The bowels of Ashtakala, The Demon Wastes; 10th Day of Barrakas, 993YK (Aros)

[Chris Chandler]

Time lost meaning about... well, that's the thing about time losing it's meaning. You can't remember when you lost it.

The Labyrinth was interesting, to say the least. The Ghaash'kala don't like outsiders, and they mean it. They also don't figure on folks just coming into the Labyrinth on their own accord, and it took some... ad hoc diplomacy to convince the young Orc running the show that you weren't just going to crack open the door straight to Xoriat, and were, in fact, trying to keep that very thing from happening.

Your crew, they were dead. Manganel, a brash Gatekeeper tapped personally by your huntress, Dahai, he was killed by the Rajah that you beheaded a moment too late. Gerdy, the quiet, reflective Shifter, she died... just right back... Better not to think too hard on those things. It those sorts of thoughts that get a man killed. You've never been this close to Khyber. You've never been this close to...

It's this city. Gerdy, she saw happy folks lining the streets, she saw her close shift back to the skirt and sandals of days long turned to grinding dust, but you saw the ruins. You saw Ashtakala for what it was, and you saw the Lords of Dust, or saw that they were here.

And now you are here, face to face with Rajah Kumbhakarna, the Vizier to the very Lords of Dust who seek to crack open Xoriat upon Khorvaire and throughout the world. He smiles at you, his face a torment of lies, as he walks along the ruined wall of the old Gate.

So, Camlost, come to pay your respects?

[Doombot]

I think you know why I'm here. It is not to pay any respects; I have none for you.


I move slowly towards the Rajah, my eyes ahead and my guard up.

It won't do to be taken by surprise at this late stage, not after so many have given their lives to get me this far.

As it always has been. Sometimes I feel that I have climbed this mountain by stepping on the backs of others, or the corpses of my friends. Just like poor Gerdy. Just like Rath, back when...

I shouldn't dwell on it. I have work to do. And I'm good at it.


You know that there's only one way this can end. You might as well come down so we can be done with this.

[Chris Chandler]

Kumbhakarna smiles, his feral lips, cracked and aging forming a mask of terror. He continues his slow walk along the wall, his robe scuffing the stone the only sound of his movement.

Such bold words from such a worm as yourself. Whose favor do you hope to gain here in the Wastes? Do you hope for glory, for there is no glory in a rotting corpse. Perhaps you hoped to, as you might say, end this. Surely you see the folly in that, old friend.

He slowly pulls his twisted hands from the folds of his robes, giving a gesture of near obeisance.

Surely your comrades in arms - surely they would be reason enough for you to take your leave. You can't trust the demons of Khyber to respect the fallen. I mean, how would it look for a Gatekeeper to be the vessel that actually allows Xoriat to Prevail?

The laughter is enough to make a lesser man vomit.

[Doombot]

I hope to curry favor with no one, and I need no glory -- I have gained enough renown already. Too much, perhaps, if you think to call me 'old friend.'

Stepping forward quickly now, I push off a piece of rubble and twist through the air, spinning, and land atop the wall.

I will tend to my companions after I have seen to you. The demons of Khyber don't trouble me half as much as the old liar in front of me.

I let calmness flow over and around me. There is less anger in my voice than even I expect, just simple certainty. Cracking my knuckles noisily, I begin moving in on the Rajah's position.

[Chris Chandler]

He walks slowly to you, not veering from his intended path on the wall. He meets your eyes, and he is frowning a bit.

You might be surprised at just who has and who has not been your ally in this, Camlost. Are you sure that you want to do this? There is no turning back from this.

He takes the moment's movement to pull out his shamshir, what a Valenar might describe as an ornate scimitar.

Blood brings blood Camlost. The lords of Xoriat know this too well.

He sees the look in your eyes -

No, it is too late for that, I can see. You will see blood, and they will be proven right. Come forth Camlost, to your doom and to the fulfillment of the Daelkyr.

