Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos - Book Two

Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos Nathan P. Cardwell

Rendering Nirayel - Stepping on Arbitos Copyright © 2007 Nathan P. Cardwell All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Double Dragon eBooks PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada http://double-dragon-ebooks.com http://double-dragon-publishing.com Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas www.derondouglas.com ISBN-10: 1-55404-471-5 ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-471-9 First Edition July 24, 2007 Also Available as a Large Type Paperback Now Available as paperback and hard cover A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006 Five Years of Cover Art [Companion calendars also available] www.double-dragon-ebooks.com www.derondouglas.com

Subgenus One: Strophe Two. Lord Surripere, who denies Malignancy in every form, did oppose this abomination. Also did they, who sanction all that is feral and free, take great exception with Abhoron's loathsome act of profligacy. Thus was their veiled alliance born. Subgenus One: Strophe Three. And in the profusion of passing winters to follow, did Malignancy's complacent ego enfeeble his grasp upon the twisted children of iniquity. Thus was The Thief to slip softly amidst the wicked, depriving them of their depravity, and corrupting their corruption with temperate moderation, as a breeze softly brushing the abhorrence from their souls. In this manner were but a scant few seeds of light sown within their darkness to thrive and survive to become The Scapegrace, who shall avail in vigil of The Kindred Coterie.

Chapter One-Two Dozen Ghouls, Two Spooks, And One Phantom Outside, the plaque on the door read Private Conference-Dr. Orval B. Kwibee, MS, CISSP, SCJP, CCA, Comp TIA, RHCE, MCDBA, CCNP, OCP DBA, MCSA, CCIE, CCEA, AI isn, AI ce, MCL sys PhD . This room was currently occupied by twenty-four of the military's top techno-specialists, none of which had failed to notice the door as they entered. There were also two other men who were not acting in a technical capacity. They wore almost identical nondescript brown suits. Their haircuts were similar, which is to say short, and parted on the right. They both stood at opposite ends of the long rectangular conference table, while between them, and on both sides, sat everyone else. Everyone, that is, but the last of the specialists to deliver his report. He now stood just as nervously as each of his colleagues had been during their own recitations. "Without pre-established parameters…" he began, and then took a sip of water to clear his throat. "IBOT has apparently fallen back to its basic functions, which are to enhance and optimize the program's own projected simulations. In the case of Wayward Fates, this translates into three main areas. "First of all, the game is fundamentally based on role-playing in a self-contained ecology of interaction between Player Characters, and what is commonly referred to as N.P.C.'s, or Non Player Characters. The N.P.C.'s are not actually target-related, but rather generations of the simulation itself. "In order to accomplish these directives effectively, IBOT was literally forced to divide the majority of its own resources between the N.P.C.'s by spawning what one might refer to as mini versions of the program's own A.I. sub-structure. This was necessary due to its incorporation of all Wayward Fate servers into a single simulation. This is an action we don't believe the program was designed to accommodate. "The resources necessary to maintain this number of targets on a single emulation has invariably presented the program with something of a paradox in its core of directives. Fortunately for us, this has effectively wiped out the program's upper dynamic structure, or consciousness, if you will. "This eliminates any further dynamic alteration by the program, other than those related to direct infractions of its security sub-routines. As a result, all first generation N.P.C.'s are now examples of individual programs. None of these Characters are aware of what he or she actually is. They all exist independent of both IBOT and each other. "There is one other enhancement in this area. The second generation of N.P.C.'s presents a slightly more complex construct. In order for IBOT to accomplish a true representation of a functioning ecosystem, it was essential to establish a functioning system of procreation. As such, each N.P.C. born, as it were, is given no more information or resources than is an actual child. This simulated child, then, acquires resources in the same way a real person would, which is to say, it learns. "The second area centers on the players themselves. Originally, the Subject was literally used as the memory enhancement to the assimilated program's overall augmentation. In this instance, and collectively speaking, this was far more resources than were required. As such, IBOT has constructed a new purpose for those superfluous resources, and is currently utilizing them as a means to feed both first and second generation N.P.C.'s with a secondary source of…well…personality. "This is not to imply that the subjects are being cannibalized. The sphere drive itself has more than sufficient storage for all of the newly spawned subject matter. The subjects are more useful to IBOT as examples of the potential, or as examples for varying combinations in possible character traits, in much the same way that the varying aspects of each parent make up the initial groups of qualities found in the

children. And, as in real life, the progeny then use that in combination with accumulative experiences through their own A.I. templates, so as to achieve an individual pattern. "The third area is a bit more complicated. We have yet to ascertain all the details, but IBOT appears to have set up a pre-written series of sub-context that is continuing to manipulate a number of social situations. Not on a grand scale, mind you, but rather only certain key interactions. There's no way of determining what specific individuals are being influenced, other than to say that it doesn't appear to be a direct interaction. Programming translation indicates environmental tampering only. "To be perfectly honest, it's almost as if IBOT has set the stage for some large scale role-playing subject matter during the initial assimilation. These alterations seem to be a matter of what minor adjustments are required to maintain the original genre. Of course, this is all just hypothesis, but the evidence is persuasive. "The only other area affected is the chronological sequencing. The exact time ratio has been difficult to calculate. There are several fluctuating factors that appear to be causing a continuous shift, such as the ongoing presence of worldwide lag that has to be compensated for. IBOT can't affect the lag itself, but it can alter the subject's perceptions to match the lag. In this way, the subjects have no sense of it at all. This is actually in our favor as it…" "Could we speed this up, please?" asked the brown suit to his left. "Oh, yes, sir," stammered the specialist, quickly riffling through his notes. "Currently, and roughly speaking, we estimate that one hour of real time translates into approximately three weeks of program time. This is a direct reflection of the supplemental resources previously mentioned, though by no means a reflection of its extent." "Why don't we just pull the plug? You know, turn the damn thing off?" asked the brown suit to his right. "Well…I'm not really qualified…" "If I may be allowed to answer that?" interjected another specialist. "The subliminal commands being transmitted to the subjects necessitate the suspension of a number of their higher brain functions. Until the program restores those functions, the subjects are capable of very little on their own, other than basic instinctive functions, like breathing. If you kill the power now, you'll end up with nothing but a mass of vegetables. Besides, we haven't been able to ascertain exactly how the power actually would be shut down. There is no software option, and there doesn't appear to be an actual button, or switch, or…" "And how many targets are we talking about?" "Just over a quarter million, but this number is slowly dropping. Some characters die in the course of normal game play, and from time to time, some are separated from their DIT by outside sources. Some are even dropping due to such poor connections that even IBOT can't maintain them." "What happens when a player dies in the game?" "In the original game structure, they were simply returned to what the game refers to as…a point of binding. However, IBOT perceived this aspect as a flaw, and altered it during its initial enhancement stage. Apparently, unlimited life was contradictory to the parameters being created. "The new interface includes a supplemental enhancement to the original character selection area. This is represented by options of reincarnation. A target's character is given the opportunity for rebirth, or they may opt for Oblivion. Oblivion represents an exit from the program entirely.

"Of course, this is all academic, as the Oblivion option was not placed under IBOT security. IBOT didn't recognize this section of the game as a legitimate part of the world being created. As a result, we were able to institute an overriding default, thereby disabling character selection. Now, upon the death of their pseudo-selves, the subjects will have their memories reallocated, and then be released from the program altogether." "So what your saying is, if a player dies, then the target is freed, and has his or her memories restored." "Well, yes." "When you say reallocated, does that include memories of their experiences while in the program as well?" "Of course." "I'm afraid that simply won't do," a feminine voice asserted from the intercom mounted in the ceiling above them.

Chapter Two, Home: Part One-Cats Pleased, Mice Teased One cannot subscribe to the axiom of mirth as a legitimate philosophy without first understanding and then accepting its nature. In application to the current circumstances, this meant a willingness to laugh at one's own self. On the other hand, the individual whose turn has come to bear such an auspicious responsibility should never depend upon leniency from the authors of such merriment. After all, why should they be lenient? They're having a pretty good time. As a true subscriber, Jester had a perfect understanding of the role he was expected to play. Nevertheless, after two days it was beginning to wear a bit thin. In fact, he found himself quite relieved when their combined group had finally passed the Arbitos Lowlands border. They parted company on good terms, and even shook hands. "Safe passage to you, Dru…Jester," Borin offered sincerely. "And to you," Jester returned politely. He and Merfee then turned north to complete the final leg of their own journey. "Oh, by the by!" Borin called, before they had traveled more than twenty meters. Jester knew what was coming. "There may yet be a few stray Gnolls about! So…" "I know, I know. I should watch my arse," he said, thus finishing Borin's well-used punch line. Jester felt the implied humor surrounding his admittedly minor impalement had become somewhat tiresome, but managed to offer a minimal token of not altogether enthusiastic laughter. Besides, Merfee and the other soldiers still seemed to think the so-called joke was just as funny as the previous two dozen times it had been executed. *** "I enjoyed the festival," Merfee continued as he and Jester neared the Grove entrance. "Tarots really know how to celebrate. The food, the wine, and…who was that one dancer who kept getting up on the tables?" "Ezlea," Jester answered absently. "Yes. She was rather…friendly…wasn't she?" "Look, there's Nef," Jester remarked as they approached the tents of the visitor's area. "Oh, yes, that reminds me. Umm, Jes?" "Yes?" "Be a chum, would you? Don't mention any of my involvement. It really wouldn't do for Nef to hear about that, while in her condition." "No more arse jokes?" "Oh, certainly not," Merfee agreed without reservation. ***

"…and that's about the tall and short of it. After Mistress Ironwood released Jester from the remainder of his assignment, we set out for the Grove. After a league, or so, Corporal Krue and some of his friends caught up and offered to accompany us as far as the border." Yes. Wasn't that nice of them, Jester thought humorlessly. "Is that the same Corporal Krue mentioned by the Herald?" "No, Dear," Merfee corrected. "You're thinking of Captain Krue. The Corporal is his son." "Oh, I see," she nodded. "So they both play in the same Army, do they? Well, isn't that nice. I've always felt that it's very important for families to do things together." "Play?" Jester asked with a confused expression. "Yes. Isn't that nice," Merfee agreed while motioning for Jester to drop the subject. The last thing he needed was for Nefari to get her feelings hurt. In her present condition, the list for supper items alone would surely do him in. "Hey!" Jester exclaimed as something struck him. "Why are you two camping in the visitors' area? I've perfectly comfortable accommodations in one of the Grove oaks." "We didn't feel it would appear proper for strangers to simply barge into…" "What strangers?" Jester asked expansively while lightly punching Nefari in the arm. "You two are Family, and that's that." "I don't think she meant you, Jes," Merfee added expectantly. "Oh," Jester replied, realizing how aggressive it might appear for Wood-elves to simply move in without warning, or invitation. "Sorry, Nef." "Oh, I almost forgot!" Merfee quickly changed the subject. "You'll never believe who's staying in Arbitos." "Who?" Nefari asked eagerly. "Well, more like a prisoner really. I mean, it's not as if they rolled out the red carpet or anything." "Who?" "Her incarceration is only temporary," Jester intoned. "Who?" "You don't know that, Jes. A request for Sanctuary doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be granted." "It will if I have anything to say about it. I gave her my word." "What can you possibly hope to do for her?" "As soon as I report to the Council, I'm going straight to Arbi…" "Who, blast it!" "Squire Thistle?" a voice called from outside. At this, Jester pulled the tent flap back. A Council messenger appeared to be searching the area, tent by tent. "Over here," called Jester, as the young man prepared to knock on another tent post. "Oh, there you are. If you please, Squire, the Council wishes to see you right away." "Certainly, but I only just now returned. How could they know…?"

"You know how it is, Squire," smiled the messenger as he led the way. "The trees have ears, as do the bear and wolf." Digger! As Jester and the messenger left, Nefari faced Merfee with narrowed eyes and lips drawn thin. He considered her for a moment before realizing why she might be so cross. "Oh! A Dark-elf Rogue," he finally answered. *** "Have you any idea just how irresponsible that stunt was?" "I realize I may have acted in haste, but…" "But nothing! I have seven dead soldiers whose families do not agree with your idea of a necessary judgment call!" "But…" "Taking the Cavern without my authorization was more than sufficient cause for serious reprimand, but to march an entire Regiment into the Wiccaris? I'll have your commission, Krue!" "Begging the Colonel's pardon, but there really was no time to submit a request form. Under the circumstances, I believe I acted in accordance with all regulations. If we hadn't…" "Are you attempting to quote regulations to me, Captain?" "I assure milady, I would not presume to be so bold," Reginald replied in a controlled but strained tone. "Oh don't sell yourself short, Krue! I have reports dating back as far as a hundred and fifty summers that offer a fair accounting of just how bold you are! "Colonel Clawtorn?" inquired the Orderly as he poked his head in the door. "Can't you see I'm busy?" "Yes, milady, but the Magistrate is waiting outside." "Well don't just stand there! Show him in!" "Yes, milady." "I do hope you enjoy your new life as a civilian, Krue," grinned Clawtorn as the Orderly closed the door. "After I submit my report, you'll be lucky to keep your pension." "Good afternoon, Colonel," offered the Magistrate as he was escorted in. "And to you also, milord," crooned Clawtorn while sweeping gracefully into a formal curtsy. "Ahh, Captain Krue. How fortunate to find you here!" "Good afternoon, Magistrate," Reginald replied with a short, formal bow. "I do have some business I would like to discuss with milord," intoned the Colonel seriously. "Fine, Colonel, that's just fine. However, I'm really quite busy at the moment. If you could just make an appointment with my office, I'm sure we can take care of whatever business you have." "As milord wishes," she agreed resignedly.

"I say, Krue!" admonished the Magistrate excitedly. "You military types certainly are a tightlipped lot. The entire city's a veritable buzz with stories of ferocious Gnolls, wicked Wognix, dancing Tarot girls, and who knows what other derring-do. What a bounder you are for making me wait to hear your report!" "I sincerely apologize, milord." "Oh, nonsense, old boy," snorted the Magistrate loudly. While the Magistrate struggled to recover from his self-inflicted sense of good-humored fun, Reginald ventured his own good-natured glance in the unhappy Colonel's direction. "Tell you what, Regi. Nuesilla's made up a batch of those little carp cakes you like so much. She'd simply never forgive me if I didn't drag you back home." "Jericoe? If your wife doesn't retard her progress, my Blacksmith will be forced to let my armor out again!" the Captain intoned with a serious glare. There followed a short silence wherein the Magistrate appeared taken aback, and then suddenly burst out laughing, along with Reginald. The Colonel did not appear amused. *** Directly following the announcement of their decision, there ensued a long moment of silence. After a time, wherein he continued to exhibit no indication of rendering at least some token rejoinder, there began a restless murmuring amidst the august body of Elders. When at last it appeared that the Squire was so inclined as to offer no response at all, Amara finally decided to break the silence, herself. "This is really quite a rare honor." "Oh, yes, absolutely," included Elder Hardwood. "And a most unprecedented privilege for one who isn't even a member of the Council." "Well…that's just the point!" Jester implored. "I'm no sort of politician. I'm a Druid." "My dear Squire! There are currently eight Druids on the Council!" Amara intoned reproachfully. "No, no! I didn't mean to imply…" "Are you perhaps under the influence that you are above such duties?" inquired Elder Grizzlier. "No! You're twisting my words about! I meant…" "What exactly did you mean?" Amara inquired stiffly, the intensity of her glare suggesting a cautious answer. He had meant to say that he was far too young for such duties. He had meant that the mundane responsibilities of an Ambassador are for old Druids who can't deal with the real world anymore. He had meant to say that they were sentencing him to a fate worse than Proscribe. He had meant many things, all of which would only worsen his position were he to actually speak them aloud. He looked about the room, bombarded by all the old and withered faces and their expectant glares as they fell back upon him, as if to say, Go ahead. We know what's on your mind. Go ahead, and we'll be only too happy to withdraw our magnanimous offer. Oh, by the way, we have this other assignment. It's a wonderful post in Norwinds. We need someone to tutor underprivileged Barbarian children there for the next two or three eons. And don't worry. You'll get used to the cold, and to their smell, eventually.

"I would be most honored to accept the Council's exceedingly generous offer," he concluded quickly, though with a most unhappy expression. *** Even now, Crumly wasn't quite sure of the circumstances surrounding his current predicament. He dimly recalled one of those Wizard types standing just outside the jail when they finally let him out. He had approached the fellow in hopes of a few coppers. He only wanted enough for a tankard or two-just enough to ward off the chill of night. The fellow had seemed pleasant enough, but hadn't taken the first few subtle hints. After following him about for a half hour or so, the chap actually began to appear a bit agitated. Quite abruptly, after the fellow's eyes had flashed to a bright red, Crumly found that it was even colder on the North Arbitos drawbridge. That was about all he could remember, save the outraged vendors on the bridge itself. How was I supposed to know that wine belonged to someone? It looked as if it had been abandoned on that vending cart. He tried to explain, but the guards wouldn't listen. Mayhap he should have stopped after the third or forth bottle, whilst the vendor might yet have been reasonable. And as if returning so quickly to yet another confinement wasn't bad enough, now he found himself in a cell that was right next to one holding an actual Wognix. "Wench! I'll tell you one last time! Dark elves can't make ale to save their blasted blue hides!" The creature was relentless, droning on and on. Oh, how she yearned for silence. It would have been so pleasant to feel the little drunkard's neck snap. Unfortunately, she had promised Jesterwolf that she would behave herself. Perhaps this is some form of torture, she surmised as her thoughts raced. Mayhap they expect me to crack under the pressure. No! She would not let them see her falter. She would simply sit quietly, and smile back at him. I won't cry! You can't make me cry! "Did you hear me, you blue harlot? I said I would rather drink poison than ale made by a filthy Wognix!" "Regretfully, they have taken my entire drachnid stock," she replied as her lower lip began to tremble of its own volition. *** The entire predicament was just so bizarre. The Council members had supplied Jester with documentation of their extended authority, along with indoctrination as to the specific responsibilities of this assignment, which included an entire tome on the subject of Diplomatic Conduct and Ethics in the Political Arena. Gwaurdenbog! It's two fingers thick! Finally, he was instructed to report immediately to Captain Krue for both orientation and instruction in parliamentary procedures. Their need for such expedience was due to his formal Ceremony of Appointment, which was apparently to take place inside of two days. What could they possibly gain by this? How was he to come to terms with it? And why were they moving so quickly? These and many other questions ran through his mind as he entered Arbitos proper. He had just crossed the drawbridge as some prior commotion was settling down. What exactly caused the commotion was a mystery, although several guards could be seen dragging someone toward the garrison. Just then, as he was passing through the front gate, it finally struck him, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks. Could it be that they fear another Assassination?

Oh, Troll spoor, that's it! They do! They think there could be another Assassination, and I'm the bait! "Blasted thieves!" exclaimed a flustered vendor as she and her cart unceremoniously shoved a yet dumbstruck Jester out of the way. "It's getting to where a body can't even take a moment to go relieve her bladder anymore!" I need a drink. *** "You sure you won't come with us, Borin?" Marcus prompted. "Yes, Krue, do come," Selina added. "I understand there's a new style of weighted halberd in from Brinehaven. It's said to be even lighter than…" "Thanks anyway, but you know I've never really taken to halberds. I'll just hang out here for a bit, and then head home. I really am quite exhausted." Their concerned expressions indicated a probability of continued, albeit well meaning interest. "Exhibitions are more for those who have need of supplemental instruction. You two Round-ears should fit right in," he smirked. Selina eyed him with a wary countenance, and then glanced back toward the bar. "I know why you're staying," she announced with a sly smile. "Selina!" Marcus intoned reproachfully. "He's infatuated with the barmaid," she grinned evilly. "No, really. I've not had a fitting night sleep in weeks," Borin offered defensively. "Why must you always do this?" Marcus lamented. "Do what? You know he's got a crush as well as I, and don't you even try to deny it, Krue." Borin looked down, embarrassed. "Now you've done it!" mumbled Marcus angrily. "I've done nothing at all, and neither will he, for that matter," she chortled. "Hush up, Selina!" "Ouch! Marcus! I do believe that you stomped my foot on purpose!" "Nonsense," he retorted, while pulling her chair out from the table. "I believe it's time we were going." "Oh, all right!" she agreed reluctantly as he dragged her toward the door. "But if you ever do that again, I'll squash you like a…" "Barkeep! Another stout for our wayward friend!" Marcus shouted on his way out. Borin looked up as he tossed a coin to the barmaid, who, upon catching it with well-practiced ease, dropped it in the till with one hand, while drawing off another tankard with the other. As he shoved Selina out the door, he offered Borin a casual salute. He actually outranked Borin, although this was the sort of good luck gesture offered informally among comrades. He closed the door behind him, and then pushed Selina before him like a reluctant plow beetle until they had passed in front of the tavern window and out of Borin's view.

As the barmaid started in his direction, Borin quickly glanced down before she could catch him watching her. She put the stout on his table, and then returned to her post. Borin never even looked up. I really haven't the time for this, Jester thought. I have my own problems. He needed to see how Delphi was faring before reporting to the Captain. Still, he looked so miserable. Sheesh! Just look at him! It had not crossed his mind before, especially after how Ezy had gone after him. Of course, now that he thought about it, Ezy wasn't exactly a difficult proposition. A bashful Warrior? Is such a thing even possible? He let the invisibility drop, and then stepped out of the shadows. "Hail, Borin," he called while walking over. Oh gads! Borin thought in rising panic. Not him! Not Now! "Oh, hell… Hello, Jester. Won't you have a seat?" he asked, since Jester was already seating himself. When almost seated, Jester exclaimed, "Ow!" and then rose half way up again. Borin's mind flashed back to Jester's minor injury, and a half-crooked grin formed briefly as he recalled the great fuss made over what had been naught but a scratch. Such trivia had hardly been worth the Cleric's trouble. Jester smiled, and then went ahead and sat down while thinking, How easily some are entertained. He hated to resort to such a cheap form of humor. Still, it served to ease any lingering apprehension. "Say there, Borin, If you're not gonna drink that stout, I sure am thirsty," he hinted. "As a matter of fact, I…" Borin began, and then stopped on seeing that he spoke too late. The fleabag already had it halfway down his gullet. "Oh, my!" commented Jester while leering above the tankard, conveniently in the direction of the barmaid. "Now, she's got class." "A lot more than you, Druid," Borin shot back with only the slightest agitation in his voice. "What? You don't believe that I could win her affections?" "I don't think anyone of your ilk should even try," he replied, his agitation advancing. "Well, now. There's a challenge if I ever heard one." "No! I mean, I really don't think you should…" but Jester was already up and on his way to the bar. Borin could only watch in dismay as he stepped up to the bar and motioned her over. When she got there, he began speaking to her in hushed tones. After a moment, he pointed in Borin's direction and she glanced over at him with an obvious look of concern. Out loud, she said, "I'm afraid I can't allow…" "No, you misunderstand," Jester insisted, returning to more hushed tones. Borin recalled the whopper Jester had told the Dwarven guard while breaking him out. He quickly began to gather his things, intending to make for the door before he found himself in jail again. But just as he stood up, the barmaid tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, milord," she intoned with concern as he looked up and froze. Not again! "As I told your friend, we don't allow animals in the tavern." Borin's mind raced. "Huh?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to take your pet outside, please." "Pet?" he asked in a cracked voice while inching his way toward the door, and then freezing in position when from behind his chair there came an almost pathetic whimpering, as if something were in extreme agony. As he turned, a ragged-looking wolf with reddish fur limped out, almost fell, but with great effort managed bravely to gather itself together as it continued to limp toward its master, its head down and its tongue lolled out to one side while favoring its right foreleg. "Oh, my goodness!" cried the barmaid, rushing to the ailing creature's side as it had apparently gone as far as it could. When she reached the wolf, it suddenly collapsed in her arms. "He's been injured!" she cried with alarm. Borin raised one speculative eyebrow while dropping the other in a half scowl, half wary expression as he once again commenced to inch toward the door. "Was he in the battle with you, milord?" she asked while frantically searching the animal for wounds. "Ummm…" said Borin intelligently as the wolf winked at him. "There's a room in the back," she announced confidentially while glancing about to confirm they were alone. She seemed to have forgotten about the "no pets" rule. "There's really no need…" "Follow me. I have a few Clerical potions," she said seriously while gingerly lifting the poor, brave, now unconscious beast. "I really don't think he's…" "Please, milord!" she pleaded. "We must hurry before the owner sees him." Borin hesitated. "Please, milord?" she asked in a softer tone. "I am but a simple barmaid. I haven't much, and will never possess the incredible courage to do what you and this valiant creature have done for our people. I implore you to at least allow me the opportunity to offer what meager appreciation I can." Borin followed, trying to think of what to say. What could he say? Excuse me, but that's not a brave and injured battle beast. In reality, it's a conniving tree-hugger. No, that probably wouldn't help. *** A few minutes later, Jester exited into the back alley, and then removed the sling from about his foreleg-arm and neck. "Alas and woe is me. A Druid's work is never done," he lamented to no one in particular, then continued on toward the Garrison, and his own problems. *** The door to the outer cells opened. "Mind you now, only a few minutes," warned the guard. "I'll not take long," spoke a familiar voice. Then he came through, and the door closed behind him. Delphi immediately stood and moved to the edge of the bars. "I regret these poor accommodations," he offered sincerely, glancing about the dismal set of inner cells.

"I expected no less, milord." "I'm just a Squire, milady," he corrected her elevation of his lot. It had slipped his mind that said station was soon to change, regardless of his preference. Her expression didn't alter. His correction appeared to carry no particular sway over her opinion. In fact, her opinion had seemed to take on a decidedly strange alteration ever since their rescue. Though he found this turnaround somewhat disturbing, he couldn't quite articulate what it was that bothered him. "Well, I just wanted to assure you I intend to stay true to my word," he intoned seriously. "I do not doubt you in the least." "Oh? Yes…well, that is a great relief to me." A long moment of silence. "Well…" he continued, and then paused uncomfortably. The way she was staring was beginning to make him feel quite uneasy, as if he were the prey to her predator. "Umm, how's your eye doing?" he asked in the absence of anything better to say. Then he remembered. It wasn't doing anything. It was absent. Gads, what a buffoon! he cursed himself. "It feels much better since you healed it, milord." "Oh, wait!" he exclaimed, reaching inside his jerkin, and quickly glancing over his shoulder to make sure the guard didn't see. Presently, he pulled out a long strip of light blue silk. The vendor had called it sky blue. It was thin, except for the midsection, which had been doubled over a flat lining of soft cotton and leather padding, and then sewn. He handed it to her through the bars. She took it, examining it for several seconds before realizing he was offering her some sort of gift. "Thank you," she offered humbly, then almost as an afterthought, clutched it closely to illustrate how much she valued it. "You do know what it is, right?" he asked. She held it up, turning it this way, then that. It did bear a vague resemblance to a certain article concerning personal hygiene, although she found it difficult to believe anyone would construct such a thing from silk, much less offer it as a gift. Warily, she returned her attention to the gift's bearer. "I'm not currently in need of a…" "It's a patch," he informed her expectantly. "A patch," she repeated with a grateful smile, and sighing with relief that she had not told him what she had really thought it was. "Well… I'm sure it will come in very handy, if ever I find myself in need of…patching something…with a patch," she concluded, clutching it even closer. There followed another long moment of silence, wherein he seemed to be considering something while she simply tried not to look unappreciative, though he still noticed her casting the gift several perplexing glances. Finally, "It's for your eye," he informed her. At this, she instinctively reached for her hood, and then remembered it was with her other confiscated possessions. In its absence, she covered her right hand over the disfigurement while casting her gaze to the floor. "Forgive me, milady. It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable," he offered. "On the contrary, I only offered the patch because I thought you might find it appealing."

