Adventures of Caelereth

"Ye ain't got no san, ye cannna drink 'ere!"

The  bitter laced sing song mocking voice was the only sound on the street save for the howling wind as a lone figure stumbled along in the dark.  The man was incensed.  How dare the tavern throw him out?  Wasn't it true that every coin he ever had he spent in there?  Least they owed him was a free drink once in awhile.  Only seemed right.

He continued along, pulling his tattered cloak tighter around him and lifting the collar a little higher in order to keep the wind off him.  Winter was coming.  Life would get infinitely harder for him.  Time for him to start "believing" in a god again.  Queprur, most likely.  The priests of the Temple of Queprur were always good for the occasional meal and shelter for the night.  A shiver then ran through the man.  But, not tonight.  There was something just a bit too creepy about staying in a temple dedicated to death that kept him from going there.  It was a last resort.

He stopped.  His hand was itchy, and that always made him angry.  He lifted his arm and stared at the empty sleeve on his right arm.  How could something that wasn't there itch?  It brought him nothing but grief, as there was never any way to relieve the irritant.

"Dunna start this shite, not t'night," he spoke angrily to the empty sleeve.  He had been a real person once, a member of Nyermersys.  Tavis Grillum, or Tavis the Stonemason.  Now it was Tavis One Arm, or Tavis the Drunk.  Or sometimes simply just Tavis, you son of a -

Off to his left, two dogs started barking, growling and snapping at each other.  A dark haired dog, brown or black was hard to distinguish at this time of night, was trying to protect a bone from a lighter haired dog.  The light haired dog lunged forward and the dark haired dog was forced to drop the bone in order to gnash its teeth and snap at the lighter dog.  Immediately the air was filled with the sound of the two dogs in full fight mode, both of them rolling, snapping and yelping.

Tavis stopped, thought about it for a brief moment, then took a run at the dogs, yelling, kicking and waving his arm and a half.  "Git outta 'ere you filthy beggars, you."  His foot caught the lighter dog in the ribs, causing it to yelp, snarl then take off on a run.  The dark haired dog put its tail between its rear legs and trotted off a few paces, though it still regarded Tavis with narrowed eyes.

For his part, Tavis' momentum carried him forward and inebriation did the rest, causing him to crash to the cobblestones.  He pulled himself up onto his knees and looked at the palm of his left hand.  Besides copious amounts of dirt, blood trickled from several scrapes.  At least there was one advantage to only having one hand, he thought dryly, you could only hurt the one that was left.

The stinging pain and the blood brought memories of "the day" to his mind.  Working on the Castle of Thevelin, part of a crew that was repairing a north wall that had needed fixing.  He was below, helping to fashion stones into the right shape while others then hauled the stones up to the top with a series of ropes and pulleys.  Unfortunately, for Tavis, a rope had frayed, then broke, and the stone came crashing down.  Three people were killed, two died later, and he lost his hand when it was crushed between the falling stone and another.

Tavis stepped over to the bone, bent over and gingerly picked it up with his left hand.  The dog barked and whined in the background, but Tavis ignored it.  He held the bone before his face.  Looked like a leg bone to a small sheep.  He sniffed at it.  Wasn't rancid, though there was almost no meat left on it.  Still, the lack of drink in his belly only reminded him that he hadn't eaten in over a day.

He carefully leaned in and took a bite, ripping the tiny piece of meat from the bone.  Definitely sheep.  He swallowed, making a face as he did.  Had a sour taste to it.  Still, it was something.

He continued his journey, not really aware of any particular destination.  The dark dog trotted along behind, keeping a steady distance of 5 peds.  

Tavis turned a corner and stopped.  His blood chilled, as his eyes narrowed with his view up ahead.  He hated this place at night.  During the day it was fine; a bustling plaza filled with people coming and going and street vendors hawking their wares, and the occasional street performer trying to woo a few sans from the public.  It was often crowded and always loud.

But at night... No, at night it was different, at least for Tavis.  At night, it was a deserted eerie place, save for the one object that unnerved him.  The Pest Pillar.

Standing there, a monolith of horror, was the Pest Pillar.  A monument to Death itself, Queen Queprur.  A granite structure covered in the corpses of rats, intermingled with skulls of all kinds staring out lifelessly, their deathly grins mocking those of the living who cared to examine it.

Tavis swallowed hard, feeling a deep chill, more than the late autumn wind that blew, course through him.  Several of the skulls, some human, some...not, seemed to be staring directly at him across the plaza.  He closed his eyes.  "Ye just drunk, ye ol' fool.  Quit yer starin' at it."

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again.  He sighed, as some of the nightmarish quality of the pillar did, in fact, seem to wane.  He needed to pass the pillar if he wanted to get to the Harbour District.  Though one had to deal with the dampness of the Teiphra river, there were many more small places to shelter there without being chased away by the town watch.

His footfalls echoed as he hurried across the cobblestones of the plaza.  The only other sounds were the wind blowing dead leaves, and the whine of the dark dog following him.  Tavis felt better putting the pillar behind him, but the dog was getting tiresome, so he stopped and turned about.  Biting off the last piece of salvageable meat from the bone, Tavis threw the bone at the pillar.

"Leave me alone, mutt.  There be yer bone.  Damn ye, and damn that ugly pillar."  Tavis watched the dog rush over to the foot of the pillar where the bone had come to rest then greedily snatch up the leg bone.

Tavis turned away and took a step, but then halted once more.  Over the howl of the wind, and different than the sound of leaves blowing, was a skittering sound that grew louder and louder.  He could hear the dog begin to growl, then whine.  A frightened yelp from the animal had Tavis spinning around.

"What in the name of all that's good and 'oly..."

Tavis watched as the dark dog was surrounded by a sea of rats.  It was as though every rat in the world had come to this plaza this night.  There couldn't be that many rats in the entire city.  But, here they were, circled around the dark dog and closing in, their little snouts gnashing long white teeth.

The dog was snarling, growling, barking and yelping in succession as it spun in a circle, trying to keep the rodents at bay.  But, it was a futile effort as the rats were simply too many to be dealt with and they continued to close in, their squeaks and growls soon over shadowing those of the dogs.  In one last desperate attempt to save itself the dog tried to leap out over them, but the rats set upon the dog en masse.  There was a brief struggle, but within a moment, the dark dog had most of its flesh rended from its bones.

Tavis barely suppressed a shriek.  His eyes wide, he waited to see if the rats would turn on him, but for the moment they did not.  Instead, they all circled the pillar and stared up at it, many sitting up, balanced on their tails and rear legs.  

Tavis felt a warmth down his legs and realized he had urinated in his pants.  A moment later, he found himself gulping in the chill night air as he hadn't dare breath in the last few moments.  The rats were just staring at the pillar, almost honouring it; revering it.

Why?  What was drawing them to it?  Then he saw it and his mouth went dry and his belly shrivelled in fear.  Atop the pillar, the grotesque hand that sat there, that long dried, atrophied appendage put there to terrify onlookers, it was moving.  The fingers were curling out, then drawing back in.  It was beckoning.  It was calling.  

Tavis had enough.  More than enough.  With a scream of fright, he turned and began running blindly.  Turning corners, first one direction, then another, as if trying to elude followers, he lost himself in the streets and alleyways of Nyermersys.  He ran and he ran, until he saw the yellow light spilling out from a tavern just up ahead.

Tavis threw himself into the tavern, slamming the door behind him and pressed himself against it, in case something had followed him and would be trying to get inside.  " 'elp me!  'elp me!  I've just seen Queprur.  She's returned to take us all."

The sounds of women's laughter was followed shortly by the loud guffaw of a the large burly man who strode between the two painted women, one on each of his thick arms.  They began the descent of the stairs into the main common room of the run down tavern.  Thick billows of pipeweed smoke filled the air.  

His green eyes surveyed the room, lingering on each of the ladies for half a breath longer than it should have.  There were a few that might catch his attention later, after a few more drinks.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he slapped the bottom of one of the women on his arm while drawing the other in for a long kiss.  She too then received a slap on her rear.  "Begone, wenches.  I've had me fill of ye.  Time for drink!"  His swivelled to face the bar and the fair face of the tavern owner's wife.

"Maddy!  Get me a drink lass, and tell ye husband you'll be runnin' away with me.  At least until I'm sober."

The woman, Maddy, glanced at her red faced husband apologetically.  "You're never sober."

The words hit the man like a completely foreign concept.  "I think you might actually be right on that, lass."

Maddy, the tavern owner's wife, suppressed a shudder and called over another woman, a serving maid, and pointed her to the table the man had made himself home at.  The serving maid nodded and approached the large bearded man.  "What would you like to drink, sir?"

Sir?  The man looked over the new girl and snorted derisively.  She had dark hair and eyes.  He had never found that attractive.  Too much Ramunapan blood in her, he thought.  "Dunno, lass.  Have any goora?"  He shook his head before the girl had a chance to. "Of course not.  You never do.  Fine, what's cheap?  And dunna be sayin' Whiskaway.  Rather drink wison piss."

The girl thought for a moment.  "Well, my master has put scumbel on sale tonight.  Instead of an erg, he's only asking a su."

The bearded man's eyes twinkled.  "Oh?  A su instead of an erg?"  She nodded and he continued.  "So, let me get this straight.  Your master, that weenie of a man married to Maddy, is sellin' a drink worth four san for three san?"  Again, she nodded and he continued.  "So, in essence, if I were to buy one drink for an erg, you would owe me a san?"

The girl struggled to make the figures work in her head.  "Yes," she finally affirmed.

The man nodded.  "Very well, and if I bought another, again you would owe me a san?"

Yes.

"Then I bought a third drink, and a third san would be mine?"

Yes.

"So, you now owe me three san?  And the drink costs three san?  So, I have earned a free drink?"

A hesitant yes.

The man smiled through yellow stained teeth.  "Very well, lass.  I'll be takin' that free drink first."

The girl stood for a moment, going over the logic of his argument, then decided that it made sense.  She made her way to the bar, where both Maddy and her husband listened to the girl's explanation.  There were some hushed words exchanged before Maddy herself stomped over to the bearded man while her red faced husband watched from behind the bar.

"You'll pay full price for the drink or you can leave."  She slapped a mug with scumbel onto the table, the contents sloshing over the sides.

The man chortled.  "Maddy, me girl.  I was only teasin'."   He pulled forth the requisite coin and placed them on the table.

When Maddy's hand closed over the coin, the man's arm shot out and he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto his lap, pushing himself into her.  "You're man wears longer skirts than you, Maddy," he whispered coarsely into her ear.  "Come be with a real man."

"More of a man than you, you brute!"  Her free hand shot forth, landing a slap across his face.  She pulled herself free and stormed away.  Her red faced husband looked on.

The man laughed.  If her husband was a real man, he'd fight for his woman.  The man then stared hard at the husband, challenging him, while calmly pulling forth his hunting knife and composedly began cleaning under his fingernails.  He noticed that the now pale faced husband suddenly found other items to stare at.

The bearded man then heard a commotion at the door, where a one hand man was pale faced and shaking.  

" 'elp me!  'elp me!  I've just seen Queprur.  She's returned to take us all."

The large bearded man took the mug of scumbel and swallowed it all in one long gulp.  He burped loudly.  

"And just what in a pigs arse would she want to do that?"

Gurrant Cáo-fá-cael stood and faced the stranger at the door, while stroking his full beard now wet with scumbel.

No-one had noticed him, as usual. He stood in a corner of the tavern and watched the adults, listened to their noisiness, and smelled their beer, their sweat and their poor digestion. Movash had become good at hiding in full view. People saw him, but did not consider him. He was like a piece of furniture, utterly unimportant, like an empty beer cask or a broken table. And that was good. It was his way to survive in cities.

It didn't work when Humbaba was with him, of course. But she was out in the night, hunting. It was hard for her, this stinking city. Rat for breakfast, rat for dinner, and rat for desert, with only the occasional taenish mixed in, snatched from a backyard for seasoning. Movash stole meat for her as often as he could, but it was risky business, and the loot never enough.

He didn't like to think of her being out and about, prowling the streets on her own. The dogcatchers could catch her trail any moment. And once they would see her beak-like mouth, or hear her sing, they'd know that she was no dog. They'd either kill her on the spot as an abomination, or sell her to the next crazy merchant, who would beat her into submission and sell her Ava knew where. And that, thought Movash, would kill him. For Humbaba was his only friend.

But he couldn't well keep her with him at all times. She was always so hungry in cities, and got restless long before dusk, her favourite hunting time. Besides, with her around, Movash could hardly expect to steal enough food for himself. A boy with a naked wolf-shaped ped-high monster by his side did tend to get noticed, no matter his knack for inconspicuousness.

Well, Nyermersys had brought them no luck. They would leave tomorrow at first light. But for now, he had to get some food. He hadn't eaten all day, and the cold had torn at his body with fingers made of nails. At times he had felt so weak that he'd found it difficult to stand.

Something was happening. A man had entered the tavern and was screaming for help. Queprur was after him, he said. All eyes seemed to turn to him. The first to respond was a fat giant, whose beard was dripping with booze. He shouted at the newcomer. “Pig's arse,” was all Movash heard. There'd be a fight, Movash could smell it, and this would be his chance. He began to move. He reached a table, placed conveniently in the shadow of a wooden pillar. The grown-ups sitting around it all seemed spellbound by the loud dialogue. On the table, Movash could see three roast taenish legs, two slabs of bread, and half a dozen petitioners (http://www.santharia.com/food_and_drinks/prezzers_and_petitioners.htm). His hand reached out from behind the shoulder of one of the patrons, and went for a taenish leg. Even before his fingers closed around it, he could feel on his palm that it was still warm.

She sat in her chair, back straight with her legs crossed at the ankles. Gingerly she dipped a piece of bread into the bowl of broth on the table in front of her. It felt like a wet sponge in her mouth as she chewed, the hot broth immediately warming her from the inside out. Feeling Lucas' warm breath on her thigh, she repeated the process but held out the damp bread for her canine friend. Out of nowhere a small white weasel scurried up her leg to snatch the morsel out of her hand before the dog could get to it. He sat on her thigh, bread in his tiny claws as he nibbled furiously. "Oh Rocco, you mischievous little thing.", sh said in a soft whisper. Although she didn't know why she was trying to be so inconspicuous, it was always a futile attempt. Even if Lucas and Rocco weren't perpetually attached to her hip, Leilani herself was enough to draw a decent amount of attention. Her vivid blue hair paired with pale, almost icy blue, skin and red eyes aren't exactly the norm.

From  all exterior appearances she seems calm and serene but her mind was going full speed. Every sound and scent overwhelmed her senses, coming in an unorganized jumble. Upon concentration however, she could detect the smell of sweat, alcohol, meat and smoke wafting from the hearth. Even whole conversations she could hear. Some here quite personal while others were about money, sex or pride. There were even people talking about her. Most of the comments expressed pity but like always there were a few snide and even lurid remarks. One man even boasted to his companion of how he was going to get the blind elf alone and... She couldn't listen anymore but made a mental note to avoid the man. Most of the time it was simply the alcohol and testosterone talking but on the occasion that someone attempted to follow through with their boasting, Lucas would dissuade them with a growl or bite if necessary and the grip of the animals jaws were not to be taken lightly.

Lucas' soft whimper drew her attention back from her thoughts as she again offered the dog a bite of bread and broth before finishing her cup of milk. The same woman who initially took her order returned and asked if she would like a refill. "Yes, two please. One in a bowl.", she said while pointing towards Lucas. Upon her return both Lucas and Rocco began lapping up the milk and it was then that the door opened and slammed closed. The man who entered sounded winded and scared as he spoke of Queprur returning. There was a general sound of surprise and confusion that spread through the room but there was one man in particular who stood and addressed the newcomer and his odd outcry.

Queprur? Death? The newcomer's claims are quite interesting. Ridgen observed with silvery eyes as another man - a regular, probably - confronts the newcomer, asking why she'd ever do that. The elf thought it to be interesting to see what happens next - he sat back on his chair in a quiet-ish corner of the room, eavesdropping on the conversation. This guy might be another attention seeker, but there might be more to it than that - there was genuine fear in his voice.

Some time ago an old companion had died. He had traveled up north to pay respect to the burial site. Elliane had accompanied him. It had indeed been a journey filled with nothing but trouble. As usual there were many places that had outright refused him and his companion their hospitality once they saw her face. It had also been the same here, but at last he had found a place that at least would serve them some much needed food.

Azalahn was starving he had ordered 3 big bowls of stew, and the two first ones were consumed almost as soon as they had been served. Now with the 3'rd one he could finally relax and enjoy the food, or at least try to.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he thought that he could almost feel the mistrust, hostility and perhaps outright hatred from some customers glaring at him and his companion every now and then.

There was some drunk idiot making a scene, but indeed it seemed that he was getting a much friendlier treatment that Azalahn and his companion had. When the food had been served it had been with a warning or more a treat, any trouble from the dark elf or him and they would both be hanging in the gallows the very next morning.

His master had always told him to take care of every man and woman under his command, the kassite riders he had been living with in the Korwyn empire for a short while considered every member of their squad as family and indeed this sense of honor and responsibility didn't seem unfamiliar to the sarvonians at all. But somehow since she was a dark elf then the same rules didn't seem to apply.

He scanned the room for people who looked like they were welltrained warriors, people who probably would hurt themself more than the opponent in case of a fight and everything in between. Then he make a mental note of the fastest and easiest escape route if anything would happen.

His high quality armor and fine clothes together with his enormous size probably made him stand out from the crowd even more, but he hoped that it would also be a bit intimidating, at leas intimidating enough so that some drunk wouldn't force a confrontation upon him. He had absolutely no intention of responding to any provocation that might come. He just wanted to eat and be on his way back home again as soon as possible.

There were some remarks about the apparently blind elf woman. He noticed that his hand was beginning to form a first, and that his teeth were clenched together. He forced himself to relax again. A part of him wanted to teach that man a lesson, but it was not his place to do so here, but the disgust for such a lowlife didn't go away.

Suddenly the door opened and a man came in shouting something about Queprur.

It was an easy job -- tutor a nobleman's son in the arcane ways for a few moons and earn your weight in gold. The boy didn't want to go to Ximax and would rather be privately taught. Free food and lodging they say. For the first few weeks he ate what the family ate: roasted taenish, grilled mountain goat, expensive mushrooms, all the good stuff. He was free to eat anything in the house.

And it so happens that on one particular night, while enjoying his steamed fish, the dwarf felt a craving that can only be satisfied by one thing: ale. He was alone in the house, with the master and his family out for some evening party and the servants at their quarters. With no one to speak to, he decided to search the ale cellar for anything that can satisfy this thirst. He came upon a very old looking bottle, kept in the deepest corner of a wine cabinet. Thinking that this must have been forgotten by the master, it would not hurt anyone if he consumed the contents.

By the time the master got home, the dwarf was finishing the last of the wine. The bottle lay empty at his side and a glass half full was about to be emptied. The nobleman greeted the mentor, but caught the bottle in his sight. At this the master's face reddened with rage, for the wine that the dwarf so graciously drank is a rare type; one that is nearly a century old. A few hours of stern lecturing later, the man fired the dwarf, keeping his wages in lieu of the wine. He thought of getting revenge by fire, but the idea of spending time in a jail did not sit well with him.

Now here he was, snoring in a corner of a room, his hood covering his face with only his pipe showing. Thirteen mugs of ale decorate his table. Twenty seven in truth, but the other empty mugs were taken away to make room for the others.

" 'elp me!  'elp me!  I've just seen Queprur.  She's returned to take us all."

"And just what in a pigs arse would she want to do that?"

With a snort, the dwarf woke up. He rubbed his red eyes for a moment, then stared with disdain at the the pair who have disturbed his slumber.

Pig's arse? That better not be Buri.

Back in the shadows, hiding from the treacherous lights, Movash did not allow himself a glance at his bounty. Putting the warm meat into his pocket and looking for the next opportunity were one movement. His stomach complained, oh yes. It wanted the food now, this instant, while it was still warm and moist. It growled as loud as Humbaba did when a meddlesome street dog bothered them – which was, admittedly, not her loudest growl. That  she reserved for the beastliest types. Wolves and humans, mostly.

But Movash had no time to lose. A chance like this might not come again all night. He did not heed the scrap between the men by the door. His eyes wandered around, surveying the tables. There was the heavy-drinking dwarf. Movash had noticed him earlier. He had thought that the dwarf was asleep, and he had hoped to snaffle food off him, or even some coin, if possible. But the ruckus seemed to have woken the dwarf. He was moving, rubbing his eyes with his stubby dwarf fingers, turning his head to find out where the noise had come from that had disturbed his nap. It would be too risky to steal from him now. Dwarves could bend swords with their bare hands. Movash did not like the thought of those hands giving him a hiding.

His glance fell on another table. A woman was sitting there. Her hair was a funny colour – purple or blue, Movash thought, though it was hard to make out in the murky light. It looked more like the colour of a flower than of a person's hair.

Something in the way the woman moved caught Movash's attention. Maybe it was the carefulness with which she placed her hands. And as she listened to the men at the door, did her head not point in an odd direction? It was as if she was listening without looking. Abraxa had moved like that.

Old Abraxa. She had been the soothsayer in the troupe of Butterfly Rovers that had been Movash's home and family - back then, before his life had exploded around him, before the Netherworld had taken his parents, his friends, his happiness, and his voice. He had liked Abraxa, but he didn't allow himself to think about her. The only thing that mattered now was that Abraxa had been blind. Like, Movash thought, the woman at that table over there.

There was bread on the table. A few quick, quiet steps, and Movash was behind the woman's chair. Only then did he notice the dog. It was hunched over a bowl of food that had been placed on the floor. Movash hesitated. The dog looked like trouble. He could only too well imagine how its teeth would slice through his skinny leg. It wouldn't be the first time. And Humbaba wasn't here to help him.

But hunger and need won. Avoiding the dog, Movash took one more step. He now stood within touching distance of the woman. One piece of bread was placed tantalizingly close, just half an arm's length away from the table edge. He only needed to reach out and take it. But if he was wrong, if she wasn't blind after all, she would surely see him. He felt like closing his own eyes, as if that would help; as though, by making himself blind, he could also make himself invisible. But he swallowed his fear and kept focused. His arm shot out long and thin, and his fingers stretched for the bread.

Leilani licked her lips, tasting the residual salt left behind from the broth. She could hear Lucas as he lapped up the milk and in the background, the general bustle of the taverns patrons. Suddenly Lucas stopped drinking and fell silent and still at her side. It was a subtle warning that someone was approaching but Leilani didn't need the warning. She could smell him and hear his stomach softly growing in hunger.

She could tell that he, or possibly she, was small and more than likely a child. Something inside of her said that it was a young boy and she knew what he wanted before it even happened and as he reached out his arm to snatch up her bread she reacted quickly. Simultaneously her left arm lowered to stay Lucas' inevitable attempt to stop the boy while her right hand went out and gripped the childs wrist in a gentle but firm grasp. The wrist felt tiny in her hand and she immediately released it. "You should have simply asked, young one.", she said with a slight smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. She slid the bowl of broth towards the side of the table where a empty chair sat, then did same with the bread. Bringing the cup of milk to her lips she took one final sip before positioning it next to the broth. "Please, join me. I cannot finish this on my own."

Her hand gently stroked her dogs furry head, playing with his ear until he relaxed and went back to finishing off his own meal. Rocco quickly scurried up to stand on his hind legs, balancing on her thigh as he peaked his little head over the table while he licked the last drops of milk from his whiskers. In an instant he was on the table, grabbing up crumbs of bread from the surface, his little claws making faint scratching sounds on the wood.

"Leave those damnable things alone!", short, heavy, balding Kret demanded of the massive warrior, fuming up at him. "You're here to look intimidating, not start a damn war. Frown and grunt, it's what I pay you to do! Leave those stupid weapons on the cart!"

Vaguely, Kaelan considered looking at him, considered making a noise in protest - a grunt, he supposed - and then didn't. The little fool wasn't worth the effort. With one deliberate motion he sheathed both shortswords, then strapped the longsword over his left shoulder, fastened the belt, and passed the bastard sword over his right, fastening that belt. He drew the bastard sword to inspect the blade, running a finger gently down its edge.

His gaze softened at the sight. The furrows of his thick brows relaxed slightly, and for a moment he forgot about the crazy little man who ill understood battle. The weapon, though; it understood. The steel had been and always would be faithful. It was love, he decided; truest of love. The blade held a place in his heart. Tenderly, his little finger found the deepest nicks that he'd honed back into an edge, and he wanted then to sit, to oil and stone it again. Still, there was work to be taken care of first, and he deliberately dropped it back into the hook.

Here, he threw his cloak over his shoulders, fastened it loosely, and followed Kret into the darkened streets of the City of Death. Why anyone would choose to travel from Milkengrad to this forsaken place eluded the warrior, but the question was entirely irrelevant; on the other hand, it made perfect sense. There were customers as much here as anywhere, and where men bought, men sold. His own father would have figured out that much.

Somewhere in the quiet before them a voice screamed. Kaelan never tried to determine if it was male or female, forcing himself to relax after it passed. Whatever it was, the city would find a way to handle it. Kret paused as he saw a man fleeing to the very same inn he'd set his eye on, moving so quickly he appeared to the merchant almost to be falling horizontally. Something indeed had frightened the man.

It was a few minutes later that they neared the entrance, and Kret paused to look up at Kaelan, frowning. "No fights!", he tried to remind him. "I'm here on a rendezvous, and I don't need some bloodthirsty oaf fouling it up!"

He found it easier to ignore Kret's insults than it was to kill the little man - that, and the promise of pay, possibly without bloodshed appealed to the warrior. Kaelan deliberately said nothing, following Kret inside where Kret's nasal voice found what he assumed to be the place's keeper and, drawing a purse from his satchel, demanded, "A room for the night and a cot for my goon!"

His eyes took in the odd crowd; every crowd was odd in its own way. First, warriors. At least one of the people in the room looked combat-ready, and fancy at that. The armor looked not only monied, but practical rather than parade. Second was the dwarf, always a consideration where close quarters were concerned, but there was something odd about his clothes, his figure, that the warrior couldn't quite figure. An elf and a waif he noticed finally, and after only a brief consideration discounted them both, drawing his attention off them and back to the man who'd hired him.

Mouse sat quietly at a table, his feet dangling somewhere between his chair and the floor. He was sitting close to a wall, trying - and mostly succeeding - to be inconspicuous. For once he was not planning how to approach the innkeep to let him perform his acrobatics for the gathered crowd. He had just had a fairly successful stay with a rich Nyermersian merchant, who had paid him handsomely for his antics. For once he was here just as any other traveller, with the sans in his pocket to pay for his room and for his meal. Dressed in his old patched-up tunic, he probably did not really look like he had the money to pay these things, but after extracting some sans to pay in advance, the innkeep no longer had any problem with the little guy.

He had ordered a nice little stew with some bread, and he was taking his precious time to enjoy the meal. He even allowed himself the rare luxury of a cup of Artwine, for which he took even more time. Normally he was satisfied with just some water, but he had decided to enjoy himself, just this one night.

He had almost decided to retreat upstairs, away from the crowd in the common room, when a commotion started up near the door. Some man had flown in and started yelling something, pressing himself against the door as if frightened of something on the other side. Mouse was sitting just too far away to hear the actual words, mostly due to the noise in the common room combined with his diminished hearing, but there was something about Queprur in there. A burly patron made his way over to the frightened man, apparently addressing him. Without being able to actually hear the conversation, he nonetheless remained seated and watching the proceedings, interested in the different facial expressions of the participants - he might learn something for his own show, when he made good use of the muscles in his face to express exaggarated emotions.

Before the frightened man could reply to the burly patron, the door to the tavern opened, nearly toppling him over where he still stood leaning against it. He managed to keep himself upright at the last second, but his looks at the street outside were, if possible, even more fearful than they had been a moment before. He was really afraid that something would enter through that door... However, what came through was only a short, bald man accompanied by what to Mouse looked like one of the largest men he had ever seen, with loads of blades on his person, some of which Mouse could probably fit in. True, he was an intimidating sight, but one look at the first man confirmed to Mouse that this was not the reason for his fear. Mouse leaned back in his chair. Despite the discomfort of being in the middle of so many people without actually performing, he decided to stay a little longer. The night promised to be an interesting one.

Gurrant watched as the one handed man was knocked away from the door as two men came into the tavern.  The first, a smaller man, balding, was of no concern.  The second, was a very large man, larger perhaps than himself, the difference being less fat on this man.  The grip on his hunting knife tightened just a little.

Were these two chasing the one handed man?  Gurrant watched as the one handed man visibly relaxed with a more careful scrutinization of the intruders.  No, they weren't the ones chasing the man.

A smirk creased Gurrant's bearded face.  "Eh?  Which o' these two be Queprur then?"

The one handed man ignored the derision, instead grabbing a mug of something off the nearest table and gulping it down with fervour.  When he was done, he relaxed a little and looked about the room to see that more than a few heads were watching him.  He knew how it must look.

"Come on, then.  What's ye name?"

The man looked at the big bearded man.  "Tavis.  Tavis Grillum."

Gurrant nodded.  They were getting somewhere then.  "Tavis.  Tavis Grillum.  How about telling what has ye all upset?"

Tavis swallowed hard.  "The Pest Pillar.  It's come alive!"

Azalahn finished his 3'rd bowl of stew, just as the man who came in screaming about Queprur was knocked aside by 2 men coming in behind him. He was still hungry, he wanted to ask one of the barmaids to bring him some more, but with the wellcome that he had received it would most likely take quite a while before she would pass his order along, so instead he stood up and walked over to the bar and said:

Meat and vegetables a bit and fine wine a bottle as well please give. Corpsberry wine most preferable, but it not exist if, dry vine good bottle good is.

He hated this, but there was no way that Elliane would be able to order anything for them, so he had to do it himself and tell the whole world how limited his Tharian was. Now they must really think that I am a half ogre or some freak the thought.

As he was standing there in his full height of 2 peds, 2 fores and 9 nailsbreadth, the poem (http://www.santharia.com/adv/index.php?topic=8107.msg289734#msg289734) and beautiful maiden face engraved in his breastplate were quite visible, as well were his two longswords hanging on his side.
 
Now when he was some distance away from Elliane he could smell her Korwynite perfume on himself mixed with the smell of his own Kaýrrhem perfume, an expensive perfume even in the Korwyn empire, usually only used by the nobility and the wives of wealthy merchants.  Apparently she had sprayed some of it on his shirt. He shaked his head a bit, that perfume must have cost her 2 months wages. He looked at her and smiled, she smiled back. Sitting there in her fine green wool and linen clothes of Injerin style she could easily have been mistaken for an Injerin warrior he thought, the sad thing about it was that the Injerin style really didn't suit her. He tried to imagine her wearing a spilk dress of Aestera design.

Then he heard the man who had come into the tavern say "The Pest Pillar.  It's come alive!"

He turned towards the woman called Maddy who was obviously in charge here. "pest pillar? what saying he is? The plague struck this city has, he say?"

It was as if the air suddenly had become ice cold, a part of him wanted to get out of here as soon as possible but he knew that if the plague had come then it was allready too late, they would all die here, unless Netor would save them or Queprur didn't want them, he was fairly certain that Queprur didn't want him, he had asked her to take his soul sooooo many times but all in vain. However she might want Elliane's soul, not a good thing, the young girl deserved to at least get to know a few years of happiness.

"Beloved Estaria, please forgive me for not being able to see you again. Ameros I beg of you, take my life and balance my early death and empty life, so that both Estaria and Elliane can find happines at last, and live to enjoy it." he whispered in Styrian

He looked away from Maddy again and towards what was going on. There was that drunk taking charge of the situation. Well at least drunk people are good for something, they think they can handle every situation, but they usually can't he mumbled in styrash, more to himself than anyone

He turned towards Maddy again and bowed politely and said "I sorry am, something important going on might be, My lady what going on is to find out want if, I interupt not shall"

She had his wrist before he'd even touched the bread. The shock paralyzed Movash. But only for a blink: then he yanked his arm away, throwing all his little weight into his effort to free himself – and stumbled backwards. The woman had already released her grip. His arm was free.

Her voice was gentle as she said: “You should have simply asked, young one.” Movash stared at her, unbelieving. He had not been wrong. Those eyes were  blind. And yet she had known that he was there, and had caught his arm as quickly and precisely as a frog's tongue catches a fly. And now her hand effortlessly found a bowl on the table, and pushed it towards Movash. The bowl was filled with warm, fine-smelling broth.
    
He wanted to run away, but did not dare to. The woman, he thought, must have magic. How else would she see so well without her eyes?

With the same surety of movement as before, she offered him her cup of milk. “Please join me,” she said. “I cannot finish this on my own.”

She turned her head to attend to her dog, and for the first time, Movash noticed her ears. Their pointy tips stuck out from beneath her long hair. She was an elfess; the first he had seen in a long time. But she did not look like his mother. His mother's skin had been tawny, sun-loved, warm. By comparison, this elfess looked pale as death. Despite her friendly tone, Movash found her scary.

He did not sit down. And he did not take his eyes off the woman as, very slowly, very carefully, he took the cup. He drank the milk without sound, not slurping, not smacking his lips. Behind him, the conversation between the scared man at the door and the fat giant continued. “The pest pillar,” Movash heard. “It's come alive.”

There was a sudden movement from the woman's chair. Movash flinched, and almost dropped the cup. A small furry body flowed over the table, as if pulled along by its nose, picking up bread crumbs with dizzying speed. It was a mink or an ermine, Movash thought, and he felt a painful tug at his heart. He had used to love small animals like this one. Some of them made good performers, too. But that had been in a different life. Now he thought how splendid a meal a mink would make for Humbaba.

He put his empty cup down, softly, not making a sound, and took the piece of bread before the animal could get to it. He dunked the bread in the broth and bit into it. This, also, he did soundlessly. He told himself not to get distracted by the mink, and kept watching the woman as he chewed. He could not see her dog, but he knew it was there. He would have to be really quick when his moment would come to run away.

Seh'nara stepped out of her room, freshly washed and starving. The night was still young, young enough that Silver, that hulking wolf he was, felt comfortable enough leaving his master and exploring the city. The elfess, on the other hand, simply wanted to have a bath and a meal. She had spent the day wandering the surrounding forests, hunting for game she could sell. The haul was good, and though she wasn't in time to sell the meats in the general market, the butcher shop had paid handsomely for the venison she had trapped. After, it was natural that she go to the nearest tavern, book a room and bathe.

The tavern's common room was bustling when Seh'nara walked in. She seated herself swiftly, and ordered a hearty ribeye steak and ale. It was a delicious piece of meat, something that made her mouth water through its mere scent. And it was then, as she put her knife to the steak, the tavern door burst open. A madman stumbled in, screaming about the arrival of the Goddess of Death, doom and despair. The elfess paid no heed to the man's exclamation at first; she was far too hungry. Instead, she began to feast. She deserved it.

It was another cry from the madman - Tavis - that finally caught her attention. "The Pest Pillar.  It's come alive!" Her eyes flicked up, her ears twitched. The Pest Pillar, the disgusting one right smack in the middle of the plaza? She had walked past it that very morning on the way to the butcher. Silver had sniffed around it a little, stared at the rats, and growled until Seh'nara forced him to heel. And where was Silver now? Not with her. Wandering the streets. Possibly near that very pillar.

Suddenly, the lass was extremely interested in what the one-handed man had seen.

"The Pest Pillar has come alive!" the man who had introduced himself as Tavis exclaimed, his voice still giving away fear. He seemed to have calmed down a bit, though.

At this bold statement, the elf noticed heads turning slightly in interest. Or at least, faces giving away signs of interest. He found, too, that his own had turned to hear what else the man has to say, without his knowing.

"Would you care to tell us what that means, sir?" he found himself asking in a loud voice before he could stop himself. He silently cursed himself and his curiosity for making such a stupid move, groaning inside as a few heads turned towards him.

Oh well. At least he'll get to find out what he wants to know.

"The Pest Pillar.  It's come alive!"

"Aye, aye I've heard that afore. Damn tallfolks can't even hold their ale." Thorgas smirked. What a strange city. He'd seen that pillar before, and for the life of him he can't believe that people would actually erect a monument dedicated to pests. As if that wasn't bad enough, the city is also home to the most ill mannered people he ever had the misfortune of being acquainted. That burly bearded tallfolk would have a cold slab of steel embedded in his skull if he ever did that to one of the dwarven women in Kor Mithrid.

Thorgas took his beer mug and shook it a little. The contents sloshed to the sides, but there wasn't enough in it to even be called a decent drink. He frowned at the thought of having to stand up from his comfortable position and going to the bar for more. He took his staff, using it as a support, he stood up with a groan. A dwarf his age should be in the caverns, teaching young waifs in various subjects instead of adventuring far away from home for coin.

He then noticed one of the serving girls cleaning one of the tables, he sat down again and beckoned her to come closer. "Oy lassie, bring me three more o this delicious brew here, an' a slice o' yer sulcho mushroom steak." He laid a few coins on the hand of the girl. "Wonderful patrons ye've got 'ere," glancing at the direction of the bearded man. The woman flashed a shy smile then promptly went to the kitchen for the meal.

"Thank ye kindly," the dwarf said after the girl bought him his food. The pleasant aroma of mushroom steak filled the air, complemented by the earthy scent of the ale. Without much ado, he proceeded to eat his meal, all the while listening to the two men by the door, waiting for more hilarious conversation.

Leilani was satisfied when she heard the empty cup being set back onto the table and then the bread being dipped into the broth. She wanted to ask the child his name but was afraid that saying anything more might scare the poor boy off. Instead, she sat quietly, her red eyes staring straight ahead towards the bar but not really looking at anything in particular. She had been told by several people that is was very disconcerting to look into those eyes that saw nothing but everything at the same time. It was true, she was completely blind and would most likely never regain her sight again but the enhancement in the rest of her senses was a small compensation. She could feel the vibrations in the floor if someone was approaching or the slight disturbance in the air around her as they passed. Her sense of smell was what really flourished in the wake of her disability. From several feet away she could tell exactly what a person ate throughout the whole day by just one whiff of their breath.

So, it was easy to hear the conversation between this man, Tavis and the loud, obnoxious regular. When Tavis said that the Pest Pillar had come alive, a slight shudder rippled through Leilani's nerves, ending at the tips of her fingers. The monument was perturbing to say the least. She could obviously never see it but the first day she had been in Nyermersys, the pillar had been described in detail to her. She had stumbled upon the Pest Pillar by accident and when she reached out to touch it, her way of "seeing" something, an elderly women smacked at her hand. Confused, Leilani asked the woman why she had done so and was recanted with the history behind the pillar. It left her feeling cold and slightly nauseous, so ever since she has made a very strong attempt to avoid the appalling thing. Just the thought of it coming to life caused her stomach to turn.

The child, though not completely forgotten, was left at the table alone as she stood, grabbing a hold of Lucas' leash. The dog followed and led her at the same time, bringing her to a stop in front of Tavis. "What exactly do you mean, it's come alive?" Her eyes were aimed in his general direction but once again they seemed to focus on nothing. "How would that be possible? Perhaps it was an illusion?"

Claudirea was tired and lonely. She absentmindedly played with the simple golden ring which was upon her left ring finger. Luna was curled up underneath the table at which she sat, eyes closed in relaxation, but ears turning to hear everything that was going on.

The salad which sat in front of Claudirea was barely touched. Instead, it appeared she had spent more time stirring the contents around and then arranging them as opposed to actually eating it. Her mind was not even in Nyermersys, but rather in Voldar. She had thought that her wanderlust had come back, and her fiancee, Norman Graaves, had allowed her go wandering again. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all....

