A Plot Thread

This plot thread was recently concluded upon the rec.games.computer.ultima.dragons news group. It was initiated by Destrius Dragon, and to date has had subsequent contributions from Cat (Christopher A Tew or the Dragon Formerly Known as Abstract), Concussed Dragon, Dalboz Dragon, Darkling Dragon, Dracos Dragon, Goldenflame Dragon, Great Siberian Dragon, Helgraf Dragon, Landon Skyfire, Library Dragon, Paulon Dragon, and St George's Dragon. The final Update was on the 10th of April 2000.

This page is an attempt to lay the thread out in a coherent story format, so the order of text given here does not match the actual posting order or structure as it appeared on rgcud. Obvious typos will also be corrected if they get noticed. This archive is the work of Paulon Dragon, but all that's really being done is laying out the work of the other contributors for ease of reading. There is a text version here, and an alternate archive is also being maintained by Goldenflame Dragon. Visit it here. For more information about the world of Tideron/Balfas, check out Destrius's pages here.

This plot thread is a sequel to one entitled 'A New Age of Darkness' which concluded in early June. If you wish to read the tale online, then an HTML version is here.

The ground rules for this thread, as set out by Destrius, are as follows:

Yep, here it comes. The mini-plot-thread that will serve as a prequel to ANAoD2.

But first, before I begin, a few rules and tips to get everything going smoothly.

First, this is a serious plot, so no flying cream pies, monster cinnabons, or rubber duckies of DOOM!!~.

[glances at Moa]

Next, do note that this will not be a standard fantasy adventure plot. I'm aiming at more of a mystery plot, so while fighting is ok, try to keep it to a minimum. Major contributions to the plot would be in the lines of leaving clues embedded in your post, like perhaps a staff which has a spider etched on its base which proves as a key to a later discovery.

This is also more recon, as you may gather from ANAoD, because we're going to find out who and what is Amsereth, who is by now somewhere in another realm. Think Indiana Jones, not Batman. :)

Okay, now that's settled, we'll start. Anybody can join in, and people who want to get into ANAoD2 but were not in the first plot are strongly encouraged, as this will help tie in the plots better.

So onwards to the story...

It is dark tonight.

Far away in his homeland, Destrius gazes out of his hut, pondering the new information he has just recieved.

There is more to him than I had first guessed, then. I could leave this matter to rest, yes, and forget about it all. But it still haunts my mind, burning it with questions. I must find out. But I cannot go alone.

Making up his mind, the mage exits his home into an open field, and draws a large circle upon the ground with his staff.

Then, he closes his eyes and collects his power...

Focussing....

Finding...

Touching...

In the middle of Spiritwood lies a small white stone. Many have seen it before, but paid it no attention. Stones of this type are plentiful and common, and virtually worthless.

Tonight, however, the stone glows brightly, a pulsating yellowish haze of energy surrounding it.

Britannia is swept by a strong wind. Horses awake, and people close their windows in fear of an oncoming storm, but soon the wind disappears and everything returns to its calm, pleasant state.

But some things have changed.

Across the land, yellow doors of light open, strange moongates that lead to a common destination.

The mage sighs, and waits.

In an ancient and mostly forgotten cellar beneath the Lycaeum, a hunched figure starts from his near-slumber as one of the gates opens near the room.

"Hmph!" He peers at it, shrugs, and puts down a pen he's been doing nothing with for far too long. "Well well well..."

He stands, stretches, and stares at his bookcase, trying to find something he hasn't read at least fifteen times already. Giving up, the Library Dragon snatches one off the shelves and stumps towards the moongate.

"Yellow..." He thinks. The word yellow wanders through his mind, looking for something to connect with.

And then he is gone.

A man rides on horseback through the plains of Britannia. It is a quiet time, and he rides for pleasure.

Britannia is swept by a strong wind. Horses awake, and people close their windows in fear of an oncoming storm, but soon the wind disappears and everything returns to its calm, pleasant state.

The wind blows back his hair and carries with it a strange scent. The horse stops, and for a moment refuses to move.

Goldenflame, Paladin of Trinsic, turns his horse around and cuts short his ride. "That," he thinks, "felt like a Call." The wind dies down but Goldenflame's resolve does not die with it, as the horse's hooves spraying dirt behind him.

Goldenflame drops an extra coin into the hand of the stableboy. "And take good care of him, you hear?" The stableboy nods in wide eyed wonder and leads the Paladin's horse deeper into the stables, while Goldenflame turns and exits into the cool air.

As he walks down the cobblestone street of Trinsic he wonders what this sense of urgency means- it has not decreased but rather grown in intensity since the sudden wind that spooked his mind. But he is disciplined- there are things that much first be taken care of before he can answer the call he felt resonating within. And so he walks, swiftly, home.

His home is a small building just outside the walls of the city. Close enough to be fairly safe, but not within the constricting confines of city life. A small garden grows behind the cottage, a tribute to the life of his wife, who died in one of the riots that ensued in the wake of the dismantling of the Fellowship. Goldenflame can count the number of times since taking up the Sword that he lost control of himself on one hand- that night counts for two digits. She loved flowers and gardens, and is in fact one of the primary reasons why their home is outside the walls... Goldenflame maintains the small garden for her.

He checks on the garden, taking precautions to make sure that it can survive his prolonged absense, and then goes inside.

A shimmering yellow gate stands stark in his front room. The calling inside him rises to a fever pitch, and he can barely resist the urge, no the need, to step through. But he does, and he moves to the back of the cottage to a large wooden chest, which he carefully unlocks with the key behind the fireplace mantle, hidden within a false brick. As quickly as he can, he dons the armour found within, and belts at his side his sword, Ezwildon. Shield on his right arm, helm in that hand, and head high, he gives in to the calling and steps through the Gate.

A ranger wanders through the woods by himself. In the night of the forest, he is perfectly shrouded, except of the occasional snap of a twig under his feet. Dalboz does not feel a need for stealth at this time. He has simple come out to the woods tonight to think, to ponder, to meditate.

He pauses by an exceptionally large tree and looks up. This looks like a good place to rest. In a matter of seconds, Dalboz has climbed tree, and is sitting comfortably in a small nook between branches. He looks over the landscape, bathed in the light of the moons, and ponders. He begins to lose himself in thought as he ponders the forest and his place in life.

Suddenly, he blows past him, blowing his hood back, as if in answer to an unasked question. Normally, Dalboz wouldn't take no heed of the wind, but something something is different about it. There seems to be something in this wind that he can't quite put his finger on. The more he think about it, the more curious he becomes, and the stronger the feeling in the back of his mind gets; the feeling that something important is about to happen.

He begins to climb down...

Moving through the darkness of the forest, Dalboz still feels the chill wind at his back, despite the cover offered by his cloak and hood. Something is amiss, something big. He can feel it feel it, like a distant call, a call for help, a call to arms, a call to justice...

Dalboz stops in the middle of the road. The wind has suddenly stopped. Not sure why he choose to do this, Dalboz stops and waits, simply feeling that this is the right thing to do.

With a brilliant flash of light, a yellow moongate appears before, as if showing the path to destiny. Pondering the meaning of this, Dalboz checks himself over. He is dressed simply and casually, in forest garb with a dark green cloak and hood. He made sure to were his new, sturdy boots tonight as his old ones would not have withstood a trip this far. He only armourment is a long bow, a full quiver of arrows, and a small dagger strapped to the inside of his boot with handle barely showing over the top. But somehow, Dalboz feels that he isn't going to need these weapons, that something else, something to be provided, something within himself will be the key.

With little hesitation, Dalboz steps into the moongate and into his destiny...

It is raining in Minoc, a pure clean rain washing away the collected soot originating from the city's many forges and fireplaces. One such forge casts a dim light on a small room somewhere in the city. Hanging on the walls of the room are the various tools of a Tinker, hammer, tongues, anvil, bucket and a large fierce looking axe. Also, in the room stands a coatrack, piled with clothing and casting a shadow in the flickering light like some shambling monstrousity that crawled from the Stygian Abyss. A simple wooden table flanked by two chairs is also in evidence in the room and a set of cupboards are attached to the wall, their contents kept secret behind the closed doors. In the far corner from the forge shrouded in darkness is the sole exit from the room. The rain patters down the outside of the only window in the room, forming strange patterns as it travels down the glass. Under the window is a bed the blankets so creased and ruffled it is impossible to see if it is occupied.

Suddenly, one of the aforementioned Yellow Moongates makes an appearance in the this room, casting a strong but eerie light on the surroundings. Something in the bed stirs.

"What in Britannia is that doing in my room." Saint George's Dragon rising up from the bed exclaims. "Hmm, a summons, if its not one thing its another. I think I'll need my hat for this one." He grumbles as he stumbles over to the coat rack and pulls a plain grey looking fedora from the depths of the rack.

He places the hat firmly on his head looks himself over to make sure he is properly attired and then grabs his trusty axe from the wall. He stares at the portal for a few moments as if sizing it up before confidently stepping into it and into what ever lies beyond.

In a dark, lonely cave, after nearly two hundred years of non-ending slumber, a large silver-scaled dragon opens her eyes. She feels drowsy and confused, her mind chaotic, her thoughts scattered, but it doesn't take long to discover that her body still obeys her. With a slight groan, she stands up and tries to look around.

There's nothing to see but darkness, scary, silent darkness which feels like a chocking black velvet bag over her head. Still too confused to be really scared, Great Siberian finally remembers a lighting spell. A sight revealed to her by the spell is not appealing at all: thick blankets of disgusting cobwebs covering the barren walls, spiders and rats crawling on the floor. What in the name of virtues had happened to her beautiful tapestries, family silver, magnificent carpets that her mother had woven so patiently many, many years ago?

Shaken and disgusted, she stumbles out of the cave, completely forgetting the first rule of her family: change to human form before you even think of sticking your nose out of the safety of the cave. Suddenly, she stops, her attention arrested by a fantastic sight. A few metres away from the cave entrance, an unusual yellow moongate is standing. For a few moments, she just stands there in amazement, then takes a few careful steps forward. Only then she realises, in horror, that she has broken the family rule, and after a few futile attempts, she changes herself into a human, tall, dark-haired young woman called Daria.

