as was his habit, Avianne looking around, clearly feeling uneasy, me half-immersed in some philosophical thought. The bolt of a crossbow first wasn't there, then it was, jutting out of Remonar's neck, ugly and deadly, and he made a cry or more like a whimper. Time froze. Even though we were drunk, we still were elves, and our battle reflexes took mercifully over at once and thus postponed the reality of a friend's death for until it was all over. Avianne chanted an incantation, and a light flared in her hand, showing us the assailants: four thieves, all from the tavern we had just left. The magical light shone on their weapons and we saw the spark of greed and lust for violence in their small human eyes. Never before we had fought against humans - we had always thought they were inferior, as orcs, but relatively harmless. The shock of them attacking us was great, even in that part of the city, even after the brawl Remonar had lost, even though we all had feared something like this to happen in these shadowy streets. That shock hit me the worst, I think, since I had always been the poet, the philosopher, the romantic, and while that moment shattered my naiveté and halted me where I stood, the other reacted better. Ghemerna drew his bastardsword, made by the dwarves of the Serpent's Tooth and baptized in the blood of the orcs of the Black Mountains, and charged on, ever the courageous one. Jhella, I think her name was, faded in the shadows by the help of her cloak and readied her dagger before vanishing from sight, and the last elf of our party whose name I've lost to time also readied himself for combat. I just stood there, holding the hilt of my rapier, still in scabbard, overcome by the sheer speed and brutality of the events. The next few seconds were a blur for me: a noise of steel on steel, the colour of Avianna's hair in the eerie glow of the magic light, a human's cry as Ghemerna's superior blade bit flesh, the smell of the street. Then my personal world truly ended, and now that I think back to that moment I can almost hear the heavy noise of Fate's lead coin, falling the wrong side up on the table up there where gods play their games on us mortals. In the glow emanating from Avianna's hand she was a well-illuminated target, and blind to the night by her own spell. She didn't see him coming, but I did. And I failed the test, miserably: I could've thrown my daggers, charged with my rapier, used my then minor magic, done something. I have seen that moment in my dreams and nightmares countless of times, every time cursing powerlessly that wasted opportunity to save her. But all I did was a shouted warning, delayed and mixed in the other noises of the battle, and a few steps closer to her, slow and clumsy. She turned to look at me, beautiful to the last - and the spear pierced through her spells of protection woven into her shirt and struck her in the stomach so hard it came out on the other side, and she was dead at once, impaled as some filthy vermin. That sight unlocked me in that battle and drove me into a berserk fury, far too late, feeling hopeless and broken under the rush of revenging anger. I spoke the word of command of my emerald amulet and a jet of green flames roared through the intervening air at the killer, who fell down, only to receive blow upon blow upon blow from my rapier. Around me, the noises of the battle died down, all the attackers slain or chased away by our elven might, but I didn't notice. My rapier broke, and still I struck the man, cursing his short life, cursing this evening and most of all, cursing myself for not being able to save Avianna. Blood soiled my clothes, but I kept hammering at that hapless former thief, tearing, stabbing, cutting, ignoring the outside world hoping that it would all be just a terrible nightmare from which I could wake up if I'd ignore it enough. Eventually, my survived friends pulled me off his corpse, and the hopelessness surged in me, and darkness claimed me. Next day, I took the first step on my new road, and changed my allegiance to the Guild of Death. And since then, that has been the road I've been walking, the road of death in memory of a death long ago, before and after the pact. Countless have been my kills in her memory, but they don't bring her back...

Yes, I do remember that day. It was a long time ago, when I still could go out to the sunlight, when I still breathed, before the pact I made. It was a great day, yes, but not to our little group of travelling elves... I was there, sitting in the roof of some human's house, I think it was the Count of Zanadin's; it was a warm day as most days in the Red Theocracy are and a gentle breeze blew from the sea. There was Avianne (oh, sweet Avianne), Remonar, many others and I - most of the faces are lost in time, and I cannot recall them. We just idled away our time, looking outward to the sea and at the Three Ships (as they were already known back then, even before the blessing) and soaked the warmth of the sun. Young and happy we were, then - and I envy those spectres of the past that remain trapped in that one moment. For the road I back then saw as a bright one turned out to be a darker than I could've imagined ... The crowds of humans gathered in the streets and piers of the harbour of Zanadin, none of them having as good seats for the upcoming spectacle as us - only the best for us elves, as always. We drank some wine and watched the humans watching the priests do nothing. There were some pilgrims in the crowd, we saw, and although we had seen most of our small world in our travels, we stared at the few barbarians from the Phoenix Island and made crude jests about them, safe in our high haven. We laughed at the obvious discomfort of the pair of Aefian knights in ceremonial plate, their gear unsuitable for the heat, we probed at the spell-protections of a couple of old-looking mages obviously from Tyourun with our small and weak cantrips (yes, we were young and foolish to do so) and had generally had a good time. The sun climbed higher in the sky and the interval between our jests grew, as we lay there feeling drowsy in the spring heat. After a long time, something started to happen finally near the ships. The many-voiced chant, created especially for the occasion, sung by both priests of the Maiden of the Sea, Uuvel, and the Raven of the Sky, Raaver, reached even our ears, faintly at first and then growing in intensity as the crowd grew silent. The breeze grew with the chant and banished the heat, and we shouted in glee as the wind picked up Ghemerna's hat and carried it away to the sea. After that, however, the feeling of power in the air, the still feeling you get only when near great magic, before storms or in the presence of deities, got to us, too, and we fell silent and listened to the chant, fully aware that this would be the first and the last time to hear it and to store it to memory as a worthy experience. And it was good that we fell silent - jests would have spoiled the events that followed. First, clouds raced across the sky, and waves arose from the sea, twisting into unnatural forms. A single loud screech pierced the chant and the low hum of the wind, and as we looked to the sky, we saw what we had expected to see: Raaver flew through the clouds, high above the city and the harbour. At the same time, Uuvel arose from the sea, magnificent in her glory, carried by the waves. Our mood shifted quickly - even though none of this concerned us and those weren't our gods, we couldn't remain aloof and distant at the presence of such forces. The weather turned almost cold and the wind moaned, and we felt awe and a shard of fear for the power that was manifesting itself. Surely we elves were superior in every way to the humans and their brief lives, but they had their gods to protect them. For me, at least, that was the day when I realized that truth. Still, we watched the event, and it proceeded as is written in the books of history: the Three Ships were blessed, the sacrifice was made and the alliance between the two gods was finished and broken. We sat through it, silent and contemplative, going through a mixture of emotions, felt strongly as only the young can feel them, mostly the same shades of awe and fear that the deities first enchanted us with. Now, I think those emotions were the first touch of Fate - without them, the evening wouldn't have unfolded as it did, and we would have escaped the jaws of tragedy; and I would be happily dead now, instead of telling this story. The blessing of the ships ended and the deities vanished, swiftly and without the show of power they had appeared, dismayed by the end of their alliance (and already plotting against each other, as the future would show). We sat there, still silent for a while, watching the blessed ships float in the again calm harbour water, not daring to say anything yet. But soon the returning warmth of the sun made everything that had just happened seem like a divination gone wrong, a nightmare, and smiles returned to our faces; somebody spoke, we laughed cheerfully, and that broke the spell. So, we climbed nimbly from the roof, Avianne levitating down and teasing us others for our slowness, and we set forth to see the city better before our troupe of elves would continue its endless journey chasing its own tail across the world. The shadows set inside us by the show of power hadn't died quite yet, though, and instead of walking through the rich parts of the city as we usually did in strange places we steered our course to the parts where the less fortunate humans lived. Nobody said a word about it, and we didn't worry. We had the immortality of the young, and the world held no true terrors for us: we were invincible and drunk with our superiority compared to the lesser humanoids. And that was our downfall that night.

