_

When Bruckner exited the arena, he met Ryxtan, looking mildly impressed.  

"Nice job out there, lad," she said.  "Pyrm's far from our best fighter, but he's certainly no slouch.  You didn't even let him touch you with that mace of his.  I must say, I'm impressed."  

She gestured for him to follow, and began walking down the tunnel, the crowd's roaring still ringing.  "Come on, let's get you to Braydon and get you paid."  She led Bruckner back to the room where he had originally met Braydon. Braydon looked up briefly from his work and said, "Good work boy.  I popped up for the end of the fight; looks like you had it pretty well handled.  Either that, or some very lucky swings."  He tossed Bruckner a bag with several hundred gold pieces in it, and said, "Come back if you want another go.  No doubt the crowd'll be slaverin' for you now, so," he looked at Bruckner more seriously, "I do hope you do come back.  There'll be more honor and money in it for you."  He turned back to his paperwork, and said, "Ryxtan, take him to the colosseum reps and get him his prize". 

On the way out, Ryxtan explained, "Braydon and I are team trainers, you see.  Every fighter needs a team backer.  We get a cut of the arena's profits, and that's what your payment there is taken from.  But the colosseum itself awards a prize to each fighter who wins a fight. So, we'll go get that for you.  You really should come back again, you know.  Braydon is a prickly sort at the best of times, but I can tell he liked you." 

She led Bruckner up a winding staircase to a fat man sitting behind a counter overlooking the arena field.  "Waynfield," she said, "here is the Black Blade, come for his prize."  He looked very excited, saying, "oh yes, oh yes, oh my yes!  Wonderful fighting, you beautiful boy, simply wonderful!"  He said, with continued excitement, "You are getting a most exciting prize!"  He pulled out from under the desk a pair of carved golden statuettes; the statuettes were of two lions that would fit in the palm of a hand.  "These ensorcelled lions!" the man said.  "Simply speak the command word: Leo," and they will become full size lions, willing and able to fight by your side!" 

Bruckner accepted his prize with thanks, bade Ryxtan farewell, and left the arena. 

He had barely stepped out of the entrance before Tadalac leapt on him, saying, "WOW OX!  You were amazing!  The man with the shield tried to-" he jumped off of Bruckner, pantomiming the swings of Pyrm, then said, "But then you--" he then adopted a noble stance, and pulling his new dagger from his sheath sliced and stabbed at an invisible enemy.  "And then it was all over!" he smiled happily.  Bagor thumped Bruckner on the shoulder.  "I knew I'd picked the right man!" he said.  "Well fought, boy.  Well fought indeed!" 

Bruckner: "Thanks, boys. Buy you a drink? Bagor knows just the place."  

They cheered in assent, and all headed back in high spirits to the Drunken Dragon. 

Nima, meanwhile had mastered the art of the repeating crossbow, and was preparing to head back to the Dragon with Solarin to meet up with Bruckner and Tadalac for dinner, before meeting with General Aleksander for her special operation that night. 

As they walked, Nima's new repeating crossbow slung over her shoulder, Solarin asked, "What sort of adventures have you and your companions been on?"  She seemed eager to hear of any and all adventurous tales. 

Nima arrived at the Drunken Dragon at almost the precise moment that Bruckner, Tadalac, and Bagor arrived. Upon seeing Nima, Tadalac ran up to her and gave her a leaping hug around the middle, then stood back bashfully, before proceeding to describe Bruckner's fight in vivid detail. Bagor nodded in approval as Tadalac retold Bruckner’s fight, occasionally adding in bits and pieces in a booming voice.  He managed to usher them all inside as the story unfolded, and by the time it had ended, they were all sitting around a table with mugs of ale in your hands, and the promise of hot food on the way.

Solarin looked impressed by the whole party, and asked Tadalac many questions about where he was from and what his adventures had been like; he told some of his tales with gusto.  She then looked to Bruckner, and said, "Well done, winning a fight in the arena on your first day in town.  Think you'll be up to take on the Grey King one of these days?  Also, you must all tell me more about your adventures of late.  Life in town is dreadfully dull, and I always like to find the adventurers and hear their tales."