Daria takes a deep breath and steps into the light... She has absolutely no idea what strange place the gate will lead her to, what people or creatures she would meet, or what dangers await her. All that she knows is that her awakening and the appearance of the strange yellow gate was no coincidence at all...

In a small room in a small house in some distant corner of reality, a man's screams for mercy had just been cut short. His arterial spray coated the walls and the ceiling. For a coward, he had a strong heart. Or maybe just too much sodium in his diet. In any case, he was dead, and my job was done. My sword, even though it had just cut a head off, was clean.

I have a nice sword.

I went into the kitchen and dug in the dead man's refridgerator. I found a Dos Equis lager...at least the coward had good taste in beer. I popped it open, took a pull, and decided that I'd go on vacation from the assassination business for a month or two.

My employer wouldn't mind...he'd know about the death tomorrow.

So...where to?

Yeah...that's the place...wait, no, there's that one bastard who wants to kill me for killing his son. Hmm. Yeah...Paris in the summer...

I finish the beer and throw it against a wall. Then I reach into my long black leather coat, which is as neat as my sword, and pull out the assassin's best friend. See, some really brilliant guy managed to figure out how the universe *really* worked, and invented this expensive little thing. A five-dimensional teleporter. Go anywhere, anytime. Wanna kill someone from within their mind? Go for it.

So I tell it where and when I want to go through the typical neural interface, and the usual silver gate pops up. I step through...

...And I'm falling. Falling through a beautiful, crisp night sky. Falling from so high I can't see the ground. Falling from so high, I'm waxing poetic, cuz I know I'm gonna die. This ain't Paris in the summer.

A cry from somewhere far away rings in my ears, and the world becomes a white void. Who...are...you...?

....

A man clad in a black coat wandered in the blizzard. His thin, pale face showed no signs of cold. It did, however, show signs of extreme anger and loss. He tripped on a buried rock and fell to his knees. He looked down at the ground, praying, maybe. I do not know. Looking back up, he saw a yellow gate, much like the black one that he had fallen through hours earlier. He gazed about the snow blasted waste, shrugged, and stepped through the gate. It closed around him, and that was the last that we, the Gwani, ever saw of him.

High above the dwellings of the plebs stand the towers of magery. Moonglow is a city of contrast; magic is the fluid that makes everything work, yet money, the most unmagical of all things, is the machinery that holds the system together. This, at least, is what the mage Dracos thinks. He thinks it a lot these days, for his life blood has changed from casting to pure chicanery. The mage Dracos has lost his magic.

Once his body was covered in tattoos; generations worth of spells scrawled on a parchment that would not easily burn, would not easily be lost. Now his skin is a light blue in texture, the magic words blurred into nothingness. This is the least of his problems; spells can be bought in Moonglow for thrupence, but the once-mage Dracos cannot even cast these. His body, borrowed by a variety of entities, has beenwracked and ruined.

When he had sufficiently rested from his ordeal as Mondain, Dracos had found that simple spells were hard to concentrate on, but still worked. As his body grew in physical strength, even the minor cantrips were taken slowly away from him. A local healer told him that it was the ether; his body had absorbed so much of it he had developed an immunity to it, or at least a high tolerance. The healer had waxed lyrical on how pleased Dracos should be; he might not be able to cast anymore, but magic would not effect him either. Fireballs, death spells, rains of ice; all of these were magical in origin, and could never harm the once mage. Dracos smiled ruefully and paid the fee, and left the healer's hut.

He had gone to visit the Shrine of Mondain then, to ask the arch mage whether he could be cured; nay, demand the arch mage to restore the body he had ruined. Mondain never spoke. The Gargoyles told him he was a figure of prophecy, and he should not be worried. Dracos had paid them their fee and smiled ruefully as he left the temple.

The only reconciliation was that he now had access to Mondain's cellar; still extant under the city of Moonglow. He had found a variety of devices that seemed non magical, and yet provided the results of high level spells. A glass screen that showed images of other places. A long needle that could cure diseases, and many more. So Dracos had kept quiet about his disability to his clients. Nicodemus had realised, and Dracos found that confiding in him made it all seem a little better. The taste was still sour, though.

Mondain's proto-Gem, once bright and powerful when he had first received it, was a dark, heavy stone now. Dracos used it to keep his door closed against the winds. He awoke one night to find sunlight pouring into his room. His mind was reeling; it was still night, the tinge of smoke upon the air told him that, and yet the door had blown open, and yellow light was pouring into the upper storey room he called home. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that whatever the light was, it wasn't sunlight. Squinting, he walked towards it slowly. The light enveloped him, and he was gone.

A theoretical observer would have been startled as the silence of a vast chamber is dispelled by the chiming sound of a rising Moongate. As the yellow glow pours forth from the mystic portal, the newfound illumination shows the remnants of a platform and fragments composed of a mysterious light-absorbing stone - Blackrock. The observer would have noted that the newly formed Moongate had risen up through several pieces of the magic-disrupting material. And thus would be unsurprised to watch the gateway writhe and twist away, vanishing into a place beyond the intentions of it's creator.

The Black Gate chamber once again lies silent and empty in the dark.

The rain beats down through the twilight upon a figure trudging beside a wide road, sealed with black stones. The occasional vehicle roars along it, propelled by strange noisy devices contained within. The figure's hair is plastered to his head and his clothes to his body, the result of the twisting gusts of wind blowing rain around the large umbrella he holds above him. Light shines ahead, as the twisted yellow Moongate appears from nowhere. The drenched figure of Paulon sighs as he looks upon the gateway and hesitates. A strong gust of wind heralds the arrival of hail, and as the twisting Moongate begins to fade away and the white stones pour down on him, Paulon dives for it, muttering "Any port in a storm." He enters the Moongate and is gone.

Stepping out of his home, Concussed breathes deeply, taking in the fresh forest air. A cool breeze is blowing, and the twin moons shine brightly in the clear night sky.

It had been months since the confrontation with the Stranger, and all appeared well with Britannia. With the disruption of the Ring of Xiesh and the strange departure of the Shadowlords, the threat of a new age of darkness had been lifted, and life had returned to normal.

Yet, for some reason, Concussed had found it impossible to fall asleep tonight. He felt a dread sense of foreboding, as if some terrible doom was soon to unfold. After an hours of tossing and turning, he had decided to take a walk outside.

"Since I'm not going to get any sleep tonight ..." Concussed walks around the tree that his house is built into and approaches the recently constructed shack behind it. As he enters the dark shack, Concussed touches the amulet he wears, muttering a short cantrip.

- LUMINAE -

Briefly, tiny multicolored sparks dance nosily in the air before Concussed like fireworks before fading away. With a wry smile on his lips, Concussed fumbles in the dark to light a candle instead. "Hmmm...I guess this new gem stills needs a little calibration...".

The light from the candle reveals the wreckage of the Barataria, recovered from the Isle of the Avatar,thanks to Lumina. Concussed wonders what has become of the others since that time. He prepares to continue his work on the machine.

Suddenly, a strong draft blows out the candle. Concussed walks over to the door to shut it - and stops in surprise. A strange glow appears to be emanating from the nearby forest, flooding the trees with a unearthly yellow hue. Concussed runs to investigate the apparent source of the glow.

Standing before the yellow moongate in amazement, Concussed considers going back to the house to get his gear - but already the gate begins to waver and fade. "Why has Destrius sent this gate? Or did he send it? I know of no one else who travel by the yellow gates ..." he thinks. Hesistantly, Concussed reaches out towards the portal and steps into the yellow light...

...and reappears in a foriegn land.

Destrius looks at Concussed, and grins, glad to see a familiar face.

"Concussed! Tis good to meet you again. You are obviously wondering why I have brought you here. Well, do wait for a moment till the others fate has summoned arrive, and I shall tell you all what it is I wish to do.

"In the meantime, though, do relax and take a drink."

So saying, Destrius motions in the direction of his hut and brings the dragon a small cup filled with a sweet-smelling liquid.

The passage from Britannia to Tideron feels rough and painful to Dracos. In the few seconds that the travel takes, he supposes that his high magic resistance is only just below that of gate travel. A good thing too; Dracos hopes that whatever lies beyond this yellow moongate might be able to restore to him some of his ability.

He falls roughly to the ground, feeling sick to the bone. Destrius and Concussed are walking towards a bamboo hut, and the noise of Dracos' retching makes them turn in their tracks.

"Dracos?" cried Destrius as he moves towards the once-mage. Dracos looks up, and smiles slightly. "Hello, Destrius. It seems that every time I meet you it's in the form of some pain to me. Whether falling through ceilings or having a bad trip, I always feel really bad around you." Dracos laughs, and then is sick again. "Remind me not to be happy in the next few minutes. We should stop meeting this way." Dracos stands slowly. "Concussed. Hello."

Destrius casts a healing spell, and is surprised to find it does not work on Dracos. "There is something wrong with you..." he begins.

"Yes, I know. I've become magic resistant; to both good and bad magicks, which is the worst part. Let's go inside; I need to sit down, and I'll tell you both about it." Dracos takes Destrius' hand, and the three walk towards the comfort of the hut.

Just as they are about to enter the door, however, a powerful wind blows from the direction of the field. Knowing that this signals the arrival of the remaining people who had entered one of the gates, he turns around and surveys the already rather crowded clearing.

Standing in a rough circle surrounding the centre of the spell focus, are two large Dragons, one of which Destrius recognises to be St. George's, a Paladin, and 3 humans: a dark-haired woman, a pale man in a black coat, and another of Destrius' old acquaintances, Paulon.

Destrius grins and motions for the motely group to enter his hut, apologising for having brought them here so suddenly, and promising to give an explanation once they were all settled.

The shape of a falling dragon can be seen silhouetted against one of the moons. It lands with a loud CRASH into the road outside of the tavern.