She did not respond. She continued to evade his eyes. "Most of the women I have known possess a certain…ornamental pride, especially when it comes to matters about the face. In fact, I know a Lady who makes it a regular practice to pluck the hairs from her brow, before adorning her face with both paint and flour," he told her, while thinking of Ezlea. "No," Delphi intoned incredulously, finding it difficult to believe anything so ludicrous, though the image his description brought to mind caused her to produce a small smile in spite of herself. She relaxed a bit, and then set about the business of determining how to equip the garment. She stopped when he reached through the bars to stay her hands. "Wear it if it pleases you, but not to appease me, or anyone else," he intoned seriously. "I know how it looks," she replied in a small voice, her gaze still cast downward. "Neither my Lord, Wildern, nor his good Lady, Natura, have ever shown disfavor to their injured. Nor shall they ever show favor to those who do," he offered, though her lack of reaction implied that his offer was ineffectual. "By the river! My reaction to your appearance was not a display of disfavor. It was empathy." "I've heard of this word, empathy," she said with an edge. "I came across it during my Human studies while preparing for Heartrot's Quest. It means pity, does it not?" she asked in an accusing tone. "It…it's difficult to explain," he began haltingly. Then his expression brightened and he began to reach toward her face. At first, she balked, momentarily drawing back. After a moment, her own expression eased and she returned to a more relaxed posture. Once again, he reached out, first tracing the healed scars about her eye, and then gently holding his palm to her face. "Different peoples have differing definitions. To my people, it means the healing of another's injured heart, regardless of the form it may take." Her brow furrowed as she sought to comprehend the foreign concept. Shortly, she did look up to meet his eyes. To Jester, she appeared to be in the midst of some inner turmoil. "Empathy," he repeated, smiling. Then he quickly withdrew his hand as the guard unlocked the outer door. After a moment, she returned her attention to the patch. "I think…I think I shall wear it. It is very pretty cloth." she said, tracing its surface gently, much as he had traced her face. "Yes, I rather thought so, too," he added, noticing how it matched the color of her remaining eye. "Umm, well then…" he said, regaining composure. "Is there anything I can get you? A warmer blanket, perhaps?" "Another cell would be nice," she replied absently while attempting to wrap the patch about her head, backwards. "Another cell?" he asked, prompting her to a more attentive state. "Yes. There is a horrible creature in the cell next to mine, milord. He tortures me day and night, forcing me to listen to countless narratives of…of…Ale." Jester leaned to his right, and peered into the cell next to Delphi's. True enough. Apparently sleeping, or perhaps simply passed out, was the very same drunken Dwarf that Borin had encountered. Chumly, or Crummy, or some such. How'd he get here?

"Guard?" "Ready to leave?" the guard asked. "I want this Lady moved to another cell, specifically away from this other prisoner." "And who might you be, to be ordering me about?" "I might be the new Ambassador to Spurious Grove." "Oh, really?" laughed the guard. He ceased laughing when Jester presented his Council identification scroll. "Beg pardon, milord. If I had known…" "No offence taken. Could we see to the Lady's accommodations now?" "I'm afraid I can't, not without orders from the Captain." "I see. Thank you anyway." He turned back to Delphi. "I'll be seeing the Captain, shortly. I'm sure he will take care of it." "My gratitude, milord," she offered sincerely. "Please, call me Jester." "Jester," she smiled, reaching to adjust her new patch. "All right, then. I'll stop by again tomorrow and see how you're doing, if you like." "I will look forward to it…Jester." "Good night, then," he offered while motioning for the guard to let him out. He felt a certain relief as the door shut behind him. There was something most alluring about her. There was also something a bit forbidding. When he looked back through the door's barred window, he could see that she had not moved. She just stood there, staring right back at him through the two sets of iron bars that separated them. He smiled sheepishly, and then scooted passed the guards and on toward the Captain's offices.

Chapter Two, Home: Part Two-New Suits Of Law, And Flesh Sarah had just put on her housecoat, and was about to start a fresh pot of coffee, when she noticed his absent glaring. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have even registered, since he often bore a similar expression on just about any given morning. Try as he might, Dieter wasn't really an accomplished morning person. Still, he wasn't usually given to bouts of drooling unless prompted by the anticipation of food, or perhaps the occasional episode of Bay Watch. With her concern for him rising, she was just about to swivel his chair about when the doorbell rang. *** She had never heard a more bizarre accounting. This guy, this…weirdo…shows up at the door, claiming to be a Doctor, as if that alone should gain her confidence, but sounding more like a cross between your average computer nerd, and one of those mad scientists from the comic books her little brother had read when they were kids. If Dieter hadn't been in the condition he was, she would have called the police, right then and there. In retrospect, however, though she still found it all quite difficult to accept, she did regret striking the man. Worst possible scenario: he's just a loon. But if what he says is true … After Kwibee had finally semi-prevailed upon her, so that she dubiously gave him the benefit of the doubt, she had wanted to contact the hospital, though he had quickly argued that it wouldn't help. If her brother really was in the game, then there could well be a tap on the main line. According to Kwibee, the only reason that they weren't able to detect his filter thingy in the first place was due to the fact that whatever was cloaking it from the program, also cloaked it from tap detection. He had tried to explain how it worked, for all the good it did. The unholy string of techno-babble he offered could have been Chinese Pig-Latin for all she knew. As for the matter of her brother, whose involvement had yet to be determined, she thought, Well, maybe he wasn't in the game when it hit. Maybe he got caught by one of the Doctors, or couldn't get a free line. He might have even overslept. He's good at that. She recalled several instances when Dieter had complained about Jesse's not showing up at all. When she called the hospital to see if anything was wrong, the nurse would always inform her that he was in fact still sleeping. An image persisted of her little brother lying in his hospital bed with the same absent gaze as Dieter. If only we hadn't sent him that stupid game! *** After several more moments, she began to get impatient, wondering if it was going to work at all. [Doc? You there? Doctor Kwibee?] {Sorry. It took a moment to re-sequence the Chronomic ratio-flux indicator to an analogous state of paralleled…} [Well, get it together, would ya? I don't know where here is, but it's dark and…well, it's very dark.] {Yes, I believe that's…almost got it.} [What do you mean, almost?] {Patience, Madam.} [What did you just call me?] {There! I'm linked with your filter interface, you're linked with my filter control, and now were both in sync with the program.} [Ok, now what?] {All we need to complete the circuit is to overlay your patch with an actual N.P.C…} [Is something wrong?] {Listen to me, Mrs. Hoffman. Once you're in, there's no turning back. But we can still switch links now. You're really not qualified to…} [Yeah, right! Like you are! That's my family in

there! And just for the record, Doctor, I'm not the one responsible for this whole freaking mess in the first place!] {All right! All right! Patching you in… Now!} *** Sarah was suddenly thrust out of the darkness and into a world of vibrant colors. At first, there were no specific forms, only a swirling mass of chaotic spectra. Then, certain shapes began to coagulate and take on depth, similar to a camera's moving in and out of focus, only the picture she was receiving was all about her and expanding outward as new shapes formed. {Is it working?} [It's still kinda fuzzy.] {That's to be expected. It takes a few moments for the filter to adjust.} [Oh! That's better.] "Selina?" Marcus inquired. Are you all right, my friend? [There's someone with her!] {Don't panic.} "Selina? Hellooo?" [What should I do?] {Her memory template indicates they were to attend a training exhibition together.} [Oh yeah, that's helpful!] "Don't tell me the ale-slamming champion of South Arbitos is getting dizzy over two small stouts," he laughed. [That's it! I mean, yes, that's it.] {Huh?} [Not you! The other guy.] {Well, don't tell me. Tell him.} [Right… Umm, how'd that go again?] {We've already been over this, Mrs. Hoffman!} [Don't push it, Doc! I'll dot the other eye!] {No! No need for violence. We've both been under a strain. We just need to stay focused.} "Now see here, girl! Are you quite all right, then?" [Doc? He's becoming impatient.] {Oh, yes. Well, it's just as we discussed. Focus on your surroundings. Let yourself align with the program, and then you can interact. Just don't forget to focus on the interface before speaking to me, otherwise they'll think you're crazy, or possessed, or some such.} [Got it.] Sarah tried to focus. She let go of the interface and concentrated instead on the game's environment: on Selina, the buildings, the sky… A light breeze caressed her cheek. The chilled air caused gooseflesh to erupt on her bare arms. Then a myriad of perceptions flooded in on her at once: the alluring scents of seasoned meats and baked goods from half a dozen shops in the area, the uneven feel of cobblestones beneath her feet, quickly followed by a glint from the almost golden sandstone buildings as they were stuck by the setting sun. She looked west, and to the sun itself, now almost buried below the horizon. It was the same sun she had seen many times from outside the game while watching Dieter play, only now it wasn't, not really. The reds and golds were on fire, writhing in the fiery splinter of globe, visible, and then fading to a softer glow as her eyes lifted, succumbing to the night sky punctuated by what points of starlight were still strong enough to filter through the city's own illumination. She looked at the stranger before her, whose day's growth of beard stubble was in great contrast to the polygonal texture expected. There was something else, too. This was no stranger. This was Marcus Goodfellow, and he was very much the proper gentleman: a suitable name indeed. He had been one of her best friends ever since nursery school, and two years after he had joined the Arbitos Guard, it had been his recommendation that got her in as well. He was her brother in arms, and as close as her own… No, that's not right. Selina has no brother.

She found herself abruptly flooded with memories of this other: this Selina. No, she was Selina. She was Selina Valorous, Daughter of Randor and Miana Valorous, Paladin of the Forty-ninth Circle, and sworn guardian to the peoples of Arbitos. Her heart swelled with pride and strength, even as tears welled in her eyes. {Hey! What's going on in there? Your heart rate just jumped ten points.} [What? That was… Wow!] {Remember, you must maintain control! Interact in whatever ways you see fit, but don't let yourself get lost in it, or I can't promise you'll find your way back.} [Got it.] I hope. "All right, that's it! You're going straight home, young lady!" Marcus intoned authoritatively. "Huh? Oh yeah, sure thing. I'm bushed anyways." "Bushed? In what strange manner do you speak, Selina?" "I'm sorry, Marc. I guess I'm just tired. I also feel a bit guilty about teasing poor Borin." "As well you should, Corporal. Our friend has been through quite enough without our adding to his problems." "Yes, you're absolutely right. I promise to apologize tomorrow." "You'll do no such thing! I know you, Selina. You'll only make matters worse. You are to drop the subject altogether, and that's an order!" "Yes, Lieutenant," she agreed, snapping to attention. *** "No, not at all," Reginald assured him. "I'll have her moved immediately. To be perfectly honest, she should never have been consigned to the lower tier in the first place. She's not exactly a prisoner as such, anyway. Her confinement is conditional, only until a hearing can be arranged." "I…I promised that I would help her," Jester said tentatively, reluctant to broach another request. "I realize I'm not really qualified, but I don't suppose there's anyone else who'd be willing." "Willing to what?" "Well, to speak on her behalf." Reginald seemed puzzled. "It would appear you don't quite grasp the importance of the issue at hand, my boy." "Yes, milord. I realize that if Arbitos turns her away…" "This is a most unique opportunity! There is a vast chasm separating many cultures in our world. The more we learn about these cultures, the better we are capable to communicate, and communication is the first step toward peace. In time, perhaps even friendship." "Forgive me, Captain, but I'm not sure I see what this has to do with…" "The girl obviously has some attachment to you." A preference for Half-elf a la mode, perhaps, Jester thought despairingly. "That's why I approached Elder Ironwood on the subject. In light of your existing rapport, I simply felt… Is something wrong?"

Jester's expression of confusion had faded to neutral. As he made the connection, a new expression took its place. "You requested my appointment! You actually want her to be granted political asylum, so you made a personal appeal to the Council of Elders, which in turn moved me to the head of the list." "Well, yes, of course. I thought the Council had explained all this to you." "No, milord. They neglected to impart that tidbit of information," Jester intoned. "I can't imagine why they would do such a thing." "I can." "You must have been quite baffled. Oh dear! You must have thought that they…" "You have Rangers and Druids among your Human citizens," Jester began. "So I'm sure you've noticed a certain…propensity…for mirth." "This is true," Reginald replied. "I understand it is a natural occurrence. It makes sense if one thinks about it. If a heart is healthy, it should no doubt follow that it would also be happy." "Yes, but couple that with an Elven bloodline and one may expect a great magnification in one's sense of humor. Believe me, I know. I wrestle with mine daily in many matters. It is often difficult to know just when to draw the line between harmless mischief and old fashioned common sense." "Well, I suppose that falls under what I mentioned before. Even our own two cultures have a few things left to learn about one another, yes?" Reginald smiled while refilling Jester's cup with tea. "I don't think you'll have too much trouble, Captain. You recovered from that little joke much faster than I did." Reginald remained silent. He was clearly struggling to maintain a straight face. "Well then, I suppose I should get started on my client's defense," Jester offered, hoping to avoid further discussion on the subject of jokes and the butts thereof. "Ahh yes, about that," Reginald resumed with a more officious expression. "I've taken the liberty of assembling a legal staff. With your permission, I would like to assign them to the case, directly under your authority, of course. I do hope you don't mind, but I assure you, they're the best defense available in Arbitos." "Not at all, milord. As a matter of fact, I was a bit worried. I'm not really learned in the specifics of your legal system. Your staff will be most welcome." "I want you to think of them as your staff, Ambassador Thistle. They will be responding to you, as you're the only real link to Mistress Bane." Jester nodded in appreciation. "There is something I would like for you to do for me, though." "I will help in any way I can, milord." "As you know, I took a Detail personally to escort our guest back to Arbitos while you and my son attended the festivities at the Tarot camp last evening." "Yes, I remember." "Well, along the way, she informed me of certain details concerning the purpose of Baron Heartrot's Quest. It would appear they had been searching for weaknesses in both Arbitos and Spurious defenses." At this, Jester's eyes grew wider. "Did they find any such weaknesses?"

"According to her, there were strong indications, though she was never made privy to the specifics." "What will you need of me, Captain?" "I want you to avoid this subject during the Hearing. We need time to discover what this information is. Besides, we've reason to believe there may still be Empire agents within Arbitos proper. If so, then there must be no letting on we are even the slightest bit suspicious." "I understand." "Very good then. It's probably nothing, but Heartrot and I go way back. He's rather bitter toward me for having thwarted him in the past." "I will be careful to skirt the subject." "Oh, yes," Reginald said, suddenly remembering something else. "There is just one other bit of news of which I think you should be made aware." "Milord?" "After studying all of the evidence, and reconstructing certain aspects of the case, Elder Ironwood and several of her Rangers have come to the conclusion that…" "What, Captain?" "Well, to put it frankly, your friend Delphi appears to be the actual Assassin." "What!" Jester exclaimed while coming up and out of his chair. "Now, just hold on a moment. In the girl's defense, she was a soldier, following orders. One cannot fault a soldier for doing his or her duty." Jester seemed not to hear him. His mind was reeling. It had never occurred to him to even think of her as a murderess. Under the circumstances of their acquaintance, there had not been a great deal of time to think of anything other than survival. In retrospect, he recalled the odd way in which she seemed to keep assessing him, as if to calculate which direction he might be about to bolt, as if to know better where to pounce. Yes. Now that he thought about it, the look in her eye was definitely the glare of a wanton killer. "How about the cold-blooded Murder of a defenseless Ranger of four hundred and thirty-two summers? Perhaps we could fault her for that?" "Some could, I suppose," Reginald replied thoughtfully while refilling his own teacup, "though I don't think you should." "Oh, yes, I… Huh? Why not?" "You promised." *** Clawtorn handed over the requested supplies: food, water, bedding, and several alchemic concoctions, which included a gate potion. This last had been more difficult to procure. It was too expensive to purchase on her salary. She had been forced to acquire the elixir from military stock, and then doctor the records. Why he didn't use it to return home right away was something he had not offered to share with her. "It's not my fault!" she voiced in an abrupt, but quivering tone, and then in turn produced a sheepish smile as he momentarily ceased his inspection to address her directly.

"No, of course not," he crooned, mocking her own style of ingratiation. He then continued to rummage through her care package. "There was no way to influence the situation. That idiot was fawning all over him." "I understand completely, Colonel," he sympathized. She continued to stand before him, her eyes darting about as she shifted positions several more times. She had no misconceptions. There were only a few items to inspect. He was obviously enjoying her agony. "Without me, they would have seen right through the tampered body count. You can't kill me. You need me!" "Please, calm yourself, milady. If I were going to kill you, you'd already be dead." At this, Clawtorn seemed to relax a bit. "I despise your entire race, Colonel, and you are certainly not excluded from that hatred. Unfortunately, compromises are often unavoidable when one undertakes such dark business as is necessary in times like these. As such, it is imperative that the promises made to traitors such as yourself be honored. In this way, the Empire's integrity to future traitors will be considered worthy." "I am not a traitor!" intoned the Colonel defensively." "Really? Then what would you call it?" he asked with a smirk. "I have been a good soldier for many seasons, and still I have not attained the respect or position due me. Time after time I have been passed over, while people like Krue continue to climb the ladder. It was only a matter of time before he would have been promoted to Colonel. In another five summers he would have outranked me. Can you imagine it? He, as my superior!" "Your point, milady?" "My point is, it is I who am betrayed!" she flared, and then cringed. Crimsin smiled warmly. He loved her fear. She came by it so naturally. If only more Humans were like this one. "When Arbitos falls, you will be placed high in the cabinet of leadership that rebuilds the city. As for Krue, well, his head will decorate the wall of your new suite of offices." She relaxed once again. She even managed a faint smile as she considered the prospect. "But what do we do now?" she asked. "I can do nothing," he clarified. "I cannot leave the aqueducts until the time comes." "What shall I do, then?" "With Krue still in command, there is only one thing to do. We must buy more time. The Ambassador to Spurious must not be allowed to survive. Neither can his counterpart. If their forces combine, then we will have lost before we can even begin. You shall be my eyes and ears. You will let me know when the time is right. In return, you will have secured your position within the Empire." "I understand," she said while dropping her hands, palms forward, in the official military salute of the Empire's army. "Here," he said, ignoring her gesture of respect while handing her a slip of parchment. "Take this to the other agent." "Milord?" The Colonel asked, with a bewildered expression.

"Make certain that she knows my rank and class." "I really don't know anything about…" she began, in attempt to refute any such involvement with other agents, and then thought better of it when she caught sight of the darkening auras about his hands. "As you wish, milord." *** Borin had turned as pale as a ghost. "You can't possibly be serious!" "This is quite an opportunity for you." "You don't really expect me to accept this, do you?" "I expect you to accept your orders, just as any soldier would!" Reginald intoned authoritatively. Borin's resolve was shaken, but only for a moment. "No! A soldier may be ordered to undertake any form of military task. This however, is not a military task!" "As a matter of fact, it is a military operation," Reginald responded while glancing sidelong at Borin to observe his reaction. "How so?" "As a matter of fact, it's, ahh…" "It's ahh what?" queried Borin in a tone illustrating his realization of his father's inept perjury skills. "There could be further assassination attempts. Yes, that's it," he announced as the joke on Jesterwolf came to mind. "Oh, spare me." "Yes…we require a Warrior to hold the position until we can verify that the situation has been defused…and just you be watchful of your impertinence, young man!" "First of all, the only remaining Dark-elf is locked up. The others are all dead. And even if there were some remote danger, it wouldn't be a job for a Warrior. This sounds more like a covert police action, which should fall to the Paladin Guild. Give the Quest to Marc or Selina. They both love this type of drivel." "It should be enough for you to understand that your superior has given you an official command! You shall do your duty in the name of preserving the peoples of Arbitos, and the impending Alliance to Spurious! Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, milord," Borin returned with a total lack of enthusiasm. "Good. I'll commence preparations to effect your official reassignment." As Reginald was leaving, Borin quickly added, "I'll carry out your orders in this matter, because such is my lot, but neither that, nor your authority, makes it right, and you know it!" Reginald appeared as if he had not heard. He simply walked out without responding. *** Kwibee had tried to explain how the filtered link functioned. The man had to be the biggest Nerd she had ever met. He couldn't open his mouth without spouting at least half a dozen ten-dollar words at her, and those were his layman versions.

Then he undertook to clarify the IBOT thingy, and all its security stuff. [Oh, like when a computer has a firewall up, right?] {No. It's nothing like that.} Most of his babble was beyond her, though she had understood enough to realize that their connection was illegitimate, and that if he were to lose their connection, he would not be able to reestablish another without the use of more sophisticated tools-an unlikely prospect, considering that the only such tools existing were in a laboratory to which neither of them had access. [This IBOT sounds like a pretty smart cookie.] {Yes! Now you've got it!} [Huh?] It all really boiled down to one thing. If she were ever to get her husband and little brother out of this Mad Hatter machine, then she would have to stick around for the whole show. This meant she might as well get comfortable wearing the Selina suit. When she got back to Selina's quarters, she discovered that she was, in fact, just as tired as she had informed Marcus she was. Apparently, Selina had conducted a vigorous six-hour workout before ending her training for the day, only now it was Sarah who was feeling it. She had drifted off almost as fast as her head hit the pillow. Her sleep itself, however, was filled with a mixture of odd and unsettling dreams. *** "You can go to the mall, but I want you to take Jesse with you," their mother had said. "Aww, Mom!" "Aww Mom nothing, young lady, and mind you hold his hand when you cross the street!" *** "Selina! Have you finished your chores yet?" "Papa, they're conducting a fisticuff contest in the Square this evening. If I don't leave now, I will miss the entire…" "Mayhap milady should have considered that earlier, while there was yet plenty of time?" "Aww, Papa!" "Aww Papa me not." *** "Hey, Twerp! Turn that crap down! Luke's on the verge of asking Laura to marry him!" "Jeez! How can you watch that garbage!" "Garbage? Have you actually listened to that mess you call music? Cause it sounds like a herd of crippled cats!" *** "Ouch!" "Get up off yer arse, worm!" "I yield! You've bested me!"

"Well, of course I bested you, Dolt. I've got forty circles of experience on you. This isn't about who bested whom. It's about finding some way of drilling a bit of my hard-earned experience into that thick skull of yours, unless of course you would rather abandon your commission. Is that what you want, milady? To give up?" "NO!" *** And so the night went. Their ongoing parade of separate dreams became more and more difficult to define as the boundaries of memory and personality continued to surrender individual cohesion. In part, Sarah found herself arguing with Selina's father over enrollment Brochures for the Warrior and Paladin Guilds. In another segment, Selina found herself facing both of Sarah's parents because Jesse had informed them that he had witnessed her entering a drive-in with an older boy. She ended up grounded for six weeks. It wouldn't have been quite so upsetting, if she only knew what a drive-in was. *** "Good morning, Mistress Bane," offered the Dwarven Counsel for the Prosecution. Delphi did not respond. She didn't like Dwarves in general, and this particular Dwarf was obviously offering pleasantries in hopes that she might drop her guard. After a long moment of silence, wherein her expected response to his greeting was finally determined to be intentionally absent, he continued. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, mistress," he began dryly while thumbing his suspenders. "Before I do, I need for you to affirm the sincerity of all your forthcoming answers." She nodded curtly. "I need to hear you affirm this to your Deity, if you please." Delphi looked to Jester, who simply gazed back with no inflection. She could not understand his manner of late. He had been true to his word. She had been transferred away from the little pest. Her new quarters were very accommodating. There were bars on the window, but the door was just that, a door. It wasn't even made of iron. There were two guards outside, but both were very pleasant, making sure she wanted for nothing. Still, Jesterwolf had never returned as he had offered. Perhaps he had important matters to attend to, or perhaps they wouldn't tell him where they had moved her. She returned her attention to the matters at hand. She stood and raised both hands above her head as a sign of fealty to The Lord of Thieves. "I am Delphi Bane of the Azure line of Bane, First born of Field Marshal Draken Bane and Duchess Ashrha Vamporen. I am…was…Thieves' Acolyte to Grand Master Stelthris Batsight of The Last Order to Lore. I stand within the fifty-third circle of ice that it may provide testimony to my own heart of cold fire. As such, I do affirm to be forthcoming and true in all matters here today." "Thank you, mistress," crooned the Dwarf. "A most impressive accounting, though I must admit, most of the thieves I have met were liars to boot," he smiled. At this, much of the audience looked to Jester, expecting him to object. This included the Dwarf himself. But Jester simply continued to sit and stare, or perhaps glare, at the Defendant. Delphi herself made no sign of disagreement.

After a moment, the Dwarf continued. "We have a full accounting of all the Wognix who died in Wiccaris, as well as those who were sacrificed by your Baron Heartrot in the War room of Howling Cavern." Again, a number of people turned to Jesterwolf, expecting an objection to the term, Wognix. Still, he remained silent. "So," continued the Prosecutor. "There were no actual witnesses to this obvious crime of Murder, other than perhaps yourself, my dear. Oh, yes, there were of course the most convincing forensic testimonies of Elder Ironwood and the young Squire Rainswalker. Their findings would appear to be most conclusive, in that the puncture found in Elder Pinewood's temple bore the same crafting signatures as were found on the darts and blow tube you were carrying at the time of your surrender to authorities in the Wiccaris territories." Reginald could stand no more. "I object, your Honor! Even if Mistress Bane was the actual Assassin, she would have only been following orders. You can't call that murder!" "Captain Krue! You are not Counsel for the Defense, therefore, you shall refrain from any further outbursts in my Court, or I will have you removed. Is that understood?" "Yes, your Honor," Reginald agreed while taking his seat again. Jester did not notice his glare. "I want the Captain's remarks stricken from the record, and I will not tolerate any further disruptions. Please continue, Counselor," the Judge ordered, shifting to a softer tone while offering Reginald his own glare. "As I was saying, considering the prior testimony given, and the evidence found on the defendant's person, there would appear to be very little left to ask. She has already admitted to being a devout follower of a Deity whose very purpose is none other than thievery itself. How could we possibly trust anything she says from this point forward? Does not thievery and falsification go hand in hand?" Jester had not intended to partake in these proceedings whatsoever. Both the Captain and his own Council had coerced him into this mess. That didn't mean he had to cooperate. Besides, the little witch had knowingly taken the life of a very old and revered Half-elf, who wouldn't have been able to defend himself even had he been afforded such an opportunity, which he hadn't. He was ancient and feeble. It must have been a very simple task for her to just snuff out his life. As he thought about this injustice, he began to recognize certain similarities between the Elder, and Delphi herself, sitting up there with no defense while the Dwarf continued to paint a picture, rather than reveal the truth. Guilty or not, she was as defenseless as a newborn pup, just as the Elder had been. If she were to be pronounced guilty, then it should be done correctly. There shouldn't be such a disregard for procedure. "I wonder, Counselor," spoke Jester for the first time. "I wonder, because if what you say is true, do we not also serve to assist in falsification when we fail to explore the truth? How can we condemn, when the purported lies have yet to be heard?" "I object, your Honor. Counsel insinuates I would serve to falsify. The Defense would have you believe it is I who am on trial." "Counselor Thistle will refrain from inferring innuendo toward the Prosecution," intoned the Judge sternly. "Oh, dear! I surely meant no defacement of character toward my esteemed colleague. I do hope he will accept my sincere apology. I also beg the court's patience, as I am an amateur here."

