Zadown

They are interrupted by a fiery crack, suddenly appearing in the middle of the room, hanging there suspended. Out of it lumbers a tall man (exactly as tall as the two already present, but twice as wide), in a metal armor. The crack shuts down right after he gets out, almost taking the enormous axe strapped to the warrior's back with it. He turns and growls at the now vanished dimensional portal. Then he rises the visor of his helmet to survey the surroundings better - and there beneath the visor is the face of Zadown. Anyone watching the scene gets an eerie feeling seeing those three together: they are alike but at the same time very different. The newcomer walks across the room, creating large smoldering footsteps to the floor and stops next to the two others. "Grrreetings, brothers!" He pauses to look from the impatient face of the icy man to the pale but serene face of the necromancer. "Me don't understand. We all here?" He pauses again, this time to scratch his helmeted head with his metal gauntlet. Steel screams with displeasure, making the icy one wince. "Whazza matter?" The corpse-like necromancer answers: "We 'ave some matters to discuss, oaf. If ye don't understand 'em, 'tis yer problem. Ye must still be present, for the sake of the traditions .. do ye understand me, slow one?" The warrior grimaces and his eyes narrow. As he speaks, his speech is a bit quicker than a moment ago. "I understand yee, dark one. Let's begin, then." The three tall incarnations of the same planewalker walk closer to each other and start speaking with low voices, too low for anyone else to hear.

Time passes, and Zadown's chilly blood drops on the floor. His face starts to show a certain impatience, and his foot taps the floor in a rapid pattern. Then, a dark portal appears. It's surface is jet black, and things seem to move within, things that would rather be freed, or somewhere else... A tall mage steps through, or a warrior. He is clad to a darkened armor, black as if corrupted or burned, and the black patches obscure the markings the armor used to have. On his side hangs a broadsword of no particular quality. Right after the mage, his smell hits the vicinity with a vicious force: odors of decay, old leather and upturned earth, of strange herbs and dried blood spread to every direction from the thing. He nods to Zadown and looks around. Only then it becomes apparent how similiar the two are: the man cursed by winter and the necromancer. They might be almost brothers, so close they resemble each other. It starts to speak with a deep voice: "So, ye called us? Will the others come, too?" The other answers: "Yes, I did call us; all of us, but I do not know how many will be here. This is strange territory, but neutral, and so it is a fitting place to meet. And I have a feeling that stories live here, and poems; and I, drawn to such things, came here..." The dark thing glares at the one speaking, and his voice falters - then it says: "Aye. Speak we shall, of many things, impolite scoundrel of a mage. Just 'cos ye are the youngest, it doesn't mean ye can be excused of all yer actions."

A wind rises. First it is just a whisper in the room, prodding and probing around, looking and seeking, gathering strenght. Then it starts to grow in power, howling in the corners and bringing with it a distinct smell of winter and snow, juggling with a few snowflakes that seem totally out of place. And then ... it is gone. Where it last howled and circled, stands a tall man wearing a deep blue winter cloak. He takes a few steps to the nearest chair, removes his thick cloak and drops it off there and looks around, smiling. He has eyes like crushed greenish ice, hair like dirty snow and very white skin, and he seems to give out a slight aura of cold. Those who recognize his face can tell that he is Zadown, a former Legionnaire and a nomad at heart ... but this doesn't look like the armored warrior's usual attire. Zadown whispers in a soft, slightly sad voice (perhaps sad because matters of heart - he looks just the romantical type): "So I am the first ... and I must summon the others." He draws a small, toy-looking dagger from somewhere under his winter clothes, and wincing in advance from pain, makes a small cut to his other arm. He whispers some words of power, weaving some kind of spell, using the Blood Magic to call somebody ... or something ...

A very large portal opens, and the brothers start pouring out, muttering and conversing in various languages...