Onlookers back away in fear as the monster stands up and walks out of the small hole that was formed by his impact, a mad fury in his eyes.

The dragon snaps his fingers in disgust and a cloud of smoke envelopes him. As it dissipates, a young man in a black mage's robe is left in his place. He takes a moment to get his bearings.

He looks on the sign of the tavern. It reads, "Keg and Anchor".

He is heard mumbling, "Trinsic..."

He begins to walk, a fire still burning in his eyes, towards the gates of the city. The people move out of his way in fear.

As he reaches the western gate, he notices a yellow moongate hidden behind the trees and bushes, slightly to the north.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Destrius?"

He enters the moongate.

Suddenly, another gust of wind blew, but this time from the far north. Destrius frowns.

"Please have a seat. I must leave for a while to check on something."

Before anyone can utter a word, Destrius fades away into the air.

The mage walks out of the moongate into a large dimly lit room. To one side the room opens into a balcony. Standing on the balcony, looking to the night sky, stands the figure of Destrius.

"Greetings", he says, back still towards the young mage.

The young mage walks to Destrius, still fuming.

"What have you DONE?!?!", he asks incredulously.

Destrius turns to slowly, peers at him for a moment, and returns to star gazing.

"Well?, the mage asks.

"I have issued a summons, Darkling."

Darkling gapes at Destrius.

"A summons??? One of you multi-gate/multi-plane summons, I take it???"

Destrius turns around and back into the antechamber.

"Yes... There is something terrible coming... I needed help."

"Oh? Really? And just what IS this Something Terrible?", Darkling asks sarcastically.

Destrius sighs and slowly explains the matter to Darkling.

"That's IT?!?!"

"What else is needed, Darkling? Isn't that enough?"

Darkling shakes his head for a moment, a wild expression still on his face.

Destrius asks, "What is wrong? Why are you in this mood?"

Darkling peers at Destrius for a moment... Finally he says, "I KNEW about this. I had been working on plans to stop it before it started... Your summons shot right through my home in the ether!"

Destrius exhales slightly... He understood.

"That's right! IT'S GONE! It's been totally blown away!"

Destrius thinks for a moment. "I'm.... sorry..."

He regains his composure. "But... It HAD to be done. This is bigger than you or I, and we need help."

Darkling begins to walk briskly back towards the moongate. "No... This is just the beginning!"

Destrius begins to follow him, "Where are you going???"

Darkling stops for a moment, and turns. "I'm going to rebuild my home! Call me when things REALLY get bad..."

Before he walks through the gate, Destrius can hear him say, "... Like, during the aftermath..."

Darkling disappears into the moongate.

Destrius looks up and says, "He will not help us."

A moment later, he returns, a sad look on his face.

"I have met Darkling. Fate had it that he would enter the gate, but he refuses to join us. But he may do so later, I hope. Only time will tell.

"But nevermind him. The important thing now, is that we introduce ourselves, and then I will explain.

"Oh, and I'd advise you dragons to morph into a more human form while they are in this world, or you might arouse the interest of those I'd best not let loose information of our gathering."

With a shy and nervous smile, Daria awkwardly stands up from her chair, adjusts her very long and very uncomfortable skirt and brushes the strands of long dark chestnut hair away from her face. I look like a bloody beggar, she thinks unhappily. "Just a moment," she says aloud, and snaps her fingers. Next second, a sparkling cloud of dust masks her figure from view, but before anyone can say anything or even gasp, the cloud disappears, revealing a tall young woman with short dark-red hair and green eyes, dressed in soft leather pants, jerkin and high leather boots. "Sorry for that," Daria smiles, "I just thought that this look would be more appropriate and hundred times more comfortable. The previos one was my 'frumpy village girl' look. I use it when I want to pass through the village without guys whistling and asking me out for a date."

So, let me introduce myself. I come from an ancient family of Great Siberian Dragons, who've lived in the Serpents Spine Mountains for countless generations, dodging encounters with Britannian superheroes and piling up the treasures of gold. Family legend has it that our kind had originally come from one of the coldest places on Earth, Siberia, and that they somehow migrated to Britannia thousands and thousands years ago. To me, it sounds like an absolutely moronic nonsense, but there you go."

"So, how old are you?" she is asked.

"My, what a question to ask a woman!" Daria exclaims in mock indignation. "But I'll answer it anyway. I'm only fifty years old, practically a baby by our family standards. But no..." here she remembers something that makes her face darkened and sad. "Technically speaking, I'm 250 years old. You see, two hundred years ago... something really terrible happened." She speaks with difficulty now, remembering painful things that she would rather ban from her memory.

"Once, I came from the village pub late at night... and found all my family dead, lying on the floor with their throats slit. And there stood a stranger, a man dressed in black-silver armour; I couldn't see his face, but he had a symbol engraved on his chest - an image of a hawk holding a serpent in his talons. I tried to fight him, of course, but I was slightly drunk after the pub and, most importantly, unexperienced, and the bastard was bloody good at slaying dragons. It took him only five minutes to drive a sword through my heart. But a second before that fatal blow, I managed to cast a special spell on myself. It made me fall into a special kind of sleep: nor fire, neither steel, nor time itself could harm me while I was under this sleeping spell. The downside was that I could spend eternity in that state. Cities could fall, wars could be fought, mountains could crumble down, Britannia itself could be burned out and turned into Hell, but I would still be there, in the Serpents Spine, sleeping like a schoolgirl after her graduation party. It would take something special to wake me up, and I think Destrius's sending yellow moongates here has something to do with my awakening. So, I think I owe you my consciousness, Destrius, if not my life itself, and for this you have my eternal gratitude."

"That's all I have to say about my biography, so lets move on to my talents, which I believe could be useful to this company, and my faults, which I must warn you about. I can resurrect, even if the physical body of a person is completely destroyed, but the ritual itself usually leaves me drained and weak for at least a fortnight. I'm a lousy healer though, always messing up the potions and herbs, so don't rely on me there. As you've seen, I can change my physical appearance whenever I want to, but I've got only ten or dozen to choose from, so I cannot change into whoever I want. I'm good with the crossbows, but when it comes to swords, even a ten-year-old farmboy could beat the sword out of my hands. I'm good in magic, although 7th and 8th circles are still unreachable to me. I'm good at reading maps, remembering things, but I'm afraid I don't have a good sense of direction, for I could get myself lost in a village market. So, that's basically it."

With these words, Daria smiles and sinks back into the chair.

...and Dracos sits up from the cot he has been lying in.

"As two of you know, my name is Dracos. I am, sorry, was, quite a powerful mage; my body was my spellbook, and I had a wealthy set of clients in Moonglow. The Blackrock Moon changed all of this; the march of the Shadowlords piqued my curiousity, and due to my own stupid heroics, I ended up possessed by a Shadowlord, and then by Mondain. The aftermath of these entities has left my body near totally resistant to all magicks... Moongate travel still seems barely possible...

"I am here because I stumbled into the yellow moongate during the night. The Gargoyles would assure me that this is all due to prophecy." Dracos stands slowly. "You'll have to forgive my barely robed form; these are my night-clothes. A few months ago I would have cast myself new garments, but I cannot. If someone would provide me with new garments; preferably something suited for movement; I no longer need the deep pockets and suchlike of the mage's robe."

"God knows just what'd happen if I tried something like that, Dracos." Paulon replies. He looks down at his own sodden garb and grins. "I can't even get myself dry."

Looking around the group, Paulon briefly studies each in turn. The others return his gaze, seeing a nondescript human male, dressed in strange garb, which nonetheless is noteworthy mainly for the amount of water it currently contains. Brown hair has been turned nearly black with wet, and silver-framed spectacles complete the image. "I suppose it's my turn for introductions. Some of you already know me, but some don't, so I may as well go through the whole deal. I'm Paulon, from Earth. As far as skills go, I'm not all that wonderful at anything, but I tend to be able to take a stab at doing most odd jobs. Generally I wind up improvising on the spot instead of learning how to do something properly, but I get lucky often enough to survive. My most dependable trait is a knack for locating any anomalies in space and time around me. Or more simply, if there's a hole or gate between places I'm liable to trip over it. It makes for an interesting life. Somehow I always manage to get back home, but it makes for an interesting life." The wet human sits back a bit in his seat. "So, who's next?"

"I'll take the next stab, if no one minds." As some of the others nod, the Paladin continues. "Some of you obviously know each other- your faces are all unfamiliar to me. Nevertheless, I answered what I felt was a calling, and here I am.

"My name is largely unimportant. I am known as Goldenflame, for reasons that may become evident if we go into battle together. I am a warrior- I have very light skills on magic, on the cantrip level... but many of my accoutrements are magical, in particular my sword, which I obtained after many difficult trials and quests. I only wear the armor when I need to, as it is not the most comfortable thing in the world, and impedes my movement.

"I have meditated a great deal on the virtues of Valor and Honor, though I know that I do not have the Avatar's spirit in me. I was honored to meet him once, briefly, while the Fellowship was still strong..." Goldenflame stops for a moment, then shakes his head. "Not particularly relevent, in any case."

The others in the room note that his shield, emblazened with a stylized blue and gold flame, rests against the chair he sits in, while his helm sits in his lap. He is wearing plate armor, with a slightly different flame motif on the chestplate. His dirty-blonde hair is cropped well above the shoulders, and his beard is neatly trimmed. His blue-eyed gaze is calm as he looks around the table at his current companions.

"I am of course very curious why we are here and what brought us here. You, I assume," he says to Destrius, "are our host- I am eager to hear your story. But first, let the introductions continue."

"Well, I guess it's my turn." Concussed says. leaning foward in his chair. "Several here already know me, but not, I suspect, my background." A distant look comes into Concussed's eyes. He pauses for a few moments, recollecting events long past. "In truth, I no longer recall my given name, but many in Britannia know me as Concussed, for one reason or another." he says, with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"I have lived in Britannia since the age of Exodus, but it was not always so. I remember flying through a magical tempest between worlds, fleeing some horrible catastrophe. A green light flared up before me, then I blacked out. When I awoke, I was lying on a mountaintop in Sosaria, my dragon form bruised and battered, with gaping holes in my mind."