He stops walking, his arms are spread apart, open and waiting for you, his curved blade already dripping with blood, which, you realize suddenly, is his own.

[Doombot]

I pause for a moment to stare at the Rajah, peering deeper, trying to gauge the rank corruption that surrounds him like an aura. Intangible to some, but I have been gifted with the ability to see it, and trained for the ability to destroy it. It surrounds him like a cloud, the color of which is not seen in any rainbow.

Very well.

In an instant, I am storming along the wall, quick and sure-footed. At half the distance, I pull my sword. Gurthang explodes from its scabbard in a wave of hate. There is a blackness around the blade, ready to consume the corruption of this place.

I leap a ten-foot gap in the wall without noticing, come crashing down atop the rakshasa with practiced grace. I saw a soldier of mine do this once, so hot with rage he was practically glowing. That anger is nothing to mine.

Gurthang bites again and again, blood flowing, sometimes dropping with a heavy patter on the ruined stones, sometimes fountaining out to paint a gruesome mural on the rubble. This is not entirely about Xoriat, nor about fallen comrades. Not entirely.

But I have a task before me. And it must be done.

It is time.

[Chris Chandler]

The Rajah offers no resistance to your assault, his frown remaining, and his eyes closing as you strike. Gurthang snaps collarbone as easily as passing through fine cloth and only the sweep of your follow-through stops the descent of the weapon, mid trunk. The remainder of your blows, though you know you strike a corpse, tear Kumbhakarna to pieces. The gore dripping from your bonded blade steams, the blood hot on your skin.

You hear the laughter of power, a power you have yet to see, but have known for years. Even as the blood of your foe nearly burns your skin, your own blood nearly freezes. Your blade rings in rage, and you see the ruins about you shift at first slightly, as if you had become momentarily dizzy, but no, it is not your perception that is failing, but your reality that is collapsing.

The stones seem to melt away below you, leaving only the ruined wall to which you are perched, below is only swirling darkness. You hear a voice in your mind, nearly a man's voice, but forever devoid of spirit.

Khyber is cold and quiet, and it has allowed me a brief moment of peace, time enough to think, to understand this realm of shadow. You, man of this breathing world, tell me, what is it that you fear?

[Doombot]

What do I fear? It has been a long time since I have felt afraid. I used to fear the power of magic, it's ability to destroy, to corrupt. But no longer. I have broken magic: block it, twist it, use it, undo it, even cause it to cease to be. It is a tool in my hands.

I am not afraid of any man or beast, alive or dead. I wish to keep the Daelkyr in their prison, but I do not fear them. I seek to end the reign of the Lords of Dust and prevent them from achieving their goals, but I am not afraid.

I turn slowly in place, trying to spot the source of the voice.

[Chris Chandler]

Ah, you do not understand what you call this "magic" I think. You have not seen the universe unravel the reshape within an instant. You have not seen nothing. You see bending those rules that bind you to the ground as a force, a measure of power, the end, but you are mistaken.

It is merely glimpse, man of this breathing world. What you call magic I call a wisp of ash and a flicker of flame. It is as you are to me, a flicker. Answer me another question, then, since you are too foolish to fear. What do you love?

The voice is in your head, all around you, inside your bones, emanating from the stone of the crumbling wall below you. As you turn you begin to grow cold, as if a winter wind had swept this ruined hall. Gooseflesh prickles your arms and the sweat on your brow nearly ices, but you maintain yourself. You sense no other being nearby.

[Doombot]

I stand still upon the wall, and sheathe my sword. Emptiness surrounds me, it won't do to panic like a child; I must face my destiny as a man, as a Knight.

I love my country. I love the Knights with whom I serve. I love the pursuit of Perfection of myself, and have always pushed others to excel. There are other's I have loved, but most are lost to me now...

...like Rath. And IED. Good soldiers and good friends both. And others...But those are old wounds. Best to leave them be for now.