"Think nothing of it, Counselor, offered the Stately Dwarf magnanimously. "We were all new to courtroom procedures at least once in our lives," he smiled, almost looking sincere. "Well, I appreciate that," Jester replied with a fair reproduction of the Dwarf's own demeanor. "I really do. It's so difficult being new. As a matter of fact, it's always difficult when one is in strange surroundings," he said while looking straight at the defendant, as did everyone else who followed his line of sight, and logic. "Take me, for example." he continued. "I'm used to the wilds. So I'm sure you can see how strange all this is for me. In fact, I'm finding this entire judicial process a bit odd, in relation to my experiences with Dryadic Law. You see, when someone among my people is accused of a crime, we are always quite careful to hear their side of the story. That way, if we do find them guilty, then no one can say we didn't at least give them an opportunity to defend themselves." "Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree with Counselor Thistle," stated the stately Dwarf. "But we aren't dealing with ordinary circumstances, are we?" "No. No, we're not," Jester returned. "What we appear to be doing is placing a soldier on trial for following military edict. We appear to be applying laws to an individual who not only doesn't understand them, but so far as I can tell, isn't confined by them. Is this not true, Your Honor?" "The Defendant is not on trial," began the Judge. "She has, however, applied for Sanctuary. As such, we must first determine if she is worthy or not. The only way to do that is to clear this issue up first." "Ahh, I see. Now, how does restricting this Wognix from offering testimony serve to clear this issue up? As I said, I'm new to all this, so please speak slowly." The term Wognix hit home as the Courtroom's attention now shifted toward the Dwarf, who had previously used the derogatory remark while the tide of consensus was yet on his side. Now, as the issue had somehow drifted to defining the process of Justice itself, the remark had come back to haunt him. "Perhaps I misspoke myself…" "To continue," Jester interjected. "I would like to question the Defendant. I don't suppose there would be any objections since the Prosecution has made it quite clear that he feels that questioning the witness is a waste of time." "Are you quite through with the witness?" asked the Judge. "Well I…I suppose I am," concluded the Dwarf while casting a most dour look at the Counsel for the defense. To say otherwise at this point would be to contradict himself. "Please continue, Counselor Thistle," offered the Judge. "Mistress Bane? I'm really very sorry about the Wognix remark. It was most inappropriate of me." In fact, he was not sorry about the remark in the least. It had been a very important weapon, effectively discrediting the Prosecution. "You need not apologize to me, milord," she offered. "No, I believe I do indeed need to do just that. You see, I have utilized that term in reference to your entire Race for my entire life. I now realize this was a most improper display of bigotry, not to mention outright poor taste. I am, after all, a Half-elf. I of all people should be more sensitive to such levels of unmitigated ignorance, yes?" "If you say it is so, milord, then it must be," she agreed.

"So, what say we see about offering you an opportunity to present your side of the story, as should be your right? "As you wish," she replied. "Tell me, mistress. Is what my colleague contends about your Deity ring true to you? Is The Lord of Thieves an advocate of mistruth?" "No, milord. I believe there is something of a loss in translation between our languages in this matter. It is true, he is a thief. In fact, he is The Thief. What has been left out of the translation is the term, Lord. In this instance, Lord conveys more than just rank. It conveys a higher significance, as should be applied to any Deity." "And what does that application mean to you?" "It means that his dealings in thievery have to do with something more substantial than petty mortals and their meaningless properties." "In what way do you imply, substantial?" "He stands for Justice in the eyes of the Scapegrace. He exists to retrieve that which is rightfully ours. We have been forced to retreat into the darkness for so long, that our very natures have become a part of the darkness itself. But when the Prophecy comes to pass, my people will be led back into the light, and all who now see us as something to be hated and feared will learn who we really are. Then shall we be received back into the arms of the world. Then shall your light, also become our light, once again." She had not meant to, but in the course of her testimony, she had ended up giving a speech. Her attentions returned to Jester, who was now wearing an odd smile. He appeared to be almost gratified somehow. "I spoke rightly, milord? You are pleased?" Jester caught himself staring back at her with a sloppy grin. In looking about the room, he found he was not the only one impressed by her accounting. Many in the crowd had been moved. He returned his attention to Delphi. "My colleague contends that you are the Assassin who killed Elder Pynewood. Furthermore, he has provided extensive evidence that strongly supports this allegation. Even so, I contend that the weight of responsibility for this act of aggression rests solely upon your superiors. Was it not Baron Heartrot who gave you the order to kill the Elder?" "No," she replied without reservation. At this the entire assembly began to murmur. "What?" Jester asked in a slightly higher pitch. "The Baron gave me no such command." Now the Dwarf's interest rekindled. It had seemed for a bit as if this Half-breed upstart had effectively turned the tables of sympathy, but this last answer offered hope, if she continued to hang herself. "Are you saying you killed him on your own?" "No," she replied. Now both Jester and the Dwarf looked confused. Jester took several moments to let this new turn sink in. "All right. Exactly who ordered you to kill the Elder?" "I was not ordered to kill the Elder."

Until that moment, it had not occurred to anyone to ask the most basic of questions in any trial. "Delphi Bane," Jester continued with an intense expression. "Upon affirmation to your Deity, did you in fact take the life of Elder Pynewood?" "No," she replied. "Then how can you account for the darts and blow tube found on your person? They were conclusively determined to be the same as was used by the Assassin." "They had belonged to the ranking Rogue in our group," she replied. "When he learned that he was to be executed for his failure to Assassinate Ironwood's messenger, he passed his belongings to me, including the tube and darts. This has been our custom for many thousands of winters. After him, I became the ranking Rogue." "But…your eye. It was my understanding that you had been disciplined for failure of duties?" "As I had been under the direct command of a dishonored Assassin, it was also my duty to bear some small portion of that dishonor upon taking his post. Thus was my eye taken as a disciplinary action." Everyone in the courtroom seemed caught off guard. The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves while the Dwarf and his staff riffled through a large pile of scrolls. Finally, he spoke up. "Your Honor? This information is not admissible. There is no way to confirm the validity of the witness's statements." Jester had not even heard the Dwarf. He was too occupied with his own inner conflict. If what she said was true, then he owed her yet another apology concerning unmitigated ignorance. "Your Honor? I wish to call for a short intermission. I would confer with Amara Ironwood, concerning the existence of this other Rogue of higher rank. I would also research Dark-elf military customs concerning field commissions." *** "Merfee!" Nefari called again, now adding a note of rising anxiety. He entered their tent a moment later, though his attention was yet centered on the campfire. "Sorry, Nef, I was stoking the fire for supper. Tonight we eat turnips!" he announced excitedly. They had not had proper turnips in some time. It would be a most pleasant change. "It's time," she intoned seriously. "Yes, of course, dear. I have but to set the spit and our supper will commence roasting." "No! I mean it's time !" she repeated with an edge of urgency. *** "I don't believe I can wear this. It…it swishes." Borin protested. "It's a robe, milord. It is supposed to." "Yes, perhaps, but I assure you, Warriors don't swish, they…well I suppose they swagger. Of course, that is to say, male Warriors swagger. I suppose Lady Warriors swish… Well no, not all of them. I'm sure some sway…" "Please, milord. You really must stand still," implored the Tailor. "I might accidentally stick you." "Now see here! Don't you have something less…less…"

"Less what, milord? Less effeminate?" she inquired expectantly, her expression suggesting that he exercise caution. "I meant no impropriety towards your gender. I know many notable female Warriors." "I suppose milord's objection only applies to those of us who are overly effeminate?" "Not at all. In fact, so far as women are concerned, I wholeheartedly feel there is no such thing as too much femininity." "Are you mocking me, milord?" "What? Don't be stup… Ouch!" "I beg pardon, Ambassador, though I did warn you," she crooned. "That's it! I'm not wearing this poofy, buttocks-wiping evening gown!" he shouted while commencing to step down from the dressing pedestal. "It's not poofy!" she shouted back while stepping up to block his path. "It's regal! You have heard of regal, haven't you?" They both paused as their respective standoff lingered uncomfortably. "Oh, now that's simply magnificent," crooned the Magistrate as he entered his Tailor's Quarters. "I rather thought so, myself," the Tailor added with enthusiastic agreement. "The Ambassador however, seems to think it's too swishy." "Swishy?" intoned the Magistrate with an elevated brow. "I believe milord's Tailor has mistaken my meaning," Borin asserted. "He thinks it's effeminate," she said with a pouty expression. "I didn't say that!" "You called it a poofy, buttocks-wiping…" "I know what I called it!" "My boy. You have a great deal to learn about dealing with underlings, not to mention diplomacy in general." "Yes, Magistrate," Borin agreed absently while examining his hemline with no small amount of revulsion. "As for you, Petunia! I'm simply shocked! This young man is about to become our Ambassador. You should be more respectful." "Please forgive my impertinence, Magistrate," she implored. "It is not I whose forgiveness is required, my dear." She slowly turned to Borin, who was now wearing a most annoying grin. Reluctantly, she curtsied deeply. "Forgive me, Ambassador Krue. My behavior has been deplorable," she offered without inflection. Borin's grin broadened. "Petunia? Your name is actually Petunia?" he asked as she looked up at him with lips drawn thin and eyes narrowed into furrowed slits. "Ouch!"

"I can see we've a great deal of work ahead of us," intoned the Magistrate while rubbing both of his temples. *** Due to the sheer number of requests for admittance, Archive directors were forced to restrict access to a maximum of twelve members from each of the opposing Litigation teams. While Jester and his team endeavored to extract any relevant material on Dark-elf military Customs within all Rogue factions, Amara went over the initial records of death within the Dark-elf opposition from the recent raid on Howling Cavern. Delphi had been immediately ushered back to her quarters until her statements could either be confirmed or discredited. She had some rudimentary idea of what was taking place, but had no misgivings in the matter. What had been ordained by destiny would come to pass, regardless of her concerns. She would either be granted Sanctuary, or she would not. If she were to be refused, then so be it, for that would be the path she had been intended to take all along. Sanctuary would of course be her preferred choice. It would afford an opportunity to become more acquainted with Jesterwolf before the final path of Prophesy. Also, there was still much to be seen and understood. The more she knew, the more she could be of assistance to him. She heard one of the guards draw the bolt back. The door was then opened, but only slightly. "Milady? May I enter?" Jester asked. "Yes, of course. Please come in." "I've just come from a private conference with the Prosecutor and the Judge." he informed her quickly while closing the door behind him. "Your information concerning the other Rogue and field promotion customs have both been confirmed!" "That's nice." "In fact, it was the Prosecution who made the initial discovery. When one of our people caught him attempting to exit the Archives with the information concealed in his satchel, he decided it was in his own best interest to drop his case." "Then you are the winner of the contest?" she asked, smiling. "Contest? Oh, yes. I suppose it actually was a contest, of sorts. Yes, we won, and now your request for Sanctuary has been approved!" "So, I may stay here?" she asked, indicating her new room. It was infinitely preferable to her previous quarters. "Are you joking? This place is a dung heap." "Milord? I've been thinking about something," she began, and then turned away. "What?" he asked. There was obviously something bothering her. "Well, I think you should know… If the order to kill the Elder had fallen to me, I would have carried out my responsibilities." Now it was Jester's turn to feel uncomfortable. "Yes. Well, you shouldn't feel you owe anyone an explanation. In fact, I believe I owe you yet another apology," he intoned seriously, placing his hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

At his touch, she turned to face him. "I…was angry," he began, his gaze attempting to wander, and then returning by force. "I was angry, and…somewhat childish," he continued with resolve. "I failed to see things from your point of view, and became…well, much like that Dwarf in the court room." "Point of view?" she asked, not recalling this particular phrase in anything she had learned to interpret. "Err, yes…" he struggled, trying to think how to explain. Then it struck her. She reached out, tracing her fingers over his brow. "Empathy?" she inquired, softly. "Of a…sort," he confirmed absently. Her proximity, combined with her touch and tone, had effectively disabled his concentration in so far as linguistic tutelage was concerned. "Ambassador?" called the guard who had unlocked the door. "There is someone here who wishes to speak with you…I think." "Great! Wonderful! Be right there!" he returned with no small amount of annoyance. After a moment, Jester poked his head out of Delphi's room. Merfee was waiting just beyond the guards, and leaning against a stone wall while breathing as if he had run the entire distance from Spurious to Arbitos, which had almost been the case. He had only stopped for three very brief periods in which to regain his breath. He was also holding his stomach as if he were experiencing indigestion. Between this and the heavy breathing, he almost appeared to be in labor. As Jester emerged, he attempted to speak, but had not quite gotten his wind back. "Easy, Merf," Jester offered in a soothing tone. "Take your time." Of a sudden, Merfee was bathed in a blue wash of showered light. Presently, his fatigue began to slowly dissipate. "Time!" he croaked, as if repeating Jester's advice, but with an odd urgency. "Yes, just rest a moment. There's no hurry." "Time! Hurry!" Jester's expression of concern for his friend's distraught parroting was shared by both of the guards, and Delphi, who had followed Jester to see what the commotion was. "Perhaps your friend should lie down," she suggested. "He appears to be somewhat addled," added one of the guards, as if Merfee were not coherent enough to understand the remark. This was proven otherwise when Merfee delivered a distinctively disdainful glance directly at the offending guard in question, who in turn looked away uncomfortably. "Nefari is about to give birth!" Merfee finally managed to blurt. "I'm aware of that, Merf," Jester intoned patronizingly. "After all, I am to be the Godfather." He smiled proudly, glancing back at Delphi to confirm she had understood how honored he felt at being chosen for such an auspicious role. He reconsidered his tone when Merfee offered him a look closely resembling the one delivered to the guard. "Oh!" exclaimed Jester as it finally struck him. "Oh, we have to go!" he cried, grabbing Merfee's arm and jerking him into an all out run, back toward Spurious.

*** She opened the messenger's scroll. It was lettered in real platinum. Captain Magnatha Thistle, Your attendance is requested upon the darkened eve of morrows end as we commemorate the Alliance of two great peoples with the appointments of Ambassadors Thistle and Krue. You are authorized and encouraged to invite anyone you see fit, most especially, anyone who is of relation to either yourself, and or Ambassador Thistle. A full Detail of Arbitos' finest shall arrive in the morning to escort you and your entourage to your Ambassadorial Suites in time to take tea with our Honorable Magistrate, Jericoe Swelth, his charming wife, and myself. My congratulations on your son's Appointment. Sincerely, Reginald Krue, Captain of the guard, Defender of Arbitos, and your friend. She sat down, and read the scroll several more times to make certain she hadn't misinterpreted something. To her reckoning, Jester would have been certain to continue rising in the circles of his calling. He might even have managed a position on the Council, after perhaps another three of four hundred Summers. But this? Who'da thunk it? Such as this could be no more easily accepted than if she were told Huey had just been granted a Directorate Professorship at the University of Brinehaven. "Cleetis!" she barked. "Yes, Nanna," he replied from inside his wagon. "I want ya to dig out me old trunk! And everybody's gonna take a bath! Now!" *** Orval analyzed the data collected so far. He monitored Sarah's experiences while interacting with the N.P.C. during their dream sequences. What he observed was quite disturbing. Apparently, there was an ongoing breach of DIT protocols: a failure during her transfer, causing the lines that had been drawn between the N.P.C.'s template and Sarah's own pattern to interface in areas not secured. Areas like dreaming. He had not anticipated this particular problem. The filter was originally designed to function as a shortterm diagnostic tool in far less complex situations. Now he wasn't sure what to expect. If her interaction with the current interface continued, it was entirely possible that the filter could degrade into a full cascading failure. This could either end with Sarah locked within the Selina persona, or even worse: her pattern could become fused over the Selina template. To avoid this, he would either have to determine some way of nullifying Selina's influence over Sarah's higher brain functions, or simply abort the entire connection. He preferred not to abort. There were so many lives at stake: lives for which he felt responsible. He could extend the filter to include a virtual storage link. This would provide a confinement area to separate, and then hold the Selina pattern while Sarah occupied the N.P.C. template. Such a maneuver would most certainly alert the security sub-routine, unless he recalibrated the makeshift placeholder template to reflect an identical pattern as that of the Selina character. This would require a spawned copy of Sarah's neuro-pattern to be overlaid onto the placeholder. In essence, it would be similar to using a mirror to fool a photoelectric security system. The reflection is of course false, but the alarm doesn't know that.

When she did finally wake in mid-morning, this was how he explained the theory to her. It was a very simplified way to relate the procedure, but considering her previous difficulty with technical information, he thought it best. Even so, her first impression was that he was attempting somehow to literally copy her mind. Orval was careful to explain that the copy of her pattern was simply a tool to incorporate Selina's signature, thereby tricking IBOT into thinking that Sarah was an N.P.C. It took several attempts, but he finally got the idea across. Once the revised template had been placed within the filter's interface, they would need a proper test to confirm its stability. The best way to accomplish this was to have Sarah use the new interface simply by going about Selina's normal daily routine. *** Selina's first stop that morning was the same as it had been for the last half-score of seasons. She got dressed, armor and all, and then headed off to her guild for her daily training and workout. She only hoped that this would at some point involve a cup of coffee. A Danish would also be nice, but a muffin would do in a pinch. On her way to the guild, she spotted Borin and Marcus standing outside their favorite tavern. Thanks to the new interface, she knew their schedule almost as well as her own. As such, she quickly realized this was not part of their normal morning routine. They appeared to be in some discussion. Being curious, both as Selina and Sarah, she moved in closer. *** "A bear is a bear, and an oak is only just that," began the Midwife. "These are not names, but rather only the natural expression of those definitions we are all born with. All else are the artifice of acclaim, and lay outside the jurisdiction of Nature, until confirmed by another who is willing to embrace that responsibility," she continued, now speaking directly to Jester. "Names are the flags preceding identity, yet they also emerge as the symbols rendering what we represent to those whose paths we cross. Oft times they become our forerunner, and in the course of our lives we may be seen as many things to many people. Therein shall our names be the spells invoking such definitions as Leader, Fool, Coward, Hero, Champion, Martyr, or Enemy. For this reason, the responsibility of such taxonomy is both privilege and burden. Dam and Sire shall bear all things in their children's lives, save this one." Upon completion of her oration to the Parents and Godfather, the midwife knelt and took the infant from its exhausted mother. She then turned about and unceremoniously plodded into the woods behind the guildhall. Jester followed her to the Altar of Life. The small podium was surrounded by ancient stones that are similar, but much smaller to the same Megaliths that encircle all Dryadic portal Hubs. After she had laid the infant on the center stone, the midwife returned back down the path, leaving him to complete the ceremony. *** He began to approach the child, and then wavered. He suddenly realized that he had no idea how to go about this business. He had never taken part in this ceremony, and there was no training for such rituals. This was a thing of sacred selection and one simply cannot train for spontaneity. He looked

upon the infant, unsure of how to proceed. He studied her at some length, hoping for an insight as yet unseen. After a time it became obvious there was to be no great revelation. This was just an infant, no different than any other. Reddish pink in color, and about the same size as any other Wood-elf new born. He drew a breath, and then released it, resigning himself to his lack of inspiration. He had obviously been a poor choice for a thing of such import. He would return the child unnamed, that his friends could select another. Surely they could find someone better suited. He strode to the altar to retrieve the child, but found himself reluctant to pick her up. She's so small, he thought. She looked fragile. Perhaps he should call for the midwife. "I am very sorry," he whispered without realizing. At the sound of his voice, her wandering gaze seemed to lock on him briefly, and then continued to roam. Of course, this was only his own imagining. The child was less than an hour in this world. She could hardly be expected to have developed a cognitive sense. Still, he found his attention drawn for a closer inspection. "I believe you have your mother's smile," he speculated as he considered her, "as well as her eyes…but those are definitely Merfee's ears." He grinned at the slightly elongated points. After a moment, his grin faltered. "These are all gifts that have nothing to do with me. I am of no blood to you, or to anyone, for that matter," he stated. "Still," he whispered, remembering his own upbringing, and the grizzled woman who had taken him in, "I have learned that there are gifts that may come from the heart and follow you all your life, just as surely as those ears will, my dear." He chuckled. "So, then." He spoke softly while gently picking her up, his concern for her size forgotten. "What sort of name might befit a Lady such as yourself?" As if in answer, he felt a sudden wet warmth soak into his jerkin. "Well, my little Goblin grub," he intoned with mock severity. "I believe you'll take to Elfish mischief with great ease indeed!" He laughed heartily, and her eyes opened wide at the sound of that new resonance. He looked down at the growing spot of dampness. "I believe I shall name you…Aqua," he announced, and though he had no sense of it himself, his voice rang and reverberated throughout the wood, reaching every ear within Spurious as the resonance of his conviction sealed her christening. *** "It is done," Nefari smiled sleepily. "Aqua, is it?" said Merfee with a proud grin. "Aqua Rainswalker." *** His amusement at their mutual baptisms prompted a laughter that echoed through the woods as Aqua's sapphire eyes grew yet wider. That response was quickly followed by a line of drool sliding down her chin as her own expanding grin could no longer coordinate its enclosure. As he strolled back toward the guildhall by way of the same path, he spoke to her in a soothing tone while she continued to drool helplessly down his back. "…and you should have seen the look on his face!" he told her enthusiastically. "It was like… Oh, well, you're just a big red acorn, aren't you. I nearly split my sides!"

*** "I don't wish to appear the snob, ole boy," Marcus began hesitantly, "but are you quite sure you've thought this through?" "It wasn't exactly my idea, Marc. The good Captain sprang it on me right out of nowhere." "What?" asked Marcus with a perplexed expression. "Well, you didn't think I actually requested such a foofoo assignment, did you?" "No, Krue. I'm talking about this notion of yours to escort a common Tailor to a social function." Borin met Marc's concerned look with a stern glare. After a moment, he relaxed a bit, proffering a more patient expression. "You're a good friend, Marc," he began, "and I know your concern is only for my best interest…" "But mind your own business, Marcus, right?" Marcus smiled. "No…I would never tell anyone who holds the Garrison Gnoll kill record to mind his own business." Borin laughed, though Marcus still bore a skeptical expression. Borin sighed. He had a choice. He could either elaborate on his reasoning, or confirm that Marcus should indeed butt out. Good friends like Marc were too rare for him to go about ostracizing one of them. "I like Pet. She's not afraid to speak her mind. Most of the women I meet are either too proper, or improper. Do you know what I mean?" "Pet?" "Petunia." "Oh. Well, I understand perfectly, truly I do, and I respect your decision, really. I just hope you don't find your social standing compromised in light of your upcoming political office." "Well, I think he's lost his mind!" Selina intoned with disdain. "How long have you been standing there?" demanded Borin in a tone just short of shouting. "Long enough to hear that you intend to dally with a harlot as a matter of public exhibition." "Mind your own business, Selina!" Borin warned. "It's all well and good to go slumming about with barmaids, Krue," she continued, without regard to his last statement. "Not that you actually accomplished anything in that respect, but to parade some common tramp right in front of your own father is nothing short of scandalous," she concluded with an air of superiority. Realizing that a possible confrontation loomed, Marcus stepped between them. Selina and Borin had never really gotten along well. Their personalities were of such opposing natures as to clash. What had always balanced everything out was Marcus, who naturally took on the role of peacemaker. "For your information," Borin began while appearing to search for some way to circumvent the wall Marcus posed, "in reference to the young Lady in question, who just happens to be employed as a barmaid, I did indeed accomplish something in 'that respect!'" Borin had not given thought to what response to expect. Where Selina was concerned, expectation was usually folly. Still, her reaction to his confirmed conquest was nothing he could have ever predicted.

At first, she simply stood there with an expression closely resembling shocked disbelief. After a moment, her shoulders dropped, as did her previously blazing glare. Absently, she turned away from them. After a moment she simply said, "I have to go now," her tone similar to the look in her eyes that neither Borin, nor Marcus could see. Then, she simply walked away, as if their previous confrontation had never taken place, and leaving both of her friends to stare after her for several moments, neither able to make sense of what had just happened. "Well, that was about the oddest performance I've witnessed yet," Borin declared. "Selina has been one of my dearest friends for as long as I can remember," Marcus began. "It's true, she's always had a rather…eccentric nature, but still…" "Yes?" Borin prompted. "Well, I must admit, she's been rather distracted of late-even more so than usual, and in Selina's case, that is no small statement." "I believe I know what vexes the wench," Borin announced with authority. "I implore you, then," responded Marcus. "Do not leave me in this state of doubt and worry." "Quite simply put, our young Selina is of an age when girls become women," Borin stated matter-offactly. Marcus restrained an abrupt tightening of facial muscles. "I assure you, our friend made that transition some summers back. I know, because she insisted that I go with her on her first purchase of a training harness. A most embarrassing experience on my part, I might add." "Dolt! I speak not of the body, but the heart." "You're not that much older than she is, yourself," intoned Marcus patiently. "What qualifies you to diagnose such a thing?" "Men are simply more experienced in such matters," he offered, his relaxed tone lending a sage-like quality to his haughty expression. "I see," said Marcus, trying to maintain a straight face. "And you believe she has become…enamored with you?" "Not me, you Bumpkin! She barely tolerates me!" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You don't mean to imply that she's set her cap for me?" "Ask yourself this, Marc. Why else would she all of the sudden act so oddly? Between the both of us, she has exhibited this strange behavior on only two occasions. Once, only a few moments ago, and once before, as you described to me her distractions, last night, while I was not in her company. In fact, you were the only person in her company at the time, yes?"

Chapter Three-An Occasion To Remember She really didn't wish to alienate Marcus. So far, he's the only person-or N.P.C.-whatever. He's just about the only one who's taken enough of an interest to actually help me-or Selina. Or whatever. Only now she found herself wearing an evening gown, and attending what apparently passed for prom night here on Planet Camelot. Strangest of all, her date was someone who was suppose to think of her as nothing more remarkable than just one of the guys, yet had quite suddenly begun to act as if he only recently discovered that she had mammary glands. As she started to ascend the staircase under his escort, Sarah once again caught herself casting wary sidelong glances at him. As was customary, he offered his arm, and though she took it hesitantly, Selina's memories kept coming up with the same question. All right, Marc, what's the punch line? As if in response, he merely broadened a warm smile that was beginning to appear as if it might become a permanent fixture. She quickly looked the other way, so as to avoid, hopefully, sending the wrong signal. What's the equivalent for pepper spray in this world? she wondered rhetorically. replied her Selina memory. Sarah smiled involuntarily at the image of casting such on Marcus. Ahh, yes, the old cold shower spell, she thought, almost breaking into an open smirk. When he caught sight of her face, he broadened his own beaming accordingly, thus prompting her immediately to drop her own expression back to neutral, if for no other reason but to avoid any possible damage Marcus might do himself as his smile threatened to overlap his ears. Granted, her own behavior as Selina must have appeared somewhat out of character, especially in reference to her reaction to Dieter/Borin's announcement concerning that barmaid . At the time, her heart rate must have shot right into orbit, as Kwibee had threatened to sever the connection if she didn't calm herself. About half an hour later, Marcus had showed up at the guildhall officially to request her company to the upcoming appointment ceremony. It was all very formal, as if he weren't speaking to a friend at all, but rather someone else altogether. With no forewarning, she could think of no excuse, so she had said yes, not that she wished to exact revenge on Dieter, who had no actual part in such goings-on. I wouldn't mind taking a crack at that barmaid though. When she explained the situation to Kwibee, he said he would look into it, but that he suspected the source of the aberration had something to do with her own interaction, otherwise the program's social format was unlikely to deviate in such a way. She was not sure what he had meant by that, but she didn't like the sound of it. She couldn't tell if he was referring to some aspect of the game's response to the filter, or if he might be accusing her of some impropriety. Of course, to look at him, she imagined Kwibee's idea of social format might just involve a test tube, and perhaps the latest copy of Ultra Science Quarterly . Either way, it was becoming quite clear that the good Doctor was far less interested in current events, other than in discovering what light those events might shed on his precious data correlation of DIT integrity assessment, sequential chronomic rosters, security grid evaluations, and bla, bla, bla!