"Soon, I found that most inhabitants of Sosaria were hostile to those of our species, and took on human shape when travelling amongst them. For many years, I sought a way home, though I knew not where it lay. Descending into the depths of the earth, I sought out the legendary Time Lord in the hope that he could restore me to my home and memory. Unfortunately, he could offer me little aid, save for the gift of this amulet that I now wear. I was told that when I had understood its true purpose, the road home would be before me. Alas, ages have come and passed, but the only use I have ever found for it was as a simple focus for Sosarian magic." The blue cloaked ranger looks down and folds his arms.

"These days, I have all but given up on this futile quest, living instead the life of a recluse in the Deep Forest. I have the use of the lesser spells of Old Sosaria, though I'm more a dabbler than a mage. As a result of my earlier history, I have some knowledge about artifacts. I study and restore them as a hobby. My weapon of choice is the bow, but I can wield an axe or hatchet fairly well too."

"Well, that's about all. Greetings to all and well met." Concussed finishes with a slight nod and sits back, waiting for the next introduction.

"Hmm? Ah, well, that would be me." A short rotund figure beams at all present, then frowns slightly. "I thought I had introduced myself earlier, but I'm probably mistaken, and some of you may not have heard me. My presence here seems to be - " And for a brief second, the man shimmers slightly, before settling down again. "Oh my! Well, that was not entirely pleasant. As I was saying, I don't seem to be completely here. Or all there, if you prefer."

The man stares vaguely in to space for a second, then suddenly returns from whatever planet he was visiting. "Ah. I am the Library Dragon, or the Librarian when I'm not a dragon. Oh, and I've never been or will be an Orang-Utan.

"I've been working in the Lycaeum for a while, cataloging - well, everything. Trying to complete a list of Virtues when the anti-principles are added to the mix. It may seem frivolous compared to some of your deeds..." Here the Librarian pauses and shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "Well, it is fairly frivolous. But it passes the time, and it may come in useful someday."

A thoughtful look crosses his face. "Actually, I don't suppose anybody here could come up for a meaningful word for a combination of Truth, Courage, Hatred and Cowardice? Ah. But that should wait. Introductions first, then explanations as to why we're here."

The Librarian starts to sit down, then stops and turns to Daria. "Oh, and, um... terribly sorry to hear about your family. Tragic. Tragic." With that, he sits down, pulls a book out of his pocket, and starts making notes in it.

Saint George's Dragon in his tinker garb and Bogartesque fedora steps forward. "Uhh, hello as some of you know me from the last little adventure I was on with those pesky Shadow Lords and that strange guy.. I mean er. I am known as Saint George's Dragon, I take on human form to practice the tinker trade, I do like a good handcrafted widget, doohickey or gizmo, of course as a dragon I am a fair hand at magic and indeed these days I am made up mainly of the stuff, uh magic that is. Uhh, I am done thank you." He takes a seat.

Destrius stands up.

"I think it's time for me to do a bit of explaining, since I don't think any of you walk into yellow moongates to join a party of adventurers on a quest in another world very regularly. First, though, I should introduce myself.

The pale man in black, standing in a shadowy corner of the room, snorts.

"Mine name is Destrius, and I am a native of the world which you are now within. This world is known as Tideron.

"Although I usually live here, I often spend some time in other worlds, worlds such as Sosaria, Faerun, Krynn, Myran, and Earth. While I was in Britannia recently, an event occured that demanded my interference. All that had happened is likely to have been penned down by the Librarian, I believe.

"Anyway, this previous quest which I was part of involved an individual known as Amsereth. He carried with him much power, through a ring that he had created known as the Ring of Haeth.

"Amsereth is now dead, but his life is still a mystery to all of us. I feel that it is extremely important that we find out more about this man, and how he had managed to create such a powerful artefact. None of this reality would be safe if a more intelligent being harnessed the energies that Amsereth must have used.

"After spending a few months here investigating, I discovered that Amsereth is in fact a native of my world. But not this part of the world. Before I continue, I must give a little geography lesson so you will get the idea.

"The planet that I call Tideron is in fact divided into two portions, one of good and one of evil. The gods in this world had created a Divider, a magical barrier separating the good half from the evil half.

"In accordance to the rules set by the Council of Neutrality, the gods of good would only have control of the good half, the gods of evil only control of the evil half, and the neutral gods a little control of both. This policy was meant to prevent too much strife between the gods from destroying the planet altogether.

"An unusual land indeed, this world of yours. These gods hold power over the hearts of men under their rule, then? How would Good and Evil be defined in Tideron? Do you mean to say that deceit, hatred and strife is common on the evil side but less so on the good?" Concussed asks, with a raised eyebrow.

"As you may have guessed by now, Amsereth was born in Balfas, the other side of Tideron. And this is where all of you come in.

"So ... I assume we are on the side of the good right now?". Concussed says, with a slight smile on his face.

"The gods have no true control over us mortals. However, they posses certain powers that make it possible to influence us greatly under the correct circumstances, and the magical environment within the Divider is a perfect spot for that. The actual workings of this is quite technical, so I'll skip it for now. Do tell me if you wish to know more; there is a library here with some interesting books on the subject.

"And as for Good and Evil, this brings us to the Diagram. As the gods were created out of a mix of differing powers in the beginnings of reality, each possess a certain way of thought. The gods somehow managed to quantify themselves and divide into the 3 sectors: good, neutral, and evil. There are also 3 basic circles of Order, Balance and Chaos that underly each deity. I am no cleric, or theologian, so I know not exactly what differentiates the various belts: sectors and circles combined. But I do see the difference between the evil and the good in mortal forms, and try to keep things in balance.

"As for there being less evil in the good side, I doubt it at times. I have never actually ventured into Balfas before, though, so I have no way of comparing the two. But since the gods of evil have considerably less power here, you would expect to find few of their minions. But then, not all evil is a result of divine presence."

"As I am a native of this world, I am not supposed to be able to cross the Divider and enter Balfas to further my investigations. With my magic, however, I am able to visit Balfas.

"The gods know that one such as me may be able to do such a thing, and so have devised a trap, which will trigger once any non-Balfasian entity enters the other side. This trap will cause the victim to forget all about his or her reason for crossing.

"I have no way of escaping this ward, so it will be quite useless for me to cross the Divider. However, the rest of you being aliens to this world, have a chance of not being affected by the spell. Actually, its not really a spell in the magical sense, but more of a divine power, so Dracos' magical resistance may not help much.

"Anyway, I created the gates to bring to me a random group of people, and all those willing to follow me in this group will be brought to Balfas by my magic. With luck, at least one of you will not lose memory of the reason we are there, and remind the rest of us. Then, we can continue on the quest.

"Since none of you knew of this before you arrived, I will willingly gate anybody who does not want to follow me to wherever they want, as long as my magic allows it. Just tell me so."

The mage takes up a glass of water and takes a sip, his throat dry after the long explanation. He then looks at the group in front of him expectantly.

"General."
"Yes, Karlton?"
"The walls are holding, despite the enchanted catapult that was just unleashed. Our warlocks are concentrating fire upon it."
The general nods, but his look of pleasure turns to shock and dismay quickly as a large explosion rocks the command barrack. The general curses, turns and incants a few words, and a large mirror on the far wall begins displaying... a daemon has breached the barrier! It roars, and near it can be seen the bodies of four purple robed warlocks... the Daemon takes flight and the mirror loses track of it.

Cries go up in the streets as the dying commences, an army begins to pour through the hole in the defenses.

The general begins giving orders, first calmly then with increasing panic, until he chances to look out the window in time to see a huge red face, and the Daemon, grinning at him. An explosion rocks the barrack and flames billow out of the openings.

Evil, left to itself, turns on itself.

"There is a reason I was called here, a reason I am needed. I feel this very strongly. You may count me in, Destrius.

"And, Librarian- Truth, Courage, and Hatred together are Righteous Fury, which I have experienced on a very few occassions of which I prefer not to think. How to add Cowardice into a mix with Courage is beyond my meagre vocabulary." He smiles slightly.

"Destrius, one question. This divine forbidding- my scabbard," he gestures at the silver-hued scabbard by his side, "protects me from curses. Might the forbidding be a curse?"

Destrius considers this for a moment. "To tell the truth, I do not know. I have my doubts, however."

Goldenflame nods. "I am in anyway, have no fear."

Destrius nods.

"A sturdy fighter is much welcome."

"Thank you," responds Goldenflame.

"The vanishing of Amsereth's body has worried me from some time now. It shows that he probably wasn't acting alone. But what was Amsereth's true objective in Britannia? What was he attempting to do with the Ring of Xiesh and the Black Moon?" Concussed wonders aloud. For a moment, he gazes into his glass as if for answers. Then he looks up.

"Very well. If there is a hidden danger to Britannia in Balfas, it is best that we discover as soon as possible its exact nature. Count me in."

Destrius grins.

"I am glad to have your company once again, Concussed."

"This world of yours sounds like an intriguing place," muses Daria. "You can count me in, Destrius, no hesitations here. I would be both glad and honoured to offer my help."

Besides, it's not like I've got something to return to, she reminds quietly to herself. There's a fleeting moment of sadness as she wonders just how much Britannia has changed in those 200 years she had been asleep, and what has happened to everyone she knew. Her stubborn cousin from the Dagger Isle mountains, for example: has he -really- found the guts to marry that female human from the other world, thus going against all the rules and codes of her kin? But Daria bans all those thoughts away from her mind, also reminding herself to dump self-pity and concentrate on the task that is lying ahead them now.

After Destrius finishes explaining, the man clears his throat and says, "I suppose that I should introduce myself now. All of you can call me Cat." He runs a hand through his short black hair. "The only reason why I'm sticking around is because in transit to another place, I was thrown into a void and I lost a few important things while falling. I doubt that they're still in that void, but I figure that if I help you people I'll probably find them again."