Her thoughts were interrupted as a man burst into the tavern claiming the Pest Pillar had come to life. Claudirea gave a small shiver as she tried not to envision the monument build to the Goddess of Death. She knew that Nyermersys was a different city than Voldar, but nothing could have prepared her for that sight. The image of the skulls and rats still ran through her mind, and even worse, the single hand coming out of the top of the stack. She rubbed her arms without even thinking about it. Nothing good could come of that.

Her sognastheen eyes noticed that the man had only one arm. At first, she was worried that it was lost recently, but there appeared to be no blood, so she was calmed slightly by that. A hand went down to her side, checking to make sure the small leather pouch which held her herbs was still there.

Other people appeared to take notice of the man's claims. First a human, probably a regular by the sounds of him, asked for more information. The man, named Tavis apparently, answered. Then two Elves questioned the man as well. Claudirea knew she was too far away to hear his replies, unless he shouted them out as he had previously done. She glanced down at Luna. Luna's eyes were now open, but she was still lying down. Her attention was focused on the man who had ruined her nap, her ears twitching every once in awhile. Claudirea decided that she would wait and see if she was needed. No sense in throwing herself into the middle of something she didn't need to be involved in.....

"Good, good," Kret grumbled, only giving an annoyed glance to this 'Tavis' as he snatched his key from the the woman's hand, and trudged toward the stairs. "Damn you Jet," his nasally voice whined in a tone that for anyone else would have sounded frustrated, but from Kret it came off as plaintive. "Nyermersys of all the places the Dreamress forgot."

Kaelan stepped aside and watched the parley, took new stock of what he'd previously thought was monied armor. Not just monied armor, he realized; monied elven armor, and massive, quite a bit larger than himself. Being elven and all, Kaelan was forced to assume his opponent would also have years and strength on him. At this point, he could only hope it never came to blows.

"You!", Kret screeched, and Kaelan glanced at the little man only long enough to catch his eye before following him. "I bought a cot. Find it and settle in. Pest pillar coming alive, by Seyella's own... don't just stand there!"

He didn't even bother to see if Kaelan had been there at all, simply ordered him about, partly to bleed off frustration. Soon they were out of the crowd, away from the chaos and the thieves and the... death of the place, and once he'd closed the door to their room, Kret sat on his bed with a sigh. "Someone, somewhere, see me out of this forsaken rat-hole and back to real society."

In only a few minutes, the massive warrior appeared with the cot, sat on it, and began laying all his weapons out in front of them, setting to the edges and form of every one, starting from the smallest.

Maddy
She looked at the elf in front of her, he had a strange accent, definitely not from around here, and his Tharian was welll... She stood there for a moment, to her it sounded more like a mixture of Styrash and Tharian although all the words were Tharian. He wanted some meat and vegetables, and a bottle of corpsberry vine. He looked like a high ranking military officer of some sort, and that meant money.

"A very large plate of meat and vegetables and bring that old bottle of corpsberry vine as well" she shouted into the kitchen.

Then he said asked about the Pest Pillar, and started looking at the commotion at the front door before he excused himself in a very polite manner, it was not every day that a high ranking officer came in here and called her a lady.

"It is probably nothing, just some fool trying to get some attention, and NO we have not been struck by the plague" She said in fairly decent Styrash.

Azalahn.
The large human warrior that had just came in looked at him. It felt like he was being measured. Azalahn looked back at him with his dead and lifeless eyes burried in the usual tortured expression, and nodded. The little man shouted something and shortly after him and the big warrior went into a room.   

Two other elves had inquired about what was going on with this pest pillar and the pale probably blind one was standing in front of the one who had started all this commotion.

The food and the vine finally came. Azalahn paid Maddy, it was very expensive, actually comparable to what he would expect to pay in a high class inn. Must be the corpsberry vine, he thought and returned to his table.

He poured some vine in his own and Elliane's glass, and started to eat, then he took a sip of the vine, it was a good vine, but it was not corpsberry vine, quite similar and in fact a good enough imitation to fool most people, but not a man who was used to drink high quality corpsberry vine, and definitely not an Eophyrhim. He looked up at Elliane just in time to see her spit the vine out again.

She tried to make it subtle, but yes she definitely spit it out again. "ohj#¤%#¤%" she mumbled an Eophyrhim curse. A flare of temper showed in her black eyes followed by a sad expression and finally a tear came out of her left eye. "Is this really what they take us for" she said with a thick voice and nodded at the bottle.

All Azalahn could do was to stare at her. He doubted that he had been cheated, it was a very good imitation, but no matter how good the imitation was then an Eophyrhim would always clearly taste the difference right away. Then he gently placed his hand on hers and in a soft voice he said.

"I think they have been cheated themself. The Paelelon forrest is a long way from here, so corpsberry vine must be very rare in these parts, but it is a good vine at least. Besides then we still have three bottles left in our room."

Then he smiled and said "Guess we shouldn't have sold that last box, but hey we will stock up again when we pass the forrest on our way back south again."

Then he turned his head towards the commotion at the front door again. Something was definitely going on her and he wanted to know what it was, but from the back seat for now. Could be nothing, just a fool wanting some attention as the tavern owner had said.

He turned towards Elliane again, he wanted to put an arm around her, but somehow it just felt wrong. He didn't want to but somehow the words just came out of his mouth in a hard commanding tone.

"Pull yourself together lieutenant, I need you sharp tonight, something is going on at the front door"

He regretted the words before he had even spoken them, but they worked, the commanding tone of a superior officer always had that effect on soldiers and warriors.

The he turned his attention towards the commotion again.

Without another word, the blind elfess stood up and walked away in the direction of the door. Movash felt his shoulders relax. She hadn't tried to trick him, then. She really did not care about who ate her leftover food, and was not interested in a scurvy scallyway like him. And neither was anyone else: all eyes seemed to be on the scared man at the door.

Movash finished chewing, and put the rest of the bread in the coat pocket that already contained the taenish leg he'd nicked earlier. He took the bowl of broth from the table, and drank it empty in one go. He allowed himself a few blinks to enjoy the homely warmth it brought to his belly. Finding this table had turned out to be a stroke of luck, even though he'd been caught. The elfess, it turned out, had joined the conversation at the door, as had other people. Movash decided that he would try to get one more decent piece of food. Then he'd make a dash for the door while the grown-ups were distracted, and would leg it into the darkness, into safety. He'd wait for Humbaba to find him, and they'd snuggle up somewhere for the night. Tomorrow's breakfast was already in his pocket, so they could leave the town at first light.

He looked about him. A thin, hobbit-sized woman had ordered herself a big portion of raw vegetables. But she did not seem interested in them. Movash would have liked to have them in her stead, but he knew that greenery wouldn't ward off the hunger for long. Also, lying at the woman's feet was a large animal. Its ears were twitching. Movash saw its eyes. It was a wolf. That decided it: a few lettuce leaves weren't worth the risk of having a wolf's jaw at one's throat.

Slowly, he moved on, weaving his way through the labyrinth of tables, watching out for the next opportunity. He was in full view of anyone who cared to look, but his feet made no sound, and he hoped that the talk about the pest pillar would keep all minds occupied.

A tall woman with beautiful red hair was sat before a half-eaten steak. She, too, seemed absorbed in the goings-on by the entrance. She had no dog with her, no wolf. There was nobody else at her table. Nor, it seemed, was anyone looking her way.

Blinks later, a lissome shape huddled under the table of the red-haired woman. A pair of nervous eyes peeked out, checking whether anyone had been watching. As far as Movash could tell, all was well. Above him, just nailsbreadths away, was the steak. He remembered exactly where the woman had placed her plate. Beside him, he could see her legs. She just needed to stretch one of them, and she would kick him. They were long, these legs, almost as long as Movash was tall, or so it seemed to him. Of course the woman would outrun him, if it came to it. His only chance was stealth.

He allowed himself a moment to steady his breath. But it didn't work. His heart just wouldn't slow down. The sounds above scared him. It was as if suddenly all the noises, which before had just been a blurred chaos, had become louder and clearer and more distinct: coughing, clanging, speaking, burping, smacking, bumping. They were scarier when you couldn't see who was making them. The space under the table had looked safe from afar, but now that he was here, it felt like a prison. If he was seen, it would be clear at once that he was up to mischief, as the adults liked to call it. And then they might do anything, drunk and mean and adult that they were.

There was only one thing to do. Movash closed his eyes, and imagined that he was the only person in the room. There were many voices and noises around him, of course. But they were just ghosts. The ghosts were horsing around, playing catch-me-if-you-can, nose-diving into tankards and rattling with the cutlery. Ghosts were all right. They were making a racket, for sure, but they only wanted to brag. They didn't want to harm you. They had no interest in catching you or biting your hand off or killing you.

So. Now that he was on his own, Movash decided that he would play a little game. The game was called: snatch the steak with your eyes closed. If he failed, of course the ghosts would laugh at him. They liked that, seeing a little boy fail. But he wouldn't give them the pleasure. He would succeed.

He pressed his eyes shut, pressed so hard that it hurt, and stretched out his hand. His fingers felt for the table edge, and from there walked spider-like to the spot where he thought the woman's plate was. Yes, he could feel the crockery, and the pleasing greasiness of its surface where food had been. Finally he found the warm meat. As soon as his fingers closed around it, he pulled his hand back under the table. He opened his eyes to look at his catch.

Mouse had lost interest in the proceedings at the door. It wasn't that he was not interested in the pest pillar coming to life - it was just that over the din of the common room, he could not hear what was being said, so he did not know about the pest pillar coming to life. People moved in closer to join the conversation, and thus were speaking even more silently, so that he had even less of an idea what was going on. He supposed to could go and see what the commotion was about, but something caught his attention. Many eyes - of people with better hearing than himself - were directed at the door. One little shadow, however, was not looking there, instead moving about and looking intently at tables. He looked like a young boy, maybe ten years of age, malnourished and looking hungrily at the food. He had not seen Mouse's eyes on him when he dived under a table. From where Mouse was sitting, he had a full view of both the table and its uninvited guest under it.

When he suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, Mouse wondered what he was doing. Did he believe that if he did not see anything, nobody would see him? It looked that way, because his hand snaked up while his eyes remained tight shut. A move, a snatch, and the woman under whose table the boy was sitting no longer had a steak in front of her. That was a dilemma. Would Mouse warn the woman about the little thief under her table? Or would he let things be, knowing what hunger was like and feeling that the woman really should have been paying better attention, instead of having her attention riveted to the proceedings at the door?

Still undecided, he slid down from his chair and waddled a bit closer with his ungainly gait. First he would wait to see if the copper-haired woman would even notice the disappearance of her meat. If not, he could still decide on a course of action. As he came closer, he noticed the pointy ears peeping out from between her hair - an elf then. However, the more surprising aspect of her visage was revealed when she turned her head a little, and Mouse could see a tattoo of a rose covering her right eye. That must have hurt, he thought. He wouldn't get one in that place, an eye being such a delicate thing. But then, he probably wouldn't get one, period, so really he did not know anything about it. It did look good on her, though.

For a moment, Gurrant wasn't sure he'd heard right.  Alive?  The Pest Pillar?  The monstrous, ugly monument to Koraya knows what out in the town square?  When it finally sunk in, Gurrant laughed out loud.

There was a jeer from the crowd, someone asking for the drunken one handed man to explain.  As well, a strange pale blue skinned woman approached him.  Elf, by the look of her, though not one from near here, Tavis guessed. She too questioned what he had seen.  Tavis turned to her, but spoke out loud enough for the crowd to hear..  "It is moving.  The hand be calling.  It wants to draw evil to it."  A shiver went through him, from her eyes or the memory of the pillar, he wasn't entirely sure.

"Aye, Tavis, ye had me going there for a moment.  The Pest Pillar is alive!  Hah!  Perhaps its time ye went home and slept off the ale."  Gurrant turned and was about to take his seat once more when he was stopped by the angry voice of the one handed man.

"Mock me if'n ye will, but I'm tellin' ye the truth.  The Pest Pillar is moving.  Queprur herself has come back.  There are rats... and they... they... there are rats!"

Gurrant turned about, somewhat annoyed now at the man.  "Of course, there be rats, man.  This is a city.  One thing about cities wherever ye go, you'll always find rats.  And drunks.  Both more trouble than they be worth."

As Gurrant took his seat, a mug of ale crashed into the wall near him, splashing him and a few others nearby.  Gurrant's head spun about to face the one handed man who stood defiantly.  "Ye best be a better fighter than ye be a liar, cuz yer about ta anger me.  Ye do that, and ye be meetin' Queprur alright." Gurrant warned.

Drops of ale fell upon Claudrea's bare arms as well as shards of a once-whole mug fell into her salad. She jumped back slightly, causing her chair to scoot along the floor. Luna stood up at once, her ears folded down, a slight growl emitting from her throat.

Claudirea turned her attention to the man who was taunting Tavis. A look of anger was upon his face, and she began to fear that a full blown brawl would break out among the two of them. She bit her lower lip as her mind raced. Thinking through her options very quickly, she realized that someone would have to get involved to calm things down, or else she would probably end up having to use her medicinal herbs that night....

Laying a gentle hand upon Luna's hand to calm her, Claudirea stood up, took a shaky breath, and stepped towards the angered man. Because she was so short, she knew that she would have rely more on what she said than her stature.

"Perhaps....perhaps it would be wise to see if there is anything going on," she said gently, but loud enough for him to hear her. In addition, as if to grab his attention, she placed a hand upon his arm, hoping that the human contact would calm him down. "If I remember correctly, the Pest Pillar isn't that far away from here, and if there's nothing to see, than only a few moment's of our night has been wasted."

Claudirea prayed to every god and goddess she knew, begging for the wisdom of what to say, and praying for a calming spirit to fall over the tavern. She did not want this to end in bloodshed....

Things were beginning to get out of hand and the temper of the large, loud man was starting to reach it's boiling point after Tavis threw what Leilani believed to be a mug in his general direction. She felt the rush of air and heard the soft woosh of the mug as it flew passed her. It hit the wall in a spray of ale, causing others in the vicinity to jump in surprise. Then a woman, who seemed to have been a recepient of the spray of ale, approached the angered man and spoke in a gentle, reassuring voice.
 
"Perhaps....perhaps it would be wise to see if there is anything going on. If I remember correctly, the Pest Pillar isn't that far away from here, and if there's nothing to see, than only a few moment's of our night has been wasted."

Leilani agreed with the woman and was more than grateful for her attempt at calming the man. "Yes, I too believe that we should investigate the Pest Pillar." Even as she spoke the words, a shiver ran down the length of her spine at the thought of approaching the monument again, especially in the dead of night. Lucas could feel her tension and comfortingly rubbed his large, furry head against her thigh. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the dogs show of affection and she patted his head reassuringly. "Yes", she said more to herself than to the others. "We must go to the Pillar."

The situation looked like it may turn out to become a full-blown fight when this Tavis sent a mug of ale flying, still full, shattering it against one of the tavern's walls. That man needs to calm down. Before anyone else could really do anything, a woman stood up, approached the man that Tavis was arguing with and suggested that they all go take a look at this moving pillar. This was quickly followed by the agreement of another elfess, who had expressed her interest in the Pest Pillar earlier.

Ridgen thought it was about time he got closer and added his voice to the conversation. He sauntered over, giving off a confident air, to the doorway where Tavis stood.

"Good idea," he said bluntly. "In fact, let's go have a look right now. The pillar certainly looks like it's in need of a visit."

"Mock me if'n ye will, but I'm tellin' ye the truth.  The Pest Pillar is moving.  Queprur herself has come back.  There are rats... and they... they... there are rats!"

Seh'nara's eyes narrowed at the stuttered exclamation. It seemed outlandish, eerie, implausible. And yet, in the City of Death, was it truly impossible? Of course, the title itself wasn't proof. Death could come in many forms. And often, Death prefered to shroud itself in illness and war, subtle in the unsubtlety of clanging swords and coughing patients. The Goddess of Death, it seemed, had opted for more overt means this time.

The elf was far too absorbed in her thoughts to notice the light touch of a small hand, its nimble fingers grasping her half-eaten steak and sliding it out of sight. It was only until the movement off to her side - already unusual in itself; everybody was riveted by Tavis - caught her attention. Turning her head ever so slightly, Seh'nara spared a glance to her side, noting the hobbit sized... boy? Man? She didn't know. And so thinking, lost interest in him almost immediately, turning her attention back to her table. Where apparently, her steak had decided to spontaneously grow legs and walk off.

Seh'nara stared down at the empty plate on the table, a growing sense of annoyance spreading through her being. It was supposed to be a good night. Not one filled with raving lunatics, moving statues and disappearing steaks! The elfess closed her eyes briefly in frustration and moved to push her chair back. Before she could move the wooden chair a nailsbreath though, she felt a light flutter of movement near her booted foot. In a heartbeat, the elfess realised the truth. The thief was under the table! Oh, he was genius.

In one fluid movement, the elfess had her dagger out of its sheath and shoved the chair back, ending up kneeling on the ground, her dagger-tip pointed directly at a timid waif. His eyes grew large at the sharp blade, and even larger at the snarl Seh'nara had on her face. Three heartbeats passed before Seh'nara relaxed, realising who she was actually threatening. A simple waif, probably a homeless orphan, merely wanting food and drink to stave off the hunger gnawing at his insides. She knew the feeling, and wouldn't begrudge anyone for it. The elfess sat back on her haunches, sliding the lethal weapon back into its holder. "You should observe your mark more, child. Just because I don't show my weapons or have a dragon by my side, doesn't mean I'm not capable of causing you harm." The elfess tempered her chidings with a tentative smile. She must have scared him, and didn't want to frighten him further. He was such a slight young thing, with a little elf-blood in him too, looking at his ears. Seh'nara's heart went out to the little feychild.

"In fact, let's go have a look right now. The pillar certainly looks like it's in need of a visit." Seh tilted her head towards the voices. The proposed expedition seemed to be well supported, and she wanted to be in on it. "Looks like you're in luck. Everyone seems to be clearing out. Have fun feasting on the leftovers, child." Seh gave the boy a small wink before standing up and stretching. If there was going to be a trip to the cursed pillar, she was going.

It's a common mistake: faced with a tricky business, you concentrate all your mind on the most difficult part of it, and once you've succeeded with that, you are so happy and relieved and proud of yourself that you relax too early and fail to finish the job. Such was the trap that Movash stepped into. Or rather, such was the trap that he kept sitting in for a few blinks too long, while his eyes re-acquainted themselves with being open, and revelled in the sight of the juicy steak his hand had caught.

There was a movement from above, a soft kick against his hip, then the noise of a chair skidding across the floor – and the next thing Movash knew, he was staring into the tip of the red-haired woman's dagger. Her face was fierce like a wolf's. Her eyes wanted to stab him. He could see her teeth. She was a hunter. He was a rabbit. She would kill him. He knew .

Instead, the woman's face softened. She put away her dagger and said: "You should observe your mark more, child. Just because I don't show my weapons or have a dragon by my side, doesn't mean I'm not capable of causing you harm." Movash saw then that she, too, was an elfess. She had a flower tattoo over her right eye. Her skin was pale, but in a different way than the skin of the blind elfess had been.

Behind him, beyond the table, the men at the door were beginning to fight. Movash heard the breaking of crockery, and voices raised to furious roars. He hoped that this would distract the woman, so that he could escape after all. His heart sank when calm voices intervened, and appeared, for the moment at least, to nip the brawl in the bud. The woman had listened to the voices, too, but she must have understood more of their meaning than Movash, for she said: "Looks like you're in luck. Everyone seems to be clearing out. Have fun feasting on the leftovers, child."  She winked at him, and stood up, her face disappearing out of Movash's sight. He was left under the table alone. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at people's legs. Some of them were moving, but Movash hardly noticed that.

What was worse? To be thought a thief, to be punished and despised – or to be thought so unimportant as not even to be worthy of contempt and punishment? Two elfesses had caught Movash in the act of stealing tonight. Both had smiled at him, left him the scraps from their table, and gone away to deal with weightier matters.

He missed his mother. He missed her hair. He missed helping her to dye streaks of it in blue and green, according to the fashion of her tribe. He missed hanging cherries over the pointy tips of her ears. He missed her eyes. They were the kindest eyes in the world.

When Movash crawled out from under the table, tears were running down his cheeks. He cried without sound, not even snorting to clear his nose of the snot that dropped freely from his nostrils. It was time to go. Soon the night would have him, Humbaba would find him, and he would bury his face in the folds of her furless skin.

He looked around for the best way through the tables and the crowds, and through the wet mist of his tears saw a boy standing nearby. Movash hadn't noticed another child in the tavern before, but this boy was even smaller than himself. Did he look at Movash? Did he sneer at him for being a cry baby? In a gesture of defiance, Movash wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing the fabric with dark patches of salty damp and snot. Let that boy think what he wants. If Humbaba was here, he wouldn't even dare to stand close. Movash lifted his head and began to walk towards the door. His pockets were filled with food. Things could have been worse.

It would seem that there was no need to decide after all - Something caught the elfess's attention, her attention turned from the door to her plate, and she noticed that it was missing a steak. She even seemed to sense exactly where the thief was, now that she realised there was one, and quick as a flash she had shoved her chair backwards, threatening the boy with a dagger. Mouse blinked. Was that not a bit too dramatic for just a disappeared steak? However, before he could interfere - he felt like the viewer of a play, no chances to act - she had sheathed her dagger and said something to the hungry child, after which she stood up and strode off into the direction of the door.

The elfin boy, probably from the backlash of the sudden fright and the just as sudden removal of the fright, started crying. There was something strange about it though - despite the tears that Mouse could clearly see, not a sound came from the small boy. Did he not have a voice? Though that would not explain it, there are crying sounds that even silent people can make, and even those lacked. It was eerie. The small man wanted to comfort the little boy, but what happened next nearly broke his heart for the urchin. He had seen him looking, and in an act of obvious defiance righted his shoulders, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and moved off, not looking back. Mouse wanted to go after him and offer him a handkerchief, but he felt that he couldn't. It would be the ultimate humiliation. The acrobat left the boy in his pride, but his earnest grey eyes followed the boy's movements across the common room. His heart went out to the kid, but there was nothing better he could do than let him be, even though he longed to start a conversation with him.

Now that he was standing anyway, he waddled closer to the commotion that was still going on, his curiosity getting the better of him. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but more people had gathered here, including the elfess with the steak. There was another elfess, paler than the first, a dwarf, another elf, male this time, with the pointiest ears and strangest eyes that Mouse had ever seen. Where were the humans? Oh, there was one, a smallish lady with dark skin. Mouse felt less alone just seeing her. Now, to find out what was going on...

The sound of a mug crashing against the walls pierced the arguing voices of the people near the door, spilling its contents on the big man and to a few others nearby. Thorgas became irritated at the one handed man. Good ale is produced using an art that his people had perfected. How dare he waste it by throwing it on the wall instead of his general direction? He was about to shout his disapproval of Tavis' unruly, childish act, when something at the corner of his eyes caught his attention.

He didn't see most of what happened, but he saw an elf kneeling under the table, and moments later a little boy emerged from underneath it, clutching what looked to him as a piece of meat. He noticed too, the dagger the elf so silently sheathed. Then it dawned on him. The boy must be a thief! Thorgas quickly checked his pockets for anything missing; pouches of sulfur and ashes, rubies, coin purse, and his pipe. Then he looked at the location where he left his staff. It was still sitting there, the rune engraved, metallic rod and its psyrpent-made crystal reflecting what little light the candles of the place shed. He breathed a sigh of relief. It would seem that this boy only steals food.

He quietly finished his sulcho steak and downed the drinks. What was he thinking again, before that elf and child distraction? Ah yes, the men near the door. The pillar coming to life. People were volunteering to take a look at the structure that horrified the one-handed drunk. He really couldn't blame the man, since the pillar looked like it was constructed by Death herself; skulls with empty eye sockets staring at you, and a withered hand at the top. But if ever the planned trip towards the structure materialized, Thorgas might tag along, but only for his own personal reason, that being magical research. If what Tavis says is true (although Thorgas still thinks he's drunk), then there is a chance that fire magic is at play here and he would certainly detect it, since animation is under the domain of fire. If not, then the subtle changes in the car'all of the structure will most likely give it away.

"Mock me if'n ye will, but I'm tellin' ye the truth.  The Pest Pillar is moving.  Queprur herself has come back.  There are rats... and they... they... there are rats!"

The one handed man took a mug of ale and hurled it trough the air, it crashed into the wall near near the big man that seemed like a regular, splashing him and a few others nearby. Azalahn had to admire his currage, the big regular seemed like he could break the one handed man's neck without trying, and he had also been playing with a big knife a few minutes ago. Nothing but a brute Azalahn though.  

Two women went up to all the commotion one of them a human, the other was the pale, probably blind elf. There were some words exchanged.

Human: "Perhaps....perhaps it would be wise to see if there is anything going on,"

Human: "If I remember correctly, the Pest Pillar isn't that far away from here, and if there's nothing to see, than only a few moment's of our night has been wasted."  

Pale Elf: "We must go to the Pillar"

Azalahn wondered if this commotion was going to end with many people leaving to have a look at that pest pillar whatever it was. he was curious about what all this was about and he wanted to go along with the rest of them. He took a look at Elliane. Best not to join them right away, they would NOT wellcome his company. Well perhaps if he went allone, no they had seen whom he shared his meal and table with. A companion of a dark elf was not wellcome many places, in fact he was almost as loathed everywhere he went as she was.

Yet he really wanted to know what was with this pest pillar, perhaps if he just followed them quietly when they left. No that was not an option, he wasn't exactly the sneaky type. He wished Elyssia was here. I really shouldn't have put her in charge of my inn and left her back in Bardavos he thought, would be extremely handy to have her here now. Guess I will just have to follow them, 10 steps behind the rest, and hope they won't mind too much he thought.

Then a thought came to his mind, he looked around the tavern, what was everyone up to? He had seen this before, someone creating a commotion to gather evryones attention and then his friend would start working and empty everyones pockets.  

The only suspicious thing that Azalahn could find was  at one of the tables someting strange was going on. There was this fay child, under the table. He hadn't put his attention to it earlier, but it seemed to be the same one that had been with the pale elf's table a few moments ago, now that he though about it, at least he hadn't noticed more than one fay child in the tavern, not that they were the first things he would notice. He looked around, No there was only this one.

What was it doing with a steak in its hand. Could he be stealing food...? in a tavern? Azalahn thought about the streetkids in Bardavos, and other places he had been to. He felt sorry for this kid. That woman Maddy hadn't been too hostile towards him. He caught her eyes and she came over.

"Please my lady, could you give that poor little child a good and nourishing meal I will pay for it." he said in Styrash and put a few coins in her hand.

Maddy got the food with a mug of fruit juice and went over to Movash with it.

Four days of hard riding, and a great deal of haggling had brought an incredible amount of wealth to the family treasury. Only this evening had he written and sent a letter home to Katya informing her of his mercantile success. Here in Erpheronian lands the horses that he brought with him were being sold at an exceptional price. Of course there were many who were against paying such a high price for an animal, but he always argued that these horses were not simply beast of burden. He'd displayed the difference with his own companion, a large Centoraurian stallion named Cloud. After displaying Cloud's abilities, the knights had been more than willing to oblige his prices. All in all a good days work. Cloud had been an infallible asset to his work, and the horse was by now being washed down in the stables near the inn.

It hadn't been his first choice, mostly because it was a small and slightly shady place. He was a noble, but on such short notice it was the only place that could be found. That morning he had arrived in town simply to sign papers pertaining to a particular business contract that would potentially benefit the family in the future. Negotiations had taken up most of the morning, and tired from the days work this inn was the best to be found.

Sitting in his seat he despised the unsanitary nature of places bar, but it was homely enough. Unfortunately the same could not be said of all the patrons as several of them were simply to ruckus, and uncouth for him to even begin to tolerate. Still he made do, and though he spent most of the remainder of the day in his room he had finally found time to come down to the tavern for a quick talk with the innkeeper. Upon his arrival he had seen the food offered, and he found it by appearance not to his taste. With that in mind he had already eaten before coming down stairs.

It was because of this that he happened upon the situation of the Pest Pillar. He'd seen the Pillar as he'd made his way through town, and to say he was not fond of the object was a mild understatement. Still he listened to the rants of the elderly man with only one hand, and found himself strangely unconcerned. While the man did babble about the dangers that seemed to be erupting around the Pillar, it was difficult to take the man seriously considering his garb. Instead he soon found his eyes wandering, where they happened to land upon a young lad who appeared to be stealing food literally from out of peoples plates.

The elfess from who's plate the boy had stolen didn't seem to mind, but for Calron it was a matter of not only principle but grace. To earn one's food was one thing, to have it given another, to have it stolen still something else, and to steal from a woman was still yet another. From his place near the stairwell he could just make out the boy moving toward the front door. There was only one way to deal with those who resorted to thievery to meet their needs.

With swift and graceful movements, he made his way toward that boy. The spectators who had gathered around the one handed old man moved out of his way at the sight of his form. It was as if they could sense that he had something to do, and none gave resistance though he did have to gently move several individuals out of his way. Just as the lad was reaching the door, he placed his hand on the boys shoulder and said,

"Where is it that you are going my young theifling?"

Gurrant slowly rose from his chair, his anger beginning to boil.  He'd killed for less.  Well, not actually people, but an annoying Corbie who had the audacity to continue to caw at him one morning after a full bottle of scutch the night before.  In Gurrant's defense, he had warned the bird to shut up in no uncertain terms.

Suddenly, he felt a gentle touch on his arm.  He looked down, for she was not a large woman, and saw a gentle face staring up at him.  He was particularly calmed by her deep green eyes.

"Perhaps....perhaps it would be wise to see if there is anything going on.  If I remember correctly, the Pest Pillar isn't that far away from here, and if there's nothing to see, than only a few moment's of our night has been wasted."

Gurrant grunted.  What she suggested actually wasn't that bad an idea.  Show this Tavis fellow what a fool he was.  It was then that the blue skinned woman spoke, echoing the short woman on his arm.  This was followed by the same voice that had called out earlier.  Again, in agreement.

"I s'pose that ye be comin'?"He looked down at the child sized woman.  "I be s'posin' that all of ye wants ta come?"  There was no way they weren't going now.  He glanced over to Tavis.  "And I know ye be goin'."

Tavis blanched.  "Uh, no I ain't.  I ain't goin' nowheres near that accursed thing again."

A guffaw erupted from the large man.  "Oh, ye be goin' alright.  If'n I gots ta drag ye."  A sparkle gleamed in his eyes as he challenged the one handed man.

Gurrant looked about the room and spread his arms wide. "Come one, come all.  Let's all be goin' o'er ta the Pest Pillar."  With a long stride, he covered the distance between him and Tavis, grabbing the drunkard by the collar.  "Lead the way."

With a whimper, Tavis began walking, if one could call it that as his feet struggled against the force of the big dirty man, toward the door and out once more into the cold night air.

The young woman seemed to have abated the large mans rage enough for him to consider the matter rationally. Perhaps it was the womans gentle coaxing or the agreement of Leilani and the rest of the patrons that caused the man to agree but regardless of the reason, it appeared they were indeed going to make the short trip to the pillar. Still, even after resigning to the fact that she was going to once again stand before that unsettling monument, she was more than a little nervous. A thin layer of perspiration began to coat her forehead and palms, and there was a dry, sticky feeling in her mouth like she was trying to swallow a cotton ball. Lucas, ever loyal and ever surprising in his ability to sense his owners distress, rubbed his large furry head against her thigh in a show of comfort. Rocco was barely disturbed in his sleeping place atop the large dog and made a soft squeal before returning to his slumber.

Filled with sufficient courage, she readied herself for the trek and was about to follow the two quarreling men out the door when she heard a voice just behind her.

"Where is it that you are going my young theifling?"

She didn't recognize the voice from earlier in the common room, but from the context she determined that it was directed to none other than the young boy who had attempted to steal her dinner. Apparently he wasn't satisfied with the food she gave him and either stole from this man or was caught by him for stealing someone elses. Perhaps he deserved the fate that would befall him, she couldn't rightly say either way, but something inside of her, a dormant motherly instinct perhaps, raised her voice in his defense. Turning around to face the general direction of the boy's accuser, she spoke up.

"What seems to be the problem here sir?"

It looks like the trip to see the pillar is going to happen. The dwarf took his staff and his tome, hiding the book within the folds of his green robes. He stood up and waddled towards the group of people near the door. "I be goin with ye, lad. This I need to see." He didn't bother to explain what his intentions are. He knew that commoners like these would not understand. If what Tavis says is true, that the pillar is indeed moving and his assumption that it is not caused by magic, then Thorgas would want to know why. And if it is caused by magic a little studying would give him results. Any additional knowledge gained by the elderly dwarf could prove useful for the mages of the Mitharim.

He stepped out of the door and went to the stables, where he fetched his pet. Buri came trotting towards him, and as usual, laid down on his back, so that Thorgas can scratch his belly. While it may be safer to just leave him in the stables, he didn't like the idea of leaving him alone. He leaned against the walls of the inn to wait for the others and Buri sat down on the ground and sniffed the air with interest.

Suddenly, everyone wanted to get out. People flowed towards the door like water into a hollow. Movash slowed his step in order to avoid bumping into one of the adults, whose thoughts were on pest pillars and drunken imaginations, too preoccupied to take notice of a small boy sidestepping their stride. Movash had to concentrate, and that helped him lift himself from his sadness and his fear.

He saw the hobbit-sized woman whose salad he had eyed earlier. She was with one of the men who had been fighting. Would she have left her food unattended? Movash turned his head. Yes, her plate was still on her table. He'd had taken enough provisions to last him well into tomorrow. But he had not eaten fresh vegetables in days. He considered turning around and taking the woman's leftovers – but then he noticed the bar maid. She had a plate and a mug in her hand; she was probably out to serve at a table. Yet she was walking straight towards Movash, and she was looking at him. She must have seen him stealing from her customers, and was now trying to catch him!

There was no time for vegetables. Movash turned towards the door and made a dash. There were several people between him and the bar maid, and a couple of tables, too. He did not look back, but he knew that he had a good chance of escape. He slalomed around chairs and tables, slipped in a puddle of beer, caught himself before he fell, then jumped over someone's dog, and had almost reached the door, when he was stopped by the crowd who were waiting there, as they were all trying to leave at the same time and had got in one another's way. Movash took a breath, resisted the temptation to look behind him, and gathered courage. He wanted to push himself past the adults, squeezing himself through their legs if necessary. But he never got to do that, for it was then that he felt the hand on his shoulder.

“Where is it that you are going, my young thiefling?” The voice was authoritative, severe, powerful. Movash turned around and stared into the eyes of a tall man with dark eyes. Everything about this stranger exuded confidence – the supreme confidence of someone who is accustomed to being obeyed. Movash had heard voices like his before. They belonged to men and women who would never swear at Butterfly Rovers, never throw rotten mithatoes at them – but who, with a calm word and a gesture, would give the orders to show them the way out through the city gates. Movash's parents had warned him never to anger such people. In fact, they had warned him to try and not get noticed by them at all. It was too late for that.

Yet for the third time this evening, capture was followed by relief, for the blind elfess appeared as if from nowhere, and addressed the tall man: “What seems to be the problem here, sir?”

This distraction was all that Movash needed. He let his body fall to the ground, rolled out of reach of his captor, and scampered away on all fours, dashing through adults' legs like a low-flying bird through the branches of a forest. He reached the door, and slipped through. The cold night wind blew into his clothes, and it felt like freedom. Darkness engulfed him, and it felt like an embrace.

Unfortunately, darkness also had another, more obvious, effect. Movash could not see very well, especially since he had just come out of a lit room – dimly lit, for sure, but lit nonetheless. By contrast, the street seemed black, populated not by houses and people, but by murky shadows and vague silhouettes. Thus it came that Movash saw the animal too late to stop his run. And maybe it was the distraction of its round, heavy shape, out of place in a city street at night, that prevented him from jumping over it. This is no dog , he thought, as he stumbled over the beast and fell. For a moment, he was too stunned to get up. He did finally realize what had tripped him, though: as he lifted his head, he stared into the inquisitive snout of a pig.

Ridgen let his mind wander as the men began to argue amongst themselves, the one with two good arms eventually ending up shoving the other out the door, forcing the poor thing to lead the way to the Pest Pillar. His good eye found someone else to look at, a familiar figure, holding a staff, enshrouded in a green robe, making his way towards the door. Ridgen's mind dismissed the dwarf as unimportant the moment his attention was swept away by a voice saying something about a 'thiefling'. The elf's head turned to look in the direction of the voice, in the direction of yet another commotion.

Looks like some kid's gotten himself into a bit of trouble with... what appears to be a rich-ish, dark haired person exuding an air of authority with a funny manner of speaking and the looks of someone who certainly does not belong in a tavern like this. Not that the elf was one to talk, but still. It was the same kid that the elf had spotted gobbling up what appears to be someone else's steak around the time that Ridgen was sauntering towards the door. The lady didn't seem to mind, though... Odd.

Not so long after the man confronted said 'thiefling', the (blind?) elf that spoke up earlier and seemed very scared of what the Pest Pillar's activities might mean (she didn't look very comfortable at the thought of going to said pillar) spoke up, saying something along the lines of "What seems to be the problem here, sir?"

That seemed to be the boy's cue to run for it. He didn't get very far, though, and when the crowd disappeared, it was obvious that he ended up tripping over a... pig? Correction, a... uh... very familiar looking pig (is that even possible?)... And this was where the elf decided to complicate things a bit. Just for fun. He approached the child. Or thiefling. Or whatever you wanted to call him. Then he spoke, his hand firmly grasping the child's shoulder to prevent the boy from running away.

"Out the door and straight into a pig, apparently," the elf said, his voice loud enough to carry itself over to the smartly dressed man. Dry humour - it never gets old. "So uhm... You shouldn't run around in the dark, y'know, it's bad for you."

The last statement was directed at the boy, but the elf's eye was searching for something else entirely - that is not to say that his grip on the boy loosened, though. Oh hey, look, there was that dwarf in green! Wait a minute... Ridgen's thoughts assembled themselves in an odd fashion, his mind briefly flashing back to a point in time where he had accidentally caused quite a bit of trouble in a particular dwarven tavern.

Dwarf + staff + pig + everything looks familiar = that can't be good, went the elf's train of thought. I'm so glad I didn't use that high pitched voice around here.

It looked like people were on the move, presumably going to that pest pillar. The pale and probably blind elf woman, a dwarf and some others. There was also a well dressed young man, probably half elf that grabbed the young child who had been stealing food. That pale elf caught his attention. Her skin was icy blue and she had a tattoo on her forehead. It was a strange tattoo but it somehow looked familiar. Was it the mark of a Kaýrrhem clan, the mark of a Korweynite, no he wasn't sure. It had been soo many years since he had been home.

Then again she didn't look like a Kaýrrhem at all. Blood red eyes, pale skin and blue hair. No she couldn't be a Sevari, only pretending to be blind, and there was no such thing as a living blind Sevari. The thought of his homeland sent his mind drifting.

He stared out across the room, without seeing a thing, he wasn't there at all, he was in a some place far away from here. When he came to his senses again a few moments later people were already on the move.   

Up close, it was clear that the thiefling was just a child. Young, and in dire need of a warm bath and clean clothing. He was struck more by the profound fact that there were many who still suffered from this boys very affliction. Though he could not help all of them, he resolved himself to the idea that such things must be handled in small steps. Not all problems of the world could be solved in a single day.