Who are you? Would you help me, or hinder me? Speak quickly, demon!

[Chris Chandler]

Demon? So quick to mark those whom you do fear, man, but not without reason. You love perfection, do you? That is an interesting proposition. What is perfection? By whose basis do you make your judgment? Surely not your own.

I would help you more than any mortal could dream of helping you. That question is a child's. Is it not clear that I could give you far more than you can even grasp, man of the waking world. What you consider help, though, that may be different.

[Doombot]

Alright; how would you help me? I suspect that our goals lay in two very different directions. And I still don't know that I should be accepting help from you, not even know who or what you are. Can you offer these reassurances?

[Chris Chandler]

Reassurance? Truly you do not understand to whom you speak, man of the waking world. I can reassure you that death is no great rest. I can reassure you that there is no leaving your soul untainted.

The wind picks up. It is nearly a gale, yet you hear the voice as clearly as if by a quiet fire.

I no longer have, as you say, goals, mortal. A goal is to not die by the light of this day. I do not have that luxury. You, however, do. What is your goal this day, if it is not, indeed, to live?

[Doombot]

My goals are simple: to prevent a breach to the plane of madness, and to leave here, alive and well. I don't believe you will stop me.

But now I'm unsure. There is something about this flat, bodiless voice that implies it can and will do whatever it pleases -- if anything pleases it.

[Chris Chandler]

I sense your doubt, mortal. That is your greatest strength, truly, to understand that you do not know. The mortals of whom I have met that thought they knew have all since perished.

The gale dies down just a bit, though the bite in the icy air is still as hard. the voice grows, as if that is possible.

Oh, I intend for you to leave this place, alive and well, man of the waking world. Xoriat, this "plane of madness" as you call it, will return to the waking world in due time. There is nothing that mortals can do to stop this. That, however -

The wind stills. You hear the crack of ice expanding in the wall beneath you. The wall sways uneasily.

- is not my concern. Why allow dreams into the waking world, mortal? No, I seek dominion without, not within. I ask you another question - what is beyond Siberys?

[Doombot]

Stars, maybe; I don't know. I'm no sage. I do know of someone you could ask, though. She will tell you more than you'd like to know.

I try to feign ignorance and sound airy and unconcerned. The first part is easy, the second -- not so much.

What is it to you what is outside this place? My business is here.

[Chris Chandler]

Khyber is pleasant enough, for rest and reflection, but I am contented with that. I am ready to move through Khyber and Eberron and toward Siberys. I do know what lies beyond the dragon of the stars. Do you understand that the stars of the sky are like marks on a map. Each star, or many of them to be sure, is a point of light where another world, much like this waking world, exists. Why trap myself within Xoriat unleashed when I can hold that which is greater than Siberys.

You are numb to the core, now. It is only a matter of time before you succumb to frostbite at this point. Your mind is becoming sluggish from the freezing air, and you fight to stay in the moment.

So, man of the waking world, what is it that will allow me to leave Kyber? Do you understand?

[Doombot]

No, I don'...

Why lie? It will know, and then what?

Yes. You need Xoriat to open so that you can leave. But I won't let you. I can't let you. Xoriat must remain sealed.

[Chris Chandler]

You still consider that Xoriat is a place, and nothing more, some region that can be barred by a toll gate and a guard. While it is true that the land of the dream can be made manifest, that is, tangible to the waking world, it is not to be confined by such mundane means.

Your extremities have lost sensation, from the deathly cold, and Gurthang grips you, the bond that you share the only thing keeping you from dropping the blade. If the voice you were hearing were coming from some person before you, you would have long since been unable to hear it, but it resonates in your very mind, and that is still active, still alive.

No, every soul under Siberys has visited Xoriat at least once, most souls have visited many times. I will admit that a visit is unlike actually stepping into Xoriat with your own body, but even you, man of the waking world, have crossed into the realm of madness, into that which is beyond your ken, or do you not remember? No, of course you would never remember such a visit. Those that do either die or become crazed, servants of the Lords of Dust, ever trying to pry open the gate, the fools.