Bruckner seemed at a loss for words, hesitating long before answering. Noticing this, Nima said, "You mustn't press Bruckner too hard about his triumphs; he's one of those very good people who dislike idle boasting."  I say this in the tone of a criticism, but I smile at Bruckner to let him know that I am teasing.  "Perhaps you might like to tell us some tales yourself, Solarin?"

Solarin blushed and said, "Oh, I really have nothing to tell at all; running a shop isn't as exciting as it seems".  She was amiable company, however, and she and Tadalac talked the night away about the strangeness of humans, while Bagor laughed uproariously, getting steadily more and more drunk.

When the sun set, Nima rose, said her goodbyes, and left to meet with General Aleksander, as per his request. Solarin also bade the group a good night, returning home. 

"You said you could read Sylvan, yes Ox?"  Tadalac asked Bruckner.  "When we get back to the inn, perhaps you will help Tadalac with this book."  He pulled the small leather diary out of his bag, that Nima had found on the corpse in the room holding the trolls under Mt. Elesborre.  "It is in Tevianite, which I read fluently, But it is also encoded in a cipher, and it looks like a tricky one.  Maybe if we put our heads together we can see what it says!"  

He looked around furtively, then whispered to Bruckner so softly that no one else could hear: "The first few lines aren't encoded; it belonged to a man from Velth.  There must be information in here that will be of use to us."  He looked at Bruckner expectantly.

Bagor, who was three sheets to the wind, heard the two talking, and interrupted loudly, "Boy, you ready for another fight tomorrow?  The crowd'll want more of you after your showing today!"

"You arrange it. I must go sharpen and oil my blade."

To Tadalac, he said quietly: "Yes, let's see to it."

Meanwhile, Nima was heading through darkening city streets. The setting sun glowed amber and orange against the copper walls and sandstone towers.  She arrived at the military encampment and found herself outside of General Aleksander's tent; one of his squires announced her, then re-emerged, instructing her to wait.  After five minutes or so, the tent flap parts, and the General stepped out, smiling.  

"Ah, Miss Nima.  Thank you for coming.  Please come in."  

He held open the tent flap, allowing her to enter.  Inside she immediately noticed a gaunt man standing in a darkened corner of the tent, leaning over the General's table, studying a document intently.  General Aleksander seated himself and said,

"Nima, may I introduce Xavier Heartstone.  He will be handling the charges against King Janessin.  He is also tending to some...local concerns."  

Heartstone straightened up, turning his head to study Nima.  He was dressed in a long midnight blue cloak, with a full hood.  The top half of his face was obscured by a silver mask etched with entaglio half-moons.  His mouth was a dour line set over a sharp chin.

"This is the one?"  He asks the General.  Aleksander nods stoically, taking a small sip from a glass of wine.  Hearstone looks at you seriously and says, "You walk in the shadows, yes?  You know how to move unseen, and lie when it suits your purposes?"

[Meanwhile...]

Bagor nods, and says, "Be back here at 10 sharp tomorrow, and we'll get you to the ring."  You head back to the inn, and in your room, Tadalac brings the diary out and opens it to the first page.  You can make out the first line, which stands apart from the rest of the handwritten text.  It reads, "I, Thalmor of Velth, do here make an account of my searchings."  Below is a series of sylvan characters that appear to be nothing but jumbled nonsense.  Tadalac says, "Let's get started, shall we?"  [So, for this, give me a flat intelligence check; roll a d20, and add your intelligence modifier; I will add this to Tadalac's roll, and we'll see what progress you can make.]

Shannon: I will nod slightly, and then do a Sense Motive check.

Sense Motive: 6+6=12.

Since it is highly unlikely that I sense anything with that, I will say: "I have cultivated certain skills that might serve me in times of need, yes.  But I have not done so to unquestionably serve any who ask.  I would need an appropriate motive to employ their use."

DM: Nima: You head through the darkening city streets, the sun setting in the west, suffusing the city streets with amber and orange.  You arrive at the military encampment and find yourself outside of General Aleksander's tent; one of his squires heads inside to announce you; he re-emerges and tells you to wait.  After five minutes or so, the tent flap parts, and the General steps out, smiling.  