"What seems to be the problem here, sir?"

As he turned to face the speaker, the boy loosed himself from the light grip the Calron held on him. In a flash the boy had stepped out into the night air, leaving Calron with his hand hanging in mid air. Lamely, he dropped his hand back to his side, and once again turned back to the speaker. She was beautiful in a manner similar to a cold winters day. Like all elves her pointed ears made it clear that she was some form of elf, but he was not familiar with her particular species.

"Forgive me elfess, but to let a thief run awoke is not in keeping with my person."

Though he realized the rudeness of the statement, he was in a hurry. With luck the boy could easily have slipped away into the darkness. Nyermersys was a large enough city that someone could simply hide themselves away with relative ease. If he wasted anytime at all the lad would be gone long before he could be spoken too.

"Outside the door, and straight into a pig, apparently," said a loud voice.

Turning once more in the direction of yet another alien voice, he could just make out three figures on the floor. The first was the young man who had so easily given him the slip a moment before, now firmly held in the grasp of the second figure, yet another elf from his appearance. If not for his part elven eyes, he would have all together missed the pointed ears in the darkness of the evening. The third figure appeared to be a pig, busying itself with smelling the young lad out.

"You have my thanks for catching this thief elf," he said looking to the elf who held the boy in a firm grip.

"How about returning the goods that you've been stealing boy," he asked with a sever look. It was time to test the boys worth, and if he didn't intend to admit his own wrongs then there was no sense in Calron offering his help. He put his faith in the hope that the boy would not be to far gone to realize his wrong doings.

In the ensuing babble of voices, Mouse managed to learn that the commotion was about the Pest Pillar coming to life - that ugly monument to death that this city was so proud of. If that was true, and the one-handed man had seen it, it was no wonder that he had become so excited, and terrified. It became obvious that a number of people would be going out to look at this Pest Pillar of theirs, and Mouse was not above a little curiosity. Like as not, they'd find nothing but the same ugly thing standing in the same ugly manner as it had since it had been built.

One thing was clear, however. With all these long-legged elves about, he would never be able to keep up, no matter the distance to the pillar. Even the dwarf would outrun him on short notice, having two stout legs and a staff to help him. There was really only one thing Mouse could do. In accordance with this decision, he left the patrons to their own devices for a moment, and followed the dwarf to the stables. Mouse vaguely saw an animal following the dwarf back outside, but he himself went into one of the boxes, where Pepik had been stabled. His usual blanket lay to the side, which he quickly threw over the grey donkey's back. Then he clambered onto her back and led her out of the stables. Some people had already gathered there, among them the boy Mouse had seen earlier.

Leading Pepik closer, he was just in time to see a dark-haired human - or was it an elf? - accosting him, while another one - this one definitely an elf, the one he had noticed earlier, with the strange eyes - was holding him. Poor mite, he didn't stand a chance between those two. The dark-haired one demanded the stolen goods back. How nice, pocket-ridden steak back on your plate! If the elfess had wanted her steak back, she'd have taken it back - she looked like she could handle herself, a skinny boy like this one would not have been a match for her. What business had this one taking the young one's food? Mouse edged even closer, ready to help the boy at the first opportunity. Back inside, when he had witnessed the theft, he had not been sure whether to help the thief or the victim. Here, however, where it was two very large men against one very small boy, his loyalties were clear. At least, unless the boy had also stolen from the man, in which case it was a bit harder to discern, but the man still looked like he could afford a bit of food taken from him.

No, he was fairly certain that no matter the situation, he was now firmly on the boy's side, if for not better reason than that no matter how you looked at it, he was the weakest of the bunch. If any chance offered, he would help.

Buri jumped with surprise as something very light bumped into him. The pig stood and sniffed the newcomer with interest. He first smelled the face, wrinkling his snout at the odor. The mixture of sweat, snot, tears and various food scents proved to be more than he can handle. He decided to sniff the hair instead. Nope, same repugnant smell. The pig snorted at the child and belted out a little squeal, the ones he often used to capture the dwarf's attention. As expected it worked, effectively interrupting his master's daydream and bringing him into reality. However the dwarf didn't need the pig's antics to grab his attention, as some of the patrons decided to approach them and disturb their solitude.

"Outside the door, and straight into a pig, apparently," said one man.

"You have my thanks for catching this thief elf, how about returning the goods that you've been stealing boy?" Said another.

Thorgas stared at the commotion. In the very dim light he could make out a bunch of people huddled around Buri. "Oy, what ye be doin with me pet, lads?" He took note of the people there with him -- two tallfolks gathered around his pig. The dwarf became uneasy at the sight of strangers standing suspiciously close by, and by experience drunks and thieves often use this tactic to deprive someone of their goods. He glared at the people around Buri and noticed the child from the inn; the one whose nimble fingers liberated more than one patron's meal was beside his pig. "Eh? Yer the youngling from the inn. What be goin on ere, an what ye all be plannin?"

"Uh... Sir? How do you suppose he return foodstuffs he's already swallowed?" Ridgen said in response to the man's demand, amusement lighting up his eyes - thanks to the dark, it'd be difficult to see said emotion in his eyes. The elf groaned inwardly as a familiar voice - the dwarf's - demanded they tell him what's going on, and relief flooded his mind as he realised that the dwarf hadn't recognised him... yet.

"Though I must say, the people he supposedly 'stole' from didn't seem to mind him taking a bit of food," Ridgen commented, recalling the thief's failed attempt at escaping after stealing a bit of steak. Actually, it was a whole steak, but that isn't important.

"And where in Ava's great Dream do you think you're going?"

Kaelan dropped only his largest weapons on him, leaving most of them next to the cot. "Downstairs," he replied simply.

"I don't think so. You stay here and watch the door."

"Nobody's going to kill you while I'm gone. There's only one way up here anyway."

"That's what you like to tell yourself!", Kret called at him. "You've no idea what they can do!"

And frankly, Kaelan didn't care. Somewhere inside of him, he almost wished the little squealing man would find himself stabbed in the throat. Of course, if that happened, Kaelan wasn't going to get paid, either by virtue of the killer would loot, or Jet would mysteriously show up and claim all his brother's money. Still, it would be less hassle, less frustration for the warrior.

"Why, you're not out with the others?"

She watched Kaelan's questioning expression, and cheerfully continued, "Y'know, they all went out to look at the pillar, poor man came in saying it was alive."

Kaelan glanced at the crowd leaving the door, silently thanked whatever gods would listen that they were gone, and turned his attention to the mug the woman had habitually set before him and looked like she was about to fill. "But you're here, dear, and what can I get ye?"

"You got warm soup?"

She looked at him with a query in her eyes, laughed, and repeated, "Y'want soup? Ye're askin' for soup when I've got a whole pantry full of food?"

Slowly, the warrior shrugged, she laughed again, what felt to him like a gentle, motherly laugh, though her looks didn't exactly shout 'motherly' to him as much as it did 'budding adult lady.' Deliberately, she stepped out, and returned with a bowl, filled to the brim with a hearty soup, passing it to him. "Get you a water while you're at it?", she asked teasingly, leaning over the bar.

A cough, and he stood straight. "The soup's fine," he replied, passing three sans across the table and stepping back with the bowl. She laughed gently as he made his way to a table in the now more-or-less empty room, getting back to her work.

She felt the young boy as he slipped by her and out the door, no doubt finding an opportunity for escape in her intrusion to the situation. Perhaps that was her subconscious intention all along, she didn't like the idea of punishing a poor and obviously hungry young boy for absconding with some ill-gotten food. But while it was true that she herself wouldn't miss the broth and bread she had given him, she had no way of telling if other morsels he stole were hard-earned and sorely missed. Her mind was stuck between her strong morals and justification for a wrong doing. The thoughts swimming through her mind were interrupted by the mans voice.

"Forgive me elfess, but to let a thief run awoke is not in keeping with my person."

Her mouth opened to speak but before she could utter a word, her head cocked ever so slightly to the side as a commotion was heard outside of the tavern. Apparently the young boy hadn't gotten far and according to one onlookers statement, he had run into a pig. With a slight woosh of air the man had passed her, and she couldn't help but inhale the smell of soap and cleanliness. If his voice and manner of speaking hadn't given it away, then his smell did. Her guess would be noble, for someone so clean with a tone that demanded attention and obedience, whether apparent to the man or not, had to be of noble birth. On numerous occasions she had sold her wares to people of rank and wealth, and in her dealings with them they usually seemed more than a touch arrogant, as if it were expect that they should be served and waited on with sufficient respect that went along with a knowledge of their superiority. In her opinion, respect was something that should be earned and not expected due to something as coincidental as the position they were born into. In any case, she usually humored them, for their coin was plentiful and casually spent.

She followed the ruckus outside, keeping her distance for the moment. Another had joined the two men and the boy, he was rather short in her understanding, but his voice betrayed his size and led her to believe that he was perhaps a dwarf. 

"Eh? Yer the youngling from the inn. What be goin on ere, an what ye all be plannin?"

Her fingertips itched with the need to run over the faces of the group and it was a visible effort to stop them as she folded her hands in front of her, her knuckles turning white with the strain. The features of a persons face were easy to read if given to opportunity to feel them out, but it was rare that anyone, especially a stranger, would allow her to do so. The man who had stopped the boy earlier was utmost in her mind. She imagined that his skin would be fair and taut over the bones of his face but she couldn't place his ears. He was taller than she was but then again she was rather short for an elf. She resigned herself to the fact that it was probable that she would never find out.

The man who had found the boy as he ran into the pig was speaking up in his defense to the noble. Perhaps it would be possible to avoid further involvement in the matter and continue on to the Pest Pillar, as much as the thought rolled her stomach. But without warning Rocco, the ever mischievous ferret, decided that his nap was over and he was ready to join in the excitement. He jumped down from Lucas' back with a squeak, stretched his long body along the ground and scurried over to the small group that had gathered around the boy. He danced, or actually hopped, between the legs of the pig who didn't seem to notice the intrusion at all.

"Rocco you little troublemaker, get back over here." she said, taking a few steps forward with Lucas in tow. Sometimes that ferret was more trouble than he was worth.

The pig sniffed, snorted, squealed, and turned away. It did not appear to like Movash. That was no surprise. Movash did not like himself, either. When he had stumbled over the pig and fallen, his body had thudded onto the ground. The noise was still ringing in his ears, hurtful like a parents' scolding. He was not allowed to make a noise. Making a noise was bad. It got you into trouble. It caught the attention of bad people, people who wanted to find you and catch you and kill you. Which was just what was happening right now.

Movash had not fully got up when the elf grabbed his shoulder. Seeing the pointed ears, Movash hoped against reason that the man would let him off the hook, like the other elfesses had done. But the elf's hand held firm, while he talked and looked around. He seemed distracted, and not much interested in the child he had just caught. Movash stiffened under his grip, but did not try to run away, for he saw that it was hopeless. Already, the human was approaching, the man with the ruler's voice. His eyes were stern. “How about returning the goods that you've been stealing, boy,” he demanded.

Humbaba , thought Movash. Please find me, Humbaba. Please come and find me and growl.  Howl so that they hold their hands over their ears. And if that does not scare them off, bite them and tear their posh clothes to bits. Make them run like rats.   Yet even then, in his despair, Movash knew that he did not wish for Humbaba to come. Not really. For who knew what these grown-ups would do to her? The human had a sword dangling in a sheath from his belt, and the elf also had a blade, albeit a lighter one. No, it was best if Humbaba staid away. If she was here, she would try to defend him, for sure. She was his friend, and she was strong and fierce. But this would be a fight she could not win, not with all these people around.

Movash looked to the ground. There was nothing for him to do. The two men were towering over him, and he was at their mercy. But he was not going to give them the food he had worked so hard to get. He listened to them discussing his fate, and it seemed to him that the elf, despite being the one to catch him, was not taking the situation very seriously. Meanwhile, more and more people got interested in the scene. A gruff voice inquired what was going on, and the blind elfess, too, had to be somewhere near, for Movash saw her mink dashing around the legs of the pig. It was all very confusing. Maybe there would be a chance to run away after all. Movash kept his eyes down and remained silent, his mouth clenched into a grimace of defiance.

Claudirea breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the man's muscles go slack underneath her hand. His eyes swept over her, taking her features in, but she noted that they rested the most upon her eyes. That made her feel a bit better about the man. Back in Voldar, an unpleasant experience had caused her to become a bit more protective of her body than was normal for her tribe. She let her hand fall back to her side as she listened to others agree with her suggestion. A sense of pride at being able to defuse the situation as well as making a suggestion which others agreed with.

"I s'pose that ye be comin'?" He asked gruffly, looking down at her again. She gave a nod to show that she was indeed planning on coming. Part of the reason was that her curiosity was piqued, and she also wanted to keep an eye on the situation to make sure nothing else exploded.

As the man whom she had calmed down went and dragged Tavis out of the tavern, Claudirea turned towards her table and made a small waving motion with her hand. Luna immediately stood up and walked over to her human companion. Claudirea scratched the top of her wolf friend's head before making another motion as she started to walk out the door with the rest of the group.

Once outside, Claudirea breathed in the cool night air. Sometimes being in a stuffy tavern was too much for her. She prefered the feeling of being outside and free. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a group of some of the other patrons standing close by the stables. There seemed to be some sort of heated discussion, and she could just make out a smaller person, about the same height as her, being held by...and Elf? She couldn't tell from the distance at which she was at. Luna noticed Claudirea looking in that direction and pointed her snout and ears in that direction. Tensions seemed to be running a bit high, but it didn't seem to be anything to be concerned about, so her attention turned back towards the men who were leading them to the Pest Pillar.

Claudirea debated about calling the rest of the group over, but she didn't really want to leave the two men alone together. Who knows what sort of trouble they would get into. She took a deep breath and decided to follow the man dragging Tavis along. As an afterthought, she turned her head and shouted back at the group, "If you're going to stand there all night, you're going to miss all the fun!"

She turned her head back around, pleased with her forwardness tonight. Her left thumb played with the golden ring upon her left ring finger, as her thoughts drifted off towards her Norman, who was back in Voldar, waiting for her return.

Gurrant entered the chill night air gripping onto the collar of the man named Tavis.  On one hand, this felt like a fool's errand.  On the other hand, half the tavern crowd was on this errand with him, and something about that just tickled his fancy.

He shivered as a breeze blew down the front of his untied coat.  Oh no.  Why in all of Koraya's realm did this always happen?  Probably shouldn't have had that last drink.  Oh well, best be dealing with it before they reached the Pest Pillar.

He roughly jerked Tavis about to face him.  "I be lettin' go of ye.  If'n ye run, I'll catch ya and cut yer ankles so as ye never runs again.  'ere me, boy?"  Gurrant fingered the hilt of his knife for emphasis.

Shaken, Tavis only nodded mutely.

Gurrant glanced back.  Seems a little thief had been caught.  Gave him a moment.  He strode over to the wall of another building and played with the front of his trousers.  A moment later a yealm coloured stream soaked the wall.  Steam rose from it, as Gurrant sighed in relief.  

He glanced back at the blind elf, for her movements belied her eyesight.  "Don't ye be tryin' ta sneak a peak at me worm."  He laughed loudly.  "Tis cold and I'm a little shy."

The stream lessened, then stopped, followed by a couple of squirts.  As he strained to drain the last of his water, a loud staccato flatulence filled the air.  "Oops, I guess that be workin' fine."

Now, back to the commotion of the group and the little thief.  Gurrant stepped forward, seeing the boy, who looked down.  Was it contrition and shame?  Or was it defiance?

"Boy!"  He knelt down, his lumbering hulk dwarfing the boy, and the dwarf who stood nearby.  "So, ye got caught thieving?"   He held out his large left hand, showing the stump of the missing digit where his ring finger once belonged.  "See, boy, I got caught once cheatin' at a game.  A game!  And they took me finger."

Gurrant closed his hand into a fist and stood up.  "So, my advice be, dunna be gettin' caught."  A loud guffaw echoed from him as he turned his back and started walking back to the still frozen Tavis.

"Let's be gettin' a move on.  Dunna be wantin' ta see the morn light."

Oh look, a ferret's made its way to the pig. Apparently, it belonged to the blind elfess, for she immediately reacted to its escape. The group was prompted to 'get a move on' more than once, and with a start, Ridgen realised that they were spending too much time on this thing - no matter how fun it is, if whatever Tavis said was true, seeing that happen again would be more exciting than this.

"You know what I think?" the elf gave voice to his thoughts. "I think we should let the kid go and have a look at this Pest Pillar. It's certainly more fun than apprehending a thief - a child, no less - who's probably only caused the slightest of inconveniences to his erh... 'victims'. And probably only out of need, too..." Ridgen realised that he was rambling, and stopped himself before he got too far. "Besides, getting a lecture from someone like that would be punishment enough," the elf visibly shivered, for dramatic effect.

Without another word or so much as a glance towards the man he was talking to, the magician lowered himself to a squat so that his face was level to the child's.

"Say, what's your name, kid?"

Well, it looked like one man at least - the elf that was holding the boy - would be as lenient as the elfess earlier. So really he had butted in, just like the other one, where Mouse felt he had little to do. He was not certain who the elf meant when talking about "a lecture from someone like that", but it hardly mattered. When the kid's name was asked, Mouse felt it was necessary to interfere, thinking back to the unnatural silence while he was crying.

Leaning down from Pepik, he addressed the squatting elf. "I believe the boy does not talk. Perhaps a compromise, since we really came outside to go look at this Pest Pillar - How about I take the boy, since Pepik is quite strong enough to carry two lightweights like us, and one of you can stay close to make sure he does not get away? Then we can get to the bottom of this after we get back, without holding up anyone who wishes to set out to the pillar."

And, though he did not say it out loud, if anything was true in this tale of the pillar coming to life, perhaps in all the excitment those two men would forget that they still had a little thiefling on their hands, and Mouse was certainly not planning of meting out any so-called justice. A lot could happen in the coming time, so long as for now he could get the boy up on Pepik's back in front of him.

The dwarf shuddered at the sight of the stump of what was once a man's finger. What an uncivilized, barbaric people this town has! For his part he does not want the young boy to experience loosing a finger at such a young age, even if it is none of his concern and even if he is guilty of pilfering other's goods, monetary or otherwise. But then again, the waif did not steal anything from him, so he would let his victims decide his fate.

"Ye all be the judge o the youngling, see if he deserves ta have his hand lopped off them tiny arms. 'Tis not me concern. Though I wish ye all be civilized 'an spare 'im."

He noticed a little rat like thing running around Buri's legs. The pig didn't seem to mind it, just stared at it with curiosity and sniffing it now and then. "Don't ye be steppin' on the rat, Buri. It be hard ta clean yer trotters if ye gots blood on em." The boar looked up at his master and cocked his head sideways as if trying to understand what the dwarf said. Thorgas knew Buri would do no such thing, because he didn't see it as a threat. Boars are very protective that way.

Now then, I be going ta thar pest pillars, see fer meself if somethin be brewin'. With that the dwarf started towards the structure, though he walked very slowly in order for the others to catch up. Not that it is needed though, since he's pretty sure the tallfolks would be able to catch up with him anyway.

Apparently everyone was going outside. Oh well... that might be for the best, he thought. There was some commotion outside.


The well dressed young man had caught the child on the way out, but it had slipped away, but apparently it did not get far. It sounded like they had caught the little child for good now. Azalahn started to stand up, he really wanted to do something, then he looked at his companion, there was nothing he could do. He had bought some food but it had been too late. If he tried to intervene now it would most likely end with bloodshed, and he would be chased out of town. Back home where people knew him, there he could have done something, but not here...  

He continued to eat with a heavy hearth. He looked at his companion again, if she had been of another tribe then they would have been welcomed everywhere, she was one of the kindest people he knew, but because of her birth she would be shunned everywhere for the rest of her life and so would he. Suddenly the steak and the vegetables didn't taste all that good. He had lost his appetite, but he was full anyway.

"If you're going to stand there all night, you're going to miss all the fun," said a young looking girl with a clearly Eyelian complexion.

This pillar, however, held very little interest for Calron as far as he was concerned. In his life it had been a struggle to forever remain ahead of his mercantile competitors. Being of mixed blood, he'd been an object of wonder and spite. The boy who know sat his feet was of a similar cloth, and to him it seemed that the boy was a memory from a past long forgotten. Who was to say that if the Goddess had not decided to make him a noble, he as well could have just as easily been sentenced to a life of poverty and hunger. All this boy really need was the means to improve his life.

"Listen boy, stealing is no way of life. Caught by a noble or guard would likely lead to an untimely death for you."

Crouching down next to the boy he extended his right hand.

"Come work for me, and I will ensure your lively hood. No more scrounging for food, no more stealing. One as young as you could surely do much better for himself, if he but applied himself."

He could recall the words of his grandmother, and former matriarch of the family, as she said much the same to him. The context had been different, but the ideas were similar. In his younger days he had avoided hard work, but he'd come to realize the efforts that his forefathers had put into raising the family name. Life, to him, was simply about those that you cared for and for whom you were willing to give up the world. He just hoped that the boy could change his ways, for if not he would have been turned over to the authorities. Whatever road the boy decided to walk, he would definitely gain experience regardless.

“Boy!”

Movash smelled the fat giant before he could see him. The stink from the man's breeches made Movash screw up his face in an attempt to close his nostrils. He wanted to use his fingers, but did not dare to take his hands out of his pockets, for fear of leaving the pockets open to attempts by the grown-ups to take his food away.

"So, ye got caught thieving? See, boy, I got caught once cheatin' at a game. A game! And they took me finger." The man knelt down. His breath reeked even worse than his crotch. He showed Movash his hand with the missing finger. There was a queer sort of pride in his bearing, Movash felt. The man must be lonely, to show off his pain so.

"So, my advice be, dunna be gettin' caught," the man laughed. He stood up and walked off, leaving behind a putrid cloud of vapour, and Movash lonelier than before. Without the man's cheerful cruelty to capture everyone's attention, Movash had to face his captors again, who would do him much more harm.

The elf, who had maintained his grip on Movash's shoulder, gave a confused speech, during which he seemed to suggest to let Movash go. Finally he asked: “What's your name, kid?” Movash returned the elf's gaze, pleadingly, appealing to the friendliness he perceived in the adult. His little shoulders shrugged, lightly, hesitantly, the right one pressing against the firm hand of the elf. Would he understand that Movash could not speak? Would he have pity? Would he let Movash go?

More and more people joined the discussion. There were so many voices that Movash could not always see who was speaking. Movash chided himself inwardly. It was his own fault. He deserved this punishment, deserved all these adults crowding around his shattered hopes like vultures. He had made a noise and attracted attention. This anguish was of his own making.

Someone, a man with a calm and serious voice, said: “I believe the boy does not talk.”  Movash tried to locate the face of the stranger, who had seen a truth about him. But he could not find him. Another voice - the gruff one that Movash had noticed earlier - interrupted: “... see if he deserves ta have his hand lopped off them tiny arms...” was all that Movash could hear. Panic began to rise in his throat. But the fat giant had been joking! Movash knew it, he had heard it in his voice, seen it in the twitching muscles around his mouth! They could not take his hands! Movash felt his fingers tingle with aliveness, with the will to live. All the blood from his little boy's body shot into his fingertips, as if rushing to their defence.

Then the ruler spoke again. The tall man who could make people obey him. He, too, bent his legs to look Movash straight in the face.

"Listen boy,” he said. “Stealing is no way of life. Caught by a noble or guard would likely lead to an untimely death for you.”

This man had no idea. Movash was not a thief. He had stolen, yes. But that was because he had to. Because they had taken everything from him. Because if he did not steal, Humbaba would go hungry and weak and die. That was not being a thief. This man did not know, he did not understand! Movash's mouth tightened in anger. But his eyes opened with surprise when he heard what the man suggested next.

"Come work for me," he said. "And I will ensure your livelihood. No more scrounging for food, no more stealing. One as young as you could surely do much better for himself, if he but applied himself."

Work? Movash had visions of boys he had seen working, back in happier times, when he was travelling the lands with his parents. Farmer's sons herding sheep in the pouring rain. Little chimney sweeps in the cities, thin as sticks, covered in soot from head to foot. A smith's apprentice being beaten by his master. And he had heard stories of poor boys having to do worse; having to go into alleys or taverns with grown men, and having things done to them. What was this tall man going to do to him?

Movash looked at the two adults crouching on either side of him, the elf and the tall human. Eventually, he dared to take one hand out of his pocket, being careful not to reveal the food that was hidden therein, and made a gesture. He moved his hand before his mouth as if catching a softly floating snowflake from the air. He meant that his voice had been taken. Maybe they would lose interest then, if they knew he couldn't speak.  Maybe they would not want him to do this work, whatever ugly thing it was. Maybe they would bugger off to their nasty pest pillar already.

Ridgen blinked and looked at the nobleman as if he had something absolutely ridiculous. "No offence, sir, but I think you're scaring him. You know, you're kind of giving him the wrong idea by offering him a 'job' out of the blue... especially with that sort of job description, if you know what I mean," the elf said bluntly, subtly hinting people trafficking. It certainly not what the man was talking about, but it was what it sounded like.

"Uhm... I know I've butted in enough already, but I think you should just let him off..."

The babble and hassle of the tavern faded into the background as Seh'nara's steps brought her futher and further away from the area. There was a party going to the pillar, but they dwaddled too much for her liking. She had an errand to run which needed speed, and clearly the party was occupied enough with the waif that they would be stuck there for a while. Unacceptable.

Her steps echoed in the alleyway as she turned right, left, right again. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew what she was looking for - Silver. Silver, that hulking wolf. Fur like ivory with a glossy sheen, peppered with streaks of silver, his namesake. Silver, her friend and protector, her quick companion on four paws. She, with the ever intuitive instinct of an elf and master, knew where she might find her trusty hound.

The elfess weaved through the streets like a cat, quiet and fleeting. Her mind was still preoccupied with the tavern incident. A pillar coming to life? Ravings of a madman, she wagered, but still, a small doubt lingered. She trusted her sleek companion far more than she did a one-handed rouge, and yet, Silver had seemed unsettled around the Pest Pillar, like it was going to sprout wings and fly. Or in that particular case, come to life and spit out rats like no tomorrow.

A right, a left. She could hear it already, Silver's almost inaudible steps in the night, pacing around and around. With an elf's grace, Seh'nara bounded up the few steps onto the next city level, stopping abruptly at the sight in front of her.

The Pest Pillar. The disgusting monument to Death, the repulsive statue honouring the worst visitor one could ever have, the abhorrent memorial carved with thousands of rodents that looked like they wanted to feast on her blood. An involuntary shudder went down her spine. She didn't fear Death any more than she feared rats. It was the unnatural vibe she felt, like there was something... otherworldly, that sent warning signals in her brain and made her blood run cold. Quickly, she tore her eyes away from the ghastly image, choosing instead to search the plaza for Silver.

The wolf was a few peds away from the statue, staring at it with unblinking topaz eyes. It was as if the blasted thing had him under a spell, one that made him oblivious to the world, and most importantly, to his master. A pang of worry in her heart made her hasten to his side. Slender fingers wound themselves in the wolf's soft fur - apparently, touch broke whatever unnatural hold the statue had on the wolf. He blinked, gave a small growl, and turned his tail on the monument, choosing instead to shower Seh'nara with wolfy kisses.

She could feel the relief in his licks and pawing, like he was lost and suddenly found. "Shhh, good darling," Seh'nara murmurred quietly, soothingly. Her eyes flicked again to the pillar, just a few peds away, the now-familiar crawl of unease clawing under her skin. Something was definitely wrong with that damned pillar.

There was so much going on around her that it was becoming harder and harder for her to focus. Several people were voicing their intent to start the trek to the pillar while the group surrounding the young boy were still arguing amongst themselves. It was taking all of her considerable concentration to rightly place each voice with the person that it accompanied. Into her slightly jumbled mind came the familiar sound of a man relieving himself on the wall of a building to her right. At first she thought nothing of it, though to her the excretion of just about any bodily fluid should be a private matter, but then the man spoke.

"Don't ye be tryin' ta sneak a peak at me worm. Tis cold and I'm a little shy."

Her brow furrowed in confusion for the voice seemed to be aimed in her general direction. Perhaps the man wasn't aware of her disability but that possibility seemed slim considering that man who was speaking to her was the same regular from earlier who was partially responsible for the instigation of the exertion. She opted to ignore the lewd comment, chocking his behavior up to his level of inebriation. There also seemed to be too many people already involved with the situation regarding the young thiefling so she decided to remove herself from that argument as well, for none of those involved seemed to have any ill intent towards the boy. Tentatively she moved closer to the group and called to her small, furry friend.
 
"Come Rocco, we must be going now."

Her voice was gentle but firm and the small ferret didn't hesitate as he left his playmate, who seemed perfectly content with ignoring the tiny white annoyance. He scurried over to Leilani, hopped around between her feet for a moment before climbing atop Lucas and curling up in the usual spot upon his back. It was now time to discover the truth behind the disturbance of the Pest Pillar.

Calron could only stare at the group that had formed around the young boy. The perversions of the mind, and street life could only make his talk seem crude to say the least. It was yet another thing that separated people from one another. He wasn't about to let the boy go back to thieving if he could help it though. Life was difficult on the streets, and the boy was still young enough to learn the ways of any trade. All he needed was opportunity, and funding. His lack of speech as he appeared to be indicating was not something so crippling if he could but acquire the right skills.

"That was never part of my intention when I spoke," he said flatly, looking between the elf and boy.

It was then that he removed his signet ring from his hand, and handed it to the boy. Made from silver, and set with well cut obsidian, the ring was engraved with the Moonsilver family crest. Simultaneously he gave a long low whistle in the direction of the stables. Cloud silently trotted over, and gave a nudge to the boy's back as he came up from behind. In the lighting he appeared to be made from liquid darkness, and was easily one of the most beautiful, equine creatures that people had laid eyes on.

"As a knight, I ask that you train as my squire that you may no longer have to resort to such thievery in order to fill your belly. Learn the ways of the sword, and pen, then seek your fortunes. This world is big, and you will undoubtedly be able to find a place for yourself."

It would seem that he was no longer necessary to diffuse the situation. In fact, he felt just a trifle insulted - nobody had even graced him with an answer to his suggestion, apparently ignoring him completely. And to add insult to injury, with a low whistle the man called to him a beautiful dark horse - at least Mouse thought it was beautiful, in the dark it was hard to see, but a man like that would not be content with anything less. For some irrational reason he suddenly found himself intensely disliking the man, though he had no idea why exactly - he had done nothing really, except be too preoccupied with the boy to listen to a small acrobat. "Show-off." he muttered, turning Pepik away from the scene and in the direction of the Pest Pillar. Patting the donkey on the back, where he could reach, he told her that she was still his favourite, no matter all the dark horses in the world.

He found himself gaining on one of the patrons of the inn, likewise going to investigate the reported disturbances. It was an elfess, and in the darkness her pale face was even more eerily pale than in the light of the tavern. It looked like a deathmask, but then probably so did his. That was the way of faces when there was not much light. Though she moved rather easily, he remembered from earlier that she was blind. Checking Pepik's gait when he was alongside her, he asked: "Can I help you with anything, miss?" At the very least, he could let her put her hand on Pepik's back to guide her steps, or if she wanted she could even ride alongside, if she did not mind not having a saddle. Though she'd have to go behind him, his arms would be too short to go around her and still lead Pepik.

The two men could not be more different. Oh yes, sure, they were both tall – twice as high as Movash, as it seemed to him. And they were both interested in catching little boys and taking their food. And in case you wondered, the reason for their difference was not that one was an elf, and the other a human.

No, the difference was of another kind. With the elf it was like this: Movash could not understand much that he said; but he knew what he felt. With the human, it was the other way around: everything he said was clear, but when Movash tried to feel  him, it was like trying to spot a cloud in a fog. For example, the elf would say, talking about Movash: “You know, you're kind of giving him the wrong idea by offering him a job out of the blue... especially with that sort of job description, if you know what I mean," and Movash would not know what he meant at all. What was a job description? Which wrong idea did Movash have? What did blue have to do with it? But in his heart, Movash knew that the elf was a bit confused, a bit friendly, a bit amused, a bit bored, and a bit looking for amusement, and that he wouldn't mind if Movash ran off and disappeared and was never punished.

The human, on the other hand, said: "As a knight, I ask that you train as my squire that you may no longer have to resort to such thievery in order to fill your belly. Learn the ways of the sword, and pen, then seek your fortunes. This world is big, and you will undoubtedly be able to find a place for yourself." Everything was clear. The man was rich and powerful. He wanted a servant, and promised to be a good master. But Movash had no idea why. Were his intentions good or bad? Was this just a fancy that had come into the man's head? Or did he have a plan? All Movash understood was the man's firmness. He would not be denied.

Movash stared at the ring that the man had given him. He had never seen anything like it up close. It was surprisingly heavy for such a little thing, and even in this murky street it caught some faint light and sparkled with a silvery light. But beautiful as the ring was, the cold metal seemed to burn Movash's palm. Touching it, holding it, felt like a crime. He felt that he was not really allowed to have it. Surely it wouldn't be long before he would be accused of having stolen it. It was not right that he should hold such a thing, on the same night that he'd had to steal to eat.

Something touched Movash's back: it was the muzzle of a horse. The man's. He had whistled for it while talking to the elf. Confused, not knowing whom to respond to, Movash looked from man to elf to horse. Then his eye caught a donkey that was trotting away from the scene. A strangely short body was sat on its back. That's the sort of animal my kind have , Movash thought. He felt a sudden yearning to ride on the donkey, to be carried away into the night with its rider, even though he did not know him. As if a donkey's back was all the home a boy ever needed in the world.

But it was the breath of a knight's horse that he felt on his neck. With a certainty that surprised himself, Movash saw that there was no escape. He had to stay with this man. What he offered was so much that it would suffer no refusal.

Movash turned to face the knight, attempted to give his face a grown-up, understanding expression, and nodded. Then he stretched out his hand, the ring balanced on his open palm, and offered it back. Smile he could not, although he would have liked to. It would have made things easier, perhaps.

With a nod to the boy, his new squire, Calron gestured for the boy and horse to follow him. This Pest Pillar was no doubt some phantasm thought up by the mind of a drunkard who had seen the bottom of far to many cups. Still, it would not hurt him any if they simply went to see what this Pillar was all about. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be able to return both himself and the boy to their quarters upon their return to the inn. The innkeeper would have to be asked to set aside a room for the boy when they got back. Clean clothing would also have to be purchased for the lad. Servants, and wards were all an extension of a noble and they too needed to be kept in as fit a condition as their lord.

All things considered, it hand not been a total waste of time in convincing the boy to follow a better line of work. Given some training he felt certain that the boy would grow into an apt knight. Still that was some time away still, and for now the night was wearing on. The group was unlikely to get any sleep if they did not attend to this Pillar nonsense. That thought in mind he followed with the rest of the stranglers who had been caught up in the commotion.

From his perspective it seemed as if the entire inns occupants had some how found their way toward this part of the city. Absently he wondered if the other residents of the city were going to notice that something at least appeared to be amiss. Curiosity, as they said, was a wonderful stimulant for the imagination. With any luck the ordeal would be easily completed, and everyone would be able to get a decent amount of sleep.

Ridgen had to use every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from hysterically doubling over and rolling on the floor with laughter. This guy was SO melodramatic. It was hilarious. The elf really hoped that his amusement didn't show on his face.

"Well, okay, I'll leave you guys to it. Later," he said, already walking in the direction of the Pest Pillar. If the one handed man was to be believed, this night will prove to be interesting. But then again, he was drunk. He could've been hallucinating. Or walking around in a daze, until some rat bit him where it shouldn't bite him and scared him out of his wits. That was a disturbing thought...

Oh well. Whatever. To the Pest Pillar!

Pushing, pulling and muttering threats to the one armed man, it did not take too very long before the plaza came into view.  Gurrant found himself pausing a moment and swallowing hard.  He then snorted.  There was nothing to be afraid of.  He was being silly.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.  The plaza was empty, save for a woman and her wolf.  He watched her for a moment.  The two of them were near the pillar, and looking at it, but did not seem to be reacting to it.  If it was moving, surely that would garner a reaction.  As well, there was no army of rats about.  So, that part of Tavis' story was untrue.

Emboldened by that fact, Gurrant walked closer to the Pillar.  His pugnacity growing with each step, he turned his head back to the group.  He spotted the blind elf walking along beside the hobbit who sat upon a donkey, and a sly grin covered Gurrant's face. "Mayhap ye should stand guard and keep an eye out for us."  He chortled with that.  It helped ease his nerves as he continued forward.

The light from torch lamps strategically placed about the plaza, and the dim light of the moon illuminated the pillar, though it did cast it in an eerie glow.  In this poor light, and being drunk, Gurrant could certainly see how Tavis' imagination could get the better of him.

He twirled Tavis about, staring into the terrified eyes of the one armed man.  "Where be ye ghosts?  Nary a rat ta be seen."

Tavis fidgeted.  He had no answers, but he had seen what he had seen.  "I swear, I-"

Gurrant released the drunkard by giving him a shove backwards.  "Git.  Begone before I decide ta box yer ears."

Azalahn sat there in the now more or less empty tavern. They had all gone to this pest pillar. The trouble with the young boy outside also seemed to have passed; at least he couldn't hear any loud voices anymore. He waited for a little while more. He would not be welcome to join them, but he was getting really curious about what this was all about.

After a while when he was fairly certain they had all left he finally stood up and nodded to him companion to follow him. He got the direction from the tavern woman Maddy, and dropped a coin in her hand before he bowed elegantly and was on his way. The streets were empty, perhaps they had not gone to the pest pillar after all, or perhaps Maddy had given him the wrong direction.

But it didn't take long before he arrived at the pillar. He could see some of the others, he moved closer but not too close and staid in the darkness away from the torchlight. Not too sneaky though, a sudden sneeze would give him away and he didn't want to give them the wrong impression, but he maintained what they could call a respectful distance by unwanted company. Of course the definition of respectful distance was open for debate, but this would have to do, much further and he wouldn't be able to see or hear what was going on.
The night was silent and the plaza was illuminated so it was a decent distance, he hoped they would consider it enough; at least he had more than enough time to run if they didn't.

Well perhaps it was only a one handed drunk man telling a tale. He felt relieved, a pest pillar coming alive, that was indeed a bad omen. Major bad omens always drove up the prices and he hadn't bought the merchandise to take back south with him yet. Well that would be the first thing he would do in the morning. Or if prices had already gone up a lot then he would have to stay here for some days till things cooled down again and they returned back to normal.

But there was also a part of him that was disappointed, his curiosity had goten the better of him and he would love to have a tale to bring back home with him. "Well there will be other tales to tell, although probably not as entertaining as this one." He though.
 

The leather reins felt heavy and dangerous. Movash was very conscious that the horse, if it so chose, could run wherever it pleased – a boy’s little arm would not prevent it, no matter how hard he would try to hang on and hold it. Although he had as yet no idea of what was expected of him, Movash feared the thought of angering his new master by letting his horse run off in the very first hour of his engagement. But the horse made no effort to break free. Demurely and patiently, it trotted beside him as he struggled to keep up with the long steps of the tall man, master to them both, who strode along the road, following the group of people that made for the Pest Pillar.

No sooner had the man engaged Movash than he had fallen silent. He hardly looked at Movash, and his thoughts seemed preoccupied with something. He doesn’t even know my name , thought Movash, and I not his . Maybe it was for the better. For Movash’s squiredom, he felt sure, would not last long. There was an obstacle that the master had not yet seen. Once he would see, he would decline to have Movash in his house.