No, I tell you again that I have no desire to have Xoriat's gate opened on this world. I do, however, have desire to leave Khyber, and Khyber's thirst to keep me here cannot be slaked unless I were to travel back into Xoriat. That, of course, is unacceptable.

The wall nearly feels like sand at this point. How it has not collapsed is anyone's guess, but the wall falling down and your own body failing, it is all you can do to stay upright.

I have found a solution to Khyber's thirst. I ask you again, what is it that will allow me to leave Khyber?

[Doombot]

Realization sets in, colder than the air swirling around me. I sigh slightly, shuddering a little.

Me. You need me to escape Khyber.

[Chris Chandler]

And that is why I have chosen you, Aros Camlost, why I have allowed you, from your inception into the knighthood until your first step onto my doorstep, such wondrous success and power, even as those around you -

You have a flash of vision of your comrades that have just fallen -

- fail.

Are you ready for you ascent? I mean, truly you have no real choice. After all, you killed the Vizier, like I knew you would. He thought that he would allow me to enter, but he was just too ambitious. You have no ambition. You have a calling, isn't that what you would call it?

It was all to easy to bring you here, a few decades of proper grooming and there we have it, a perfect surrogate for my freedom.

Your eyes start to fail. First everything on the perimeter of your vision turns to fog and then the middle of your vision blacks out leaving only a scant impression of sight.

No, you don't have to thank me. Understand that my love for what you do here for me shall not be forgotten. We shall meet once more, in the days beyond dreams.

[Doombot]

My last thought before the blackness falls echoes in my mind like a shout in a vast canyon...

...I will return.

[Chris Chandler]

Your footing finally fails, as does your vision. Your last thoughts echo in your minds as you drop into the nothingness below. You feel as if you are floating in water, as all of your outer senses have failed and you float for a long time. You lose sense of place, time, even of self by the time you awaken. It takes you a long time for you to even determine that your eyes are, indeed sensing light and shapes around you. It takes even longer for you to actually stand and take bearings, but you manage to do so.

The grass here is tall, brown and ready to make hay. You can see the outbuilding standing at the end of a line of poplars, following the bend of the creek. Following the creek just a bit, crossing at the rocks and down past the big oak you reach the farmhouse, your farmhouse, well, the farmhouse of your childhood, before the war, before everything.

You look at your hand - Gurthang is no longer there, but you are holding a mighty weapon - the oaken cudgel you used to drive off the pack of wild dogs terrorizing the cows, though you were chased by your bull for your trouble. This was the cudgel with which you defended the honor of one Ginny Harkouse, though she hadn't spoken to you for the whole summer because of the trouncing you gave Percy. This was... your 13th year, a year before you'd be able to enter the service. You are 13. But where is Ashtakala?

[Doombot]

This must be some trick. He gave up farming for a merchant's life shortly before I signed up for the Brelish army; he hasn't had cattle in years. Just as well, since I hated feeding the damn things. Still, why am I here?

Ma? Papa?

I wander towards the farmhouse, in the unlikely event that my family is there.

Elwe? Elwe, did you give up the mercantile business to come back and milk cows?

But why would I have my old billy club if this is now? I could have sworn I was just somewhere else, somewhen else. I was...yes, I was fighting. Trying to stop...something. Xoriat, that's right. Why is it so hard to remember?

I slow down as I draw nearer to the old farmhouse that I grew up in, gripping my cudgel tightly in both hands. Not really sure who or what to expect, I call out again for my parents and baby brother.

[Chris Chandler]

You move toward the farmhouse, which, at this distance, looks abandoned. You can see, in the front of the structure, a packed cart tied down with burplap and rope. You hear voices coming from ahead -

...that wanderer gone to now? Doesn't he - eh? Ah, he's 'round back. Come on then. Let's load up.

