Adventures of Caelereth

Deklitch directed Tak and Termat down the main street of Cemphiria towards the tavern that Dek and Tervin had arranged earlier on for their use. Tervin said that the tavern was not far from the city library and the Archmagi had hinted that a trip to the library might be in order. Dek had noticed as they travelled that Tervin had directed more than one glance at the indigo eyed elf that had Dek more than a bit worried. They had eventually reached a tavern named the 'Grothar's Child Tavern', with a silhouette of a Centuraurian Horse on its hind legs on the sign above the entry into the common room. There were stables there as well, with more than enough space for the two carts and ponies.

Inside the tavern there was a fireplace with a fire dancing merrily behind the grate, as well as a number of tables. Tavern wenches were present as was a barkeep and a cook and there were a number of customers in attendance as well. Most of their fellow customers paid no attention to the group that entered, however there were a group of three, hoods pulled over their heads and robes pulled in tight around then that looked at the newcomers intently, before turning back to their mugs that were filled with ale or something similar.

As they approached a large table in the opposite corner to where the three men were sitting, one which was, strangely enough, away from other customers and which was large enough for all of them to sit around it comfortably, Tervin said to Alyr, "I must speak with you urgently, Alyr, and in private."

"You and your stodgy old man companion return, Dekkie," one of the tavern wenches said, approaching Deklitch and the group, "and I see you brought some other friends as well. Will you now spend time with me?"

She leaned forward and gave Dek a viewing of her breasts.

"Ah, not at the moment," Dek replied, "we're quite busy, and I'm sure my companions would appreciate a drink and perhaps something to eat. What is there to eat and drink?"

The tavern wench sighed and gave a run down on the food and drink on offer, mostly standard fare for a tavern in this part of Santharia. She looked around the group expectedly, obviously waiting for drink and food orders.

Anyone looking over towards where the three figures were sitting would see that one of the three had left ... and that the other two seemed intent on their drinks and conversation.

Evening was falling in a descent like a gentle spring rain. Twilight was slipping silently down the rooftops and pooling in the city streets, mingling with young shadows and dark winds. The citizens were still upon the streets, though the crowds seem to be thinning, and Alýr watched them as she walked with her group to the tavern. Cemphiria was an old city, one that still drew a great deal of respect from, not only Voldar, but the capital of New Santhala. Hundreds of years ago, some of the most powerful religious figures in the kingdom sat here, in this city known for having the largest temple to Armeros in the kingdom.

Indigo eyes noticed the tall spires and darkening sky through the gray hood of her cloak. Although her hood hid most of her countenance, her racial heritage was still easy to identify for the careful observer, for she moved as lightly as a breeze across the sea.

She followed Dek and Tervin to the tavern, and felt herself ease at the warm blaze and the bubbly barmaids, though a lingering shadow flickered in her heart. She felt Tervin touch her shoulder, and she turned to him.

"I must speak with you urgently, Alýr, and in private."

Alýr nodded, and she gave a comforting smile to Dek whose vague anxiety had not gone unnoticed. Then she turned and walked to the back with the very solemn-looking Archmage.

Roy had remained silent through out the trip. Drinking in as much information as he could. He quite agreed with the arch mage on the obvious notion that they should visit the library but he was strangely hungry and would quite enjoy a meal.

When the wench was prepared to take their orders. he stepped forward and said  "I shall take water. As well as bread." Then gave the bar wench the appropriate amount of coins.

He walked over to a table that was in a reletively safe position. A corner hid from most where he could view all. This served him well for people were most lickely to act as they normally did when they didn't think they were being watched and in a tavern there was much to see.

After the red robed mage had ordered his food and drink Gilith stepped forward with only slight hesitation. There was something usettleing about him. Yet he could not quite identify it. Mead some bread and meat he ordered. After paying for his food he took his seat. He agreed with the strange mages chose of position. But he was reluctant to sit near him. So he chose a table against the wall. When he had settled himself into his chair he shifted his injured arm ever so slowly into a more comfortable position. Then he removed his bow arrows and sword and set them against the wall at his side. He was however not going to be taken by surprise so he made sure that he concealed his injured arm with his cloak. Then placed his leg on the other attempting to hide the long knife inside of his boot with his cloak as well.

Quael's stomach protested with hunger, and after the cart ride she felt very queezy. But food would hopefully relieve the sickness that she felt.

"Some water and a few pieces of bread please." Once Quael had spoken her order to the lady, she paid, and went to sit down. She saw the ominous red robed man sitting in a corner by himself, he seems to like being places where he can keep an eye on everyone. But hunger wills out, and everything except food leaves her mind.

Quael decides to sit by Gilith, no one really looks like they want to talk much, except Alyr and her reuntied friend. But it doesn't matter, no one has to talk, Quael is content with silence. She does ask Gilith something though, a common concern for a fellow party member, "How are you holding up Gilith?"

Tak still felt sick.  He joined the others in the tavern for a meal, he was famished after his earlier episode.  His stomach still troubled him, as he found out while trying to eat some of his own supplies of salted meats only to have them come right back up.

Tak climbed up a bar stool, and still had to stand on top of it to reach the counter.  “Excuse me, miss, do you have any taller chairs?”

The girl serving him seemed very amused with his appearance, “Afraid not sir.  I could fetch a few crates from the back.” 

“That would be fine.”  Tak climbed back down and walked over to his friends.  After a little hassle positioning the crates (and some vertical assistance from the bar girl) Tak sat atop a crate stacked on a chair across from Gilith and Quáel.  “If you would be so kind, I'd also like a light soup and some bread.” 

After eating Tak looked over at his friends, waived, and said, “Hello!”  He was starting to feel better. 

"How are you holding up Gilith?""

"Fine. not much to worry about." Gilith responded.

then he heard "Hello!"

Gilith nodded his head towards Tak.

"Hello Tak Hows your eh.. Stomach?"

Gilith asked. He liked the small gnome. But he did not entirely wish to be anywhere near him if his answer was anything less than completely settled.

Irid looked around the table where everyone was seated - everyone except Alyr and the mage that had met them, Tervin. The meaning of Martje's words (part of them, anyway) was clear enough now, here were the two companions that were to meet them. That still did not explain the matter of the necklace, of course, or even how she had known about them.

She felt only slightly part of this ragtag group of travellers, mostly because she did not really know any of them and was still waiting to form a judgement of their character, even for the darkelf. For example, she did not understand how the first ones to order food would fill their stomachs on just bread and water. Perhaps it was the wolfish part of her speaking, rather than her elvish side, but she knew she would need more if she were to really heal properly. At least Gilith ordered some meat as well, which was good - he needed to heal more than anyone.

Turning her golden eyes to the waiting barmaid, she ordered a bowl of stew and an artwine. Then she sat back, deciding that if she was ever to tell the others about her affliction, now was the time to do it, even though Alyr was not here. Everyone was more or less quiet.

"I have something to tell you." she said, not so loudly that the whole inn would hear but loud enough that it carried to her companions. When she had their attention, she went on: "Something happened some years ago, I am still uncertain what exactly, but since then I have experienced black-outs at times. During these times, I am told I act rather strangely - to be exact, somewhat wolfish. How long these spells last is hard to say, as it varies, but when I wake up I never remember anything from this time. Since we will be travelling together, I thought you should know about this, so that if it should happen in your presence, you will not be surprised. I have told Alyr about this, and she had no problems with me staying on."

She stopped speaking, finally having had her say. Now she had no secrets from her companions - not any secrets that mattered, anyway. She sat back again, not realising how much she had tensed during her little speech. She did not like speaking about her affliction, but the others deserved to know - and she'd rather tell them now than them treating her with distrust if it should happen without forewarning.

The tension in her body did not go entirely away. She was on edge, fretful though she managed to sit still. She would have to learn the reactions of the others before she could really feel better. Or worse, depending on what they actually said. She looked from one to the other to gauge their reaction.

Remis let his hood fall back just a little as evening settled in. The brilliance of the light no longer burned his eyes, and he felt revived a bit in the gloaming. While he had felt a little bewildered by the cart speeding to Cemphiria, he hid it well, and the quickness did not bother him: he was used to moving fast.

As the others headed to the bar, he paused, looking at the city. He was sure he had passed this city before, and yet to look at it, it seemed rather unfamiliar.

Having been so long in the cart, close to others--including that damn, wriggling lizard (he despised psyrpents)--he felt the need to stay back and let himself recover from the annoyance of the crowd. The more time he spent with the group, the more he disliked them, all of them: not just that hulking lizard, but that annoying little gnome who hopped around with spastic pyromaniacal glee, that sarcastic blue-haired elf whose overly-cheery attitude needed a slow and painful death, that quiet arrogant elf who had neither the light of a wood elf nor the darkness of a dark elf, that uppity dandy with the cravat who clearly needed to be devoured by blood-thirsty hounds, that alcoholic sailor woman whose delicate response to everything seemed to be to fervently slash it with her sword, that brooding fire mage who seemed to imply maniacal laughter after every utterance and shifty glance, the black-eyed elf whose sudden attacks made him want to put her out of her misery... slowly. And that human with the wounded shoulder--he needed to be thrown into the Arvins Festival to be hunted down for sport ...and now there was also this decrepit human made and overly-excitable boy!

All of them had begun to get on his nerves. Especially that damned wood elf with the indigo eyes. She was medling, foolish, and too full of light; he longed to snuff out the source of her glow.

He turned back a bit. He had no allegiance now; he had agreed to come as far as Cemphiria, and now that that was done, he could go back to Voldar to resume where he had left off. Though that elf still owed him money. He brooded a little when he saw eyes watching him from the darkness and saw the demon-like human Defalgren step into view.