The boy’s ears strained for signs of that obstacle – for the tippety-tap of her paws, the panting of her tongue, or the low, mournful tune of her nightsong. Somewhere in these streets, she was prawling about, maybe hunting after rats still, sniffing out their hiding places; though by now, she may have done her work for the night, and was already chewing on her prey. Or maybe she was already on her way towards him, snout to the ground, following his scent. Movash imagined how she would find the inn’s door, linger for a moment, trying to decide whether he was within, and would then pick up the fresher trail of his walk towards the central square. He looked over his shoulder – but as yet, could sense nothing of Humbaba’s whereabouts.

And at that moment, coloured as it was by the disappointment of not finding Humbaba looking for him, a new thought occurred to Movash: What if the master would not refuse Movash on account of his monstrous companion, but instead only refuse the monster, and insist on keeping Movash with him? What if he decided to have Humbaba caged or killed? The boy’s face flushed bright red as he thought of this. How could he have been so stupid to assume that he knew what the master would do? What danger had he brought on Humbaba by his foolishness, by his cowardice, by giving himself into the hands of a man who knew nothing about him?

Despite the storm of self-accusation that raged within, the little boy remained calm on the outside. Only the tight set of his face might have betrayed his anguish, if someone had cared to look closely. Movash walked on behind his master, leading his horse, and presently found that they had reached the central square with the famous Pest Pillar. Movash had seen it before, during daylight, but had avoided it in the dark. It was too ghastly a thing. Movash had been acquainted with grief and unmeasurable loss far too early in his life to need any reminder of the terror of death, or to see in Queprur anything other than a bitter enemy. Some of the other people in the party that had made towards the square felt uncomfortable, too, Movash noticed. But this was not true of the nine-fingered drunkard, whose character was not subdued one bit, as he threatened to beat the scared man who had first brought news about the pillar to the tavern that had brought so ill luck to Movash.

The plaza was cobbled, and the dirt not very thick. Movash stood next to his master, looked up to him to gauge his mood, and after a blink’s hesitation, decided to pull the man’s sleeve. When he thought that he had his attention, Movash made a writing movement with his right index finger, using his left hand, which still held the horse’s reins, as the imaginary piece of parchment. He hoped that the man would understand.

“That woman will be the death of me, I swear it. And those rotten devil spawn that popped out of her will feast on my bones,” muttered Redrik but he finished with a chuckle. “If’n I was a smart man I would run for the hills. Them hills though are awfully cold tis time o year.”

“You’re right, wait till spring and then run for ye life,” Manik replied with a smile. He knew Redrik cherished his children, spoiled them truly, and was kind enough to his wife. They both knew it a jest, the man would give his life before he went anywhere without his family.

“Cold night t’night,” Redrik stated more soberly, and Manik had to agree.

It was getting downright bone chilling as they walked south along wheelroad, but at least there was no snow yet. They had just stopped in at the south gate to the old city to greet friends there and warm their hands for a minute before stepping back out into the night. Manik’s body was still warm but the chill was getting to his face and he pulled the collar of his tunic up higher and the heavy woolen cloak tighter around himself. He was dressed in his guard uniform and armour but along with the xazure blue cloak to ward off the chill. Their boots padded along the cobblestones and his quarterstaff made a clicking sound as he used it like a walking stick. Winter was on its way and the nights were only going to get colder.

Manik was in charge of patrol of the Merchant’s quarter and half the southern city and he had eight men in his squad out in pairs walking on foot. Manik had them meet at certain checkpoints in intervals during the night to make sure everyone was accounted for. He had used the system in the past and it worked well. It also made sure no guards were sneaking into taverns…. well for not too long at least.

A snapping sound pierced the night to their right and Redrik brought up his small crossbow and trained it on an alley. Manik turned and peered into the shadows. After a few moments he shrugged at Redrik and they continued on. As Redrik had said, he wasn’t the sharpest but he was a decent soldier, a good man, and a crack shot with that small crossbow. Manik wouldn’t mind peering into every alley they walked by if it kept them safe.

They were making their way to the main plaza and the wind was picking up as they got closer. Manik blew into his left hand to give it a little more heat. The plaza was usually quite empty at night this time of year. Sometimes the odd person felt it was the best time to visit the shrine to Queprer, but the shops had day time hours and saved for the daytime markets. As they came off Wheelroad into the open the shadows were oppressive and Manik paused to scan the expanse.

Curiously he noticed some figures on the other side coming into the square over by the pest pillar. He could hear boisterous voices and see more people trailing along. Odd, Manik thought and started over to investigate. Maybe it was a brawl come out into the streets? Or a group kicked out for trouble and onto the next tavern. Any case, they would go ask questions.

“Sarge?” voiced Redrik behind him.

The group was more than a few. Without turning, “Seven back, off right, keep it ready but not trained. All eyes,” Manik replied.

As they started forward again Redrik fell back seven paces behind Manik and off to the right, keeping his crossbow ready but pointed unthreateningly at the ground. The wind picked up a bit and curled Manik’s cloak around his ankles, winter was definitely on its way.

There it is: the pest pillar. Those eerie skulls staring back at you with hollow, empty eye sockets. The hand on top, beckoning death itself to come to the city. Just staring at it is enough to scare the piss out of any man, but not the dwarven mage. The burly man and the one handed drunk did a good job of guiding him here, though he could have gone to the place himself without some guide. He just needed the extra dumb muscle should thieves and other lowlifes prowl the streets at night.

The dwarf ignored the bickering between the two men and approached the pillar until he is in a respectable distance -- not to close and not too far. He stuck his staff into one of the crevices between cobblestones. At first he thought of using sulphur or ashes to increase the potency of his incantation, but that will ruin the whole process. His task was to detect if any magic was used in the area; the presence of the reagents would have increased the ounia of fire in the area, and will affect the carall in his surroundings.

"Stay in the back, Buri. In case me spell be fizzled I dun want ye to roast." The pig didn't move and just laid on his side to rest. The dwarf sighed, and moved a little closer so that the pig was behind him. He stuck his staff on the ground again, raised his hands to chest level and faced the palms together, as if holding an invisible ball. Thorgas closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to 'read' the carall of the pillar based on the amount of fire ounia present in it.

Thorgas opened his eyes wearily, as if he had been meditating for the entire day. There was no increase in fire ounia present in the pillar, which means the property of animation was not used on the structure. It would seem that magic was not even used at all, given by the fact that the carall of the structure was not disturbed in the slightest bit.

"This be a waste of me time," the dwarf muttered. Then he turned to the direction of the one handed man and said in a low voice, "I should beat yer hide fer stupidity, and let Buri take a dump in yer carcass fer good measure." Then he thought about the situation a little more. Perhaps the traces have vanished, given the time those people at the tavern spent arguing and the time spent by the drunk in running to the tavern.

Thorgas decided to return to the tavern, but instead waited for the others to finish their investigation. He's not about to go meandering in the city streets only to be mugged by pickpockets.

In silence he had made it at last to the Pest Pillar with his young companion and horse. The space that the Pillar occupied was cast into a strange glow that left him slightly disconcerted. Skulls adorned the pillar, enhancing the eyrie feeling that seemed to sweep over him as he looked at it. Regardless, he felt that the night would still prove to be uneventful. As the saying went, one could simply not trust the word of one who had spent to long a time drinking ale. More often then not, those individuals caused more of a mess than was acceptable.

The boy seemed to have become slightly withdrawn, but know doubt he was more than a little confused about his situation. With time he would surely improve emotionally, physically, and mentally. As with all things that were worth acquiring, hard work would be necessary. He had no doubt in his mind that the boy would not let down his expectations.

A tug on his shirt sleeve drew his mind from thoughts of the future back to the present. The boy looked up at him with wide intent eyes, and made several hand gestures from which Calron assumed he needed writing material. Though the boy couldn't speak, he was no doubt able to hear, and with regards to the motions some form of communication would have to be forged between both himself and the child.

"Do you need things to write on and with," he asked, mildly surprised that the boy could write, but resorted to stealing in order to meet his needs. As he spoke he reached for the saddle bag attached to Cloud rummaging for paper and a quill.

“Do you need things to write with?” the master asked. Movash nodded eagerly, glad to be understood. He even exaggerated the movement, to show his master that he had heard and was eager to have a conversation, such as could be had, given that one party lacked a voice.

The master did not disappoint. It only took him a few moments to produce from his saddlebag parchment, quill, and ink. Movash took the items, nodding thanks to the master, and moved a few steps to place himself within the flickering light of a torch that was fastened to a wall. There he sat down on the floor, tailor-fashion. He unrolled the parchment in front of him, and found two pebbles which he placed on the edges to keep them from curling up. The inkpot he placed beside his right knee, uncorked it, and carefully inserted the quill, leaving it time to soak up the ink.

His task, he knew, would not be easy. He had never been very good at writing. His father had used to call him the greatest ink-splasher on the disk, always likely to create an ink lake the size of the Ancythrian Sea on the floor of their circus cart before even a single legible letter had made it onto the parchment. But Movash was determined to do better this time. He wanted to impress the master. It was important. Humbaba's life might depend on it.

First he wrote his name, in the big letters of those who have so much trouble remembering where to put the squiggles and curlicues, the underlengths and the accents, that they cannot even begin to think of caring for neatness. But the writing might have been thought impressive in one way at least: it was in Styrash. “Mód’avásh’cáo” it would have spelled if rendered in the Tharian script. Movash looked up, pointed at his work – which hadn't turned out badly, he felt, despite the blotches of ink that hogged large sections of the page and looked like a band of insolent crows about to attack the genteel company of elven letters. Then he pointed at himself. When he thought that he had been understood, he dunked the quill again. This time he wrote more freely, although still with the unpracticed beginner's clumsiness, and in the last white space untroubled by ink crows appeared the Tharian letters “Movash”. Pointing again, he made it clear that this, too, was his name.

Now came the most difficult part. Movash began a new page, and drew an animal. It looked like a dog, but had a very long tail, which curled back on itself like a half-unfolded fern. Movash did his best to render the tufts on Humaba's tail-tip, but did not know whether he had entirely succeeded there. With Humbaba's mouth, however, he was not happy at all: he did try to make it beak-like, as it indeed was, but felt the result looked more like the open maw of a toothless shark.

Unwilling to test the patience of his master for too long, Movash decided to resist the temptation of further improvements to the drawing. It was time to spell his friend's name. Now, the difficulty with that  was that Movash could not remember how to write the small “b”. So he decided to write  everything in  capitals instead, so as to make it look as if that was his intention anyway. However, he confused himself in the process, and in the end the result of his efforts looked like this:  “HumBABA”, written in a sort of wavy line that slanted downwards as the letters, towards the end of the word, became larger and larger. Movash was disappointed to have revealed himself such a poor writer, and such a small child, but his message was important, and he needed to make his master understand. He pointed at his drawing, and at the name written below it, and then gestured out into the city. She is out there,  he wanted to say. She belongs to me, master.

Kaelan glances around again, briefly surprised he isn't the only one to stay, until the armed elf takes several impatient paces and finally moves to follow; and now the warrior is. Nice enough. However, a bowl of soup and a piece of bread only last a certain length of time, and the sooner they're finished the better; so eventually he finds himself making his way back up to the room, back to his weapons and his moody, unbearable boss. Damn, Jet, he finds himself thinking. Get it over with already.

There is an odd smell wafting from inside and Kaelan pauses, looking to the door briefly, then knocking. Perhaps the man was having some... particularly smelly private time. No answer. "Kret?", he calls out, and receives again no reply. With a sigh, the warrior unlatches the door and slowly pushes it open. When there is no kind of response, he pushes it open the rest of the way - and scowls, looking the room over in vague confusion.

Kret is lying on the floor. It appears he tried to struggle, but was too shocked to make any use of his arms. He has bled out, one leg a bit high from tangling in the bed, the blood pooling from around his neck. Kaelan frowns critically at it, and turns about slowly to take in the rest of the room. Ultimately, nothing else has been disturbed. None of Kaelan's weapons are even bloody; none of the coin and goods transported are missing or even unsealed. Slowly, the warrior exhales. Not Jet, then. Unless Jet was trying to set Kaelan up. Ah, well. The night was cool, the streets certainly weren't deserted with the crowd going to look at some crazy monument, and the guards needed something more to do with their time than smoke pipes, get drunk and reminisce about particularly willing - or unwilling - women.

Quickly, deliberately, Kaelan stocks his weapons back onto himself, and makes his way down the stairs, stopping at the counter. "I need a guardpost. Where are the nearest guards or nightwatch or... whatever you have in this Ava-forgotten rat-hole?"

As Manik made his way closer he could discern that there were indeed several figures grouped together by the pillar and a few more wandering in. It was dark though and he wished he had a lantern lit. He had a torch on his belt beneath his cloak, but for all the good it would do he would never get it lit with the wind. A few loud voices made their way to his ears and he hoped he wasn’t going to have trouble.

Manik slowed as he approached the group and stopped several paces away, Redrik several more behind him. He noticed that some of the figures were taller than he was which was odd, he was a tall man. Also there were children. So most likely it wasn’t a fight, but could be a rowdy crowd. Some had turned to look his way. “Good evening folks. What seems to be the excitement?”

Gurrant watched as Tavis scrambled to get away, nearly tripping over his own feet.  It was just as the big man thought, this had proved to be a fool's errand.  Now, maybe they could get back to the tavern and get back to drinking, followed by more wenching.  He hadn't had his fill of either, this night.

When Tavis disappeared down one of the many streets leading from the Plaza, another movement caught Gurrant's eye.  Two of the city's finest were out, and no doubt had their interest piqued by this motley group assembled out here this time of night.

Gurrant snorted.  Local constabulary had never been his favorite people.  Usually berating him for drunkenness or other such thing.  More than one night he had spent in a city jail.

The leader of the two demanded to know what was going on.  Uppity looking sod, Gurrant thought to himself.  Career type, most likely.  They were the worst.  Always following the rules, with not one bone of fun in them.

Gurrant stepped right next to the pillar, turning his back to it and spreading his mighty arms open wide, magnanimously.  "Evenin', Cap'n.  Jus' enjoyin' the night air.  No law agin' that, I 'ope.  Thought we'd all take a stroll out 'ere ta take a closer look at yer Pest Pillar."

He looked out at the group and winked at the short green eyed woman, before turning his head back to the guard.  "Tell me, Cap'n.  What kinda people put up a pillar like this, all dedicated ta evil 'n such?  Seems like the people 'round here are a bit morbid, ta say the least.  If'n ye want ta make folks seem welcome, ye might wanna-"

His teasing was cut short by a yelp of pain.  To Gurrant's utter surprise, it had come from him.  Something had grabbed his hair and was pulling it viciously.  Reaching back, he could feel cold, very cold, skin of an arm and hand grabbing him.  Frantically he tried to pull himself free, but the arm held him tight.

Who had him?  Who was attacking him?  Reaching back further, Gurrant's blood froze in his veins.  The hand became an arm, which inturn became... the Pillar?  In a panic, Gurrant forced his head to twist round, feeling a good clump of his hair being torn from his scalp.  Straining to see, he was horrified to discover that it was indeed the arm and hand from the pillar, which had migrated from the top of the pillar to where it could reach him.  Now, it was slowly making its way back up the pillar, forcing Gurrant closer to the pillar.

The pillar!  It was suddenly a mass of wriggling and squirming, the rats and pests on it moving in the dim light.  The skulls were also moving, their lifeless eyes staring out, and their jaws moving, opening, closing, teeth bared.  But, worst of all was the sound.  It was inhuman, like death floating on the wind.  Howls, cries, screams.  And in this, the sound of a name.  

"Kale!"  Over and over again.  "Kale!"  It was so loud, that if he were able, Gurrant would have covered his ears.

But, he was unable to do that, as his feet suddenly came off the ground as the arm and hand began lifting him up onto the pillar.

"For Koraya's sake, someone move yer arse and 'elp me!"

The people were gathering around the pillar and nothing was going on, absolutely nothing. Then some officials came and asked questions, it didn't sound like there would be trouble. Azalahn was about to turn back towards the tavern, when something happened.


Something had grabbed the big man, and he was asking for help. There was a little voice inside his head telling him that this was none of his business and he should head back ignoring whatever was going on, because the only thanks he would get would be a night in jail for assault. It was the voice of his better judgement.

It was usually right, but this time Azalahn ignored it. Something was definitely going on, and the big man was lifted off the ground, and it sounded like it was a genuine call for help. Azalahn was allready on the move and his warrior instincts had taken over. A man was in trouble and needed help.

He charged the big man and whatever was attacking him while drawing his swords and shouting in styrash, telling his dark elf companion to stay back and out of sight.

Mouse could not help but wonder if maybe he had turned invisible - and inaudible. After his question, there was no reply from the elf-maiden. First that noble who did not deign to reply to his suggestion, now a blind elfess... Surely elvish ears were better than human ears, and did they not say that blind people could hear better as well? So surely his words would have been heard? After all, he was right beside her, even he with his bad hearing would have heard that. Still, he kept riding beside her, just in case she did eventually answer him.

As they came closer, the man who had more or less taken charge of the whole expedition told the elfess to keep an eye out. He seemed to find himself immensely funny, chuckling at his so-called wit. Mouse almost answered him, but stopped himself at the last moment. He was not sure what the elfess would think about other people standing up for her, but mostly he knew the kind of reaction he would elicit from a bully such as this man.

Mouse watched in silence as the man approached the pillar, around the same time that some guards accosted them. With a few steps of Pepik forward, he was able to hear what the man was saying - Perhaps there was a placcatory sense there somewhere, but to Mouse it sounded more like picking a fight. However, since he was close enough to hear the conversation, he was definitely close enough to see in detail how the hand on the pillar moved from the top down to where the man was, and grabbed his hair. It was difficult to see how exactly the thing moved. One moment it was up on top, the next halfway down, then it suddenly had the man by his hair, who struggled to get free, yelling for help.

Mouse was too horrified by the spectacle to even react, not that he would know how to handle a moving dead hand. And it wasn't just the hand, either - out from the pillar streamed a whole battalion, a legion of rats, and within seconds had reached Pepik. The donkey, while usually pretty lax about the company of rats, was not used to quite such a wriggling mass of them, and she started panicking. Her hooves hit this way and that, and Mouse could hear the crunch of bones, but it was no use, there were too many of them. Damn his lack of a weapon! But at least they were not yet climbing up Pepik's legs, even if they seemed to be biting her. Unable to take it any longer, the donkey plunged away, over any rat in her way, just to get away from the bites. It was all Mouse could do to keep his seat, since he was riding without a saddle as usual. Anyway, he was too scared to look back, or forward to where they were going. He trusted Pepik to at least take them to safety.

One by one, the motley gang from before started to arrive. There were new additions of horses - the noble that had accosted the little waif was seated atop a beautiful midnight-hued stallion, while the rest of the party was either on foot, or donkeys. A dwarf splintered off from the group, trotting over to the Pillar.  His beard trailed behind him as he walked up fearlessly to the balsted thing, planting his staff in a crack on the ground.

Seh'nara straightened; she had no wish to engage anyone in conversation, but she was interested nonetheless in whatever the stocky dwarf was doing. Her eyes ran over the small figure - she had met dwarves before, and he seemed no different from any other dwarf. His actions though, spoke otherwise. The dwarf moved his hands as if he was holding something, standing in the pose for a few minutes before relaxing.

He grabbed his staff, berating Tavis with a threat. Almost as if called by the words, a city guard walked up, inserting himself cleanly into the proceedings. “Good evening folks. What seems to be the excitement?” The leader of the expedition, the drunkard, impudent as ever, began to reply with barely veiled sarcasm.

Seh's attention though, was instead captured by a movement from the Pillar. At this point, she hadn't moved from her spot. Her eyes followed the movement, and to her horror, the Pillar's many etched hands were slithering, moving, sliding, all the way frrom the top of the monument to the bottom, where a rotton hand reached out slowly, as if it took a great effort to break the barrier between the Pillar's stone and the ice cold night air. The hand violently grabbed the drunkard, reversing its descent as soon as it had snared its prey. And within that second, the Pillar started howling with the voice of the dead, chanting a name repeatedly.

"Kale! Kale! Kale!"

It was as if the cry was a beacon for a full-on attack. From the Pillar sprang out waves of rats, large and filthy. Their squeaks filled the air as they ran towards the party, and more importantly, right at her. Seh stumbled back in shock, nearly tripping over Silver. He was already barking, bounding in front to snarl and bite the rats in an attempt to draw them away from his master. His sharp teeth tore at them, ripping them into shreds. But there were so many of them, hundreds, bordering on thousands. They were crawling over him, biting him with their small yet sharp teeth. Enough was enough. Even the strongest lion could not withstand the assault of a thousand ants.

Seh'nara unhooked her Scourge. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the whip towards the rats, sending them scurrying away. Silver himself shook the remmanents of them off, leaping to his master's side. He snarled at the ones that the Scourge couldn't reach, and that was how the two kept the rats in a circle around them; with the elfess flicking repeatedly, and the wolf taking care of the rest.

In the midst of this, she spared a glance at the Pillar's pitious victim, still in mid-air. There was no way she could help the man without putting herself in danger. Hopefully, someone else would come to his aid. She had no love for drunkards and riffraff, but being sucked into the Void by way of a supernatural pillar was a terrible way to go.

Thorgas sighed, lamenting the time he wasted in following such fancies reserved for fishwives and gossips. The dwarf yawned, waiting for the others to finish their own investigation of the pest pillar. A couple of people joined them. Judging by their uniforms, the dwarf assumed the two to be city guards. Finally, he thought. perhaps these two could escort him back to the inn and away from the cold plaza and the unnerving structure.

Suddenly, the burly man from the inn gave a frightened yelp followed by anguished calls for help, but even these are not enough to prepare him for what he is about to see. Thorgas looked at the source of the noise and his jaw dropped. The limb atop the pillar was moving! The skulls that were lifeless a while ago are now moving, speaking a deathly chant that sent shivers down his spine and caused the hair on his chest and back to rise. Rats spewed forth from the structure, eager to bite, harass and possibly kill anyone who gets in their path.

That's impossible! No magic was used! No magic! The dwarf was stunned. How could his magic fail him at this crucial time?

Unfortunately the dwarf had no time to ponder on his ineptitude. He had to get his pig out of the way of the ravenous rodents. Buri was still sleeping, oblivious to the fact that he would be soon bacon to these creatures. But the dwarf had no intention of letting the rats touch his pet.

"Oy, wake up, Buri, ye damnable pig!" Thorgas shouted exasperatingly. No use. The boar was used to the dwarf shouting at him to get up in order to avoid the carts and wagons plying the streets of the cities he visited. And this, to the pig, is no different that the others.

Thorgas had no choice; the pig is too stubborn. He then breathed deeply and summoned all his strength as he took hold of one chubby leg and pulled with all his might. He exhausted all resources, even to the point of shouting out the name of the girl who dumped him in the hopes of getting himself more riled up. It was no use. For all his effort he managed to move the sleeping pig a few nailsbreaths from their previous position. Some of the rats saw the pair and approached them. They are getting closer..

Then he thought of his only strength: the arcane arts. Thorgas normally is not fond of using magic in the presence of other people, because most common folk view mages and their ilk as harbingers of misfortune and destruction. He is desperate and had no choice. Either be eaten or be loathed by commoners; to him the answer is clear.

He took one of the sulphur pouches he had and threw it at the ground, causing its contents to scatter around him. Such reagents are excellent source of firepower. He directed the fire ounia from his surroundings to the area in front of him and concentrated. A huge cone of fire directed at the rats emanated from the tip of his staff, just in time as one of the rodents was caught by the flames in mid air -- it pounced towards them in order to get a good bite at the dwarf or the pig. The intensity of the flames must have been extreme, for the rat was reduced to a charred corpse immediately. The dwarf kept up the spell, knowing full well that a tiny slip in concentration will result in both the pig and the dwarf's death.

"Evenin', Cap'n.  Jus' enjoyin' the night air.  No law agin' that, I 'ope.  Thought we'd all take a stroll out 'ere ta take a closer look at yer Pest Pillar."

Manik didn’t recognize the bearded man who snorted and addressed him so, but he instantly knew his type. The Guard was here to help people and keep order but some poor souls just had a problem with any kind of authority. Manik suspected the man had had his fair share of ale this evening to boot.

The bearded man turned and winked at someone in the group then turned back to Manik and Redrik, "Tell me, Cap'n.” Great, the man was the performing type as well, enjoyed putting on a show. Manik had no quarrel with anyone present so far; he would just let the man go on blathering. “What kinda people put up a pillar like this, all dedicated ta evil 'n such?  Seems like the people 'round here are a bit morbid, ta say the least.  If'n ye want ta make folks seem welcome, ye might wanna-"

While the bearded man driveled on, Manik had been scanning the small crowd taking note of peculiar animals and faces alike, and so hadn’t been looking at the bearded man until he heard the yelp. With his attention refocused he noticed the pillar surface shifting and thought at first the man had backed into and broken it. Then what he was watching started to take effect on his brain and he stood awestruck. The skulls and pests were shifting, moving, biting at the air. It was impossible. Then the moaning started which transformed into an eternal shriek which sent a shiver up the back of Manik’s neck. Manik raised his quarterstaff but continued standing with his mouth gaping.

When the rats started pouring forth from the base of the pillar Manik’s brain processed the information in a detached sense. Rats were nothing to be afraid of. They were scared of humans and would scurry awa- “Youch!” Manik yelped, as pain shot through his foot. He looked down and realized a rat had bitten through his boot and more were flooding around his feet. As he watched, one rat even started crawling up his leg! He could hear the shrieking sounds that were emanating from the pillar getting increasingly loud and a voice howling over and over, “Kale!.... Kale!” He brought his quarterstaff down and swiped the rat from his leg and then started kicking his legs violently and using the staff in a broom motion to beat back the rats from his feet. Another rat got by and sunk its teeth into his heel. With the pain came realization and his mind cleared. He noticed some of the folk had run for it. This was a bad situation and was going to get worse. He needed to start mending it.

A crossbow bolt whistled through the darkness to spear a rat. Manik looked to his right to see Redrik white faced and panicked trying to crank back his crossbow to reload. It was uselessly slow and Manik shouted at him hoarsely, “Don’t use your bloody crossbow!” What would work better against rats? Manik continued to swipe at the rats with his quarterstaff and drive the point down trying to hit them. It wasn’t enough, there were so many. Fire, they needed fire! For the second time that evening Manik wished to the gods that he had a lantern. He could have thrown it down and had it splash burning oil over the vermin. Manik knew the square was mostly dark with no lamps within a helpful distance. They needed something else.

"For Koraya's sake, someone move yer arse and 'elp me!"

Manik swiveled back to the pillar and stared at the bearded man’s feet dangling off the ground. The man needed help so Manik ran over to him. He did so kicking violently to dislodge rats but still received a few bites for his troubles. A splash of light erupted into the night from out of his view and he decided someone in the group must have had a lantern after all and had done what he was thinking. He watched the bearded man struggle to free himself as his mind raced over what to do next.

When night's a river of blackness,
Flowing toward the morning,
When the wind's a whistling song
Sounding out a warning,
When shades shake barren trees
And swing the leaden gallows,
Keep your eyes upon the dark
And do not trust the shadows.

Her feet made no sound on the cobble road, and her body was like the wind through the city streets. In those moments where she broke from the impenetrable shade of the city buildings into the shivering moonlight, her hair shone like Cyhalloin snow tinged grey, as though a tenuous shadow lie upon the lightness of the strands. Her face, though, was hauntingly beautiful, and as she moved through the pathways, she looked upon the city of Nyermersys with eyes the color of twilight.

The stores of the City of Death were all closed, their dark windows looking out like hallow eyes upon the quiet city. She melted with the shadows in a dirge of darkness that silently played through the streets. She felt something in her effloresce and waken, for the night was restless and Queprur walked through the streets with her train of darkness trailing behind her.

She came to a rusted fountain in a small market circle, where the water was running languidly from the lip of a bowl into a large, granite basin--liquid spirits glittering briefly in their descent before merging into a darkness like death. She stood peering apathetically into her own reflection in the basin; then, without turning her gaze from the blackness in the basin, she deftly pulled out her armoured fan, opened it, and dipped the tip of the panels into it. Ripples reaching out across the surface like Queprur's hands, blurring her own reflection in the process--thought she did not feel erased.

The wind picked up, and the figure lifted her head to greet it, for it softened her. She pulled her armoured fan from the water and closed it, the panels sliding into place. It was then the sound of talking and footsteps met her pointed ears. From a nearby tavern, patrons were journeying out, like sheep herding together into a night of wolves. Her brief respite in the light concluded as she moved back into the shadows. With astounding agility, she made her way toward them before settling herself atop an awning where she could see the crowds moving 'round the Pet Pillar that stood as a monument to the city's past.

She watched a moment, seeing a large man speaking roughly to a guard, when suddenly she saw, with a ghostly horror, the pest pillar wriggle and shift, as though awaking out of a long slumber. A spectral hand grabbed the large man and began to pull him in as the pillar seemed to mutter, "Kale--Kale--Kale!" Then rats, rats, hundreds or thousands streamed through the streets and attacked every creature in range.

The figure hidden in the shadows stared with wide eyes. She had always considered to be herself a follower of Queprur. Was this her will? She did not know, but as the Goddess of Death had always guided her before, so she would guide her now, and she felt eager to move. In a graceful jump, she found herself on the cobble stones of the road once more, in the path of a wave of rodents who came with yellow teeth bared.

They jumped at her, and with an adept movement of her wrist her armoured fan had opened and furry bodies fell in pieces to the ground. As more came, she defended herself, and her movements were like song, deft and light and full of harmony. In the midst of that beautiful destruction, her every fatal gesture was peace.

When Queprur takes the starlight
And her servants surge like a flood
Over the shivering city
With eyes like the color of blood,
When the crescent above is her scythe
With all of the world in its arc,
Keep your eyes upon the shadows
And do not trust the dark.

When the first rat reached him and crawled up his leg, Movash did not flinch. He had hardly heard the shouts of the fat giant, or the screams of the terrified people. The ghostly voices, the screeching, the howling, the shouts: “Kale, Kale” – those he did hear, but only as if from far away, or as  if through the walls of a prison.

He felt a rage. A rage that wanted to tear the world apart. He imagined himself standing over a tiny landscape, with little hills and mountains and rivers and a lake, such as a child would build out of sand and sticks. But they were real hills with real trees on them, and the water of the rivers was wild. There was a city, too, with houses the size of dice and people the size of brownies; or smaller, even: the size of a brownie child's puppets. Movash could have crushed this city with a few kicks of his foot. And he wanted to. Everything, he thought, everything must die. Himself included. The feeling was so violent that his whole body quivered. To be able to bear it, he bit into his own lip as strong as he could, until the blood flowed freely down his chin.

He was still sat where he had been writing, on the stone floor of the square. The wave of rats rushed everywhere, but Movash, like a lodestone, seemed to attract a particularly strong current. Hundreds of tiny-snouted, grey-pelted, long-tailed bodies scurried towards him, tipped over the ink pot that his master had given him, kicked away the quill, soiled the parchment with on which Movash had written his and Humbaba's names, and, like a maelstrom, they circled his body. Very soon, two rats climbed up his leg and into his lap. Hooking their tiny claws into his clothes, they then proceeded up his shirt until they had reached his shoulder, from whence they clambered up onto his head. There they joined snouts and squeaked their triumph to their comrades. After this signal, any inhibition that the rats below might have felt was overcome, and soon dozens were running over Movash's body, climbing up in serpentines, colliding with one another and falling off again, only to resume the climb at once. Eventually, Movash's body was all but completely covered in a swirling pelt of rats.

The rats did not bite him, although one licked at the blood that had dropped from his chin onto his shirt. In fact, their feet felt soft to Movash's skin, and their smell was warm and comfortable. He did not mind the rats. All the pain that existed the world was within him, not outside. Still biting his lip, still quivering with the wish to crush a city, Movash could only think one thing: This is not my rage. It belongs to someone else. This is not my rage. It belongs to someone else. Not my rage. Someone else.

Claudirea gave an involuntary shiver as they approached the Pest Pillar. In the moonlight, the monument looked even more terrifying than it had during the day. She ran a hair through Luna's fur, the warmth from her companion calming her nerves just a bit. She stayed a bit closer to Gurrant and Tavis than the rest of the group, but she still kept her distance. After what she saw of Gurrant's character, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to be that close to him.

Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and because of that, apparently Gurrant was upset. He spun the poor one-armed man around and berated him for wasting their time. It wasn't too long after that in which two guards approached the group and inquired about their reasons for being out. Claudirea was surprised, but then again, not really, when Gurrant made no mention of the real reason they had all left the warmth of the tavern to look at the Pest Pillar. He probably didn't want to come off looking like a fool. She tried to give a half smile when he seemingly picked her out of the group to wink at. Inwardly, she wondered what it was for....

Her thoughts were interrupted by Gurrant's sharp cry of pain. It took her a second to find out what was the matter. When she finally located the source, she almost wished she hadn't. A skeletal hand from the Pillar had grabbed him by the hair and was pulling him towards it. Claudirea's mouth fell open as she witnessed the Pillar come alive. The skulls' mouths were opening and closing, and the stone rats seemed to come alive.

"Kale! Kale! Kale!" The cry was deafening. Claudirea clapped her hands over her ears in an attempt to shut out the noise, but it was to no avail. It was in that moment she saw Gurrant being raised off his feet by another one of the hands from the Pillar. She was stunned. She didn't know what to do.

Yet, before she could think of anything to do to help Gurrant, she was distracted by the feeling of something crawling over her bare feet. Looking down, she saw hundreds of rats covering the ground. Her green eyes noted they came from the Pillar. At first, she wasn't too concerned, as rats were just another part of nature, yet that quickly changed as several rats began to dig their small claws into her leg and make the journey upward.

A scream erupted from Claudirea's mouth. These rats were no ordinary rats, and it frightened her. The force of which the rats were crawling all over her, combined with her surprise, caused her to fall to the ground. She instinctively covered her face, trying to keep them at bay, but there were some that were getting tangled in her hair.

Luna gave a growl as her ears went flat back upon her head. Carefully, but viciously, she started to attack the rats which were upon the body of her companion. The flesh of the rats popped slightly as her teeth sunk into their backs. Not even making sure they were completely dead, Luna merely tossed the bodies aside, trying her hardest to get them off Claudirea. But it seemed that no matter how many she threw off, more were still coming. Spurred on by Claudirea's screams and cries, Luna kept on attacking the rats.

In silence, Calron had observed as his young squire set about writing in his poor hand. Slowly but surely the words, or rather, names, appeared on the pages. He couldn't be one hundred percent sure, but he realized that the boys name was probably Movash. The next page was a bit more confusing, as the boy drew a picture of some manner of beast that appeared to be a dog. Perhaps a pet that the boy had kept with him as companion. It was as he came to understand these things that his attention was again attracted to the Pest Pillar.

The moonlight was light, and at first he thought it was a trick of the eyes but in another moment he realized that there was motion upon the surface of the Pillar. A chill seemed to ripple through his whole body, and suddenly a powerful cry ripped through the night calling for Kale. The sound was nearly deafening, and his ears seemed to ring like bells at noon. Cloud reared back on to his haunches, neighing above the skittering of small feet.

Looking at the ground, it seemed as if it had come to life, moving in a waving motion. Rats moved as a living carpet beneath the feet of the masses gathered around the pillar. Cloud had already set about the task of squishing several of the rodents as they appeared underfoot. Even panicked, the great stallion steered clear of the young Movash who was in an instant surrounded by the creatures.

Roughly, Calron lifted the boy up by the arm, and loosed his short sword from its sheath at his belt. The metal seemed to ripple and waver like liquid silver in the moonlight. Taking in a chilling breath that seemed to sear and burn at his lungs, Calron recalled the training he had undertaken as a boy. Arts of Rain and Lightning came to his mind, and he recalled the speed needed to the use the techniques that followed those martial sets. It would be good for the squire to observe the technique he would be learning first hand.

Holding his short sword with the lightest of grips, Calron stabbed at the moving bodies even as they bit at his booted feet. The movement was a simple thrust, and the rats died easily enough. Even in the dim lighting he could see the bodies being consumed even as more rats seemed to spring up where the previous one had been. If things progressed like this, then there would be know escaping these vermin. With his free hand he gestured for Movash to attend to Cloud. He only hoped the boy would understand what he meant without verbal communication. It seemed that the night was only just getting started.

Seen from the pillar, the prospect was splendid. The tiny squeakers fanned out and made a lovely little army – quite enough to frighten gaggle of neeproot eaters and their four-legged underlings. None of them had enough fire in the guts to help that puny saphead that had strutted around the pillar, offering himself as the butt of the joke. Listen how he wails! Like a child he sounds – and he looks like one, too, his feet dangling in the air, because his legs are too short to reach the ground from where it pleases us to hold his hair.

Oh, lo and behold – there was one brave fool, after all. A giant by the pitiful standards of this pitiful city, he charged forward, remarkably quick for someone wearing such heavy armour. He was waving two curven long swords, that one, and looked like he knew how to use them, too. Finally the game would get interesting.

---

From the pillar, out of the pillar, stepping through the stone as if it was made of mist, came a rat. The rat stood on its two hindlegs, and was about two ped tall. Its teeth were yellow, and they glimmered in the night, as if illuminated from within. Their reflections in the armour of the charging Azalahn looked like tiny candle flames.

(http://www.santharia.com/bestiary/beasts_pics/giant_rat.jpg)

The rat did not stop to sniff, like an ordinary rat would have done. It did drop onto its forelegs, though, making itself look, for a blink, like an animal. When it lunged and threw itself at Azalahn, however, it betrayed more purpose than a mere beast was supposed to have. As it leaped through the air, aiming for Azalahn's sword-arm, the expression on its face was almost calm.

The calm of an early twilight
The peace of a moonlit glade
A tranquility strange as a tear in a star
Shone in the rush of her blade.

The sing-song sound of a zephyr
afloat in a river of leaves
and sailing by soft as a whisper
while leaving no mark on the trees,

The gleam of the snow in the blackness
When midnight has barely a star,
To glisten its way through to morning,
To send out its modest shine far,

The lift that alights in the feather
A moment before the bird flies,
A beauty as strange as the wind round a grave
Haunting the depths in her eyes

It was like a dance: the fluid movements of her arms as she tilted and cut, the light steps of her feet as she twisted and turned, the bending of her body like a lambent flame as she dodged the attacks of the rodents. All about her, they snarled and squeaked and gnashed their yellow teeth. Her hair lifted off her shoulders and neck as she spun through them, her armoured fan open like a heart ready for death--it accumulated a crimson gleam as it split the bodies of her assailants.

It was like a dance. Was there music? Only the rushing of the tide-winds searching for a distant shore. Only the tumbling notes of starlight and the hazy tocsin of moonlight. Only the silent drums of darkness beating, beating, beating... and all the instruments of night merged into a melody that sung the deadly dancer on.

Her twilight eyes caught the sight of a creature emerging out of the pillar: hairy and tall and full of malice, it seemed. Its yellow teeth shone unnaturally, and she saw immediately the elven warrior headed toward it--and it toward him. She sought out the eyes of the creature, and in a sudden movement, grabbed a moonstar from her belt and sent it flying toward the eyes of the beast, which seemed focused on the warrior.

She she was not far behind the glinting moonstar, moving like a symphony into its second movement.