You see a figure walk around the side of the farmhouse, tall and lanky, with a lean, leathery face and steel hair tied back into a horsetail. This man is not your father. This is Amos, Mr. Amos you'd always called him. He had been a neighbor while you lived here -

As he turns the corner, he continues speaking -

If you don't hurry up Berna -

He stops cold.

A... Aros?! What!?

He looks as if he's looking at a ghost - he turns pale and takes a step back, leaning up against the house itself.

Y... How can you be here?

He manages to compose himself for the moment -

S... Son, you aren't supposed to be here. You... You and Your family's gone... gone into the city... It's three weeks ride.

He says this last to himself, then looks back to you, and moves toward you, his arms out, intending to hold you by the shoulders -

Aros, what are you doing here?

[Doombot]

I don't know, I was in Ashtakala, but now I'm back here, and I can't find my family, and...do you know how to get to them?

The words come out in a rush, thanks to the disorientation of being thirteen again. It takes a few moments of intense concentration to focus on what's real, and regain some semblance of order.

Mr. Amos, this is important. I need to know where I am, and what the year is. I have urgent business elsewhere, but I need to get my bearings first. A few minutes ago, I was a captain of the knights of Brey, and suddenly I find myself back home where I grew up. Do you know anything that could explain this?

I take a step back from from his outstretched arms, not entirely trusting what I see.

[Chris Chandler]

Mr. Amos smiles, the smile of someone humoring the mad, and allows you to step away.

Ashtakala? A Knighthood? Did you finally hit yourself in the head with that cudgel of yours? Yes, I know where your parents are. They're were you ought to be, young man.

He stops and looks over his shoulder -

You - you haven't happened to see Bernard have you? He's gone off wandering, he has.

He stops, seeing the earnest look in your face.

You certainly seem out of sorts enough. Look. I can take you to the post near the crossroads. There's a Sivis scribe what can send a message to your family. Mayhaps we can find a... Let's just get off to the post, eh?

[Doombot]

I haven't seen Bernard in over twenty years. I know that I sounds mad, but -- forget it. If you could take me to the Sivis scribe, I would be much obliged.

I move toward Mr. Amos and his wagon, trying to keep track of my train of thought, which seems to be fluttering away like leaves in a gale. This can't be right -- some sort of trick? An illusion, maybe. I miss my parents.

[Chris Chandler]

You heard the plodding of large feet and the gasping breath of your friend, Bernard. You turn and see his round frame puffing over the rise where you had come -

Ha! I knew I'd see ya. Sor yer footprint in the mud I did. Whatcher out here for?

He gives you a right shot in the shoulder and you nearly fall over from the blow, though years of living with Bernard, and years of memories about Bernard keep your feet around your friend.

Hey! Bernard, we'll have none of that. It isn't the time boy. Both of you, into the cart. We're about off.

[Doombot]

Sitting in the cart with a very sweaty Bernard, I try to piece together in my mind how I could have gone from the depths of Ashtakala to my parents' old farm. I keep trying to see through the deception, to pierce the veil, as I was trained to do, but it's much harder than before; it keep slipping away, like trying to grab the small, hard piece of soap we'd keep in the washtub for bathing at the week's end.

A thought strikes me: what if this is reality? Suppose I am thirteen again? No, that can't be. I can still remember being...elsewhere. The details are beginning to elude me now. The one thing that stands out in my mind is a dark sword
(Gurthang)
once called Anglachel. I know it is my sword, and I suspect it is my only hope as well.

Ah well, I'll see my parents soon, and papa will help me figure this out. He was always good at helping me when I was confused. When I am confused.

Softly, I begin to sing to myself, an old song my father used to sing:

Out of the Dark, and out of the Night,
Into the Fire, and into the Fight,
Well that's the way heroes go...

I trail off, finishing the next voice in my head, completely unaware that I wont hear this song until several years from now, when someone
(Rath)
sings it on a mission to a certain Cyran foundry.