Time passed, marked only by the growing brilliance of the Eggs and the weakening of the crucified god. I had thought the upper world was cold and that I missed Hell, but as I watched my real Lord die drop by bloody drop, I felt the cold worse than ever and I despaired as I realized there would not be the same Hell to return to. As Akeanash was a part of Hell, so Hell was a part of him, and I could not foresee what would remain, what would survive this decapitation of the Lord. He raised his big head, weakly as a mortal creature, and stared at Mileatas with pure vengeance in his eyes of fire, looking like he still had some trick, some last mighty curse to bestow on his enemy. And so did the Ruler of Hell, one of the Elemental Lords, God of Fire, die – trapped by a mortal, betrayed by one of his own, imprisoned by the art of magic and bleeding his power away to the Eggs. He had been one of the strongest of the gods, easily surviving the last divine war, second only to the Black Goddess of Death if even to her, and now his husk fell to the floor of a small summoning chamber in the land of occultists where following a god was a crime. Fires burned low everywhere in the world that day, and blacksmiths could not work; some mountains spat out flames and molten rock, demon servants vanished from their masters and the four elements in general were in unbalance. We did not see those things, though, and I’ve had to gather the tales of those signs from others. What we saw was the spirit of the slain god removing itself from the corporeal body and from the prison of magic; as the last act of vengeance before departing where ever the dead gods go, he struck at the runes and was gone. Perhaps the runes were meant to block the physical body, or perhaps the occultists keeping them powered up were too weary and unprepared, I do not know. But I saw that last blow from beyond the grave break and tear those wards of protection apart, breaking the lines as one of my blows might shatter bones, thus leaving Eril-li-eon free to do as he wanted. The blow energized Mileatas, who seemed to wake up from his months-long slumber; he looked like a man who had expected to die but who was denied that, and with dismay he now shouted orders. That dismay from being alive he never did get rid of; and ever after he despised all life and existence, most of all his own, but still he acted with swiftly when that was needed, then and afterwards. So, when Eril-li-eon roared as a sign of his freedom, he made us all take one of the Eggs each, quickly before the Betrayer (as I think of him every time from that point on) could gather them all. Then they ran for their short lives, Mileatas ordering me to delay the other demon to my best ability. I turned back and expected a glorious fight – but that, too, was denied from me, and I became a mere spectator in the next great event of history: Eril-li-eon (or Erilion, as you mortals call him these days) tore his way through the last feeble unattended wards like a warrior tearing apart weeds and snatched first the other and then both of the remaining Eggs. He glanced at me, and after dismissing me as a threat (since my orders were only to delay, not to attack, I was rooted to my spot) he raised the first Egg, full of the essence of a god, up to his mouth. Erilion, the Betrayer, grinned at me and broke the Egg in half to devour the blood of his predecessor and to gain part of the power of the former Lord of Hell. I stood still, again held by the nonmaterial chains that bound me to Mileatas, and saw him transform; from a Lord of a Circle to the partial Ruler of the whole Hell he changed, both in spirit and in body. The sound of the running feet disappeared even beyond my keen hearing while Erilion writhed in his transformation, absorbing the essence he had devoured, and when the new God of Fire regained the control of himself again, I already heard the faint order to return to my master. Grimacing slightly I whispered the words of a spell and I was gone. And that, puny mortal, was the tale of the Creation of the Eggs of Fire. I will not tell you how Mileatas rescued his possessed former lover only to bury her in a tomb in the Black Mountains, nor will you ever hear the individual tales of the Eggs, how they ended up to every corner of the world. I will not tell you about the fate I suffered, following my first mortal and then undead master through the disc, from Chaman to Aef to Roelf and lastly to the frozen wastes of the Plain of Ice. I will not tell you about his experiments, about how he acquired the God of Swords and how it was stolen from his house to free the imprisoned gods from the Sun and lastly and most importantly, insignificant thing, I will not tell you how he was destroyed and I freed. You may think about these things, ponder and speculate, when you join my collection of souls in Hell. Now it is time for you to pay! RAAAH!

This time he kept me away from him when he studied, perhaps because he had realized that it had been my whispers and suggestions that had made him fall, perhaps because I reminded him too vividly the demons and Hell or perhaps because he just wanted to be totally alone in his angry sorrow, I did not know then and I still don’t. So, I do not know what went on in his summoning chamber, either, or what demons or other beings he did summon and what questions did he ask. He went on from one day to another, not seeing anyone, doing all his routine deeds with the liveliness of a golem, and getting paler by day. His perpetual gloom did not change, nor did the anger in his eyes waver, and so one day was much like the one before it. The summer moved on and autumn approached, but inside the tower, in the middle of the library where Mileatas spent most of his days, there was no weather, no dawn nor dusk, only the warmth of a fire and the light of a candle. I could see that he was preparing for something, and that he studied with even more intensity than he had done the last time. Some of the material was parts of the old notes he had used in the disastrous summoning of the God of Fire, some of it was books of alchemy, and some of the material he wrote himself, muttering in a language I did not understand, that much I could see. But I could not piece the puzzle together, and so uneasiness crept inside my mind, that and paranoia: what was he up to now? Or was he completely insane, scribbling meaningless words and reading his old notes only as an act of that madness? When he started to work with the Eggs I judged him sane. They were beautiful works of art even when they were mere hollow shells: swirling shapes disguised all the myriad runes the shells held, and the Eggs were at the same time very thin and very durable. That was the first time he really talked with other people since the disaster, too; he didn’t quite have the needed skills to craft those items, and he contacted some of his best and most loyal Flame Carriers who had survived the destruction wrought by the Demon Lord. So, where before had been one gloomy researcher, there now where three or four or even five, most of the others as gloomy as their former leader. Nobody had survived the ritual without emotional scars, without losing a friend or several and a large part of his sanity and peace of mind; I could see the scars in them, in the way they looked at me or how they stopped in the middle of reading some old tome to suppress some of the worst memories with a shudder. However, the scars did not stop them, and they worked on, day after day of the early autumn, and after long nights and days of working, they had the shells for the eight Eggs of Fire and the knowledge to use them; and when they were finished and ready to start the next part of their mad plan, I saw the fires in my master’s eyes flare and start to burn brighter. It was time for a new duel against the Master of Hell. This time there were no rows of demonologists and no expectations of glory, just a few bitter men ready for revenge or death, whichever would occur first. The amount of runes was about the same (or perhaps the floor was even more completely covered by the symbols, I could not judge), so at least it looked like they weren’t doing just any futile gesture against the God of Fire but that they really meant to win, this time. Unlike the previous times, my master allowed me to be present, and so there were six of us: Mileatas, four red robed Flame Carriers and me, a demon of the Seventh Circle and a slave to my master. Without any further comments they started their chants and invocations, and again they made a chamber light up with the fires of magic, made the runes writhe and the circle and the triangle tremble. The Eggs were placed so that one pointed to each eight direction of the wind, and their small runes flared too and ran in bright circles around the round shapes of the shells. A mixture of lights and soft sounds the scene before me was, illuminated by excess magic. And I saw that it was not enough, not with so few occultists, not even with all the new, added runes, not this time. I knew that I would be able to return with my God if and when he would break through and break all these spell-using maggots to pieces (and those maggots were much better at the art than you, lowly thing) and a smile rose to my demonic face. Finally, this would be the moment of reckoning, the moment of judgement for the insolent ones. Just as I had finished that thought, Mileatas surprised me as he had done so many times before and showed again that he was a big and shiny playing piece in the game of gods: the chant that the puny mortals were chanting got a response from the other side. Something was just in the act of betraying our Lord, and I sensed it all without being able to interrupt it. Rage surged in me, and I roared in frustration and shame, but that was all I could do. Now I understood why they thought they had a chance even without the power of the dozens of experienced occultists and the skill of Evalyn Camallo, now I saw in hindsight what my master had done in all his summonings, and I trembled and trashed against the invisible shackles he held me with. But they held me easily, as they had done every time, and I was powerless in my furious anger. I could only watch and act to protect my mortal tyrant. So, the summoning went on, the grey-faced mages whose need for revenge had eaten them from inside surrendering now completely to their need to get even, and they went on with the spells and the words with the grim determination of a condemned criminal. Their chant and the chant from Hell combined in harmony of both sound and magic, creating a web of power for Akeanash, and I could see that whoever betrayed him was powerful enough for the magic to work. The names and forms of the greater demons went through my head, one by one, as I wondered who was it and why he was doing this for a mere mortal; it was the only thing I could do, tied up with invisible ropes as I was. Then there was a wound in the floor, a red pulsating power to the world below, and He rose from it, trashing and screaming as badly as I had just done a moment ago. Akeanash, the Lord of Hell, the God of Fire – he was trapped and held by a half-dozen mortals and one renegade demon, and I saw the indignity of it all lash him worse than any whip. The heat of Hell arrived just after him, but weakly, and we were not hammered by the winds of the pit as it should’ve been; he was already lost then, stabbed to the back and struck from above, and all he could do was roar and claw the air, lacking the real powers of a god, even a weak one. Word by word the spell nailed him to one place in the chamber, and his every move was lesser than the one before, and in the end he just hung in the air, crucified by the remnants of the True Words the mortal mages used to gain their power. At that moment another gate opened in the circle of summoning, and the betrayer stepped through: it was Eril-li-eon, the Lord of the Fifth Circle and a stupid brute, incapable of anything like this; or so I thought then. The demon stared at Akeanash, gloating openly, and drew his black greatsword Eaghaenast (or the Fountain of Blood for you mortals, who are incapable of comprehending our language), rising it over his head in what I saw as the beginning of the coup de grace; he held himself in that position clearly longer than necessary, obviously savouring every passing moment, and then the black sword came whistling down, singing a song of blood. Once, twice, thrice; eight times the sword struck the god, and every blow released a jet of bright liquid, the blood of the god; eight blows, eight directions of the wind, eight Eggs of Fire. The Eggs caught the jets of blood and drained them, and with my horror I saw the power transferred from the Lord of Hell to eight small mortal artefacts. With each beat of his divine heart, Akeanash shrunk in power and stature and the shimmering globes of the Eggs shone more brightly with the fires of the lower world. We all knew he was dying any moment now, and we all watched the momentous deed, the last moments of a wounded god with a different look on our faces: Mileatas and his cronies looked at the writhing Lord of Hell with a mixture of gloating and bitter anger, Eril-li-eon had a look of pure hunger on his ugly face, and my features were locked in a tortured grimace.