At least the new interface was working, and much easier to cope with now. The absence of Selina's thoughts continuously creeping into her own was a welcome change. She still had Selina's experiences and memories to draw upon when needed. Only now, she was in total control. Now it was more like accessing a library of information that responded according to the situation. The main improvement was her ability to shut it down if need be, which was beginning to bolster her confidence while interacting in this world. Or rather, it did until she caught sight of Jesterwolf. *** In her all too short message, Petunia had regretfully excused herself from attending the ceremony, as her official duties must preempt any social priority. She offered her regrets, sincerest apology, and then her signature. The messenger had not tarried long enough for a response. Considering the content of the message, he had no doubt been specifically instructed in the matter. What duties? he thought. Whatever duties a Tailor might have in relation to such a function would most assuredly have been completed beforehand. There wasn't a great call for sewing as a form of entertainment. Obviously someone had convinced her to stay away. But who? At first, he thought of Selina. Upon closer examination, he realized she would not have had the influence to effect such a thing, though she probably tried. Marc had shown concern, but would never overstep the bounds of their friendship. His Father was the least likely. He loathed Class-related prejudices almost as much as racial bigotry. No, this was more like the Magistrate's handiwork. Borin did not appreciate such tampering in his personal affairs, yet considering the probable source, there was little he could do about it. His attention was drawn back to the business at hand by Colonel Clawtorn's heralding. "Announcing Lady Agupy Thindell! Ambassador to Aphoris and all adjacent provinces of the Aphorine Republic!" As the announcement ended, another in a long procession of dignitaries stepped forward to make his acquaintance. If not for the size of her headdress, a gaudy thing almost twice the woman's own height, he would not have even seen the little Gnome Ambassador. Despite their lack of size, he had always considered Gnomes a handsome race. This woman however, was a thorough exception to the rule. She was not really old: perhaps two hundred, or maybe as much as two hundred fifty summers, but no more than that. She was middle-aged at best. Still, her face was quite difficult to look upon. Her beady eyes, both closely set and crossed, with the left angled inside at four o'clock while the right pitched at its own inwardly independent slant of ten o'clock, thus challenging his focus of attention as he unavoidably wandered from AM to PM. His dismay was then further advanced as he discovered the right to be pale blue, whereas the left was actually of a darker brown. In an effort to avoid offering an insult, he quickly bowed, kissed her hand, and then made a desperate attempt to concentrate on the spot between the woman's eyes, hoping this would avoid further discomfort to all involved. This was when he discovered that the spot in question was also where the Lady's eyebrows met. Thus when she raised said uni-brow, he was invariably drawn again to her most disconcerting ocular entanglement in order to avoid the rudeness of staring at her forehead. Realizing his difficulty, the woman commenced to giggle, thus displaying her irregular arrangement of intermittent teeth. "My apologies, Ambassador," she offered. "I oft-times overlook the effect my appearance has on some folk." "Ummm…no. I'm not…affected. I mean…you're really quite…lovely…really."

Still chuckling, she reached into her handbag and withdrew a small pair of odd-looking spectacles with lenses crafted in some thick type of prismatic crystal, obviously of some magical nature. This was evident as they generated a faint shimmer for only the briefest of moments while she put them on. When she looked back up at him, both eyes were perfectly aligned. What's more, neither was blue, nor yet brown, as both were now green. Another of those odd gadgets, he thought. Gnomes were always sporting some type of strange contraption. Such was their stock and trade. Oh, they had other interests, to be sure. Aphoris maintained a wide range of standard guilds: everything from Enchanter to Necromancer. What they all seemed to have in common, however, was their unerring, unending curiosity for gadgetry. It held strong ties in their culture as well. All Gnomes had a fierce pride in not only their Race's prowess in this respect, but in themselves as individuals. It was not simply a matter of a few stray gnomes puttering about laboratories and cooking up the occasional invention. They all seemed to share in this passion. Obviously, this woman was no exception in that respect. Experiencing a moment of inspiration, he decided to try a different approach. "How marvelous!" he abruptly exclaimed with a flamboyance only previously utilized when in the remote company of certain school chums who enjoyed his rendition of the Magistrate's own elaborate bearing. "Beg pardon?" "Milady, you simply must tell me who made those spectacular spectacles!" "Why, I constructed them myself," she admitted, a bright blush forming on her tiny cheeks. "No, no. I fear that's quite impossible," he offered expansively, defensively raising his hands and briefly glancing away, as if to ward off her fabrication. "And why is that, may I ask?" she inquired, anger rising in her voice. "Do you think me incapable?" "Well, I don't wish to insult milady, but quite frankly, I find it difficult to believe that a woman of your stature could take on the immense responsibilities of your esteemed office, then still find the time to develop anything as astounding as those fabulous spectacles. Besides, whoever did create them must have spent decades, or perhaps even centuries, perfecting their skills, and…well…obviously, you're hardly more than a girl." Borin afforded himself an inward pat on the back. Yes, he thought. A most interesting weapon indeed. "Ambassador?" intoned Lady Thindell in a voice suggesting that his self-congratulation might be premature. "I think I should warn you. Aside from correcting my vision, and detecting a number of various energy signatures, the spectacles also detect certain variations in the nervous system-especially when untruths are being told." *** Across the pavilion, a similar assortment of commissioned officers, shopkeepers, dignitaries, and various other members of the upper crust were standing in yet another line, similar to Borin's own. Jester understood the Captain's reasoning, but after all they had accomplished, it just didn't seem proper to exclude Delphi from all of this, especially after he had already asked her to attend. He frowned, recalling her reaction of the Captain's insistence. It was the first time she had actually appeared disappointed.

Even so, it was Delphi herself who had eased the awkward situation for Jester, rather than the other way around. "This is a precarious time for all concerned, milord. Captain Krue is quite right. You must consider that there are very few who would accept a Dark-elf at such an event." Her argument had parroted the Captain's own, and he found himself wondering who was more disappointed: her, or perhaps himself. *** Before she had time to react, Marcus had steered them to the back of Jester's line. Introductions were kept brief in order to keep the lengthy procession moving. In a matter of moments she found herself next in line. There he was, her baby brother. Of course, he bore little resemblance to what was now certain to be no more than a drooling space case, if in fact he really was still there. As far as she knew, they could have discovered him, then, thinking he was in some sort of coma, they could have rushed him off for some weird emergency procedure, perhaps involving those little shock paddles. In what might soon have developed into an anxiety attack to compound her already shaken facade, she told herself, That isn't possible. He has to be there. If they had moved him away from the laptop, then Jesterwolf would cease to exist. At least that's what Kwibee had said. Still, she knew that the possibility remained, and the longer he was trapped, the greater the chance of that very calamity. She had asked Kwibee what would become of Jesse, were he to become separated from the signal, but the Doctor had danced around the question until she had become confused enough to drop the subject. Or perhaps his reluctance to answer had quenched her enthusiasm to understand. The best thing to do was simply get them out as quickly as possible. No. The figure before her looked nothing like Jesse-pointy ears, too short, too thin, reddish hair as opposed to Jesse's darker brown. Also, her brother would never be caught dead in such a getup. The official attire for Dryadic Ambassadors looked like a cross between eighteenth century buckskins, and a high school marching band uniform. Even so, she knew it was he, and not just because she was acquainted with the Jesterwolf character. He had the same Huckleberry expression as he always had: one she had always found most annoying when they were children. He bowed to kiss the hand of a rather short woman with a round face and even rounder belly. Her reduced stature was further exaggerated by his need to bow a bit lower. After a moment, Sarah realized the woman was in fact a Halfling. "Ambassador Thistle," announced Reginald formally. "Allow me to introduce two of our finest young Paladins. This is Lieutenant Marcus Goodfellow, and Corporal Selina Valorous. Jester offered Marcus a deep bow of respect. Marcus returned the gesture, being sure his bow was slightly deeper to illustrate his recognition of the Ambassador's office. "Marcus plans to become a fully vested Marshal," Reginald offered cordially. "I believe that Corporal Borin mentioned that you expect to get your star within the next three summers." "Is that right, Marc?" inquired the Magistrate, obviously impressed. "Two, actually," Marcus returned, half smirking at his own cheek. Then Jester turned to Selina, who curtsied while offering her hand. He took her hand, bowed so as to kiss it, and then returned to the formal posture Reginald had taught him. Presently, his polite smile

faded to a blank expression. There was something quite odd about this woman-something that drew his attention for closer examination. Looking, or rather, staring at her, he found himself quite disquieted by some undefined recognition. A most perplexing vexation held him frozen for several long and uncomfortable moments. What was this strange and most elusive perception? Was she some old acquaintance, perhaps long forgot? He felt sure of it, and yet she appeared to be someone who he should have recalled instantly, were he to ever have crossed paths with her before now. She was certainly attractive enough, though somehow this notion felt unlikely, even revolting, though he knew not why. He experienced a small ambiguity he could not quite fathom. For some reason, she reminded him of Tuda, and for a very brief moment, he found himself wishing he had a Roc pie. An image of a small boy came to mind. A Round-eared child of perhaps five summers, standing behind an adolescent girl. The older girl was a sibling. How he knew this was as much a mystery as the image itself, and yet he knew it was so. The girl was quite angry with the youngster. She felt he was like unto a millstone about her neck. She had been granted entrance to some wondrous place of both mystery and adventure known as The Mall. And yet her admittance to this kingdom had come with a high price. She must bear the millstone, or be denied this heart's desire. Absently, he brought a hand to his forehead as a minor ache developed. *** {Get out! Get out now!} [Huh? What?] {The filter is collapsing! If you don't exit this area immediately, we lose the link!} *** The image began to fade. In a moment, it was gone, and when he looked up, so was Corporal Valorous. In glancing about, he caught a glimpse of her escort just as he descended the staircase, apparently in pursuit. The woman herself was already out of sight. Reginald exhorted a short but nervous laugh. "Ahh, youth. Always in a rush," he smiled sheepishly, hoping to avert attentions from the obvious faux pas. "Perhaps the lovebirds are in the midst of some quarrel," offered the Magistrate. "I was unaware that Selina and Marcus were even involved," returned one of the other officers in line to greet the new Ambassador. If he had not been committed to the business at hand, he too would have sought her out. As it was, Jester was left to his obligations. Some other time, he thought. Perhaps he would find her tomorrow. Whatever it was that had vexed him would simply have to wait. As he returned his attentions to those yet standing in line, he forced himself to ignore the mild headache that persisted.

Chapter Four-Never Judge A Book Or A Harness By Its Cover Her unexpected departure was noticed by many in attendance, including Borin, whose attention was suddenly torn from the Candle-port Minister of justice as she sprinted past, followed closely by Marcus. Gads! he thought. What has that Hellcat stirred up now? He glanced back toward Jester's assemblage in time to witness his father's expression of embarrassment, along with Jester's own uncharacteristic look of confusion. From what he knew of the Druid, he doubted that confusion was something to which Jester was accustomed. Still, if anyone could vex him, it would certainly be Selina. Enough was enough. First she dares lecture me on propriety, and then turns about and causes a scene like that! Poor Marcus. He would attend to Valorous himself, at the earliest opportunity. *** When she was of a distance far enough from her brother, Kwibee determined that it was safe enough for her to stop running. Her current attire had not been designed to include athletic activity. Before she could think straight enough to inquire as to why Kwibee had insisted upon her self-inflicted embarrassment, she was first forced through constriction to readjust certain specific, and terribly uncomfortable, undergarments. "What in the Seventeen Realms of Abhoron was that all about?!" Marcus shouted as he caught up. Suddenly exhausted, she sat on the edge of a nearby fountain, and regarded him as one might a rash one had failed to give proper treatment, so that it had once again found her both annoyed and without opportunity for preparation: two problems she meant to put an end to immediately. *** With initial introductions of the more prominent and influential people out of the way, the new Ambassadors were expected to mingle with the greater number of common constituents. At least that was the surface reasoning behind official purpose. There were of course a large number of prominent people yet in the crowd. These were what Reginald had defined as those with careers of largely unimpressive influence, who remain potentially impressive, if they continued successfully to climb the political ladder. "Though of a less formal nature, this activity is no less vital to the overall image one presents," as the Magistrate had put it. "Quite right. First impressions are most important," Reginald agreed quickly. "At this point, whom you meet is not so important," continued the Magistrate, "as is realizing how you are seen, and not only by those who might be considered of influence, but by…" "The people in general," continued Reginald, as if completing the Magistrate's own thoughts while the Magistrate himself continued to nod with enthusiastic vigor in light of the Captain's astute observations. Borin and Jester listened for several minutes longer as both the Magistrate and the Captain droned on about the importance of public relations. At one point, Jester looked to Borin as if to say, Is all this

quite necessary? As he was just as new to all of this frivolity as was Jester, Borin could only shrug his shoulders in response. Neither of their two elders had even noticed. They were both thoroughly absorbed in the tandem lecture of wisdom they meant to impart. When they were at last satisfied that the two younger men were properly prepared for dealing with the crowd, they left Jester and Borin to the all too important task of mingling amidst their constituency. What followed was a series of hand-shaking, baby-kissing, bowing, flattering, hand-kissing, posturing, and general schmoozing amongst every type of Race and Class maintaining good relations with Arbitos and Spurious. During this time, the good Captain had been watching Jester's progress while the Magistrate concentrated on Borin. Later, they would compare notes, so as to determine what weak points their protégés should work on. Jester did fairly well. His one true failing was in his reaction to the Norwen High Shaman's perfume. The woman appeared most embarrassed when Jester unavoidably held his nose the entire time he was in her presence. As it turned out, Reginald learned that the latest rage in the Norwen Prefectures was a perfume derived from a concentration of walrus feces and mammoth musk. The reaction received from the males of her own Race had been most favorable. She had no idea it would be so poorly received by others. Later, he learned that Borin had come upon a small problem himself when confronted by the Colliefur Potentate's offer to allow him to bed three of his most favored concubines. This was further exacerbated by the abject howling of the Potentate's head consort, Lassilla, who had apparently been mortified beyond her ability to maintain composure. Of course, no actual insult had been intended. Simply put, Ambassador Krue was not particularly attracted to Gnolls, not even the non-violent variety. The Magistrate managed to smooth the situation over by explaining that what Borin had meant to say was that he simply did not feel worthy of such an honor, and that such truly superior Ladies should never be exposed to anything but the finest stock available. At this, the Potentate quickly calmed, and upon reflection, even returned to thank Borin for his conscientious consideration for the Colliefur pack. Borin was of course as gracious as could be expected, but could not help but cast the occasional glowering glance in the Magistrate's direction. *** "Ahh, Ambassador Thistle. I fear, in all the commotion, that I may have neglected properly to introduce myself," crooned Colonel Clawtorn sweetly while sweeping into an impressive curtsy and presenting the Ambassador with her outstretched hand. This action was not received in great favor by the Captain of the Brinehaven Militia, who accordingly shot the intruding woman a most disapproving scowl, when the Ambassador was forced to turn away from his attendance in order to address her interruption. "Think nothing of it, milady," Jester offered reassuringly, quickly bowing to kiss the Lady's hand. "The Colonel's reputation precedes her. Won't you join us?" he offered. "To be perfectly honest, I was rather hoping that the Ambassador could join me," she smiled.

Jester glanced back toward the gentleman from Brinehaven, who was beginning to look quite put out. The man's wife, who up until this point had been content to remain seated, had abruptly come to her feet and was currently matching her husband's own indignant scowl. "I really shouldn't rush off so quickly, milady. What would our guests think of me?" "I'm sure they can do without you for a few minutes," she assured him while offering the angry couple a perfunctory smile. "What's all this, then?" inquired the Magistrate. "Oh… Well, I thought I should acquaint the Ambassador with his new Estate, and perhaps introduce him to the staff of servants." "There is a time and a place, Colonel," intoned the Magistrate sternly. "Yes… Yes, I'm sure you're quite right, milord. Yes…well then…I suppose I have other duties to be about," she stammered while backing away. There continued an awkward moment that seemed to linger in a radius about her, as all eyes in the immediate vicinity turned to stare. She quickly turned about and scurried off. "I swear!" exclaimed the Magistrate. "That woman can be so exasperating at times." He continued to watch her make her way through the crowd until out of sight, and then returned his attention to the business at hand. "May I please have your attention!" he shouted so as to be heard by all present. "The inauguration ceremony will commence within the hour. Please make your way to the lower reception area and you will be seated accordingly." *** "Nanna?" Dobin whined. This Collar's too tight." "Quit yer fidgetin, boy. The collar stays buttoned. Ya look just like a little gentleman." She smiled proudly while twirling the fancy ribbon-bound toothpick she had smuggled out of the Magistrate's tea party. Tuda giggled at the idea of her brother being thought of as a gentleman. The resulting glare she received from Dobin seemed to indicate that were there no adults about, she might quickly find herself far less amused. Accordingly, she responded with the customary cross-eyed stare, which was of course accompanied by her tongue, like a small red flag waving before an angry Minitor. "Stop that!" Magnatha exclaimed while reaching over Dobin to spank her. Tuda complied immediately, yet swayed far enough out of her grandmother's reach to avoid physical reprisal. When Magnatha's attention returned to the Speaker, who was now ascending the stage near the center of the amphitheater, Dobin quickly turned to his sister, sticking his own tongue out, and then just as quickly returning his own feigned attentions toward the Speaker. After a moment, he could feel Magnatha's steely gaze. He casually turned to witness her stern expression. "What?" he asked, as if her glaring accusation was unfounded, if for no other reason but his obvious ignorance to the purpose of her attention. "If the two a ya canna behave, then I'll just have ta put ya both on the back row with yer folks."

Both children immediately faced forward, folding their little hands in their little laps. *** "Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer commenced, his voice projecting outward through the coneshaped Propheticone, duly dubbed by its Gnomish inventor whose mismatched eyes now brimmed with tears of pride at its debut. "It is my distinct honor and privilege to introduce one of our most revered Heroes! Please make welcome Captain Reginald Krue!" Having played a part in the majority of gathered factions among the entire assemblage, Reginald's entrance was well received by all present, and as he strode to the podium, he was greeted by a deafening thunder of applause and cheers as the crowd rose to their feet. As this went on for some time without sign of easing, Reginald finally raised his hands to the crowd, gently motioning for order, and as it was with his own troops, his presence and bearing somehow reached out to everyone in such a way as could not be denied. The cheers and applause died quickly as everyone took his seat. "I need not remind anyone here tonight of just how far we have all come," he began in a relaxed projection, not at all like a public address, but more closely resembling a casual conversation between close friends. His impartment was warm and personal, almost as though each who listened was his only target. Just a couple of old chums chatting by a hearth in winter. "Not so long ago, there was a time when few of us would have even considered attending such a function, much less in such close proximity to so many old foes. Yet now, as I look among you, I see a real miracle in the making." A low but approving murmur washed gently through the assembly as their mixture of Race and Class looked about in the obvious realization of Reginald's truth. "Aristha?" he called, pointing to the Barbarian Shaman. "You are sitting directly behind the Mayor of Broakendale and his entire family, yet you appear to be getting along with them quite well. In fact, you look perfectly at ease." The Shaman smiled, reaching forward to clasp a large hand on the Halfling Mayor's shoulder, thereby demonstrating her friendship. In return, the Mayor patted the woman's hand without even turning around, thereby illustrating his own friendship and trust toward her, the tears in his eyes serving as testament to the valid peace and growing love between their peoples. Of course, her perfume may have played some small role in the intensity of his response, as a number of people sitting in a rather extended radius about the large Barbarian woman could testify through their own heartfelt tears. *** As per the Captain's advice, she had waited until dark to go out in public. Her grant of Sanctuary may have ended her confinement, but it offered no guarantee of safety. There remained many who still viewed her as an enemy. Though she understood this, she would still have preferred to go alone. Regardless of any possible ill will she might encounter, the cover of night would more than protect her among a city of half-blind Humans. Nevertheless, she reluctantly agreed to the Captain's insistence upon protection consisting of a full Detail, which accompanied her. Other guards, wearing non-military armor, were assigned posts along the building's front, and at several strategic points about the immediate area, including several rooftops. This was not only as a matter of

observation, but also within a capacity of communication in order to avoid civilian detection. Delphi made no question or comment on these procedures, but she could not help but wonder how the guards on the rooftops considered their over-exaggerated hand signals, often accompanied by the profuse waving of small red and white flags, to be a matter of covert behavior. As she approached the Art Gallery, serving as the unofficial facade of the unofficial guild, she could detect no sign of actual Rogue involvement. She realized the need for such measures. Still, it felt so strange. Rogues were a revered and highly valued Class within the Empire, while they seemed to be barely tolerated in this community. Then the Detail assigned to her abruptly came to a marching halt. This was punctuated by a single loud stomping of each soldier's right foot, thus causing Delphi to jump with a start. This is the Captain's idea of inconspicuous? The Detail remained at attention, with the exception of the Sergeant-at-arms, who insisted upon escorting her at least as far as the gallery's interior. As they entered the establishment, she looked up at the large sign above the entrance, which read, Canvas and Dreams. Once inside, she looked about casually, or so it appeared to her escort, who observed her carefully as she strolled along, inspecting a large collection of paintings. The works near the front were tasteful pastorals. These were the more popular market among the wealthier clientele. She passed them by without really affording the works a solid glance while continuing toward the back where the grade and styles began to drop as drastically as did their prices. Her progress slowed as she came to the most tasteless group of materials available. An oil work of a dragon and a Gnome, performing an impossible act of procreation, was displayed near a corner, leading to a longer hall. To most people, the abomination proffered an almost subconscious warding, effectively turning them away before subjecting themselves to further distasteful subject matter. Then there was a depiction of a most highly fabled Ranger's shooting an apple from the top of his son's head. This particular rendition portrayed a grisly interpretation, as opposed to the more generally accepted joyful ending offered in the original story line. The last painting they came to was quite large and by all rights a truly gaudy example, depicting a group of overdressed figures partaking in various forms of decadence on the oblique deck of a golden ship as it sank into a blood-red sea. In surveying the piece, the guard seriously doubted that this painting would ever hang in any home of Arbitos. The overly flamboyant color was almost comical in its dark and morbid rendering. It seethed with an obviously negative discourse for anyone of wealth and means. The prosperous and overly corpulent figures were obviously portrayed as if oblivious to their fates. The artist was no doubt a discontented pauper. And he will surely stay that way if all his work ends up like this rubbish, thought the guard. What seemed truly odd about the picture were the figures, most of whom appeared to be looking off in any direction other than toward front of the painting. There was one shrouded figure standing in the crow's-nest, but it was difficult to tell where those hooded eyes might be trained. Below the painting were a number of odd scratches etched into the wall. To her escort, their random pattern almost looked like a skull, with perhaps several other bones crossed beneath it. Delphi reached out, gently brushed the skull with her forefinger, and then took a step back. Presently, a tiny door within the large painting slid open and she was momentarily scrutinized by the same shrouded figure whose eyes could now be seen clearly.

"I am Delphi Bane," she whispered. "I am the Dark-elf who was recently granted Sanctuary." "Well, duh," intoned a sarcastic voice from behind the secret door. "I believe I am expected," she stated flatly, trying not to allow her anger at his evident sign of disrespect to be detected. Among her people, it was generally Customary For Guild Chapters To Extend A More Gracious Welcome To Visiting Factions. Perhaps these people had different customs. "Yeah, I know. Enter then, Wognix," he drawled without enthusiasm. Several more uncomfortable moments passed. "That might be easier if you would open the door first," she asserted in a strained voice. After a short pause, she heard the bolt being pulled back and the door-painting slid open several inches. "Perhaps I should accompany milady while in this…establishment," offered the Sergeant warily. "I'm sure it will be fine. I do not wish to appear distrusting of my own Class." "As you wish," he replied in a speculative tone while glancing sidelong at the menacing eyes of the anonymous door attendant, and then into the darkened space of the Rogue guild interior itself. "I believe I saw a wet bar near the front, Sergeant," Delphi suggested. "I'm on duty, milady," he intoned with an edge. "Yes, of course. Terribly sorry," she apologized while gingerly stepping forward and sliding the door open far enough to enter. Once she passed inside, the door was quickly shut and bolted again. Once alone, the Sergeant found himself re-evaluating the wet bar. Before her stood an older Human. He was perhaps four or five hundred winters and not very tall as far as Humans go. In fact, he didn't quite come up to her chin. She wasn't sure who this rude little man was. She only hoped he wasn't the guild Master. "Goren!" came a shout from the next room. "Show the Lady in, and stop trying to frighten her! I doubt that she finds you amusing anyway." Delphi looked back at the person whom she now assumed to be Goren, hoping for some sign of mirth. All she witnessed was the old man's pallid, expressionless face. Somehow, she doubted that his attempts were designed to be humorous. If so, he had apparently lived a long time without ever being properly advised in the art of joke-telling. As if hearing her thoughts, Goren commenced to laugh in a much higher tone of voice. This was when Delphi began to suspect that something really was amiss, for although his eyes gleamed as one might expect when seeing someone laugh, his facial expression remained neutral. Presently, he reached up, grabbed the top of his hairless head, and began squeezing what had appeared to be tightly stretched scalp into a bunched mass of loosely fitting flesh. It stretched far past what the normal skin from any creature possibly could, and continued to stretch, thereby causing the entire face to become a twisted and nightmarish parody of a face, with the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth inching upward until so completely displaced that they were all soon sliding over the top of his skull, and still he continued to pull. Delphi found herself slowly backing up until she backed into a wall and could retreat no further. The creature's efforts literally to rip the flesh from its own skull seemed endless. Now he was pulling with both hands. He pulled upward and upward until both hands were extended to the farthest reaches of his arms length, the once normal looking flesh now three times its original proportion.

Delphi Bane was a Rogue, and could by no means of torture ever be made to scream. Even so, she could not help the shrill sound escaping her throat as the vile thing's head literally came away from its body with a pronounced plopping sound. "Damn it, boy!" the reproachful voice called from the next room. "I told you to stop that foolishness!" Then there came a loud and insistent banging on the front door. The Child of perhaps seven or eight winters who now stood before her quickly turned upon hearing the Sergeant's insistent request to gain entrance. She looked at the boy, and then at the mask in his left hand, and grinned. After a moment she began to laugh heartily. His face quickly reddening, Goren bolted for the stairs leading to the basement, and ran down them to the safety of his bedroom. Delphi, who was yet laughing, slid the door open again. With his sword now in hand, the Sergeant appeared well prepared to storm the building. "Everything is well in hand," she assured him while still tittering. "Are you certain, mistress? I could have sworn I heard…" "I'll be sure to call if I need you," she smiled, and then slid the door shut again with him still attempting to look around the interior. "Goren? What has gotten into you of late…" the old man's voice trailed off as he entered the room to realize that Goren was not there. "My sincerest apologies, Mistress Bane. I'm afraid my grandson is something of a trial." "Not at all," she replied. "I was surprised, but…" "Oh dear!" he cried. "I've not even introduced myself! My name is Tobar Stelthak, and that most upsetting youngster is my grandson, Goren." "Yes," she said, feeling the grin return of its own accord, "a pleasure, I'm sure." "I do beg pardon for his behavior, mistress. There are…extenuating circumstances that…" "No harm was done, milord," she offered. She wanted to say more, such as, I've not enjoyed myself like that in a very long time, though he seemed determined to provide her with an explanation. "You see, his mother was killed when he was but a tot. His father…well, quite frankly, his father was something of a scoundrel and never saw fit to even introduce himself," he intoned sardonically. "I have done the best with the boy that I know how, you understand, but I fear an old man is a poor substitute for proper parentage." "I'm sure he's a fine young man," she replied with as serious a face as she could muster. Returning to the business at hand, which she hoped would also serve to alleviate the gentleman's obvious embarrassment, she asked, "Are you the Guild Master, then?" "I am the Caretaker," he offered with a low and humble bow. "I see. Could you direct me to the Master's chamber, please?" "Well…" he faltered, looking at the floor. "He wouldn't see me, would he?" The look on the old man's face was answer enough. "Then why did he agree to allow me to come at all?"