"Hello, my dark friend," he spoke.

Remis did not answer the demon, but he met his eyes and felt more inviting to his presence; it was comfortable to be around darkness again.

"I have come, as promised to see where your loyalties lie," he said, and smiled slightly. "Will you follow the elfess Alýr?"

"No," said the dark elf, coolly but immediately and assertively.

"Then you will join us?"

"Why must I join either of you?"

"Because, in the future, you may have to. I do not know your past, but I know you seek knowledge. What better knowledge to bring back to your tribe than the knowledge of the Netherworld? A knowledge that can arm you and your kin with great and powerful weapons of destruction."

Remis looked at his dark companion quietly, thinking, before he finally said, "What do you want me to do?" His voice hinted his suspicions.

Defalgren smiled, but he knew that the dark elf did not trust him entirely. Winning loyalty was slow, and he had to make things easy. "Just tell me what the group of companions possesses? Who has the box?"

"I don't know," said Remis.

Defalgren's eyes flashed with anger until he realized that Alýr had no reason to tell him who hid the box. He tried to stifle the tones of his frustrations, but they echoed a little in his words. "Fine. Do they have anything else? How did the group get here so fast?"

"An old woman in the woods with some strange powers. She called herself Martje, and when we arrived she gave the wolf-eyed elf some peculiar green stone, like a rough emerald."

"So they have a fragment," Defalgren said softly, more to himself than anyone, then met the eyes of the dark elf. "Thank you, my dark friend. I shall consider us in allegiance, and for your help, will tell you that it is a nice night, and I recommend against entering the part where your ex-companions have come to board." Remis looked at Defalgren almost questioningly, but the demon-man began strolling. "Come and walk with me around the block, and let us discuss our new alliance."

Remis was hesitant and suspicious, but unafraid. The two figures walked down the darkening streets of Cemphiria, away from the tavern.

Termat followed the newcomer down the broad central street.The two with whom they now travelled were a curious pair, he decided, and he couldn't quite work out why they were travelling together, or even why they were now a part of their group. He did, however, notice that the elder of the pair seemed concerned about their fearless leader, and he had gleaned enough from the few words that had been exchanged to realise that the three of them were acquainted. As the evening had drawn in, he had put his jacket back on and was carefully rearranging the sit of his cravat when they stopped outside a tavern.

As the young newcomer and others entered the inn, Termat drew his cart into the stables that stood by the door. Unhitching his donkey, he rubbed its head briefly and led it to a water trough for a much-needed drink, before opening the smaller of his cases. On top of various necessities of travel lay his cutlass, and in a locked box was a sizeable sum of money - Termat was in funds, and after their rapid traversal of ground it was no bad thing. Unlocking the box, he took out a small bag with enough money to pay for a good meal and the night's accomodation before closing the case and, carrying it in one hand out of the stable and into the tavern.

A fire seemed to laugh in the grate, chuckling at some private joke, as Termat stepped through the door. Many of the others were already established; Alýr and the old man were engaged in a discussion that looked deep, meaningful, and very much not to be interrupted. Glancing around some more, Termat saw the barmaid helping the diminutive owner of the other cart a hand in clambering onto what appeared to be a crate atop an ordinary chair.

Amused, he stepped across the tavern floor and stood waiting; when the barmaid had finished, he greeted her with a slight dipping of his upper torso and a smile.

“Good evening. I'd like a room for the night, please.”

“Of course. Is that all, or would you like anything to eat or drink this evening?”

“Both, please. I’ll have a glass of wine straight away and then if you could give me an idea of the food I can get here that would be excellent.”

As she hurried to get a drink, Termat sank into a chair. If the group were staying downstairs he wouldn’t retire to his room and change this evening.

It was nearly 20 minutes before Alýr and the Archmage Tenvin Jolith reappeared. The human mage appeared troubled, his brows furrowed with troughs of worry in his already wrinkled countenance. There was a trembled stillness in his eyes, as though the stolidity of his heart were caught between rage and despair. He walked slowly, with every step trying to regain himself.

He seemed comforted to watch the elf in front of him, for she moved like wind, and his expression seemed to remark that, if she should evanesce into a wandering breeze and flutter into the cool expanse of night, the change would be hardly unexpected. Her eyes were calm and kind--though deep in the glimmering indigo, there was perhaps a shadow of sorrow, as though she had turned again to some troubling fate and the darkness still lingered there as a reflection.

The elf took a seat at the table of her companions next to Deklitch, and noticed that Remis was not among them; he must have decided to part with the group upon arrival in Cemphiria. This was, after all, the plan all along. Tervin Jolith, for his part, stood. The peculiarity of the absence of the archmage and indigo-eyed elf was not explained. Rather, the Archmage's gaze into the eyes of those seated around the table was enough to inspire curious silence, but it was Alýr her spoke: "Have you found something regarding the box in the tomes of Ximax?"

The Archmage nodded, as though suddenly remembering the fact. He quietly pulled out rolled parchment from his bag upon which he had inscribed pertinent notes and information from the ancient, dusky tomes of Ximax. They were covered in small, somewhat messy handwriting but spotted with contrastingly neat sketches. Occasional ink-stains from his quill marred places in the text. As he rolled the pages out across the wooden table, he spoke in a gruff, woody voice--which seemed all the more gruffer for the solemnity of his words:

"According to the ancient records, which came from fragments of scripture from across Sarvonia, this legend hails back to the time of the fall of the empire of Fá'áv'cál'âr. The great, mythological elven empire fell through the righteousness of the elven empress Kásh'áv'taylá, who believe Avá alone was the only god deserving worship. The dark god Coór was furious, and rallied the other gods and goddess to smite the elves.

He shuffled through the parchment to show a dark, shadowy dragon. Its wings looked dark and boney, its snout long and mean, and its body looked like some figure of nightmare; even in illustration, it looked terrible. "In the ensuing destruction of the empire, Coór twisted the form of a fire dragon, linking its essence to the Netherworld to make her chaotic, dark, and powerful. The twisted creature, later called Cór'efér, or Night Fire, reigned death upon the elves until it was finally brought down.

"As life left the great Cór'efér and it fell from the black sky, much of its form faded, giving in to the great powers of the Netherworld. By the time it hit the ground, all that was left of it was an eye, which became a portal to the Netherworld."

Here the mage began to again shuffle through papers as he spoke. "The eye, which had hardened into a dark, glowing orange-red crystal, was brought before fourteen elder elves." Among the notes and scribbles was the sketch of a circular object with a dark core. "It could not be destroyed, and so the elves had it locked in a box, one that could not be destroyed by earth, wind, water, or fire."

The mage pointed to a key, broken into thirteen parts. "They forged a key for it, then broke that key into thirteen pieces. One elder took the box and each of the others took the thirteen pieces."

"What happened to the elder elves?" asked the indigo-eyed elf quietly.

"They scattered to the winds, across Sarvonia. The key fragments were lost to time and memory. But that's not the end of the story."

The archmage shuffled through the parchment for the third time. "In the year a.S. 147, a curious and brilliant mage and tinkerer named Selma Ocridge came across the box in her travels, and developed a device for locating the pieces of the key, though she could only adjust it to point to twelve of the thirteen fragments, and even then only one at time." He pointed to a picture of the device, which looked very much like a watch. And looked very, very familiar. "She began searching for the fragments, but didn't get very far; in 151, she left her home in Ximax with the box, the fragment locator device, and two key fragments she had found. A couple months later she was found dead upon the shore of the Ancytharian Sea, dead--the box, device, and fragments gone from her possession."

As though overwhelmed with the ominous darknesses in the history and the heaviness of the task for those who bore the box, the Archmage slowly sat down, looking almost defeated. "Now it seems, after all these years, the box has resurfaced again. And comes to us pursued."

"Hello Tak Hows your eh.. Stomach?" Gilith asked, casting a wary look at Tak, he seemed ready to jump out of his seat.

“Much better, terrible thing traveling at high speeds.  It reminds me of my Combustion Boots, but much much much faster!”  Tak grinned, he had a new idea for the combustion boots and was fiddling through his pockets for a notebook when Irid came up to the group and announced, "I have something to tell you. Something happened some years ago, I am still uncertain what exactly, but since then I have experienced black-outs at times. During these times, I am told I act rather strangely - to be exact, somewhat wolfish. How long these spells last is hard to say, as it varies, but when I wake up I never remember anything from this time. Since we will be travelling together, I thought you should know about this, so that if it should happen in your presence, you will not be surprised. I have told Alyr about this, and she had no problems with me staying on."

Tak’s eyes went wide as saucers, he had heard stories of fantastic beings that could transform into wolves, but he thought they were fantasy, things the Golgnome mothers would tell their children to keep them home. “You’re an Uluvar?!”  Tak finally found his notebook and wrote ‘Human Form’ at the top of the page and began to sketch Irid.  Not happy with the sketch he hopped off his chair (almost falling flat on his face), and shouted, “To the library!”  He raced over to where Irid sat, grabbed ahold of her arm and said, “Come on, I need to study you!  Those old stuffy gnomes back home will never believe this!”

“Much better, terrible thing traveling at high speeds.  It reminds me of my Combustion Boots, but much much much faster!”  

Gilith smiled.

Ah very good." he responded.