Then the door to the chamber slammed open, and a force of the occultists who were on the guard duty stormed in, gagging at once at the smell and backing away from the heat. The tremors and waves of what had happened here had struck at mages everywhere nearby (later I heard they were strong enough to be felt for those skilled enough as far as in Tyourun on the other side of the world), and in the university dozens of mages had died of heart attacks, brain damage or spells or rituals gone awry. Even most of the guards showed signs of it – they were acting as if stunned, unless it was the sight of so many mutilated corpses what made them to lose their nerve. The moment Mileatas DeMorneer had intended to be of great glory had turned to be the dark low point of his career, and I could see that at once from eyes of the guards: they were filled with condemnation of what he had done. But he didn’t care. He just looked at Evalyn with sad, dead look on his pale face; and she stared back with yellow eyes, calculating her next action but knowing very well it couldn’t really do anything in its new, weak form against all these occultists surrounding it. Still, she tried, charging the demonologists that surrounded her with her bare fists, more to bring more pain to Mileatas than for any hope of success, keeping her gaze locked to his for the entire time. She flailed her thin arms around, trashed, flailed and kicked, spitting swearwords and hissing in unearthly voice, but the Flame Carriers stopped her easily. In the end the guards took her away, binding her with spells, and the Flame Carriers (those who had survived the ritual) walked away with Mileatas, supporting him from both sides, he walking in the middle with a completely blank look. That was the moment when a part of him died, and I rejoiced silently as I walked after him. I didn’t see where this was leading (I don’t think anything could’ve done that) – if I had seen that, I would’ve cringed at the coming years of ice and snow and done everything in my power to undo the possession. But I was happy, and so we just walked through the empty gardens and lifeless streets towards the DeMorneer tower, half-carrying our master with us. It started to rain: a slight drizzle, the tears of some god who would’ve wanted to see a happy ending to the romance of the two playing pieces. We managed to reach the tower, soaked even in the light rain, when he finally snapped and became for a while the Mileatas DeMorneer the history knows: the evil one, the berserk lich. He shouted wordless curses at us and at the cloudy sky, banged his head on the stones of his own tower, and shook his fists while roaring obscene vows at random directions. He who had been the king with his own queen, he had been demoted to a pawn in the chess game of gods, and he was enraged at the injustice of the world. A wind rose around him, rising all the small sticks and leaves to the air, as his rage grew colder moment by moment and he started yelling words of power instead of swearing. In a demonic fit of rage, showing abnormal endurance for one who had just banished a god, he wrestled the control of the weather from the ancient and benevolent enchantments controlling it, and for a moment I wondered whether he was possessed too; but a demon would’ve removed the shackles from me, and the glow I saw in his eyes was the light of righteous rage, nothing more. The burst of energy didn’t last long and he crashed to the ground in the middle of a spell, interrupting the growing storm. There he was, one of the high and mighty that very same morning, now a soaked, broken ruin of an occultist, a man who had lost his love and his power during the same day. I couldn’t resist a laugh. The night passed in a relative peace, the storm subdued by all the old weather spells that were still in effect over the university. Mileatas laid as a corpse in his big bed, me as his large tombstone watching over his slumber and thinking my next moves in my game for freedom and for the eternal damnation of my master. I was pleased with myself as far as the second goal was concerned – exorcising a Lord of a Circle was as good as impossible, even for Mileatas and his henchmen. Evalyn was gone, lost forever, and only her spirit roamed this upper world somewhere nearby if I sensed it right. As for killing her and raising her from dead, thus rejoining the spirit and the body; I’ve heard of feats of resurrection the truly dead from those who have travelled through other planes, but even elsewhere they are rare, and here in this world the deed could not be done. The possession was a masterful blow from the Lord of Hell and I smiled in the dark. Disturb the Hell only to suffer the wrath of it – that is as it should be. The dawn came, and the morning and the day. Hour by hour I saw Mileatas to move a bit more, first just unintelligent trembling and trashing, then he tried to try to find the warmth of another body with an arm and whimpered in his sleep when he saw all what had happened again as nightmares. Finally, he curled up to a foetal position in the middle of the big bad and started to cry, half in sleep and half awake. And then, when the sun reached its zenith at the midday, he jerked himself up to a sitting position and screamed as a tortured one does, a long wail of near insanity. The wail stopped and he opened his eyes, slowly and carefully, still obviously thinking it all was just a dream. But when he looked at my solemn form and when his searching eyes did not find Evalyn everywhere, reality hit him again like a maul of some Ghamaastian warrior. He was still sinking deeper in the sea of sorrow, a layer at a time, sorrow, insanity, anger, denial again and again in a dark cycle, and I savoured every one of his wails and whimpers. There were no ways I could’ve tormented him so he would’ve suffered more. The first day after the ritual was the happiest one for me since he had summoned me. But it passed, as did the second one, and the third, and he did not even try to see Evalyn: he knew as well as I did what had befallen to her and how nonexistent the chances to restore her were. In the outside world, the Flame Carriers were torn apart as an organization but he didn’t care. The talks about expelling him started, but he didn’t stir from his tower. He just fell deeper into his own darkness every day, sinking to a black depression similar to that which inevitably claims each and every soul in Hell as they realize that they are trapped forever. And then, on one day he woke up from that dark slumber to another one, similar in the gloom but different in the way that this new one had a purpose and action; and so he rose from his chair and walked to his library without saying a word. As he dug deep to his own books and notes and so disappeared even further from the world outside, his allies in the council rooms and in the corridors of power spoke on his behalf, and the order to expel was first delayed, then changed to house arrest, then it disappeared altogether. He was still liked, even after what had happened, but mostly it was pity that kept the elders and council members of the university from driving him away. And he did not seem dangerous to his surroundings any more – many thought he had turned into a quiet researcher, broken by sorrow, since that was not that uncommon. But I saw his eyes when he walked around the tower, pondering some problem, and I saw that they were deep wells of anger now, a spark of fire buried there under all the waters of knowledge.