He looks at Destrius and says, "I don't suppose that you know where they are, given that you're the one who brought me here?"

He looks back upon the room. "As for these gods of yours, well..." he whips out a beautiful long sword and crosses it over his chest. Blue-white energy makes a serpentine path around the blade and up to the point, where it starts sending off small black bolts. A small blue wyrm forms at the point, rears back, and screams.

The man smiles as everybody's soul tries to hide. He says, "...gods are easy." The sword vanishes in its sheathe, and a general sense of peace fills the room. Cat melts back into the shadows.

Goldenflame turns to Cat and looks as if about to sat something... but then he looks away, seeming to have changed his mind.

Paulon eyes Cat a bit nervously, then turns to Destrius. "I have to admit I'm a trifle dubious about how wise it is to try to get around the expressed wishes of deities, but I'm in. I want to see the loose ends that Amsereth left after his defeat all wrapped up just as much as you do."

"Two more to join us then. Good." Destrius replies.

"And as for the gods, there is no real need to worry. They may be a little irritated, but as long as we do not really disrupt the balance, they'll not bother with us."

The Librarian coughs. "Well. Introductions over, I take it? Erm, one or two questions about this 'forgetting' business. I'm sure there's a way around it - Gods usually leave one in somewhere, especially those that love a good story, or something to aim at - but as to what it is..."

Goldenflame smiles. "I'm not sure we want to bet our lives on the presumption that the gods of evil like a good story."

"Now assuming that none of us remember when we get to the other side, be it whatever it be..." The Librarian pauses, thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "What ever it may be, do you know whether or not we'll know we've forgotten something, and can the problem be solved as simply as me writing it down in my notebook?"

"My question then is, if we write it down and read it on the other side, will we believe it?" Goldenflame states.

"A mage of reasonable power crossed from Tideron to Balfas once. He had tattooed his mission upon his arms in an effort to keep them in his mind. But the tattoos disappeared when he arrived there, and he wasn't even aware that he had them in the first place till he came back.

"I am not sure how the Divider works exactly, but the powers invested in it are quite potent. It may even involve some dangerous reality-bending for all I know. Gods are not very particular about this sort of thing till its too late.

"Anyway, writing it down definitely won't help. The effect is not just one of memory, but of occurence itself." Destrius clarifies.

From her chair, Daria coughs gently. Still feeling shy and somewhat uncomfortable in this company of older strangers, she begins to speak hesitantly:

"I, um have a suggestion about this whole crossing-forgetting thing, it may be useless and probably wouldn't work, but I'll say it anyway. Destrius, you've said that you can use your magic to transport us to Balfas. Can you transport objects as well, like crystal balls or notebooks or something, where a message to ourselves would be written or recorded visually in case of a crystal ball? And would the magic of the Divider affect those objects if they're sent to Balfas -separately- from us?"

"It seems," Dracos began, "that we will get nowhere with this endless debate as to the working of the divider. So let me suggest another argument.

"Most of us here are connected to Britannia, and some of us were involved in defeating Asmereth. Once we cross the divider, we will forget why we are in Balfas, we have agreed upon that, but firstly, Asmereth's deeds are well known some of us, and we will naturally want to discover more of who and what he was, and secondly, an operation like his must have been big; you don't just plan to take over a world without help. We might discover there are other Britannians in Balfas.

"So I say we go, and see what happens."

Paulon grins suddenly. "Maybe we're missing the obvious. If this Divider blots out sections of our memory when we pass through it, why go through it at all? If all it does is separate the 'good' and 'evil' sides of this world, then we could go somewhere else, like Britannia, then return directly to Balfas. Or is there something I'm missing from your explanation, Destrius?"

Up to this point, no one has noticed the robed figure standing silently in the corner, and not moving. He seems to have been silently watching this meeting.

"Those are my thoughts exactly," says Dalboz in rough, gravelly voice.

Everyone is startled, mainly at the realization that Dalboz had been standing there the whole time.

"Hmm. I must have missed a moongate, it seems." Destrius says to himself.

"Sorry, I was asleep for a little bit there. Minor narcolepsis..."

"I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Dalboz. I'm a relatively young ranger. At one time I tried dabbling in magic, but none of my spells ever worked right. So I took up a life in the forest. I'm a reasonably good shot, and relatively good with a sword. I prefer the intellectual arts though, such as find answers to mysteries, so obviously I'm up for this little adventure."

"Welcome then." the Mad Mage says to the Ranger.

"As I was saying, I agree with Paulon. According to logic, the entire principle of losing ones memory seems to be based on actually crossing the Divider. If you don't actually cross the divider, say by enter Balfas from another world, the Divider becomes insignificant. Or am I missing something?"

"Well, it's hard to explain, but think of the Divider not as a physical barrier, but more of a mental one.

"You could imagine the two halves as oil and water, for example. I am of Tideron, which is oil. No matter where I go before entering water, I will still be pushed to the surface. There are some methods of bypassing the barrier totally, but those require extrememly powerful magics that I have no time and no wish to use.

"Actually, my spell will do something similar to what you just described. We will not "walk" through the Divider in the sense of the word, but be teleported there, which uses a temporary 'buffer dimension' to hold us while we move.

"Which is all well and good for most of us here, but not for me." Dracos replies to Destrius. "I am virtually immune to magic at the moment; moongate travel is difficult enough. A teleportation spell, no matter how complex, is not going to work for me. So how am I going to get across?"

"Anyway, I'd imagine most of you to have a much better chance of entering and retaining your memory than me, because you could say that I have been 'programmed' to forget once I enter Balfas. The rest of you are not subject to anything like that.

"There isn't much of a chance that we'll get hurt even if nobody remembers, because we will be able to return back here without much trouble.

"I'd rather not spend too much time here discussing theories. I say we get prepared, and cross as soon as possible."

The Librarian sighs. "I'm sorry I brought this up. We're getting a little side-tracked, people, sitting here discussing the mechanics of the first part of our quest instead of actually getting up and doing something about it. Maybe we should talk about what we do when we get there, instead of - "

The Librarian pauses, shakes his head and starts again. "That wasn't quite what I meant. I mean we should get started on the quest itself, discussing our plans - "

A look of confused anger crosses his face. "NO! That's not what I want to say at all! We should stop planning and begin talking and stop TALKING AND START PLANNING STOP THIS!"

With a shriek of rage, the Librarian jumps to his feet, rushes outside and begins shouting and waving his fists at the sky. "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING! I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING SO STOP IT STOP IT STOPITSTOPIT NOW!"

" Mmm'kay..." Dalboz says.

With a final yell of pure rage, a strange golden flare seems to break away from the Librarian and upwards towards the sky. A new light enters his eyes as he stalks back to the rather shocked looking group of Dragons.

"Enough talk. Enough planning. Whatever happens when we get there happens. I say we go now, before whatever was blocking us before happens again."

"Well, right now we're trying to figure out how to start the quest." states Dalboz. "The first phase of the quest is getting to Balfas which may have some serious complication. Although, according to Destrius, these complications may not really exist for us, only for him.

"So, it seems that we no longer need to discuss how to get there, but instead discuss how we go about our investigation when we do." the ranger concludes.

The Librarian turns to look at Destrius, a slightly sheepish look on his face. "That is, of course, assuming that this *is* the right time. If there's more we need to know, we can probably learn it on the way, unless you think otherwise."

A simple study. A small wax candle lights a desk, casting flickering shadows about the chamber. On the wall opposite, before a table weighted down with devices and appartuses, a figure in black hooded robes with silver trim looks deep into a sphere of black, perfect save for small flecks of silver which might represent stars - or perhaps not. A small, greyish cube of some material nearly indestructible lies within arm's reach.

Time passes, and a series of images pass through the murky depths of the sphere. The figure regards each one in turn, seeming to grow somewhat agitated by what they portend.

Finally, the figure turns from the globe, and extends his arm to remove a book from a nearby shelf. He opens the book, turning about two thirds of the way through, and begins to quietly speak the words written therein.

"Time's flow calls the strange one to a matter thought resolved
Called he is, though unknowing, and called the others involved
From many worlds they arrive, heralds of the prime gate unknown
To the home of the strange, where mysteries deep intoned.

"Hence unto the world, sent the Stranger for the aid
To be sent to help those working, the puzzle unmade
To seek the answers which will light the path to come.
To light the darkness laid by the death of the one."

He closes the book, and looking around the study, finds his sabre, laying discarded in a corner in its scabbard. He picks it up and girds it to his belt. He returns to the desk, and hesitates a long moment - then picks up the black sphere and the grey cube, secreting them both in hidden interior pockets.

The silvery torus, quiescent for an ageless time, a timeless age, begins once more to move through the deep tidewaters of the Etheric Ocean, moving with purpose and direction, heading toward the Hallway of Worlds. As it progressed, those creatures natural to the Void moved to avoid it, those not quick enough being absorbed, then appearing again behind it, shaken and severly weakened - often falling prey to other inhabitants of this realm.

And the torus rolls on . . .

As the torus floats through the part of the void known as the Hallway of Worlds, it extends pseudopodia of itself, touching each door in turn, briefly, as if perhaps probing the world beyond for some sign - a sign not found, apparently, as it continues its search. Relative hours pass, until finally, one of the probing tentacles seems to discover something - and something within the torus distends the probing pseudopod, then seems to pass through it, and through the doorway.

A slightly dazed Helgraf finds himself in the midst of a dark, forboding city. Everywhere around him, the reek of evil fills his nostrils. But he feels right for the first time since he left Britannia. Whatever his purpose in coming to this cesspool, he was *meant* to be here - instead of with Destrius and those who came before. Which meant he was meant to meet them here, somehow. Quietly he sent out an expanding probe - only to run across some unusual barrier which seems to encompass about half the planet. He curses under his breath, and needing some quiet time to organize his thoughts and investigate these phenomenon, finds a local inn, and pays entirely too much for a room.