Then Irid said

"I have something to tell you. Something happened some years ago, I am still uncertain what exactly, but since then I have experienced black-outs at times. During these times, I am told I act rather strangely - to be exact, somewhat wolfish. How long these spells last is hard to say, as it varies, but when I wake up I never remember anything from this time. Since we will be travelling together, I thought you should know about this, so that if it should happen in your presence, you will not be surprised. I have told Alyr about this, and she had no problems with me staying on."

The gnome responded to this with much enthusiasim. Saying something about Ulver and a library.

Now waite. That wasn't right. She had said a few years ago. Ulver so far as he knew not to say that he knew much. Were like what they were from birth.

"Hold on a second Tak. If she said something happened a few years ago. Doesn't that mean that she couldn't be an ulver. I mean or thats to say I always thought they were just born the way they are."

His words stumbled and he knew it. He was never very good at persuasion.

He looked over to Irid.

"I'm guessing your not an Ulver?" He asked.

The psyrpent followed his companions, dragging the maul behind him with its head on the ground and raking the dirt as he walked. He still felt uneasy from the cart trip, in contrast with his dog, who even now is jumping around the lizardman. At last they've reached their destination, a city outside the forest. Serpentfang stared back at curious onlookers, whom he guessed had never seen a psyrpent before. Some of the peasants held their rakes, hoes, shovels, and scythes closer to them, obviously scared but defensive. They are wary, and it's understandable. Humans have always feared that which they do not understand. The psyrpent gripped his maul all the more tighter, should one of these squishies decides to attack him.

A few minutes later they arrived at a tavern, and the rest of the group went in. Everyone except him. He saw how the townspeople looked at him. They fear him, and they are right to do so. But inside that establishment he'll be vastly outnumbered by the squishies, and facing a dozen or so drunks will be hard especially in a small, cramped room such as that. Perhaps waiting outside would be a much better idea.

He was looking for the stables or some other building similar to it when a few of the townspeople from the tavern noticed him. He averted his eyes from them, and taking hold of David's collar he led the dog towards a shaded area, near where a few barrels and some crates stood. He sat down and leaned against a barrel, taking out some more of the dried jerky and giving it to his dog. The men followed him, taking note of the protruding scales in his bag.

"I know what ye be," said a man with a huge, bulbous nose and a messy beard. "I saw a few o yer kind guardin' caravans."

"Tha's a mighty fine set of coat ye got there, Scaly. Mind ye give 'em to some poor folk, seein as ye don't need it?" A lanky young man was eyeing his bag.

The psyrpent flicked his tongue in and out, trying to smell the group of people. He caught a whiff of alcohol in them, which meant they are drunk.

One of the men, a large rotund human with a shaven and oiled head, was obviously offended by the psyrpent's actions. "I dunno where ya from, but in this town, stickin' out yer tongue at strangers be a rude thing." He walked towards the lizardman and attempted to pull out the molted scale. His swagger was met with a powerful shove and he went rolling towards his companions. The psyrpent stood up. He's had enough.

The bald man stood up and spat out the dirt he accidentally licked. "Wrong move, Scaly!" He reached for a rusty dagger on his belt and made a move towards the psyrpent, but suddenly dropped the weapon, knelt down and held his head between his hands. His eyes were closed tightly and he was convulsing with pain. The other humans gathered around him, confused and trying to help their companion.

Serpentfang was just standing there, his eyes focused on the bald man.

Sleep. Sweet, peaceful sleep. Tranquil, like water. Serene, a place... no, a time, to escape the tangle of harsh troubles and unending conflicts that we call reality. Sometimes, one only truly felt at peace whilst asleep. Sometimes, a bit of sleep was good for one's health. And sometimes, there are moments where sleeping - any variation of it - is completely uncalled for, inappropriate, and left the sleep-induced person disoriented and confused immediately after waking up.

Such is the case of the not-so-young elf, Ridgen. He didn't know how, but immediately after flinging spells around and... doing something, the magician had succumbed to his own exhaustion and fell asleep in Termat's cart.

Apparently, nobody bothered to wake him up, or take note that he was, in fact, asleep. And so, when he did wake up, he doesn't have the slightest idea of where everyone else was. Fortunately, the tavern was in plain view in front of him - convenient, because that's where most adventures start. Taverns could also be considered rest-stops in the middle of these adventures and the only logical conclusion was to enter, merely half-awake and all that.

"I have something to tell you..."
The rest of the speech went on, Ridgen only partly registering whatever it was that was being said - even though his childish mind knew that it was important and knew that there was something to be done when one of the aforementioned 'spells/blackouts' struck. Other things happened. Alyr and a man that he's never seen before rejoined the group and explained that there was a key to the box, split into thirteen pieces. It was surprising, however, to find that there was a device that Ridgen almost instantly recognised. "Wait a minute, isn't that...?" Or at least, he should have. Unfortunately, in his half-asleep/half-awakened state, the elf did not do so and continued to lurk in silence.

That didn't last long, though. The lurking, that is.

"Hey uh... everyone. Where are we, what time is it, what's this about an Ulvur, why are there people here I can't recognise and why does this one have a picture of something that looks insanely familiar?"

Half-asleep Ridgen, go!

Quael sat quitely eating as she listened to the words being exchanged between Tak and Gilith. What a funny little gnome Tak was, he brought a certain light to the dark mood that befell the area around the party. Then Irid came over and divulged a sort of "condition" that she has. The blacking out and acting weird reminded Quael of herself, the curse that Keeshaunka had caused her.

When she finished explaining that she had already talked with Alyr about it, Tak jumped off his chair and took Irid's hand. “Come on, I need to study you!  Those old stuffy gnomes back home will never believe this!” " Quael couldn't stop herself from smiling, it was a funny scene. She looked over at Gilith who wore the same exrpession that everyone who was seeing this had.

There was not much reaction from most of the group - whoever was left, anyway, she noticed that not everyone had actually come into the tavern. Not much reaction, until Tak reacted enthusiastically that he needed to study her, saying something about Uluvar. She regarded him with her golden eyes, not allowing herself to be dragged from her chair. Gillith was the first to pick up the conversation, saying that she could not be an Ulvur. What were they talking about? It was not some gnomish or human thing, since both races seemed to know them.

Wait, wait, hadn't she heard something, once? A snippet of a story, something about wolf-men in the far, far north, from the cold lands where the Kasumarii assassins came from. She shook her head at Tak. "No, I am not an... what did you call them? Uluver? I am a Quaelhoirhim elf, and for 306 years I was not out of the ordinary in any way."

Just at that moment, Alyr and the archmage came back to their table, and a conversation ensued about the box and its significance. But what were they going to do with it? Collect the fragments of the key and open it, or make sure that there was no way for the enemy to do so?

Tak eyed Irid with suspicion.  Everyone denied that she was Ulvar, but what else could explain the “wolfish” happening she experienced?  Maybe she was half Ulvar and didn’t know it. 

“Half Ulvar maybe?  No, it would be much too complicated.  If it looks like a lizard, sounds like a lizard and acts like a lizard, it’s a lizard and not a dragon.  Still…”  Tak peered at Irid closely, “we should study this.  What if it’s contagious?!  I have noticed more hair coming out of my ears than normal.” 

Tak hadn’t seen or heard Rayne and her old friend reappear, but he didn’t miss a beat.  “Rayne, Irid may be contagious, we need to take precautions.  I’m going to my cart to see if I have my testing equipment intact after our…trip.  I will meet you all in the library!”  And with that Tak hurried out of the Inn.  He ran around the corner and nearly careened straight into a group of men standing in front of Jarrox.  “Oh, pardon me.  Lizard!  There you are, I’ll be conducting tests on our friend Irid, she may be half or one third Ulvar.  I need my testing equipment.  Have you seen Buttons?” 

That’s when Tak noticed that everyone was looking very, very angry and holding weapons.  “Did I interrupt something?”

His companions kept talking to the man. Good. They suspect nothing.

"He-hey man, ye be alright there?"

"What-cha doing squirming on the ground? Get up!"

Then another voice chimed in, one that was not here in the first place.

“Did I interrupt something?”

The sudden intrusion broke the psyrpent's concentration, freeing the obnoxious man from his psionic grip. A good thing too, since a few more minutes of that treatment and he would probably lose his sanity permanently. The bully staggered backwards, holding his head as if preventing it from bursting. He stared at his companions with weary, tearful eyes, confused and trying to understand what they are saying. His bewildered stares landed on the psyrpent again, and he immediately began backing away. He tripped and fell down, but wasted no time in standing up. The man crawled away quickly, followed by his goon friends.

Serpentfang squinted his eyes at the small squishie, trying to remember who this was. His incessant talking and zealotry for his profession was annoying, especially for the psyrpent, who was used to being alone and thus accompanied by silence. What was he talking about anyway? Buttons? Why would he be looking for buttons on the snakeman? Jarrox sighed. Better give him what he wants than have him talk his ear off, which is bad, considering snakes only have internal ears and thus made it sensitive to unwanted noises. Like the squeaking squishie here, for example.

He rummaged in his bag, and pulled out a string of shiny buttons. He had been tricked by a wandering peddler, saying that these were made out of precious stones. It took him several silver pieces to learn that not all shinies are made out of gems. Maybe he'll meet that swindler again and get the opportunity to strangle him, slowly and painfully.

The psyrpent held out the string of buttons, waiting for the squishie to pick one of his choosing.

The barmaid returned with a full glass of deep red wine and a smile; returning the smile and taking the glass, Termat took a small mouthful and savoured the flavour. Artiwine. I’d recognise that anywhere. Setting the glass down, he glanced over to the table where his companions had congregated and asked the barmaid please to bring a bottle of the wine and several glasses. He would, he informed her, be sitting with the group. Wiping her hands on a cloth tucked through the string of her apron, she bobbed her head and turned to fetch the requested items.