Ayaelia's moonstar hit the giant rat in the temple. It squeaked in pain, loud and piercing, high pitched and surprisingly mouse-like. But although a stream of blood flowed down its snout, and although the moonstar remained stuck in its bone, the rat's flight was not disturbed, and with claws outstretched and luminous teeth bared, its tail slithering behind like a malicious worm, it hit Azalahn's body. What happened then is another's tale to tell. All we  can say is that the monster's squeak of pain either was a signal, or acted like one, for while its echo was still bouncing off the city walls surrounding the dark square, the horror began in earnest.

They stepped out of the pest pillar in the same manner as their sister had done: as though the pillar's stone was but a cloud of grey smoke, which had served them as a hiding place, until they decided to show themselves. They were rats, as gigantic as the first. At one blink, they were all there, quick and sudden, in a way that seemed impossible. There should not have been enough space for them all  in the narrow path that had them led here from whatever world they had come. Indeed, at first it seemed as though there was only one more giant rat. But this new rat soon stepped left, and at the same time stepped right, and stepped forward also - and less than a blink later it was not one, but three: a triangle of terror, their yellow teeth flashing, their naked tails whipping.

And the spook did not stop here. By the same impossible multiplication that had made three rats out of one, soon there were five rats, seven, ten. Finally, twelve. Without hesitation, without wondering where they were and how they had come here, they fanned out and began their attack. One went for a red-haired elfess, who was fighting off small rats with her whip. Another stepped into the path of Ayaelia, who had thrown the moonstar. A third hurled itself at the ring of fire upheld by a dwarf. A fourth leaped towards a tall human, who was desperately trying to defend his beautiful black horse. A fifth looked like it was keen to have a donkey for dinner, and its diminutive rider, too. A sixth pursued a tiny woman and her wolf. Three giant rats ran towards the group of guards that had tried to bring order to the square. What the remaining three did, no one in this chaos could yet see.

Azalahn charged towards the brute and whatever was attacking him. Then all hell broke loose, a swarm of rats came out from the pillar and started to attack everyone, rats were just small animals and wouldn't be able to harm the humans, elves or dwarf! However there was a swarm of them and it could most likely result in some nasty bites for some of the unarmored people. Then a giant rat came out of the pillar and lunged itself at him.

He could feel something fly past, it hit the giant rat right in the temple, but the rat still came flying through the air, right at him. He tried to fend it off with his swords. The rat was helpless in the air and he was helplessly charging the pillar, neither of them could change direction even if they had wanted to. This was not a question about skill or finesse. The strongest and most powerful would come out on top of this one. Luckily he was much taller than the rat and heavier as well.

He hacked at the forepaws of the rat with his leading sword and followed up with an extremely powerful and vicious slash at neck with his other sword while sidestepping as best as he could. Both swords connected, he didn't notice how much damage he had done with his lead sword but the damage or perhaps the right word would be lack of damage done with his second strike sent shivers down his spine if not outright terror. The blade was forged by one of the finest weaponsmiths in the Kaýr realm and it had his full 3 Pygges, 9 Hebs pure muscle behind it, it was a blow that should have cleanly cut the head off a horse.

It sliced deep into the flesh of the rat. The momentum of them both drove the sword into an unnatural angel and almost tore it out of his hand, but also further aggravated the wound with the sword still in, but the creature was not mortally wounded. Then the rat hit him. He avoided the mouth of the beast and the arm holding the sword that had cut into the neck was between him and the rat. It felt like being hit with a battering ram, and he could feel a claw probably from the rat's good paw striking him in the side, but his armour took the blow from the claw.

The blow from the impact sent him spinning full circle before he could continue. He continued his charge, leaped up into the air and struck at the arm holding the brutish man with all his might, while screaming "In Yvan's name" The arm came off, but there was no blood, and both Azalahn and the big man fell to the ground. Azalahn could feel a jolt of pain where the crash with the rat had forced his elbow into his ribs.

Then he noticed that the ground below him was alive, he was standing in a sea of rats, and they were already climbing up along his greaves. Then he noticed the real situation they were inn. A swarm of rats! This would make any kind of formation impossible in the long run, and 12 giant rats seemed like a real problem. If every one were as tough as the one he had chopped at then he sure hoped everyone in the plaza knew not only how to fight, but knew it very well, otherwise they would all be in trouble. An elf with a whip, another one with a fan that he hadn't seen before, a young man in fine clothes wielding a short sword and a dwarf commanding fire ounia. Those four knew what they were dealing with he told himself.

One of the giant rats that had recently come out of the pillar started to turn towards him and the one he had just engaged was facing him again, it was bleeding heavily from the neck, and where a foreleg should end in a clawed foot he could only see the leg ending in a nasty wound. It would not be able to effectively charge him on all four again, but it was still a very real danger.
He turned towards Gurrant and said:"I the way lead will. YOU RUN". It came out more as a military order than intended. Then he reached out for the big man intending to grab him and pull him along the first few steps.

He had no choice he could not fight two giant rats, fend off the little critters and avoid being grabbed by another arm from the pillar if one should come out again, and protect this man all at once. And if the little critters should manage to chew trough the leather strips holding his armour plates in place then he would be in real trouble himself. He charged the first rat again and it came towards him, with the second one coming behind him. This was an all or nothing situation. If he was caught between the two of them then it would be the end of him unless someone came to his aid, but there was little hope for that.

The giant rat leaped at him again, and he was charging, it looked like the first round would be repeated, except that this time spinning full circle before regaining his balance would be his death, but this time he was prepared and knew what to do. He dived into the ground and came rolling up again with the rat right above him. He let the momentum carry him up on his feet again, but he stopped at a kneeling stance while he hacked at one of the rats hindlegs with all his might again. The rat flew past, hopefully now with only one hind leg. He was up on his feat again and turned around, but the second rat was on him now. Azalahn was big and heavy, but the momentum of this rat would push him off his feet long enough for the first rat to join in and on his flat back the little critters would have a free feast on his unprotected face.

He did the only thing he could do. Let the rat hit him head on while turning his face away, and it felt like being hit in the head by a mace. He was dizzy from the impact. He put his arm around the neck of the rat pulling it so close that it couldn't bite him, while burying the unicorn horn in the back of its skull. With his other arm he stabbed it in the belly as hard as he could. The momentum pushed him backwards. He managed to take a few steps before falling back over. He rolled on his back clinging to the rat, towards the fire and the dwarf, that was his only hope. The protective padding between him and the steel plates of his armour soaked in sweat and now rat blood would be able to keep the fire from roasting him right away. At least the fire would give him a fighting chance.

He managed to shout "Master dwarf, Barbeque rat coming in" while rolling backwards with the rat.

Rats. Hundreds upon hundreds - possibly thousands - of rats, swarming out from the Pest Pillar. It was a most disturbing sight. The army of rodents swarmed over everything in sight, taking a bite out of anything that doesn't fight back. And even then, they'd continue their relentless assault. Who knew that rats could be so dangerous?

Ridgen was behind most of the others, but that didn't prevent him from being attacked by the vermin - no, it certainly did not. The fact that there were so many of them was a problem, in more ways than one. Thank goodness for the cold of the night - the moisture in the air could prove advantageous, to a small extent. Rapier in one hand and gemstone in the other, the elf readied himself for the battle that was sure to come - just in time to eliminate the first wave of rats that came his way.

If the opportunity to incapacitate your opponent comes, take it, no matter who or what your adversary is, Elric always said. Also, pay attention to your blind spot - your right side. Use all your senses, not just one. It was just as well that the elf listened, for otherwise he would never have survived that onslaught. Sidestepping, stabbing, moving from side to side, taking advantage of the considerable reach of his sword, the elf survived the first wave of rats. But there was more to come - a lot more.

Should the magician have ignored the comments about his blind side during his training sessions, he would never have survived the giant rat's opening onslaught. It was aimed at his right side, his blind eye side, which made it difficult for the magician to properly time the dodge. Thanks to his ears picking up the slightly heavier thumps of the giant rat to his right, though, he's escaped with just a graze to the back of his coat. Soon, Ridgen found himself face to fact with one of the twelve massive rats that had decided to appear at that moment.

"Wow, you rats really stink," the elf said, despite knowing that his adversary could not understand him. Its response was to charge at the magician at full speed, quickly falling prey to the spell he had planned earlier. The rat lost track of whatever it was doing for a second, but that was all that the elf needed to poke a hole into the rat's skull - which was a lot harder than it should be. He almost - almost - didn't manage to complete the thrust.

As the now-lifeless body of the giant rat fell to the ground, the elf did what made most sense to him at the moment - he found the nearest person (the nobleman he met earlier) and fought his way towards his target. After all, there was safety in numbers.

It seemed like an eternity that Mouse clung to Pepik without looking, but it could not have been long - when he dared take a peek, he saw that he was only just at the end of the square, Pepik only barely outran the rats, who seemed determined to catch them, and from the direction of the pillar came... He had to twist around to make sure he was not dreaming - there was coming a giant ... thing, a mass of darkness. At first it was too far away, and in the dark he could not see what it was, but as it came closer it became more clear - it was a rat, possibly bigger than he was. It was running on all fours and quickly, very very quickly gaining on him. By the speed the thing was going, it was obvious that Pepik was not going to win. That was not natural! Rats were not supposed to grow that big! He had never before had any problems with rodents - in fact, he was nicknamed for one, but this was just ridiculous.

They made it into a street - empty as so many streets here seemed to be at night, as if people knew something was going on and took especial care not to know about it. At this point, the rat had gained on the fleeing pair and was biting at the donkey's back with its yellow teeth. This was not going to work - if he ignored it, he was going to lose first his donkey, and then his life. But what could he do? He had no weapon, nothing but...

Acting before he could think things through and lose what little courage he had, he stood up on Pepik, using his acrobatic skills - ok, normally she was standing still when he did this, but surely he could manage. He would have to, if he was going to live through this. With a cat-like jump, showing nothing of his usual disability, he jumped at the rat, which was still running on all fours. He landed squarely on its back - he had been right, the thing was bigger than him. Judging that its paws would be too small to reach him, he clung to it the way he had clung to Pepik, his arms as far arount the beast's neck as he could get it and his legs straddling its back, applying pressure with his knees for all he was worth. Wherever the thing went now, it would have to take him with it, even if it should get up on two legs - half expecting it to be able to do just that,  he was unconsciously prepared for the eventuality. He hoped that his action would cause the rat to try and dislodge him, giving Pepik the time to get as far away as possible.

The last of the rodent swarm that attacked the dwarf disappeared, replaced by a heap of burnt carcasses. Thorgas wrinkled his nose at the smell, for nothing could be worst than the scent of sewer rats freshly roasted. He had but a moment to catch his breath and look at the pillar to see if another attack will follow when his eyes caught the horror that manifested near the accursed structure. He stared, aided by the moonlight and the fire that even now burns the rat corpses, at the monstrous creatures eyeing the unlikely party. They look like wolves, albeit huge, HUGE wolves. But upon closer inspection he saw the unmistakable glimmer of incisors against the soft light. These abominations are rats, but their size defies any logical explanation. How can rats grow that much, even larger than him? The newly summoned pests did not stop to sniff around for danger; they eagerly attacked those around the dwarf, including him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an elf rolling towards him; the same elf whose valiant effort helped free the burly man from the grasp of the pillar's hand. the elf had good swordplay skills, he'll give him that, being able to swing two blades gracefully at the same time while hitting the rats with precision and ease.

"Master dwarf, Barbeque rat coming in."

The situation took a longer-than-usual time to register, and Thorgas only had a moment to react. He concentrated, trying to gather fire ounia and conjure a ball of flaming death to hurl towards the rat. Unfortunately, the strain of holding up a cone of fire earlier took its toll on him. He successfully created a moderately sized fireball but time did not permit him to get a good aim. He released the burning globe towards the direction of the rolling pair. Who the ball will hit however, will be left to fate, as well as the dodging ability of the knife ear.

The dwarf then turned to run, only to have another giant rat pounce upon him. By luck he was able to lift his staff in time to block the attack, causing the rodent to bite the metal rod instead. The resulting impact threw the dwarf to the ground. The aged sorcerer fought for dear life, trying to lift his staff as the heavier, obviously stronger rodent bear down upon him, its jaw gnawing at the shaft and trying to reach the face of the poor dwarf. Thorgas felt his hands shaking and the rat was slowly winning, threatening to bite off his nose and a good part of his face. The sorcerer groaned, and although he is not the religious sort, he prayed to whatever gods under the ground to deliver him from this disgusting, putrid creature.

Tavis stumbled away from the big lout who had dragged him back to the piller.  Taking full advantage of the situation, he made a beeline for the nearest alleyway, not looking back until he was once more covered in shadow.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and looked back.  The fools were still there, standing close to the piller.  Could they not feel the evil?  Could they not feel that there was danger here?  Tavis lowered his face into the palm of his one hand, unable to watch.  Something was about to happen, he could feel it.

Lifting his face once more, he was determined not to be here when it did happen.  Looking about, he realized that he was only one alley over from where they came from.  He licked his lips.  If he was quick, he could sneak back to the tavern, force down a couple of ale and be gone before these people returned.  If he was going to go back, Tavis wanted to be gone by the time the bully got back.

Creeping toward the alley from whence they came, Tavis was relieved to see that the group was distracted by the arrival of two watchmen.  This was to his advantage.  Tavis was made even bolder and ran to the other alley.  He was home free now.

Still, the sound of the bully's voice in a mocking tone compelled Tavis to stop and look back one more time.  To his horrow, he looked back just in time to see the large man being lifted off the ground while hundreds, if not thousands, of rats came pouring off the piller.

But, worse than the horrific sight he was witness to, was the disembodied howl that came forth.  "Kale.  Kale!"  Over and over again.

With the voice in his head, Tavis once again began to run blindly down the alley until he reached the tavern.  Rushing inside, he looked about the patrons.

"Kale!  The piller is calling out for Kale!"

The warrior pushed off from the counter, and turned to look at the man storming back into the tavern. Back into, he presumed, because he looked like one of the mob that were heading out toward the Pillar earlier. It almost sounded like the first syllable of his own name, but he brushed the thought aside immediately. First off, the man was probably drunk. Secondly, Kaelan's name had yet to be spoken aloud in Nyermersys from the day Ava fell to sleep until now. The reasoning was sufficient, and Kaelan abandoned his search for law in a place like this, and moved back toward a table. Logically, he told himself, he ought to go see what all the fuss was about. But as with the mob before, get paid and get going held first in his mind.

It stood to reason that he could take the money and be gone, and unless Jet was intentionally watching his brother's coin, no one from Nyermersys would have the foresight to recognize him. The money was a touch more than was intended for one guard, but the man was dead. He wasn't going to be a big help to anyone's business ventures at this point, and success or failure, it seemed, hardly hinged on two moderate pouches of coin.

Then again, it wasn't right. The man didn't owe Kaelan that money because, technically, Kaelan had failed to fulfill his duty. The only right answer, then, was Kaelan's next move. He had only got as far as his hands on a chair when he turned back around, and began walking directly toward the door. Only circumstance, not any deliberate act on either's part, put the one-armed drunkard between the warrior and egress, and it was Kaelan's full intent to simply push past him and keep moving. Still, he glanced into the man's eyes and saw panic - and paused.

He was only a pace away from him now, the warrior's brow furrowing as he thought. It was entirely possible the man had seen something. Entirely possible there was a voice, a pillar that spewed death and consumed live things for Queprur's entertainment. For just a moment, the warrior was earnestly considering asking the man what was going on, and insisting he lead him to the sight, when he vaguely remembered the mob, the odd lecher leading it, and the crowd that was no doubt involved in the chaos, quickly determined the problem would resolve itself, and began pressing past the one-armed man, moving for the door.

The wind never stops--

Flowing constantly, with all her essence carried in her slender, lengthening movement, she presses on: around buildings and over streets and through the chorus of leaves that rustles her arrival--and departure. All life is momentum. As the woman pressed toward the rat, her twilight eyes noticed that the creature multiplied; three, then nine, and at last twelve beasts appeared before her, caught in the path of her current. One of the beasts bared its teeth and dove at her with bestial rage, claws ready for collision.

The pillar to life,
The rodent tide surges
And then giant rats--first as one then six pairs.
With a gaze like a knife,
A slim shadow emerges
With a soul of a hue a shade darker than theirs.

But wind never stops--: and so in one swift jump, her body left the cobblestone street, and her form was a delicate arc in the moonlight, with a flourish of flip--like the rising melody of a song, like the swelling waves on a tide, her path lifted and fell gracefully, and when she landed, her feet found the ground that no rodents had claimed as their own, crouched to absorb the harsh reality of the earth, and glanced behind her. The giant rat, quickly overcoming the momentary confusion caused by her aerial acrobatics, rushed toward her. It looked strong, but awkward--and it was ill equipped to match her swiftness.

She stood, armoured fan opened at her side, the blades like petals of a deadly flower. The rat pounced at her and she dodged, slicing the creature with a flit of her wrist. The rat squealed and grunted with pain or rage--or both--and turned to come at her again. It could make no mark upon her, for she was like the shifting pools of light on the forest floor when zephyrs shake the canopy.

A step without sound,
A form in the night,
A movement as light as the stars' serenades--
The rat-waves abound
And yet showing bright,
The sharpness and gleam that alights on her blades.

And wind never stops. But sometimes hearts do.

Her twilight eyes then fell upon the form of a Cyhallrhim not far off. And she froze--like the gelid winds of the lands from whence they both had come, like the white-gray sky that blanketed Cyhalloi, like the icy shores that both of them had left to eventually find themselves here, in this death-ridden town in the Kingdom of Santharia. Her eyes noticed the long, delicate ears. She could just make out the white eyes. And there was no denying his slim elven form. And all these observations coalesced within the hollow space in her chest, producing something that felt cold and desperate and breaking.

So overwhelmed was she but to lose all notion of her attacker--and it came at her with a terrible slash across her torso with its honed claws, followed by a tremendous blow from its hairy arm. She flew back, her body slamming against the side of a building. Was that a crack? She shook it off, for perhaps it was only the fragment of her heart shaken loose. She looked up with cold eyes to the rat approaching her with strange, increasing celerity. Ignited with the success of his offensive, he pursued her with surprising speed--an acceleration that carried all his momentum with it. Regaining herself, she had only to step forward, and with a delicate side-step, used the beast's speed to drive his neck into her blossomed armoured fan. The blades sank deep in the rodent's jugular. The spattering of crimson on the wall against which she had been thrown was like a two-winged butterfly. And the rodent fell before it, like an apostate praying to a pagan goddess, lifeless in worship.

As quick as a bird
Carried swift on the wing
She moves like a song on the night's airy breath
In footsteps unheard
And motions that sing
A delicate shadow makes beauty of death.

She rose as her opponent fell, wiping away the few drops of blood that found her despite her movements to avoid the spray. She did not look to the Cyhallrhim, as though pretending the sight of him had been merely illusion or half-remembered dream. Her eyes instead rested on the fleeing form of a boy on a donkey. She leapt up to a nearby awning, but at the first jump, winced and nearly doubled-over. Perhaps it was more than her heart that had cracked against the blood-butterfly wall. But the response was merely one of surprise--and she quickly recovered to leap again to the roof, like a tree cat pouncing to a higher bough.

In towns like Nyermersys, the crowded buildings construct a road high above the streets--one occasionally quicker than those closer to the earth (like so many things!), and this was the path she took in pursuit of the boy and his donkey. When she had caught up with the red-haired child, he had jumped off his mount with admirable skill and landed upon the beast pursuing him.

The woman found a sill to help bring her to the street, with the silence and speed of a shadow. And yet, her movement was like a song (always like a song!). From the silence of her feet upon the cobblestone, she rose like a wayward tune--one that seemed to awaken all-at-once to life--for with a charge like a crescendo, she came at the rat and slashed her blade at its exposed neck, aiming to depose of this one in the same manner as she had the last. As she did, her body sang deftly to one side, to avoid the claws of the beast and any blood that might burst forth from her cut. And her arm was curved like a melody, and her fan gleamed like a chime, and she was all movement and harmony and swiftness--a symphony in the melodic midst of its third movement.

Still the multitude of little rats were swarming over the seated Movash, still his motionless figure was clothed in a live pelt of whirling chaos. Movash hardly felt the rats. He was dreaming.

A giant Movash, swollen with rage, towers over a tiny city. He steps onto the houses and crushes them under the soles of his shoes. He kicks the bridges away, so that the stonework scatters for hundreds of peds around. He breaks off towers with one hand, and tosses them far away, so that they land in the distant hills. He spits into a street, and his spittle becomes a flood that sweeps away dozens of people, a horse and its cart, a handful of dogs. There is only one thing in this city that escapes his wrath, only one thing that he will not touch. It is a pillar of stone in the centre of a large square. The pillar is made of beautiful grey granite, and its form is composed of rats, skulls, and bones. This pillar is holy, and wonderful, and will be the only thing standing once Movash will be finished with his work of destruction.

When the master pulled his arm, Movash felt it but faintly, like a distant memory, and forgot the sensation almost immediately. His only thought, as he watched his giant dream self stamp Nyermersys into the ground: This is not me. Not my rage.

But then he did feel something. The pain came suddenly, and yet seemed oddly familiar, as though he had expected it. Something had stabbed his arm. Still in the thralls of his dream, Movash could not move to feel for the wound; but he smelt the sweet metal of his own blood, and felt its gentle trickle inside his shirt sleeve. At the same moment, the rats that had covered his body began to leave him. Jumping, scurrying, falling, they dropped off his body twice as quickly as they had come. Soon they had disappeared in the general chaos of the square, whether to crawl into their rat holes or to join the ghostly battle, Movash could not tell. He only felt their departure, and did not see it, since he could not, at first, open his eyes. His eyelids were still weighed down by the visions that he had seen on their insides.

When he did eventually manage to tear himself away from his dream, and to pull up his eyelids, which felt as heavy as two drawbridges, it was too late. Already a giant rat was leaping towards him. By the time he had fully realized what was happening, the rat had reached him and had barged into his seated body, toppling it over. Its paws were in his face, and its mouth was open, its glowing yellow teeth ready to bite.

When Azalahn cut off the arm that held Gurrant, the wriggling movement of the pillar stopped for a blink. The severed arm fell to the ground, Gurrant was free, and Azalahn turned and fought gigantic rats. At the pillar, where the arm had protruded, there was now a blackness – or rather, there was an absence, a hole in the world, an impossible sphere of nothing surrounded by stone and air. It may be that nobody had time to watch what happened next, busy as they were fighting off rats small and monstrous. Yet if someone did  see, the memory would not leave them for the rest of their days.

Out of the sphere of nothing, like a kraken squeezing through the porthole of a sunken ship, there wriggled a body. It was made of skin and fire, shaped like a man, and as large as any of the men who were fighting on the square that night. The creature had only one arm – the right one was missing – and the fingers of its left hand were thorns as long as snakes. Its eyes had no pupils, and it never blinked. Its mouth was leering, exposing the fiery redness of its maw. All over its body, its skin shone with a flickering glow, and the creature's presence cast over the market square a menacing light, eerier than any darkness.

It staggered into the square as if it was drunk, and began to wail in a cruel imitation of the voice of the one-armed man with whom this story began:

" 'elp me! 'elp me!“ it cried. “I've just seen Queprur. She's returned to take us all."

Despite its swaying, unsteady gait, the creature moved surprisingly quickly on its long legs. Soon it had caught up with Gurrant, who had been trying to put some distance between himself and the terrible pillar. A gangly arm, red-hot like metal in a fire, extended towards the fleeing man, and long flame-like fingers reached for Gurrant's hair.

Azalahn rolled towards the fire and the dwarf. Right after he had managed to call out to the dwarf he saw a ball of fire coming towards him and the rat he was wrestling with. He had less than the blink of an eye to react or he would be engulfed in fire with the rat, a bit more than he had intended. He put his feet on the rat's chest and kicked off. He flew up into the air, and barely got out of the way, actually his feet caught a bit of the fire and he could feel his greaves become uncomfortable hot. But the rat below him was engulfed in the fireball. It screamed in pain, got up on two legs and took a few steps forwards, while still on fire. Then if fell silent to the ground. The body continued to burn although it was now dead.

Azalahn's exit from the grapple had not been as controlled as he would have liked it to be. He landed on all four when he hit the ground again, more like an animal than a humanoid. He rolled over and got up on his legs again immediately though.

The dwarf had saved his life, but at a heavy price. Now the dwarf was fighting for his own life. Azalahn quickly got over to the pair of them. Luckily it was focusing on the dwarf and didn't take any actions against Azalahn who came at it from the flank. With one sword he chopped off both of its small forelegs and claws, the sword continued towards the belly region of the rat and made a minor cut there as well. He thrust his second sword trough its neck and kicked it off the dwarf. The violent kick crushed some ribs and sent it flying a ped or two away while the sword buried in the neck tore out the throat.

Azalahn reached out his hand to the dwarf. "Are you all right Master dwarf? I Commander Dél’Raguierá am, your name inquire about all right?"

" 'elp me! 'elp me!“ it cried. “I've just seen Queprur. She's returned to take us all."

Azalahn turned his dead towards the sound, and froze in terror. The rats were overgrown monsters, but this was an abomination beyond that. A mockery of both nature, and life itself. He looked back at the dwarf, blinked a few times and then back at the creature, it was still there. 

His face turned almost white. He pointed towards the creature and said: "In Yvan's name. Master Dwarf, what I am seeing, see too?"  His voice was a low and ice cold whisper. The cold cynicism of a military commander trying to conceal fear, but the fear was definitely there.

Seh'nara's arms were tiring, having repeatedly flung her Scourge to keep the rodents at bay. Silver's jaws were flecked with copper, his teeth shining black with the rats' blood. And even then, when the two had repelled back what seemed a thousand of the infernal things, more seemed to appear. For every one they sent back hissing, three took its place, biting and snapping at the night air; though yet afraid to come near the elfess' lethal whip.

Of course, the disturbingly large rat that seemed to materilise out of thin air had no qualms at rushing where its tiny brethen would not.

Bullspit.

Seh'nara's reflexes were slower than usual; her lack of sleep since early morn and the fatigue of keeping the rats at bay taking its toll. She couldn't duck in time, nor bring her Scourge to defend herself. The rat seemed to fly in slow-motion towards her, the adrendaline rushing through her veins making everything seem crystal clear; her doom doubly so. Silver was far quicker on the uptake than his tired mistress. Tensing, the wolf leapt, teeth bared at the rat, managing to knock it off its trajectory towards Seh'nara.

The wolf tore at the throat of the rat, the two animals engaging in fierce combat right in front of the astonished elfess. There wasn't time to rest though. Already, the smaller, weaker rats were gathering, sensing the weakening of the larger predator. Strength in numbers, and it's Silver against a thousand. Seh'nara wouldn't stand for it.

The rats at the moment were occupied with the clawing and biting of the large rat and the silver wolf, and with them distracted, Seh'nara managed to hoist herself up onto a nearby crate, climbing up the stack until she stood two stories above the ground. Level with her was a crude sign with a pair of cleavers etched on both sides. It was too dark to see the carved letters, but Seh could remember it clearly. Samson's Meat. After all, she had only sold her wares there that very morning.

She remembered, as well, the state of disrepair the sign was in. The owner of the humble establishment hadn't bothered to change the sign, and the post it was hanging from had almost rotted away with age and weather. A strong wind would have blown it down, much less a full grown elfess. That was what the elf was betting her wolf's life on. With a flick of her wrist, her Scourge was slung around her, and she was ready.

The elfess launched herself off the stack of crates and precisely onto the sign. A loud snap echoed around the square, drowned out by a large thump seconds after. The sign, along with the elfess, landed squarely into the fray, crushing part of the abnormally large rat's body and freeing Silver from its jaws. The wolf wriggled himself free, before bounding away, along with his agile mistress, who had absorbed the impact by rolling away, neatly pushing herself up onto her knees a little ways from the crash site.

The smaller rats had scurried aside for the moment, startled as they were with the collapse of the sign, leaving the area clear of them. For a second, there were no rats around, the monstrous one lying motionless on the floor, its guts slowly staining the cobblestone black. Perhaps it is time to take a brief respite.

" 'elp me! 'elp me! I've just seen Queprur. She's returned to take us all."

Of course not. Seh'nara turned her head at the sudden explosion of light, her eyes widening in horror at the new sight. The abommination of... oh, she had no words for the filthy thing. Myth, they were. Mythical undead, dead flesh and living soul fused into a shambling perversion of life. Something that Queprur would command, and probably did. The undead reached out to grasp wildly at the fleeing drunkard, who, in his efforts to escape the square, was running for his life to the nearest alleyway out. Which, of course, was the very one Seh'nara was kneeling at.

Oh, bullspit.

In one swift moment, Seh'nara pushed herself off the ground, pulling herself up fully. She could easily sidestep the man and the creature; they  were still a good five peds away. Though at the speed at which they were running, they would reach her in less than a minute. A weapon would be a smart idea too, she thought, fingering her daggers. Insurance in case of -- "OH BULLSPIT!"

Seh'nara's leg siezed up, the muscles cramping in rhythm to the thumping of the man's flurried footsteps. Too quick, too much, too fast, she inwardly cursed her own stupidity. Overexerting herself was something she was prone to do, her natural confidence blinding her to her own physical limits. Normally, it was a tiny lesson learnt, but in cases like this, it was fatal. The elfess fell to one knee, kneading her leg in a futile attempt to ease the pain. Any movement was torture to her nerves, and she was effectively paralysed.

Silver, sensitive to her distress, whined, a tiny sound of sympathy, before placing himself between his handicapped mistress and the oncoming danger. There wasn't much Seh could do at this point besides helplessly looking at the hellish pair that were running headlong into their path.

The sudden removal of the heavy load on his staff followed by the splash of blood to his face told Thorgas that his struggle with death had been staved off. His eyes had been closed tightly for a long time, and upon opening them he was greeted by the elf that requested his help earlier with another giant rat. He stared at his unlikely savior for a moment, then let his gaze fall on the rodent corpse lying a few peds away from his position. The hand-like paws had been severed and a small cut graces its belly. Then he saw the deathblow -- a slash on the neck of the rodent. Blood was gushing forth from the wound and in a few blinks the rat became still from the loss of blood.

He looked up and saw the elf offering his hand. After the tedious task of wrestling an overgrown mouse he was glad of the aid. He picked himself up with the help of the stranger and brushed off the bits of fur and ashes that clung to his robe from the ensuing scuffle. They are safe for the time being, since most of the giant rats are preoccupied with the others. Perfect, the sorcerer thought. This would be a good chance to escape.

"Are you all right Master dwarf? I Commander Dél’Raguierá am, your name inquire about all right?"

Thorgas managed to stare at the elf with a confused look in his face. What's the matter with him? Here they are in danger of having dangerously large monster munchers chomp off a goodly amount of their flesh and he's asking for the dwarf's name? Before he could answer though, the elf followed through with another question in the same calm tone he used a while ago.

"In Yvan's name. Master Dwarf, what I am seeing, see too?"

The dwarf didn't answer, but looked at the area where the elf pointed at. And at that very moment he almost wished he didn't..

He had no idea where it came from nor did he care, but from its features it looked like it was spawned from the realm of demons. It had long legs and arms, and its gait was surprisingly quick for its appearance. Its skin glows like the forges of Kor Mithrid, but instead of a warm, comforting aura, this one reeks of the stench of death. Then it bellowed a most unholy sound, Thorgas was almost compelled to cover his ears for fear of hearing its demonic voice.

" 'elp me! 'elp me! I've just seen Queprur. She's returned to take us all."

"Gah!"

The dwarf backed away in panic, tripped, and landed on his ass. The creature then chased the fleeing burly man, it's unnaturally long fingers reaching out to grab the drunken sot.

He scampered away a little in order to get behind the elf and said in a hoarse, shaky voice, "Ye say that thing's name be Yvan? Then tell it ta go away, by the beards of me ancestors!" Buri was awaken by the sounds and saw the thing. Like its master, he scurried away to hide behind the dwarf while giving out terrified squeals. Thorgas hugged the pig, reassuring him that everything will be fine, but his voice betrayed his false confidence.

It happened very quickly, and if not for his training he would have surely died. One moment he was sweeping his sword along the ground, and stabbing out at a carpet of rats that threatened to engulf him. The next moment he found himself staring into the beady eyes of a horribly large rat the like of which he had never seen before. The smell that peeled off the creature was enough to make him retch, and it took a good bit of will power to stop him from doing just that. It was ugly, to say the least, and was easily the size of a human being.

The creature came at him, teeth snapping in a manner that disgusted him at his core, but Calron had seen battles before. Granted, they hadn't involved such estranged creatures, but he was not a green youth when it came to combat. With a blinding speed, he sheathed his short sword and loosed his long sword, catching the creatures' teeth against the flat of his blade. The sword slid into the creatures mouth, and for a moment he could feel that moist breath of the beast on his sword hand. A moment later, the sensation was covered up by the blood that spewed from the creatures' mouth.

Releasing a shrill screech, the enormous rat fell back it's lower jaw hanging by several tendons that had not been severed by Calron's sword. The beady eyes of the creature were filled with a mixture of loathing and pain, but his sharp sword was not enough for the creature to leave off the nobleman. With a cry that sent a shiver down his spine, the rat slashed at Calron with it's clawed hands. In that moment the world seemed to slow down for him.

Erpheronian knights often called it battle calm. In that instant Calron felt absolutely nothing as he methodologically lashed out at the creature. With a flick of his sword, he severed the creatures' right hand, and with a blur off motion he incapacitated rat. As the creature slid free of his longsword, Calron calmly surveyed his surroundings though the world seemed to have become incredibly still in his eyes. Vaguely, he could feel blood and adrenaline pounding through his system as he took in the charred man who advanced upon the crowd. Things were definitely not looking good for the people of this city.

When the rat felt the unfamiliar weight on its back, it trashed this way and that to try and dislodge the little man. Mouse held on tight, holding his breath against the smell of rat. It reared up on its hind legs, its front paws waving in the air though they were too small to reach him. Now, however, he was at a loss what to do next. They had reached an impasse - the rat could not dislodge him, but from here he could do nothing else to get rid of the rat.

His problem was unexpectedly solved by help seeming to descend from up above. A movement in the corner of his eye, a seeming whirlwind for a moment, and the rat toppled over with a slashed throat. For a moment Mouse stayed where he was lying on top of the monster, then he looked up to see an elfess, whose silvery white hair glistened despite the darkness of night around them. Her effortless grace made his own acrobatics look almost forced, or so it felt to him. But at least he had distracted the rat, which might otherwise have caused her more trouble.

Scrambling up, he gave her a slight bow, though it felt somewhat out of place in the middle of a street in the dark of night and after having just dispatched a monstrous rat. It was just that he did not know what else to do. "Thank you." he said simply. Then he looked around. Pepik was nowhere in sight, so it looked as if she had at least escaped the small variant of rats. With those critters in mind, he looked the other way, back in the direction of the plaza with the pest pillar, just in time to see some... thing, seemingly made from fire, stretching out its hand towards the bully. Mouse was unsure what to do. Go closer, and risk catching the thing's attention? He could not even have handled the rat if the white-haired elfess had not helped him. Go away and look for Pepik? But then he would not see what happened next. Curse his curious nature! Unable to make a decision either way, he stayed where he was near the dead rat, trying to see the next move.

The world was a blur of colours. Nothing more, nothing less. At least, until some very aggressive movements caught the elf's attention. It was another one of those blasted giant rats, moving in to attack the boy he had caught earlier. That wasn't very fair! Attacking helpless little children is a cowardly act. If the rat had any honour to begin with, its actions had removed all that.

"Kid, watch out!"

His warning, it seems, did not manage to get to the boy on time. Naturally, the only sensible thing to do was to run to his aid. Reaching into his target's mind, the magician quickly scatterred the pattern of water ounia that affects the rat's attention to buy himself - and the boy - a little time. His next move was to thrust the pointed end of his blade into the rat's right eye, as hard as he could.  The resulting sensation of metal piercing the thin cells of the rat's eyeball, allowing Ava-knows-what to escape from the insides and spill out onto the ground, all over the rat's face and the pointed end of the rapier. But the rat was still alive. And angry. It was injured, though, and the process of pulling the rapier out gave it pains that nobody should ever have to experience. The rat had been wounded. There was a little bit of time left before it recovers from the pain, but time enough.

"Are you okay there, kid?"

Calm descended with the giant rat, and with the gargling, blood-soaked sound of his last breath came the last note in her third movement. She stood with her armoured fan open, its panels wet and glistening like flower petals after a night rain. She listened. From the distance arose the squeaks of multitudes of rodents, the shouts and shrieks of fighters and victims, the slick sounds of death--but these were all whispers compared to the stentorian silence within her. There was a wind blowing, and it pressed against her cheek as though it knew her.

There is nothing but the call
to fly or fall
where day and night trade over the skies
With Queprur choosing who lives or dies,
Her dark gaze passing over all.

Her twilight eyes caught the movement of the child as he scrambled to his feet. He bowed to her, and her expression, distant as it was, must have seemed as thought she did not know what he did or what he was, as though he was of a different world entirely. When he spoke his thanks, it almost seemed as though she didn't understand, or that the utterance might have been superfluous, as she hardly seemed to acknowledge it. Still, there was no unkindness in her face.

She glanced up to where activity circled the pest pillar, as though it was the central star of a restless universe, and its light was a curse from which terror swelled like procellous seas. And if the giant rats were its rays, then all of these fighters--these mages and warriors and children--had become its planets, prisoner-satellites raging against its glare. But now a new light was dawning, for from the pillar emerged a demon whose fiery orbs and red skin made him look half-flame.

The woman was not bothered by being a prisoner of the pillar's gravity, but if she could not leave it, she wished to be a rogue satellite with the benefit of swiftness and shadows to aid her. And if the battle was to rage, than she would ensure that she had all the means to be a force within the maelstrom. Closing her armoured fan, she glanced back at the young lad only briefly, then ascended, like a black cat, from an awning to a sill and back to the roof, vanishing from sight of all but the moon and stars.

There is nothing but the gloom
the shadow-bloom,
Within in the darkness of the night,
Where stars are only whispered light
and all the world's a darkened room.

She traveled like wind along the uneven roof-road that longs for sky, that knows no other shadow but night. If her broken rib caused her pain, it submerged itself into the obscure twilight of her eyes. She descended upon a roof not far from the tavern-inn where, hidden in a corner, was a bag of supplies and a sheathed blade. She knelt by these hidden parcels and rummaged through the pack, removing a few moonstars to keep at her belt, next to where her armoured fan securely rested at her right thigh. After a sip of water from her canteen, she took up the sword, which curved like a siren's song: her moonblade.

There is nothing but the flight
from fight to fight
The heart that dives into the fray
Without a moment's still or stay
with no oppression from the night.

The wind was moving, and so was she--on the elevated byways, back to where the pillar stood and the demon stood and the fighters stood like the stillness before the storm. She paused at the corner of a rooftop over-looking all, her eyes steady on the demon, her pointed ears eager and listening...

There is nothing but the dance,
the death-romance
of metal stars and silver blades
and crimson stains and shifting shades--
of grim and glory, ...choice and chance.

... and waiting for the next movement.

His feet rising further from the ground, Gurrant reached his hands onto his head, trying to hold down his scalp, as it felt like it was pulling from his skull with is entire weight being lifted by his hair.

But, even as he held onto his head, he could not help but struggle against the disembodied hand that held him.  As he did, he could feel the warm flow of blood running down the back of his neck.

In his panic, he saw that the guard he had been mocking had scampered up to help.  "Lift me up!  Lift me up 'afore it pulls me scalp off."

Before anyone could react, however, the horror was only accented by giant rats now spewing forth; giant rats that stood on their hind legs and had the eyes of a mortal.  There was an intelligence behind those eyes; a set of those eyes that stared at him.