On your left, and on your right,
Crosses are green and crosses are blue,
Your friends didn't make it through...

[Chris Chandler]

You come over the rise of a hill, closing on the post just about a mile ahead. Amos curses as the cart hits an exposed stone near the edge of the road. It isn't much, but you are caught off guard, and you tumble!

The air is dark and warm. You smell jasmine and orchids - perfume. You see the soft glow of light, a fire perhaps, or a lantern. You are face down, but on cushions, silken and overstuffed. You hear the soft breathing of someone nearby, slow deep breathing.

[Doombot]

Slowly, I raise my head and survey my surroundings, looking for some sign of Mr. Amos and his cart. The last remnants of the song, now somewhat skewed, reverberate in my mind and fade to the refrain:


On your left, and on your right,
Into the Fire, and onto the Cross,
Well that's the way friends go...


Out of the blue, and into the black,
Crosses are fire and crosses are fright,
The Hero didn't make it through...

Better start doing it right,
Better start doing it right...

As the music fades from my thoughts, it is replaced by a flash of panic.

I'm lost! I'll never find my parents!

[Chris Chandler]

You are in what looks to be a large pavilion tent, and there is a brazier in the middle of the living space that is emitting a soft glow, the smoke heady with incense. You see a small round table that is covered with unscrolled papers, maps perhaps? You glance to the opening and you see blackness -

Blackness?

It is pitch dark beyond the opening, The woman, the voice beside you, moans softly. She places a dark arm upon your shoulder and pulls herself up to where you are peeking. In a thick accent that you do not recognize, she tugs at you gently. You can feel her soft breasts against your back, and you realize that you, too, are unclothed, and an adult too.

Come back to bed, husband. The morning is long off.

[Doombot]

Husband? I can't be married, I'm only thirteen!

...Where am I?

Slowly, the realization that I'm no longer a teenager on my family's old farm takes hold, the old dreamscape fading into the background. I am, however, more confused than before -- I have no recollection of a wife, only a string of one-night stands and debaucheries.

In a moment, my dear.

I rise slowly. My back pops in time with my cracking knuckles as I stretch, my scars puckering in the half-light. As I move to inspect the documents on the table, I glance about tent, looking for my
(cudgel)
sword and gear.

When am I now? And who is this woman I am sharing a bed with?

[Chris Chandler]

She is, to be blunt, a spoil of war, a beautiful drow from Xen'drik named Myrinil. You bested the Fire Giant Cloyer for the prize, and she has been your wife for some 10 years now.

No, there was no expedition to Xen'drik, but you remember the travel there, the overflight and the raid. The objective wasn't freeing Drow from Giants, but rather a relic from their shaman, payment from the highest bidder.

Knights don't hunt treasure for pay!

Mercenaries do, though.

You see your battle gear, and you do, indeed, catch a glimpse of your blade, but your armor, not the subdued practical breastplate of a knight, but rather the ostentatious pauldrons and spiked vambraces of a gladiator.

[Doombot]

I move slowly to my gear, feeling a disconcerting sense of duality, like I am in two places at once. Or maybe, two places at two times at the same time.

I pick up Gurthang, and feel its comforting weight. I run my forefinger along the fuller, half aware of irony of the substitution: the woman, dark and naked, for the naked blade in my hands, black and powerful.

My eyes pass quickly over the rest of my gear, careless. I know that it is mine; I know the history behind every piece, but there is no sense of familiarity, only wrongness.

Sighing, I cross back to the cushions and silk and slide into bed next to
(this woman)
my wife, feeling the softness of she sheets and the warmness of her body. Sleep does not come, however -- it has been replaced by confusion, by a sense of fractured being.

[Chris Chandler]

She turns to you, nuzzling your rough neck with her lips and a familiar warmness passes through your body.

You are tense, my husband; did you have another nightmare? Roll over on your stomach and tell me what pains you.