And the dice started to roll with the sound of chanting. I switched my sight and watched the show of power as the occultists bended time and space to do their bidding, as they tapped to the Elemental Planes and drained their power and as they fed that power to the sigils, signs and runes that covered the floor. That was only the first note in the symphony of summoning that was going to start, but still an act of power nearly equal to the deeds of the creators, when they first used the language of magic to shape the world. Truly, even when I was certain it was all going to end up in a terrible, exquisite disaster of hellish proportions, I couldn’t help but be fascinated of it all. It showed to me what you inferior mortals can do if inspired and lead, how focused you can be if there is a human lens who focuses you. And while I pondered these things and dwelled upon the possible demise of myself, thought about what I could’ve done differently and how I could save myself in the chaos that would surely break loose, the summoning went on as smoothly as it would’ve been a routine thing, for a while. Then the smooth part ended. The next time I devoted my undivided attention to the surroundings, air shone and the stones of the building groaned, the smell of smoke was getting stronger and an ominous reddish glow started to illuminate the scene from somewhere out of the corner of the eye, somewhere not quite here, and I felt home getting nearer for the first time in a long time. They were succeeding, and they were dragging the Lord of Hell here; I could sense him, but he wasn’t going without his surroundings, and so a good part of the Hell itself was coming as well, disappearing there and appearing here. The runes and sigils pulsated, excess magic turning into bright light, and the lines of the circle and the triangle writhed, created ghosts of themselves to dance in the air and in the stone, as they were trying to hold all of what was coming through. All this went on in a strange half-silence: the chanting was there in the background, and the stones groaned, the air hummed and the magic symbols hissed as if burning, but they were all soft sounds. That made the first shrill scream sound unnaturally loud and out of place, even if it was a familiar sound to me, and one that belong to the Hell as well as a plate mail belongs to the wardrobe of an Aefian knight. This time it was just a mage collapsing from the strain of the ritual, his soul being torn away from his still living body by the swirling Hell-portal; the hapless spirit was hurled into the vortex that was materializing in the middle of the summoning chamber, and it probably ended up as some lowly demon soldier’s only plaything. A waste of a perfectly good soul, I thought, and watched the unfolding drama even more keenly, all senses alert. The first thing that truly entered the room was the heat – the blessed fury of the eternal flames, the searing wind of baked air from the deepest circle of Hell, and I bathed in it, enraptured by the familiarity of it and healed by its cold-banishing effect. The demonologists were prepared for that, protected by a few layers of heat-shielding spells, and so none of them dropped at once, but I saw one or two grimace when the hellish wind blew through the ranks. This was it, Hell on Earth, and I grinned in anticipation. I was not disappointed; next came all the other things I had missed so much here in the cold upper world, one after another: the faint wailing of the tormented, the thick smell of smoke and brimstone and the flickering light of the flames. The pulsating and gyrating mass of reddish chaos at the centre of the chamber spewed dark clouds and the visibility dropped to homely 15 feet. The circle kept on flickering and shuddering as Hell hammered at the barrier, but it held, fortified by the words of gods twisted to runes and signs, words used in a totally different way that they had been designed to. Then He stepped through and all mundane thoughts fled my head. Akeanash strode in and all looked at him at once with awe. His presence demanded instant obedience – he was the Lord of Hell, one of the four Elemental Gods, perhaps the most powerful being in the World. This tiny spectacle of the mortals faded out of my mind, and from the mind of most of the occultists too, I gathered from their empty faces. Embodied fire stood before us, radiating intense heat even through all the wards, and he studied us with his eyes of brilliant white flames, examining and judging. And we all were found wanting. He threw back his magnificent head and roared in anger and in laughter, amused and raging at the same time, and the roar shook the room, attacking the runes and making the mages cringe. On his heels, the true heart of Hell and its denizens (or those of them who happened to be there in the time of the summoning) walked in to stand beside their master: the two bodyguards, known as the Godslayers, G’lky’Chee, the Lord of the Sixth Circle and Mirg the Deluder, one of the mages of the Fourth Circle. I saw a dozen other shapes there too, powerful demon lords ready to wreak havoc on earth, cackling demon wizards whispering the words of spells in the same time as they gibbered and shouted obscenities and a few stranger things, but Mileatas DeMorneer showed again that he was no weakling for a man: he smashed the gate closed in that split second Akeanash concentrated on his surroundings and not on the gate. That bold move made me turn my gaze at him the first time since the chant begun: there he was, a young mortal man facing the ancient Master of Elemental Fire, arrogant in his pride but bathed now in a fire of his own and crowned with the halo of magical illumination, a true match for the Lord of Demons in appearance if not in actual power. They stood facing each other over the cracking and sparkling protective lines of runes, a god and a mortal, a summoned and a summoner, and they exchanged a wordless challenge with their gaze. Then the god raised his hands high over his head, both of them burning with their own white-hot auras of power and fire, and he brought his hands down to the invisible and insubstantial barrier that divided the room to inside and outside, to Hell and to the upper world. The boom was deafening. I staggered to my feet and I saw the destruction it had wrought: cracks ran all over the strengthened and enchanted walls, some of the runes were now dim and misshapen as if half-dead, Mileatas had dropped to one knee from the force of the blow and many of the others were in even worse condition, unable to protect themselves with their lesser might. A new red mist hung in the room, a mist of blood, which used to be a living, breathing occultist just a moment ago, and he wasn’t the only casualty of the Flame Carriers: there, one weakling had been thrown to the wall with the full force of the blow, and he was now a layer of gore on the cracked stones of the tower; here, a stunned occultists didn’t comprehend that he was as good as dead, and he tried to halt the flow of blood from the huge hole in his stomach. Nobody could hear the screaming, which was a bit pity – seldom one can witness such a scene, and I was rather interested just how shrill the cries were. I glanced again at my mortal master, and I saw him to tap every reserve of power he had. Air turned sluggish as liquid around him, and time seemed to slow; the amount of magic in the chamber was immense, and it twisted and turned the laws of the world as a side effect. Across the boiling air, the god and the mortal looked again at each other over the barriers, and both gazes were filled with divine wrath – the god resented being summoned as any demon and the occultists raged as he realized his plan was not going as it was supposed to be. And then Akeanash turned his eyes to Evalyn, and I saw fear in the face of my master, the kind of fear I usually only see in the ethereal face of a soul when it first realizes it is in Hell. Lord of Demons and Founder of Flame Carriers both acted at once, knowing there was no time to waste: the god struck again, this time with only one hand, trying to disrupt a certain section of the runes, and the occultists shouted words of power even I didn’t know he had or even existed, hurling the god of fire with the might of those words back to Hell. Those words, actual whole words of the First Language, blinded my second sight and hammered even me to the nearest wall, and I lost my senses, as I had lost them when he first summoned me. The last thing I realized was that it was getting cold again, and then I fell down to an abyss inside my own head. I awoke quickly, as I knew I would. Nothing sort of destroying myself completely really cripples my physical body. At first, still a bit stunned by the blow, I thought I was sent back to Hell with my true master: the air was thick with the smell of smoke, burning flesh and boiling blood and it was filled with reddish fog, and the temperature was still closer to the one I had been used to in the lower world than the bone-chilling, thought-numbing icy weather of the upper world. Bits and pieces of human lay here and there, and many voices were screaming in a beautiful disharmony. Then I saw my master standing zombie-like nearby and felt the chains he had forged around my spirit compel me, and I jumped to tackle the assailant who was trying to strangle him with her bare hands. My strength easily overcame hers, and I threw her away from the strangely passive Mileatas. Only when I was just ready to tear her apart with a spell did he shout a loud stop. For it was Evalyn who lay there in the midst of the wrecked summoning chamber, or her body at least; and so he did order me to stop, seeing only that the mortal flesh belong to his lover. But I had seen the eyes of that thing, and I grinned silently: G’lky’Chee was here.

It was a clear spring day of that fateful year, 585 after the War of Gods, and the only thing that was out of ordinary was a certain hint of smoke in the air, a slight forewarning of what was to come. The tower of Camallo was quite crowded with young occultists, all carrying the sign of the Flame Carriers. Most seemed nervous, fidgeting with their robes, talking short, broken conversations of small talk with each other or walking around, and since they all were alive occultists, who had gone through the rigors of training and were veterans of countless rituals, those small signs of distress were far more alarming than the signs themselves told. An occultist must learn to be calm and collected even in chaos of a battle, even if a demonic spirit is mentally assaulting him, even if he is wounded. I walked after my master from between those weakling mages, and I silently smiled every time my imposing visage managed to rattle another of them a bit more, to remind them of what they really were up against. My master was unusually silent, too. I think the scope of the attempted ritual was finally revealed to him now that it was just around the corner, by all the mundane things: the amount of food that was needed for the breakfast, the rows of the robed demonologists sitting and standing everywhere in the tower, the disturbances in the ambient magic field a concentration of so many users of magic created. The insane dreams I had planted on his power-hungry mind had stepped through a gate to reality, and now they were here – waking up wasn’t an option any more. We arrived to the door of Evalyn’s private chambers, and passed through the door (the traps on it were attuned to us both, and so we did not trigger them) to the inner sanctum of the tower. The demon guarding the door cowered before me, thus recognizing my place in the inner hierarchy of the Hell, as it did every time we were here. It was a weak reminder of the past, but it still made my lust for revenge grow inside me. And that day my revenge was close, so close that I have revised that day in my memory a thousand times to determine what went wrong. But even an excellent sage like me, immortal and having his own informants, knowing the secrets of torture and the knowledge of old souls, even I cannot penetrate the secrets of gods. So I blame the divine games: the Lord of Hell moving his own piece across the board, Lady Luck laughing in the background, invisible Fate being the judge, the other gods with their own pieces trying to play their own small or great parts. The touch of the gods was unseen then, though, and all us three playing pieces, me, Mileatas and Evalyn, we all revised our plans for the day again and again. They were going through the precise steps of the elaborate ritual, discussing last moment changes and improvements to the protective circles and wards; the sort of empty talk humans seem to have the habit of talking when under stress. Quickly it came, the moment we had been waiting for: a bell sounded elsewhere in the tower, and the mutters and soft whispers of far-away talk turned to the noises of many feet shuffling through the corridors of the building. We waited as those of the highest rank wait – we would arrive last, when everybody else was already in place. Time flowed slowly, even for me who had grown accustomed to the centuries slithering past with leisure, and a sort of tension filled the air. A sudden sound made me jump and I spread my claws, ready to blast any intruder with either magic or rip the creature apart with my bare limbs, but I saw at once what it had been: Mileatas had dropped his ritual brush, the one he was supposed to paint the runes with. He picked it up, slowly and with grace, but I had seen his eyes, and I had to resists a terrible urge to laugh out loud – Mileatas himself was afraid! At that moment I was very sure of my success, but I was wise enough not to show it in any way, which is the reason I still have a corporeal body, inept trickster. At last it was our turn to move, and we walked through the now empty corridors smelling faintly of cold sweat and smoke, arriving finally to the chamber of rituals. There they were awaiting us, lines of red robed demonologists, each one capable of significant feats, every one of them an occultist by his or her own right. But here they were just soldiers under the command of the two nobles of demonology who stood before me and before them: Mileatas DeMorneer and Evalyn Camallo, the head and the right hand of the Flame Carriers, the leaders by the virtue of their skill and their power. Impressive sight it was even for me: occultists in deep red standing in silence near the walls, the huge pentagram protected by the most powerful wards there are, inside it the triangle of law and the circle of summoning, the real prison for the Lord of Hell. It was even more impressive when looked at with the other sight, the lay lines of magic bending in unnaturally sharp angles and the ambient magic drained away by the formations of the occultists. What I beheld was a prison I could not break in a million years, that I knew. But I also knew how much stronger the Lord of Hell was and I was confident about his might. My only worry was my pact with my master: if it would force me to attack the God of Fire, Akeanash would break me as a twig. I would’ve preferred that to the existence I then had, so I was calm. There was nothing I could do, not at that point. The dice were in the air.