The smallest things can change the course of lives, and while the events that followed were not precisely life changing in the common dramatic sense of the term, they were both small and, for Termat, thought-provoking. As the barmaid turned, the tie to her apron caught the wine glass where he had placed it and knocked it over; the wine, as wine from a tipped glass does, left the glass and made its way to the edge of the table, where it dripped off into a small puddle on the floor.

The barmaid was of course apologetic; Termat was of course understanding; and it was both amicably and cordially that he nodded to her as she went to fetch a cloth - the one she carried in her apron string being soaked from the catching of the glass - leaving Termat staring at the wine as it dripped. The colour, and the loss, of the spilled drink reminded him of a poem that he had read, long ago, and as he stared the words rang through his mind as fresh as when first, with the page in front of him, they had echoed there.

I drink not wine no more, my friend
For wine is red as blood
Of blood I had a surfeit, once,
My comrades’, mixed to mud.

I do not wish to eat my fill
For I cannot be sated
And my dear friends who died that day
Too long for feasts have waited.

My arms are tired, cold, and thin
But not as thin as those
Who falling to an arrow’s point
Are feasted on by crows.
 
I love the songs no more, my friend
For songs, they tell of glory
And as I hear their blasted lie
I know the truth more gory.
 
Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or the smoky atmosphere in the inn, or merely a result of Termat’s imagination, but the dark red wine was beginning to look almost exactly like blood when the barmaid returned and, with a good-humoured smile, wiped it up swiftly and expertly with the fresh cloth. Returned to reality, Termat gave her a half-smile that was almost apologetic and took the fresh bottle she proffered. 
 
As she left for a second time, Termat picked up his empty glass and full bottle in one hand; returned his watch, with a glance, to his pocket with the other; and then, lifting his case, moved to join the group. As he sat down, one of the elvish ladies was speaking.
 
“ Something happened some years ago, I am still uncertain what exactly, but since then I have experienced black-outs at times. During these times, I am told I act rather strangely - to be exact, somewhat wolfish. How long these spells last is hard to say, as it varies, but when I wake up I never remember anything from this time. Since we will be travelling together, I thought you should know about this, so that if it should happen in your presence, you will not be surprised. I have told Alýr about this, and she had no problems with me staying on.” She looked tense as and after she spoke, and was clearly worried about acceptance.
 
Termat wasn’t quite sure whether the immense excitement of the gnome and his apparent desire to study her was a valid expression of acceptance, but there was clearly no malice in it, and so he contented himself  with pouring and sipping from another glass of wine - noting wryly that this was even nicer than the one he had been given before - and smiling slightly as the gnome rushed out of the door.
 
Shortly afterwards, once glasses had been brought and the wine bottle placed in the middle of the table for general use, Alýr and the old man returned. At the elfess’s request, the man began to tell of the origins of the elusive box that the demonic creature had sought so fervently and so ruthlessly. It appeared that it had its roots in Fá’áv’cál’âr and a great dragon summoned by Coór - a name and myths only familiar to Termat through distorted fragments from long ago. He listened intently, though his face did not betray the depth of his fascination, springing both from an earnest desire to know whatever new or rediscovered old knowledge was being expounded and brought together and from the extreme pertinence that this knowledge had to his own situation. He was a hundred strals from his loosely planned path if he was a ped, travelling with a group of trained warriors and mages and their valuable cargo, and any information on why and how that cargo was so valuable had a value above and beyond that of his desire for any knowledge. He played his part in greeting the old man’s words with attentive silence.

Roy listened Closely to this conversation. Closer than he had with the last one.  As such he locked away almost of it in his mind in order to bring it out at a will. Parts of this story were very important. Such as the device and the twelve key peices. Other parts such as the death of the person who found these things were not. So he did not memorise these as he did the other parts. 

There was silence. It was strangely enough broken by Roy.

"I apologise but your story has given us more questions than answers Archmage."  

Said Roy. It sounded strange coming from his mouth. Not strange perhaps to the others. But what Roy found strange in his voice was the respect it carried for the Archmage. Someone who had risen to the highest possible power for a mage. What was there not to respect?

"Some of these are. Who holds any peices of the keys? Do we have them? Does the enemy have them?" (Roy found this funny because at the moment he was trying to do the exact same thing as their enemy.)

"Or perhaps the device? Where is that? Can we simply destroy a single fragment of the key and rid us of the entire problem?"  (I hope not thought Roy.)

"Not to mention the very strange ordeal with the thirteenth peice? Does this mean it has been destroyed? Captured by someone powerful enough to hide it?"

"I do not mean to cause confusion. But what exactly will we be doing after we've taken the box to Ximax?"

Tak stared at the lizard and the buttons for much longer than he should have.  He couldn’t be sure if he was serious or joking.  “Hmm, I must have underestimated the lizard’s ability for humor.”  Tak muttered to himself, waving for Jarrox to put the string of buttons away. 

“Where is my cart?  I need my…oh, there it is.”  Tak ran over to where he saw the cylinder of his fragscent launcher sticking out from the side of the stables.  As he rummaged through his cart, Tak explained what was happening to the lizard.  “Jarrox, we need to go to the library, I think there is an Ulvar contagion spreading!  Have you noticed any hair or fur growing on you?  In your ears or nose maybe?  Has David seemed more…what was the term Irid used…Wolfish?  Those should be the symptoms, I think I may be afflicted!  But if we make it to the library I'll know for sure.”

With a gleeful laugh, Tak pulled out some of his testing equipment, beakers, glass vials, a burner, and a few choice gnomish liquids.  He stuffed them into various pockets and still filled his hands with more little gadgets and baubles for testing.  A small red gem fell out of his pocket, and Tak remembered about the very strange ruby Roy had given him earlier.  He set his equipment down and examined the ruby a bit more.  It was a rough, uncut gem, but it was definitely a ruby.  There was something strange about the gem, though Tak couldn’t quite place it.  He plopped the gem back in his pocket and beckoned Jarrox over to him, he'd need more equipment to study the gem as well. “Help me carry some of this equipment!  The rest of them should meet us at the library.”

Gilith. Was to say the least. Scared speachless when he realized what he was holding. He had heard the jist of it before but it really hadn't sunk in until now. He thought it probable that the calming spell had aided him before in maintain his calm. Now without that spell. He took on an entire new perspective. Still though he would have liked to he gave no mention that he had the box or that he would like to give it to someone else. Besides. Who would expect him to have the box? Wounded unable to use one arm for at least a day. He would be the one attacked least of all. Thus protecting the box most of all.

He made his way to the library. The feeling of unease growing by the second. What!? in the world was he so worried about? He took a deep breath and slowed for a moment. He couldn't shake a certain feeling that he was imagining what ever it was that he was afraid of. But none the less he put his had to  his sword.

Roy waved aside his questions for now. They were to numerous and they might as well waite untill later. Right now they were going to the library. He picked up his staff from the wall and followed the group out the door.

This would be a very interesting trip thought Roy. Already a deserter and one who would especially love to see alot of the people here dead. Roy turned to look at the people in the party. Though they couldn't see this he smiled.

He expected that at some time they would be attacked. They were fools not to see this coming. It would probably happen while they were asleep or maybe even in the morning to throw them off. Another thought passed through his mind as well.

The traitor. He did not appreciate being betrayed. Perhaps if he found the dark elf. He would. Repay him. Just as a spark that catches and eventually ignites. So to did his idea. His smile grew wider. These pathetic creatures of the darkness shall burn. And they shall burn very soon.

"Blablabla blablablablabla I'm an annoying gnome blablabla wolololoool!"

Most of the jabber the little squishie unleashed slid away from him like water from his scales. Does he ever get tired of talking? Did his mother smoke a lot of chatterweed - if such a thing exists - while she was pregnant with him? He tucked the buttons insided a pocket, shrugging his shoulders as the incessant talking continued. He's got half a mind to stuff the squishie inside an urn and throw it in the river than to listen to the gnome spout one more word.

Then it commanded him to carry some stuff to the library. The psyrpent looked at the squishie in return. "Who does this gnome think he is, commanding me like that?" The psyrpent said to himself. "Do I look like a pack animal?" He ignored the little creature and walked away, deciding to search for the building himself or ask anyone for its location. It wouldn't do him any good to lash out at the gnome. People might get the wrong idea, and his employer will not like it.

Although Termat had kept quiet, the strangely grim figure asked several pertinent questions, and Termat remained attentive, noting, however, that he addressed the old man as Archmage, which seemed to fit him - in the way that an old boot that really shouldn’t fit and by rights should be falling apart somehow conforms perfectly to the foot. While there was little Termat would have liked more than to hear the answers - especially to the pragmatic question of whether the problem would be solved by simply destroying a fragment of the key - the group seemed determined to move on to the library and so, following the lead of the impetuous gnome, Termat unfolded his legs and stepped easily to his feet. As he rose he flexed his shoulderblades, feeling the stiffness of his suddenly sedentary time in the tavern disappear, and then straightened the sit of his waistcoat before fastening his jacket. He was ready to go.

Well, almost ready to go. With a smile and an apology, he reached back over his vacated seat and picked up the bottle of wine he had bought. He had drunk about a quarter of his glass, and so giving himself a brief splash more - it was good wine - he put it back on the edge of the table.

"Help yourselves before we head off."

He had just finished his own glass when the group as a whole was ready to move off, and so, leaving the now empty glass on the table, he returned the stopper to the bottle and slipped it into his case before moving on. Books!