"Ah, Miss Nima.  Thank you for coming.  Please come in."  He holds open the tent flap, allowing you to enter.  Inside you immediately notice a gaunt man standing in a darkened corner of the tent, leaning over the General's table, studying a document intently.  General Aleksander seats himself and says, "Nima, may I introduce Xavier Heartstone.  He will be handling the charges against King Janessin.  He is also tending to some...local concerns."  Heartstone straightens up, turning his head to look at you.  He is dressed in a long midnight blue cloak, with a full hood.  The top half of his face is obscured by a silver mask etched with entaglio half-moons.  His mouth is a dour line.  

"This is the one?"  He asks the General.  Aleksander nods stoically, taking a small sip from a glass of wine.  Hearstone looks at you seriously and says, "You walk in the shadows, yes?  You know how to move unseen, and lie when it suits your purposes?"

Nima: "I have cultivated certain skills that might serve me in times of need, yes.  But I have not done so to unquestionably serve any who ask.  I would need an appropriate motive to employ their use."

DM: You notice no perceptible change in Heartstone's demeanor, but he turns his head, ever so slightly, to the General, and says in a dangerously soft voice, "You had best control your pet, General."

General Aleksander stands swiftly, his face a hard and unreadable mask, and, gripping your arm, leads you to the edge of the tent.  He says in a low voice, "You must follow his instructions.  You have signed an oath of allegiance to me and through me, to Sevahr.  He speaks for Sevahr at the moment."  You think you see his face sour as he says this, but less than a moment later, the expression is gone.  "Mind your tongue, and remember your place," he says, his eyes deathly serious.  He walks back and resumes his seat, beckoning you harshly to follow.

Shannon: I narrow my eyes at both the General and Heartstone.  "What would you have me do?" I ask carelessly, to show that though I might cooperate, but I'm not particularly cowed.

DM: Heartstone examines his nails as he talks, his voice of a slightly high pitch, and as cold and unforgiving as a frozen lake.  "Perhaps you have heard of a dangerous sect of heretics located here in Eltuhlich; they call themselves the Doorway Walkers. They are led by two creatures named Panthelon and Martonius whose nature is…something of a mystery. The two men, if men they be, are discorporate—at least some of the time, and their bodies form a sort of bridge, or doorway, to other planes of existence. Hence the moniker adopted by their followers. Such magicks are not uncommon in certain parts of the world, of course, though these are no Andoli, nor are they of the Herrastic Schismatics; they are something unique, and relatively new. They appeared in the city last Autumn, and have been steadily gathering neophytes to themselves. They preach an ecstatic creed, promising to tear the veil from before the worshipers eyes through violent visions, to see behind the world, beyond the gods. An immediate experience of the totality of the divine—they promise… salvation.” A violent sneer twisted his features, and his voice glowed like a brazier as he said, “Blasphemers.”

"These Walkers are headquartered in the old Sigismund manorial home in the western part of town, not far from Sazarkand's palace. To find the place, continue west from the bazaar along the main thoroughfare. The road branches after a half mile. Go left, and from there you will be able to see the palace. Go to the outer courtyard of the palace, to the bone obelisk. From the compass set in the pavilion, walk straight north; that will lead you to the Sigismund home. It is a very old, and imposing structure of slate gray. The upper windows will be lit."

He looked up from his casual cuticle contemplation, and studied the half-elf.

"I need hardly tell you that it is dangerous there; but we need word on their doings, and their intentions.  Troubling rumors have reached my agents, rumors that they intend to utilize the recent upheaval in Sevahr to their advantage. Carollo does not deem them a threat, and takes no action against them, knowing that Sazarkand would likely find them amusing.  But Sazarkand is gone at present, and this is more than a mere matter of state: we cannot let more heresy infect the flow of events.  If they plan to aid Janessin or his devilish accomplices, we must know."  He gestures at a robe hanging from a light wooden rack.  It is dark black, with a circle of darker black printed on the middle of the back of the robe.  "I have procured one of the Walker’s garments, and I have a chameleon ring for you. A thin disguise against any with real eyes to see, but Panthelon and Martonius will be occupied, and I doubt any others there could see through this enchantment. But be warned, they are cautious, and know their own.  The risks are great."  