There is a whining noise as Paulon pulls a tab on his pack, opening it along a ridged seam. He digs into the contents, extracting several small items, all composed of various hues of a strange somewhat shiny substance, which he then stores in his pockets. As he does so he comments to Dalboz, "I think we ought to get moving now. It's clear someone already knows just where we are, so we've got to move now before he, she or it comes up with some other way to delay us. This little trick makes it certain that something time-critical is going on, something we won't like at all..."

Paulon seals the seam on his pack, stands, and swings it onto his back. "Dracos," he says. "You arrived here by moongate, so powerful enough magic can still affect you. I think a spell designed to get around divine restrictions must take a lot more power than a moongate, so you should be okay for the trip to Balfas." Paulon pauses as a thought strikes him. "You know, if anything I'm more susceptible to such transits than most, given the way I keep getting dumped around willy-nilly. Maybe if you're in physical contact with me when Destrius' spell is cast that susceptibility can offset your magic resistance and make the trip easier."

"An interesting theory, but a theory nonetheless, methinks. In Britannia I had Nicodemus test my immunity; moongate travel is possible, but all other spells seen to wane in power around me. I suggest that I do not travel with thee all by magick; instead I will seek more 'divine' means of traversing the barrier. The Gargoyles tell me I am fated; let me see whether that holds any currency in this world." Dracos bows. "I will take my leave of you now; it is best that I am far away when your spells are cast."

The once-mage turns and walks out of the hut, whistling half-heartedly. It pains him to leave his compatriots behind, but he feels he is a greater danger with them; this world's magicks are different to those of his home, and they cannot afford to have any variables working against them.

Dracos walks for a number of minutes, mulling over his task. He wishes that he had had the sense to ask Destrius where he might find a temple or priest; his exit may have been dramatic, but it was stupid. As he thinks, a word that the Gargoyles at Mondain's Shrine had told him comes to mind; Dorantic. His mind wandering, he speaks it.

'Dorantic greets Dracos, Fated of the Dying'. The wisp's arrival was silent, and Dracos is surprised by it's discordant speech.

"Ah, hello," Dracos says.

'You see information.'

"Ah, yes, I suppose I do. What price will I need to pay for this?" Dracos asks.

'Price is dependent on type, quality and quantity.'

"In wish to contact a divine force that can move me from Tideron to Balfas."

'This information is free; had you asked a local, they could have supplied you with the names you need.' The wisp's speech was oddly human.

"And the names?"

'Pray to Lo-kathda; he is a foreign god in this realm, but will be able to move you, Fated of the Dying.'

"Thank you, thank you."

'This is all good and proper. Dorantic will be going...'

"Wait, wait just a moment. Why do you call me 'Fated of the Dying'?"

'Not even a Melnorme would sell that information. Goodbye.' The wisp faded into the air.

"Intriguing creatures, aren't they?"

Dracos turned suddenly and found a humanoid figure standing beside him, dressed in red clothing. While Dracos could make out every feature, it seemed impossible to describe any aspect of the man.

"And you might be?" Dracos asked.

"Lo-kathda. I heard my name muttered, so I came. That wisp of yours must fear you greatly, or you must be of value to them, for it to lie to you like that." Lo-kathda walked around Dracos, staring at him.

"Lie?"

"I am not known here to the locals; my visit to this world is unofficial. I am checking up on their development. No, the wisps must value you greatly; you are no threat to them as far as I can see." Lo-kathda held Dracos' face. "No threat at all."

"Perhaps they fear my immunity to magic?" Dracos ventured.

"I doubt it. The Wisps' magical abilities are of such a different

magnitude to your species that they appear divine, which is where I fit in. I can transport you to Balfas, and I can even make sure you have an inkling of what you are meant to be searching for. Oh, your memory of your purpose will be gone, but the circumstance of your arrival will open up many avenues. Are you ready to go?"

"Well," began Dracos, "I suppose so, but first..."

"Nothing. Be off with you." Lo-kathda waved his arms, and then Dracos was aware he was somewhere else.

Dracos' first thought was where was he. His second was why was he where he was. His third was more a question of why he felt so cold. This third question was answered very quickly, when two burly guards stepped up to him.

There was a commotion going on outside the common room. This was nothing new - there was *always* some sort of disturbance going on, Helgraf had noted, in this place. By keeping a low profile and carefully avoiding commiting to any position, he had avoided the more obvious entrapments here. But something seemed to draw him to the curtained window this time, as if he somehow needed to see what this particular bruhaha was about.

Pulling back the edge of the curtain, he peered into the street, and saw a face he hadn't seen in . . months, relative to how much time he had passed. He swore mentally . . 'What is he doing here!', and dropping too many coins on the bar for his drinks, hurried to the door, to hear the guards arrest the familiar figure.

"By order of the Canon Laws of Abbot Alberic, we hereby arrest you for indecent behaviour in a public place; please walk with us to the court so your crime can be processed."

Silently, Helgraf slipped into the street and edged closer to the guards and Dracos, waiting to see what would unfold - and lend a hand, discreetly, of course, if need be.

Dracos, disoriented, and not quite certain of why he is here, sits there numbly for a few moments, as one of the guards approaches with a rope to secure his hands.

It was becoming quickly evident Helgraf was going to have to take action.

Quietly, he gathered his will, and invoked a petty motion spell, causing the guard approaching to trip.

Again he gathers his will, and sends the other sprawling with a carefully directed glancing blow to the back of the knee.

While the two guards are re-orienting, he grabs Dracos, slings him over his shoulder and darts back inside the Gilded Grandad.

Dropping several coins on the bar, he grabs a room key and heads upstairs, looking for the room corresponding to the key. Finally he finds it, nearly snapping the key in the lock, and throws the door open, dropping Dracos on the bed, closing it behind him and locking it.

"In trouble already?"

Dracos eyes gain focus, and the strange sense of movement he had just experienced is brought to new light. These aren't the surroundings he was in just a few minutes ago. That isn't the guard who was arresting him, although he looks familiar...

"Helgraf?"

The figure nods.

Dracos shakes his head to try and get rid rid of the cloud that is sitting on his mind.

"I'm in Balfas, Helgraf is standing before me, and I have no idea why I am here. Something to do with Destrius..." Dracos mutters to himself, and then looks up.

"Sorry. Just thinking aloud. Thanks for rescuing me, although I'm not quite sure why I was there to be arrested in the first place. I have no idea why I'm here... Do you?"

Before Helgraf can answer, Dracos stands and starts to pace the room. "How did I get here anyway? I'm pretty much resistant to magick; the moongate travel to Tideron was almost impossible for me to handle... Something is going on here, and for the life of me, I don't know what."

Dracos turns to face Helgraf. "Ah, I have a small request; as you can see, I'm improperly clothed at the moment; could you get me something to wear?"

Helgraf nods, and opening a bureau, removes a spare set of black hooded robes. He looks over Dracos with a critical eye for a long moment, then passes his hands over the clothes several times, each pass adjusting a seam, or length, or stitch set, until the clothes are properly sized for him. He hands them over, and indicates an adjoining room where he can change if he prefers his privacy.

One way or the other, afterwards, he pours two cups of tea, placing one before Dracos, before taking a seat.

"I was taking a drink in the tavern below when you . . . arrived. I presumed you had used some sort of transportative magic, but I did not actually witness your arrival with my eyes to verify it."

Helgraf then brings Dracos up to date on what happened from the point he stepped out of the tavern.

"If Destrius is involved, I am sure he'll find a way to us sooner or later. I suggest we wait it out here until the situation changes or we are contacted. The innkeeper won't mention our presence - I made sure he was liberally paid to "forget" my arrival."

"If you have any other questions, I will attempt to answer them, but be aware I may know as little or less than you."

"I hope so, Helgraf." Dracos sips his tea. "Thank you for your help. What can you tell me of this place we are in; you seem to have a better knowledge of our current surrounds than I..."

Helgraf considers the question for a long moment, sipping his tea.

"Not much better, to be honest, I arrived but a scant hour or so ahead of you. But I can tell you this much.

"We're in a real sinkhole of a city. This place makes Buccaneer's Den look like an ideal place to raise a family and children. Bribery and corruption are commonplace, and there is enough political scheming going on just here in the dives to make your head spin. The primary religion seems - and I emphasise seems because I haven't had enough time to really investigate - to be one of the major power factions here.

I'm guessing the easiest way to buy yourself limited protection would be to make yourself an attache to one of the more powerful groups in town. All in all, it's pretty ugly."

Paulon looks after the departing Dracos, then turns to Destrius.

"Given Dracos' sheer stubborness, I would bet he gets to Balfas pretty quickly. There's no telling just what kind of trouble he'll get into on his own there, so I think we ought to get after him. There's safety in numbers.

"I'd prefer to lay some sort of plans, but Balfas is a big unknown to all of us, so even if we did set out a course of action, we'd have to change it as soon as we got there. We might as well stop wasting time and get moving, before we get more interference."

"As much as I hate to rush headlong into a situation unprepared, I expect that Paulon is correct," Goldenflame says with a nod towards Paulon.

"Whatever that was that the good Librarian... dealt with, should not be given a second chance. You have all convinced me that this is obviously too important."

Destrius nods. "If we are ready to go, I am ready to take us."

"We have not yet decided on a strategy for investigation," points out Dalboz.

Paulon chuckles. "We know little enough about the other side that it would be difficult to truly plan... and besides, I already worry about the trouble Dracos might be getting into."

"Time is no longer our ally," says Destrius. "We go now.

"Join hands, everyone."

With the occassional suspicious look, the group of strangers do so.

Destrius begins chanting, a low monotone that becomes louder, and begins risingly slightly in pitch. The bodies of the others begin to resonate with the sound, giving off harmonies, until a full chorus resounds in the tiny chamber. Destrius's strong voice commands the sound, deftly using it with masterful precision... and then there is silence. The room is empty.

From near the door, a solitary Wisp floats away from the hut, satisfied.

Darkness. Silence. Nothing.

They cross the Divider...

...and some of them Forget.