Irid looked quietly at her companions. They were... well, impatient was a good word for it. Here they were, in an inn, night closing in, and they wanted to go to a library now? Was that not going to be closed? Of course, they were in a hurry - the quicker they knew what they were up against, the less time their demonic friend had of attacking again. Still, what were they going to do when they came to closed doors?

However, as it turned out when everyone had gathered before the library, having an archmage with you had its advantages. The venerable man knocked on a door next to the library building, from where a head poked out. This man, a bent and white-haired little man, possibly the librarian, seemed to recognise the mage. Nodding his head, as if he had expected him, he came out with a large and ornate bronze key, which opened the doors. Then he stepped aside to let the party through.

“Hmm, maybe the lizard isn't as intelligent as I thought.” Tak said, standing there with his arms full to testing equipment.  He went over his mental checklist and decided he needed everything thing he was holding and nothing more, so he took off toward the library.

By the time he got within sight of the library, he was pleasantly surprised to see the rest of the group entering the library, or what he assumed was the rest of the group, “Wait for me!” he yelled at the top of his lungs and scurried toward the entrance.  Once inside, Tak found a nice place to set up his equipment.  He held the ruby he was given as payment earlier, he had a series of tests he could run on stones to figure out what they were. 

First Tak set out a variety of plates – various metals and ceramics, to test the gems hardness, and began scratching the gem across the surface.  His eyebrows furrowed as he reached the end of the experiment, the stone had scratched every plate, even the small, coin sized one that looked suspiciously like Mithril.  For the second, he poured a drop of Malthanune on the gem.  The reaction was more violent than Tak had expected – the liquid fizzed and spat. Tak threw a neutralizing agent on the gem, only to have it combust in a loud, smoky, “Pop!”, covering his face in a dark soot. 

At the end of the experiments, Tak came to the only conclusion he possibly could – this gem was not a ruby.  Tak had no idea what it was, but it is not any sort of natural stone.  For once in his life, Tak didn't know what to say.

Books!

Only one thought was in Termat’s mind as he crossed the threshold. He wasn’t thinking about his family, or the sit of his cravat - impeccable, in case you were wondering - or their quest, or the danger inherent in continuing it. Books filled his consciousness. Row upon row of them, on dark wooden shelves. The ceiling was arched and elegant; the door large, bronzed and imposing; but the books! At the end of each bookcase were two inset wooden plaques, hinged like double doors; moving to the nearest, Termat opened them almost reverentially to find, inscribed in small, neat, cursive script on the paper that covered the wood behind them, an alphabetical catalogue of the works to be found there. Vladimir Flyeater. Artimidor Federkiel. The entire Compendium sat bound in calfskin on two low shelves at the end of the bookcase. He moved on.

Another bookcase. The Lady of Chrynna Dabney. I remember reading this. Breathlessly, he took the volume from the shelf and it fell open in the middle. “It was as though, after a black atonement, the light had finally returned to Chrynna Dabney.” Instantly, the whole tale returned to him, and he shivered as he had when he had first taken the book from his father’s shelves. He replaced it and moved on.

On the next bookcase there was a slim black book, with a peculiar and familiar design on the spine. Termat reached out and took it down; he opened it up, and there it was. The first line of Caelerethian philosophy he had ever read.

“It is as absurd to claim that the world is a dream as it is to claim that it is not.”

He’d put the book back after five pages, five pages that had battered his mind and fascinated him at the same time. Perhaps he’d give it another go.

He opened his small case and took out a cushion - the floor was bare wood. Fixing his monocle, he began to read.

“Wait for me!”  

Roy visably flinched at the loud racking sound yet did not say anything about for he knew he could only make things worse. When he was finally able to ener the library he took stock of the books. He had come here with Xantherith many times in the past. As such he knew exactly where to fnd the books he was interested in. He wen t over to a very near shelf an surveyed the selection.

"Ah. This appears to be new." Muttered Roy to himself as he pulled out a small yet slightly tall book from the shelf.

It had a soft green cover made of a flexable leather. Ro lit the underside of his finger nail with very little light and began to inspect he book. The pages were in good condition and were of promising quility. It was labled. 'The dangers of Ximaxian plants.' Roy opened it up and almost laughed at the first page. It was nothing more than a warning about what some called 'Wizard Weed.' Roy flipped through the pages and noticed very few things of interest to him. Most of wha was documented he already knew about and the other parts were merely angry teachers quotes or the words of someone claiming to have almost ruined their magical career with it.

Roy slipped the book back trying to conceal some very minor laughter.

He then went over to a table and pulled out some quills an ink vial and a book. The book was a dark red with a thick and stiff cover and binding. The words DEMONOLOGY weree displayed proudly in bold black letters on the frnt of it.

He opened it up to page 62 which was labled demonic creatures of non demon origin.

Roy read through his earlier writting.

"The Mephguóur Demon (http://www.santharia.com/bestiary/mephguour.htm) Is said to be a demon that was once man. It is rumered to be created by a mage of extrodinary power. These are so far the only things I have discovered that become an actual demon."

After Roy finished reading through this he put a glowing quill to parchment and wrote.

Additional non Demonic Demons. Two new creatures have arisen thus far in the time of my studies. I shall list them as hell hounds and Curtain demons.

"Firstly the hell hound is a demonic wolf...or rather mixture of worldly creatures. It is and I quote 'Nearly impossible to kill unless you hit its head or a vital organ.' They seem to have no mentality other than a blind bloodlust and will gladly die for a chance to kill something. However just like Curtin demons they can be controlled by a cult of men whom reside either around or in Ximax itself.

The Curtain demon. Is very much like a  Móh-Mélor or Wraith (http://www.santharia.com/bestiary/wraith.htm)
 demon as some call them. They are immaterial and mindless. However if they are struck they explode in a white lingering mist that blinds all within side of it. These creatures are controlled by the same group of demon worshippers I have mentioned before. These cultists tend to use them to scatter not expecting parties."

Roy scribbed all of this quickly and without air. When he was done he put away his things and looked over to see the gnome trying to kill them all. Or at least thought Roy. Thats what it sounded like.

Jarrox followed the squishies far behind, not wanting to ask for their help, but not willing to risk getting lost either. They arrived at a huge stone building, its door answered by a wrinkly squishie much like the one leading them. At the archmage's behest, the second wrinkly squishie bought out a metal key, which he used to open the huge doors leading to the library. The psyrpent stared open-mouthed at the vast collection of written lore within its halls. He had seen one like this before, back at home where the scribes of his people write and store knowledge for future psyrpents to peruse. It's sad that most squishie libraries do not have scrolls in his native psyrpent glyphs. Perhaps this library would have some of it.

He searched the dusty shelves for some lore with the familiar glyphs on it, but found nothing. Typical and disappointing. Psyrpents would not share what they know with races they don't trust. He was hoping to find something that can help him increase his psychic power to the point of being able to kill with nothing but a stare. Instead he was treated to dozens of books pertaining to cooking, recipes, dwarven beard maintenance and forging metalwork. He was thumbing through a book about herb usages when a particular tome dropped from one of the shelves. Jarrox picked it up and read the title: Women's Monthly Cycle and How to Prepare for it. What's that? Only the broodmothers of his race experience some sort of changes when they're about to lay their eggs; the other females do not. The psyrpent smiled. So they DO lay eggs afterall! Do they taste good?

He opened the book and the first page depicted a graphic image of a woman in her period, with an enlarged image of the affected part. At the first glance Jarrox's face contorted into a pained, nauseated, gassy, tortured, deformed look, like the one he had when he accidentally bit the bone of a spoiled beef leg and broke a tooth followed by a crippling stomach ache that forced him to throw up, screeched out a sound capable of breaking glass and the innocence of an unsullied mind alike, and shoved the book into whatever crevasse he could find on the shelves. The image... Was best left unspoken.

Gilith who was now moving his arm to test for the seriousness of the injury found to his disbelief that it was in incredibly better shape than before. He touched the afflicted area and found once again to his surprise that it hurt far less than it had moments prior to getting healed by the old lady.

He wondered at these strange events. But he could not place a reason for it. That is until he saw his employer. She had said something about a magical healing. Hmm I wonder. Could she have helped me? he thought to himself.

He guessed that it was most likely so.

When they approached the library he tried hard to ignore all of the commotion they were causing but he was doomed to fail as there was to much noise to possibly ignore. He flinched at every loud sound and especially at the gnomes tinkering and the lizard things unholy screeching.

He was so unsettled by the events that with his hand on his sword he stood guard by the door to stop any would be intruders from investigating into the noises to much.

"Perhaps the library will have answers" was all the archmage had said to the flurry of questions that arose following presentation of all he'd discovered. He collected up the parchments and headed toward the library. Night was growing in Cemphiria, and the walk to the Cemphirian Library was aided by glowing orbs of light that arose like pale stars from the will of the indigo-eyed elf.

Tenvin Jolith could hear the shuffle of her robes as she walked, could feel the wind of her movement. She was a few steps behind him, and yet it always felt like she was a few steps ahead. Regardless where he seemed to be going, regardless where he was, since the time he had been a young student at Ximax, even when she was absent, he had always felt that the strange elfless was a few steps ahead, guiding him through nights like this one when gloom seemed to crowd the horizon and omen, to shadow the air.

They reached the library, and a few words with the librarian granted the group entrance into the grand halls of the Cemphirian Library.

