A meeting of wayward brothers

[Zadown]

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 ...

[Zadown]

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."

[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.

[Zadown]

As the three brothers talk, the call of the Blood Magic that brought them together travels far and further ... past the small kingdoms of squabbling archmages, past guildhalls and conference rooms, past enormous flying dragons guarding the skies ... it goes on and on, past planes, stars and past void ... and somewhere, very far away, an old incarnation laying dormant wakes up.

 

It remembers it's old form, and seeks to regain it: full plate armor, done in semi-oriental style and made from mithril; it grasps for no-dachi, but some other incarnation has it, and so only one katana appears to his belt. Then it feels ready to travel, and speaks the words of power and draws the runes to the air that the Art needs, and a portal appears in front of him. He steps through...

 

... and enters the Cabaret Room, startling the other three. The three bow to the newest arrival at once - he is one of the more ancestral ones: the samurai, the faithful one, the un-straying Legionnaire. The samurai bows back and speaks with an emotionless voice:

 

"You called me, parts of the whole. And here I am, one more part to the puzzle."

 

Swift as the wind, the icy one of the three glides over the floor and stands next to the samurai in one move. He places his hand on the samurai's shoulder and motions with the other hand towards the other two. The necromancer nods, and the warrior just stares at the samurai, estimating him as a threat, by reflex, not by any conscious action. Necromancer, as the oldest of the active ones, speaks:

 

"We didn't expect ye, ancient spirit. But ye are here, and by yer time on Terra and date of birth I say ye are the eldest of us, and so the spokesman, should we need one. Please, share yer wisdom with us..."

 

And so the samurai, exactly as tall as the others, lean and muscular, walks to where the three others stand, and again they start their discussions and debates.

[Zadown]

The call goes still on and on. Other shadows of the past enter through various portals and join the group of four: Inhumatus floats in through the floor, heralding his arrival with a wailing cry of death and despair and brandishing his spectral no-dachi; Zadown of the Seventh Gate stalks in wearing jade armor, two katanas hanging from his belt, looking curiously around; and the infantile l33t Zadown of the Blitz rushes to the room like a whirlwind of fire and chaos.

 

The call does not stop even when it reaches the far cornes of the plane. It goes right through the borders, unstoppable like the one who sent it, whispering to the ears of distant warriors, mages, soldiers and creatures. It tugs feebly at a dwarven priest who travels in the darkness in the fortress of Angband, tries to cajole a mage in the distant world of Forgotten Realms to go with it and relays the call to a god of swords. Most of the called ones lack the means or the will to travel, but beyond the circle of powerful archmages a few lesser beings appear through portals of their own.

 

Here, in the middle of the meeting, the four first ones speak with louder voices, at times listening to the whispers of the weaker forms.

 

"But we do not have the time! Besides, kinsmen, what do we have to say? I, for one, am a poet and an artist - these things of war and hatred that are usually talked about in the Halls of Terra mean little to me!"

 

The icy one seems frantic, animated. He cannot stay still, but moves around without making any noise, and a slight wind circles him.

 

"We 'ave all th' time in th' worlds, young .. poet."

 

The dark one lays a thick layer of sarcasm on the last word, but doesn't seem to be agitated about the subject.

 

"Would ye rather see us forgotten, whelp? For that is th' destiny of those who just fly around like 'n errant wind; to be forgotten an' end up like some of th' brothers."

 

He points to a monk in the group of lesser forms, who is fading - all the colors of his clothes are already light, and the eyes seem without any real spirit.

 

A deep rumble, seldomly heard during the conversation:

 

"Me says aye."

 

The giant warrior sits down after his few words and starts to hone his unstrapped axe.

 

The two arguing Zadowns turn their gaze to the fourth one, waiting for some kind of final word. The samurai shrugs slightly and starts to speak.

 

"I say we try. Sometimes things seem distant - others who have reached what we want seem to be high above us, better than us. That is often an illusion created by us ourselves, and that illusion is the tallest wall in our way to success. If we unite our strenght, walls are nothing to us. Who are with me?"

 

An assortment of weapons, arms and other things rise as a sign of agreement.

 

"Who are against me?"

 

Inhumatus rises his spectral weapon and Zadown of the Guardians of the Rift, the icy poet, rises his signature brush. All the rest remain motionless.

 

"Very well, m'lords. It looks like the matter is settled. Please, let us deliver the answer ... or the question."

 

The samurai starts to walk to the direction of Recruiter's Office.