Blackness. No self, no identity.

Who am I? he thinks.

A thought. I AM, and he clings to that.

The ocean of darkness around him roils and laps at his feet, threatening to take away his sanity. He clings to the fact of his existance and seeks identity. "Eric," he thinks. "Timtrane." A family line, long but thin. A wife, gone. An identity to the world: Goldenflame.

"I am," he thinks, pleased, and remembers who he is... but his mission is still a gap in his mind.

From the darkness, a wave crashes over him, and the gap fills... and his eyes open.

In his mind, the dreamer stands in a circular room with windows opening in all directions. Through them, nothing can be seen but the inky blackness of the infinite void. Where is this, he thinks. How did I get here?

A cloaked figure stands by one of the windows, gazing out into the void. It raises its hood, and the visage of a gray haired man is revealed. As he slowly turns around, the dreamer sees in his eyes a strange sorrow, and feels a deep sense of loss. Around the man's neck is a glass amulet, traced with the symbol of the sun, represented by a seven pointed star. Suddenly, a faint sense of familiarity overcomes the dreamer, as if dimly recollecting a long forgotten face. "Who are you?" he thinks to himself, but already the phantom begins to fade away.

"Wait! Who are you? WHO ARE YOU!" he tries to scream, but no sound pierces the complete silence of the room. The image vanishes completely, as the room crumbles away about the dreamer.

For a long time, he drifts alone in the black emptiness. And then, a soft echoing sound breaks the noiselessness of the void, slowly growing louder ...

"Concussed!Concussed!"

"Wake up!"

The feel of the soft earth beneath ... A dim light - the breaking dawn?

...Someone is trying to wake him ... Consciousness.

Elsewhere in Balfas, another dreamer awakes from restless slumber and

sits up in bed, heart beating rapidly from fear and anticipation. He is lost in thought, considering the strange vision that he had been given - until he looks up. Imprinted upon the wall of the room, glowing in an eldritch violet light, is a fiery handprint - a mark left by his gods. In that moment, all doubt is erased from his heart and he hastily dresses. Exiting the bedroom, he addresses a sentry standing guard without brusquely.

"Summon Sir Kadric to my chambers. The gods have ordained a mission for his Templars."

"Yes, your Grace."

With a slightly stunned expression on his face, the guard bows and hurries down the hallway to carry out the order.

The High Priest of Balfas waits alone outside his chambers. A lustful smile crosses his face as he mutters to himself.

"So, the strangers from another world have entered our land as foretold. With their unwitting aid, the Barrier will soon fall, and all of Tideron will be united under the might of Balfas!"

"...No, I don't remember," someone is saying.

Goldenflame opens his eyes. He blinks once, twice. "Yes, I do remember you all." He says, seemingly out of nowhere.

The others look at him, somewhat confusedly.

Goldenflame stands, slowly. "Perhaps the experience wasn't as bad for most of you. I, for whatever reason, forgot who I was, until I fought for my identity."

Paulon offers a hand up. "What's more, you were speaking aloud while seemingly unconscious when we first got here. Are you sure you don't know why we're here?"

"No, I don't. What did I say?"

Destrius interrupts. "Are you sure you don't remember what you said?"

Goldenflame concentrates for a moment. "No, no I don't."

Daria speaks, softly, "You said, 'To find the light, you must give life to the Fated of the Dying.'"

Goldenflame blinks. "Before anyone asks- no. I have no idea what this Fated of the Dying is."

It took Dracos some hours to realise that the murky skyline had no sun.

"Remarkable, isn't it," Helgraf had said when Dracos had mentioned it. "Either the cloud cover is deep and unchanging, blocking this planet's star, or we aren't in a traditional reality... Not that Sosaria is that typical..."

Dracos nodded. He knew all about Sosaria's ability to change geography.

Dracos supposed that whatever night was here it had passed; people thronged the streets now, and the smell of cooking was heavy in the air. Helgraf had been polishing a silver blade all 'morning', leaving Dracos to simply watch the comings and goings of the tavern. The people here looked and acted like the people back home, except the priests; Helgraf had had to explain what priests were, since Dracos had never met one before. The priests, dressed in formal robes like a mage whose stomach had grown faster than his ability to remodel his clothing, they carried spiked maces with them, and seemed respected, if not feared, by the populace.

"Any thoughts on what we are going to do?" Helgraf asked.

"Yes and no. I don't know why I'm here; you don't know why I'm here, but I am here, and someone went to a lot of trouble to transport this magic-immune body to this place. I want to find out why. I figure that if I make myself as public as possible, hopefully whatever brought me here will make itself manifest, and I'll know what's going on."

"And how do you think you'll do this?" Helgraf asked.

"I'm going to turn up for court on an indecency charge; the one placed upon me the other day..."

Helgraf clutches his temples for a moment as he feels a massive translocation.

Dracos looks up in concern, "Are you alright, Helgraf?"

Helgraf quitely focuses, tracking the source. Suddenly his eyes flicker open.

"Our friends have arrived. I must make sure they find us. I suggest you remain here - it is safer."

He belts on his silver sabre and leaves the room, heading down into the tavern below, then out into the street. Once on the street, he crosses his wrists and brings the left arm down sharply - in responce, a series of small blue flickering lights flow outward, each paced twenty feet from the one before it. The lights then fade into invisibility, visible only as magical emanations.

He then ducks back into the tavern and upstairs to the room, and waits for the others to arrive.

At the end of the dark alley where the adventurers have appeared, a blue light appears briefly and fades, then another blinks into existence amid the party, illuminating them with an eerie glow before vanishing into invisibility.

"I think someone noticed us," Paulon says dryly, stating the obvious. He looks closer at the place where the light had been, and squints. "It's still there, just not visible unless you can see magic. So's the first one too. It looks like part of a trail.

"If no-one has a better idea, I guess we may as well follow it."

As Paulon walks to the end of the alley, the glowing magical point behind him vanishes tracelessly.

"Is this wise?" asks Goldenflame.

Paulon grins cheerfully at him. "Probably not, but if whoever it was wanted something nasty, they probably wouldn't have announced themselves." He looks around the group. "Of course if it is a trap, then I have every confidence in our ability to handle it appropriately. I've traveled with some of you folks before."

The party follows the trail of magical points for a while along darkened and deserted alleyways surrounded by buildings so crowded together that the sky was blocked from vision, before reaching wider streets, and people using them.

Above the streets a grey-brown miasma covers the sky, shrouding whatever source of light lies above in anonymity. The folk on the streets are dressed in somber hues, and seem to pay little attention to each other, as if their own concerns are more important than others.

The party slips back into the shadows as a patrol of armoured soldiers marches down the roadway, oblivious to the magical beacons scattered along it. Daria hisses as she sees a sigil of a bird holding a snake emblazoned on their shields.

After the patrol has passed them by, the group moves out into the street, once more following the beacons, which vanish silently as they are passed. The folk upon the street seem not to want to notice the gathering of strangely garbed adventurers who move quietly among them, as if sensing that being seen too close to these people might mean trouble for them.

Finally the party reaches a seedy seeming inn. They shudder as the difference between this world and those which they know is rammed home by the nature of the hanging sign - in their own worlds such a name would be written, not simply delineated by using the real thing...

Despite this gruesome marker covered in gold paint, the next beacon is in the doorway itself, indicating where the party must go, into the inn called the Gilded Granddad.

The party enters the inn, shocked by the grisly signpost and half-expecting to encounter unspeakable horrors within. To their surprise, however, the interior of the inn is unremarkable, and appears to look exactly like any other inn in the multiverse, if somewhat dilapidated.

Scanning his eyes across the crowded public room, Concussed looks for familiar faces. A bunch of rough looking men sitting nearby notice the party's entrance and gesticulates at them rudely, laughing. Apparently, Britannian fashions are somewhat outre here in Balfas.

Catching sight of a familiar tattooed form sitting at the far side of the room, Concussed starts to walk over to Draco's table, and is about to hail the mage when he is tripped by one of the men. In a vain attempt to break his fall, Concussed grabs the chair of the nearest bully, and brings him crashing down to the floor of the inn as well. Recovering from his fall too late, the dazed Concussed gets up only just in time to avoid a kick to the head. The man is holding a hand up to his bruised head, and his companions rise up from their table in fury.

"By the gods, I'll have your head for this, outlander! Get him, boys!"

*F@#k. So much for keeping a low profile,* Concussed thinks, as he prepares to defend himself in the imminent brawl.

Oh Mighty Dragon Lords, whoever you are, this pointless brawl is the last thing we need right now, Daria thinks in dismay as she watches the desire to see blood and guts spilled lighting up every face in the tavern. Some men are already taking out their weapons, hungry for a fight, no matter on which side or for what cause.

Just as the first sounds of steel crushing steel fill the air and the first chairs are smashed against human skulls, an angry voice, which sounds more like a hungry lion's roar, booms throughout the tavern: "Stop this at once!!!"

Everybody stops fighting, and turn their heads to see a figure standing at the base of the staircase which leads to the guestrooms on the first floor. Daria is amazed to see that the owner of that deafening voice is in fact a woman. She's taller than anybody else in the room, and seems even taller because of her incredible gauntness. Her unattractive, angular features and dark-blue hair seem faintly familiar to Daria, but she brushes that thought off as ridiculous. The woman's grey eyes are as cold as steel, and their merciless stare is fixed on the fat man whose anger Concussed has accidentally provoked.

"Sarron, I thought I told you never to come to my tavern again, and I thought you'd have enough brains in that thick skull of yours to follow my request. But, as if showing your face here wasn't a stupidity enough, you've made an even more foolish mistake by starting a fight and making me dislike you even more."

"Now, call off your dirty fleabags," she points to the man's companions, "and get the hell out of here."

"You half-blood bitch, you'll ****ing pay for this!" Sarron hisses furiously as he approaches the woman with a short sword clutched in his hand.

Not intimidated by his threat at all, the woman just stands there, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her lips curving in a smile that would make a liche shudder.