The group passed through rows and rows of books. Cemphiria was one of Santharia's oldest cities, and one of the more prestigious--particularly in the opinion of Cemphirians. Over its history, it had amassed many, many books--and somewhere in the massive collection of unordered tomes, Tenvin suspected, was some information regarding the box and its host of accessories. Perhaps the journal of Selma Ocridge might be found among these dusky tomes, or the ancient accounts of the elder elves and the fragments.

Up the group climbed, through the stairwells into the upper echelons of one of the library's towers. An avid reader and frequent visitor to libraries in Xaramon and Vardynn, the Archmage had some vague idea where to look for the information they desired. They stepped from the stone stairwell through a metal door and into a large room whose center was filled with tables and whose circular wall was spoked with book shelves. Along the walls, old glass windows let in dim moonlight. The windows were open.

"If there are any documents regarding the box..." said the archmage as he settled his parchments on one of the wooden tables, "... they will be there. I seem to recall this section here might have had something about items from the fall of Fá'áv'cál'âr." He headed directly to one section and began to check the works there. "Was it this... no, not that one. Perhaps this one he--"

The archmage was cut off suddenly, and to look at him, he seemed all but frozen in place. His hand, gingerly reaching out and touching one of the volumes on the shelves, was still. His eyes looked placidly upon the tome, and even the folds of his robes stood unmoving. He was positively motionless. Suddenly there was the loud bang of the metal door through which they had entered slamming shut. And locking.

From somewhere in the recesses of the library came a hideous laugh--though not one altogether unfamiliar. "Hahaha... too simple," came a voice as slick and black as oil, and appearing out of the darkness between two book stacks appeared a familiar form: the shade hung about him like a brother, and his curly black hair could not hide the protruding horns. His degage manner spoke to his confidence and ego.

"A simple trapping spell; an archmage of earth has a lot of earth ounia," explained Defalgren as he gazed insouciantly at his fingernails, which could have been mistaken for talons. "When a trap set upon a simple book makes the immobile properties of earth suddenly still the host, earth mages are certainly the most defenseless." He looked to his trapped audience, then glanced briefly at the archmage. "Our mages coupled it with a confusion spell, just to help make it last. With an archmage's will, you can never be too careful. Hahaha. I would say it'll be at least half an hour before he'll be able to shuffle off the effects. Plenty of time to dispatch this sorry little group."

The demonic figure's eyes narrowed, and a satisfied grin teased the corner of his lips. There was almost something sadistically hungry in his eyes as he looked at the indigo-eyed elfess and her companions. "I'll leave you to your fate. But don't worry. I'll be back to pull the box and gems off your dead corpses. Hahaha!"

At that, Defalgren seemed to fade away, and suddenly out of the shadows between every stack of books appeared a form that looked like a shade slowly manifesting into form. Shapeless bodies became solid, muscular torsos. The vague adumbration of limbs became powerful arms tapering into blades. Indistinct heads slowly showed hideously vacant faces with bloodthirsty eyes.

Then all at once, as though of the same mind, the shadow-beasts rushed upon their prey.

[Please read OOC]

Roy looked up from his writing and sprinkling only a small amount of a very fine powdery sand over his writting. He made sure that it would not smear when he closed the book. he did not however close his book as he saw some strange event happen. Or rather the lack of an event. The Archmage upon touching the book he was looking for froze instantly. Strange. What was so special about the book that the mere cover left him unable to move? Roy if he lived long enough to look back on this situation would not be able to stop himself from feeling like an idiot.

The demonic person they had been running from appeared. For the first time in a long while Roy smiled. for the first time in perhaps his life he was happy to be wrong He had assumed they would attack them in the night while they were sleeping or in the morning when they were unprepared. But now? Of all the times now was the worst. They were fully armed and on edge. So! Roy thought himself. The darkness finally comes out of the shadow! A poor choice of words to be sure. The demon finished his lecture on magic. Which Roy stored in his mind for use later if ever the need should arise. roy while a fool for being distracted did see the monsters attack coming slightly before it impaled him.

As soon as the demon was done talking Roy knew that he had simply intended to distract or intimidate them.

He dove from his chair to the left as an attacker would least expect him to use the least comon dominant side of the body for direction. A shadowy blade sailed through the area where Roy's heart would have been only moments before. In anger it impaled the table where his book lie.

How dare they even come close to endangering his book! Roy was infuriated. He had worked for years to collect all of the information he had in that book.

Roy who was leaning on his staf now caused it to flare with light. Not enough to blind his allies and slow enough so that they wouild be able to adjust to it but when he was done he looked at a very strange and well illuminated shadow creature. It once again slashed at him wih ts horrible dark blade/hand.

Roy backed up into the book shelves not knowing what to do. Did he strike a physical blow? Disrupt its carr'al? Shoot fire at it!? He didn't know but he would soon find out.

Roy pulled out one of his very rare material components that he only used seldom. A powdered burning stone. He had done a lot of things to his reagents. Most of what he did involved changing their shape, size, and form to be better used in different situations.

He pulled out a handful of the rare and powerful material and threw it towards the unholy creature charging at him. As if my magic it flew through the air at extreme speeds and even though it created a swirling cone shape it still smacked into the monster with extreme accuracy.

The creature was pushed back only a little. But just as Roy wanted it was covered head to toe in a very powerful reagent.

As the creature once again neared Roy it tried to plunge its blade into him. It lifted its strange immaterial arm backwards to hack down on him but got no further. For he was glowing red. Roy in feirce concentration with his free hand held outwards manipulated the fire ounia near him with expert skill.

He increased the influence of fire ounia within the burning stones carr'all as well as its properties of heat. It was a simple matter yet the heat was very intense. Roy did not however use energy on protecting himself from it.

The shadow creature began to glow in various parts until some it started to crumble off of it. Bits and peices fell from it as it grew brighter and became hotter. The parts that fell off fell like soft immaterial ashes into the floor where they could not be distinguished from the other natural shadows which occupied the area.

The shadow creatures advance was halted as his body beagan to vibrate with the effort of maintaining its physical form. Until finally it stopped. It was not defeated but there were large parts of it missing and a few holes could be seen inside of it.

Roy backed up now with fast steps until he hit the book shelf that was behind him. A few books fell from the shelves and onto the floor with a thud.

The shadow creature finally regaining its bearings started to drift towards Roy. Roy looked up at the creature. He was a little in pain from the massive amount of heat that had radiated off of the beast and was slightly off balance from running backwards into a bookshelf. This might have struck fear into the hearts of others.

But Roy's eyes were wide with a sort of excited glance. They could be killed! I may not have the time to do that again but I think I may be able to finish this one off. Thought Roy to himself.

The shadow creature was certainly slowed. His blade like hand hung meakly at his side and to say that he crawled towards Roy at a snails pace was to be generous. However he was coming.

Roy leaned heavily on his staff. Without it he would have barely been able to move. Roy turned his right side to the creature and used his left hand for balance on the bookshelf.

The shadow creature now almost upon him was struck by a strangely mighty staff blow. Roy struck with his staff and as he did so he increased the properties of animation in the burning stone on the top of the staff to give it a slightly increased amount of force. As the staff's light flared through the creatures body the rest of it turned into the same immaterial ash that simply melded back into the shadow.

Roy fell against the book shelf and rubbed his hand across his face which was very hot and a little red. Nothing that wouldn't heal over night.

Roy might have decreased the influence of the fire ounia in his carr'all a little or if he didn't feel like affecing himself emotionally he would have decreased the properties of heat within the ounia of his carr'all. But as it was. He had no time to do so. 

For Roy was attacked by another of the foul creatures who seemed quite dificult to kill.

This shadow creature was at its maximum fighting strength and charged at Roy with terrifying speeds. It lunged at him with a bladed hand and Roy only just managed to escape its unholy piercing. Roy ducked low to avoid another one of its attacks. This time he fell to the floor in order to avoid being slashed through the chest. The demon rasied its blade and plunged it down the floor. Rollling to the left and away from the book case Roy sat up and while his free hand supported him from falling over his other hand flew into the air above his head with his fingers bent and pointing towards the ceiling.

The shadow creature would have followed Roy once more but he was unable to. Roy had dumped the contents from one of his puches onto the floor where the creature now stood. Using the fire ounia found in the sulphers carr'all he called forth a great and massive fire. The shadow creature's arms and back arched backwards in a silent display of pain.

The fire rose higher and became slighter hotter. Parts of blue could now be seen it. Finally the shadow creature dissolved into immaterial shadow and fell back into whatever shadow was nearest it.

Roy remained on the floor panting and shacking. It took a considerable amount of energy to cast those spells but at least the demons were dead. Roy's flesh was now less red and burnt than before. He had now protected himself from the flames by lowering the properties of heat within his own carr'all's fire ounia. This also fixed his burnt face. Or at least for now.

When finally Roy was able to stand he pulled himself up using the table where he left his book on demonology. He closed it and then holding the book in his hand he made his way over to his staff careful to avoid any conflicts the others were engaged in.

Dek watched as the archmage became motionless and the appearance of the demon creatures in the library, they seemed to be formed out of the very shadows to Dek, and his mind shrank from that. Thinking about magic always made his head hurt. He looked around the group, before fixing his eyes on Rayne. The archmage may have been lost, but Dek wouldn't allow that to happen to Rayne as well. Gazing on the elfess, Dek had very strong emotions, he wanted to protect her, he wanted to make sure that she would be alright, he would rather have himself be hurt or killed than have anything happen to her.