Gurrant saw the danger in those eyes.  If he stayed hanging by his hair, the rat would have no trouble killing him.  With this as incentive, he struggled even harder.  Then he heard, more so than felt, a sickening tear, and suddenly he was deposited unceremoniously onto the ground.  Had the hand let go of him?  Or had he lost his scalp?  

Looking up, he saw that the arm had been severed in two.  Instinctively, his hand went to his long locks, where he felt a weight.  Pulling it around to the front, he saw that the hand still gripped his hair.  Quickly he extricated the remaining hair from the deathlike grip of the  hand, which to his horror continued to wriggle.

Hearing the elf barking orders at him only added to his foul mood.  He glared at the pointy eared male.  "Canna ye see ahm bleedin', ya daft bugger!"

He reached up and felt the new bald spot on the back section of his head.  But as his fingers felt about, he could tell that what he was feeling was not merely a bald spot, but rather was the very bone of his skull.  Though terrified, he refused to cry out.  Instead, he continued to feel to see how large it was, until he felt the flap of flesh hanging.  At least it hadn't been torn completely away.  There was a chance to save it.

Seeing that the elf who had saved him was busily fighting off the giant rat, Gurrant struggled to his feet and started toward the nearest alleyway.  He didn't care where he was going, as long as it was away from the pillar.

“Are you okay there, kid?”

Movash was lying on his back, stunned by fear and pain, and looked up into the kindly face of the elf – the same who had caught and questioned him outside the tavern earlier. He had been Movash's enemy then, but now he had saved his life. How the elf had got the giant rat off Movash's body, whether he had pulled or pushed or lifted or slashed with his rapier, Movash did not know. Yet if ever eyes wide and helpless with terror could express gratitude, Movash's did so now.

But the moment did not last long, and before he could think even so much as bow his head to the elf, the din of battle came over the boy like a malicious wave, and caused him to look around in fright. The rat that had attacked him was still alive. It had lost an eye, and was struggling to stand up. But stand up it did, and showed Movash and the elf its teeth. It  was ready to pounce again, its ferocity increased by its pain, its desire to kill made absolute by the closeness of its own death. Movash, too weak yet to stand up himself, held his hands out before him, a shield so absurd and soft and penetrable that the rat might have laughed. But it would not have laughed long.

Suddenly the rat fell sideways, and began to struggle and squeak. A black, frantic, swirling ball of fierceness was hanging at its throat, toppling it over, forcing it onto its back. The ball was an animal: naked it was, dog-like, but long-tailed, and instead of a mouth, it had a beak, which was shaped like the snout of a giant fox. Curling itself around the gigantic rat's fat throat, the attacker looked small – but in fact it was large as a warg, although leaner and with longer legs.

Movash almost yelped. He feared for the life of this mysterious animal, this ferocious whirlwind, who had come as if from nowhere and had made straight for rat, a monster twice her size in bulk. For this was Humbaba, the only friend that Movash had in the world.

The two animals rolled around the square, locked in a deadly embrace. Sometimes Humbaba was on top, her beak dug into the rat's throat, shaking her head in wild movements to tear out pieces of fur and flesh. Then the rat was on top, crushing Humbaba with its weight, scratching at her body with its claws. But the serrated edges of Humbaba's beak were sharp and strong, and they had a ferocious hold. Eventually the rat, already weakened by the elf's blows, collapsed under Humbaba's onslaught. Its limbs flagged, its head fell backwards onto the cobble stones, and its one remaining eye cracked. Humbaba continued to tear at the rat for another few blinks, as if carried forward by a momentum too strong for her to stop. Then she let go, and looked over to Movash.

The boy had struggled onto his feet, and ran over to his friend. Her furless body had suffered under the rat's claws. Streaks of blood flowed down her flanks. But she was panting healthily, her long tongue hanging over the side of her beak. On reaching her, Movash slung his arms around her, and held her as tight as he could. Then he looked round at the elf, who had saved his life. This is my friend , Movash's eyes said.

Meanwhile the one-armed fire demon continued its pursuit of the panicking Gurrant. While the man was running at the top of his heavy body's speed, the demon's legs moved slowly, ponderously, like those of an aristocrat on an evening stroll. And yet the demon progressed twice as fast as Gurrant. It seemed to float along over the cobblestones, as if space and time were not the same for it as for beings born this side of the border to the Netherworlds, as indeed they weren't. Gurrant had just entered the alleyway in whose shadows Seh'nara kneeled – paralysed by pain, protected only by her wolf – when the demon caught up with him.

The finger nails of the demon's one remaining hand were as long and hard as stilettos. Like a five-headed snake, they swam forward, extended beyond the demon body's fireglow and into the dark air of the alley, where they felt for Gurrant's coat and hooked themselves into the collar just behind his neck. Gurrant stuttered in his run, throttled by his own collar. Behind him, the demon halted – went from movement to stillness without transition, without seemingly even noticing it. It was assured of its prey. The hooks of its finger nails began to draw Gurrant towards the demon's fire body. They were glowing themselves now, those finger nails, and even those who stood far away could feel  the heat that flowed through them, eagerly, nervously, charged like a thunder sky ready to spark. Already, smoke was beginning to float up from Gurrant's coat. Any blink now it would burst into flames. And then the sword hit the demon.

It was one of the guards under Sergeant Targin's command. While his fellows were fending off the attack of three giant rats, this guard had found no space to join the battle, and had staid behind the first line of defence. Thus he had a freer view of the square and all that went on, and was one of the first to see the demon and its pursuit of Gurrant. The guard had run diagonally over the square, at an angle to Gurrant's and the demon's path, and had thus come up just behind the demon when it had entered the alleyway. When the guard saw the demon attack Gurrant, he had not hesitated, and hacked at the flame-engulfed body with his sword.

The demon's fingers let go of Gurrant, and the demon turned around. Once again, its movements looked slow to the eye, yet took only a fraction of a blink to be accomplished. Flames shot out of the demon's open mouth as it faced the guard. Then it reached out, and its hand touched the sword. Almost instantly, the blade began to glow, and the guard could feel his weapon grow white-hot from the sharp tip to the hilt. The process was so quick that the skin on his hand was smoking by the time he managed to let go. The sword fell to the ground with a clang.

The demon's fingers had already moved on, and the finger nail hooks were snaking over the guard's head. They descended on the man like the bars of a cage that was being lowered to capture him. Paralyzed by pain, and maybe by the embers in the demon's eyes, the guard had no chance of escape. The demon nails touched his hair, his shoulders, the skin on his face. His body stiffened, and he stood like a log of wood ready to be kindled. The man's skin turned red, then purple, then white. Soon, red steam rose from his mouth. The seams of his clothes turned dark and curled outwards like smouldering paper. Then his hair erupted in flames. Within a few blinks, the brave guard's body was a bonfire. It lit up the entrance to the little alleyway, more brightly than ten lanterns. Even after all life had left it, the guard's body did not collapse, but stood upright like a burning wooden pillar, until it gradually – but far quicker than through any ordinary fire – turned to ashes, which danced in the wind and floated downwards like black snow until they setted on the cobblestones.

The fray below on the street appeared like a tempest. Waves of rodents lifted and shivered in angry squeals. The large rats rained down their grunts of rage and swiped like monstrous gales. And the fighters, all of them, were like tiny ships upon the sea, dexterously holding their sails against the pillar's minions. Though many of the giant rats had been dispatched, a few still snarled on, seeking victims with blood-red eyes and tainting the air with their breath. One was headed toward a woman with dark hair and skin darkened to a rich hue, another sniffed the air and seemed to have just rested eyes upon its victim.

From on high, a woman watched--her hair like shadowed starlight, her face as distant and dream-like as the face of the moon, her eyes like a newly-born night sky. But though the wind caressed her and drove the wayward tendrils of hair across her face, there was restlessness in her, and in every touch of wind was the whisper of: But now!--

'Come,' calls the midnight wind blowing
Through the restless trees,
its voice the howl in empty streets,
its song the sough of the leaves.

She filled her lungs with the darkness around her and leapt from the roof of the building to an awning, where her feet hardly touched before she leapt again to the ground below. Did she feel the break in her rib? It must have been in every breath she took, in every turn of her torso, in every silent step of her thinly-covered feet. And yet her face was as impregnable and enigmatic as a distant star. She built speed to match the speed of the frenzy and, in an elegant spinning leap that looked like the arch of a scythe, landed behind the rat whose eyes had been upon the dark-haired woman. In that single aerial feat she had undergone a unseen and yet incandescent transformation--for in battle, all her soul bared and fulgurated, and her movements became lightning in the deep black storm.

'Come,' calls the pale moon shining
across the darkened lands
draped like a cloak of spun milk
o'er where the pest pillar stands.

She took up her armoured fan and it blossomed as her arm extended into a song that slashed the beast's back. Her victim's ululation blended into the melody of the woman's dance--which, now begun, carried on like an enchanting symphony, belying the danger and death and blades that swept and scintillated in brief glints. The beast turned and squealed wrathfully, lunging after her. In a turn and side-sweep, she dodged and sliced the beast on his side as he passed. Using the momentum of her turn, she sent a moonstar flying at the beast that had been heading toward a group of three individuals. She regarded them only as forms in the night, but they included a trim aristocrat, a young child, and the elf whose air was touched with the the snow of a distant land.

The moonstar struck its target, and the beast grunted with displeasure and confusion. It turned and shrieked, quickly losing notion of its first target. It bounded after her, joining the original rat in pursuit--but she seemed hardly to notice the closing gaze of the four eyes boiling with avarice and bloodlust. She had lost herself--or rather, transcended herself. She was all momentum and wind and shadow now--all blades and quiet music. Movement gave her wings, and she took to the air and spun: rapid, tight circles, so fast that she looked like a blur, so quick that her outstretched fan appeared like a single deadly ring around her. Her pursuers became victims to it, slicing themselves in her bladed spin.

'Come,' calls the starlight gleaming
furiously in the sky
their eyes all aglow on the field
where mortal souls flitter and fly.

She landed gracefully, concluding her spin by returning her armoured fan to her side and unsheathing her moonblade: another instrument in the orchestra of this, her fourth movement. Her back now to the group of three, she raised her eyes to the injured beasts. They, too, were movement now. Wasn't everything? The beating of the heart, the pattern of breath, the turning of the seasons and the trees and all life. All of these seemed to echo in her steps, which moved forward into the oncoming rats. In a side-step, she dodged one while pressing her curved blade into the rodent's neck, nearly severing the head entirely. She turned back quickly and bounded after the other, whose awkward momentum could not shift as quickly as hers. In a leap, she came down upon the beast, her blade pointed to the earth and traveling along the creature's spine to the get there. It had not even time to squeal its death. It collapsed, sliding off her blade like water.

'Come,' calls the black-cloaked Goddess
the smell of blood on her breath,
'for night is dark and the battle is good
and many are ready for death.'

It was here she looked up to again set her eyes upon the Cyhallrhim, and she turned still again. She was like a song that ends suddenly--or with the slightest crack--like the sound of a heartbreak. Her eyes flashed with sorrow, though her face kept its secrets from emotive display, and it was as though she saw a ghost, as though a memory had forced its way into her mind. She spoke not a word, but merely stood with moonblade in hand, a tear still in her side where she had been slashed in her second movement, with the first giant rat. Now four had been felled by her hand, and yet she had no defense against the presence before her.

'Come,' calls the blue-skinned God
whose voice sounds like a drum,
'Too long have you hidden your sorrow,
so come, night-wind daughter, come.'

Behind her, near the ally, a fire lightened the night, and she turned, shaken, to see it burn in clouded confusion.

Seemingly without acknowledging his thanks, the woman who had saved him took off again, back in the direction of the square and into danger. Mouse could not bring himself to follow her. He had no weapon, no fighting skills - and if that demonic thing in the square was anything to go by, without these things he was toast. Literally. He was not sure what exactly got him moving, but some click inside his head got him to first start walking, and then running - back in the direction of the inn from which they had all come.

There was no actual conscious decision to go there, no reasoning out a logical sequence that led to an actual reason. There was just a vague hope that since such a number of fighters had come, answering the call of the one-armed man, there might still be some left there. As he ran, he swayed in a peculiar motion due to the shortness of his legs. He just hoped that the demon thing would be preoccupied with people who actually wanted to fight him, and that it would leave him alone.

He reached the door of the inn, panting and totally out of breath - winded as much from the running as from trying to suppress a rising panic. He jammed open the door, and very nearly collided with - with - his eyes rose up and up, until he was craning his neck. The man was gigantic! He very nearly lost his balance from stopping so abruptly. But he saw just what he had hoped to see - weapons, all sorts of weapons, and too many to see them all in one glance, or at least that's what it felt like. So there was still a fighter left!

Fighting to keep the panic out of his voice - and failing miserably - he addressed the man. "We need more fighters on the square with the pillar! Please help us, sir!" Still panting, Mouse looked up at the giant, hoping that the answer would be positive.

From the shadows he watched the fighting in front of him. It was a good fight. More fun would come out of this then he first imagined.

He was walking slowly towards the tavern as was his way. Until he saw a large group of mostly armed men approach the dreaded pest pillar. He watched with interest a little ways away from the group.

He was about to leave this cold and boring place until his patience was rewarded. Soon after the group of people began to mess with the pest pillar many giant rats started to attack the warriors.

Oh yes they had fought well. Or at least against the rats. But when he saw the Demon come into play he knew that things would take a turn for the worse. He began to walk side ways in an attempt to cut off the demon.

Then he saw a man wounded around his head get attacked by the unholy creature. After that he saw a fool soldier attack the beast and get killed for it.

He truthfully did not care if any of these people lived or died. He only knew he could not beat this creature alone. He walked forward now knowing that he must join this battle carefully. One wrong move and he would die.

The man was obviously affected severly by the heat coming off of the demon. So he would have to combat that. But how long could he do it. Was there anyone else who could help himwith that? How could he hurt the beast? Fire ha that might only make him stronger. He could not fight well but perhaps he could help out the others. All of these thoughts ran through his mind in a matter of blinks.

He approached the demon from the side just as the foolish man was turned to ashes. He was about 2 fords away now using his magic to keep himself from burning up. As he reached this distance he pulled out a handfull of sulpher and threw it at the demons face. It fanned out as it was halfway to the demons face. Then it was lit on fire. Not a very hard task but it couldn't be to big as then it would simply burn up and not create a big enough "screen." Couple this with the massive amounts of heat he was reducing and you get a pretty difficult couple of minutes.

Of course Roy loved this. He hated to kill weaklings. Not out of pitty but their was just no sport. Now here was a truly powerful enemy!

As he threw the sulpher and lit it on fire he yelled out with a smile and slight laugh.

 "Come now you fools, face down the minion of darkness for I can not hold out forever!"

The blue-haired elf only remembered that the child was mute when he received no reply save for a grateful look - one soon replaced by another one of horror when the rat had recovered. Assuming a fighting stance, the elf's eyes locked onto the giant rat... and widened in surprise as something shot out of nowhere and... began to tear the rat to pieces. Despite his position, Ridgen almost felt sorry for the rat - until he'd remembered what it had done in the first place.

So this creature... was huge. Not as big as the giant rats, perhaps, but still. It was huge. The elf could not identify what it truly was, really, but whatever it was, it's looks rather out of place here. Even more so than he did, in fact. His mind went through itself to see if it could identify what could have brought it here... then stopped itself as the answer presented itself on a silver platter.

The child he had apprehended earlier, then saved, had stepped up to this out-of-place creature and hugged it. Yes. Hugged it. He didn't need the look from the child to know that the boy was the sole reason that this creature was here. Those two shared a bond - you could tell by just looking at them.

Relieved of the duty of finishing off the giant rat, the elf smiled - they could relax for a bit now, for even though there may still be rats aplenty, the presence of this new creature seems to scare most of them off.

"It risked its life to save yours... That's a very good friend you have there, kid," the magician went, the smile not once leaving his lips. "I'm afraid, though, that the normal rats may still be about... Keep your guard up."

No sooner had he said this than a giant rat had decided to approach them - its approach was halted, though, by something... something star-shaped that dug into its back, making it shriek in pain. It now turned and ran, joining yet another giant rat, in pursuit of a... could that possibly be? A Kasumari? His answer was again, handed to him on a silver platter. In a show of incredible skill and power, the person in question jumped into the air and spun, slicing apart both of her pursuers with nothing more than a large metal fan. Then she proceeded to draw a weapon known to be wielded by only the Ka'rii - the Moonblade, an weapon of deadly elegance. Ridgen knew he was going to see one eventually - but he didn't expect it to be in the hands of someone that could very well have saved his life. The two rats were done away with quickly.

An awkward silence fell when their eyes met. Broken by the sound of his voice not too long after. "Thank you, miss, you saved us a lot of trouble." and before he knew it, words spilled out of his mouth like water from a fountain, a smile forming on his face. Looks like even the presence of a Ka'rii couldn't stop him from talking for long. "I must say, that's a very impressive fighting style that you have there. I'm quite honoured to meet someone so great, even if it's in a situation like this."

Powerful are the currents of the mind, where time is a streaming river always rushing toward the vast oceans of the past. Within that watery abyss, the mind can drown in memory--and it was here that the light-haired woman seemed to have slipped into the darker waters. Swells of sorrow and contrition pressed her deeper and deeper into the blackness of that churning sea.

"Thank you, miss, you saved us a lot of trouble" came a voice through the darkness, and she seemed to be lifting, out from the shadowy tides, breaking the surface of her own history.

"I must say, that's a very impressive fighting style that you have there."

Her mind was clearing, finding the air, guided by the elf's voice. Her thoughts were silver fish swimming forward in time, toward the sound of his words, away from the consuming undertow of the deep ocean of the past and up the streaming river of time to the present.

"I'm quite honoured to meet someone so great, even if it's in a situation like this."

Her eyes were lucid, and her mind settled like a leaf upon the shore; and yet she hardly seemed to understand the words spoken to her at first, for they were too kind and approbative. Her mind played tricks on her. Who was it that stood before her? Not the one her mind was reminding her of; his smile wasn't the same--and yet it was the first ray that had fallen in her shadows since...

Powerful are the currents of the mind,
where time is a streaming river
always rushing toward the vast oceans
of the past.

She blinked, as though clearing the memory from throwing strange mirages across her vision, and saw the elf who stood before her as though for the first time: His long, light blue hair, his white-silver eyes, the alacrity within them, and his kind smile. She regarded warily the feeling of trust evinced in her, for his semblance drew her back to...

Powerful are the currents of the mind,
always streaming back on the river of time
toward oceans deep and wide and vast:
tempestuous waters of the past.

The last word had only just left his lips when she felt her mind had returned to the now, and her lips parted like the petals of some soft pink flower, as though she would speak, but words flew from her like scattering shadows. Her eyes glanced down a moment, until she found her eyes wished to again look into the familiar face, and hers lifted once more: "I... " Her accent shivered even into that single syllable, like a timid wind. "... Thank you," she uttered at last, her voice diminutive and unrefined--as though each tone were the wild, flowering vines of some overgrown garden.

As her awareness of the identity of the individual before her bloomed, a dozen other awarenesses did as well, for it was as though spring had come to her consciousness all at once: the rats squeaking tremulously at her feet, the feel of the night air on her cheek, the crimson-soaked moonblade in her hand, and the wounds she had accumulated in battle. Through the dark shirt and vest she wore, the slashes of the first giant rat ran as a triad of parallel gashes washed in her own blood. Her internal wound, the broken rib, was throbbing.

The pain hit her, not like a rough gale or a sudden blow, but as utter confusion. She glanced down to the pain as her left hand pressed her right side, and the blood smeared her slender white fingers. It felt warm and gentle as it slipped across her skin, but it shone like weakness. Lifting her eyes to the Cyhallrhim cautiously, she took an uncertain step back. Her flighty nature told her go, but something else in her held her; she was a drop of rain suspended in air.

Powerful are the currents of the mind,
where vagrant fears and thoughts may wind,
and regard as strange the good and kind,
for the slithering past is close behind.

But here within the present's heather,
hope lifts each soul like a feather,
and against the shadows of darkening weather
hearts can hold out hope together.

The demon stiffened at the new challenge. It seemed to sense that it faced someone unusual – not every day did it encounter a human who could withstand its heat so easily. When the sulphur flew and caught fire near its face, the demon even seemed to duck its head. For a moment, its deadly arm lost its terrible grace, and swayed limply by its side.

Then a curious thing happened. The burning sulphur ceased its flight, stopped in mid-air, and hung motionless in the space between the demon and the mage. It was a fire cloud swimming in viscuous darkness. The air around it sizzled, a sound reminiscent of oil burning in an overheated frying pan. A small of rotten eggs exploded out of the fire cloud and spread its disgustingness over the square, creeping into the noses of all people and animals present. Even the smaller rats, which had still been streaming to and fro among the cobble stones like confused waves under a crazy moon, stopped in their tracks, held their snouts into the night, and squeaked their disapproval.

The cloud of fire never sank, and even seemed to rise a nailsbreadth or two, until it was level with the demon's eyes. Then, and only then, did it begin to move in earnest. It had a presence now, a purpose to its flickering. There were no eyes, no face, no limbs – and yet suddenly, terribly, the cloud of fire was not a cloud of fire anymore, but a being made of flames, like a shapeless, boneless, skinless brother of the demon. At first, it floated slowly towards the mage, wavering, clumsy like a newborn cub learning to walk. But it had soon found its rhythm, its centre, its way of being in the world. With a crackling like burning twigs, it hurled itself at the mage, fireballing his face, engulfing his body in flames. For a moment, the night around Roy Tmofl was as bright as day.

---

The demon looked around, and its gaze fell on two warriors, at whose feet lay the bodies of two slain giant rats. The demon seemed to think that there was something comical about the pair, for the right side of its face contorted itself into something resembling a morbid smile. Maybe it was amused by the contrast in size between these two fighters, for one was twice as tall as the other. Yet  in truth, who knows what makes demons smile.

With a few steps, which took it further than the lengths of its legs should have allowed, the demon approached Azalahn and Thorgas. Its arm swung out, and its red-hot claws lashed out at the elf. Each claw left behind an arch of sparks that painted the movement into the night.

Roy did not waist a blink. If he had he would have been dead. He saw the flames coming he saw that it was no longer his to control. Though while in mortal peril he still could not help but feel happy.

He had fought strange creatures but this was by far one of the strangest. In his maddened joy however he still recognized that he needed to act. 

In order to survive he needed to cast some powerful magic that may very well kill him.

As the beast was coming nearer him he lowered the heat once more. This was starting to make him tired and he needed all of the strength he could muster in order to defeat this.... thing.

As the thing was about to close around him he could feel his skin begin to burn and his clothes begin to smoke. Yet there was a reason that he was still alive today.

Right before the best was upon him he cast a sort of reverse fire ball spell.

Instead of the Rise flame spell a reduce flame spell. Of course this thing had a living car'all much harder to control than a normal flames. But none the less he was able to supress the fire ounia within its car'all and allow a few other less harmfull ounia to seep into it.

That was the easy part. He did this right when he saw the creature come at him. Unfortunately for him it took longer than he wanted and perhaps needed.

Now as the creature was so near to him that any nearer would cause major burns or death. He cast his reverse fire ball spell. He concentrated on the fire ounia within side of the creature particularly in front of him in a ball. Then he increased the properteis of animation around that ball in the same manner he would a fire ball spell to send it away.

The creature reached Roy and he screamed in pain as he was engulfed by fire. But only for a moment as the creature suddenly felt the affects of Roy's spell. It did not launch away as he may have hoped. But the ball or some such thing Roy concentrated on was sent backwards. The outside then follwed. It looked almost comical. Roy would have laughed had he not been blown backwards by the spell he cast.

The creature was somwhat distorted and it become less of a shape for about a minute. During that minute Roy was unconcious for about 30 seconds. When he awoke he knew that he must get up or die. So he did, it was however very very very hard. He was burnt, his staff blown away, completly out of energy to cast his most simple of spells, not to metion half concious.

Of course this was all very fun to Roy. He had so little chances to truly test his magic. If ever he could it was now.

So though Roy should have been on his knees in tears he was standing(barley) and was able to say with an insane smile. "Come you beast, I have faced down your fires once and I shall do so again. So hurry! the fight must not end is this truly all you can muster!  

A guard's valiant attempt to stop the demon proved futile. The thing held the poor soul, as if caressing him. First the head, then down to the face, then to shoulders; it's like watching a love making session between a chyrakisth orc and a roast beef. To the dwarf's horror, the guard suddenly took on an assortment of colors before igniting. In a few blinks, what was once a man defending others had been reduced to ashes. The dwarf had never seen power like this before. He watched in awe accompanied by terror.

Fortunately another bystander snatched the demon's attention from the others. His act of drawing its attention was somewhat noble though foolhardy. What chance could he have against a creature capable of manipulating fire at will? Then the dwarf noticed some familiar actions. The stranger threw something at the fiend, something that burst into flames very quickly.

"Either a mage or someone crazy," Thorgas muttered. "Ah well, he'll prove to be a useful distraction!"

But the demon merely brushed away the attack. He seemed to cause the flaming cloud to float still in mid air, and the next moment it exploded, sending out a wave of nauseating stench. Thorgas gagged and he could feel his pig struggling to breathe. Poor Buri! His sensitive nose was never meant to smell something this disgusting. The boar ran away from the source of the scent and kept a safe distance between him and the undesirable aroma. He covered his nose and mouth with his moleskin cloak and turned his gaze on the demon, anticipating its next move.

To his horror he saw the demon look straight at them -- at both Ahzalan AND him. It seemed to take an interest in the pair, looking this way and that and forming all sorts of faces. Its eyes never left the two.

Then it smiled.

"Waah!" Thorgas scampered backwards. The dwarf stood up quickly and stumbled his way behind the elven commander, a good distance from the demon. He clutched his staff, trying to find a way to perhaps stop this creature or drive it away.

As it turned out Roy could cast a few more spells today. It was the overload of concentration on so many spells that put him over the edge.

As soon as he had a few blinks to recuperate he was considerably better. This of course did not mean that he was quite up to his normal strength. Quite below actually. But he did have the energy to fight of this beast. This he was sure of. Though of course the problem did not lie in could he fight it but how.

This thing could not be damaged and he did not have the strength or knowledge to completly douse the creature. So what would work? Then it came to him. When he moved the beast mainly disrupting it. It kind of went out of focus. This was intersting if only it had stayed like that. Unfortunetly It came back together.

Yet this gave him an idea. He could not withstand another attack that much he was sure about. So he would have to go on the offensive.

He did not need his staff as this creature was plenty full of ounia yet it had a living car'all so this would be harder than normal but it must be done.

He increased the properteis of animation within four parts of the creature. It was hard but he did not need to send the flames in any directions.

The creature began to move forward to him about a ped until it stopped. It was trying to keep itself together now and it was very strong. Roy increased the properties even more as he saw the beast coming back together.

It was now a battle between wills and neither was willing to lose.

"Ye say that thing's name be Yvan? Then tell it ta go away, by the beards of me ancestors!"

The abomination started to come towards them. He wanted to charge it and send it back to wherever it came from but his arms and legs just wouldn't move. It came closer and closer and then its arm struck out after him. The heat was unbearable. He managed to force his body to react to the commands of the mind again. He dropped to one knee and thrust his right sword towards the abdomen of this demon, he wasn't sure it had such a thing, The strike would gut a living humanoid and cut the spine in two on its way out trough the back. But there was nothing humanoid about this thing except that it walked on two legs. With his other sword he hacked at its clawed arm.

His parry was powerful enough to cut an ogre in half and both swords connected with something, but Azalahn never got to see what they connected with. The force from the clawed arm connecting with his sword hammered it out of its way, like it was nothing, and the clawed arm continued to come towards him, and tear his hearth out if it could reach him, in the last fraction of a moment he managed to twist his body, the clawed arm connected but only the arm, not the claw. The force though was enough to lift him up from his kneeling position, up into the air and send him flying backwards.

Both his swords were glowing red, like they had been in the fire of a forge for quite some time. The wood in the handles protected his hands from the heat for now. But his left side was totally different, his armor was also burning hot and glowing red, where the demon hat struck him.
The pain was horrible and he had to scream out. He was still able to fight, but how to fight this thing was a good question, if only there was a water mage then they could team up. Well the dwarf was a fire mage for sure perhaps he could do something although Azalahn had no idea about what.

He flew through the air for quite some distance and landed in front of the dwarf, on his back. He immediately rolled backwards and stopped in a kneeling position, then his instincts let go. He stood up very slowly and turned towards the dwarf.

"Master dwarf, this what is, I don't know, but if you make swords work magic or fire protection magic know then in Yvan's name help me now." He did not even bother to conceal his fear because only the insane would not fear this thing. 

Manik heard the bearded man's plea to hold him up but it failed to pierce his conscious mind. He didn't even feel one of the smaller rats bite his leg as he stood transfixed by the form appearing out of the pillar. Manik had never seen such a beast. It was huge! As big as a man and obviously a rodent. The beast didnt move with the same patterns as its smaller brethren, it moved with deliberate intention and without hesitation. Fear slid down Manik's spine and he took a step back. The massive rat started forward quickly, but Manik's attention was once again riveted to the pillar as multiples of the first wretched creature began to appear. Manik's fear increased but this time it stirred him back to himself. He quickly swiped the smaller rats off his legs and then pulled his sword with his right hand, keeping his quarterstaff in his left. A tall man in flashy armour ran forward from the group he had been coming over to question and collided with the first huge rat. The beast didnt flee but fought and the others started forward to join. These people were in danger from these beasts, he had to fight them off. The problem was there were many of them with only Redrik and him.

"Redrik, run and warn the garrison!" Manik called. He spared a glance to see that the man didnt hesitate to obey and was already sprinting away. When Manik turned back to the pillar there was a swarm of the giant beasts and three of them veered in his direction and attacked. Maniik leapt backwards and slashed the first across the eyes. The rat faltered but the other two continued past running after Redrik. Manik could tell right away they would catch up to him before he even made it out of the square. Fighting alone they werent going to be able to defend, the rats were fast and agile. They needed to stick together. Manik ignored the first rat and turned and sprinted after the other two. His legs pumped as fast as he could move them, every muscle straining for more speed. He discarded his quarterstaff dropping it to the ground. He watched the two rats gain behind Redrik. And Redrik sensing them coming turned and crouched, bringing up his crossbow. A good solider the man was steady as he released the bolt. One of the rats faltered but continued on almost unphased. Redrik laid down his crossbow and drew his sword. He didnt run, he knew he needed to stand his ground. Manik was sprinting, his vision shaky with running as he watched the rats bear on Redrik. The one lunged up and Redrik crouched with the beast coming down half on top of him. A spray of blood burst from the rat's back and the end of Redrik's sword appeared. The rat should have been mortally injured and done, but still it ripped at Redrik with its claws. The second rat came on as well and Redrik's screams filled the night.

"Nooooo!" came Manik's growling yell as he cleared the last few peds. He brought the sword up and leapt bringing the sword down with both hands he drove it to the hilt behind the second rat's shoulders. The beast jerked and spasmed but Manik didnt hesitate, he jumped over and with a foot on the beast wrenched his blade back out. Black and red blood washed down the length of it. The other rat on Redrik had stopped thrashing at the man and was on it's side. Manik wanted to check his friend but he had no time as the large rat he had wounded in the face appeared salivating its hatred in a full run. He dove out of the way and rolled to his feet to start running back towards the crowd. He would  run a distance and turn and let the filty monster come at him. Adrenaline and rage filled him and he would have the thing's life.

Grown-ups are weird.

That was the conclusion that Movash arrived at, later, when the smell of the bodies of hundred rats had long been washed out of his clothes and his hair, when the luminous teeth of giant rats seemed like a nightmare of years gone past; when the memory of his fear was distant enough so that he was able to think about the events on Pest Pillar Square.

Grown-ups are weird.

Take the elf with the ice-blue hair. First he catches Movash as a thief, holds him by the shoulder while a dozen other grown-ups accuse him, scorn him, jeer at him, makes him the most miserable boy on the disk. Less than an hour later, the elf saves Movash's life, has nothing but kind words for him, and does not even flinch when Humbaba appears. Humbaba, the sight of whom makes most people draw their weapons, shove their children indoors for safety, shout at Movash to go to where the witches live. And that's only when she is calm and placid as a lapdog. The elf first met her when she was at her most ferocious –  but his eyes did not see a monster. They saw a friend.

That's a very good friend you have there, kid . Movash never forgot these words. In the relief of having been delivered from his nightmarish visions, of having been found by Humbaba, and having survived the attack of a giant rat, the elf's simple kindness took on a glow like the first ray of sun breaking through the clouds after three weeks of ceaseless winter storms. I am a kid, and I have a very good friend. To Movash, at this point in time, this expressed the sum total of what he could be certain of in life.

And then the other elf, the woman, with her silver hair and snow-like skin. Movash had not really seen her when she had fought, as his anxious eyes had fixed themselves on the battle between Humbaba and the giant rat. But when the elfess approached, the aura of death around her was unmistakable: the death that had threatened her, and that she had evaded; but more so the death that she had inflicted. Her movements, smooth as music, spoke of a terrible grace that even a young boy could not fail to see. And yet, when she approached the blue-haired elf, she was shy like a village girl, and spoke in stammered syllables that sounded as wrong as a botched harmony.

So. Grown-ups are weird.

In another corner of the square, fires were beginning to burn. A man clad in a robe appeared to be in a battle against a living fireball. One moment, man and flames seemed to try to one another; the next, they drifted in and out of existence, like a mirage that Movash had once seen walking on the edge of the Ráhaz-Dáth. Eventually, the fireball seemed to have won, engulfing the man so completely that it seemed impossible that he could survive. Yet a blink later the fire dissipated like a fog, and the man emerged, apparently in perfect health, brandishing a staff.

Movash did not see what happened next, as his gaze was drawn by another sort of fire. This had the the shape of a one-armed man, and it was attacking a tall warrior, whose silver armour reflected the flames, magnifying their light, sending flickering flashes of red over the square. Even the Pest Pillar, usually a shadow of darker grey in the grey night, drunk in the light and began to glow with an unsteady, filthy sort of pink.

At the same time, an infernal smell descended on the square, and Movash found himself coughing and gagging in disgust. Beside him, Humbaba fidgeted. Movash knew that she suffered, her nose being many times as sensitive as his. Then they both, boy and underwhelp, saw the man.

By his uniform, Movash knew that he was a guard. Movash had evaded men like him ever since he had managed to smuggle himself into Nyermersys on the back of an unwary farmer's cart, under a load of hay. Twice during the last week, Movash had had to separate from Humbaba and run in a different direction from her, to confuse the guards and save himself and his friend from being caught.

But this guard was not hunting anyone right now. He was the one being hunted. He was running at full speed. At his heels, just a few peds behind him, raced a giant rat, its snout dripping with blood (its own? Or that of a man it had bitten?). Its eyes were like glowing embers.

The guard ran almost straight towards the little group. To Movash, who was still kneeling and holding Humbaba. To the blue-haired elf and the snow-white woman. To the master, who was nearby also. The guard's path would take him on a course that passed Movash by but a few peds. Beside him, Humbaba raised her head. He hardly heard her growl, so deep was it, but he felt its quivering in his bones, as he pressed himself against her body. Humbaba the underwhelp was ready to defend her friend once again.

Azalahn's sword entered the demon's body, and it should have pierced skin and flesh and bones, when the demon had still had such things. Yet that was minutes ago. By now, almost all hardness in the demon's body had been transformed into fire, flames feeding on nothingness, held together and shaped into two-legged form by the will of the Netherworlds. Only the arm, with its long claws, still retained some solid substance as it swung at the heavily armoured elf.

The demon felt its hit connect, and connect well. But it also felt the sword that had pierced its flames. It knew this sword. It knew the hand that held it. The demon's face flared up, as if a Golgnome had thrown sparkfire into it.  

”You!” the demon cried, as Azalahn tried to roll out of the reach of its claws, out of the reach of its heat. ”You took my arm. You took my hand.”

Azalahn struggled his body off the floor and came to kneel next to his comrade, the dwarf. The demon stepped forward in pursuit.

”You owe me payment, do you not agree?” Once again, the demon swung its arm. Like the rest of its body, the arm was all fire now. The claws of flame descended towards Azalahn's head. They had no substance but heat and hatred. No sword could stop them, no water extinguish them. And the demon's eyes – they were like fireballs, which sent rays of piercing light onto the elf warrior's breast. Their gaze was death, and their concentration was absolute. They had seen the one who had hurt them, and it was only him they saw.

They did not see the dwarf.

The only coherent response he managed to get from the one standing before him was a stuttered "Thank you," and, after that, not much more. And then, and only then, did she seem to be conscious of the situation she was in. Moving her hand over a wound, presumably from one of the giant rats, she took a step back, only moments away from taking flight. No, she should not do that. It's dangerous to go around like that.

"I'm afraid we may have some company," the elf said aloud to nobody in particular. Then, to the Ka'rii, he siad, "You are injured, are you not? I think that you should stay with us for the time being." The stench of something in the direction of the pest pillar was strong. It took Ridgen all of his self-control not to overreact in disgust. After all, if they were gagging and retching when the giant rat managed to get here, there would be some big complications.

"Master dwarf, this what is, I don't know, but if you make swords work magic or fire protection magic know then in Yvan's name help me now."

Even the calm elf had now shown fear. Who wouldn't, especially since this unnatural fire creature casually tossed him towards the dwarf like unwanted trash. "I-I don't know.." The dwarf managed to mutter. The current situation prevented him from thinking clearly. He stared at the armor and weapons of the elf, the part where the demon struck him. Thorgas detected higher than normal levels of fire ounia on them due to the recent exposure to fire. He concentrated, lowering the armor's heat and bringing it to acceptable levels.

”You took my arm. You took my hand.”

Thorgas gasped and accidentally broke the spell. The thing can talk! He backed a little more, driven by fear of the demon and the stench of rotten eggs from the burning cloud. Just in time too; the demon strode towards the elf, probably to finish what he started.

Wait, something's wrong with the fiend.

It's like he transformed entirely into fire. He had no tangible body with which the elven commander might strike. The demon became one with the flames, morphing it into his former shape, with more malice than the last. The dwarf felt more hopeless. How can he harm fire with fire?

Then an idea struck the dwarf; the fiend is made out of fire -- if Ximaxian principles apply, that means he can be manipulated by a fire mage. It's worth a try, now that he's about to be killed by one of the netherfolk. As if by a stroke of luck, the demon did not seem to notice him, its attention fully occupied by the one who robbed him of his arm.

"Commander," Thorgas addressed the elf in a hoarse voice. The effects of casting multiple spells is draining him mentally and he had to kneel down to prevent himself from fainting. "If ye be able ta keep 'im away from me, I might be able to weaken him fer ye."

With that he stuck his staff to the ground and closed his eyes to help with concentration. Such action made him vulnerable to ANY and ALL attacks, but it's a risk he's willing to take. He waved his arms above him, as if pulling an invisible cloud toward him and started his desperate attempt to drain the demon of its energies. He targeted the fiend's fire ounia, trying to lower its intensity. If fire magic lore holds true, the resulting effect will reduce or even extinguish the flames that compose its entire being.

There was only a kind of awkward pause between himself and the drunkard before a tiny man burst in, looked up to the warrior, and was immediately imploring for help. Kaelan gave an angry grunt as he pushed past the drunkard and stepped outside. "Lead on," he growled at the little man.