[Doombot]

I roll over on my stomach, but hesitate to describe what I feel. I am sure that I am going quite mad, I would hate to frighten her, even though she is
(my wife)
a stranger.

How do I explain to her that the nightmare is waking and being some other me? Is she even real? Does it matter if she is or not?

You see, my dear -- That doesn't sound right. She's not my wife, no matter what I remember. Myrinil, I awoke just now from a dream, a dream that I was a child again on my father's farm. But when I woke, I found that I was not who I thought I was.

All of this is wrong. I'm not a sword for hire, I'm a Knight to the crown. I haven been for over fourteen years. I never married you, I don't even know you.

But somehow, I know everything about you and this place. I need your help, Myrinil. I don't know what's happening to me.

[Chris Chandler]

Her naked frame is slim but athletic and she climbs atop your back and with expert hands breaks the tension from your back. The feeling is marvelous, as far from as you were feeling at the ruins of Ashtakala as could be. You feel the love from this woman coming through in her hands and she listens.

The dream again, my dear? Oh, how I wish that this would end. I know how it pains you to lose this life you feel you once had, but you must come here to the present, to the moment. That is a figment, a dream, my husband.

She continues her work, giving close attention to your swordarm and your neck.

We have been married long enough for me to know that the path you have chosen will leave me a widow far earlier than your old age will warrant. You will die on the field, and I will raise our children in the memory of their father. I do not know, though, what this dream life is doing to you. You are to marshall the troops at dawn tomorrow, to drive back the giants into the distant pit of this forsaken land. You cannot do this living in a dream.

[Doombot]

I have no response to her words. Her hands, however, are another matter. She loves me, or rather, she loves a man that is me, but not: a what-if doppleganger of myself. And for that I am grateful, and I love her in some small way that doesn't quite make sense. She reminds me of someone I once knew, but neither name nor face will come when I summon it.

We make love. It's plain that she enjoys it more than I; my mind, sill racing and dripping with half-formed thoughts is not up to the task. My body is. It's what has saved me countless times in battle. Even a strong mind often cannot cope with the rigors of survival, but muscles and bone, well trained, can move and react more surely and smoothly than one would guess.

I hope that
(he)
I am up to the task she spoke of tomorrow, for her sake at least. She loves
(him)
me, and despite her words, I heard a hint of sorrow in her voice when she spoke of
(his)
my death.

I enfold Myrinil in my arms and wait for sleep to come, feeling both the rightness and the wrongness of having her close to me. My mind is still a jumble of thoughts and feelings, memories I've never experienced, and parts of my past strangely absent. She, at least, offers some small island of comfort and sanity in all this confusion.

[Chris Chandler]

You again feel a chill of cold, as you fall backwards from your embrace with Myrinil, landing on a snowbank. It is snowing hard, horizonatally, and you cannot hardly see, except for the Jarl in front of you, an elder of the tribe of Thrym, swinging a double-bitted axe that is longer than twice your height, aiming for your suddenly exposed neck.

You have Anglachel in your hand, and you are dressed appropriately. You know this scene - a protracted campaign at the beginning of the war, you were sent to break the stalemate. The stalemate is currently trying to lop your head off.

[Doombot]

In a burst of cosmic irony, I cannon backward out of the way of the swinging axe, my body reacting with a swiftness drilled into it by long years of military service, reacting more quickly than my bewildered mind.

Fetching up against a drift, I suppress a grunt of exertion as a rapidly change direction, spinning my blade as I run towards my oversized foe. My thoughts are still dazed, contrasting the warmth of the woman I had so recently
(but you never did, it was another time, another you)
lain with and the bite of the wind, driving ice and snow into my face.

What was her name? It wasn't Jean, was it? Or was that someone else, someone from a different when...?