General Aleksander looks slightly uneasy.  "I am sorry we must ask this of you, Nima, but my own spies are tied up elsewhere, and none of my regular enlisted men have the finesse required for this job." 

Aleksander gave her a warm nod, then she stepped out into the cold night air to the sound of soldiers talking boisterously around their campfires.  She struck out west. The night was alive with activity; people milling to and fro, shopping, drinking, and talking; she passed a thin man preaching loudly of the goods of Isdurrna to a crowd of onlookers, some dubious, some apparently faithful, hanging on every word.  

Skirting around the faithful, she plunged into an alleyway that led in the direction of the bazaar. She wove her way around fruit vendors, dancing girls, men playing dice, and children running barefoot and playing games by brazier light.

Nima stepped into a heavily shadowed alcove, and studied the flow of foot traffic through the bazaar. She slipped on the chameleon ring and focused on a tall man striding through the market. A thick shock of black hair flowed around large shoulders. He wore a breastplate and a cloak. A scimitar was at his belt, and he had the look of a soldier about him. The ring settled, and the enchantment took, and Nima waited patiently until the man was well out of sight before stepping out of the shadows, now a doppleganger of the military man.

“hehe.” Nima turned as a small laugh sounded to her left. A girl was standing there, maybe eight or nine years old, dressed in urchin’s rags, watching her. “that was a neat trick, hey!”

Nima smiled. “Thanks!” she said, muffling her voice. The girl giggled at the sound. 

“You don’t sound right,” she teased.

“Well, maybe I’ll just have to keep quiet, then.” Nima said, giving the girl a pointed look. The child shrugged. 

“You’re not from here, huh?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I really do have to be going now,” Nima said, whirling the cloak that Heartstone had given her over her shoulders.

“I’m Sasha.” The girl said. “That’s a walker’s cloak. You ain’t a walker.” Nima stopped, considering the child.

“You know the Walkers?” she asked. Sasha giggled.

“I might remember a few things about their hideout, oh, maybe if I saw something gold…”

Nima flipped a gold piece to the child, who snapped it out of the air and stowed it swiftly away in a deep pocket. 

“That’ll get ye to the main gate,” Sasha said. “One more for the secret entrance.”

“Secret entrance?”

“Yup. All the big timers go in through a side door; I seen em all the time!”

“There’s two more gold pieces in it for you if you can take me there,” Nima said. Sasha flashed a white-toothed grin, and beckoned Nima to follow her into the night.

They passed through the city, crossing the palatial lawns before Sazarkand’s fortress. Nima saw the obelisk that Heartstone had mentioned in the distance, but Sasha knew a swifter route. Soon she had led Nima to the base of a stunted tree with long, snaking limbs that left a fine crust of fragrant pine needles on the ground underfoot. An austere mansion, one might almost call it a fortress, loomed ahead, and following Sasha’s pointing finger, Nima watched a trio of hooded and cloaked men approach the house from the side, heading toward a small door tucked in an alcove on the building’s east wing.

“Bang!” Sasha whispered, pointing as the door swung open, and the men were admitted.

“Is there a catchphrase, or a secret knock?” Nima asked the girl, who shrugged.

“Maybe.” Nima grimaced.

“Thanks a lot.” She put two more coins in the girl’s palm.

“Maybe I’ll keep watch here,” Sasha said. “See how you make out.” Nima shrugged.

“As you like. But don’t give me away.” And she was off, heading towards the door. Her hands were trembling as she approached. 

She passed silently through the night, a darker patch of black against the night, sliding through the shadows, away from the torchlight.  She drew closer to the Sigismund manor. The building was a huge and imposing stone affair; it looked like a giant mausoleum, with crenelated battlements, and swooping lines of finely etched marble.  Bas reliefs carvings of wispy, humanish-looking creatures melding into chaotic patterns, reforming, and dissolving covered the outer walls.  Cold green light shone from magic lanterns set in deep recesses of stone.  A burly man stood guarding the door, wearing a cloak identical to the one she was wearing. She approached with feigned nonchalance, striding with a sure and easy step.

