The man in the brown cloak ran out of things to pass the time.

He sat on the edge of the stone shelf, and watched the sun rise.

The Lodestar would be here soon.

And then it would begin.

And end.

Izus Torrossian waited.

The man in the brown cloak walked to the side of the golden roc, and spent some time tending to the creature’s plumage. He pulled broken feathers from the roc’s breast, and cleaned the dirt and grime of their travels from the great wings.

Bird squawked, and looked at the man quizzically. It was rare for his master to show this much attention to his steed.

The man scratched absently at the tattoo over his heart and continued to work.

---

Ziria

The druid held tight to the seaweed harness of Manitok, the whale. The two companions moved swiftly through the dark waters.

The creatures of the sea had been crying out for as long as he could remember against the destruction brought by the land-ones. The poison had increased slowly but surely, growing ever worse in the most recent years. Young died in the egg, the strong swimmers withered – his home was dying. His people were dying. The sea was dying.

But now something worse had been discovered.

The great travelers of the sea had called him. The whales has sung to him in dreams, telling of a new abomination growing in the waters to the west of his tribe. At last, Ziria could abide it no longer. He saw to the defenses of his tribe, and took to Manitok’s back for the long journey west.

After several days they arrived, cresting over a deep abyss in the sea floor.

A vast structure of metal had risen from the floor of the sea. Ziria could see tiny craft moving about the

rising tower, strengthening it and adding more metal. The druid could just make out a vast stone ring at the base of the tower. Massive carvings fifty feet in length encircled it. He recognized them as Precursor.

It is wrong, Ziria. the whale’s mind sighed. So very, very wrong.

I know, old friend. Ziria replied. The might of my people are not enough to topple this thing of metal and death.

Who has the might?

I know exactly who we must find. Ziria said.

The man in the brown cloak idly walked along the stone shelf, watching the sun slowly rise. He arrived shortly at the fallen earth and stone depression, where the Lodestar had slumbered for decades.

He kicked over a few rocks, and even found a few bits of wood and metal left behind by the airship. A circular ring the size of a coin caught his eye, and he flipped it between his fingers for a moment before tossing it over the ledge.

---

Fairchild

The devil’s bone-thin hand stroked the matted green tentacles of his paramour, as she worked busily between his legs.

He sat in a beautiful white throne, ornate and delicate. His poppy-red skin stretched taught over a skeletal frame, one arm crooked around the arm of the throne dandled a fresh, green apple. The devil chuckled.

Diaspora looked up, precious human face quizzical – her tentacle-hair continuing her work in a most pleasant fashion.

“Lord? What amuses you?” she said.

Fairchild glanced down at her, and took a fleshy bite from the apple.

“Just thinking about the future, my pet. Just thinking about the future.”

His white throne sat suspended on a small section of floor, that floated freely. Surrounding him was the throng of Abaddon. Sharpening blades, hammering forges – lesser devils fought greater, vying for new strength and status.

Hell was preparing for war.

The devil chuckled again.

The man in the brown cloak pulled the blue shield from the hiding place in its pouch. He rubbed idly at a fleck of dirt on its rim.

The design of the shield was simple, unscored blue metal — the rim of the artifact glowed with a steady white light. In the top right corner, a small Arkanic sigil had been inscribed by the shield’s long-forgotten forgers.

“Duty.” he muttered, and laughed sardonically.

---

Two Dwarves and Two Visitors

The black clad dwarf sobbed, his head buried in his arms on a table made of glass. An ancient dwarf dressed in white stood behind him, and patted him gently on the back.

“Bu..bu..bu…but he was going to be my new servant! The Iron Grip of ….my .. new … dark ..reign..awwwwhaaaaa…awhaaa…..” the dark god sobbed.

The white robed monk diffidently offered a corner of his robe for the other dwarf to blow his nose.

“Thanks..” the dark god trumpeted into the other’s robe, then looked up into the monk’s eyes.

“My nephew has begun his true journey, friend Droskar. Perhaps it is time for you to begin your own.” he said kindly.

The dark god rose and pushed the table with all his might. It fell forward and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Never! It’s not over yet. That boy still has a lot of trouble ahead, and there’s going to come a day when he’ll need my help. Real, fast and ready help — not your stupid patience.”