The tides of change swept everywhere, and so they crashed upon the shores of Evalyn Camallo’s little private island as well. An overzealous apprentice, searching for knowledge, knocked her door in the first days of winter. Oh, I remember that morning – it was a chilling day, temperature so far below the boiling point of water that I took every possible opportunity I got to warm my wings in front of some fire, be it magical or mundane. The humans didn’t seem to mind, and later I recalled that weather in a different light when I walked through the Plains of Ice – but that is another story, thing of mortal flesh, and so I shall not tell about it more now. As for the apprentice, he never returned. But she did, instead. And I remember too the face of Mileatas as he saw who walked through the door of his favourite haunt (the tavern which had been aptly renamed “The Burning Times” some weeks before, when it became clear it was the unofficial office of the leader of the Flame Carriers) and approached him with sure steps, gaze held high. They met again there, the two brightest celestial lights of the school of demonology, and what had been spark the last time was a bolt of lightning now. Proud they were, both, and she was beautiful in her red, yellow and crimson robes, and he was handsome, clad in bright red from head to toe, not wearing a robe but some kind of peculiar cross between clothes befitting an Aefian noble and clothes the Skysplitters wore. They locked their gaze at each other, and that was the moment the bards should be singing about, that was the moment when time froze. They saw their dreams reflected in the eyes of each other and they felt their vague hopes gain substance, and even though they both were mighty in power and skilled in spellcraft, they still were mere humans, and vulnerable to love. Nothing is eternal in the upper world, and that enchanted moment broke. She walked closer and I took a few steps towards my master too, ever vigilant for trouble, casting a shadow over my master with my imposing demonic form. That was usually enough to make anyone nervous and it was one of the few small pleasures I as a slave had, but Evalyn didn’t even glance at me. She saw only Mileatas, and Mileatas saw only her, and even as her mouth went through the motions of speaking the words of apology for a needless death (the apprentice was accidentally killed by her door guard demon; I grinned, showing my long rows of sharp teeth when I heard that), she and he communicated in some other level far more strongly, of things of a lot greater importance than one lost life. She continued talking, unusually clumsy with words, and the conversation quickly turned to other things, the apprentice forgotten along with all the rest of the world. They talked and talked, and the clumsiness of words disappeared as time flowed by. The morning turned to full day, and still they did not stop, the two would-be lovers in the shadow of my protective wings. But eventually urgent matters and Flame Carriers hovering close by, waiting for audience or a word with their master piled upon each other so that Mileatas woke up, as from slumber, and with regret ended the conversation. They agreed upon dinner the next day and turned reluctantly away from each other. Thus, it started, the meetings of those two and their growing love. They both knew that they were destined to be a pair: they were one step above of the rest of the world, greater than the other mortals, truly special playing pieces of the gods. Still, they did not hurry – they went through the rituals of courtship with grace, as exemplary in their actions as always. The closer they came, the more they worked together, also. Using their combined talents and power, they summoned demons who never had believed to see the upper world again, not with the demise of Kesh-Tenet and the dispersion of his apprentices centuries before the last war of the gods, and did many deeds that would been the life’s work of lesser occultists. I saw them torture even Thân-Golyathân, the Keeper of Hell’s Treasures, with their insolent questions, and I remember the gaze we exchanged, a slave and a prisoner. From victory to victory they walked, easily ignoring all the pitfalls and dangers of their trade, way too easily for their own good. For they were young, powerful and in love, and to them nothing seemed impossible. Their followers numbers grew still all the way through the winter, making Mileatas one of the most powerful men in Chaman and thus in the whole world, his power secret in a very public way. And there I saw his weak point, the one I had been searching for the long months, and the one I begun to enlarge with my whispers in the night as he dreamed, with my suggestions as he planned his future deeds, with my sagely silence – hubris laced with overconfidence would be his downfall, as it had been the doom of so many before him. And his soul would be mine, or so I thought then. Little did I know that he had both Fate and Luck on his side, in a tormenting, dark way: their protective blessings covered only his thread of life, they did not extend to those close to him. So, with my blow against him, I managed only to curse Evalyn and myself; but the look on his face was worth every decade of the torment I had to suffer later on… I knew some of the oldest secrets of the university, especially in the area of demonology, and I started to tell him chosen morsels of my knowledge: the location of certain books, the shape and meaning of a few assorted magical runes and sigils and small parts of my extensive lore of Hell. Mileatas was a giant of intelligence, a true genius, but I had been a genius for a far longer time, and I knew the way his mortal mind worked. And even as I was shackled to him, he hadn’t imprisoned my mind and spirit totally, so I could scheme and plot in his leash. I took my time, acting against him in the careful, slow steps of a hunter, knowing that quicker or harsher action would choke myself on the pact I had been forced to make with him and that that’d be the end of my last shreds of freedom. And to my great delight, I saw him and Evalyn react to my whispers and guidance, slowly but surely, and the dangerous glint ignited in their eyes that marked them as one of those who have the guts to go against Fate. They thought they were developing faster in the arts of demonology than they did; the seeds of overconfidence were growing quickly, and the attitude of the university and the kingdom, which saw Chaman as the most powerful nation in the world, magic as the answer for all, and gods as mere overgrown spirits kept the fires of ambition burning hot and high. So, again, these were the roots; and the other sages ignore them, mostly out of ignorance, for my role in all this was very hard to see. I acted as a shadow, as a slightly distorted image in the mirror, and I merely echoed back my master’s thoughts in an altered way, so that even him had trouble remembering was it his or mine idea, sometimes. I was seen as the stupid bodyguard of the leader of the Flame Carriers, and it was openly doubted that I was a lowly lord of some higher circle and not a real demon sorceress of the Seventh. It was to be the real test of all they had done, a test of skill, power and the loyalty of the Flame Carriers, a challenge against the gods, a defiant cry to the world that Chaman controls everything from the weathers of the sky to the flames of Hell. They wanted to silence those who doubted, praise those who followed and awe those who had not heard. The books told it had been done before (although it didn’t tell the price, nor the circumstances – of that I had taken care of by my careful selection of revealed old secrets), the calculations and theories seemed to be correct and the runes that were needed were available. And while even the considerable power of Mileatas and Evalyn combined wouldn’t be enough, they had the Flame Carriers for that, to act as the shackles and the whip, to be the strength behind the chants, runes, circles and pentagrams. Only those most loyal to the order were chosen for this task, for nobody else was to know beforehand. The old ones did not have the vision, and so they would be against it, and the chance would be lost. The chance to summon and bind the Lord of Hell, the God of Fire, Akeanash, Master of the Inner Circle.

I had been defeated, but it had not been easy – as he let the now unnecessary wards fall around me, I saw that he had been to the border of his endurance: sweat trickled across his ghostly pale face, and he staggered as he walked, exhausted to the limit. Seeing that, I cursed mightily in my own language, and I felt my fury boil again. If I only had resisted with all my own might, if I hadn’t been so overconfident in my own power, I might have pushed him over. But by then, it was far too late, so I quickly ignored the rage I felt as useless and befitting only the lesser beasts of Hell. Instead, I begun to act according to my new two main priorities: I had to protect the master, as per the pact he had forced upon me with my true name, and I had to get even with him, preferably so that he would end up tormented in Hell for the rest of the eternity. Just like you will be, soon. We walked out of the circle then, master and servant, to the silence of the crowd. The crème de la crème of the demonology was there, and only a few of them all would ever even try anything like binding one such as I am. They realized it, and as they avoided his gaze or viewed him with awe, the atmosphere turned from stunned to envious. With single stroke, with single show of power, he took his rightful place at the top, and so his victory over me was a double one – he won his battle against Evalyn too, a battle that hadn’t even really started. And at that moment, bathed in the glory of his victory over one of the great powers of Hell, illuminated by the inner light of one who has just succeeded in a momentous task and wearing the halo of his unlocked powers, he was at once beautiful and terrifying to a mortal eye. Frail though his body looked, and the signs of fatigue were plain to all, he still walked with sure steps, firmer step by step. As he emerged from the chamber, he looked at Evalyn, and he could have spoiled it all by showing the gloating most expected, and the books of history would be different in a thousand ways; but he had an apologetic look on his then unearthly face, and his gaze lingered on her as he walked through the crowds, my 7 foot frame following his every step. She turned as he walked and stood in the middle of the other occultists, looking after him for a while after he had gone. And with that look, the fate was sealed. Once again he was the subject for discussion and debates. Never before in living memory had anyone tried to bind a sorcerer of the Hell to his servant and lived to tell the tale. And to do a deed like that as the graduation ritual – many of the elder occultists deemed it insolence and shook their head in anger, but most of the younger ones saw him as a young power, someone that would understand them but who would still be strong and high in the inner rankings of the university by the virtue of his might. And he answered their call: every day he was seen in a park somewhere, talking with half a dozen apprentices and other young occultists, or in a tavern, or in a mess hall. He was a living, listening legend, and he was starting to have his following: the Flame Carriers. However, I could see that he did it with only half a heart, and often I saw him gazing to the horizon when he was alone, obviously thinking of something … or somebody. The ways of humans were not familiar to me then (if you ignore my extensive knowledge of pain thresholds and anatomy in general which I’ve had for uncounted years), and only looking backward I really see the whole picture of those days. Back then, I just knew that my master was brooding over something, and being a denizen of Hell and having the mindset of one, I was certain something powerful was after him. So we walked those autumn days of the year of 584, over six centuries ago: a master, distracted by dreams of a woman, and his servant, paranoid and ready every second of every day to unleash his own power to protect the one who chained it, to protect the one it really hated. And somewhere in the university a woman dreamed, also, and felt the coldness of the autumn and the loneliness of the isolated laboratory more keenly than ever. Days and nights followed each other, cold and without the comforting flames of Hell, and my master’s grip of the university grew. Even when he was not really there and instead walking the landscapes of his personal dreams, he was an intense and charismatic leader. Flame Carriers multiplied, gathered money and other resources, and infested the calm and stagnated university with a sort of demonic energy. Wherever you looked, you saw somebody with the red symbol of the unofficial organization, and they were the ones who moved around, did deeds, questioned the old truths, searched the oldest of the of the libraries for forgotten knowledge and tried out the lost, mistyped and half-finished rituals they found, often with amusingly fatal results. Like termites burrowing to the old wood of the library or maggots feeding off the corpse of university, they dug everywhere. And like when a place is beset by those vermin, in this case too those who weren’t part of the devouring, burrowing and searching saw them as threat to the proper order. University had always been a battlefield for the young against the old, especially since old could mean the age of century or two in the case of the eldest of the archmages (and of course, there were the liches too, the real monuments of the insanity of the ancient ones), and now the young ones turned to Flame Carriers – the battlefield transformed so that it was now the red of the purifying and renewing flame against the dull grey and brown of the old, dull routine, the defiant roar of the fire against the soothing rustle of the tomes written in some other era, under the influence of different gods.