Meanwhile, Bruckner and Tadalac had arrived back at the inn.

They sat down to working out the cipher in the mysterious journal found by Tadalac.  They puzzled over the arrangement of letters for close to two hours, before Tadalac proposed, with a shriek of excitement, that they introduce a numerological code to translate every odd letter into a determined equivalent into common gliss, the human tongue of these parts.  work proceeded him on this tack for another hour before Bruckner realized that their method was correct, but the letter assignations they had been making were based on a misinterpretation of the code.  He pointed this out—Tadalac slapped his forehead with a tiny palm, cursing himself—and then the two began to make quick headway in translating it.  Another hour of labor translating went by, and they had rendered the following text:

"I set out from under their watch today.  The reds will not corrupt my heart and soul.  Their methods have grown too sweeping, and as a result, my Esmet lies dead, and I a living corpse.  Too long and slow they run, but now quickened, like metal which pours from the heated anvil to wend a river of fire.  If Carakasta keeps to her course, it could be more than her soul and her sanity which are lost.  I must make haste to set right what I have not set crooked.  Such is the way of honest men...and fools.

These are the only marks of passage, these drops of ink on vellum.  There is nothing left but the weariness of walking, no other motive than the allaying of fears that I pray are never felt.  A drop of blood in a barrel of wine--such will be the fate of it if she succeeds.  There is nothing, nothing to do but move on."

There are a few blank pages after this, and when the text resumes, the cipher appears notably different.  Indeed, results are not yielded according to the previous method that make any sense at all.

Nima strode forward, flashing a wide, bright grin with stranger’s teeth at the guard standing before the small wooden door. A lime-green lantern pulsed violently over the man’s head, casting all into a ghoulish neon glow. Nima’s heart skipped a beat as the man gave her disguised form a once-over, then it began beating like a drum in relief as the man nodded, opening the door and gesturing her in. 

It closed behind her. She was in a hallway, surrounded by cold stone and eerie green light.  Ahead she could hear rhythmic chanting that seemed to move in step with the slight pulsations given out by the green globes of light.  She began to walk. Her nostrils were soon assailed by wild and pungent odors, some familiar, some utterly alien. Incense and smoke mixed with tar and other, strange, otherworldly smells.  She arrived in a massive circular chamber, filled with acolytes dressed in robes identical to the one you are wearing.  People were mingling, talking, drinking. Many people were looking toward a raised dais that formed a sort of stage at the end of the hall. The room was ripe with anticipation, but the stage was, for now, empty.

Nima kept her ears open as she scanned the room, looking for opportunities. She noticed a small cluster of people talking softly on the far side of the room; there were a few people standing by the edge of the group, not engaged, but apparently just listening in.  One in particular keeps shifting his weight between his feet, and seems bored and perhaps a bit antsy.

Shannon: I will approach this guy.  But I don't wish to say anything; I want to see if he says anything first, or at least see what his reaction to me is.

DM: Nima, the man obviously sees you, but continues to twitch this way and that, craning his neck occasionally to look at the entrance.  The group he is standing next to are speaking in hushed tones.

Shannon: I will stand next to this man, nod at him, and then say: "Watching for something?"

DM: He licks his lips nervously and says in a fast voice, "No, no, not at all!"  He begins scratching his arm.  "Never seen you here, are you new to the Unborn, huh?"  He continues, saying, "You ready for the big night tomorrow?!"  His eyes open wide, then he says, "I mean, you know..." he trails off foolishly.

Shannon: "Oh, yeah, I know," I say reassuringly.  Bluff: 12+6=18.  "But are you ready?" I ask, feigning concern.