A sudden pain down his left side ripped his attention off the indigo-eyed elfess. One of the shadow demons had moved up unseen by the young compendiumist on him and had sliced him with its blade. Dek's reflexes came to the fore at that point and he dodged back out of range of another strike from the creature, narrowly avoiding both it and a nearby table. Dek dodged and weaved, narrowly avoiding several blows by the creature as it tried to skewer him. Dek fumbled for the knife he should have had at his belt. A knife wasn't much, but even a knife was better than nothing, especially when faced with a creature that was trying to kill him. Then he remembered, especially when the . He didn't have the knife on him. He figured back at the inn that a weapon wouldn't be needed on a simple trip to the library, and so he had left it in the room to which he had been assigned. Dek cursed himself under his breath and reached for something. It turned out to be a book, Septimus Smallpiece's Book of Bawdy Verse, to be precise, and he held it in front of him. It probably saved Dek's life as the shadow-demon's blade-hands got stuck in it.

Dek let go of the book and stumbled backwards. He stumbled into a table that had a series of small containers on it. He picked the first one up, hefted it and tossed it at the creature which was once again approaching Dek, its blood thirsty eyes fixated on Dek. Dek was terrified, but he didn't get to be a researcher of the compendium, and a member of the Black Butterfly Rovers without having some street smarts, or the ability to act in the face of terror. Dek continued to throw things at the demon-creature, and then his hand gripped a quill. His dexterity and eyesight were still good despite his injury and Dek flung it at the creature without a second thought. Amazingly the creature wasn't able to stop it, and even more amazingly it too the creature in the eye. The creature howled and then vanished into smoke, and Dek, grinned despite himself. To no-one in particular, he said, "I guess that goes to prove that the quill is mightier than the blade."

Dek looked around the group of his companions, and hoped that none of them would need medical attention. Dek then nearly collapsed where he stood, bracing against one of the wooden tables for support. He pressed his hand against the slice on his side, recovering his energy... and his wits.

Termat threw himself flat on the floor beside his trunk as an arm-blade whistled through the air with superhuman speed and wedged deep in the wood, only to be torn free with a flick of the attacker’s wrist. The brief moment of respite was all he needed, however, and when the shadowy figure came at him again he had rolled to his feet, putting two peds and a trunk between him and the demon, his hand leaping with a new-discovered instinct to a blade that wasn’t there. It sat in his trunk - terribly close, but oh so very far away.

The feeling of your average man of means when he is confronted with the fears of the majority are rather more insouciant than those of that majority. A comfortable living is oil poured on troubled waters to threats of hunger or shortage. Be that as it may, Termat was scared now - a wash of choking panic, a flash of blinding terror, and the thing was upon him.

It was fast, very fast, and Termat only avoided it by half-diving, half-falling to one side. As he moved away, he pulled his coat off in a fluid movement and bought a half-blink’s respite by flinging it in the creature’s face.  The bladed arms tore into it - Termat winced a bit at this - but the moment was enough to grab his sword.

Now he was fighting in earnest, and for his very life. As the strikes came, he relied on his natural reactions and strength to block, but the unwearying beast seemed to grow faster and stronger. After only a few exchanges, Termat pinned everything on one last, forlorn hope.

The blade sang through the air, straight for the side of the shadowy torso that dared attack them in a library.

The arm-sword sped in a humming, deadly arc.

The cutlass and the demonic blade moved in their own, independent, and yet dreadfully contingent paths.

Termat’s cutlass bit, and the force of the collision with the flesh formed of shadow made him stumble. The blade-flesh, on its lethal course, had blocked it, and as the hilt shook it dropped from suddenly numb fingers.

Termat stood against the bookcase. His back was against the end of a shelf, and the two wicked blades stood before his face. This is where I die, then, he thought. Thus ended Termat Geirskun, a dandy who thought to play with demons. A Ravenport socialite who thought he could kill a fiend with small talk and cravat-pins. And in that moment, before his death, it all seemed so ridiculous that he laughed.

That laughter stirred something in the beast. Though now it was but a mindless drone, yet in times gone by it had been a man, and before that a boy. The laughter brought memories, and it paused as it regained some individuality for the first time in countless centuries. It began to remember laughter - the laughter of other children, cruel and mocking; the laughter of other men, deep and scornful; the laughter of women, high, spurning and dripping with disdain; his own laughter, as he stood in a empty village, blood to his elbows, gore on his face, and the demon standing by to collect his debt.

The flat of the arm-blade descended with a sickening crunch on the young man’s head, and a swift stream of blood began to stain his cravat as he slumped to the floor.

He would not kill this one now. This one he would take for himself. He would enjoy stripping the shin from his flesh, and the flesh from his bones, grain by grain. He would enjoy punishing him for his laughter.

Gilith drew his sword as soon as he spotted the foul creature who had wounded him he took a step forward. His fingers gripped the handle of his sword tightly. He took slow and deliberate steps towards the demonic man. He was almost upon him when the first shadow creature appeared.

Gilith shouted a curse and defended against a blow which had been sent in his direction. All of the sudden there was a bright light which flashed and illuminated the room. Gilith's eyes watered a little and he blinked to clear the moisture away. He could now see the entire room and it seemed that most if not all were engaged in conflict. Gilith could not see where the demon that had just attacked him went. But he could see that there were still plenty to kill. One of them had its back to him. Or so he thought. It didn't have a noticeable front or back to it. But it leaned forward slightly and it blade hands were held outwards away from Gilith.

Gilith jumped forward with his sword in hand and gave out a roar as tried to hack down his enemy. As it turned out the creatures back wasn't really to him. Or if it was it didn't matter. It's blades flew up in an X and stopped his sword dead in it's tracks. Gilith seeing what was coming next punched the creature with his injured arm. His face contorted in pain and his wound began to bleed a little but the deadly stab the creature had been prepared to execute was stopped and its strange fleshy darkness was thrown backwards at least a ped.

But it was on top of him in a matter of moments. Gilith fended off the creature for a couple of seconds until all of the sudden a strange object hit him in the face. His head was thrown to the side and as annoying as that was it saved his life. He shouted another curse as a black blade whistled by where his head had been only moments before. Then just as it slashed to the side and stabbed downward Gilith ducked and moved to the right. He would have moved backwards a little more but a raging fire was suddenly upon him. He was startled and moved to the side. But not as startled as the shadow creature who was even a little more burnt than Gilith was from the fire. As it raced back Gilith took this time to impale it with his sword. It went through the creature with very little resistance and then for good measure he bashed it with his sword until he could see nothing of it

Gilith grabbed his arm and put pressure on his wound. It hurt but the bleeding needed to be stopped. When it was he once again hugged his arm to his side.

The last few moments had been chaos to say the least. Everywhere he looked there was a fight or a wound or something trying to kill him! Fire and light flared missiles shot throughout the room. He couldn't find his employer and he did not know if the archmage was even alive.

He did see however the young man Termat suffer a grievous head wound at the hands of one of these beasts.

Gilith charged at the creature and hacked it with his sword. It was stricken to the side. While it was off balance Gilith hack downward at it with his blade. It was bent over now. Flipping his sword in a full circle going backwards he slashed through its head. Finally the creature fell back into the shadows.

Gilith leaned down next to the young man and took out some of his bandages. He gently put one around his head and even added a store of yahrle and miyu to it. If he complained Gilith did not hear it nor would he have heeded it if he had.

While the archmage was talking, looking for certain books that might help, Irid wandered down one of the isles. She was looking idly at some titles, not entirely sure how much help she could be, when two things happened. The first was that the archmage stopped talking in the middle of his sentence, the second was that the door to their room banged shut, locking the group inside. From where Irid was standing, both the archmage and the door were hidden from view. She leaned out slightly, to look into the center of the room - the mage was on the other side, his hand extended towards the shelf and standing completely, unnaturally still.

This sight was the last conscious one for Irid. As soon as an as yet invisible presence laughed, she fell into her wolf consciousness, an effect that Defalgren seemed to trigger every time he was near.

She crouched low where she was, feeling that she was hidden enough. Her golden eyes observed the center of the circular room, where most people were gathered. She did not understand what Defalgren was saying, she could only hear the tone of his voice, which was unpleasant in the extreme - like it covered her in oozing mud, slick and slippery and inescapable. When the demon disappeared, she blinked. Enemies did not generally disappear into thin air. However, there was no time to think - if thinking was the correct word - as a movement in the corner of her eyes made her instinctively turn and throw her weight to the side. Just in time, as an arm ending in a blade landed quite near, obviously aimed for her back.

Taking a step or two back to stay out of reach of the bladed arms, she stayed crouched, growling at the threatening presence from the back of her throat. It was a warning growl - stay away or be attacked. As the shadowy form lunged again, she twisted out of the way and bit into its arm as it passed by. She tried to get a good grip, but before she could do so the other arm descended, and she had to let go and move out of the way of the sharp blade. She backed down again, until she was standing against a bookshelf. The shadow warrior, apparently convinced that he now had her at his mercy, approached slowly. However, he opened his arms to descend both his blades into her body, since she was not brandishing a weapon that he needed to block. It was the opening she needed to attack again. From her crouching position, her leg muscles worked and launched her into a deadly embrace with the shadow, with her teeth closing around its throat and biting down to crush its windpipe.

There was really no reason to assume that the thing even had lungs, let alone that crushing its windpipe would produce any effect. But she was an elf with a wolfish consciousness, fighting a warrior created from shadows. Logic had very little to do with any of it. Whether the thing really did have a windpipe and could now not get enough air into its lungs, or whether it was actions that would kill a human being that also killed these shadow warriors, eventually her teeth snapped shut and the shadow turned translucent and disappeared. She turned quickly to face any other shadow, but could not find an immediate enemy. Breathing heavily, she surveyed the room, instinctively grouping the people in it as either "pack" or "enemy". Since there was no immediate threat to herself, she took a moment to decide which of her pack was most in need of protection.