"Captain Krue insisted, mistress. The good Captain is a powerful man. The Master could not deny him. Still, the Captain never stipulated an interview. He only requested you be allowed a visit." "I see," she said in a low tone, recognizing standard Rogue protocols. "I suppose I was hoping it could be different. I guess I simply thought a Rogue was a Rogue, regardless of his or her Race." "And right you are to think so, too," returned the old man, offering as much comfort and conviction as his station allowed. "I would have preferred to enter with the Master's blessing, but, under the circumstances, I suppose I have no choice. Would it be possible for me to visit your library?" she asked, using the same protocol of the Master's agreement against him. For a moment, Tobar seemed to be considering something. "Well…you were granted a visit to the guild, and the library is certainly a part of the guild. I would be happy to escort the young mistress to our library," he offered, smiling. As they turned to make their way toward the library, she could see the boy out of the corner of her eye. Not all of him, just the hand holding up the hand mirror above the top step, angled so as to allow a clear vantage of Delphi and his grandfather during their conversation. When they began to move in his direction, the mirror quickly disappeared. Delphi covered her mouth to hide the grin she could not suppress. "Oh, yes," he said recalling something. Be careful here." He illustrated by squatting, and then pushing down on one of the floor tiles. It gave way easily, as if hinged by a spring. "Nice one!" she exclaimed in appreciation of the trap's artful design. "Why, thank you, mistress. I constructed that one myself," he intoned with pride. Once he showed her where she could safely place her feet, they continued. "Goren has followed your progress ever since news of a Dark-elf Rogue reached our corner Herald," continued Tobar as they came to a door at the end of the long hallway. Tomes of the Scapegrace , read the plaque above its facing. "We were even fortunate enough to attend your Hearing. You gave a most eloquent testimony, and… well…quite frankly, the boy may be rather taken with you." "I suppose it's possible," she replied while looking over her shoulder as the hand mirror snuck slowly around the corner of the stairwell once again. *** The task had been arduous, but Sarah finally managed to rid herself of Marcus. She watched him make his way down the dimly lit cobblestone, walking slowly, eyes downcast, and arms just hanging at his side as if simply too heavy to do otherwise. She had the distinct impression of having just kicked a puppy. In fact, she felt terrible. [All right, Doc! After what I just had to do, you'd better have a seriously damned good reason for all that…] {There is some type of connection between you and your brother.} [What are you talking about?] {I'm not quite sure, except it most likely has to do with similar genetic patterns.} [Hey, I'm the first to admit I don't know squat about all this hi-tech crap, but I do know the difference between electronics and genetics! You wanna explain how DNA got in the picture?] {As a matter of fact, there could be a direct connection. If you and your brother have similar neuro-pathways…} [Neuro-whosit?] {Like the differences between your pattern and Selina's pattern. To IBOT, the two are read similarly to

bar code.} [Oh wait, I get it! Bubba and I have got similar headgear, and your genius program can't tell the difference.] {Yes. Exactly!} [You sound surprised that I got that.] {Well, anyway, it presents something of a problem. It's going to be difficult to move about freely with your brother…} [No problem. All we gotta do is drop your revised version of the Selina filter when I'm around Jesterwolf. That way, the barcode thingy doesn't cross any wrong wires, and ole IBOT still thinks it's looking at Selina, right?] {Yes…yes, that might just work!} [You still sound surprised.] {There's something else you should know.} Pause. [Yeah?] {I've finished correlating data, or rather, as well as can be done under the circumstances.} Pause. [And?] {And the current program doesn't parallel the projected dynamics of any established scenarios.} [And in English that means?] {It could mean a number of things. The game is more complex than any of the previous software tested. Many deviations could simply be a compensation to accommodate the more multifaceted program structure.} [Or?] {Or it could be examples of attempted manipulations by the Government.} [The Hacks?] {If we're lucky.} She thought about asking what the unlucky side of that coin might be, and then decided it might represent more information than was needed, or even wanted. With no response forthcoming, Kwibee continued. {Most of what I've compiled is of no consequence. By in large, it all falls well within established parameters.} [But?] {But there are traces of diagnostic scanning in a several geographic areas.} [Maybe you already scanned it once, and then just forgot.] {I have a photographic memory.} [Figures. Ok, what areas were scanned?] {So far, the majority have been within a large region to the northeast, some eighteen hundred miles distant.} [What's so interesting about that area?] {Couldn't say. I only know it's a series of small countries inhabited by nonhuman N.P.C. templates. The game refers to it as the Dark Empire.} Pause {Something wrong?} [Well, if it is your…friends…at least they aren't in the neighborhood. On the other hand, your Dark Empire comment definitely got Selina's attention.] {How so?} [Oh nothing really. Just a feeling of being ill at ease. That, and about three dozen of her preferred defense tactics just crossed my mind.] *** "You're a Level Fifty-three," announced a young voice from behind. "Why, yes, I am," she replied without turning. "How did you know that?" "I was at your Trial… I mean your Hearing." "You have a good memory for one so young." "I am not so young. I will reach my tenth summer soon, and Grandfather says I may have a dagger!" "Goren, please leave the poor woman be," pleaded Tobar wearily while rummaging through a series of old texts. "He is no bother," she offered honestly, and then turned to smile back at the youngster. "It is nice to be among friendly faces," she said as the boy entered the library, now sporting a Rogue's cloak, perhaps twelve sizes larger than required. Tobar momentarily glanced up. "Yes, mistress. I imagine that you've not been among many of late." "Someday, I will achieve the one-hundredth Circle!" Goren blurted proudly. "I'm sure you will," agreed Delphi. "You've a solid frame, and from what I've seen, you're very quick." At this, the boy's entire torso seemed to expand.

Delphi's grin was demanding access to her face again. It was by sheer force of will that she continued to maintain a neutral expression. "You like Ambassador Thistle, don't you?" Goren asked without warning. "What?" she asked, taken aback. "Goren!" Tobar exclaimed. "Well, everyone's talking about the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. I just figured that…" "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, thus cutting him off. "Mind your own business, boy! Mistress Bane hasn't the time for your foolishness!" Goren's expression abruptly shifted from curious to frightened. "I'm sorry, mistress! I didn't mean, I mean…" He looked from Delphi to Tobar, and then back to Delphi again, tears now filling his eyes. Quite suddenly, he bolted back toward his bedroom. "Goren! It's all right!" she called. "Mayhap I should speak with him. It was of no consequence. He just caught me off guard." "Don't worry yourself with that one, mistress. He's…of an awkward age." "Yes. A most volatile time indeed," she agreed. "Ahh, here it is," announced Tobar. "Chronicles Of The Scapegrace." He handed the tome to Delphi, who gingerly took the old book from the old man's hands and laid it down gently on the desk in front of her. "It is reputed to have been narrated in part by Surripere himself, though most folk today think such talk is only a matter of fabled nonsense," he offered while gazing at her perceptively, as if waiting to judge her response to such a statement, though she appeared to be too preoccupied with the book itself to hear him. "It is the same as the one from our archive, only yours is in much better condition." "It's A Pity That Chapters Within The Empire Are So Cut Off," Tobar Offered In A Low tone. There's so much we could teach each other, I'm sure." She opened the text with reverence, taking great care with each page. It was well preserved. Each and every word was perfectly legible as she read through previously unattainable scriptures before coming to something which gave her cause to stop. "Please? May I please copy this passage? It means more than you can know." "I think under the circumstances it would be all right," he replied. "In fact, that is but one of three copies in this library. I would be honored if you took the tome as a gift," he offered with a sly smile. Startled, she looked up from the book. "But… You said you were the Caretaker." "What is a Master, but a Caretaker, my dear?" he replied as his grin broadened. *** "In short," continued Reginald as he prepared to close, "You have all profited from the friendships forged through your own wisdom: the same wisdom that has led us all to the priceless comprehension of nothing more complicated than simple compromise."

"Yet now we stand at a new precipice: a delicate but profound opportunity to profit in riches most have never dared dream. It is an occasion that will surely stand in history as the birth of a new world, wherein all civilized peoples might find themselves of a single Faction, and a United Nirayel!" Reginald had barely managed to raise both hands, thereby signifying an emphasis to his last statement even as he punctuated the end of his Address, when the ensuing cheers from his large audience threatened to engulf him. He had made his dream their dream: a beautiful picture rendered in such a way that all who had heard it yearned for it. Well, perhaps not quite all. A cloaked figure, which had joined the proceedings sometime during Reginald's speech, had slowly drifted its way near the Spurious Ambassador, and now stood almost within arm's length of that target. *** After the little scene she had caused, Sarah doubted that she should return to the ceremony. Even with the problem concerning the filter solved, it wouldn't do to see Jesse until she could better prepare herself. With no other options available to her, she decided to get a good night's sleep, and then begin fresh in the morning, after tempers have had an opportunity to simmer down a bit. While turning the corner of the street that she lived on, Selina stared, as something caught her attention. Several people were lurking about near the end of the walkway, where the intersecting cobblestone crossing came to an alley. The woman, who was of a rather squat stature, seemed to be leading, while the man who followed appeared to be somewhat hesitant to accede to her prompting. Upon closer inspection, she realized the man was in fact Borin, although she had never seen the woman before. As if in response to a nonverbal question, Selina identified the woman as Colonel Teristha Clawtorn. {Umm… Colonel, you say?"} [Yeah. What's he up to?] {Who?} [Borin, damnit! Are you paying attention?] {I believe he's scheduled to take office in approximately five minutes.} [That'll be kinda tough to do from a back alley that's almost a quarter mile away from their little shindig, wont it?] {Hmm. I see your point.} [That's what I thought.] She began to make her way toward the darkened entrance of the alley into which her husband and the woman had just disappeared. {What are you doing?} [I'm gonna follow and find out what he's up to.] {No. No, absolutely not! It's too dangerous.} [What danger? None of this is real.] {Real or not, if someone runs you through with a broad-sword, I personally guarantee that you will feel it, and in this game, that is just what alleyways are for!} Sarah hesitated briefly while considering the possible consequences. After a moment, she continued. {Excuse me? Perhaps I failed to make myself clear!} [Shut up, would ya, Doc? It's bad enough without your naggin.] {I just don't understand why…} [Because he could get hurt too! Now pipe down already!] *** She had missed her first mark. Tyde had made it quite clear she had better not miss the second. "We're almost there," she assured him confidently. Borin looked back in the direction they had come. They were getting further and further from the ceremony. "Begging the Colonel's pardon, but are you quite certain she meant to meet us this far from…"

"I know exactly what you mean. It sounded strange to me as well," she replied, even before he was able to complete his question while managing to sound as confused as he truly was. For reasons he could not quite fathom, Borin felt terribly uncomfortable. Something just didn't seem right about all of this. Why would a Colonel run an errand for a Tailor? Especially this Colonel. Neither was he ignorant of the bad blood between this woman and his father. He supposed that she might be making an effort to bury the hatchet, though more than likely, she was simply endeavoring to ingratiate herself with a new Ambassador. She had a long-standing reputation for Apple-shine, as his father had put it. And yet that feeling: a foreboding sense of…of what? He continued to follow. *** "Surely you must admit that it is possible," Delphi asserted, hoping for at least some measure of validation. "I suppose," Tobar replied in a noncommittal tone. "I suppose anything is possible where Lord Surripere is concerned." "All the signs are there! Even the parts I could not decipher before. They are clear to see in this copy, and only serve to prove my suspicions to be well founded!" "Calm yourself, milady. I did not say you were wrong. I only think we should exercise caution. This is not a business to be taken lightly," he offered softly. "You know, there is much of the scripture you have failed to address yet. Rogues have been studying this riddle for millennia, with nothing to show for their trouble but conjecture." She stared into the candle's light with a melancholy expression. "Oh, now, don't give up so quickly," he comforted. "I may be cautious, but I must admit, there is much of your accounting that rings true." She faced him again, with much of her earlier exuberance dissipated, but she did seem a little more hopeful. "Now then, that's better. You know, you have a great deal of work to do if you truly have faith in your path. Do you, milady? Do you feel you are on the right path?" She met his eyes and nodded slowly, deliberately. "Yes," he said, grinning slyly again. "I do believe you do." "Then you will sponsor my Quest?" she asked quickly, matching her original enthusiasm, and his own sly smile. For a moment, his expression faltered. He was unaccustomed to being taken in so easily, especially by one so young. Presently, his smile returned. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, and then let it out again. "Right, then," he announced, opening a drawer in the desk. "You were certainly right about one thing," he offered while retrieving pen and parchment. "What is that?" she asked as her new Guild Master prepared a contract of Apprenticeship. "Regardless of Race, a Rogue is still a Rogue." ***

Jester looked about. Where's that oaf gotten off to? "Before we present the Ambassadors with gifts to commemorate the occasion, not to mention their Seals of office-solid platinum, I've been told," Reginald said in a confidential tone, thus causing a wave of laughter through the crowd, "I feel that we would be remiss, were we to overlook someone who has played a much larger role in these proceedings than you might realize. I speak of a man whose devotion to a lasting peace is unsurpassed." Realizing who the Captain was referring to, Jester leaned over to the Magistrate, who looked as if he were about to nod off, then whispered, "Milord? I believe you're on." The Magistrate seemed not to have heard. He leaned forward with his head down, offering only short, shallow breaths to indicate slumber. "Jeri!" exclaimed the woman next to him while attempting to shake him awake. With no immediate response forthcoming, the Magistrate's wife began to appear alarmed. As her husband began to tumble forward, she quickly blocked his fall, and with Jester's assistance was able to pull him back into a sitting position. "Jeri?" she pleaded. "My Love?" Jester noticed something odd, something unnatural in the contour of the Magistrate's robes. At the same time, the old gentleman emitted an almost inaudible groan. Realizing something was obviously wrong, Jester pulled back the Magistrate's outer robe, revealing the hilt of a large ice pick. *** "So," continued Reginald. "Without further ado, please show your appreciation for our own Magistrate, Jericoe Tiberius Swelth!" The crowd erupted, coming alive with an unprecedented reverberating thunderclap of applause, further accompanied by a barrage of wild cheers and war howls in expectation of the Magistrate's grand entrance. After a time, their enthusiasm began to trail off, and then died altogether when it became obvious that the man was having serious difficulty, suggested first by his wife's distraught behavior, and then by her shattering scream of horror as the Ambassador to Spurious withdrew the pick from her husband's back and was currently raising it above his head, as if to plunge it in again. *** The man was near death, but could yet be saved if he moved quickly enough. Acting on instinct, and in spite of an almost overwhelming revulsion at the prospect of even touching such a vile object, Jester had withdrawn the pick, and then lifted both arms in a wide arc, gathering his mana in order to execute his strongest spell of healing. At the apex of his casting, his concentration was disrupted by a woman's piercing scream. Momentarily stunned, he involuntarily turned to locate the source of the outburst. The Magistrate's guards, who by now had rushed to his side, immediately noticed the pick in Jester's hand, held high while turning his murderous gaze upon the Magistrate's wife, as though she were to become his next victim. Their reactions were instantaneous. They both lunged forward, knocking the Assassin backward. *** Crimsin watched with increasing amusement. This was far better than anything he could have hoped for. He had been on the verge of slipping the pick into the Druid's back when he suddenly realized just

how close he was to Krue's puppet Magistrate. With Swelth out of the way, he could use the Colonel with much greater effect. This made the Magistrate a much more attractive target than the Ambassador. Two for the price of one, he thought, grinning broadly at the prospect of finally dealing with the Captain as well. As he observed the guards hauling the Druid's unconscious body up, then on toward the Garrison, he corrected himself gleefully. Three! Three for the price of one! *** Goren sat on his bunk, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly about both legs, and his chin resting on his left knee as he stared into the corner of his room nearest the door. Even so, he failed to notice the hand mirror as it crept around the door-facing. He was still angry with himself for having upset Mistress Bane. She had also seen his tears, which only served to exacerbate his frustration further. In response, he wiped the tears from his eyes and face with his sleeve, and then did similar service for his runny nose. She must think me an infant! he thought reproachfully, his self-anger flaring as he raised both fists high, then down, slamming them into the mattress. I am not an infant! he thought, using his anger to fuel his resolution. Then he heard the faint whisper of something that flitted past his ear, followed immediately by a loud reverberating thud as it struck the dartboard behind his head. He whipped about to see the hilt of a dagger protruding from the target's bull's-eye, and then followed the blade's line of trajectory back to the door where he finally noticed Delphi's smirking face within the hand mirror. What remained of his anger dissipated as a grin formed of its own volition. "Who's there?" he called, as if he didn't already know. "Well, duh," she intoned sarcastically while poking her head around the door facing. Goren's grin spread. She wasn't angry. She wasn't cross at all. At first, his relief was such that he failed to catch her joke. After a moment, he recognized her parity of his own original greeting. This prompted an involuntary fit of laughter, more closely resembling giggles, and which in turn caused him yet further embarrassment at behaving in so silly a fashion in front of someone he had resolved to treat otherwise only moments ago. Alas, lacking that maturity left him victim to his own childish sense of humor. The best he could offer in the face of such adversity, along with his own bright red face, was to simply pull the covers over his head, a ploy that did offer some small measure of success, or rather, it did for the moment. She had not been in the company of children for over ten winters. That was when her training for Heartrot's reconnaissance Quest began. At the time, she had not been much older than Goren himself. During her travels, she had forgotten much about the simple pleasures of laughing and playing. At first, Goren's retreat beneath his quilted bedding had caught her off guard. She stood there for a moment, simply studying his unfamiliar behavior and wondering how to properly respond to such an odd anomaly. Then she remembered something universally true of all children. Goren's momentary sanctuary ended as he abruptly found himself the victim of a truly vicious tickling instigated by none other than Mistress Bane herself. To compound his misfortune, he had literally confined himself under his own covers, thereby cutting off all hope of escape. Thus had she successfully tapped into his worst weakness. His resolve melted as he lost all hope of maintaining any semblance of an adult Rogue's demeanor. Without further option, he was resigned to his fate. Being tickled somehow nullifies one's ability to

generate anger, even anger at one's self. Consequently, he found himself at her mercy. Unfortunately, there has never been a word in Dark speech that matches the Homidris term for mercy. By the time she decided to stop, he was completely out of breath and as weak as a newborn lion cub. How long had it been? How long since she had heard a child's glee? How sweet to my ears. After a time, Goren managed to catch a small measure of his breath and pulled the covers back, revealing a smirk to match her own. His smile dropped upon remembrance of the dagger. "Mistress Bane? Could you teach me to throw like that?" he asked breathlessly while pulling the dagger from the board. "Well, of course. After all, it is my job," she replied casually. His enraptured attention upon the blade abruptly broke. He looked up at her, and she would not have traded anything for his expression of half confusion, half hope. "Incidentally," she continued. "From now on, you will refer to me as Master Bane, if you please." His eyes widened as the implication set in. She turned to leave, but momentarily stopped. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. I'll expect you in the lower training quarters, promptly at dawn. Our first session will cover a preliminary on piercing, and perhaps a few basic pointers on throwing techniques." At first he was too stunned to speak. Then, just as she was leaving, he blurted, "Your blade! You forgot your dagger… Master!" "Dagger? I know of no dagger," she replied without stopping. His eyes dropped to the serpentine curvature of the dagger's blade, then to its jewel-encrusted hilt and the inscription at its base. It was written in Dark Speech, but he had received enough tutelage in the language to make out what it said. ~In Service of the Scapegrace.~ *** She had just exited the stairwell when a loud and adamant banging came from the painting. "Confounded guards!" exclaimed Tobar as he emerged from his study. "I suppose the Sergeant is worried," she postulated wearily. "He's a most insistent fellow, isn't he?" "It's time I returned to the Garrison anyway." "You know, you're more than welcome to stay here, my dear. We've plenty of room." "No. It is safer for everyone if I remain under guard, at least until I am more accepted." Her Master nodded in acceptance of her wisdom, and then escorted her back to the painting. Along the way, she noticed the mirror creeping just above the top step, and her smile returned. As Tobar slid the door open, she could see the grave look on the soldier's face. "Is there a problem, Sergeant?" she asked, and then smiled as Goren ducked in front of her, brandishing his newly acquired dagger. The Sergeant appeared not to notice that he was being fended off. "I beg pardon for the intrusion, mistress, but I'm afraid we must escort you back to the Garrison." His tone was serious.

Noticing the dagger, Tobar glanced at Delphi's holsters. Both blades were still seated and latched. Then he glanced to her shoulder scabbards. One of the two upper daggers was missing. He quickly shot Goren a dour look of disapproval. Goren quickly shuffled to his new Master's other side, placing her between Tobar and himself. Oops, she thought, recalling Goren's account of what he was not to receive until his next birthday. She turned from Goren to witness her own new Master's stern expression, only now, she was his target of disapproval. She suddenly found herself grateful for the guard's presence-that is, until he spoke again. "I am not sure of all the facts, mistress, but apparently there has been some break in defense at the Investiture ceremony," he reported, reluctant to meet her gaze. Delphi's good eye grew wider as she experienced a sudden sinking dread. "I… I fear there has been another Assassination," he concluded. "Jesterwolf," she whispered, almost inaudibly. Both the Sergeant and Tobar failed to hear this, though they were equally aware of her situation and could easily guess. Goren however, was closer to her and needed no further understanding. He had heard what she said, and what she felt when she said it. He reached out and took her hand without thinking. "The messenger's content was only preliminary, mistress," prompted the guard with a bit more compassion. "It could have been anyone at the ceremony," Tobar offered gently. She appeared to have heard neither of them. Several long moments passed as Delphi continued to stare at the floor. Finally, "Ahem…" prompted the Sergeant, turning his head while doing so, as if the interruption to her inattention was only incidental. "We really must be going, milady." "Yes, of course," she replied, regaining some measure of perspective. She would not believe the worst; not until she had no other choice. Her attention was then brought back to Goren. At some point, he had taken her hand. Now, his hand trembled. She turned to him, kneeling. His eyes reflected the same fear she still felt, with the only difference being his lack of comprehension behind it. Again she was reminded of the concept of empathy, and the powerful impact it had on those who wielded it. He had managed to hold back the tears, but she could see this was not something he could do for much longer. She forced herself to relax. She must not allow her fear to cause him further distress. She smiled, and he tried to return the smile, but only succeeded in making a grimace. This only served to reveal just how close he was to breaking his earlier resolve. It's so hard to look grown up when you're nine, she thought. She reached up, brushing the hair from his eyes. His grimace eased, becoming a closer facsimile of the smile it was intended to be. "I will see you in the training quarters at dawn, yes?" "Yes, Master," he replied. "All is well then." she concluded with conviction, then turned to leave. Still, Goren was reluctant to release her hand.

She returned her attention to his. He appeared intent on her, as if searching for something. Then, he stepped closer, placing both arms about her neck, and then hugged her to him. "Please, mistress," prompted the Sergeant. "Come, Goren," Tobar said. "It is past your bed time." Goren stepped back, smiling easier. She rose and turned. Her own smile faded as the prospect of Jester's fate returned. As she and the guard took their leave, the door became the painting, and Goren, who bolted to the secret eyes, could not see the dread on her face. A moment later, Tobar gently pulled him back, and then closed the sliding panel. "You've had a busy day, Goren. You will need sleep if you intend to be up before dawn." "Yes, Grandfather," he agreed, then started back toward his room. He stopped short before reaching the stairs. "May I keep Master Bane's gift, Grandfather?" "I suppose you're old enough, but I will expect you to take care of it, and with it. Is that understood?" "Yes, Grandfather." Tobar turned in the direction of his study, but stopped when he was unexpectedly jolted from behind as Goren hugged him tightly, before bolting down the stairs. *** Pet was not where Clawtorn had indicated. Nor did it appear that she was to arrive any time soon. It was quickly becoming obvious that the Colonel had other intentions than assisting in a rendezvous between a Tailor and the son of her political rival. He considered her carefully. She had led him to the end of a blind alley where there just happened to be a torch lit, as if it was already waiting for them, and though still dim, it was easy enough to read the disquieting look of malice on her face. Were she anyone other than a soldier of Arbitos, he would have sworn that the entire situation smelled of deception. But she isn't anyone else. Regardless of what animosity might exist between his father and this woman, she was still his superior. "I really don't understand the meaning of our business here, milady, though I'm sure that whatever it is, it can be resolved at a later time. Ambassador Thistle is no doubt being sworn in as we speak. I think it would be prudent if we were to return before I am…" "He is not being sworn in, you ridiculous dolt," she crooned in a parity of her previously ingratiating manner. "As a matter of fact, I feel confident that he's quite dead by this time, as you soon will be." Now he could hear shuffling in the dark. At first, from behind Clawtorn, and then to his left, and soon all about both himself and the Colonel. Ordinarily, the infra-vision afforded by his Elven blood would have been more than equal to the task of revealing all these shadows. Ironically, the very torchlight that enhanced a Human's range of sight served only to restrict his to the short radius it cast. Then a lone silhouette stepped from the shadows. The dark figure paused for a moment, apparently glancing in Borin's direction, and then continued to walk toward the Colonel. "Ahh, there you are, Effigee," crooned the Colonel. The woman to whom she spoke, who now stood in sufficient light to make out her features, was dressed in servant's attire. Her appearance suggested she was probably one of the local vendors.