DM: He shuffles his feet awkwardly, scratching at his left arm.  "I dunno," he mutters quietly.  "I mean, I guess I see that it's gotta be done, but," he shudders.  "The dangers are too great.  I don't want to--"

"You don't want to what?"  Comes a cold voice from behind you, Nima.  A tall man wearing a black mask under his hood glides up next to you.  "Losing your nerve, Chestler?"  He turns to face you Nima, looking you up and down, slowly.  "I don't know you," he says, his voice all ice.  "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"He's ok," Chestler begins nervously.  "We was just talkin' about the tr--" 

"Shut your mouth, Chestler!"  The man spits out loudly.  Several others looked  over and begin to head towards you.  The main prayer circle around the black sphere continues their monotonous chanting.  "Your tongue was ill-gifted to you, you sputtering fool."  The man turns back to you.  "I thought I knew all the Walkers," he says dangerously.  "But your face is unknown.  Who are you?"

Shannon: I look at the man calmly.  "You do not know my face, but I can assure you that I know yours.  I can also assure you that if you were meant to know my face before now, then they" (I say this with emphasis, to indicate that he and I both should know of whom I speak) "would have made my face known to you."

Bluff: 3+6=9

DM: He stands still a moment, considering what you've said, and then replies, carefully: "Very well.  Though I think it odd that I should go uninformed.  So tell me then, now that you have come to us, what great purpose occasions your revealing?"

Shannon: "I am here to make certain that tomorrow night runs the way it ought."  I gesture towards the scratchy guy.  "Chestler here was just about to tell me his concerns regarding the plan."

DM: Chestler pales as you gesture to him.  The man ignores him and continues to direct his questions to you, saying, "And how do you propose we alleviate the poor man's worries?  How should we best proceed tomorrow night?"

At this point, a great noise and commotion began, for Panthelon and Martonius had arrived. The discussion was buried in the sudden excitement and commotion, as all gathered near to the raised stage. Mounting it now was a man whose skin was dark as night, and flecked through here and there with piercing spots of white light that glowed like distant stars trapped just under the outermost layer of skin. Another man was behind him, this one glowing like a beacon of red fire, whose eyes were deep swirling orbs of crackling silver and black. They laughed and called out to some of their disciples by name. They wore thin white robes, which they removed as they mounted their pedastal, casting them into the crowd, which tore the garments to shreds, each trying to cling to a scrap of garment.

The midnight man stepped forward, holding out a hand for quiet. Silence fell like a guillotine blade. The man, or man-thing called Panthelon began to speak, and Martonius of red fire leapt in with answering calls as the two unfolded a sermon almost as one organism.

Panthelon: I look out upon you, gathered here, and I see hunger. I see… thirst. I know what it is you desire. You yearn to partake of the hidden knowledge. My flesh is the savory meat.

Martonius: My blood is the sweet wine.

Panthelon and Martonius: We are the veil between worlds.

Panthelon: All who would transcend must step through me.

Martonius: For in me all roads converge.

Panthelon: My heart is chambered with many worlds.

Martonius: In each cell there is a cosmos

Panthelon: Would you be limited to one time, one place?

Martonius: Or would you be many?

Martonius: I am the vein

Crowd: We are the blood

Panthelon: I am the prism

Crowd: We are the light

Martonius: For those who are chosen, into what fires shall you stride!

Panthelon: For those who choose themselves, into what oceans shall you dive!

Martonius: Enter into me now, and see the face of all things.

And then the two otherworldly men leapt at one another, and their bodies flashed and the flesh spun and unraveled, spilling sidereal light, and the glow of vast alien landscapes shimmering with distant seas, and crowded with cyclopean towers. The flesh melted and the bones broke and reformed, until the two men were stretched like the frame of an animal skin tent, and the fabric was woven out of the naked cosmos. The door stood there, swirling with dreadful visions and new colors that Nima had never seen nor dreamt of before. A heavy hush lay over all the crowd, and a pregnant expectancy. Everyone looked at their neighbor, whispering. 

Who would be the first to walk tonight?

After nearly a minute of waiting, a thin waif of a woman began striding with trembling steps toward the pedastal. The crowd parted to make way for her. She walked up the three stone steps to the dais floor, and paused before the shimmering portal, which seemed to be looking back with eyes of flaming chaos charring the empty void. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly.

“Will she walk?” the masked man at Nima’s elbow asked quietly. “Or will she test?” Nima glanced at him. He was staring at the woman before the shimmering altar like a bird of prey studying a rodent.