Tak was lost in his thoughts when the archmage was talking.  He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what this gem was.  His obsessive tendencies kicking in – Tak pocketed the gem, climbed off the table, and went in search for a particular set of books on unique and rare stones.  Tak had most of them memorized but it never hurt to double check.  As he looked through the lower texts – he almost paused to read an anthology on topography but pulled it half way out to mark where it was for later – he heard a laugh, eerily similar to the one he had heard in the forest where he first met his companions. 

Tak peeked out of his aisle and saw that man talking about books and traps.  He didn’t listen to too much of it as he ran over to his equipment and grabbed a few beakers and pouches.  Tak didn’t know who – or what – this man was, but he meant trouble.  Tak went back into the aisle to grab the book on topography when the demonic man said, ”I'll be back to pull the box and gems off your dead corpses.”  Tak looked back in the direction of his companions, how did he know about the gems… Tak half-finished his thought when he saw the shadow in across the aisle from him thicken.  He stood there for a moment, watching the beast form.  It was quite the sight – a body forming out of dark vapors, bladed limbs and all.  His excitement soon fled when he saw the thing charge at him.

“Oh dear,” Tak said – watching the beast leap onto the table he had been working on – smashing the vials he had left on the table.  Tak winced when it stepped on a particularly expensive and hard to calibrate light refractor.  The beast didn’t actually seem to notice Tak – or didn’t consider him a threat (being the size of a child had that effect on you).  He set the topography book down and pulled a pouch of Sparkfire from one of his many pockets.  He did a quick calculation in his head judging the distance from him to the beast – pinched a chunk of his fuse off.  In one fluid, practiced movement Tak light the fuse with his spark gloves and launched the explosive straight at the beasts face – where it hit with a dull thud then fell to the table.  The creature turned to Tak, took half a stride, then the sparkfire exploded – sending the beast toppling off the table toward Tak. 

His moment of victory soon turned to panic as he saw the creature scramble toward him – one leg missing it clawed toward him on its blades.   Tak didn't have time to ready another explosive so he did the only thing he could do, he turned and ran pushing through the books screaming into the next aisle.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Irid pounce onto one of the beasts.  He didn’t stop – into the next aisle he careened into Gilith.  Not stopping to apologize – he went through another set of books.  The aisle was clear – but across the way he spotted two more of the beasts.  Hoping they did not see him Tak worked to combine some of the ingredients he had saved.  He looked up for a moment and saw one of the creatures stalking toward him, still on the other side of the table but its dead eyes affixed on the gnome.

As the last of the shadow creatures fell back into the darkness from which it had sprung, a silence descended over the room. The air was musky from the dust stirred by the battle that had just past, but there was still something teeming. The air felt heavy and foreboding. Something was coming.

Out from the shadows, a beast arose. It was compact and dark, its body half-shrouded: a demon, no doubt, but one more powerful than they had yet faced. The mages in the group no doubt felt the power of its will, deep and forceful as thunder, though it did not speak. Rather, its presence seem to rumble through the hearts of every member of the group, so that even those with no magical inclination felt its power like a tremble through the heart.

It moved forward, though its form seemed insubstantial, inexplicable, ineffable. There was a glint of something sharp and black—like a scythe that seemed possible of even cutting down rays of light.

Deklitch stared at the beast with horror, clutching his wounded side. Then he glanced to his companions, and to the face of the dark-haired elf who was his friend. There was no wind in the room, but there seemed to be a breeze about her—something kind and soft that moved through the folds of her cloak and pressed back tendrils of her hair. About her face was that soft glow that most all elves had, but in her seemed uniquely enigmatic, lovely, and wise.

The boy’s eyes took comfort from the appearance of the elf, and he looked back filled with an unwavering desire to protect her and the others. He glanced to where a shadowy blade had impaled a table near Roy’s book, and with great dexterity, pulled it out. He clutched it in his hands and took a brace step forward, like a lingra prepared to pounce.

The creature seemed to breath through the shadows of the room. Its deathly-red eyes fell upon the young acrobat and narrowed, and it was as though the nightmare of the beast had exhaled terror into the room—but the boy stood strong. ‘I must protect her. I must protect all of them,’ he thought.

And perhaps it was bravery that spring from fear that propelled him, but he rushed forward. And there seemed to be a gasp, the heart in the throat, and a tenebrous dread that followed in the wake of Deklitch’s footsteps for those who looked upon him.

Whether or not the creature had haunches, it seemed to spring forward. It was all blur and blackness—and one blade that at first seemed to match the one held by the young acrobat. But as the velocity of each of them—Deklitch and the demon—increased, the demon’s blade grew, and in a flash it became apparent that, at the speed they both were going, Deklitch would surely be speared upon the dark blade.

There are moments that happen in the blink of an eye, exiguous moments that surge through one heartbeat and are gone.

All at once, at the point where Deklitch and the demon should have met, at the point where death should have come surely and swiftly to the Erpheronian, the indigo-eyed elf seemed to appear, moving swiftly as a silent wind. For those who saw her, her face showed little fear and no hesitation, and her eyes shimmered with magic. She lifted her hand to the demon, and at once there was a brilliant light where all three bodies—the demon, the boy, and the elfess—seemed to collide. It filled the room blindingly, a powerful magic that surged even into the darkest recesses of the room, as though a refulgent white star had suddenly kindled.

When the light withdrew, the demon was gone, vanquished by the power of the elfess. Deklitch was on the floor, bewildered but unharmed. And where was the elfess? All that remained of her were the robes she wore—with a hole in them where the demon’s blade had passed through her body. In the folds of tattered cloth lay a small paper bird.

Deklitch looked upon the robes, then touched them with trembling hands, then coming to clutch them desperately. He felt the tear where the demon’s blade had passed. Suddenly his breathing became as ragged as the tear in the cloth, and his heart raced with wordless sorrow that blinded him with tears.

Alýr was gone.

Something was happening. The warriors were gone, but the air was charged enough that it put the wolf's hair on end. She was pressed against a bookshelf, unsure of the situation and therefore cautious about her actions. When something did happen, it all went so fast that there was hardly a chance to react. A shadow, more powerful than the ones before, emerged. The aura of terror that emanated from it had her shrink back further - in her current state of mind, instinct was more important than reason or bravery, and instinct told her not to attack, to stay in a place where it would not see her.

Not all in the room, however, were governed by such instincts. One in particular, though she smelled the fear on him, charged the shadowy form regardless, heedless of his own danger. And then, suddenly, their leader had placed herself between the boy and the danger, and immediately after both leader and menace disappeared, leaving only the clothes she had been wearing. The atmosphere lightened, at least in regards to the vanished demon's influence. The disappearance of Alyr left a different oppression, a melancholy that pervaded the heart. Sensitive as she currently was to the mood in the room, she needed comfort as much as the people around her.

Stealing forward - quite different from her usual self-confident gait - she sat close to the crying boy, hoping to comfort him. She did not really make a sound, except for the little whine that escaped her throat. If she had been in her right mind, she might have tried to take control of the situation, but as it was she was in no position to help anyone.

Termat could not have said for how long he lay insensible, but as the intense blackness of total unconsciousness faded to a disorientated grey he caught flashes of noise and even, occasionally, a glimpse of movement or colour. All sensations seemed to come almost from another world; sounds were dulled, as if from a long way off, and each impression stubbornly refused to be fitted into a unified whole. The result was a series of disjointed noises, sometimes almost speech, and then an agonising flash of bright light. Even hovering of the edge of consciousness, Termat half-flinched away from it, and when the thrills of pain that sent through his skull had subsided, he found he could open his eyes, at last, and look around.

The young man - Deklit? No... Deklitch - was crouched by a pile of cloth, holding a bunch in his hand. One of the elves - Termat could not for the life of him remember her name - was crouched by his side, almost condolingly. There were no demons anywhere to be seen, but their group seemed to be in a state of near-universal shock. The young man...the elf...where was the other elf? Rayne? Alýr? He cast his eyes about, but they saw no sign of her until they alighted on that same pile of cloth. It was hued, he remembered, like her robes. And the young redhead grieved over them and the elf comforted him.

Gritting his teeth against the dizziness that swept up his body like a breaking wave, Termat forced himself to his feet. He felt blood on his face, saw it on his clothes, and realised he wore only a waistcoat over his crumpled shirt and bloodstained cravat. Noticing his shredded jacket on the floor, the details of his brief combat began to come back to him. Fighting not to reel, he stepped over to where the first two grievers were crouched, and, dumbly, joined them.

He saw a small paper bird amidst the folds of the robes. Wondering if someone would stop him, he wiped his hands and reached for it.

"Wits about you friends. We wander around in this darkness blind. Let us travel somewhere safer where we are less lickely to be in danger. For truly we can gain nothing by staying here and perhaps we can even find out what happened to Alyre else where."  Said Roy calmly and without emotion. Which raises the question of why he had even bothered to use the word friend at all.

As Roy spoke he quickly gathered his things and his staff which was still illuminate with a pale light. When he was finished speaking he started breathing very hard. The fight had taken alot out out of him but he was still estatic that he would be able to add new information into his book of demonology.

When he had finally gathered his things he made his way to the door and opened it. His light died out as the cold air and even paler moons light swept across the room. He held the door open for his allies and looked up as if in after thought and said to the group. "Oh, and somebody grab the archmage."