"Your troops, as requested, milady," the woman responded in kind, then stopped briefly to offer the Colonel a quick curtsy. "What's going on here?" Borin demanded. The Colonel and the woman turned to face him. The woman then took several steps toward him. Her image shimmered briefly as Borin suddenly discovered she was in fact a female Dark-elf. An Enchanter! he thought with alarm. "Well, hello again, Ambassador," she smiled, her image then shifting to become that of the Barmaid. "What?" "No pets allowed," she said as she wagged an authoritarian finger at him while his eyes grew wider with alarm. "That was you?" Then her image shifted once again. "Well, maybe just one Pet," she snickered as her image became that of the Magistrate's Tailor. "Borin's mouth dropped, completing his expression of unadulterated shock as the implications fell into place. "You had better be on your way, Effigee," the Colonel intoned. "I need you to keep an eye on the good Captain for me." "Yes, milady, she replied as a white mist enveloped her. "Farewell, Ambassador," she laughed, and then disappeared. He wheeled about, reaching for a sword that was not there. Neither was he wearing the protection of armor, as he yet wore the ceremonial robes. "No sword? What a pity," Clawtorn offered mockingly. At this, Borin shot her a disquieting look of his own. She had expected fear. What she got was cold and hostile. She wavered, and retreated a step. Then something was thrown from outside the circle of light to land near its center. Clawtorn froze, momentarily snared between Borin's accusing stare of dawning outrage and-what? Reluctantly, she turned. As Crimsin's figure came to register within her range of peripheral vision, she relaxed, releasing her held breath in a long exhalation. "Selina!" Borin cried, rushing to her prone figure. She was unconscious and bleeding from a blow to the back of her head. He gently turned her on her back. She stirred as he cradled her head, her eyes fluttering briefly before focusing on his. She spoke, though she was obviously dazed. Her speech was garbled and broken, but it was almost as if she was offering some kind of advice: some odd business about getting used to the couch. Nothing but nonsense. She was no doubt delirious from the blow. Then she lost consciousness altogether. "How touching," Crimsin commented, strolling just within the radius of torch light as the son of Goulder Heartrot's enemy knelt, fawning over the Paladin he had caught eavesdropping. He would present this half-breed's head to the Baron. Soon, the father's head would rest beside the son's, and before this night was done, he fully intended to pay a visit to that one-eyed traitor. Her, he would save for last. When her time came, it would require more of his attention. One must never rush

when it comes to affairs of the heart. Plus, adding her head to the others would secure him a veritable fortune. He offered a disarming smile, as though he were only about the business of extending a heartfelt greeting. Then he brought out his sword, as if the gesture were only to display fine cutlery to newfound friends. Borin's eyes tracked the wielder, not the weapon. He turned the blade so as to catch the torchlight, its corrugated surface splashing the reflected fire across Borin's face like moonlight in water. Borin's expression did not falter. He was not impressed with Crimsin's little dance of intimidation. If this was his time to die, so be it. So long as he was afforded the right to die as a Warrior, perhaps even to do this spore of Abhoron a bit of harm in the process, then all was right with the world. Reading Borin's face like an open scroll, he asked, "Friend of yours?" indicating Selina with the point of the same sword with which he had just taunted, while his free hand, yet held behind his back, became engulfed in a dark aura as he prepared his deadly touch. Borin's attention returned to his injured friend. He could not abandon her, not even for the sake of honor. Again, Borin was effortlessly read. This was almost too easy. Mayhap he should dally. Heartrot might enjoy hearing the story of how his enemy's own son was forced to watch as his Lady Fair was entertained for an hour or two, before finally expiring. Yes. This idea warrants merit, he thought, grinning like a shark while allowing the aura to fall away. His own death was his business, but Selina must be allowed her own choices. She was yet unconscious and garbed in nothing but an evening gown. At least he was to meet death on his feet. "Pretty, isn't she?" Crimsin commented appreciatively. While examining the nil protection offered by the plummeting front of her garment, Borin recalled an argument of several summers past. He leaned in closer. *** There came a flash from the North. At first Delphi was forced to look away, but as the light rose higher, its brilliance dimmed slightly and she became more accustomed to it. Shielding her eye enabled her to track its path as it streaked above the city until, having reached its zenith, it exploded soundlessly, and then divided into three distinctive sections. The largest of the three pieces burned the brightest, drifting slowly down toward the northeast corner of the city's outer wall. She remembered that this area was where the ceremony was being held. She could even make out the pavilion's ivory dome, which Jester had pointed out on the previous day from atop the Garrison. That was when he had asked if she would attend the ceremony, escorted by him. The second piece drifted straight downwards, approaching quite near the Garrison before burning out while still several stories up. At the moment before winking out, it burned brighter, as if in punctuation. The third piece continued southward and on toward the ocean, but stopped short. As it descended, its light visible from directly below, it illuminated several buildings along the sea front. This was the

smallest of the three, but the last to burn out. Like the second piece, it also became brighter before dying, as if to emphasize its passing. She turned to the Sergeant, but he seemed not to have noticed. She glanced about. None of the other soldiers offered the slightest reaction either. It was, as she expected, an Ultra-light signal flare. She had been ignorant of the details of the Baron's plans, but had always known his Quest could never simply end as a matter of defensive recon. Fact-finding just wasn't his style. After the first Assassination she should have been better prepared. She should have known. He's out there , she thought, facing inland: the direction in which the signal had originated. He's out there, and he's coming. What was she to do? What credence would she be afforded? Then again, what choice did she have? She turned to the Sergeant, placing her hand on his arm. He turned his attention to her, but continued to march. "Pardon the interruption, Sergeant," she offered cordially. "Not at all, mistress. How may I be of service?" "I was wondering what you might know about Ultra-light signal tactics." The Sergeant stumbled, and then caught himself, bringing the entire Detail to a sudden stop and very nearly causing a pile-up. That's what I thought, she thought. If the Humans had not been studying her people's covert tactics in this matter, she doubted that he would have come so close to breaking his neck at the mention of it. This left her with only one problem. How was she to convince him of what she had just seen? This was not an easy proposition, considering that Humans were basically oblivious to the entire Ultra-spectrum. There was a way. She just hoped she survived it. She opened her eye wider, pulling the lower lid down, thereby offering better access to the tear duct. She then raked her thumb across it, gathering as much saline as possible. The next part was what worried her. "I'm afraid I am not authorized to discuss such matt…" he began, but was cut off as Delphi's foot swept in a low and wide arc, thus knocking both of the Sergeant's legs out from under him. Before he could react, she was on top of him, apparently endeavoring to poke his eye out with her thumb. The initial reaction to this disturbing spectacle was such that the other soldiers could only stare in disbelief. After she had accomplished the first part of her precarious task, she endeavored to subdue the flailing soldier. She pulled both his arms behind his back, pinning both his gauntlets between the street and her knees, thereby effectively clamping him to the ground. Then she grabbed the top of his helm with one hand while reaching over his shoulder to apply a firm grip on the man's chin. She then guided his line of sight, forcing him visually to trace the path of the flare. There, still in the sky above him, was its residual trail. A faint, irregular, aura-like line segmented the sky, and then split at its peak into three smaller lines. He was too late to witness the actual flares, but from what he had learned from Intelligence reports on the subject, these lines led to strategic positions where the focus of attack would be most concentrated. Free of their shock, the others were now about the business of wrenching the crazed Wognix from their Sergeant. With five of them pulling her to the ground, she was helpless to stop them. "Release her!" barked the Sergeant, coming to his feet.

Now it was he whom they examined for signs of instability. "Immediately!" he issued again, doing a fair impression of the good Captain, himself. *** Borin suddenly plunged his hand down the front of Selina's gown. The initial reactions to this unprecedented faux pas were the raised brows of both Clawtorn and Crimsin while the restless shuffling in the dark beyond the torch light suddenly ceased. For a fleeting moment, Crimsin faltered. Was it possible that he had misjudged the lad's character? This level of truly admirable behavior was specifically atypical of everything his training had supplied him on Arbitos customs. Then there came a flash of light. Crimsin squinted, regaining some measure of sight as he tracked the flair. The signal! The Baron advances! The Colonel, who had not quite recovered from her outrage at Borin's unforgivable advances on the helpless young woman, failed to notice Crimsin's own odd behavior. It's one thing to kill a person in cold blood, but to molest an insensible maiden? Shocking! Simply shocking! The flare reached its apex, and exploded soundlessly into three pieces. Crimsin failed to see where the two smaller pieces went. This was due to the ever-brightening first piece that had shot like a meteor in his direction. Its trek terminated when it positioned itself directly above the northeast wall, where it commenced a slow downward drift, nearly blinding him with radiance. He looked away, returning his attention to Borin. What he saw was nothing but swirling violet spots and only the vaguest impression of those about him. *** He had recalled an accounting by Marcus while discussing the philosophy of strategic proprieties in warfare. The subject had turned to an old debate concerning an arguable policy. Marcus had taken one side of the argument, while Borin defended the other. Marcus saw no dishonor in concealing weapons, unless such were applied to an open challenge of oneon-one combat. Borin had countered, quoting regulations. "The act of concealed arms is the act of a Coward and shall bear no Honor. I recall no passage offering exceptions outside of dueling." Selina, who had at first been content to remain neutral, decided to add her own counter. "Perhaps you two should have read further. In the following subdivision, on page three hundred and sixty four, paragraph two to be precise, it states, and I quote, 'The bindings of Honor shall only be applied to honorable adversaries. To extend Honor to a dishonorable opponent is but the folly of those who seek their own grave.' Un-quote," she concluded with a distinctive air of superiority by reaching into her training harness and withdrawing a dagger, thus illustrating her support for the passage she had just recited. *** The task had proved altogether more involved than anticipated. Borin fortified his efforts with intent to ignore the improper image his actions painted. Unfortunately, the landscape in which he rummaged offered several somewhat precipitous obstructions that did in fact resist said intention, and thereby

inducing an internal alarm within his own sense of propriety. This, compounded with the inconvenient structure of her harness, had effected a small delay in determining the location of its hidden scabbard, said location then lending a certain advance to his already rising panic as he determined that it was seated inside, rather than outside, the structure's thin elastic hide. To further his dismay, the scabbard in question was finally discovered, but devoid of its cargo. After the initial impact of this revelation, wherein he embraced the possibility, there may be no dagger, he then realized the answer lay within the question, Why wear an empty scabbard? He plunged his hand even deeper and came to find the object of his desire wedged within the lower waistband of Selina's corset. It had obviously broken free of its scabbard during her encounter with the Dis'Errant. Besides an urgency to retrieve the blade, there was also a vague impression of just how fortunate she had been. She could just as easily have been impaled. As he grasped the dagger, he was beset by a most disturbing image of Selina's regaining consciousness before he could withdraw. Horrified beyond description, he pushed this altogether unwanted thought completely out of his mind. Finally, he withdrew the dagger as if coming to the end of a harrowing Quest. He spun around to face his fate. Now he would not wait for them to come to him. Now he would bring the battle to them. Still, what he encountered was no more expected than the empty scabbard. The Dark-elf appeared distracted, squinting at the sky as if observing some distant star only he could see, while the Colonel simply continued to gawk at him with an odd mixture of astonishment and revulsion. His focus returned to the Dark-elf, whose attention had broken from the heavens to center back upon Borin, though his continuous blinking and squinting suggested a certain difficulty in his own focus. One other aspect of the situation had also altered. For reasons beyond his ability to comprehend, the ambient lighting outside the radius of torchlight, which had previously been severely curtailed by the intensity of the torch, was unexpectedly brighter itself. Not greatly so, but enough to make out solid silhouettes, enough to recognize the specific shapes of Arbitos guard armor. The effect lasted but a moment, and then faded back to its previous pitch, as if some unseen light from above had just burned out. Still, he had seen what he had seen. Clawtorn was obviously not the only Traitor here.

Chapter Five-Heroic Hearts And Little Farts The stage had been roped off. The crowd had been quarantined, and then subsequently released as they were each identified. All dignitaries had been confined to their respective Consulates, and the Rangers had been called in to investigate the crime scene. Everything that could be done was being done. Of course, some things were simply beyond the Captain's ability to control. Some things would be as Fate ordained. Some answers would come, or not come, according to the course of events as they unfolded. Reginald knew this better than most. Such was a Captain's lot. This is not to say that he was immune to the feelings of fear and helplessness associated with the missing Ambassador, who just happened to be his son. Nor did it reduce the mind-numbing revelation that the man he had hand-picked to replace the Assassinated Spurious Ambassador might well turn out to be the Magistrate's Assassin. Neither did it relieve the unmitigated foreboding generated by the missing Colonel, who by all rights should be the one shouldering the majority of these responsibilities. Ironically, he found himself concerned more about the Colonel than anything else. He felt an odd apprehension that somehow suggested Clawtorn's involvement. It was unlike the woman to simply up and leave an occasion such as this. "This seat taken?" Reginald raised his weary eyes. Magnatha stood before him, still wearing her old dress uniform. He didn't ask how she had gotten through security, though he would not have been surprised to learn that somewhere, there was a half-giddy guard bearing a proper knot on his noggin. He stood, gesturing for his old Master to sit, which she did. "You know? I miss those old uniforms," he offered wistfully. "Well, I gotta admit, I still cut a strikin figure, even if I do say so, meself," she smiled, sitting up to as great a height as her crooked back would allow. He returned her smile absently, missing the implied witticism. She considered him for a moment, and then relaxed, placing both canes on either side of her knees. "Long day," she exhaled in a tired voice, sounding very much the way he felt. "Indeed," he agreed. Poor Regi, she thought, wishing there was something she could do to help. "Magi? There was nothing I could do about Jester. You know that, right?" "Course I do. Same as I'm sure ya know that what we sometimes believe we see…isn't always the whole story." "Yes, of course," he agreed. She considered him, as if debating something of a delicate nature. "It may not offer ya much comfort, Regi, but I do know what yer going through." Now he turned to briefly face her. Her career had spanned a time equaling his entire life three times over. She had lived through two wars, spanning almost a hundred summers between them, and this did not count the countless skirmishes, infractions of factions, and general day-to-day defense of the city, century after century. Regardless of the situation, he must remain mindful of just who she once was.

Her impropriety now was but a minor infraction by comparison to the unfathomable debt this city owed her. He returned his attention to the matters at hand, content to allow her intrusion. She paused in length, shifting her gaze to him, and then facing forward again. "I once told ya, same as I told others before and after, that there be many peoples. We all got our ways. We all got our strengths, and we all got our weaknesses. Yer no different. Nor are Druids…" "Master?" he cut her off unceremoniously while bearing an expression of exhaustion. "I do appreciate your tutorial, though I regret to say that it is hard evidence I require in this situation. Perhaps Philosophy is a thing more suited for reflection, than the search for substantiation." She suppressed her initial anger. For an instant, she had forgotten her place. She was no longer Captain of this Garrison. Her time had come and gone. This was his time, and his weight to bear. He would take council with whom he saw fit, just as she had once done. For better, or worse, the information she had meant to impart, must be quelled. She felt a sudden urge to be elsewhere, but forced herself to relax before addressing him again. She even managed a smile. "I've naught to teach thee, Reginald Krue," she began in a dialect used by few remaining souls. "Ye have the Law to guide thee well enough. Ye have thine eyes to see, and ears to hear, same as any other. All else for thee lay in thy wits and heart. Let these be thy counsel, and let the fates worry for all else." With that, she pulled him to her, kissed his cheek, and then got to her feet and hobbled about to his other side. Before taking her leave, she paused one last time. "All me Grubs are real corkers, Regi," she declared with pride while patting his shoulder. "Especially thee." Then she continued on her way, crossing to the pavilion's southwest exit where a young guard, who was yet bracing her head as though it pained her greatly, held the rope up with her free hand until Magnatha passed under. He watched until she was out of sight. To most, she appeared to be nothing but an old woman, a simple peasant, or perhaps a crafty Tarot. To Reginald, she was so much more. *** The Colonel's sense of propriety was pushed aside in recognition of Borin's recently acquired blade. Her reaction was nothing short of pure instinct. She jumped deftly to her right, which was directly behind Crimsin, who now stood between her and the threat she sought to avoid. Crimsin, who had yet fully to recover from the effects of Ultra-light, was still unable to make out more than the rough outline Borin presented. However, he was close enough to Clawtorn to notice her odd reaction. Quickly, he twisted about, in order to protect his flank from what he perceived as a hostile advance on her part. "Fool!" he spat, still squinting at the shadows about him. "You've a poor sense of timing if you think you may switch sides now!" "Huh?" was the only response she could offer while continuing to back up. At last, the after-image was fading. Crimsin's vision began to clear as Clawtorn's retreating figure came into focus. He prepared to pounce on the sniveling coward. "Milord?" she inquired uncertainly, half turning in preparation to upgrade her backward recession to a full forward retreat, and then suddenly stopped short as the threat abruptly ceased.

This was due to the Dis'Errant's transformation of expression, and posture. In the blink of an eye, he had shifted from a seething fury to a slouching vacancy. His arms dropped, dragging his sword across the alley's cobblestone floor. It dangled for a moment, and then his relaxing fingers released their grip on his blade, which fell to the cobblestone with a metallic resonance. He wavered a moment, swaying back at first, then forward, dropping to his knees, and finally toppling face down to rest beside his sword. With eyes opened wide by fear, she leaned forward, just far enough to make out the tiny incision made neatly between the Dis'Errant's vertebrae at the base of his skull. She also noticed the low-swaying hemline of someone standing where the Dark-elf had been, just prior to his demise. A few tiny droplets of blood stained the robe's white silk in a trail leading upward to the dagger still gripped by the wouldbe Ambassador. Still staring widely, the Colonel slowly began her retreat yet again, and then caught herself, recalling the others about her. These were her soldiers, loyal to her alone. She drew her own blade, motioning the circle to close in. Still staring at the fallen Wognix, Borin found his peripheral vision enclosed as the shadows about him converged. As her band of traitors advanced, she grew bolder. "What of your precious Code of Honor now, boy?" she asked, stalling. There was no danger of his escape, but as Tyde might have testified, had he been alive, one can never be too careful. Borin spat on Crimsin's corpse, and then shifted his attention to the Colonel. "Page three hundred and sixty four, paragraph two," he quoted. His reply fell upon deaf ears as she raised her sword high, preparing to give the signal to end his life. Then the weight of her sword was suddenly gone, as if she no longer bore it. This was followed by a sound quite similar to that which had occurred when Crimsin's own sword fell. A low groaning commenced, directly behind her. She turned in time to witness one of her loyal crew fall, and then roll to his back and expire, his dead eyes staring off to some distant point behind and above her. She heard a splattering sound, like rain striking the cobblestones at her feet, and glanced down to witness her own blood falling, not unlike the imagined precipitation. There, in the expanding pool, lay her sword, still clutched by her severed hand. She drew in a deep breath, preparing to loose the scream that had already commenced in her mind. Instead, she released her breath as the world about her tilted, and then twisted. As her vision dimmed, she had the faint sensation of drifting. When her head struck the stony ground, she opened her eyes to a different vantage of her severed hand, now joined by the bloody stump it had abandoned. One of her men stepped forward, and retrieved the throwing star that had first hit the Colonel, and then continued on to kill his corrupted comrade. No sooner had he removed the razor sharp disk, than he was struck in the back of his head by yet another star. Having dropped in a heap over the first man, he expired at the instant that the weapon crashed through his skull. This would be all that the Colonel would remember of this night. She closed her eyes, and then opened them when someone grabbed her up and swung her over his shoulder like a feed sack. This was merely a reaction, as she was beyond the capacity to direct her concentration. Then she closed her eyes again. She would not open them for several days. ***

Magnatha had sent the others back via teleport. It had been expensive, but under the circumstances, it was the only safe way. With the general animosity directed toward Jester, she couldn't take the chance. Anyone connecting him with the others might be just as quick to harm them as they would Jester himself. With the burden of their safety lifted, she was now free to concentrate on getting that blasted scallywag out of this mess. She hated going against Regi like this, but what choice did she have? She could have simply blurted the cold facts out to him, but to impose such a humiliation from the likes of her was more than she could bear to place on his already weighted shoulders. Besides, the truth would eventually surface. It was but a matter of time. Until then, what justice could Jester hope for, when everyone had already condemned him? She doubted that the general public would remain content to leave this sort of thing solely to the proper authorities. For that matter, it wasn't impossible that some of the Garrison's own number might forget their place. There are almost always a few bad apples, a fact she had never been able to properly convey to Reginald. He was always too wrapped up in the letter of the Code. To him, the possibility of any Warrior or Paladin not loving the military Code of Honor as he himself did simply could not exist. She hobbled about the corner, pausing to catch her breath. After a moment, she looked up, and there stood the Arbitos Garrison. It looked much as she had left it, so long ago. *** "And you say this was the weapon used?" Amara asked skeptically. "Yes, yes," replied Reginald impatiently. "I've been through this several times already. I'm sure your investigators can confirm that the wound matches the weapon." "And you have witnesses?" "Yes, of course! Why do you people keep asking me that?" he asked, rapidly losing patience. "You have witnesses who can testify that they actually observed Ambassador Thistle insert the pick?" Reginald was just about ready to explode. With all the problems he was already facing, the last thing he needed was more insipid questions. He opened his mouth, prepared to put an end to this foolishness once and for all, when the full impact of her last question finally sank in. "Come to think of it… I don't believe anyone mentioned witnessing that specific detail," he answered honestly. "I gathered as much," Amara returned, trying not to sound too smug. "I've just one more question, Captain. Were you aware that due to their binding covenant, Druids are literally incapable of utilizing any form of piercing weapon for violent purposes?" Then she held the ice pick up, making several exaggerated stabbing motions in midair to demonstrate its association with the piercing Class of weaponry. There followed an uncomfortable silence wherein Reginald sought to provide reason for the ignorance of both his guards, and himself. Then he recalled cutting Magnatha off before she could impart something about Druids. In resignation, he covered his hand over his brow in self-disgust. "Umm…no. I wasn't." "Yes, I rather thought that might be the case." At this point, Merfee turned to face away from both Amara and Reginald. Things were looking up for Jester, but openly expressing mirth at the Captain's embarrassment would hardly expedite the situation. "Well… It would appear that a mistake has been made, yes?" Reginald offered with a sheepish grin.

"So it would seem," Amara replied, showing signs of her own impatience. Then the Captain's posture seemed to stiffen, as if something disturbing had just occurred to him. "I say! I do hope this little misunderstanding doesn't generate any negative effect on our Alliance." "Enlightenment may forgive ignorance, Captain, but to do so would depend," she intoned expectantly. "Depend?" asked Reginald, failing to glean her meaning. "Well, Captain, to be perfectly honest, I suppose I was hoping you might see your way clear to releasing our Ambassador," she replied calmly. Merfee's shoulders began to twitch, as if he were attempting to hold back tears. "Yes, yes of course. I will take care of that immediately, and I assure you, I will do everything in my power to make this up to our most esteemed Spurious brethren," he concluded quickly with a deep bow of respect. As he passed Merfee, he grasped the young man's shoulder. "Stiff upper lip, lad. Your friend is as good as free." When the Captain was out of sight, Amara spoke up. "And as for you!" she intoned sternly. Merfee faced her, lips drawn tight, face reddened, and eyes watering. "Yes, mistress?" His voice cracked. "Please go outside before you explode." "Yes, mistress." *** Jester had remained unconscious until after he had been roughly thrown through the cell door, which then slammed shut with a resounding report that echoed throughout the entire corridor. Even then, he had only stirred, and slowly reached both hands up to brace his pounding head where he had bounced off several somewhat solid wooden chairs during his capture, and then bounced again as he landed on the cell's wafer-thin mattress, which reposed on the cell's three-foot thick stone floor. Of course, one might argue that to be captured, one must first be of a mind to escape. In the split second after withdrawing the pick and getting mowed down by the guards, it would appear that the opportunity to mastermind anything, elaborate or otherwise, had passed him by. He groaned, and then began to lose consciousness again. Fortunately, the guard who had been left behind personally to attend him was quick to provide a very potent stimulus in the form of a bucket full of some rather questionable, liquid-like substance. As the foul stench embraced him, splashing him first in the face, then on most of his upper torso, he came alive, and scrambled back against the cell bars, where he fell again as the impact knocked the wind out of him. When he was finally able to fill his lungs with air, the stench re-registered and he came to his feet, braced against the bars while retching violently. The friendly guard, who had just assisted him, seemed to find this most amusing. He was even more amused when Jester had finally regained a sufficient measure of self-control to attempt casting a healing spell on himself, only to have his spell fail as the cell block's ward of magic countered the attempt. Minor as his injuries were, being without immediate remedy for them, he was forced to endure the discomforts provided him so graciously by his host. This appeared to be of no real hardship for the

guard, who was quite content to continue watching him alternate between gagging, and then grimacing from the pain of gagging, which further served to fuel his headache. After becoming exhausted by this vicious cycle, he at last regained a measure of composure. As soon as he was able, he attempted to appeal to his jailor, "There has been a mistake!" he croaked. He would have done so sooner, but this was the first opportunity he had been afforded to speak since attempting to advise the now deceased Magistrate of his introduction. "Surely," agreed the guard, quickly jabbing the butt-end of his spear through the bars, which shot forward, poking Jester in the stomach with sufficient force to slam him back against the bars again while doubling him over as yet a new abdominal spasm sought to empty contents he no longer possessed. After several more minutes of this repeat performance, he began to recover yet again. Though almost too weak to respond, he turned to look in the direction of an odd sound, emanating from the cell next to his. Sometime during Jester's last bout of gastric expulsion, the Dwarf had risen from several days of broken slumber. Though now sober, he was currently experiencing an ancient ritual, common amongst the inebriated, but one to which he had long since become accustomed, and which, also by coincidence, closely resembled Jester's latest episode. Presently, the little man began to cast about as if in search of something. This continued for several moments, until he finally looked in Jester's direction and located what he had so diligently sought. The little fellow scowled, and then quickly jumped upon his bunk, which was directly adjacent to Jester's cell. He then rammed his entire arm through the bars, pointing at what he knew was his possession while growling through clenched teeth, "That's my bucket, you blasted tree-hugger!" Jester glanced vacantly at the furious Dwarf. His reasoning had become somewhat clouded and it took a moment longer than usual to register the Dwarf's livid directive. After a few more seconds, he began to piece together the fragmented information surrounding the Dwarf's ravings. "Well, it looks as if it's time for my break," the guard informed his guests with a menacing grin. "I hope you don't get too lonely. Maybe you'll have visitors while I'm gone," he concluded while closing the door behind him. At this point the Dwarf was preparing to commence a proper demonstration of dissatisfaction in the accommodations when a murmuring wafted in through the outer door. His attention was drawn away from the Druid, who was currently staring at the bucket in question as if grasping something of dire import. Then the outer door burst open, fairly slamming against the stone wall as a number of very angrylooking Humans filed into the room, each sporting a particular blunt weapon which was more often used as a means of crowd control than combat. The small, club-like instruments were tightly wrapped in leather and hung loosely at the end of a short leather thong. Back home, his Dwarven brethren referred to this small club as a Shillelagh, and it was reputed to have a center core of lead, or sometimes nickel. Here, in this part of the world, it was more commonly known as a Blackjack, but no matter what it was called, it was never the herald of good news. Crumly slowly withdrew his arm, and then backed away to the other side of his own cell. Once there, he turned away, cowering in a direction that did not afford him a view of what he felt sure was to come. Though he would be relieved to learn he was not to be the target of their anger, he would still find no pleasure in what was to follow.

"So, you're the sorry bastard of a half-breed what killed our Magistrate!" drawled the leader of the Vigilante group. Up to this point, Jester had remained oblivious to most of what transpired about him. He had been preoccupied, pushing his battered brain to piece together what would have ordinarily been obvious. Then, somewhere in the distance, or perhaps naught but a few feet away, someone was speaking, though Jester could not quite make out what they were saying. He was too busy with the rising revulsion generated as all the pieces were finally fitting together. The foul substance now adorning his entire upper body, including his hair, face, and ears, had come from the very same bucket now laying upturned on the floor of his cell-the self-same bucket that had been claimed by the Dwarf, who needed it for no other purpose than to house the only substance in all the world that might come close to… "Did you hear me?" shouted the Vigilante, now only centimeters from Jester's face. Jester opened his eyes, wide with alarm, and not in reference to the angry people about him, or even the really angry man who now hovered just in front of his face. No, Jester's alarm was due to the realization that his stomach was not quite as empty as he previously thought-a fact soon to register on the unfortunate Vigilante as well. *** Reginald had just sent a full Detail to the Garrison with specific orders to liberate Ambassador Thistle with all haste. He was about to return to Elder Ironwood, to further reinforce his apologetic sincerity, when he witnessed something almost as upsetting as learning that he had jailed an innocent man. Another Detail was just arriving. However, these men weren't supposed to be here. They were all attached to Mistress Bane for the entire evening. Reginald was just about to reprimand each of them for abandoning their posts when he saw their faces. They were all haggard, as if they had been on a forced march, or perhaps had been running hard for several miles through the city's winding streets. They came to a halt, but remained at attention while the Sergeant rushed over to Reginald. "You had better have an exceptionally good reason for deserting your post, Sergeant!" he snapped, prepared to allow the man a reasonable opportunity for said explanation, but reserving the right to lower the boom if his account came up short of reasonable. The soldier drew a breath to answer, but was cut off by a deafening explosion that rocked the very foundation of the building. This was followed by a sudden rush of war cries. More upsetting than anything else was that the cries were in Dark Speech. *** As per Mistress Ironwood's instruction, Merfee stepped outside to regain his composure. He knew she wasn't really angry with him, but her point was well taken. The Humans were a sensitive lot, easily upset when it comes to such things as humor. In retrospect, he supposed that he should have been more sensitive to the loss of their Magistrate. Still, he was now the father of the most beautiful baby girl in all the world, and husband to the most beautiful woman in the world. His good friend Jester was to be exonerated and most assuredly restored to his position as Ambassador. He just couldn't help it. Tonight he felt as if he were all of two meters tall and walking on air without levitation.