It wasn't necessary, really. The sound, lights and smell led the warrior directly to the pillar, where men and women of various degrees of combat experience were engaged with who knew what. Corpses, fur, blood was beginning to mark the square, and Kaelan scanned quickly for a target, something to end this all. Two things struck him, and he paused for a moment to take it in.

First was the almost-human figure of flames that appeared to be having it out with the monied elf from the inn, and flanking that monstrosity was a dwarf, mage perhaps, the warrior presumed. Staff, abstract gesturing, either a mage or a poor dwarf gone spastic.

Secondly was the pillar itself. It looked... wrong, somehow. Different. Let the magic professionals take care of the magic, then. This thing was an issue, and let all of Nyermersys be damned. Kaelan quickly drew the bastard sword off his back, set himself low and charged past the crowd toward the pillar. If this worked, he would throw his weight into the weapon's pommel, slamming it roughly halfway up the pillar.

It was foolish to expect even that hit to dismember the pillar; rather, he supposed it would only anger whatever kind of opponent this might be. The next move, then, was to sidestep while bringing his weapon back to him, and slash downward at any form of appendage sticking from the pillar itself, whether that was a symbolic stone arm, the face of a rat, or anything. If it was pushing toward him, Kaelan threw every effort into cutting it off the pillar, then threw himself away from it completely to catch his footing and reassess.

Gurrant stumbled about, ignoring the screams of rats, of those people with him, and even his own voice, which surprised him with its high toned pitch.  Well, if anyone here had a reason to scream like a schoolgirl, it was him.  Koraya's sake, half his scalp was barely hanging to his head.

Entering the mouth of the alley, he desperately tried to get his voice under control, and even managed to stop screaming altogether.  He saw the elf with her wolf in the alley, and his face colored.  He could only imagine her thoughts at the moment, seeing him.

"Like ye wouldn't be 'owling like yer damn wolf if'n yer scalp was near ripped off."

He noticed then that she appeared to be in pain, herself, but his pride would not allow him to apologize or take back his words.  He owed her nothing.  She would get nothing.

To his surprise, even if he had wanted to say more, Gurrant felt the collar of his coat tighten around his neck and he was forced to a stop, nearly pulled backward onto his butt.  He craned his neck around to see what held him, and it seemed this waking nightmare he experiencing was never going to end.

A blast of heat he'd never experienced before, and he had experienced many strange things in his life, hit him full force, forcing him to turn his face away again.  Still, the image of that creature had burned itself into his mind.  It was hideous, and something out of a nightmare.

Something else that was burning was his coat.  Where the creature was holding it, flame was licking at the back of his neck, and he could feel the heat all down his back.  As he struggled to free himself, he suddenly felt the creature let go of him.  Falling to the ground, he began to roll, hoping to put out the flames, as his fingers undid the cogs that held his coat together.  After a few feet, he simply rolled right out of his coat, which lay smoking in the street, the smell of burnt wison fur mingling with the burnt rat smell.

Not knowing why the creature had released him, he looked up when a scream of anguish erupted, and Gurrant watched in horror as one of the guards burst into flame.

"Oh, me mother's frozen arse!"

Turning away, he began to crawl toward the elf and her wolf.  Suddenly, he saw them in a different light.  Suddenly, they were hope.  Hope that he might get out of this alive.

" 'elp me, girl," he called out weakly.

The armour cooled down and the burning pain in his side eased a bit. Whatever the dwarf did seemed to work.

"If ye be able ta keep 'im away from me, I might be able to weaken him fer ye."

Swords didn't seem to harm this thing, so if it wasn't for the dwarf then there was little he could do, but perhaps he could keep it focused on him, long enough for the dwarf to do whatever he had in mind.

Then he said: "I to occupy this thing try will, but too much don't expect. Swords don't work!"
 
”You owe me payment, do you not agree?”

Then the demon was upon him again and swung a fiery claw at his head. There was no more time for debate, and strength or armour wouldn't help him here. The only thing that could save his life would be his natural agility. He was fast and agile by nature and those qualities had been further increased by centuries of weapon practice, but in this game he was not unmatched. Actually he had faced his equals on more than one occasion. Apparently this was how it felt to be the underdog in a fight for life and death.

He barely sidestepped the descending claw of fire. He could feel the side of his helmet heat up, to an uncomfortable level, but still bearable. More by instincts than actual intention he dropped down to a low stance and turned a quarter of a circle to his left and slashed out with all his might at the fiery things knee or where a knee would have been on a man, and a part of the blade turned glowing red again.

Then he was up again and ready for the demons next attack. He had positioned himself so that the demon would have to turn away from the dwarf in order to attack him, but if the demon would go for the dwarf then he was close enough that he could grab the dwarf and get him out of the way, although it would probably not do much good in the long run. Perhaps he could taunt it into focusing all its effort on him and forget about the dwarf. 

"Yea I own you payment, you pathetic excuse for warrior. I own you a good arse whooping and a bath in the nearest well, since you stink like the rats you associate with. Why don't you come and collect it, or are you too scared." He yelled in styrash.

He was not scared anymore, if this was the time that he would return to the dream then what would be would be, but he was angry that it would be at the hands of such an abomination and angry that he wouldn't be able to see his beloved again.

His spell was weakening now. He could not continue at this rate or he would die. Though of course if he failed he would die to.

The creature was starting to fall apart. It could not keep its deadly shape for much longer. It writhed in what appeared to be a struggle until finaly Roy's spell failed. He could no longer stand so he feel to his knees.

Luckily for him as his spell failed so did the creature. It was now drifting apart in many different directions slowly dissapearing into nothing more than wisps of white smoke.

Roy smiled and used his arms to support himself as he would have fallen other wise.

He would have loved to fall though. Fall into a blissful darkness and rest. But he could not. There was still a foul unholy beast and kin to the Demon who cursed him walking within his site so he must get up.

And do what? he thought to himself. He was almost unconcious if not about to die. Not to mention the most simple of spells was beyond his current power.

First things first. He needed his staff. He could not move without it but that guttless waiste of space he saved ran away. So he would have to get it himself. He stood up breathing heavily but only ever so often. He took a step. Then another. As he walked he became aware of a smell. It did not bother him much. In fact it kept him awake.

Finaly after five steps of agony he reached his staff. He feel to his knees once more. Yet once more he rose. His eyes never blinked his breath was coming slower and slower.

Soon he was oblivious to his surroundings. He could not hear anything except a pounding in his ears. Nor could his smell that terrible stench he had been so thankful for. Finaly he found himself no less than three peds away from an elf a child next to a dog like thing and a Ka'rii judgeing by the moon blade in her hands. It was only due to the fact that he no longer concentrated on the demon that he looked at his surroundings. The Demon still walked in his sight. Yet if he did not stop now he would never see anything in this world again. So finaly knowing his most extreme limits he fell to his knees a third time. But this time he did not rise he only fell farther into the darkness.

From there he did not feel his face hit the ground nor the sound of his staff falling.

When it had left the Nethersphere and entered the world of humans, elves, orcs, and dwarves, the demon had taken pieces from the fabric of our world to fashion its body: its skin, its bones, its eyes, its claws. Its limbs were like primitive tools, such as one might fashion from driftwood when stranded on a desert island. Its body was like a makeshift raft on which it sailed an alien sea. Yet the longer the demon remained in our world, the more confident it became of its movements across Nyermersys' Pest Pillar Square, the less need it had for such paltry expedients. Blink by blink, oun by oun, the demon had assumed the form that was truly its own. What human eyes would make of it, were they to see it in its native Netherworld, I hope you will never be unfortunate enough to find out. Be content to know that on this disk, our cherished abode, the demon's true form expressed itself as flame.

The demon exhaled a cloud of smoke as it felt the last piece of sluggish materiality turn to ashes within its own body. It was all fire now. Purity had been attained. The flame fed on nothing a being of this world could see. It fed on things we can only feel: the anarchic wrath that grows from hurt, the blind fear of pain and death, the desires that know no inhibition. These things were everywhere, in every being that walked this disk, and the demon gathered them and thrived on them. Its flames burned ever brighter, ever hotter, ever hungrier.

Azalahn's sword sliced through the demon's knee, and it was like an ant biting a child that is engaged in treading an ant hill into the ground. Or it should have been. The demon hesitated: this ant, it seemed, had an unfamiliar poison. The sword-sting, the demon felt, sent ripples through its flames, a wavelike motion that belonged to blue windswept water or white sand, but should not afflict the demon's red fire.

And another thing happened. A dozen peds away, by the pest pillar, a human warrior began attacking the stone that had served the demon as its portal to this world. In determined gestures so obviously futile that they were worthy of a comical tale, the human struck his sword at the sculpted rocks, sending sparks of fire into the night air. The demon should have laughed at this, but instead it was affected oddly, as though the human was slicing through its very body.

A shiver went through the demon. For a moment, its flames lost their otherwordly glow and assumed the character of ordinary fire, flickering harmlessly as though they were burning subdued in a human-built stove, obediently cooking some placid creature's dinner. Before it, the elven warrior yelled the ancient tongue of the elves, which the demon had first heard a dozen centuries ago, and often since. Yet it could not understand a word. Claws of fire stopped their swinging motion, ears of fire twitched, eyes of fire darted around – darted to and fro, taking in the scene on Pest Pillar Square, looking for the source of this confusion.

The fire fiend had gone, disintegrated under the mind of its mage opponent. The beautiful giant rats had been slain. The hoard of their smaller cousins scurried left and right, no longer in sea-like unison, but lost and disarrayed like ants without a hill. This meant that the humans and elves in Nyermersys were rather more resilient than the demon had reckoned them to be. But there was nothing untoward in it.

Only then did the demon's eyes fall on the dwarf. He stood there, his staff firmly on the ground, looking like a stone pillar himself. But the world around him was alive with magic. The demon felt it now, the magic, like a breath of yellow fire wafting through the demon's red, interfering with its purity, meddling with its senses, confusing its will. The demon turned to the dwarf, focusing all its intention on the small figure standing there in darkness. Flames flared up out of the demon's head, reached out through space and began travelling toward the dwarf. The demon's shape distorted itself. Its eyes dissolved, its limbs melted into one another, its belly inflated itself and sucked up its head. Soon it did not look like a man any more, but like a hole of fire that had burned itself into this world. The hole of fire floated through the air towards the dwarf, bathing his figure in red hatred. Already the first flames bit at the dwarf's hair, lashed out at his beard, tried to pierce his eyes.

But it was too late. A kernel of sooty greyish yellow appeared in the centre of the demon's red anarchy, and split it apart. With an ear-piercing bang that would be the envy of any Golgnomish firework maker, the demon exploded into a thousand orange sparks, which hung over the square and illuminated everyone and everything as brightly as three suns. For an awful moment, it seemed as though they would descend and consume the world beneath them. Instead, as suddenly as they had been torn apart, they contracted again and gathered themselves back into a single body.

But this body was much smaller than it had been before, and its red looked sickly like a moon with toothache. It wavered in the air, looking lost and indecisive. Then, with the suddenness of a reflex, it  collapsed and turned into a bolt of lightning that struck into the pest pillar. The ugly sculpture shook and quivered, tearing at its foundations, and sent an earthquake through the ground of the square. All over the cobblestones, little rats stumbled and fell, toppled one another in panic. They had lost the mind that had guided them, and were nothing now but ordinary rats. Realizing that they were out in the open, far away from the safety of their hidey holes, they panicked and scurried off in all directions, sliding in the puddles of the blood of their giant cousins, darting into dark alleys, disappearing in house walls, hiding in holes that only rats can find.

The pest pillar stopped shaking, seemed ready to assume once more the dumb solidity of stone. Then, for one last time, fire flared up out of its top, and a shockwave of compressed air lashed out over the square. Claudirea was hit so hard that she did not manage to withstand the impact and fell over backwards, barely able to support herself with her arms to soften the fall. At the same time, a heart-splitting cry came from the pest pillar. The voice was childish, thin, despairing and awful. “Kale,” it wailed. And again: "Kale, Kale, Kale!"

Then the fire dissolved without smoke, the voice fell silent, the air found peace at last. Everything was still.

He could not stop her. The little strength of his thin arms, of course, would never have been enough. His voice he had no more. And his love – his love reached out to her, asked her to stay, to leave that last giant rat to the grown-ups, the fighters and the mages. His love touched her, he was sure. She felt it, must feel it. But it did not hold her back. Instead, it made her even fiercer, more careless of her own safety, more eager yet to run at the giant rat. When she fought, Humbaba was never defending. She was always attacking. One day, Movash thought, this would be the reason of her death.

The two animals hit each other running. Humbaba was healthy and strong, not injured like the rat - but the rat had had more time to gather speed. Its run was faster and more powerful. Also, it was twice as heavy as Humbaba. And it had nothing to lose. The rat jumped onto the underwhelp, and Humbaba's legs seemed to crack beneath her like sticks as she buckled under the force of the attack and the weight of the attacker. The rat's blood-drenched body seemed to bury Humbaba beneath it, as if it would crush her against the cobblestones. For a moment, Movash could not see Humbaba's tail, so completely did the rat cover her.

Movash's eyes darted this way and that in desperation. Was there no one who could help? There was the guard, who had run in their direction, and whom the rat had pursued; he was obviously scared. There was the woman who had fought so gracefully; she was pressing her hand to her side in pain. There was the elf, who had saved Movash's life; he seemed about to help the woman. There was the gaunt man with a staff, who had seemed to be in battle with a fire ball earlier; he had collapsed on the ground. None of them seemed ready to risk their life to save an animal from a giant rat.

Between his fingers, Movash could still feel the warm folds of Humbaba's furless skin, where he had held her but a blink ago. Those folds were now stretched with effort; her skin was being scraped sore against the cobblestones; her warmth was waning between the giant rat's yellow teeth. Movash felt her pain as if it was his own, and he could not bear it. Without thinking, he stood up and ran towards the battling beasts. He had no weapon and no plan. He only had one thought: that he must not leave Humbaba alone.

At that moment, a deafening bang split the night, and blinks later lightning struck the pest pillar. Movash did not heed any of this, but continued in his race to save Humbaba. He could see her snout now, half crushed under the giant rat's body. She was trying desperately  to free her neck and head, so as to get a chance to sink her teeth into her opponent. But it did not look as though she would make it. Movash was almost at her side now, ready to hurl himself onto the giant rat. But he never got that far.

The shock wave that erupted from the pest pillar hit Movash square in the front of his body. It was like being pushed in the chest by a battering ram. The boy was thrown backwards, his feet lost touch with the ground, and he sailed several peds through the air before his back thudded onto the cobblestones. Lithe and agile and trained in acrobatics, he rolled over his shoulder and made three somersaults backwards before he came to sit on his haunches.

His head hurt, and his shoulder, and his left ankle. He felt the throbbing of the pain, and heard his own heavy breath. Around him, everything was still. It was as if suddenly, from one moment to the next, everyone else had vanished, and he alone had remained behind on pest pillar square.

He had lost his sense of direction. He did not know which way to look for his friend. The fireballs were gone, the man made of fire was gone, and no lightning illuminated the night. The square was dark. Movash looked, but he could not find Humbaba. Where was she? Where was the rat? Why was there no noise? Was Humbaba dead?

Soft as a night serenade
fearing not its ending,
Swift as shadows o'er the glade
fluttering, length'ning, bending,
Elegant as a lonely dance
composed of wind and light
Breathless as a death-romance,
Sudden as nightbird's flight...

Eyes in the reticent hue of twilight stared at the Cyhallrhim, and yet the words he spoke seemed to disperse like confused birds before they met her. The meaning they carried and the sincerity of their utterance evanesced before the shell of quietness closing around her. Every sense and sensation was falling into focus like the rain of a coming storm: the sound of footsteps and the smell of sulfur slithering like a snake through the air.

At once, a sleek shadow behind the elf leapt from out of the arms of a child. The woman tightened her grip on her moonblade as she sensed the motion. The urchin-child scrambled to his feet, desperately pursuing the creature, which had met a giant rat hurdling towards the group, and in an instant the woman was wind once more.

No longer did the reflection of humanity gleam through her in the form of fear and frailty. She had reverted, and the black cloak of a wind-swept warrior descended upon her slender figure. She heard the deafening sound of silence descend over the Pest Pillar, and turned to see the dust of a shockwave rumbling through the cobblestone streets. The dark universe was in collapse.

The woman crouched like a cat, pressing her blood-stained hand to the earth to brace against the violence cracking through the air and along the ground. Her shadowy-white hair fluttered around her pale face as the blast rode thunderingly by--and before the dust settled, she had come to echo the motion around her. Her feet hardly touched the ground as she followed the fighting beasts, which the shockwave had blasted into an alleyway. Every snarl and squeal and scream quickened her noiseless steps, and her blade was a silver streak in the night.

The giant rat, consumed with his first attacker, hardly noticed his second, who came as silently as the scythe of Queprur, and just as deadly. Her body was a measure of music, but the deed needed no complex patterning, no spins or crescendos through the teaming night. As she came upon the pair of beasts, the rat was still upon the black whelp. Her eyes focused, and her wrist loosened grip on her moonblade. She accelerated. The grime in the corners of the street vanished in the blur of movement--the strokes of a paintbrush that could not catch her flight.

She passed the two beasts like a sudden, cold wind.

As she reached the end of the alley, her feet left the ground for the wall. Hers was a briefly horizontal moment, for gravity coaxed her to the ground sternly as the wall stole enough momentum that, after a few steps, she was still at the end of the ally. She stared back at the rat. There was no sword in her hand. The hilt of the beautifully-crafted blade shone pressed against the rat's temple. The blood-soaked tip shone glittering on the other side of its skull.

The woman had not eased. She watched the dark underwhelp with a distant, icy gaze, waiting for the beast to pry herself from under the lifeless rodent. In a single, fluid moment the woman fetched her armoured fan from her side, and prepared herself should the creature pursue her.

Graceful as a butterfly
the lover of the breeze,
Strange as an aelirel's cry
in the starlit trees,
Quiet as a heartache
when numbness dulls the pain,
Mysterious as Erphirn's lake,
Inconstant as the rain,

Icy as the winter snow
that hides the fire's hearth,
Fleeting as the wisps that glow
but do not touch the earth,
Darkened as a candle's shade
with beams all thrown afar,
Fragile as a heart afraid,
Distant as a star...

Everything was blurry; the demon, the people around him and even his own staff, which was standing a few nailsbreadths before him. Keeping the spell up was taking all his concentration, for his opponent is a powerful one, a being made out of pure fire. For a moment the demon was winning. Its control over the element of fire was strong and the sorcerer feared his attempt to reduce the potency of its energy would be for naught and instead would earn him the ire of the fiend. But Thorgas held on, weakening the influence of fire in the demon, and it trying to keep himself together. Little by little, the dwarf began to feel that his position was hopeless. How could he beat something made entirely out of magic?

To add to his list of troubles, the demon became aware of what he is doing. It felt his entire body becoming loose and tried to keep his flames from dissipating. With a valiant effort it lunged at the sorcerer, its fiery hands clawing away at his hair and beard. The demon meant to impale the dwarf's face with fire, but it was too late. The hex that kept gnawing away at his being had fully materialized and it can no longer keep his body together. Its face was distorted and began to "melt", and it can no longer control its limbs. A yellow void began to appear on its chest, which quickly expanded and finally tore the demon apart with a flash of light.

The sparks that once composed the demon's body began to coalesce again, this time into a smaller demon figure. Thorgas groaned. What would it take to kill this thing?

"Bah, just kill me already.." Thorgas managed to mutter.

Then without warning, the figure turned into something resembling a lightning bolt, and in a few blinks struck the pest pillar with a blast.

The impact threw the dwarf to the ground, and so weakened was he from the spell that he made no effort to rise. Thorgas closed his eyes and lay still, looking like a dead body on the ground. Some of his hair and beard are on fire, caused by the creature as it tried to defend itself from the dwarf's spell. He managed to sat up weakly, and immediately put out the fires that slowly consumed his hair and beard with awkward patting. He looked around wearily. The rats broke their formation and began scurrying towards whatever hole they could find. At the same time, he heard the scary demonic sounds again.

"Kale... Kale... Kale..." This time the wailing sounded different, as if the one making the sound was suffering.

Thorgas looked one last time at Buri's direction and saw that his pet was safe from harm. This is a welcome relief. "Yer safe Buri," he thought. Then the dwarf lay down and closed his eyes again.

The giant warrior, rather than laugh at Mouse as he had half expected, actually ran with him to the square of the pest pillar - at least, it started out as Mouse leading and the warrior following. Before long, his longer strides had overtaken the small acrobat, and Mouse was left far behind. He ran as fast as his short legs would take him, but by the time he reached the square the fight had been resolved. He was just in time to see the square eerily illuminated, every detail visible and the light so bright and surrounding that there was not even a shadow. When the light disappeared, for a while Mouse was completely blinded. He had to blink several times, and even then he could still see the brightness behind his eyelids, only reversed somehow, like when he looked into the sun for too long.

There were movements at his feet, and he tried to concentrate. He realised they were the small rats, which had first overrun them. There were still many of them, but less by the blink, disappearing into whatever hole they could find. Mouse was relieved to find that they no longer moved as unnaturally as before. However, they reminded him that he would have to find Pepik soon.

After the lightning strike in the pest pillar, for a moment everything on the square was still, hushed as if waiting for something. And then Mouse heard the cry, a heart-rending cry that made him want to hug whoever was sounding like that and comfort them. He was ready to burst into tears himself at the sound that was coming from the pillar. He bit his lip to stop the tears from actually coming, though he felt the corners of his mouth turn down of their own will. The wailing stopped just in time to let him recover, though the memory of it still echoed in his head.

The pillar didn't respond. Kaelan half-expected it to lash out at him for his insolence, and a sneer was on his face as he began to gather his feet underneath him for another stroke. Bring it down; that was all that mattered now. Whatever it took.

That stroke never happened. The next instant the world was in an upheaval, and Kaelan kept to one knee, a hand on the ground for support, the other on his weapon, eyes trying watching the pillar heave and flash before him, trying to catch the tempo of its movements, trying to put an attack here, where something was obviously upset.

Another plan that didn't work. Having no experience whatsoever with quakes, Kaelan remained there on his knees for another instant, when something flashed into--or out of, he couldn't be sure--the pillar, and it blasted at him with an unseen force.

The warrior wasn't kneeling anymore; more sitting as the shaking, lights, and sounds died down. He struggled quickly to his feet, unwilling to let his enemy retreat, but was too late to do anything, approaching the pillar only as a voice began to speak from it.

"Kale," the warrior replied back at the pillar with an angry grunt. "What in the Twelve is Kale?"

It all happened too fast, too fast for her to do anything but gape. In what seemed like seconds after she fell to her knees, gasping in pain, the creature had caught up to the drunk. And in turn, the drunk had scampered, propelled by fear, almost to her prone form on the ground. A hiss of condescension, which quickly switched to a plea for help, Seh could only shake her head mutely, not daring to unclench her lips. By that time, the pain in her leg had intensified, a direct response to the heat that rolled off the flamed creature. It was all she could do to not cry out; indeed, she ould not even shout some gesture of reassurance or a shred of advice to the drunkard in fear of releasing the scream of pain that clawed at her throat.

But she was an elf, she was a fighter, and beyond that, she was Tethinrhim. Her race gave birth to the famed and legendary Kaierian Warriors; she would not tarnish her tribe's image by succumbing to her injury. And yet, every warrior has a weakness, and hers was particularly debilitating. Especially when she was in mortal peril. Silver, a solid weight pressing at her side, gave her a measure of comfort. In a burst of affection, the elfess held her wolf close, winding her fingers into his fur. She was not alone.

And that was the mantra she repeated, even as she gazed upon the awful battles that raged in front of her. Another one of her kind, an elf, was tearing into another of those blasted rats with a grace and fluidity that reminded Seh of a dangerous lullaby. Quiet and deadly, the last sound one heard before death. And in the middle of the square, the stocky mage-dwarf with another, wilder mage battled the flamed monstrosity. It was a battle of destructive beauty; even in its fatality and its morbidity, Seh found it in herself to admire the dwarf and human - something she rarely did. When the dwarf dealt the death blast and the heat ebbed from the square, Seh let out a breath she was unaware she was holding.

And with the dissipation of the unholy heat came the dissipation of the pain that plagued her. The knots that previously tangled her nerves and tightened the ball of pain in her smoothened themselves out, the muscles unbunched. It was sweet, delicious relief that visited her now, the blood flowing smoothly throughout her body again. The elfess felt faint with the sudden reprive; the square wavered a little in front of her before rightening itself again. In the background, the last wail of the pillar faded into the air. The name was already a familiar one to her ears, but she paid them no heed for the moment. Instead, she let herself slump to the cobbled floor, her face buried into Silver's fur. For now, she'd stay there. She was within earshot of the group at the pillar; she would miss nothing, even if she took a moment for herself... to breathe.

The market square was a gloomy world populated by spectres and blurry silhouettes that stood still as if paralyzed, or else moved about in cautious, hesitant steps, numbed still by the danger they had just survived, their hearts still thumping with the echoes of fear. The spook was over and had left behind a hole in the fabric of the world that would gape until relief would descend and flow and fill it.

For one little boy, however, nothing was over. Movash ran around in mad, frantic circles, searching for Humbaba, trying to spot her among the shadows, though his eyes strained to see through the salty veil of tears that freely flowed down his cheeks, nose, and lips, and dropped from his chin. At one point, his desperate run took him past another boy. He took in the shape of the other. An odd shape it was: legs and arms too short, the head too big, the body sturdy and hobbit-like. Movash recognized this strange body. It belonged to the same boy who had seen him cry at the tavern. And now he was seeing him cry again.

This time Movash did not turn away. He stopped his run and looked the other straight in the face. Had he seen Humbaba? The strange boy was not at ease himself. He was biting his lip, and his mouth was distorted into a grimace of pain or sadness. Had he lost someone, too? Movash wanted to ask him.

Movash wiped his tears away and blew his nose into his sleeve. For a blink, he looked at the other with clearer eyes. He had not been mistaken. This other boy and he – they were both suffering. They were both  small, and weak, and free to cry. Movash managed a smile, tiny but warm. Then his sorrow and his worry for Humbaba took hold of him again, and he turned and resumed his run.

---

Smell of life, smell of death. No breath: too heavy. Legs stuck. Head pain. Want to bite. Cannot. Want to run. Cannot. Want to howl. Can. Do. Hoooowwwwl. No good.

Suddenly heavier still. Smell of death. Smell of life flowing out, ending. Smell of death.

Legs stuck. Want to wriggle. Can. Do. Suddenly air. Breathe. Good.

Free. Legs pain. Head pain. Smell of death. Woman with sting. Waits. Lurks.

Want to run. Cannot. Want to walk. Can. Do. Eye on woman.

---

And then he saw her. Humbaba was limping out of an alley back into the square. One of her front leg appeared to be useless, forcing her gait into a three-legged staccato hobble. Blood was dripping from her snout. Her head was at a funny angle, as if she had a stiff neck. She was looking back behind her shoulder. Movash's eyes followed her gaze.

Who stood there was the woman. The one with silver hair, the one who moved like music. In her hand, her sword was a blood-soaked snake.

Movash ran, ran towards Humbaba. The underwhelp did not take her eyes off the woman, but she let Movash sling his arms around her. She even let him feel her bad leg with his fingers, as he tried to find out whether a bone was broken. She was weak, she was bloody, she had barely escaped death. Her eyes spoke of her defeat. Movash had never seen her like this: frail, dispirited, timid. But she was alive. She was still with him. She was alive.

From the corner of his eye, Movash saw the carcass. The giant rat lay dead in the alley. He guessed what must have happened. Kneeling beside Humbaba, unable to leave her even for a blink, he looked up at the woman from where he was, and thanked her with his eyes. His life had been saved twice this evening. There was goodness in the world then. And, apparently, a lot of it resided in the hearts of elves with peculiar hair colours.

It all happened very quickly. There was a flash of lightning - the only warning that anything was about to happen - and then Ridgen found himself being blown back by the shockwave that emanated from the Pest Pillar. Everything became a blur of colours, and when his vision cleared, there was really only one thing he could see - the rat coming in to engage them earlier was now dead, standing over them the frighteningly powerful woman from earlier and the beast that the elf had assumed was the mute boy's friend.

Putting two and two together, Ridgen had a mind to scold them about running off and killing rats recklessly while injured, but decided against shouting at them - after all, they did eliminate an obvious threat. By the time he had made it to where they were standing, the boy had somehow recovered and made it there before him. Curious.

"You silly people shouldn't rush into action so recklessly, especially not if you're injured... It's dangerous!" A gentle chiding. Although to be fair, all he was doing was state the obvious. "To be fair, you two did manage to eliminate a threat. Good job."

Gurrant paid no attention to the goings on behind him.  Whatever was happening was now beyond his control.  Instead, he stared at the girl and her wolf, stretching out a bloody hand toward her.  " 'elp me."

But, even though he could hear the sound of his own voice and knew he was not simply mouthing the words, she ignored him, burying her face into the thick fur of her pet.

This slight movement seemed to sap the strength from Gurrant and most of his will to continue drained from him.  His body relaxed, his face lay on the cold cobblestone, and he closed his eyes, simply listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears.

For several long moments he lay still, ignoring the sounds around him, nearly forgetting that there were indeed others there, and unnatural dangers.  There was only the sound of each breath drawn in and expelled.  There was no more sensation of heat, but only the cold stone on his face.

Time was lost on Gurrant, and he did not know how long he had remained prone.  Was it only a moment?  Was dawn near?  He went to open his eyes, but only one opened.  The other seemed stuck shut.  At the same time, he was aware of the taste of a salty, coppery, taste in his mouth.

No, he was not yet ready to give up and die.  Forcing his hand back, he ran a finger over his stuck eye and wiped away the thick sticky blood from his head wound that had run down over his face.  He then pushed himself up into a kneeling position.

A quick look to the girl and the wolf had them still locked together in her embrace.  Then not too much time had passed.  That was a good boding for his wound.  If it was still fresh, he might still survive.

Half crawling, half walking on his knees, he dragged himself over to the closest wall and threw his back against it, sitting with his legs before him.  The girl had proven useless, so he turned his head toward the square, where the activity level had dramatically abated.  Perhaps one of them could be counted on to help him.

" 'ey!  'ey!  Some 'elp 'ere.  I be bleedin' ta death."  He reached up and gingerly flopped the loose flap of scalp back onto the bare skull.  "Fer Koraya's sake, one of ye bloody sods has got ta have some thread!"

"Fer Koraya's sake, one of ye bloody sods must have some thread!"

Well, someone was desperate. He probably had a good reason to be, too, for when Ridgen looked over to see who it was that was shouting at the top of his lungs, Gurrant was bleeding all over the place and... flapping unsightly bits of his scalp onto his now exposed skull. In a sea of disease-carrying rats. He isn't a very good example for little kids to follow, now is he? Not that kids can try this sort of thing at home anyway.

Ridgen realised that he's still carrying his tailoring kit around with him, in his backpack. Why he still carried a backpack, he doesn't know, but he does know that it had clean threads and needles. With a gently spoken "Excuse me," he started running in the direction of the injured Gurrant, ignoring the squeaky protests of any rats he'd haphazardly step on along the way.

"You're in luck, I've my work equipment with me. Stay still. This will hurt." As the tailor reached the man in question, he took off his backpack and withdrew a set of threads and needles, tools of his trade. Admittedly, he has never used it for this purpose before, but it shouldn't be any harder than sewing two pieces of leather together. Before he began, he added this as an afterthought: "Keep your mouth shut, while you're at it. It would be hard to work with any distractions." Thank you, captain obvious.

Kids should never try this at home. Or the could do it. Yeah, trying to sew a loose bit of your mate's scalp back onto his head is such a good idea and is totally not dangerous.

In all seriousness, it was a good thing that gloves were included in the kit - otherwise goodness knows what could enter the man's bloodstream, and then what would happen? As a precaution, Ridgen put these on and increased the level of influence that serenity has on Gurrant's mind, and that was mighty hard in itself, because this person is understandably not calm at all. He managed to do it, though, and now comes the hard part. Multitasking. This is why they have women doing this sort of work.

As needle and thread pierced through layers of skin and blood, making a barely audible noise as they went, Ridgen was busy balancing forcing himself to keep bile and vomit from spilling out onto the unfortunate man before him, keeping him calm and sewing his scalp back together in the most efficient and safe manner possible. The toughness of the man's skin did not help at all, nor did the blood, or the hustle and bustle of people moving around them. At least there wasn't a demon trying to kill them off this time.

Five very long minutes saw the man's scalp sewn back together. It wasn't great, but it would keep him alive for now.

"We can discuss payment when this is over."
And then Ridgen cracked up, unable to keep a deadpan look on his face. "Damn, I almost got that one out. Relax, it's free."

It seemed to all happen at once, every facet of what had happened that night blurring together. There were to many people involved, and so much happening all at once that he could almost not keep track of it all. Some where in the jumble, the boy had some how gotten lost during his fight with the rat. For the time being he could only curse himself a fool for having lost the boy. Cloud on the other hand stood as majestically as before though, the fire and rats would have been more than enough to send a more common breed horse screaming through the night. It was lucky that nothing had attempted to engage the war stallion lest he crush innocents beneath his hooves. When it came to things like combat, everything was kill or be killed.

After he'd dispatched the rat, it seemed all hell had, quite literally, broken loose. Fire colored the cobbled stones, and nearby buildings. The force of explosion sent many of the towns people on the to the floor, Calron included. The minute they managed to regain their footing several people ran screaming into the dark of the night. Chaos had over taken most everyone, but there were still a select few who had managed to resist the madness. There were more rats of humanoid size that had been quickly dispatched by these others, but still the boy could not be found.

As his senses returned to him, he quickly realized that a strange sense of calm had descended on the square. The cry for Kale rang out yet again, and it seemed the pillar had returned to normal. No longer did rats carpet the streets, though several mutilated bodies of various sizes sprawled all over the street. The cobble stones were bathed in the blood of both the animals and people who had been unable to escape the rat hoards. In silence, Calron ran a quick assessment of his body, and aside from the cuts and scraps on his palms and legs he was relatively unscathed. The same could not be said for his clothing though, as much of it was caked in a layer of animal blood. There was no doubt in his mind that he would probably have to destroy the garments, because his tailors would surely have a heart palpitation upon seeing his appearance.

It was as he looked about at the now battle wary square that he finally spotted the boy. In his arms he cradled some sort of wolf like animal, and thankfully it didn't appear to be hurting him. It occurred to him then that this creature was probably the pet the boy had drawn for him earlier. With a great feeling of relief, he walked over to the boy, Cloud following in his footsteps.

Upon he reaching the boy he asked, "Are you alright?"

Somehow the dwarf made this abomination explode. Azalahn stood there and didn't understand what had happened. He looked around and saw quite a few people probably just as ignorant as he was. He was soaked in blood and he didn't like the smell around here, but he was just too tired to even bother to walk back to the inn right now, so he just stood there

Then his eyes came across the dwarf who was lying down next to a pig, that was actually a very good idea to sit down and get some rest.

There was also the big human brute screaming for help. Azalahn decided to just ignore him for the time being, and it seemed that someone was attending to him anyway.

The cool waves of rest threatened to envelope him. Just as water douses a fire so this darkness wished to take him. To Roy it seemed as an ocean of darkness. All the time pounding at him with waves of force attempting to drown him.

Yet just like his magic his mind was a raging inferno not to be bested by anything else. For what appeared like hours his mind battled the darkness. It was a battle that was larger than the planet itself inside of Roy's mind. No weapons were used or oaths uttered. Just a simple struggle as old as the day life and death were created.

The oceans of darkness washed over him and battered him until he thought he could stand them no longer. Yet everytime he was beaten down his will rose up and burned away the edges of the vast darkness which threatened him.

Yes perhaps the darkness was an ocean. But his will was a sun. This is why he survived this is why he was still alive.

Roy woke up not knowing any of the dramatic events that just recently took place only knowing that he could have died that very moment. But though he was alive he was not well he could hardly breathe, hear, see, you name it.

However at the moment it did not matter. He knew he must not die that day nor any day in the near future for if he did his existance would have been a waiste. So before he could drift into a nice safe sleep one he would definintely survive he needed to make sure he would last the night.

He rolled onto his side and saw a boy who was strangely familiar with a wolf like creature and a man with a horse.

"Hee-" he manged until he felt a spasm of pain iside of his head which literly took the breathe away from him. With a horrible painfull breathe he gasped out

"Help." hopefully loud enough for some one to hear him as he could no longer remain concious.

"Are you alright?"

The master. Movash had almost forgotten about him. But he was glad to see that the man was alive, and touched by the concern in his voice. Movash looked him in the eye, and nodded.

Did you see me, master?  I was a giant. I was stomping on this city. I kicked away its bridges, I flattened its houses, I swept people away like ants. I was enjoying it. No, not really enjoying. It was as if I had to do it, as if it was the only thing left to me. Did you see me?

It was me, but it wasn't me. I was in another world, perhaps. But it was this world. I don't understand it, master. Do you understand?

Movash could not say what he thought. Instead, he pointed at Humbaba. The underwhelp was breathing feebly in Movash's embrace. Her long tongue hung limply from her beak-like snout. Her naked, puppy-like skin was speckled with fresh sores, some of them oozing. Near her neck, where the rat had sunk its teeth, there was a set of deeper wounds, which were bleeding slowly but unceasingly. Without help, Movash thought, Humbaba would not be well.

He hoped the master would accept her, would see how important she was to him. Did he recognize that Movash had tried to draw her picture earlier? Movash moved his finger to and fro from the master's horse to Humbaba. We both have companions , he wanted to say. Humbaba and your horse, they are the same.

”Help!”

The voice reminded Movash of the raspy cawing of an injured corbie he had once found by the roadside. It belonged to the gaunt man who had battled the ball of fire. He was rolling his thin body on the ground and called out to Movash and the master. It was obvious that he was in great pain, and in despair.

Movash could not see whether the man was wounded. But it was clear that he had not called for help lightly. Movash looked at the master for reassurance, and then began to make his way towards the injured man, pulling Humbaba with him, holding her by a fold of skin under her chin. The underwhelp followed, reluctant and limping.

The night was deepening, spiraling through the dark hours, rolling ever closer to the morning. In the eyes of the stars shone the reflection of the dawn, and senescence hung like a cloud across the face of the moon. But in the cold glow of the woman's eyes, it was eternally twilight. Hers was a distant gaze as she watched the sleek, black creature pull itself out of under the giant rat. It slinked back, out of the alley, but kept its eyes upon her. She stared back with eyes, not compassionate or malicious, but clear and cool.

She was still, but never seemed to be without movement. It was as though the wind had been searching for her, and when it found her standing in the back of the empty alleyway, several peds away from the giant rat that now lay dead upon the cobblestones, it rushed to her adoringly. It caressed her pale cheek and fluttered through her soft white strands.

Somewhere in the sound
of the twilight hours drifting,
there is the call of quiet clouds
and milky moonlight lifting.
And in between the music
that comes when daylight fades
is the echo of a shadow,
the whisper of a shade.

Once the boy's creature had retreated far enough, the woman slipped into motion once more. Her pace was cautious, quiet and graceful, like the pace of death. She paused at the rat and pulled her sword from its temple. She held it, slick and shimmering in her stained hands, but never took her eyes off the underwhelp. In fact, it wasn't until the appearance of the Cyhallrhim that she seemed to soften. It was hard to know if he had broken a spell, or put one on her.

"You silly people shouldn't rush into action so recklessly, especially not if you're injured... It's dangerous!" he chided.