The woman tensed her body, as if preparing to leap through the portal, but at the last moment, she swung her arm up, sticking it through, up to the elbow. The crowd let out a low hiss of disapproval. No sooner had the arm gone in than the woman screamed, apparently struggling. She tried to pull her arm out, and her scream intensified. She was in pain. She was pulled forward, towards the gate, but still she fought, digging in her heels. A viscous blue limb, thick and rippling, showed through the shimmering arc of the doorway, tipped with a long metal talon. A gnawing mouth showed at the edges of the frame, and blood flashed through the empty spaces of the cosmos, and then the woman was pulled off her feet, and sucked through the doorway entirely. The blue arm dissipated, and the screams ceased their echoing about the walls.

“Oh ye of little faith,” sneered the man in the black mask.

Now a man, powerfully built, with a shaved head and a thick beard, was striding purposefully towards the gate. He neither stopped nor slowed, but strode through the rippling, milky black film, and into another world. Several long seconds past, and then the man stepped back through. He was naked now save for a sash about his loins of some bizarre animal pelt, and held now a long, battered sword. His beard had streaks of gray, and the bald head now sported a shock of long, greasy hair. The man looked about the room in stoney astonishment. He stood stock still, breathing long, hard, painful breaths. His muscled form had seen great trials, but he looked now to be a creature chiseled out of living stone. 

“I… return,” he managed to say, in a dry croaking voice. It sounded like he had nearly forgotten how to speak. His voice must have been in long disuse. 

Many others crowded to the stage then, lifting the fellow upon their shoulders, and singing songs of praise for the gallant walk he had undertaken. The man bore it all with wide eyes, apparently in a state of deep shock.

Others walked then, some to success, some to pain. One man leapt in, only to crawl out on hands and knees moments later, flame consuming his entire body. Others put out the blaze, and tended to his wounds with magical elixirs. The man’s fresh pink skin, newly grown from the ochreous paste applied to him, glowed in the shade of the portal’s light, and his eyes shone with fervor, his faith inflamed as well as his body.

A girl of fifteen entered, and was gone for nearly fifteen minutes before returning with a soft smile. When asked, she said that she had been gone no more than a minute; a tall, kindly creature had gently turned her back from the path she walked, reassuring her with a soft speech, whose words the girl could not now recall. An aged man and his wife shuffled through the doorway together. They did not return. After thirty minutes had passed, they were given over to Being, and another walked, this time a hard-faced man in his fifties with sharp cheekbones, and a thousand-yard stare. He put a hand through first, eliciting some murmurs of disapproval. After nothing seemed to happen, he walked through, returning some moments later with an ashen face and a small black book that he clutched against his chest. This book was met with great interest from the other worshippers, and many gathered around the edge of the dais to look. Then, with a great crack of light, the portal was gone, and Panthelon and Martonius stood on either side of the gaunt man. The crowd erupted into peals of praise, sobs of joy and grief, and other exclamations typical of such enthusi astics. Followers mobbed the stage, reaching out to touch the creature’s bodies, now in human form once again.

The masked man shared his thoughts aloud. “A lackluster evening,” he said dryly. “Save the emergence of that curious tome at the end. I do hope that proves of interest.” He seemed to remember Nima then, turning back, and resuming their conversation of several hours earlier.

“As we were discussing, however, yes, the plans are confused at best. This I grant you.  This is what comes of having no central leadership."  He looked suspiciously at Chestler who was scratching at his arm furiously. He grasped Nima around the her enchanted, bulging bicep.  "Come...my friend, let us speak somewhere more privately..."  They retired a few dozen paces away, into a secluded alcove.  Chestler made as if to follow, then caught the masked man’s gaze, before stopping short, turning on his heel, and striding away to stand sullenly alone.  

"At nightfall we will attack," the man said, once the two were safely tucked away.  "The courthouse is ill-guarded, at least as concerns an attack by a large party.  Our aim is not to kill or even harm, but rather, to disrupt.  If we can spirit Janessin away, and hide him here, in the catacombs for a time, then the atmosphere will continue to tip in our favor.  You understand me?"