“The harder you push, the faster the spinning top finds its center.”

“What does THAT even mean?”

The old monk sighed, and tried to hide his concern. His dark friend had grown smaller recently, he could almost watch Droskar shrinking.

“Come, Droskar – let us sit, there is no need to leave. You are correct, there is still much game left to play.”

The old monk sat, and began to put the table back together, tiny shards of glass tinkling on the ground.

Droskar sullenly stomped off to get another beer, but soon returned to watch his companion’s work.

Some time later an old human, and a beautiful woman arrived. The woman saw the half-assembled table and rolled her eyes. She leaned her sword against a nearby column, and sat down to assist the monk.

“I brought snacks.” said Frank, and plopped down next to Droskar with an overflowing basket.

The man in the brown cloak pulled his bedroll from a pouch. The pouch and sleeping mat were fairly new, purchased after his last had been appropriated.

He found a shady spot under a stone outcropping, that would block him from the dawn sun. He laid down, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Fifteen minutes later he got up.

---

The Ghosts

Eliljah kicked open the door of blood-red marble, the black crystal bar shattered and rained onto the floor.

“Get that door open — before we all die! Die horribly! Horribly!” Gorton quavered and redoubled his

protective ward on the center of the bridge.

The bridge was made of black stone, as was much of the city of Iax. It spanned a thousand foot crevasse, lit only by the murky lava below.

“Running out of ammo.” Marabon said calmly, as her rifle sounded a report. “ One box left.”

Elijah’s boot slammed into the door, budging the massive doors another few inches.

Mr. Quick and Quintus danced and spun at the center of the bridge, keeping the edges of Gorton’s ward covered.

The Ghosts hadn’t seen light in several days — moving stealthily and steadily further into the heart of the Tyr-Elves domain. At last they had reached their goal.

Elijah raised his boot, just as Tetch’s spectral head popped through the face of the marble door.

“Uh, guys…I think you’re going to be upset.”

The cavalier’s boot slammed down onto the doors, and they swung open at last.

“Let’s move!” Marabon barked. “Gorton, pull the ward to cover this door.”

The Ghosts dashed inside, the throng of silent elves hard on their heels.

A quick scan of the room revealed an ornate square dais, chiseled from the same blood-red marble. The green field of the wizard’s shield crackled at the door, the pounding of the rangers muted for the moment. Quintus could see their eyes glowing blue and hot, held back by inches of magic.

“I’ve looked in every wall, and under this altar to a distance of 100 feet.” Tetch reported. “ There’s no Shield here, only this.”

The ghost pointed to a scrap of paper affixed to the altar with a glob of green wax.

Written in common were the words:

Too late.
I.T.

Quintus pulled his hair out of his eyes, and tried to salvage the elaborate coif he fancied.

“Well, mother fucker.” the Gilean soldier said.

A man in a brown cloak rode a giant golden bird.

The desert air was cool, but he could smell the heat that lay waiting in the stones. It was an hour before dawn.

Mighty brown talons crunched into red stone. The roc, Bird, landed on the wide shelf and came to a halt. The man swung down from his back, and gave his steed an absent-minded pat on the shoulder. He surveyed the surrounding area. The wide green metal grate leading into the abandoned prison was just visible in the gloom. No sounds came from within – the Sarmadi had swept their prison clean weeks ago, and left it empty for the traditional nine-and-ninety nights, for the sun and their goddess’ wrath to burn the place clean.

He was completely alone – it would be a perfect place for the meeting.

---

Talitha

A little girl tossed and turned on a bed of stone.

After the initial terror of her capture, Talitha had found the past few days intensely boring. Men had grabbed her, then rushed her to a new place binding her eyes with a dark cloth. She had been tossed into the back seat of a small aircraft, that smelled of clean leather. The engines had hummed, and short while later she had been pulled onto a larger craft. She was led to a smaller room, while calm, businesslike voices spoke in a language she didn’t understand. They tied her to a bed, and left her alone for several hours. She knew she was on an airship, the movement felt a lot like her home, the Lodestar.

Talitha had fallen asleep, and dreamed of running through a blue field with Crackers at her side.