When an old demonologist introduced his new apprentice to his colleagues nobody could link it to that months old story. He was average human in his appearance in most ways: dark hair, slightly short and thin body, and delicate hands. Only his eyes belied something of his potential power: they were dark blue, almost black, deep wells of thought. And there was an aura of power around him (even though most of his power was masked and locked away, safely hidden), strong enough for him to be an archmage one day, if he’d survive the dangers of magic and demonology in particular – there is a million ways for an occultist to die (and, I might add, I am one of them) and a mortality rate of roughly six of ten was acceptable for apprentices in that particular field of magic. But this man wasn’t about to die by anything as mundane as a demon breaking through his pentagram or even by anything as exotic as a misfired spell summoning one of the four Elemental Gods, no. As you have probably guessed, inferior creature, he was Mileatas DeMorneer, the founder of the Flame Carriers, and I’m sure no other creature has heard the heavy sound of Fate’s lead coin or the laughter of Luck so often than him. Neither of the two real players of the game of gods was there that night, though. It was another of those uneventful small beginnings in the history: the start of Mileatas’ career as just another occultist in one of the great universities of magic in Chaman. Many sages ignore those years mostly and start his tale somewhere in the middle and thus make no sense – old relationships spring up from nothing, the reasons for happenings are obscured in the mists of the past. Needlessly to say, I have many of those sages in my private collection of souls to cheer up my dull days. But one tale you asked, worm, just the one thread in the cloth of his history, and it you shall have. So, I will not tell about the contacts he made then, captivating many young apprentices with his charisma and talent of listening deeply to others, nor about his few shallow and short romances, slight non-fatal blunders in his chosen field of magic or his many brilliant successes. Five long years, if you look at all he managed to do then, or five short ones, if you consider his (or mine) lifespan they were, and I have heard him to remember those years with fondness. He worked for his master as any apprentice and was among the best of them, learning spells and rituals in amazingly short times, using a lot of his spare time (when he was not strengthening his web of contacts) to do extra work and was in every way the very paragon of a student - a student with deep, unsettling eyes, with the foundation of the order of the Flame Carriers already in place and with the skill and power to challenge most of the graduated occultists. Thus, it was no wonder his graduation ritual was a public event and one discussed a lot, a gathering of the archmages and the best of demonology. It was a great day for him. And it was also a great day for me, great in terrible, cursed way. It was the day he summoned me to be his shadow. I wasn’t the only one to end up bound to him, either. Momentous happenings like the company of each other, as the lazy gods flock around certain points in time and place and meddle in the affairs of mortal beings all at once. The event had lured many occultists there who weren’t normally seen anywhere near the university (or they were so deeply inside it, inside the labyrinth of the library, curled up in the womb of knowledge to suck words and thoughts directly from the past generations; or self-exiled to the labs and towers seeking their knowledge from the future instead of from the past so that no-one ever saw them either): Germech Flamecloak, the notorious Ghamaastian lunatic; Fortcha Ariabello, almost mute and looking like a dried corpse, well over 150 years old; a few of the less insane liches; and of course she was there that evening: Evalyn Camallo, daughter of the late archmage Mechhia Camallo, one of the youngest apprentices to graduate from the school of demonology and one of the rare beauties of the university. She was tall for a woman, and she had raven-black hair that flowed to reach her waist; and she was definitely a woman, not a grey mouse or a bookworm – she was the queen of the evening those rare times she had appeared in the events and happenings of the university, glowing the inner strength of those who know that they are both physically and mentally superior to most others present. Still, arrogant she usually was not, and those few who had spoken with her (elusive as she was, and prone to spend weeks and weeks in her laboratory and ritual room) thought she was unusually friendly for one so highborn. All the bards sing about love at first sight, of time stopping when those two humans saw each other the first time and of gods smiling on the pair as the Sun and the Moon shone both on the same time in the sky to give their blessing to the would-be lovers. In truth, it was not the flames of love that lighted the atmosphere the first time Mileatas and Evalyn met each other’s gaze. There was a spark of interest mixed with other emotions, however: envy and curiosity held them to their places as both of them tried to estimate their opponent. For opponents they were, then, even though they hadn’t met – for they both were bright celestial lights of the school of demonology, and there can be only one brightest star. They had heard stories of each other and they both knew that they would meet some day to determine which one was better. Not a word was spoken, and turning away Mileatas hurried to his place in the ritual room, determined to ignore the mind games speaking with Evalyn would be sure to start. One goal at a time is one of the mantras of the occultists, and many of the distracted ones have been scraped off the ceiling of their site of failure. Abruptly it began, then, the start of the spell that bound my fate around his, for he ignored the protocol (as was his way – he frowned upon everything he deemed as unnecessary), and silence ensued in the room surrounding the glass-walled Chamber of Initiations. The chamber was created and enchanted (for without magical protection, the glass walls would have been broken a hundred times, by a hundred fatal accidents) to serve as a place for the apprentices to become acknowledged occultists by the right of their own ritual, researched for many long weeks and then performed in front of the assembled teachers of their particular school of magic. I cannot know what he felt at that moment when he started to chant there in that crossfire of gazes, but I felt the tendrils of his power grab me, engulf me and compel me, dragging me from my rightful place in Hell in the Seventh Circle to the bright, cold and god-infested upper world. The pain was similar to the one experienced by those who have their spine removed when they are still alive, so has my research assured, and even I screamed and trashed when my corporeal part started to lose its shape only to reform in the chamber, in a circle protected by a pentagram. It wasn’t the first time I was summoned and after the initial pain I started to laugh, the bubbling and broken sound emanating half in Hell, half in the circle: I was anticipating an easy soul and a nice meal. By the name of Eril-li-eon, I have been never so wrong as I was then. One goal at a time, I said, and by that mantra even he used to work, but he did two feats simultaneously at that moment. Just as I was beginning to sense that his power was perhaps just enough to hold me for a fleeting moment (for he didn’t have my true name as you do, diminutive bug), he unlocked his power. And as my flesh was torn in the transfer, with that power he tore and bound my spirit, too: the amount of sheer magic flashing through the air was actually visible as a glowing arc of azure fire as it lashed my body and my mind. Needless to say, that moment was dim for me and my senses failed me, and so these are the last grains of knowledge I have had to gather from others, the azure fire and the smoke that filled the small chamber, smoke coming from my body. I, who can stand the flames of Hell and feel mild warmth, who can plunge his black-clawed hand in the inside of a phoenix and not be burnt, I was scorched and charred by his unlocked might. And even thought the power diminished in the coming years, as he bound parts of it to items and locked demons and spirits with it (keeping me as his shadow took a very significant portion, of course), it is less than a dozen beings of mortal origin I’ve seen to hold as much magic here in this world. It took me some time to regain my senses. I felt it all (the wards blocking the lay lines of magic, the pentagram restricting me as a rack would restrict you, piece of meat, and the lingering residues of a gate dissipating, and most of all, the immense power of the summoner who had brought me here) before I opened my yellow eyes, but still it was with a shock and a stab of dismay I viewed the situation: I was trapped as some second-rate demon warrior, and by the look of things, the one that had done it was no lich nor archmage of immense power, but a mere brand new occultist, summoning me as his graduation trick. I have never felt such rage, such pure uncontrolled urge to rip the entire world to little bleeding pieces, and never before or after have I been foiled in such way. My magic was blocked and my claws hammered the unseen wards, and I felt vulnerable as I had only felt in front of the rulers of the Hell. But none of those rulers has had such an absolute control over me, and there with that control he extracted my true name out of my still struggling mind and bound me to him with chains more permanent than any dwarven-forged mithril.