The Jarl nearly takes my leg off with another near miss. The shock of two near-death experiences in so short a time drives one memory into my mind's view, a familiar saying from my first sergeant: "Soldier, shut up and soldier!" Point well taken; it's time to do or die. Or perhaps both.

[Chris Chandler]

The maneuver, the maneuver you performed when you fought this creature before, is flawless and you step, take a murderous swing into the giant's midsection and riposte his counter, bringing him to a knee. He reaches out his hand crackling with blackness and you spin to his terribly exposed flank. With a final, definitive strike, you spill his innards out onto the red snow, and boils steam. He collapses, not dead, but not in the realm of the living for long.

Know ye that this changes nothing, the fires shall... be... quen...

He said the same thing before. As he dies, the wind picks up even more and you are reminded of your last moments in Ashtakala.

You suddenly are assaulted with the smell of surf - burning salt spray and the raging blizzard becomes a wave that splashes you. Your balance wavers and you see the coast, the Brelish coast perhaps, though you cannot be sure. You are appropriately nude for swimming, and you see dozens of men and a few women - your troops, though you cannot have me them yet. Your arms, still powerful, are leaner, your skin scarred and leathered. You feel your age - these children relax after a successful campaign, leaving their general to swim peacefully by himself.

You see the shimmer of scales beneath the water, as a school of feeding fish are disturbed by a creature, humanoid, though ichthian in appearance, with large eyes, gills and fins along it's arm, the Locathah woman nods to you and speaks -

It is time, Aros.

[Doombot]

Time? Time for what? Who are you?

The sea air is soothing after the frigid waste, but the constant state of confusion and uncertainty is wearing.

[Chris Chandler]

The Locathah woman tilts her head - their facial expression are hard to read - it might be confusion.

Why, to travel to the edge of the basin, for the king's coronation - You arrived, invitation in hand. Are you feeling well. We spoke only moments ago.

You recognize those behind you, but you do not know this creature.

[Doombot]

I would be lying if I told you I felt well. I do not know you, nor do I know this king you speak of.

[Chris Chandler]

You sense a flicker of an image across the face of the locathah, and the water chills suddenly, though the scene does not change otherwise.

Please, the king is expecting Breland to be present. Consider the treaty, sir.

Her voice has changed, very slightly; the timbre is fainter than it should be.

[Doombot]

Of course, mustn't forget the treaty...
(what treaty I don't remember any treaty what)

Very well. Lead on!

[Chris Chandler]

You step forward into the drink and head down.

Wait, the water was clear from the surface. It is black and warm and rather not wet at the moment. You are still floating, though, or perhaps flying. You have no sense of direction and have no bearing, as of yet.

[Doombot]

I pause a moment and look around me, taking joy for the briefest of seconds in the floating feeling before realizing that I don't know where I have gone. Despite breathing normally, I have a strange sense of suffocating. Is it the water that is drowning me, or my own fear?

[Chris Chandler]

For once, you accept that the unknown is the source of your fear, and you find strength in that. You continue to float, to drift, then see that there is a dawning glow, not exactly light but more of an area that is less dark. You seem to head toward it.

The glow continues to grow, to the darkest red and then you smell dust and bones, feel heat, hear the clink of wooden chimes, the sound of the wind against the dunes of sand.

Then you are laying on the hot, dry sand.

((You are the second to enter Athas. Welcome Home!))

[Doombot]

Will this kaleidoscope of histories and might-have-beens ever end? I don't even partially remember this place...

I rise slowly from the sand, like an old man. After being in the deep dark, the sun gives everything a washed out appearance, causing me to squint. There is a feeling of absence in my mind; empty holes partially filled with broken memories, real and imagined.

Dusting myself down, I notice that I am back in my normal attire: dressed as a captain of the Knights of...where? It seems important, but far off and vague.

Ah well. First thing's first: I need to find a place where I can get something to drink.

Cracking my knuckles, I gauge my surroundings.

[Chris Chandler]

((And we'll pick up in the IC. Good job Doom!))