She had awoken to being carried again, in bulky but gentle arms. The blindfold was removed, and she found herself in an odd stone room. A stone room with one wall missing. She had tiptoed to the edge, and looked down the side of a massive building, hundreds of rooms rising above above an unfamiliar coastline. To the left and right she saw many other buildings stretching as far as she could see. The roar of the surf was loud in her ears, and she could make out an odd tower standing all alone in the middle of the bay. She felt like she could almost reach out and touch it.

“Listen to me carefully.” the cool voice said.

“Who are you, where am I , what’s going on, are my friends allright, where’s my sword and why are you dressed in all black?” Talitha demanded.

An elegant black glove descended and slapped her firmly across the face.

“You instructions were to listen. That is all. Are you listening?”

“You hit like a girl—”

The black glove came down, and Talitha skipped to the side grabbing the incoming wrist the way that Master Fin had taught her. She twisted her body, and bent like a reed in the wind.

An elegant black boot swept her feet out from under her. Talitha’s head hit the stone floor. Pain overwhelmed her, her hands sliding weakly against the floor. She pulled her hand up, and saw there was frost on it, even though it was a perfectly balmy afternoon.

“Now you are listening. You will wait in this room. Food will be brought to you.You will eat it. You will not try to escape, or we will give you pain.”

The black glove tossed Talitha roughly onto a stone bed.

“I’m sure you are a nimble climber, but don’t try. You won’t like your neighbors.”

Talitha stared blearily at the finely tailored black coat as it turned to leave the room. On the back of it was a white circle, decorated with a cresting black wave.

The young girl turned over in fitful sleep, and waited for her heroes to come and rescue her.

The Street of Gods hummed with activity as the barbarian and cleric entered the South District. A street urchin had pointed the way, but the Temple of Seto was easy to spot.

“The Temple of the Burning Blade – I see now where the name comes from…” Bramble said quietly.

Sheets of gold had been hammered to the cream marble of the temple’s massive construction, the late afternoon sun reflected an orange blaze across the courseway. One of Pice’s rivers ran past, split by the temple’s shining glory.

The barbarian walked through the crowded streets, as if in a dream. Bramble speaks, but he hears it with only part of his mind.

Long ago, a great warrior came to the city of Vardeman, as Pice was once known. He had lived a long life of conquest and battle, and his skill with a sword was unmatched. With blade in hand, the rain could not touch him, the wind could not catch him, and his foes fell before him as wheat before the scythe.

The warrior had sought long for a suitable challenge worthy of his skill, for an enemy that could make his heart pump quick blood as in his youth. The Seers of Seroholm told him that if he came to Vardeman, he would find such a challenge.

The city was much smaller in those days, and mostly empty. In an abandoned square, by the river he found a stone fountain. The fountain was dry, and filled with dust. A young woman sat at the fountain, holding a vase.

“The warrior was impressed by her beauty, even though his youth had long since fled. ’I come seeking a great challenge.” said the swordsman, and the girl smiled and said ‘You have found it.’

Agnar stepped across the stone bridge, the water sounds of the river finding their own place in his mind. The worshipers of the sun goddess moved quickly to avoid the bemused barbarian.

Bramble continues, her voice dropping to a whisper as she and the barbarian enter the chapel proper. Vast marble balustrades span the high-domed chamber, stained glass refracting a million images of the Sun.

‘Let us fill the vase’ the girl suggested, ‘A simple task.’

The old warrior laughed, but the girl smiled so that he could not resist. He reached into the nearby stream, and brought water to the vase from his cupped hands. To his surprise, only dust poured into the vase. Determined he tried again – faster and faster his hands flew trying to fill the vase with water. Only dust fell from his hands.

The warrior’s ire was great, but he found himself calmed by the simple touch of the girl’s hand on his brow. He stood back a pace, as she simply said ‘My turn.’

She reached, not into the river but into the dry fountain. Grasping a handful of dust she flung it into the vase. A splash. The dust had become water, even as it left her hands. A few more handfuls of dust, and the vase was overflowing with pure, clean water

The girl smiled at the old swordsman. ‘Do you understand my riddle?’

Bramble grinned, and pulled Agnar down into a stone pew at the back of the nave. Sunset Service would be soon, and the people were entering in a steady stream.

“This was when my tutor would always look at me over his spectacles and ask, ’ Well, do you?’”.