RAAAH! Where did you learn my true name, you pitiful whelp of a conjurer!? Release me at once, overgrown apprentice, or I shall have your soul for my plaything, incompetent dabbler in the arts of demonology! YOU WILL DIE, YOU WILL DIE, YOU WILL DIE… AH, so you want to know that story? I know now from where you did get my name, forever be cursed the name of the DeMorneers! Very well, fragile mortal, I will tell that story. And you will pay the price later, foolish occultist. You will pay, yes. As you know, retard with a pentagram and a book, his name is common knowledge: Mileatas DeMorneer, the Expelled One, the example of how one can misuse magic. His story is told everywhere – in the great universities of Chaman they tell it in length and precision, occultists in Aef mention it to their apprentices as a warning, and sages debate some of the controversial parts of it in the capital of Tyourun. To most, he is a figure of myth, the lich bogeyman, great evil of the frozen north. To some, he is a milestone in the road of history, marking the years 585 and 1182: his expulsion and his death … or destruction. But I was there, summoned, bound and commanded by him, and I know what passed then and why. I was his shadow. I wasn’t there for the start. Those parts I have gathered together as I was able, first from all that he spoke and did when I was his, then torturing, exhorting and cajoling tales from demons, souls and other creatures I’ve met in Hell in my time between the days here. It has been my hobby, you could say. All that I know of that man and those he was associated with, and what they did, and how it affected the world – all that would take your insignificant lifespan to tell, and when you would start decaying on the floor, feeding the worms, I’d be barely half-way done, still in the midst of the tale of the God of Swords or telling what happened to the Flame Carriers afterwards. But I am here, on this side of the pentagram, and your weak powers compel me, and so one and only one tale I shall tell, mageling. It was a beautiful spring day, as they usually are in Chaman, where they control even their weather with rituals and enchantments, and the sabafa-birds sang their songs heralding the coming of the summer. A few white clouds sailed above, creating an eye-pleasing contrast against the deep blue sky. Grass was green and sun was yellowish-white ball of fire in the sky, as is normal in the world above. All the other things were as usual, too: apprentices were enjoying the warmth of the day around the gardens, some of them even trying to read their books and tomes, graduated occultists walked around in small groups, debating the theory of magic, and the eldest of the archmages just sat on the benches, all quite mad from their years and years of using the stolen power of the gods to their own ends but still human enough to enjoy the spring. And so, it was a day that is not marked in the books of history, but it should be there – great things have usually modest starts, but to be a real sage, one must see past the great milestones of the past and examine the small things, the roots and the beginnings, just like a really efficient torturer goes past the physical and delves deep into the mind of the tortured. All is in the beginnings. And this story begins with the explosion of a tower. It was a fitting first note for the coming months, years and decades, in a way. The fiery explosion that melted glass, burned through a door made of tcha-wood and strengthened with protective runes and tore worked stone into small bits and pieces of half-liquid magma, yes, I think it is a good symbol to all that followed. It looked like a rose of fire, that explosion, for it was merely the top of the tower that exploded, erupting upwards and to the sides: brilliant red, white and yellow flames breaking the highest floor of that particular green building apart. The beauty of it lasted just a fleeting moment before it turned from a thing of destructive poetry to a devastating accident. Rain of molten glass and rocks was lethal for many of those who walked nearby, and some of those who could’ve protected themselves with magic were too stunned by the sudden catastrophe to do anything. Only the quick survive, as they say in the Fourth Circle of Hell, and there were a lot of the slow ones there that day, their robes burning and their screams breaking the peace of the day. Hell on earth it has been described to me, by souls who know what Hell is like. I regret I wasn’t there to see it. All those mages who where there then on that day are dead now in any case, rotting bones in some grave somewhere or a rotting mind captured in the decaying skeletal body of a lich – who knows and who cares. They weren’t important. But the man who lay there naked in the middle of the top of the second floor of that exploded tower, curled up in foetal position amongst the debris and scorched stone, he was important, and as a root and a beginning of many things, still is. Thus Mileatas DeMorneer came into this world: heralded by his element fire, born in midst of destruction and chaos like a phoenix. The cause of the explosion and the fate of the man found in the ground zero of it, afterwards, were discussed then everywhere. It was the news for quite a long time; just the kind of mystery of magic nature occultists can talk about for hours and hours without coming to any conclusions. But Chaman is full of magic, and it goes awry every now and then, and there were new glorious deeds of alchemy and spellcraft every month, new troubles with the god-worshipping folks of Lam-Roo and politics, local news and odd happenings. The story of the exploding tower and the naked man faded into the background and was forgotten.

The Dreamer tapped his foot lightly to the ground, impatient to get going, having already waited all night in his room meditating. While Father Derrick and Timothy talked, his mind slipped back to last evening and the choices he made. The old man was beyond undetectable help .. but I guess they don't want to hear that, now do they... Still, looks like healing the others was worth the risk. His gaze wandered aimlessly around the room, not really stopping to admire or register anything, eyes shifting between dull blue and light green. Only when he heard the word "historian" did he sharply turn his attention back to Timothy. "A historian you say? So you know about the past of this particular plane of existence?" The Dreamer's eyes turned deep and vivid emerald green. His tone changed too, from the normal distracted and slow to deeper and more imperial voice. "This might be intresting. And since our scholar with angelic looks is not coming with us, we might need somebody with knowledge in history. I claim a major favour from saving your life - and I request that you honour it by following us on our journey." The planewalker looked like there wasn't even a possibility that things wouldn't go as he said and directed his full gaze to Timothy. Once again in the silence that followed the thin and tall figure of the Dreamer seemed to grow...

The Dreamer simply nods. "I have been ready for a long time. Let's just go and leave these philosophical talks for the road ... it has been a while since I walked among the mortals, so I might be even intrested enough to join the conversation." The scarred man looks around and grimaces, looking plainly bored by what he sees. "Besides, nothing much else to do down here, in a Prime and on the wrong side of the Crystal."

The Dreamer ran along the lost paths, eyes the black and red of anger, a frown on his scarred face. Stupid pupil! City of Sigil of all the places ... I don't want all that knowledge I spent ages to instill spilled out from his small brains by one blow from the club of some bored demon! He appeared in the middle of the metropolis of the planes with a quick sidestep from the Astral, marking him as one of the more powerful beings even in here. He let his web of magically enchanted senses unfurl and looked-smelled-listened-sensed around the city, looking for his apperentice, a little nervous in this place where many of his enemies also dwelled... Ah, there he is, injured and confused ... better off than he should be. Deciding to walk the rest of the way, he got closer and closer to Valdar, boots crunching on the roads of Sigil. Turning from the last corner, he found his apprentice .. who tried to cast a spell and fell down. The Dreamer sighed.

The Dreamer stood near the edge of the milling confusion, watching the proceedings with a calculating look on his hooded face. Utterly bored, stuck here in one of the Primes, he let his mind wander while staring at the three blood-soaked humans... ... strong healing magic or resurrection would be too much of a signal fire to the seekers, and the man is old in any case ... but the others, I might end this fuss and gain some trust by healing them. On the other hand, any magic I do might bring them ever closer to me, but on the other hand they'll have to be extraordinary good to track minor healing magic... He started to contemplate the amounts of mana used and how easily he himself would notice such disturbances from afar, through the spells of non-detection and cloaking he had active, when Father Derick's pacing to and forth made him mess up his calculations. The Dreamer's eyes flash yellow. "Stop that! You are irritating me. If these brief mortal lives mean that much, I'll heal them so we can get this over with." Looking annoyed, he stormed through the monks, ignoring them totally, and stopped next to the injured woman and man. Muttering a few arcane words under his breath, he touched first the man and then the woman lightly, wiping the fingers afterwards to his robes. No light shone and no other effects could be seen, but the wounds of the two injured humans vanished slowly. The Dreamer walked away, muttering something to himself in a dead language.

After a lenghty pause he continues, and the pictures in the illusion wake up again. "We had barely started the battle and only one of the Seven had retreated from the battle, only two regiments of the white army had suffered enough casualties that they backed down. I was riding the battle trance, weaving a net of death across the path, but they were fighting back and I was in some danger as I often was during my more reckless youth. Then the Cocoon burst and the ... thing that had been inside it oozed out, tainting the path with its presence, corrupting the angels left and right, shining in power darker than I did. I am sure that was planned, now that I look backward to that moment, but then I just cursed at the unfortune of it and retreated slowly, watching the dark being crush its way through the army of light. The First of the Seven rose against the defiler, a bright brilliant star against a sea of darkness, and his sacrifice let the army flee away from the scene of carnage. I floated there and observed as the dark tentacles surrounded lazily the white speck of fire, confident in my ability to outrun the huge power. The dark mass overpowered the star, and for a moment everything was silent. I turned to go, when my senses made me turn my head. There and then I saw the genesis of Sarnael - out of the black sea of corruption it rose, both bright and dark, flexing its huge wings and shaking its head violently as in great pain. It was the progeny and symbiosis of the First of the Seven of Daronath and Kss'kath the Dark: a planar being of highest possible power and the core of the dark god in one. And the first thing its hate-filled eyes saw was me, floating indifferently in the Void, watching his birth with blue eyes. It swore an oath of vengeance then, an oath it has tried many times to fulfill by crushing me. So far, it has not succeeded. So far..." The Dreamers voice fades out and he turns to look at the picture floating in the illusion, an angel of unsurpassed beauty; white wings, black armor and black sword, red shining eyes, skin white as snow, face bearing black marks as if it had cried dark tears. With a slight shrug he gestures and the illusion winks out of existence.

Gyrfalcon and Kaleyra were both looking at Father Derrick, waiting for him to say something, when the Dreamer started to laugh. It was dry, humorless sound, feeling very wrong in some way - like the planewalker was in pain but couldn't help himself. All the others in the room turned to stare at him, but he did not care, just kept on shaking with that dried out, dead laughter. Then he abruptly stopped. "Two million, you say? One civilization, just 3000 years of history? 756 Avians..." The Dreamer's dark grey eyes narrowed. "That is a mere fraction of what will be lost if I drown in my own violence, Father."