The night air had been fresh, and watching the stars had always given him a sense of renewal. It was so pleasant that he decided to take advantage of its healing quality, so he exited via the North Gate. He strolled along, watching the incandescent Moon beetles marching in their crisscrossed patterns, no doubt either searching for food, or building materials for their nests. It was that season. In a relatively short period of time, he covered a goodly distance without even noticing. Then he paused to sniff a particularly inviting patch of wild flowers, only to discover that it was not quite so inviting as he had imagined. There was a whiff of something…perhaps naught but imagination. Beetles were known to excrete fumes similar to… No! I smell Dark elves! Oh, Natura! I smell thousands ! He wheeled back toward the distant Arbitos gates to witness a line of Dark-elf infantry hugging the Northeast wall, and then winding around the corner as the endless column continued to flow in from the Lowlands to the northeast. The remote light over that horizon, greenish-gold and perhaps as wide as a hundred meters, could only represent the combined efforts of as many Wizards, their collective gate providing the requisite mass to accommodate an envisioned magnitude no less than that of the very invasion now before him. His attention shot back to the Northeast wall just as a number of casters, no doubt the same Wizards, simultaneously bombarded the city wall with giant fireballs. The wall literally exploded inward. What stone was not immediately affected by the explosion itself was yet burned away by the residual Wizard Fire as it continued to incinerate. He was now effectively cut off, unable to join the Arbitos forces. Then it struck him. What if Arbitos wasn't their only target? He instantly bolted southward. He would have prayed, but he couldn't think straight. He had a hard enough time just keeping his eyes clear enough to keep running. The tears of mind-numbing fear just kept flowing. He ran, his legs pumping as if each step might be the difference between life and death. After a time, his breathing became ragged, and still he continued to push with all he had. His legs began to burn, as did the air in his lungs, and still he pushed. After what seemed an eternity, his heart, which already felt as if it might burst from his chest, began to beat with an irregular rhythm. After another eternity, it began to loose what felt like bolts of lightning throughout his body, and still he pushed. At last, he cleared the final hill to view the elevated northern grove that housed the Spurious community. In racing toward the base of its upward incline, he was suddenly struck by a dark figure as they fell together to land within a stand of bushes. Merfee's thoughts were almost completely incoherent now. He did on some level realize that his life was about to end here, and knowing this would have been a great relief to him, for it would end the fire now raging in his mind and body. And yet, all he had left was an overpowering sense of regret at having failed his family-members when they needed him the most. When at last his heart stopped beating, though he could produce no sound, he yet mouthed his beloved daughter's name, and then began to close his weary eyes. Then there came a brilliant blue aura. ***

As per her promise to the Sergeant, Delphi had finally backtracked her way to the Garrison. She would complete her agreement with him by returning to her quarters until he sent word of her secured permission to join the War Council. She had just placed her hand on the door-lever when another door at the other end of the hall burst open, and a number of civilian-garbed men raced through, to exit the Garrison by the same way she had just entered. They hadn't even noticed her. She still intended to keep her promise, but first she would investigate this odd business. She walked down the hall and peered down the steps to the lower tier, remembering that this led back to her first accommodations. It led back to the cell next to that… Dwarf. A shiver ran through her at the thought of the horrid little man. Against her better judgment, she descended to the prison area. If the men she had just witnessed were part of a prison break, she should report it as soon as possible. Then it struck her. Where were all the guards? She hadn't seen any on her way in, and this entire section appeared deserted as well. She did not like this at all. Something felt very wrong. Then she was beset by yet another alarming thought. The second flare! The Garrison was second in priority to strike. This was actually rather strange, considering the Garrison's fortifications. Furthermore, it was located near the center of the city. How could it be second to strike when there was no way to reach it without fighting through the majority of Arbitos forces? *** Magnatha had pushed her outrage aside. For the moment, she must concentrate upon the business at hand. Still, it had been simply deplorable. There was absolutely no one at his post. Perhaps they had rallied to the pavilion when they heard about the Assassination. The very idea of such a complete disregard for duty was unthinkable. Regi would never allow such an infraction to occur. Then, upon entering the main foyer, she had immediately grown aware of the clamor from below. It had taken no great deduction to realize what it was. She had heard those chaotic tones many times during her career. It was the unmistakable sound of an angry mob. Knowing the Garrison as well, or better than anyone else alive, she had also known where the shouts were emanating. They were in the lower tier, where Jester would have been taken. She had made her way down to the cells as quickly as possible, her first instinct being to rend the rabble of their useless lives. But the distance traversed from pavilion to Garrison had drained her considerably, and her reduced progress from foyer to cells afforded sufficient time to realize just who and where she was. She would not profane these hallowed walls by lowering herself to the mob's mentality. Instead, when she reached them, she merely drove them off of him, and then ran them out of the lower Garrison altogether. It hadn't really been that difficult. After she cracked the first one across the face, thereby breaking his jaw, the others were reluctant to be next in line. She wasn't sure if they had taken flight because they feared her, or because they feared that the guards would return. Perhaps they couldn't bring themselves to strike an old woman, though she doubted the latter. They didn't strike her as morally burdened. He lay askew in the corner, much like a discarded marionette with one arm hanging through the bars and draped across the lower cross beam at an odd angle, obviously broken. She could see many places where he had received multiple blows and kicks, though he was so completely covered in a noxious combination of blood and filth, it was all but impossible to view all of his injuries.

She was reluctant to move him for fear of worsening his condition. Ultimately, she had no choice. Mobs were unpredictable things, and she couldn't be certain that they wouldn't screw up the courage for another try. She cast about, searching for some means to get him out of this place. She would have carried him if she could, but her legs were barely capable of holding her own weight anymore. Ya feeble old hag! she cursed herself. She pulled the mattress to her and positioned it on the floor beside him. Then she carefully pulled his arm back through the bars. At this, he stirred restlessly in response to the pain. "I know, Grub. I'm here now. I know," she soothed in a tone not offered since he was four and had scraped his knee while scuffling with Cleetis. In due course, she allowed herself a brief moment to recover. She sat on the stone floor, resting her back against the bars. *** Merfee opened his eyes, and as his vision cleared, he saw Nefari's beautiful face form over his as the effects of her wolf-form faded, at which point she fell upon him, showering his face with both kisses and tears. "I thought you were dead!" she cried. He managed a smile, and then dropped it quickly. "Aqua is just fine," she assured him. *** Voices wafted through the dark corridors as she descended. When she reached the outer cells, she stopped. Something else now reached her ears. It was as if something was being dragged over the stone floor. As it drew closer, she concealed herself and waited. *** After positioning most of his body over the makeshift gurney, she found herself nearing true exhaustion. In truth, she was no longer entirely certain if what remained of her resources would be enough. Then again, there really wasn't anything to be done about it. We do what we can, she thought in consolation. The rest be up to Fate. With that, she got to her feet, with both knees popping almost loudly enough to drown out her grunt of exertion. Finally, she ran each of her canes through the cloth loops on either side of the mattress, and then grasped the canes firmly in each hand and began to pull. She had no more than dragged him outside his cell when the occupant of the next cell spoke up. "Release me, and I'll help you drag him out." She stopped and peered through the bars at the prisoner. "Mind yer own business, shorty. This ain't no jailbreak. This man be innocent." "Ya know? That's just what I said. They didn't seem to believe me either." She was about to ignore the little man altogether when he mentioned the one thing that she couldn't afford to overlook. "You sure do look awful tuckered out there, Granny."

*** Borin wiped the blade on Crimsin's tunic, and then sheathed the dagger in the belt of his robes as he stood. He next walked over to the other two fallen figures. He knelt down, grabbed a handful of hair and raised the dead man's head up to the torchlight. It was just as he had feared. Clawtorn was not alone in her treachery. He knew this man. His regular post was near the docks. He worked mostly with Customs, checking for known suspects in smuggled goods. "That's Major Korbet!" Marcus shouted, still descending the drainage-pipe of the building behind Selina. Borin wheeled about, flipping the dagger and catching the blade before catching himself. "Blast you, Marc! I came damn close…" "You always were a bit jumpy, ole boy," Marcus snickered. "You go ahead and laugh it up, but we have traitors in the ranks!" "So I gathered." Marcus sobered. Then he dropped the last quarter of the pipe's length, landing on his feet and clapping dust from his hands. "Incidentally, you're welcome," he said, kneeling by Selina, and lifting her head onto one knee. "What?" Borin asked, dropping the traitor's head back to the cobbles. "Oh yes, that. Er…thanks," he offered casually. "Well, don't hurt yourself or anything." "What? I said thanks." "Both of you! Shut up!" Selina exclaimed, and then grasped her head from the pain she had just inflicted on herself. "Ahh, the fair Princess doth awaken," Marcus crooned. She looked up to realize that he was cradling her head. Considering their last conversation, she did not find this act of kindness particularly comforting. "Can you sit?" he asked. "I think so," she replied with uncertainty, and with his assistance came to a sitting position. She then grabbed her head with both hands again. "Anyone got an aspirin spell?" "Huh?" "What?" "Aww, never mind." "She needs a Cleric. She was talking like that a few minutes ago, too." "Hmm, isn't that Selina's dagger you have there, ole boy?" Selina's hands shot immediately from her head to her bosom, whereupon the unaccustomed disarray in which she discovered herself suggested the definite possibility of a completely different form of foul play.

Borin delivered Marcus an expression that seemed to imply that he might be considering the Lieutenant as an additional candidate for traitor. Then he noticed Selina's outstretched hand, along with her own expression of angry expectation. "Oh! Yes…of course," he stammered, quickly returning her dagger. *** "Madam? I assure you, I need not be bound to this contraption like some beast of burden!" he insisted while struggling against the ropes that tied him to the cane-yoke. "Shut yer yap, shorty. Ya got just one job, and that's to pull. If'n I want yer opinion, I'll be sure to smack ya upside yer skull." "Well, I never!" he intoned with indignity. "Halt or die," a stoical voice commanded from the darkness ahead. Crumly obeyed without hesitation, but Magnatha was not so easily balked. She casually sidestepped to the front of the gurney, thereby standing between Jester and whoever might be about the business of doing him further harm. This was either one of those worthless guards, finally returning to his abandoned post, or the vanguard of the mob coming back to finish the job. She wasn't sure which, but whoever he was, he had an oddly muddled accent. "And who doth wag his tongue with such decree from yon vantage of obscurity's dark and faintly refuge?" she asked in the full idiom of her forefathers. If they were guards, they should at least recognize her usage of Elder Homidris, otherwise it would not matter. She might spare a guard who showed some honor, but a mob deserved no quarter. Still, the reply was nothing she had expected. "Tis but one of no repute, nor consequence, save that of immutable devotion to mine ally. And lo, even in pitch doth mine eye bear his witness as clearly as day, as clearly as he hath been made thy fallen victim, and would be thy captive, but for this dagger I grasp whose blade doth itch to bear ill upon such throats that dare bear such wicked blood." Delphi had disguised her voice by lowering it, and further by suppressing her Dark accent. She wasn't certain how effective this would be, but the less her opponents knew of her, the better. Then the villain had spoken in an ancient dialect of Homidris. This was no particular challenge since all dialects of this region had been part of her early curriculum for Heartrot's Quest. Still, she was surprised to come across anyone who actually spoke it. What the shadow had said was completely unexpected. Aside from her astonishment at hearing someone other than herself speaking such words, the circumstances surrounding the Magistrate's death was such as no guard would call himself Jester's ally. Neither would the vigilantes. She talkin bout the runt? Magnatha looked speculatively at the Dwarf, who, according to her nose, had just soiled himself. In response, he looked back up at her with bloodshot eyes, and then both belched and passed gas loudly. "I pray thee. What name hast thine ally?" "He is the goodly Jesterwolf Thistle, newly appointed Ambassador to Spurious Grove, as if such hath escaped thee," answered the shadow incredulously. Magnatha was unsure what to believe. Obviously, this was neither guard nor Vigilante. "If thou art truly mine Kinsman's confederate, then let thy shadow fall, that we shall look, one upon the other, and if fate so wills it, be well met."

Kinsman? After a long and tense moment, Delphi stepped from the shadows. She still had a firm grip on the dagger, but she had placed it back within its sheath. "Jester never spoke to me of family, if in fact you are his kin," she began. "But… I suppose if you weren't such, then you wouldn't know to test my ignorance." She wasn't entirely certain of her logic, but the only alternative would be to kill this woman. In respect and consideration of Jester's value of family, and perhaps her own newly acquired sense of such import, this was not an acceptable risk. *** Merfee sat bolt upright. "Spurious! Are they…" "Dead…all dead," she intoned with great sorrow. "There were so many. It was over in mere minutes. Then they headed back toward that light," she indicated the giant portal on the distant horizon. "We should look for survivors," he began. "No! No, my Love. You don't want to go in there." "But…" "There's nothing left. Nothing but…" she looked away, unable to articulate a description of the carnage. *** "Hold the line!" shouted the Master Sergeant as the latest rush against his section of defense threatening to end what remained of his command. Had it not been for the Rangers' unexpected reinforcement, the line would have already collapsed. But now, with half his people either dead or too severely wounded to fight, the possibility of a breach was rapidly becoming a solid possibility, yet again. "Company C, reporting for duty, milord!" The Sergeant wheeled about, thoroughly expecting to find proper reinforcements. What he saw was nothing but a smallish man leading perhaps two-dozen unarmored civilians. "Stand aside, Citizen! You're in military zoning. Nothing for you here, but death." The little man stood his ground, staring back at the soldier through thickly rimmed spectacles and a defiant scowl. "Company C, Arbitos Reserves, reporting for duty, milord!" he repeated in a loud and resolute voice. "You tell him, Eggbert!" affirmed a spindly woman in the Company's ranks. The Sergeant glanced briefly at the woman in question. She was perhaps four hundred summers and all of ninety pounds, but she had prompted similar responses from the majority of her peers: a menagerie of short, fat, skinny, flabby, and placid-looking civilians. Still, he was running low on troops, and these people were obviously patriots. "Well…can any of you fight?" he asked, whereupon the woman who had so vigorously supported Eggbert's adamant stand, promptly fainted dead away. "Heavens, no!" Eggbert replied with an appalled expression. "We're Company C." "Yes! I know! You've said that twice already…" "C stands for Cleric." "Cleric?

"Well…we are not quite a complete Company, milord," Eggbert included, shifting his gaze nervously, unwilling or unable to make eye contact. "We seem have a straggler, but I'm sure he's on his way…I think." "Bah! Precious Perdil won't show!" shouted a chubby teen near the back. "Last I saw, he was heading for the docks." "You just pipe down back there, Bub!" intoned Eggbert, his hands planted firmly on both hips to illustrate his authority. "No, Eggy, he's right. Perdil is a coward," the woman who had fainted said in a subdued voice while regaining her feet with the help of her friends. "Agnes!" Eggbert reproached. "He's your own Nephew!" "It doesn't matter anymore, Eggy," she smiled weakly. "As long as you and I can stand side by side, healing our brave soldiers, then nothing else matters." "Oh, Agnes!" crooned Eggbert. "Oh, Eggy!" "Oh, brother!" exclaimed Bub. "Right, then!" shouted the Master Sergeant. "Cleric Company is now attached to A-Sector! We've got injured soldiers out there, people! I want every last one of you on the line, now!" "Yes, milord!" Eggbert shouted out proudly, and snapping to attention as Agnes gazed upon him with unabashed adoration. "Company, march!" Eggbert commanded, prompting the odd little group of brave civilians to tend to the business of healing soldiers. I may become ill, thought the Sergeant wearily. *** "Blast!" "I am sorry, milord. We're doing the best we can with what we have." "Send six men to run a sweep through the city. I want every soldier to the front! Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, milord. Right away, milord." "Captain!" Amara shouted, over the War cries, death cries, and general Melee. Reginald turned toward the sound of her voice, and then bolted forward, catching her just before she fell. He beheld a deep gash along her left cheek, as she dropped into his arms. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the fabric of her bodice around the shoulder had been burned away, along with a good portion of flesh. "Private!" he shouted. "Yes, milord." "Get a healer!" "No!" Amara shouted. "You can't. There's a shortage of healers already. If you pull even one of them off the line, you'll kill dozens. Besides, that is not why I'm here."

"What then, milady?" he asked gently. She didn't seem to realize that she had collapsed into his arms. "I'm out of blasted…arrows! Need more…arrows…" she exclaimed hoarsely, her words trailing off as if she were losing her power of concentration. Reginald glanced back to the line. Most of the other Rangers had already exhausted their ammunition and had joined with the infantry. What remained of the Spurious archers were but a sparse handful, scattered about the outlining fringe of the battle proper. There had been a surge of hope when several groups of civilian reserves arrived to act as a buttress to the waning lines of defense. These were primarily support in the natural arts, such as Clerics, Druids, and the like. The occasional Retired Paladin and Warrior also arrived, fully prepared to give what remained of their lives in exchange for one last glorious battle. Unfortunately, that hope had been all too brief. The Dark-elf forces simply continued to flow in, seemingly inexhaustible. It was as if every ounce of Arbitos resources had been foreseen, and then factored into their preparation. He cradled the older woman in his arms, holding her hand up, while examining the bloody fingers that had been loosing arrow after arrow, until her very flesh had given way to the bowstring's wear. "They need me," she insisted in a distant, drifting tone. "No, milady," Reginald offered gently as the blood flowing from the back of her sweat-drenched hair dripped from the back of his hand. "Your work is all but done, I fear." Her eyes, which had begun to wander, refocused as she struggled to regain lucidity. She managed to meet his eyes, and his grievous expression confirmed that for which she searched.

Chapter Six-There Goes The Neighborhood Their return had been uneventful. Upon materializing at the Hub, they were even fortunate enough to find yet another Druid who was willing to escort them back to camp. Reaching the camp itself had been another matter. As they drew near, the sounds of battle reached them from over the rise. Then an arrow from out of the darkness struck the Druid in the chest, dropping him where he stood. *** "Has anyone seen Dobin and Reanna?" he shouted while winding through the huddled survivors. "Haven't seen them, Cleetis," an old woman replied wearily, and then continued to administer first aid to another of the fallen Tarots. "Reanna! Dobin!" he continued to call. "What's happened to Mama and Dobi?" Tuda whimpered, the fear and uncertainty in her voice nearing that of her father's. "Oh, I'm sure they're just fine," Ezlea soothed, pulling Tuda closer. "I bet they're with Nere and Huey." "Where are Nere and Huey?" Tuda asked, not at all comforted by the effort, especially since both of the oversized Tarots were last seen holding off the brunt of Dark-elves in order to facilitate everyone else's escape. *** "Nanna? She's scrubbing too hard!" he exclaimed as her cane shoved him back to the ground beside the fountain. "Ow! Uh, stop it!" "Oh, hush up! It's just clean water." "He will be fine, though a good night sleep wouldn't hurt," concluded the slender Cleric as he looked toward the southeast. "I thank thee kindly, milord," intoned Magnatha sincerely, doing her best to perform a curtsy, but settling for a quick nod when her knees refused to comply. "And I," added Jester while attempting but failing to evade Delphi's endeavors. "And I," Delphi added, kneeling beside Jester with a cheerful expression as she continued to scrub. "And I would like to be untied now!" Crumly exclaimed indignantly. "Well, then, I suppose I should be reporting for duty," said the Cleric. "Duty?" Magnatha asked. "Yes, milady. I am in the reserves. My unit Commander stopped by my home on his way to the front. I've been ordered to report…" "What front?!" inquired Magnatha and Jester in unison. "Oops," said Delphi. "There is something I forgot to mention."

*** Reginald pulled a gold chain from around his neck and placed it on Amara's chest. The private, who had been scanning the front with a spyglass, now glanced down at the pendant. The Captain had given her his own Congressional Talisman of Glory. Then he removed his outer robe and draped it reverently over her body. Reginald held the shrouded figure's hand for several moments. He supposed he could have lied to her… let her pass gently. He could have, but no Hero should ever be so deceived. When his time came, which could indeed be quite soon, judging by the bad way this battle was turning, he only hoped he could match her Valor. Certainly, he could not surpass it. Returning to the spyglass, the Private caught sight of something startling. "Captain? I think you'd better take a look at this," he intoned seriously. Reginald got to his feet, took the spyglass, and then scanned the direction the Private indicated. At first, he could only make out the overall battle, as though it were an indivisible melding of interlocked combatants. The melee of opposing infantry comprised the main body of conflict. This was accompanied by scattered volleys from what few organized Rangers remained. Unfortunately, as the Rangers' ammunition dwindled, the Casters of both opposing forces were brought forward in order to fill that tactical gap. The effective result of various spells, ranged from explosive, burning, freezing, and sometimes electrifying offence to the buffering and healing defense, formed an overall chaotic display of conflicting fireworks that slowly but surely worked its way south, into the city's interior. Then he discovered what had prompted the Private's concern. A small group of Arbitos soldiers were running straight north. They had already crossed the enemy line, and had yet to encounter resistance. A Dark-elf woman seemed to be leading them. She carried a banner, raised high, and waved it expansively as they progressed. The flag itself bore no special design, but was simply the blood-red shade of the Empire's Allegiance. Upon closer inspection, he recognized more than a few among their migration, and several of these were carrying someone else: someone bearing an uncomfortably similar resemblance to the missing Colonel. They crossed behind a stationary line of mounted beetles, seemingly unnoticed by the Darkelf riders whose attentions were focused on the battle proper. Reginald quickly pushed the implication back. He wanted to find some other explanation. "Traitors!" exclaimed the Private when he witnessed the appalled expression on the Captain's face. "Hold your tongue, boy," Reginald shot back. "We can't know for sure…" "Oh, yes, we can." Reginald jerked about, facing the new arrivals. "Borin!" he exclaimed, his expression momentarily brightening as he dropped the spyglass and grabbed his son by both shoulders. Borin smiled patiently. "Ahem," coughed the Private. "Er…yes. Quite right," Reginald intoned, quickly reassuming a more official bearing. "I am afraid there are a number of our own Garrison soldiers who may have enlisted to serve our enemy," he reported gravely as he bent to retrieve the spyglass. "There's no might about it," Selina said flatly, still bracing her aching head, which was all the evidence she personally required.

"Ahh, Corporal Valorous," Reginald brightened, only now noticing her. "And Lieutenant Goodfellow as well. I am so relieved to see both of you are all right." "It's true, milord. We had something of a run-in with the Colonel, and her dishonored following," Marcus added. Reginald's previous expression of anger returned upon this confirmation. "Not to mention the Dis'Errant who was with them," Selina volunteered. "It would appear that you three have already been to battle," Reginald observed as he returned his attention to the Private, and then leaned, speaking in his ear while pointing in a southwesterly direction. "Not yet, but we intend to," Borin confirmed with a hard grin. "…and hurry," he concluded as the Private took off running in the direction indicated. "I think not," the Captain countered. "This information sheds a different light on matters." "What do you mean, Father?" "Mistress Bane sent word that she intercepted information which would indicate a more elaborate strike than what we are currently enduring. If the information is accurate, then I am afraid this new revelation leaves us with little choice but to evacuate the city." "You can't be serious!" Borin voiced in disbelief, reluctant to accept what he was hearing. "The report initially indicated three main targets," Reginald continued. "We are standing at the first. The others included the Docks, and the Garrison, and the majority of men I just witnessed carrying Clawtorn across enemy lines were personnel whose assignments centered around both of the purported latter targets. That tells me one thing. The second and third signals reported by Mistress Bane weren't targets at all. They were meant to mark areas to be spared: areas of no military import." "That's no reason to just give up the city!" Borin countered. "No. The Captain's right," Marcus offered. "If that much of our overall force has already been infiltrated, then we have no way of knowing how far the corruption actually spreads. One of the men I killed wasn't even assigned to those areas. He walked a beat in an entirely different sector." "Can no one be trusted, then?" Borin asked rhetorically. "From what we now know, anyone you've sent into battle could easily backstab the people whose backs they are supposed to be protecting," Selina added. "Which means you have no way of knowing exactly how much of your remaining force remains loyal." "Except they are far less loyal than when the battle started," supplied Marcus. "Quite so," Reginald sighed. "The stones of a city are nothing compared to the lives therein," Marcus quoted. Borin paused, as if experiencing an inner conflict. He scanned the scene of carnage before him, yearning to engage the invaders. Then he looked back over his shoulder and scanned the city. How many thousands would die, were the wrong choices to be made! "Right, then," he said, walking over to a fallen guardsman, and then kneeling as he commenced to remove the dead man's armor. "Aaack!" exclaimed Selina. "How can you do that?" Borin glanced up at her, noting her expression of morbid revulsion, and then returning to the task of stripping the corpse. "He doesn't need it anymore. Besides, I'm not about to retreat while wearing a gown. That's just too much to ask."

"The only viable answer is to warn the Citizens," Reginald intoned with conviction. "After that, we fall back…and abandon Arbitos." *** Magnatha gave him an expectant look. It was the same type of warning signal she had always given her children when they had committed some infraction of manners. He couldn't count the times she had shot that expectant prompting at him for having placed his elbows on the table. "What?" he silently mouthed while shrugging. Rather than offering a verbal explanation, she simply intensified her expression of irritated expectation as her eyes kept shifting to the Cleric. Then it finally dawned on him. "Wait!" he shouted as the man resumed his efforts to report to duty. "Yes?" asked the man, turning to see what Jester wanted. Rather than offer, Jester simply commenced casting. The man was showered in Shield of Cambium, Ursan Strength, and Essence of Canis. Rather than offer words of thanks, the man simply bowed at the waist, illustrating both his appreciation and his respect. As he turned southward to once again continue on his way, there came a high-pitched howling that seemed to emanate from all directions. "What is it?" Delphi shouted over the deafening resonance. "It's the evacuation alarm!" Magnatha replied. "We have to make our way to one of the portal stations!" shouted the Cleric. "There's a supply of emergency gate potions, maintained for just such a contingency." "I'll just port us all back to Wiccaris!" Jester shouted. Before he could begin, Delphi caught his arm. "We can't leave yet!" *** "You might as well come in, Goren," Tobar said in a casual tone. Goren slipped into his grandfather's library, obviously disappointed. "How did you know I was there?" "I heard you breathing. I heard the stairs creaking. I even heard you stub your toe." "I'm never going to be a proper Rogue," sighed Goren heavily. Tobar glanced over his spectacles to note Goren's staring ruefully down at the offending digit. "May I ask what you're doing out of bed at this hour?" "I couldn't sleep." "I see," said Tobar shortly, before returning to his research. Goren stepped over and sat in the same chair that Delphi had occupied earlier. Presently, he began to thumb through a large selection of open sheath scrolls that listed ancient Rogue Quests according to skill level. He continued to do this for several minutes, pretending to be interested in the numerous writs. "I didn't realize that you were so fascinated with Elder Homidris," Tobar remarked casually.