He was looking at her, and she at him with a bewildered look. Her lips parted with blossoming confusion, and her eyes took on a defenselessness.

"To be fair, you two did manage to eliminate a threat. Good job."

Her expression did not change. In one hand, she held her armoured fan, in the other, her moonblade. Both were covered in blood--and on her shirt and across her arms and hands were the smears and stains of crimson associated with her deadly deeds. And yet, to see the innocence that came across her countenance, one might hardly believed she had killed so skillfully, and so much.

Somewhere in the sound
of the temple towers ringing
shines the silver melody
of chirping crickets singing.
And behind that darkling choir
that veils like fragile lace,
resounds the soughing voice
of footsteps made with grace.

"'ey!  'ey!  Some 'elp 'ere.  I be bleedin' ta death," came a gruff shout, and both the Cyhallrhim and the woman turned to see the large man half walking, half crawling toward them. Instinctively, the woman tightened her grip on her weapons, and her eyes flashed with ice and steel, as though the warrior were passing behind them. The Cyhallrhim approached and after a moment began dexterously sewing at the back of the man's head.

The gentle winds infused her movements as she sheathed both her slick weapons. The pest pillar was quiet and the warriors and laymen and all these itinerant souls seemed to be pressing their palms to the earth and lifting their bodies from the dirt. There was blood on the street, and its darkness was half-hidden against the darkness of the stoney streets. A strange, passing thanks whispered in the heart of the woman, who was glad there was no snow.

The sound of footsteps behind her turned her to see a man with dark hair and dark eyes approaching. In color, he was the opposite of the Cyhallrhim who reminded her of home, but he was pleasant to look at, for he moved with the easy grace of an aristocrat, and his manner was strong and confident. He approached, but his eyes were upon the boy. Perhaps he did not see her. Perhaps the shadows were veiling her again. Sometimes she felt them embrace her when the night was old and lonely.

Somewhere in the sound
of the midnight zephyr blowing
are songs of songs and rustling leaves
and distant nightbirds crowing.
And just beneath the chorus line
from where the morn might start
there is the flutter of a gaze,
the beating of a heart.

For what seemed an eternity, Gurrant waited for someone to come.  He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the group from the tavern hurried up.  Good, a healer, Gurrant thought to himself.

"You're in luck, I've my work equipment with me. Stay still. This will hurt."

A sneer of derision crossed the bearded man's face.  "Well, o' course tis gonna hurt ya fool su-"   the word 'surgeon' failed to completely leave his lips as he watched the man pull out tailoring tools.  Not his first choice, to be sure, but then he'd seen more well stitched garmets in his day than well stitched wounds, so perhaps this was divine intervention.  As such, a short silent prayer was offered up to Koraya.

Silently, save for the odd inadvertent grunt, he endured the discomfort of having his scalp made whole once more.  Then, while hearing the faux surgeon's breathing change, where it sounded like he was swallowing air in order not to empty his stomach, Gurrant could hold his tongue no longer.  " 'ey, dressmaker, I'm sorry for puttin' ya through this.  I know 'ow much it must 'urt ya."

Upon completion, Gurrant chose to ignore the dressmaker's attempt at brevity, and instead shot him a glare.  "Jus' cuz I owe ya me life, dressmaker, dunna mean we be friends."

He looked out at the group, and saw the huge warrior at the pillar.  " "ey!  'ey, ye!  If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear."

He looked at the dressmaker and stretched out his arm.  " 'elp me ta me feet, damn ya."

For a while Thorgas considered taking a nap right there. The headaches subsided, but he's still feeling dizzy. The sweet relaxing embrace of sleep beckons him, luring him further. But he knew he should not sleep...

---

The demon is still here, waiting for the right moment to strike, biding his time, hidden until the dwarf let down his guard. Thorgas breathed deeply, drawing as much energy as he can. He is enraged. His eyes are ablaze, reflecting his wish to incinerate the demon along with the netherworld that spawned him. From out of the shadows the demon lunges, its piercing claws threatening to impale him. The dwarf managed to catch its claws with his bare hands and fierce fighting ensued -- until reality and its problems came crashing down on him.

---

He jerked himself up and barely kept himself from screaming. He looked around, noting the pig on his side, the pillar with the skulls, and the people in the plaza. He rubbed his head, trying to remove the throbbing pain and clear his blurry vision. Once he was able to have a clear sight, he stood up aided by his staff.

"ey!  'ey, ye!  If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear."

Information! He hobbled towards the burly man, but walked over to the sleeping elf first and tapped him gently with the end of his staff. "Commander, I would appreciate it if ye don't tell anyone aboot me bein' a mage. Lots o' commoners dunna think o' me kind very highly." He didn't care if the elf heard it or not. Thorgas had said his piece, it's up to the elf if he would heed it or not. With that, he made his way towards Gurrant and stood close by, waiting to hear what the man has to say.

Mouse felt somewhat distanced from the proceedings. After the wailing stopped, some of the people on the square were moving, and others were quite still, possibly recovering from the fight. It was not until a gruff voice called out about knowing about Kale that Mouse himself came back into action. He approached the little group with the bully who had called for their attention. Staying to the side, he made sure to be able to hear everything, though without going into the center of things himself. Now that the fight was over and he was no longer confronted with his own cowardice, he was curious what exactly had caused all this, and if there was a way to stop it. He did not want to go through that again.

From the look of him, the boy was alright, and intact if a bit shaken. Still there could be a lot worse, and for someone who had just undergone a supernatural attack the child seemed to be handling himself well. Perhaps it helped that the boys strange pet was keeping him company. The creature was hurt, but how badly hurt was up for debate.

In silence, Calron sent a silent apology to his tailor and sister, both of whom would surely have a fit if they came to know what he was about to do with a very expensive coat. Undoing the silver buttons with a swift grace, he removed his jacket, and tore it into strips with which he then set about binding the animals wounds. Healing wasn't one of his specialties and he'd never been one to usually fix a person up, but he'd seen his grandmother do at least this much. If hell didn't break loose once more that evening, it was possible that they could get back to the inn so that the animal could be taken care of a bit more carefully. He did his best to be gentle, and made sure that the bindings weren't horribly tight on the dog like animal.

Cloud had trotted over to a robed figure who lay sprawled on the ground, and set about gently nuzzling him. Once Calron had wrapped the dogs wounds, he walked over to Cloud, and looked over the man who lay on the cobbled stones of the square. He'd obviously suffered some grievous injuries, and from his voice it seemed he might have even suffered some internal wounds, but again he was no doctor. It seemed that the man had passed out spectacularly, and while he was hesitant to move him, he was more loath to simply leave the man on the ground.

Carefully, he lifted him up, and lashed him into Cloud's saddle using some spare rope, doing his best not to rock the injured man to badly. In silence, he lead the horse back over to Movash, and motioned for the boy to stand, and follow him. It was then that he spotted a woman who's beauty left him momentarily incapable of movement. She seemed to have materialized from the darkness, and even in the shadows she seemed to glow. She was as pale as the night was dark, and it seemed to him that he'd never seen a being as lovely as her.

Walking up to her he asked, "Are you alright milady?"

Gurrant took the hand offered by the dressmaker, and pulled himself to hi feet.  For a moment, he tried to steady himself as waves nausea and dizziness washed over him.  When he was sure he was not about to vomit or fall over, he looked at the group surrounding him.

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.  It begins many years ago, far in the north country, where ahm from.  Armies of the dark lord swept o'er the land, killing and enslaving all that opposed.  But my people joined the dark lord.  We were merciless in 'ow we treated our enemies.  But, there were those that were beyond cruel; beyond merely evil.  There were those of us who riveled the dark lord himself in the depths of depravity."

Gurrant paused, taking a deep breath, looking each of them in the eyes.

"One such man, a general, 'elped ta lead the dark lord's armies south.  It was 'e who found a way through the Tandala's.  Yes, there is such a route, even taday, though none now know where it lays, or would travel there even if they knew.  But, this general did pass through.  And for the rest of the war, he was left ta guard this path for the dark lord's army."

He coughed and gingerly touched the stitching on his head, then continued.

"During those years, left with nothing ta do but guard these tunnels under the mountain, the general grew bored and turned his eye toward the peoples living in the foothills.  He sent his men to gather the women, and the children and kill all the men.  And to these women and children, he committed acts so vile that even I dare not repeat them, for the very utterance of it would taint your very soul."

Gurrant shuddered.

"Ta this day, the land still remembers 'is evil.  The wind calls 'is name.  'is eyes can be seen in the flashing of lightning during the darkest storms, and 'is laugh 'eard among the thunder that rolls."

He paused again, for effect.

"And 'is name was Caeltakker."  He nodded toward the Pest Pillar.  "That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

As if to add to the mood, in the near neighborhood, a dog howled at the moon.

Roy did not feel the horse that was nuzzleing him. But he did awke when he was being tied to the same horse. If he could have spoken he would have said thank you. Then he would have told who ever was helping him to waite. But as it turned out he did not have to. When whowever was helping him stopped his horse he was able to perfectly hear the man he had saved.

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.  It begins many years ago, far in the north country, where ahm from.  Armies of the dark lord swept o'er the land, killing and enslaving all that opposed.  But my people joined the dark lord.  We were merciless in 'ow we treated our enemies.  But, there were those that were beyond cruel; beyond merely evil.  There were those of us who riveled the dark lord himself in the depths of depravity."

Gurrant paused, taking a deep breath, looking each of them in the eyes.

"One such man, a general, 'elped ta lead the dark lord's armies south.  It was 'e who found a way through the Tandala's.  Yes, there is such a route, even taday, though none now know where it lays, or would travel there even if they knew.  But, this general did pass through.  And for the rest of the war, he was left ta guard this path for the dark lord's army."

He coughed and gingerly touched the stitching on his head, then continued.

"During those years, left with nothing ta do but guard these tunnels under the mountain, the general grew bored and turned his eye toward the peoples living in the foothills.  He sent his men to gather the women, and the children and kill all the men.  And to these women and children, he committed acts so vile that even I dare not repeat them, for the very utterance of it would taint your very soul."

Gurrant shuddered.

"Ta this day, the land still remembers 'is evil.  The wind calls 'is name.  'is eyes can be seen in the flashing of lightning during the darkest storms, and 'is laugh 'eard among the thunder that rolls."

He paused again, for effect.

"And 'is name was Caeltakker."  He nodded toward the Pest Pillar.  "That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

He comprehended this information perfectly but was unfortunately unable to record it into his spellbook. This demon interested him considerably. He had never heard of anything like this creature what with its strange cloud like friends and shouting of names. Yet he was strangely interested in it. Perhaps he would learn more about this demon yet. Thought Roy to himself. If so then it might be benificial for him to stay here longer than he had imtended.

Azalahn just stood there and wondered if what had happened was a dream... a nightmare or real. The pain from his wounds was real enough so this had to be real as well.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and then he heard the dwarf's voice: "Commander, I would appreciate it if ye don't tell anyone aboot me bein' a mage. Lots o' commoners dunna think o' me kind very highly."

"very well master dwarf, I your secret keep will, also I for your help in this battle thank you"

Then the human brute started to talk: "...That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

Azalahn started to look around, the others that had come here from the tavern were here, as well as a few others. He started to walk towards them.

"We perhaps join the others should and then back to the tavern head we can. What do you say master dwarf? Also to ask that human some questions want to you might. Big mouth and very aggressive behaviour to commoners he has, but in real battle very little true courage he has I observed. I thrust him do not."

Blood pounded through Manik's veins as he sprinted towards the group of civilians. He ran for all he was worth and was still sure the rat was gaining on him. He could feel it like a deadly shadow on the back of his neck, waiting for the pain to blosom through his back as it caught him. Through his shaking vision he could see that a house had caught fire, and the group were in a frenzy. No, it wasnt a house on fire. What was it? Manik's heart sank and he almost stopped his run. It was a creature of fire! It was some kind of netherworld demon! By the gods how could this happen?! But the shadow ready to take his life from behind brought his attention back. One thing at a time, he skidded to a halt rounding back towards the giant rodent bringing his sword into a defensive position. The rat was closing in at a full run, and fear pushed against his resolve. Manik had only just turned when another shadow struck the rat from the side, topplin them. The beasts struggled and Manik paused as he made out that it was some sort of large dog come to his aid. He looked back over his shoulder and caught another glimpse of the fire creature and some of the citizens but returned again to the rat. It had the upper hand over the dog.  Manik quickly started forward to help his apparent ally, but he only made it two steps when a deafening concussion hit him from his side and he was thrown through the air. Manik hit the cobblestones and rolled to rest on his back. He struggled for air but couldnt have it. The air was knocked out of him and he was disoriented. The world seemed quiet, but anything but calm. A few seconds and he was wheezing the air back into his lungs and coughing. His sword was beside him so he grabbed it and struggled to his feet. With his left hand on his knee he spun searching for danger, searching for the rat.

There were corpses of rats but none moving. He scanned for the dog, couldnt see it either. Some of the citizens were moving around. That was good, he wondered how many dead they would have. That made him think of Redrik, and he quickly scanned the square once again for danger and deciding it was safe, scanned again for his friend. He couldnt see Redrik and his concern increased, those rats had surely done some terrible wounds. He walked, searching for a sign. His hand hurt and he looked down to see blood dripping from his knuckles, and then realized his knee hurt too. The bearded man that had been part of the group when things went bad was yelling for thread. Manik ignored him and walked to one side of the square, but couldn't find Redrik, so he walked back to search more. His mind was already rolling over the things he needed to do. He needed to organize the wounded, he needed a report for the captain, he needed witness accounts, he needed a reason this happened. All in, he needed help to put order to the residual chaos. But first, his concern for his friend, he needed to find Redrik.

As he made his way up to the group of civilians that had gathered he heard the bearded man call out, "ey! 'ey, ye! If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear." So as he scanned he made his way over. He needed the information but he kept scanning for a sign of Redrik.

As he listened to the man's story he mentally urged the man to hurry, and winced inside at every pause. He scanned the group and saw many were in bad shape, but realized he hadnt seen any dead yet. A ways away he noticed the dog creature that had helped him as well, but had to look again at its strange form. It had a beak so it wasnt a dog, but then what was it? In any case it looked a powerful beast but subdued in the child's arms. And in battle it was an ally, so not a threat for now and Manik dismissed it from his mind.

When the bearded man finished his tale, Manik was scanning the darkness still. He didnt know if he believed the story, but considering what he had seen, he couldnt discount it. Magic, he shivered in the cold. He didnt understand it and it gave him the creeps. He'd let the captain figure that one out. The group was still milling around mostly recovering.

Manik took a deep breath to make himself calm. "Alright everyone,"   he called in a loud and solid voice, "First thing we need to do is organize the wounded. Once I find someone ill send them to the garrison to fetch the surgeon for anyone who needs it." It was true the wounded were important, but also he hoped the option of the surgeon would keep them together. He couldnt have them disperse because he needed to make a report and he needed to ask questions. "Lets get them over here a bit out of the wind for just now, and could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?" They were civilians and might not respond well to direct orders. "Has anyone seen the other guard that was with me?"  Redrik, bloody hell, where are you?

The shining vagabonds alight
their pathways through the sky,
and gaze upon man's rage and fight,
as distant passers-by.
The heart directs the bloody quest
while breezes guide the blades
and seeking out some gentle rest
just leads into the shades.

Find me where the winds are blowing,
night is growing, stars are glowing.
Find me where the birds are crowing
for the peace of dreaming.

Shadows moved through the Nyermersys. They scurried noiselessly along the dirty streets, sticking their snouts into every rancid corner and pressing their bodies into the gutters. They fluttered between the buildings, perching on the sill of windows and the awnings of shops, their feathers darkening the air. They rushed wind-like through the city, and even when they stilled, they were never without motion, never at rest, never at peace--like the heart of the woman who called them home.

She stood not far from the alleyway, watching the souls around her feel for their bodies, lift them, take them nearer to hear what the man with the sewn scalp had to say about the seed from which the events of this night had blossomed in blood-red. With the shadows around her laying the comforting weight of darkness upon her slender figure, she felt almost like a distant star within the blackness of night--shining dimly and perhaps even lonesomely upon the world below.

The night is full of figures roaming
through shadows, drunk of blood.
And while the sky is blue with gloaming
they press the ruddy mud.
Quick ears alight on every sound
and eyes search out the black.
Both cry and quietness resound
between each new attack.

Find me where the flames are lighting,
storms are fighting, chill is biting.
Find me where no heart is writing
of the peace of dreaming.

And though the wind pressed her with its coolness, she could not deny the feeling of breathlessness. This night wore her, drained her: the wound upon her side still cried tears of blood into her shirt, and her broken rib ached. No expression of pain dimmed her features. No cry of pain broke her shell of silence. And yet, her nerves all knew the injury, and insisted upon it loudly--so loudly that she almost didn't hear:

"Are you alright milady?"

The woman blinked a few times, like clearing clouds from the twilight of her eyes, and her gaze settled upon the young man she had seen before. His hair and eyes were like midnight, and there was a kind strength in his manner that threw her a bit off-guard. Perhaps it was the exhaustion clouding her over, or blood loss pressing away her senses, but between the darkness of the shadows around her and the darkness of his gentle eyes, she felt strangely at ease. Her lips parted, as though to answer, but before she could speak, the gruff man spoke loudly, catching her attention like a sudden gust of air, and her body tensed, but a little:

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.." he began, and the woman listened as best she could. She had not been in Santharia for very long, and though she had grown somewhat accustomed to the Santharian accent, the accent of this churlish man sounded strange to her, and she could barely follow his story.

Her attention never left the dark-haired aristocrat that had come to her, but she felt at ease with his presence: either some part of her knew he meant her no harm, or it knew that, in her current state, she could not avoid harm if indeed he meant it. She was weakening again, for her body could not sustain the tensity.

The story concluded. Somewhere far off, a dog howled. A quietness settled. A quietness was settling in her, too.

"Alright everyone," called a voice some ways off. "First thing we need to do is organize the wounded. Once I find someone ill send them to the garrison to fetch the surgeon for anyone who needs it." The woman looked in the direction of the voice, and her eyes settled upon a figure trying to organize the baffled herd of people scattered about the pest pillar. "Lets get them over here a bit out of the wind for just now, and could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?" She noticed the authority in his voice, in his dress, in his manner: a guard. "Has anyone seen the other guard that was with me?"

Her body tensed again, and the wind urged her to run, run, run. Her quickening breathing and heartbeat put up sails to catch the breeze out of the square, away from the guard. She took a small step back, her eyes looking at the dark-haired gentleman briefly. He suddenly looked blurry to her, framed in a darkness that invaded from the edges of her sight. She took another step back: her head was swimming, and she noticed that the pain from her wounds had numbed.

She sought a third step, but never made it. A black faint took her at last, and she collapsed.

The leaves may whisper out a name
reminding of days gone,
and what may come when hearts grow tame
and darkness finds the dawn.
The wind, though soaked with sounds of war,
remembers sleepy dells,
recalls the sea beneath the stars
and knows the salty swells.

Find me where the bells are ringing,
wounds are stinging, sorrows clinging.
Take me where the trees are singing
in the peace of dreaming.

For somewhere boughs are bright with bloom
and breezes know a tune
to sweep away the nightly gloom
and wax the pale-faced moon.
And somewhere there's a hearth aglow
forgetful of things past,
a heart to press, and peace to know
when dreaming comes at last.

Take me where the clouds are raining,
dusk is waning, evening's gaining.
Take me where there is no straining
for the peace of dreaming.

Kaelan listened to the man's story, half-interested, and gave a dismissive, amused snort when it finished. Slowly, he dropped his bastard sword back into its sheathe, and turned his back on the crowd. Sorted out, then. Well, not really, but this was for mages, scholars and the like. Unless someone had some money and needed a sword-arm, his job here was done; not to mention the nasty business surrounding his former employer.

He made his way around the outside edge of the crowd, past the wounded, exhausted people, and turned south for a gate. Getting out was fairly important, just now. Answering for Kret's murder, though he didn't do it, was more than he cared to handle. He was several paces from the pillar when a guardsman showed up and started trying to put the crowd into an organized posse as opposed to the mob they'd been. Fair enough, and good for him. Keep them busy. The short, fat man's rotting corpse would let them know what had happened by morning, and Kaelan would be gone. At least, that was his plan. Somewhere to his left someone was dropping, but they were too far away to do anything about; he reminded himself it wasn't his problem, and kept walking.

When the  master bound strips of his nobleman's cloak around her wounds, Humbaba did not flinch. She accepted him, whom she had never smelled before. She did not usually take to people so. Was it a bad sign? Was she hurt so terribly that all her spirit had seeped out of her with her blood, leaving her unable to protest at a strange man's touch? Or did she trust the master because Movash was by her side, stroking the side of her neck, willing her to keep still and let herself be helped? Or maybe her animal senses simply knew what Movash was only just beginning to believe: that the master was a good man. He also helped the gaunt fellow who had called for help. The master picked him up – in the tall master's strong arms, the little wounded man looked like a child – and carefully, but without hesitation or fuss, placed him on his horse.

Movash watched. He now sat more relaxed: his legs crossed, one hand on Humbaba's back, who lay beside him, and was restless. She kept bending her neck backwards and guided her snout to one side of her back or the other, where she tried to lick her wounds, only to find that they had been bandaged and she could not reach them. Then she turned her head back to the front and rested it on her paws. However, she soon forgot about the bandages and turned her head backwards once more, to find once again that her tongue could do nothing. This she repeated every few blinks. Movash patted her gently, tried to calm her, and thought about who his master was.

The master approached the fierce lady who had saved Humbaba from the rat – but Movash did not hear what they spoke, for his attention was caught by the loud voice of the fat giant: the man who was the reason that all these people had gathered at the pest pillar. He was speaking to the kind elf, who had apparently treated his wounds. For the first time, Movash wondered where the fat giant came from. His accent was none that Movash had ever heard before – and, having been a circus child, Movash prided himself on being able to place most tongues spoken between Bardavos and the Tandalas.

Movash did not want to hear the story that the giant had to tell. War, killing, unspeakable things done to children – it was all too similar to Movash's own memories. He wished he could shut his ears, as he had shut his mouth. Yet he could not; he had to listen. The fat giant's words splashed into Movash's imagination like exploding sacks of liquid dye, creating painfully colourful scenes of cruelty and death.  He saw this man Caeltakkar, who had committed a vile deed for every hour that he had lived. Caeltakkar towered over the landscape of Northern Sarvonia, standing high over the trees and houses, dwarfing the mountains of the Tandala Highlands. His cough made a wind that blew the roofs off houses, and uprooted trees. When his eyes looked at you, his hatred made that you were struck by lightning. When he spoke, your ears curled up in fear and your soul shrunk like a dried fruit.

And then he remembered his visions. Only an hour ago, the spirit or the demon or whatever it had been that had inhabited the pest pillar had sent visions to Movash. While he had sat on the ground, swarmed by rats, he had dreamed himself the destroyer of cities, the crusher of people, the bringer of death. Was it Caeltakker himself who had thus spoken to him? But why would he choose to send his message to an insignificant little boy? Movash frowned, and for a moment, he even stopped stroking Humbaba's neck. Something did not feel right. In his visions, Movash had destroyed everything in his path. And yet, at the same time, he had felt quite helpless, as if nothing could ever be right again, however much he enjoyed trampling things into the ground. Humbaba nudged Movash's hand with her snout, and he resumed his stroking of her, albeit more absent-mindedly than before. Caeltakkar did not sound like a helpless man. Was it really him who had sent Movash those horrible images? But what did they mean? What had Caeltakker wanted to say?

"Big mouth and very aggressive behaviour to commoners he has, but in real battle very little true courage he has I observed. I trust him do not."

The dwarf nodded absentmindedly to the elf's comment. Although he tried his best to listen to what he has to say, what the burly man was imparting is much more important that his opinion. And besides, is it cowardice to save one's self from death? Thorgas took himself as an example. If he had not been surrounded by the killer rodents, he would have ran away instead of standing his ground and defending himself. History will not remember how dramatic one's failed attempt at heroism against overwhelming odds looked like, and only the living get to tell their tales.

As the man told the story of the pillar, it occurred to him that the town hides more secrets than he cared to discover. But what does this Caeltakker had to do with a pillar dedicated to a plague? From what he had gathered, he was an evil tyrant who abused the people under him. That doesn't make him special. History is filled with men willing to rape the very land they conquered for their own pleasure. What separated this creature from the others was that he was able to rally animals and other-worldly beings under his command. To the dwarf this was the most disturbing news of all.

His musing was cut short when a town guard took the responsibility of organizing the rag tag group of strangers. He began shouting orders at them. Normally the stubborn dwarf would not let a tallfolk boss him around. It's not that he is uncooperative, but dwarves are naturally obstinate and would follow no command unless it came from a dwarf of higher authority. He did notice the need for order in this chaos though, so he shuffled his way somewhere near the middle of the gathering, motioning to his pig to do the same. The boar sat down on the cold pavement, choosing a location where there were no pools of blood.

Could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?"

Thorgas did not speak up. Although he can provide some light whenever needed, he was not about to announce to the group that he was a sorcerer. The dwarf knew well what town guards do to magic users, whom the public often blame for bad harvests, epidemics, and tragedies, to name a few. Hopefully the chaos that ensued earlier covered his use of magic.

When the gruff man from before began to speak, it snapped Calron from the strange trance the woman had put him under. It was a strange feeling, almost as if he'd had some sort of buzz occurring beneath his very skin. From his vantage point he could see the man talking with the elf and those that had gathered near by. In relative silence he listened to the man's tale, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and the whimpers that came from Movash's pet.

As the man finished, another voice called out that the people in the square should return to the tavern. For a moment he'd forgotten the woman whom he'd just spoken too, and at this point turned around to address her once again. Slowly she had begun to take some steps backwards, but just as quickly her eyes rolled and she pitched forward. Sensing her movement before she feel, he stepped in quickly and caught her before she could fall to the floor. Taking her, he laid her gently on the ground, and in the moonlight she seemed to him all the more fair and sweet. It was then that he noticed the wound upon her side, and with the remainder of his jacket he bound up her wounds as best he could without jostling her around to much.

He then returned to Movash, and his pet offering to help them into Cloud's saddle. "It'll be easier to keep track of you two if we all stay together," he said to the boy gesturing for him to climb onto Cloud's sturdy back. At his master's commands, the horse lowered itself onto it's haunches, and waited for the boy and dog to board. Picking up the injured lady, Calron maneuvered her onto his back, and standing up began to walk in the general direction of the tavern. He was rattled, but his brain was still relatively clear, and despite the darkness he could more or less recall which way the tavern was. Had he more hands, or another horse he would have offered to carry still more of the injured, but as it was he'd already taken as much as he could, quite literally, carry.

Humbaba looked at the huge horse with evident scepticism. Movash, eager to follow the master's wish, only got his limping underwhelp to even go near Cloud by half dragging, half shoving her along. The master scared Movash a little. He always knew what he wanted, and was always confident that other people would do as he told them. And the way he lifted the injured lady onto his back showed that if others did not act on his behalf, he was well capable of taking care of things on his own. He must be very strong, Movash thought. It would not be easy to satisfy him.

Cloud had lowered himself, but still he looked like a mountain to Movash and Humbaba, whose bodies were stooping and hunched from exhaustion. On Cloud's back there half sat, half hung the body of the gaunt little man who could fight fireballs. He had not spoken since he had called for help. Right now, Movash could not see him move. Was he even breathing? Carefully, gently, using the fingertips of his left hand, Movash prodded the man's shoulder. He wanted to make sure the man was alive; he did not feel like sharing a saddle with a corpse. Next to Movash, Humbaba was still. She had not uttered a sound since she had escaped from underneath the giant rat. She turned her nose in the direction of the limp figure in the horse's saddle, sniffing noiselessly. She, too, was trying to find out whether the man was dead.

Gurrant looked at the people around him.  Perhaps it was his wound making him light headed, but looking at them, and how they had fought against what ever evil they had been subjected to from the Pest Pillar.  The very facty that thisa happened put Gurrant ill at ease.  Could this mean that Caeltakker was closer to coming back?  In what form?

He grimaced as a sharp pain ran through the fresh stitches on his head.  This only served to confirm that he was goiing to need help if he was to stop Caeltakker.  If this episode was an audition for a job helping him, these people passed.

" 'ey.  If'n ahm gonna go after Caeltakker, then ahm gonna need 'elp.  If'n this is what 'appens 'ere, then ah 'spect it's gonna be a lot 'arder the closer we gets ta Caeltakker Keep.  Ah would be might obliged ifn some of you would 'elp me and join me on my journey there.  If'n Caeltakker makes good on 'is word, and the rumours are true, tis gonna be much worse that what we saw 'ere tanight."

Seh'nara raised her head from its furry resting palace. She had taking time - perhaps, too much time - in composing herself, and in that period, her strength had returned. Not as much as it was before the midnight ordeal, but enough for her to rise to her feet, a quick snap of her fingers bringing Silver to heel. The night shone down on the now silent plaza, and as the lass breathed in the coppery air, she listened intently at the tale the drunk was weaving.

She had not moved one step from her spot, however. Instead, her emerald orbs observed the rag-tag group. They had already seemed to form some sort of mini-alliance between themselves - bonds forged in the heat of battle. The nobleman had his little apprentice by his side, as well as an unconscious... Kari-ii, it seemed, craddled in his arms. On his majestic horse was flopped another casualty of battle - the firemage that she saw earlier. And the most unsettling of all, some sort of wolf-dog-shadow creature that accompanied the mute half-fey. It was something she had never seen before, and it was with a sigh that she realised Silver would not play nicely with that particular pet. Off to the side, the guard who had earlier been making suggestions, had fallen silent. And the dwarf and the orc, both had at least a passing aquaintance with each other - it was evident in their whispered exchange.

The drunk was the worst of them all, however. He fled in battle, was both obnoixious and arrogant, and now, expected them all to follow him in battle against some terrible supernatural horror. Which was, Seh was certain, led and controlled by the Goddess of Death herself. Her dislike for the human deepened with each second, and with each word he spoke. But still, evil was evil, and she might as well see the tale through. Narrowing her eyes, Seh'nara walked forwards to the group.

"I'll join you." The statement was simple and to the point. She was too tired to question the human's real motive - after all, this was the very man who fled for his life in the battle. Why would he suddenly be so eagar to run headlong to disaster? Perhaps, some sort of ancestral connection to this... Caeltakker? She didn't know, but she resolved to find out as soon as she could.
Back in the tavern, Seh'nara sank down into the warm water of her bath. She had escaped the battle with nothing more than minor scratches, nothing that some salve wouldn't fix. Tomorrow would be the next step of this horror story she had been dragged into. Hopefully, the end of the tale wouldn't see her dead.

The dwarf turned around and walked away from the crowd, towards the direction of the inn. He had enough of all this dangers to last him for a while, and risking his neck just to save a non-dwarf town from impending catastrophe is not a very good motivator. The gruff man's request for accompaniment is not acceptable. Although he can't hold himself very well in a fight, he's large and brutish. For the dwarf it's enough to get to the keep alive. What he wanted to do to this Caeltakker though, is another story. Before long he sighted the familiar creaking sign of the inn and not far from it is the stables. He led Buri inside, placed a few fruits in his trough along with his mush and poured a bucket of water into another. He tossed some hay into his stall, making sure he's warm and comfortable for the evening, and left the building.

He stepped through the doors of the tavern and stopped by the bar to order a pitcher of beer and a mug. The dwarf then went straight to the room he rented, pulled a chair and placed it beside a window, and poured himself a mug of the brown liquid. He's going to need some heavy drinking in order to temporarily forget the events that happened that night and to get a good sleep. He emptied the mug in one glup and poured himself another. After emptying it as fast as the first one he decided to lay mug on the table and drink from the pitcher instead. Nobody's going to see him do it anyway. No reason to be afraid that someone will find it offensive or disgusting.

A few mouthfuls later, he finally finished his drink. He went to the washroom for a bath, and promptly came out in his favorite dwarf pajamas, the one with little printed beer mugs. He went to the bed and sat down, thinking about the story of the burly man before sleeping. Then he thought of something. What if that Caeltakker has a library in that keep, complete with tomes, books, and scrolls of magic? That loot would be invaluable for the mages of Kor Mithrid!

It's decided then. Tomorrow he's going to join the party to the keep. But first he has to get some sleep.

Mouse stood quietly by as the man's story unfolded. One elfess offered her assistance, others turned away without saying anything. He wasn't sure if that meant they weren't going to help, or if they just had not decided yet. He wasn't sure himself what he should do. He wanted to help, but he also remembered his flight from the rats, so he was not sure what he would be able to do. Still, someone as evil as this Caeltakker person should not be allowed to come back. There must be something he could do, even if he was next to useless in battle situations. No matter that he really disliked the person who was supposed to be leading them.

Having taken his decision, he nodded at the man. "For whatever it's worth, I will join you." he said. Then he turned away and made his waddling way towards the tavern. There was still the problem of Pepik, of course. She could be anywhere right now, and he should find her before he went back inside. Luck seemed to be with him today, however, as he found her standing near the tavern's stables - the last place where she had been where she had felt safe. Purely out of joy, Mouse laughed out loud, and at the sound of his voice she came to meet him, though with a reproachful look in her eyes. It was almost like she knew he was going to lead her into danger again. Still, he hoped there would not be anything quite so dangerous as giant rats and fireballs in the near future.

He rubbed her nose for a while to placate her, and then he stabled her, before heading to bed himself. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

He was fading fast. Yet he always repaid his debts. He knew that these people deserved a sign of graditude and of course he must find a way to help them if he could.

But for now this would do. He turned his head to face the young boy who had heard him and even perhaps his master. He did not know he could not see.

"Thank you."

Then he lost conciousness. For the third time this night. Which could not be healthy.

Adventure equals fun.

That was what the light-haired elf had learnt in the few hundred years of his existence. Life was boring without fun. When boredom strikes, one has nothing to do. And when one has nothing to do, one merely wastes the rest of one's life away, until something exciting comes along to relieve that boredom. Therefore, in a twisted sense of logic, the key to not wasting one's life - and in effect, the meaning of life - was adventure. Fun. The whole lot. So when the story of Caeltakker was loose in the air around - the story that practically screamed 'Danger!' and 'Adventure!' in every way - and when their situation was now so very apparent, Ridgen has already decided one thing - he was going to go along to wherever this would take them, even if it was only for the sake of it.

"Very well, I'll join you in your uh... search. Journey. Whatever. Seems like you could use my help, anyway." The elf's good eye scanned over the remainder of the survivors - his would-be companions, if they agreed to go. He could only recognise five, creatures excluded, and of those five, a mere two by name. There was that nobleman/really posh, overdramatic person that claimed to be a knight, and his new squire(?), the mute thief. Then there was the Ka'rii that saved them tonnes of trouble by slaughtering the brunt of them giant rats - probably their most able fighter. Then there was the dwarven mage, mister Thorgas from the Kann (who Ridgen desperately hoped did not recognise him, for fear of being declared crazy or something) and another fire mage, Roy Tmolf - Ridgen wasn't sure what he thought of the guy, but they've been through a number of things together, so he could trust that pale mage. Sort of.

"I dunno 'bout you guys but I'm going to go grab myself some shuteye. I'll see you's in the mornin'."

Gurrant listened to the few acceptances to his offer.  But while he listened, he watched the back of the huge warrior as he walked away.  This man didn't understand the stakes that were at risk.  Or didn't care.

" 'eh!  You there.  Big guy.  Ain't ya got no in'erest in what's a gonna 'appen?"

Gurrant took a few steps in the direction of the hulking warrior.  He raised his voice even more.

"If'n ya dunna care 'bout yer fellow man, 'ow 'bout gold?"  Gurrant turned his head a moment to look back at the others to ensure they too heard.

"I 'appen ta know that there be gold where we're goin'.  Ya think comin' back from the dead and buildin' an army dunna cost a pretty san or two?  I dunna care for none of it, I jus' want the bastard ta stay cold.  Anything o' value we find, you all canna split between and betwixt ya."

Kaelan stopped walking, withdrew the pace he'd been in the middle of making, and slowly turned only his upper body to face the beaten drunkard, brows furrowed in what could have been angry distaste, or deep thought.  Money. At least enough to make back what he'd left on Kret's body. And it wasn't like he needed to come back to Nyermersys when it was all through. He finally nodded, a single, slow gesture, and after another brief pause, thinking thoroughly, replied, "Meet you outside of town."

He continued on his path. Staying at the inn tonight would be suicide anyway, and it would be pretty well impossible to miss a party like this one promised to be outside the gates. Just keep one eye open and sleep in the brush. Wouldn't be his worst night ever.

Manik didnt understand, had he even spoken? No one was moving the wounded where he suggested. No one was getting torches. No one even voiced acceptance of his offer of a surgeon. He thought of exclaiming these points again but in a parade ground bark, that would surely get them moving. He thought of it but decided not to. If they didnt want order and help then that was their choice, he would do what he could.

One man in nice clothes was ripping up his jacket to bind wounds. And loading up he walked away carrying wounded himself and on his horse. Manik started walking towards the small company. He would offer again, why would the man not want the surgeon? Perhaps he hadn't heard?

Manik had only taken a couple steps though when he heard a groan from across the square. His head snapped around and he listened. He could hear the bearded man requesting help taking down this Caelttakker. He even heard people agree to help. Help they had not agreed to give when he had made his suggestions. He for the most part paid it no mind, he was listening for the source of the groan. And then he heard it again and he was running across the square scouring the shadows. His boots were loud on the cobblestone and he cursed them while trying to perk his ears to any sound. Another low grumble and it was close. He dropped to his knees by the bundle of debris that had made the sound. In the darkness he strained his eyes and his heart gave a jump of elation. It was Redrik! And the form groaned again so he was alive! He played his hands quickly over the form trying to assess how injured Redrik was. It wasnt good. There was a lot of blood and his breathing was shallow but laboured. "Redrik. You poor bastard, Redrik," Manik whispered frantically. He pulled off his cloak and draped it over Redrik. Keeping him warm was all he knew to do, his wounds were too extensive to do anything about in the dark. Manik spun around and yelled into the dark, "Help, someone come and help!" Now that he was facing into the square he noticed two laterns, and that two figures holding them were coming towards him.

]"Sarge! Hey what in Coor's cold cock 'appened here? Are those corpses...of....giant rats?" It was Ivar, a guard of Manik's squad. And the other figure was Ivar's partner for the night watch Burly Pete.

"Thank the Gods for you two! Redrik is seriously injured. Burly Pete I need you to go get help from the garrison. Ivar you stay here with that light and we'll see if we can help Redrik some," ordered Manik.
Burly Pete held out his latern over Redrik and Manik heard both of the men's breath intake. The light cast by the latern only made it obvious how bad Redrik was doing. His face was pale and there was a puddle of blood extending out from under Manik's cloak. "Right Sarge," breathed Burly Pete, "I'll be back wit help." And Manik watched Pete turn and start a quick stride south to the garrison. He also noticed most of the civilians had left the square, oh well, he would have to deal with that later.

Manik turned back to Redrik and Ivar leaned over with the lantern. Manik lifted his cloak enough to get a look at the damage. It was'nt good. "Stay with us Redrik, you got those devil spawn to look after, no quitting yet for you Private," said Manik to Redrik's still form, and he prepared to start bandaging him up a bit now that he had the light to do so. Manik's fear for his friend kept him from feeling the biting night wind. He realized he had forgotten to tell Burly Pete what help to bring. He wanted at least two squads and the surgeon. One for clean up and control and one to question the civilians about what happened. Oh well. Help was coming, and he would do his best for his soldier; he would do his best for his friend.