A moment after Gyrfalcon ended his speech, the Dreamer coughed again softly. "I am called the Dreamer. You are not going to hear my real name - where I come from names have power, the power to bind." His eyes ended their color cycle and settled on the blue of the Void as he continued staring at Father Darick. "I come from a direction not found on a map and from a time not yet lived. I was sent past this point to die, but this is where I stopped. Now they search for me. And I need the wisdom of the Pool to get back to where I belong." The Dreamer paused for a longer time. Just as the avian was about to speak, he rised his hand and continued. "I need the wisdom for another reason, too. I need the calm and peace it is said to grant. Hundreds of years of constant strife are getting to me, endless vigiliance gnawing at my thoughts, the red haze of combat lurking ever closer to the surface. If it would consume me..." The planewalker glanced at Kaleyra and at his sword, which was still awkwardly in his right hand: a dark green katana, beautifully ornamented with engraved oriental dragons, glowing faintly. His eyes turned dark grey. "...I might not be able to stop myself any more." The room was very silent and in that silence the thin, scarred form of the planewalker seemed to grow... ...and then the moment passed, Kaleyra made a nervous motion and started speaking.

After a pause he starts again, this time with storyteller's cadence. Feet above the table a small globe of light appears and grows to larger three-dimensional illusion, which shows the same visions the planewalker paints with words. "It was the seventh year after the drows of the plane called Anvil had started their exodus with their own pocket dimensions, sailing the Void with their dark oaks, twenty and five years before the Clash of the Pilgrims; the Year of the Unfinished Wine in the calendar of the Essurs, year 1527 of the Second Wheel of the Fifth Time by the scribes of the Kestern. I had barely gotten my first real scars by then, scars that I decided not to remove from this vessel of my powers, since they were marks of failure to myself. I was still young, still unbound to any task or direction. Order beckoned, but I had too much to do, too many paths to explore, and I did not take the hand of Law - my mage sigil stayed as the burning flame in a broken triangle of Law from which two of the eight arrows of Chaos flee; a powerful sigil of independence, the same I still carry with me with a few modifications. I had gained enough to see past Good and Evil - I did not note them in the sigil of my adulthood times at all. Still, it was those two clumsy eternal fighters that drew me into their useless mock battle. I should've interpreted the flows and the castings of the bones better; the signs were there, and the tracks in the Astral, subtle changes in the structure where they had passed, they held the keys for it all, too. Armies were on the march, through my part of the web, but I didn't see the whole picture then. I only did as I had to do: I set out to block their way since they had not paid any toll or any respect to me. The black side of that particular skirmish had a great general, though. He knew of me, and he set his playing pieces so that those of the light could decimate his lines easily - if they would travel past a particular place. The Prison of the Dark God, some called it, but of course there are dark gods a'plenty in the multiversum, none of them the unique particular only one, and so those of us who know more called it Kss'kath's Cocoon - a dark sphere of worldcrystal it was, and the paths around it tainted, but it was a safe path for us uninvolved ones. And there I met the first ones of Daronath the Just, heralds of his army, high and pure, arrogant and powerful. We met floating in the Astral - me alone, my back to the absolute nothing of between, on my left and right sides my guards, a demon and an angel, the Seven of Daronath backed up by their army. It looked like the path was on white fire, so thickly was it covered by mortal heroes, lesser angels and holy warriors of the god. Me and them, a planewalker and a holy army - there I called for what was by right mine, tribute to me. There they scorned me and declared me as one of the Evil, and the Seven challenged me, all there right next to the Cocoon. Gods are shallow sleepers." The Dreamer stops and the image in the illusion stops, showing all that the planewalker has described, suspended.

The Dreamer blinks. "A friend?" He leans back in his chair looking straight into Yui's eyes, his own pair shifting again, this time to the deep blue of the Void. "To even be my guest is a hazard, no matter how little or how much I might like you - I have my set of enemies, as I said, and they might strike against me on any given year. In such event, you would be like a twig in a flood, a lone dry leaf caught in a bushfire. I have seen a mortal being hit by a spell meant to take down a greater planar force - his disintegrating outlines flickered a fraction of a heartbeat and I saw with my second sight his soul being torn to shreds. And that was the outter aura of the misfired spell which hit him, nothing more." The Dreamer pauses for a moment. "I wasn't really accurate with my spells then, yet." He continues staring at Yui, unblinking, motionless. Then he makes a dismissing motion with his right hand and straightens in the chair. "... but a story, well, that I can tell. Perhaps it will make you see things somewhat more as they are - that there is a great gulf between what I am and what I seem to be. Many think that I am a human, ascended to this position, and that I have the flaws and merits of one. That is not really the case..." The planewalker's voice trails off.

The Dreamer closes his eyes. Then he starts to speak, eyes still closed, first slowly and then quicker and quicker: "Tell you about myself? About the hundreds of years of my history, the gods I've warred against, the few planewalkers I've met, the things I've done and the spells and words of power I've found? About my strenghts and weaknesses, about my fortresses, strongholds, the places of Astral that are mine, about my servants, bound spirits, demons and angels, about the things that owe me and about those to whom I owe? About Good and Evil and their eternal useless meaningless battle and how I walk between all that, and about Order and Chaos, the two stronger powers? About my core of being and the contradictions there?" He stops and opens his purple eyes slightly. "Oh .. any of that would be quite expensive information, m'lady. Knowledge is the currency of Astral, and I do have my enemies, many with the powers to bribe anybody very handsomely. Unless you choose to invoke the debt I owe you, this conversation is ending, unwitting play piece of the Gods of Order." With that, the Dreamer gestures and the door reappears to the same place it was in the first place. Red strands of color swim in the swirling purple of his eyes...

While Gyrfalcon whirled away from the assasin that stabbed him, the Dreamer's features softened and he smiled briefly. With a blink of his eyes, the eyes turned blood-red and he entered combat trance... These are not agents of the gods that sent me here .. no aura of power. Mere mortals. ...turning away from the assasin behind him, he took one stab to his side. Ignoring it completely he turned to stare his assailant and reached forward as if to touch the assasin. His right hand disappeared and after a fraction of a moment the assasin in front of him disappeared, too. Turning around in half-circle, he pointed his right arm (hand still missing), at the other assasin, as if flinging something with his now unseen hand. Completing the motion, his right arm swung upwards, and the hand reappeared to its normal place at the precisely same time as the first assasin appeared, too - inside the second one. The combined assasins convulsed and shrieked once, twitching and flailing with their eight limbs, two heads shaking, then it fell down and all was quiet. Reyn and Gyrfalcon both stared at the Dreamer and they weren't the only ones - the whole cliente of the Weary Warrior, even though they were the kind who had seen much, were now watching the robed man warily. Eyes slowly shifting back to green, the Dreamer grimaced. Attention - just the thing we don't need .. accursed blood lust. "You have better grasp of situations like this, m'lord Gyrfalcon. What next?" In the silence that followed the drip of blood from the wound on the planewalker's side sounded loud...

The Dreamer frowned slightly to Gyrfalcon's words. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened again, they were emerald green instead of blue. "Ah, yes, I forgot. You have not been there yet, and I'm not where I am supposed to be. Let me amend that to 'I've met you and I know why you are here', then. That might make all this easier, even." He smiled, and the scars danced on his face, making the effect more alarming than anything else. The half-elf studied him intently and he returned the stare, looking straight through Gyrfalcon and making Gyrfalcon shift his feet nervously. "I know what you seek, but I'd rather not name it out here. Let us continue the journey; if I am an enemy, I am at least right where you can see me." Gyrfalcon shifted his feet again, thinking the situation over. The man before him didn't think that he, armed with sword, was a threat - instead of tense, the robed figure seemed preoccupied with other things, anxious to get this trivial matter done with. He was either mad, powerful or good at acting, and something in those changing eyes made him think that the second guess was closest to truth. The Dreamer smiled again and offered his hand. Suprised and still thinking, Gyrfalcon reflexively transfered his katana to his left hand and shook the offered hand. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you again for the first time, m'lord Gyrfalcon. You may call me the Dreamer - that is the name you will know me in the future." The half-elf smiled resignedly. "Greetings then, the Dreamer. Yes, perhaps it would be better to discuss this somewhere more private in the city." At some point during their conversation, the extra shadows had dispersed, and the guards stood in their usual posts next to the gates. The Dreamer and Gyrfalcon walked to the city in the twilight, the first with a preoccupied air, the second warily, staring at his new companion as often as looking at the city.

Approaching the gates, Gyrfalcon suddenly rised his head. Something was wrong. There were no guards by the gates, and the shadows were unusually deep, reminding the half-elf in some strange way of the castle of his old nemesis, the necromancer. He shuddered to that cold memory. Without further warning his world turned around himself in one dizzying whirling motion and clicked back to its old place, looking almost the same as before. Feeling magic dimly (as from far-away), shaking the effects of the rotating vision he just had, Gyrfalcon drew his sword in one practiced motion and tried to penetrate the gloom ahead him by his gaze. From the shadows, a robed figure stepped half-way out, staying partially covered in the darkness. The man made a dismissing motion with his right arm, ignoring the sword. Then he spoke in a deep, slightly lisping voice. "Sheathe the sword, hero. I doubt it'd do you much good, in any case." The half-elf muttered ".. so you say .." but lowered the point of his weapon, confident in his own skills and curious. The robed man lowered the hood of his robes, showing a hideously scarred face, neither old nor young, with brown hair and eyes the deep blue of the Void. "I do believe we've met before, m'lord Gyrfalcon. And I think we both know why we both are here."