"Poor little fat Sarron. Do you want me to paint a pretty picture for everyone here of what's happened the last time you've tried to be a troublemaker?" She speaks loudly now, so that everybody in the tavern can hear: "I seem to recall you crawling at my feet, whimpering with fear and trying hard not to piss on my floor. Now, for a second time, get out of my sight, or I might have a sudden whim to make you my next signpost. "Fat Gilded Sarron" - what a lovely, catchy name for a tavern that would be!"

For a moment, Sarron looks as if he's ready to explode from the inside. Finally, he turns away from the woman and cries out: "C'mon, boys, let's get out of this dunghole! No one in his right mind would want to drink this filth she calls ale anyway!" He deliberately spits on the floor, then storms out of the tavern, making sure the woman hears every 'bitch' and 'witch' that slips from his tongue on his way out. As he goes past Concussed, he gives him a look of utter hatred, and mutters something about the need to obliterate every single ****ing outlander in this otherwise fair and splendid country.

After Sarron is gone, the woman turns to Concussed and his companions: "There are two rules in my tavern, strangers. Try not to be a trouble, and if you do insist on being one, be prepared to pay fully for the consequences. And," she adds with a mocking smile, "if I were you, I would get out of these ridiculous clothes as soon as possible. They do make you a fine target for pranks."

But Daria hears nothing of what the woman has just said: her glance is fixed on the small disk of silver which adorns the tavernkeeper's chest. The medallion's engraving shows two cedar branches curling around an image of a dragon - a symbol that belonged to the Great Siberian Dragon family since the beginning of a Dragon kind...

"My thanks for the advice," Paulon replies to the tavern keeper, as the others look around the room.

After the abrupt end of the brawl, everybody in the tavern appears relatively peaceful, seemingly quite used to this happening. Destrius walks over to the table where the tattooed Dracos sits, and waves at him.

"Dracos! Tis strange to see you here!"

The once-mage looks up and smiles, and Destrius sits down beside him, along with the rest of the group.

Paulon sees Destrius beckoning himself and the others over, so he excuses himself to the owner and head over towards the table. After a moment he realises that Daria is just standing in one spot.

He walks back and waves his hand in front of her face until she blinks. "Uh, Daria. I think the boss man over there wants to discuss stuff." Paulon is facing in the wrong direction to see the flickering expression cross the tavern keeper's face as she hears Daria's name spoken.

The two walk over to the table, joining the others.

"Ah, Destrius. Helgraf sort of mentioned that you would be appearing, and indeed here you are. Would you happen to know anything about why I am here? I recall it involving you, and those other friends with you, although I cannot remember how I even got to know of some of them."

"My memory is blank regarding this matter. We are in Balfas, are we? And what is this about Helgraf? Is he here?"

"Unless you botched your spell, that's where we are. It's certainly where we're supposed to be." interjects Paulon.

"He's upstairs, and will come down shortly, perhaps," Dracos replies.

Destrius turns to the rest of the group.

"In the meantime, then, I think we should try to figure out why we are here. Does anybody remember?"

Paulon looks a bit annoyed. "As far as I can tell, I remember everything except the reason why we are here. Your summoning of us, the interference dispelled by the Librarian, even that Dracos left separately to find his own means of transit so that he could avoid having his null-magic interfering with your spell to bypass the Divider. But not why it was important that we do so, just that it was important, if not essential, that we enter Balfas, and quickly. Sorry."

For a short period there is silence.

"Well?" Paulon asks. "Anyone have any idea?"

"Uh, perhaps these mystic symbols which have suddenly sprouted out of my body could tell us something." Saint George's Dragon pipes up. The others turn and see that SG'sD human form is marred by what look like strange black writing that seems ancient and arcane, almost like tattoos. "I am trying to remember why we are here but these things itch.... OWWW" he exclaims, clutching his head as the symbols begin glowing.

Taking a moment to catch his breath he says "It seems that due to my unique magical nature the spell that blocks are memory has taken on a physical analogue in me and is preventing me from accessing the memories rather than simply erasing the information or setting up some kind of complex post hypnotic suggestion or however it works on normal dragons. Perhaps we can use this to find a way to break the spell. Does anyone have some calimal lotion these things really itch. Pesky gods, can't they use a bit more talc in their spells?"

"If you think your treatment at the hands of the gods is uncomfortable now, you had best hope they didn't hear you say that," Goldenflame remarks with a slight smile. That said, he joins Destrius, Dracos, and the others in their close examination of the forms that the dragon is showing. "I can make neither heads nor tails of it. Daria, if you would - you are a dragon, can you decipher?

"And Saint George's Dragon- what are you? Are you truly a dragon, with modifications perhaps, or something else in essense?" The dragon pauses for a moment in his itching, but before he can begin to answer, the Librarian speaks. "You know, in some ways, you remind me of a Wisp." He waves his hand, continuing, "Oh, there are obvious differences. And yet..." He trails off. "Perhaps I'm just burbling. Don't mind me."

"Well, I was a dragon until the idiot poked me with a pointy stick. Anyway I am a bit sensitive about it if you don't mind. Also, the Wisps are unfocused dimensional and have no sense of self and they are glowing balls of light. I don't think I am a bit like them." Saint George's Dragon responds somewhat indigniantly. "Uhh, sorry Librarian it has been one of those days.".

Destrius walks over to St. George's Dragon, and examines the symbols.

"Yes, it does appear to be physical manifestation of magic of some sort. I may be able to decipher the spell and negate it, but I'd rather not do it here. Shall we relocate to somewhere more private?"

"Sure thing doc, where to?"

A tiny silver bell rings in the room Helgraf has set aside for himself as Destrius crosses the threshold of the Granddad. While the inevitable brawl goes on downstairs, he works slowly to remove every trace of the beacon-trail he constructed to lead the group hither. About five minutes after he is sure the work has been done properly, he bandages his left thumb and then, girding his sabre, uses small magicks to make sure the windows cannot be breached without unnatural strength or magick, then closes and locks the door behind him, pocketing the key in an interior pocket. He then quietly proceeds down the staircase into the common room.

Spotting the group gathered, he approaches near - silently, though not out of any will to surprise these people, his once-allies, but out of caution. When within earshot of all of them, he makes his presence known by reciting a brief verse.

"From many worlds they arrive, heralds of the prime gate unknown
To the home of the strange, where mysteries deep intoned."

"Welcome to Balfas, armpit of armpits. I trust you've found your stay eventful thus far?"

A few nods of assent, grins from the less grim.

Destrius looks up, and the two lock gazes for a long moment, something silent passing between them. Helgraf nods once, though whether in acquiescence or affirmation, it is hard to tell.

"That passage is part of what has evinced itself," indicating the marked St. George's with a slight gesture of his left hand, "whence did you come across it?"

"There is much I am not yet permitted to say, lest my words change the outcome. However, I am not required to prevent you from learning what you will from other means. And there are things I can tell you. This is Belfas and if our goals are mutual, we seek Amsereth - or more precisely information about him, how he created the Ring of Xiesh, and what his plans had been regarding Britannia and the Black Moon."

There is a sudden, intense roiling of the ether in the vicinity of the inn, as several things happen at once.

Those who had forgotten their purpose here begin to remember. .

St. George's, being held together, in his own words, by the equivalent of magical duct tape, expands like a balloon as a funnel of the etheric disturbance channels through him, them blows out in a storm of random magical effects.

Helgraf throws up an arm as a thundering bolt of brown light slams into him, knocking him against the far wall, where he slumps to the floor, his last words before slipping into unconsciousness being, "Remind me how much I hate deity-level intervention..."

Daria jumps as grass begins to grow up from the floor beneath her feet. Daisies begin to appear, white petals slowly turning around as little faces peer about the room from within. Paulon bats at miniature winged pink elephants that dart around his head, holding mallets in their trunks with which they clumsily attempt to bash him.

Every bit of metal in the room is covered with vinelike traceries of multicoloured fire, lighting up Goldenflame and his armour like an earthly Christmas Tree. But throughout the entire storm of wild dissipating magic, Dracos stands untouched, watching as little magical lightnings arc towards him, then vanish into thin air...

As if an afterthought, the etheric disturbance dissipates...

As the magicks fade Dracos slumps to the floor. Paulon heads over to him and guides his prone body to a chair.

"Sorry; the sheer magical weight of that... occurence was too much to handle." The once-Mage straightens his clothing. "I somewhat afraid that we'll get an etheric echo on that casting, so it might be an idea for me to go out for a while so that I don't get another attack."

Helgraf nods. "Court?"

The others look first at Helgraf and then Dracos.

"Oh, when I arrived here I was arrested for public indecency. I was naked you see. Helgraf 'lifted' me from the scene of the crime, but I thought that this might provide us with something to go on. I'm not sure exactly what I hope to find out, but it feels like I should go. A bit like fate, really."

As Dracos says 'fate' he winces, as if half a memory is trying to resurrect itself in his mind. Some of the others feel a sense of knowing more, but it quickly fades away.

"So to court you go?" Helgraf says.

"Yes, to court..."

Dracos turns and leaves the room, while Helgraf lies down on the bed to recover from the magical blast.

In the meantime, the others remain at the Gilded Grandad. Not wishing to trust to everyone's ability to navigate this city, they decide to wait for Dracos to return, and also Helgraf's awakening.

Goldenflame looks at Destrius for a moment. "I might find it safe to assume that this man is known to you, save that here I would rather assume nothing. Is he friend?"

Destrius nods. "An enigma, perhaps, but he is on our side and did travel with some of us the last time."

"Ah. The last time. We have some breathing time, now. While I have pieced together much, perhaps now would be a good time for a summary of the 'last time' to be made?"

Paulon shrugs. "The tale's fairly simple if we avoid getting into details. What it boils down into was the mage named Amsereth announcing his presence in Britannia by releasing the Shadowlords from their imprisonment, to act as both servants and a distraction from his own plans. The magic used to extinguish the Flames of the Principles did some odd things to the local ether, jumpstarting the moongates. I tripped over one