"I can read it," Goren replied indignantly. "Oh, well, excuse me. I had no idea how well versed you are," Tobar crooned. Goren glanced up, proffering a quick scowl before returning his studious attention to the scrolls. "I understand…some of it," he insisted. "I mean, most of the words make sense. It's just the way they're put together. Why did people talk like that?" "I don't suppose you might be just a bit nervous concerning your impending first class with Master Bane?" "No," Goren drawled with exasperation, but without removing his attention as he continued to concentrate on the index of Quests. "Hmmm." Several more minutes passed while Goren continued to riffle through scroll after scroll. Presently, he stopped, and then sat back in his own chair, in much the same fashion as his grandfather, only his feet didn't quite reach the floor. "Well, maybe a little." "What's that?" Tobar asked, pretending to have returned to his tome. "Nervous," Goren confirmed with a hint of exasperation. Several more minutes passed as Tobar continued his reading. Finally, he returned the book to its position on the shelves behind his desk. While looking through another group of reference scrolls, he nonchalantly mentioned, "You know, I seem to recall your mother having a similar dilemma." "She was nervous about something?" "Ahh…no." Several more minutes passed. "What then?" Goren finally asked, just short of shouting. "What's that?" Tobar asked, seeming to have forgotten. Goren's scowl had become much more pronounced as his effort to keep his temper became something of a strain. "What dilemma did my mother have that was similar?" "Oh, that." "Yes, that," Goren repeated through his teeth while rolling his eyes. Tobar turned to face his grandson. "Well, as I recall, she was perhaps the clumsiest student I ever had, especially when she was around ten summers of age." "Really?" "Quite. As a matter of fact, I remember one time when she was practicing simple poison application, and accidentally dumped an entire liter of distilled Nightshade. The rest of the class was simply livid with the poor girl. They had to finish out the course with snake venom, one gland at a time." "No." Goren intoned incredulously. "Oh, yes indeed," Tobar intoned reassuringly. "It was really quite a sight, all those youngsters scrambling about the grounds of North Arbitos in search of any poor snake unfortunate enough to blunder within their grasp." At this, Goren's face took on a quizzical expression. "But Mother reached level fifty seven."

"Why, yes, she did, didn't she?" Goren sat back, absorbing the implications for some time. He then abruptly got to his feet and headed out the door. "Where are you going?" "I've got to get some sleep. I have to get up early." "Oh, well, goodnight then," Tobar smiled. *** Goren had just pulled the blanket over his shoulders when he heard the chime denoting a presence at the painting. Ordinarily, he would have raced to see who it was, but his sleep time had already been diminished by several hours. He was determined to be fresh and ready for his first Class with his new Master. Then he heard a number of voices, one of which definitely belonged to Master Bane. He jumped out of bed and bolted for the stairs. As he neared, he could hear the city's evacuation alarm as it finally reached the guild's interior, now that the soundproof painting-door no longer held it out. "No, not until just now!" Tobar shouted with his hands over his ears. "I had no idea we were so well insulated!" "I'll get Goren!" Delphi shouted, while quickly making for the stairwell just as he topped the stairs. She stopped short, motioned him over, and then pulled him to her as she ushered him toward the others. "Is this everyone?" shouted Magnatha. Tobar and Delphi both nodded. Jester prepared for teleport by drawing upon his mana, but rather than opening a portal, all he received was an odd fizzing sound. "What's the matter? Delphi shouted." Jester only shrugged. "I hope you didn't use all of your mana on me!" shouted the Cleric. "Certainly not!" Jester shouted indignantly. "This guild was built over the original Garrison before the shipping lanes opened!" Tobar shouted. "What has that to do with my fizzing?" shouted Jester. "They musta left the old wards behind!" shouted Magnatha. "You mean you don't know for sure?" Jester shouted. "I'm not that old, ya scallywag!" "She's right!" shouted Tobar. "I've seen the original plans!" "It still doesn't make any sense!" Jester shouted. "If wards were blocking my spell, then surely they would have blocked it completely! There would be no fizzing!" "Try to keep in mind that these wards were already several thousand summers old by the time they tore the Garrison down! Even the strongest of warding spells will eventually begin to loose potency!" "Then all you have to do is keep casting until the portal opens, right?" shouted Delphi.

"Maybe, but all this fizzing costs a lot of mana! If I fizz that particular spell again, it will take some time before I can make another attempt! It would be easier simply to step outside!" Magnatha started to slide the door open wider, but stopped. A number of Dark-elves were standing about the gallery's interior. One of them had a dead Human on top of the wet bar's counter, the better to drain the man's blood into tankards from a slit in his throat while a short line of others waited their turn. As the blood-flow first slowed to a dribble, and then stopped altogether, he lifted the Human corpse up to get the last few drops, and then dropped him to the floor. "Sorry, that's all there is!" he shouted apologetically. Then he noticed the opened painting-door, and Magnatha standing in its doorway. She backed into the guild quickly, sliding the door shut as fast as possible. Unfortunately, the closest of the Dark-elves was quicker. He managed to poke his head through the opening just before it slammed shut. Rather than a resounding bang, there came a dull crunching as the door crushed the invader's skull. With the other Dark-elves rushing in from behind, there was no time to dislodge the now defunct Wognix. Instead, Magnatha dropped the bolt down where it was, and then quickly wedged a cane between the bolt and the wall-mount just as a number of Dark elves slammed into the painting. This would at least hold the door in place for the moment. *** {What's going on? You're not too far from having an actual heart attack!} [Oh… We're just…doing… some calisthenics.] {Oh, I see. Whew. For a minute there, I thought you were in trouble again.] "How are we to know if everyone made it out safely?" Borin shouted while running. "There is no way to know for certain!" Marcus shouted. "That's why we installed the alarm system!" shouted Reginald. "By the way!" shouted Selina. "How much longer…are they gonna keep…blaring?" "Not long!" shouted Reginald. They're all linked together by mana crystals that run off the same central mana-cell, but it has a short- lived charge!" "How long is…not long?" Selina shouted, still holding her head as she ran. Just as she completed her question, her answer came, not from Reginald, but from the alarms themselves as they all ceased their resonant discord at the same time. "Thank God," she sighed. "Which one?" Marcus asked. She looked to her left to find that he had run up alongside her. "Huh?" she asked, caught off guard, and then stumbling and almost falling. Marcus quickly grabbed her about the waist, and assisted her to regain her balance. "Thank you," she offered sincerely, and then noticed that his arm was still wrapped about her waist, as she nearly fell again. This time, she came to a full stop while prying herself free of his helpful grasp. "You two had better move it!" Borin shouted from in front of them, though without slowing. They both looked, first to Borin, and then behind them, as that was the direction in which Borin pointed. What they saw was a horde of countless blue Elves heading straight for them at a dead run, each brandishing blades raised high as more and more of their growing numbers poured in from side streets.

As they bolted simultaneously southward, neither Selina nor her would-be champion took the time to verify if the other had taken Borin's advice. *** "We're trapped!" shouted the Cleric hysterically as Goren's eyes grew wide with fear, and he gripped Delphi's hand even tighter. Delphi bared her sharp teeth to the Cleric as she grabbed his collar, jerked his ear to her mouth, and growled, "Hold your tongue, fool! There's a child present!" The Cleric, who was already frightened beyond reason, didn't seem even to hear her. Wide-eyed with fear, he shouted at Jester again. "Quickly, Druid! Port us out of here!" "No!" Magnatha exclaimed. "If he fails again, then we're all as good as dead! Now just calm down!" "We may not be trapped!" Tobar shouted. "How's that?" shouted Magnatha while whacking the knuckles of yet another blue hand, which attempted to snake between the opening of the not quite shut painting-door, and then retreated the way it came before any more bones could be broken. "The aqueduct system!" shouted Jester, remembering stories he had heard about the guild's secret tunnels. "No!" shouted Delphi. That's no good! I know my people! It's the first place they'll secure!" "I didn't mean those tunnels, anyway!" shouted Tobar. At that moment, the city's alarms suddenly shut off. Jester sighed with relief. In spite of the Cleric's restorations, his time with the guards and vigilantes had apparently left him with a dull headache. The absence of the alarms was most welcome, though now they could hear the efforts of the bloodthirsty Elves as they endeavored to break down the door. "What did you mean?" Magnatha asked Tobar in a normal tone. "Hey!" shouted Jester, catching everyone's attention as their expressions implied that they were about to remind him the alarms had ceased. "Where's Chummy…crummy… Where's the blasted Dwarf?" *** For a moment it looked to Crumly as if he might get a chance to bolt out the front door. Of course, there might be more of them waiting outside. On the other hand, there was no reason to believe that would be any worse than remaining cowering where he was. At least out there, I'd be in the open. Might even make it to a portal. Three of the Dark-elves that had been attempting to break through the painting returned to the gallery's display of ornamental armor. They appeared to be looking for something particular, though he knew not what. What he did know was that he had missed his chance to run. Now he was trapped between two groups again. Upon reflection, he doubted that he could have screwed up the courage to run anyway. Crumly, you fool! he cursed himself. You just had to stop for a drink! The scavengers discovered a number of small battleaxes hung near the entrance. They ripped them down, and then returned to the main group. The majority of their own weapons were too light to use

against the secret door. The battleaxes, though old and rusted, and not good for much other than the ornamental purpose suggested by the shop's curator, were still good enough to hack through the doorpainting, given enough time. He wished that he could warn the others. Perhaps I could muster the courage, shout a warning, and then run out the front door before they could react. Then one of the returning Wognix passed close to the wet bar. Crumly withdrew further beneath the bar's cupboard, making himself as small as possible. His eyes shifted wildly as the footsteps came closer, and then passed by. As he calmed down, he considered himself cowering in a dark corner like a frightened animal. And if I survive, what have I preserved? he asked himself, almost as frightened of the answer as he was of the Dark-elves themselves. No! No more hiding behind bars, or bottles! No more drowning in cowardice! I would just as soon be dead! He quickly grabbed a bottle of Gin, and then pulled the torch from the wall while climbing to the top of the bar. "Hey there, you blasted blue devils!" he shouted to gain their attention, succeeding famously as they all turned toward this new and obviously easier source of liquid refreshment. He could see the look in their eyes. He had also seen what they did to the Human. "How ironic," he intoned, a faint smile forming as he raised the bottle. As they all began to move toward him in unison, his smile broadened. This won't be so bad, he thought. At least I've seen my last jail cell. At that moment, the painting slid wide open as Magnatha literally leapt out of the darkness, armed with teeth, canes, and eyes blazing with fury. She had spent a great many summers perfecting her control over the rage. Actual articulation was almost unheard of while in its grip, but she had even managed to overcome that obstacle. "I am a Warrior of Arbitos!" she half hissed, half growled, with saliva running down her chin and blood flowing from her ears and tear ducts. The Dark elves wheeled about, and then hesitated. She was obviously very old, but the expression on the old woman's face was just plain eerie. "Come to me," she crooned pensively, almost like a child desperately calling to some precious little pet she longed to coddle. Then her grin broadened further, offering her victims an even better view of her formidable teeth. At this, several of them actually took a step backwards, until, that is, her display of ferocious rage became somewhat tarnished as her false teeth fell from her mouth. *** {Umm, you might want to think about easing off the Jumping jacks, Mrs. Hoffman. I don't think the template can take much more.} "I…don't think…I can run…much farther," Selina croaked between ragged breaths. "There's the Sea Beetle!" exclaimed Marcus, pointing to the great ship. They continued down the pier until they reached the main entryway. Here, Reginald held up a hand, gesturing for them to come to a stop. Selina seemed more than willing to oblige. "Look," Reginald prompted, pointing toward the ship, and the line of people still waiting to board it. "There must be several hundred on board already!" Borin exclaimed. "Yes," Reginald agreed hastily. "And perhaps that many more waiting." "OK…what now?" Selina asked between breaths.

"Why are you breathing so hard?" Marcus asked. "You'd breathe hard too, if you had just run the entire length of the city in a full corset," intoned Borin with a grin. He stopped grinning when he caught sight of Selina's hard stare. "There is only one thing we can do," Reginald offered resolutely. "I'm almost afraid to ask," Selina intoned wearily. "We make a stand," said Reginald, facing north and equipping Amara's bow. "Sounds like an excellent plan to me." Borin concurred, pulling both swords from the scabbards mounted on his back. "And I," Marcus agreed while equipping both sword and shield. {Are you exercising again?} *** Grins formed on their faces as Magnatha's nose came quite close to resting upon her chin in the absence of her oral prosthetics. Their toothy expressions lasted for only an instant. The Dark-elf farthest from Magnatha dropped to the wooden flooring as the flying bottle of Gin shattered on the back of his head, temporarily drawing the attention of his cohorts, and thus allowing Magnatha time to retrieve her lost denture. They turned once again toward the Dwarf. The old woman could wait, as her bark would appear to be worse than her bite. That's when the Dark-elf farthest from Crumly was struck by a lightning bolt emanating from the darkness beyond the opening of the painting's interior. He too crashed to the floor. They turned once again toward the old woman, who had just reinserted her false teeth. They had not actually witnessed the origin of the attack. They now found themselves reappraising the old woman's prospective bite radius. Their appraisal was to be short lived. Crumly's torch landed on the same Dark-elf whom he had smashed with the Gin bottle, the contents of which now covered his head and soaked into his tunic. In reaction to the torch, said former contents ignited, along with the Dark-elf's screams as he quickly regained consciousness. The writhing, screeching fireball that had once been their comrade then came up from the floor like a Fire Demon arising from a lava pit. They all quickly drew away from him to avoid a similar fate. Crumly bolted forward as the blue crowd parted, thereby opening a clear path, with the exception of the burning Elf himself. When he came to the fiery Wognix, he dropped to the floor and slid, allowing momentum to carry him forward as he shot between the agonized Elf's legs too quickly for the flames to adhere. As he came to rest at Magnatha's feet, he felt yet another twinge of irony. From this vantage, the painting loomed in the background like a giant Tarot card, prophesying a fair parallel to what was now occurring. "Hi ya, Granny!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Get a move on, runt!" she exclaimed while backing quickly into the painting's interior. *** The massive horde was closing fast. She could already see their snarling faces.

"I really hate to be the wet blanket here," intoned Selina nervously, "but there looks to be about a thousand of them, and there's only, one…two…three…four… Yes, four of us!" "Wet blanket?" Marcus asked. "We will die as true Defenders of Arbitos!" Borin proclaimed with a fierce pride that was only to be matched by Reginald's own expression as he gazed at the true Warrior his son had become. "Yes," Marcus agreed, smiling. "It is a fine day to meet the Gods." Not good! [Umm, Doctor Kwibee?] {Hang on, I'll be right with you. There appear to be two massive groups of N.P.C.'s, mixed with players. The largest of the two is heading along a southern route, quite close to your position, while the smaller group is actually shown to be slightly off shore, as if several hundred of them suddenly decided to go swimming at the same time. This is fascinating!} [No…they're on a ship.] {Really? That's rather odd.} [Not really.] *** The first to reach her received the customary noggin-bonking at which she and her canes were so adept. The Elf fell backward into the others, with his eyes crossed and dilated. This also served momentarily to retard the progress of the remaining Dark-elves. Magnatha had resumed her own backward progress into the Rogue Guild, and then suddenly tripped. With her canes being used as both a means of offense and defense, they were not available for their other function. As a result, she found herself tumbling to the floor, where, upon reaching said unscheduled destination, she felt and even heard the unmistakable sensation and sound of the one thing anyone of her age group fears the most about falling. She attempted to sit back up, only to confirm that she had in fact broken her hip. The blue mob had tossed their unresponsive companion to the side, and were already resuming their thirst-quenching Quest that was now centered on the helpless figure of the old Human who had fallen. Abruptly, there came a faint humming. Although several of their number did glance about, the majority overlooked it, as their concentration was on the helpless victim before them. The humming grew, becoming a buzzing that quickly manifested itself as a glowing cloud of some form of swarming, stinging insect, initiating a series of slapping, shaking, jumping, scooting, and general howling among the Dark-elf numbers. Preceded by several failed fizzes, the aura of his successful casting faded. Jester then lunged through the doorway, grasped Magnatha under her arms, and dragged her back toward the guild interior. Just then, one of the Dark-elves who had stood behind the others and just outside of the swarm's range, abruptly leapt forward at the unsuspecting Druid, but was intercepted in midair by Tobar's dagger. He landed in a heap at Tobar's feet as Jester finally pulled Magnatha across the guild's threshold. Tobar turned to assist Jester. As he did this, the heap on the floor rose to its feet, behind the old Rogue, who obscured the injured Dark-elf from the guild's interior. The injured raider pulled the dagger from his shoulder, and prepared to return it to its owner. But just as he was about to insert the blade into the old Rogue's neck, he experienced a sharp, crippling anguish as Goren inserted his own serpentine dagger into the Dark-elf's knee, then attempted to pry the plate of the knee cap loose. The Dark-elf immediately loosed a high-pitched scream while instinctively thrusting his own dagger downward and into his assailant's back. Goren fell to the floor without uttering a sound.

As he withdrew the dagger, he was instantly struck by both of Magnatha's projectile canes, Tobar's spinning back kick, and Jester's bolt of lightning, the combined effort of which centered primarily about the Dark-elf's head and upper torso, which then vaulted him up and back some ten meters to finally fall dead on the other side of his comrades, who were just then beginning to recover from the swarm spell. Delphi, who had only just noticed Goren's figure as it lay on the wooden planks of the Gallery floor, then issued a shattering scream of her own as she rushed to assist Tobar retrieve his grandson. As soon as they all crossed the threshold, Jester slid and bolted the door shut and locked. Delphi glanced about desperately. "Where is the Cleric!" she shouted frantically. Unexpectedly, Goren was then bathed in an incandescent blue aura that continued to pulsate for several seconds after Jester finished casting. After fizzing twice more, he followed this with a renewal spell, and then finally collapsed against the wall. His mana was spent, and so was he. Goren slowly opened his eyes to see Delphi's anxious face. "Am I dead?" he asked groggily. In response, Delphi's brow furrowed as she issued a forced smile, more closely resembling a grimace. She had no words. Her visible relief and the tears falling freely from her good eye were all the answer she could offer. She placed a trembling hand on the boy's chest, just as Tobar placed his hand over hers. After a few moments, she slowly exhaled. Regaining a small measure of composure, she gave Goren a more confident smile to let him know that everything was all right, got to her feet, and walked over to Jester. He looked up, offering her his own wan smile. Abruptly, she fell against him, leaning on him, even as he leaned against the wall. For a moment she merely rested her chin on his shoulder, allowing her nerves time to recover. Jester felt her trembling and began to understand the bond she had formed with the boy. Then she turned her face up to his, kissing him fully and with as much passion as could be mustered. After a moment, she put her hands on the wall above his shoulders, pushed away, and then turned about to sit beside him with her back against the wall. Without forewarning of this most unprecedented form of gratitude, in his weakened condition he simply allowed his legs to buckle as he slid down the wall to rest beside her. Magnatha, who had managed to raise herself up on one elbow, watched this with an odd mixture of pain from her broken hip and amusement at Jester's reaction to Delphi's show of appreciation. "See? I told you they liked each other," Goren intoned smugly.

Chapter Seven-Without A Trace {Just calm down! I didn't say there was nothing to be done at all. What I said was, there wasn't anything we can do without drawing the attention of others who might be monitoring the program.} [Tell ya what, Doc! You just keep blabbing away and we won't have to worry about your precious little link anymore! 'Cause here in about half a minute, the particular body I'm occupying is gonna be diced up into about five hundred easy-to-serve portions!] {Well, there's certainly no call for shouting, Mrs. Hoffman.} With that, Kwibee clicked on the virtual representation of IBOT's lag meter while drawing the filter's slide bar all the way to the right. Sarah prepared for the impact by holding her hands over her eyes. After a time, she peeked between her fingers, and what she witnessed was completely unprecedented. Hundreds upon hundreds of Darkelves, approximately thirty meters to the north, were just standing there-just standing and drooling, exhibiting nothing but that same blank stare that Dieter had, only in here instead of the real world. [What the hell did you just do?!] {I suppressed the local lag synchronization while increasing your filter to full gain. It should have neutralized any possible threats in the immediate area.} She looked about, noticing that the Doctor's solution had produced the same effect on her three companions as well. [Well that's just great, Doc! You just nuked everybody, including my husband! Now he's brain-dead in two places!] {The effects are only temporary. If I hold it at this level for too long, the filter will either overload and collapse, or someone back at the lab will get a fix on us. I suggest you get yourself, and anyone else you wish to preserve, out of the immediate area.} *** "Can you stand, Goren?" Tobar asked. "I can carry you if you're still weak." "I'm not a baby!" Goren exclaimed, fairly jumping to his feet. "No, of course not," he smiled. Crumly took on an odd expression, as if listening for something. "I can promise ya, they're still there," Magnatha whispered sardonically. "No, Granny. I know what you think of me, but whether I'm drunk or sober, my hearing is still Dwarven." Then he pointed down the hall. "Sounds like your missing Cleric to me." "Let the others rest," Tobar whispered to Crumly, and then motioned for the Dwarf to follow. "I believe I know what has become of our reluctant healer." "Master Stelthak?" Jester called. "He's no good to us dead." There was a short pause, then, "Agreed." "Not good fer much alive, neither," whispered Magnatha when Tobar was out of earshot. Several minutes later, Tobar and Crumly returned with the Cleric. "Found him in one of our floor traps," Tobar said, shoving the man into the area of the main group. "He was hanging onto the upper floor by his fingertips," Crumly snickered.

"I just got lost, that's all!" cried the Cleric defensively. Delphi started to get to her feet. Her expression made her intentions toward the Cleric obvious. Jester put a hand on her shoulder. "No. Please?" She slowly relaxed, and leaned back against the wall again, but continued to glare at the man. "I appreciate your restoration back at the fountain…" "Perdil. Perdil Shiverley," offered the Cleric in introduction. "Well, Perdil, as I said, I am grateful for your help back there. But all things considered, I believe you still owe me one. After all, my ailments weren't fatal." "I'm afraid I don't follow," Perdil replied while shifting positions nervously. "He means he just kept two Rogues from slitting your throat," Crumly added, still beaming cheerfully. It was nice to see someone else on the hot seat, for a change. Perdil's eyes widened with fear as he started to back up, only to bump into Tobar. He quickly scooted forward with a squeak. "Now," Jester continued. "You weren't here when the boy needed you." "He would have died if Jester hadn't had enough mana!" growled Delphi. "Or if the wards had been stronger," Magnatha added, her own voice calmer than Delphi's, though holding an undertone of intent that was no less dangerous. "I'm sorry!" Perdil shouted. "I couldn't help it. I never can help it. I just get scared. I get scared, and I hide." "I think I'm gonna puke," Magnatha mumbled in disgust. "Listen to me, Perdil!" Jester demanded, thus grabbing the frightened man's attention. "You are a Healer. No one expects any extraordinary bravery from you, but they do expect you to take up the responsibilities of your Class. That means you never abandon those who depend upon you. All right?" "I'll try," Perdil offered meekly. "No, Perdil. Don't just try. You had better succeed, or else I may just kill you myself." *** She didn't like the idea of leaving undefended people at the docks. She supposed that Selina was still having some small influence on her. Still, it wasn't as if there was anything she could do. Then, right after loading Reginald into the wheelbarrow, she got an idea. She approached the front line of the blue army, and then began pushing them over, one by one. Just like tippin cows, she thought, amused. After several minutes, she had managed to knock over the entire front line of Dark-elves. That done, she returned to the task of evacuating the last of her party. She pushed the wheelbarrow up the incline for the third time. This was her last load and she was glad of it. After dumping the brain-dead form of Reginald beside the brain-dead forms of Borin and Marcus, she pushed the barrow around the corner and out of sight. [How much longer?] {I can give you about thirty seconds. After that, I'm dropping the gain, with or without your consent!} [OK, just hang on!]

She lay down on the grass, beside the others, trying to position herself to look as if she had been deposited as they had. Then she calmed herself, and her breathing became easier. [Wait!] {What?} [Just give me ten more seconds!] {Hurry up!} She fumbled drastically with its drawstring for several agonizing seconds, and then tossed it into a nearby barrel. Finally, she was free of that unholy corset. *** "Thank you," offered Magnatha begrudgingly. She would have preferred to wait for Jester's mana to recharge, but she knew they were short on time. "You're welcome," Perdil returned, failing to notice Magnatha's disdain. He was himself grateful to be distracted from the others, who were currently of an unfriendly nature. She got to her feet, gingerly testing her hip's stability. When she was satisfied it had sufficiently knitted, she grabbed her canes and made for the main group, shoving Perdil out of her way in the process. As Magnatha joined Tobar and Delphi at the library table, Crumly continued to scrutinize the Druid, who was yet meditating. He couldn't seem to place the Half-elf's face, but there was something about his voice that had struck a definite cord of recognition. "I can't help feeling that we've met before," Crumly said while scratching his head. Jester opened one eye, long enough to note the Dwarf's presence, and then closed it again. "I doubt it," he replied shortly. "My vision has been known to fail me, upon intoxicated occasion," continued Crumly. "but I never forget a voice." "Well, I suppose it's possible," replied Jester with only the hint of a smile forming. "You ever frequent any wine or ale contests?" "Oh, surely," brightened Crumly. "That's probably it then," Jester continued. "Of course, I felt compelled to give up such sport when last I attended the Dwarven vs. Elven ale contest in Upper Lavish'nix. You see, one of the Judges made a most grievously poor decision. The whole sordid affair affected me so adversely that I simply couldn't bring myself to ever face another contest. Obviously, they are all rigged." "Yes…well, I had better go and see what the others are up to," Crumly said quickly, and then scurried off. Jester's mirth seemed to increase his flow of mana, and he too was soon able to join the others. "What's this?" Delphi asked, pointing at an inscription on the map's lower right corner. It didn't look to be written in any form of Homidris. "That's High-elf, my dear," Tobar offered. "Lots of older maps be scribed by High-elves," Magnatha added. "They were real big on travel, once upon a time. That was before they got so big on themselves." "What does it say?" Delphi asked. "It's the city's name, and quadrant location." "I may not read their language, but shouldn't the city's name still be labeled Arbitos?" Delphi asked.

"This city's done had a whole bushel of monikers," Magnatha returned absently. Every time some upstart conquers the place, he puts his own label on it." "Like a wolf marking his territory," Jester added appreciatively. "All right, then," began Tobar while tracing a finger along the blueprint. "This is the main access to the sewer system. I doubt if the Dark-elves will find it before were gone, so it shouldn't pose any real concern. This, however," he continued tracing his finger to a spot further down the hallway, "is an old escape tunnel. It was built while the Garrison was still at this location." "Great!" exclaimed Jester. "We're home free." "Not really," said Magnatha. "She's right," Tobar concurred. "When the guards found the tunnel, they never filled it in. The old Garrison had already been slated for demolition, so there really wasn't a need." "Where does it lead?" Delphi asked. "Nowhere," replied Tobar. "Apparently, whoever dug it either died or was released from prison before it could be finished. It simply runs northeast for about fifteen or twenty meters, and then stops." "What good does a dead-end tunnel do us?" Crumly inquired. "Even ten meters would take us out of ward range," Jester replied, grinning, and wondering to himself if just maybe whoever had dug the tunnel might neither have died nor been released. Perhaps whoever it was had just gated. *** "What happened?" asked Marcus, who was just now sitting up. "I don't know," Borin replied groggily while trying to figure out how his swords had gotten back into their scabbards. "Where are we?" Selina asked with a baffled expression. "We would appear to be several sectors north of the docks," replied Reginald. "Well, that just doesn't make any sense at all!" Borin exclaimed. "Yeah!" exclaimed Selina. "One moment, I'm picking out a good spot to start cutting down Wognix, and then all the sudden I'm here? What's up with that?" "Exactly," Borin agreed, nodding his support of Selina's agitation. "Whatever has occurred, I'm afraid we have somehow come to a position that places the entire Empire force between us and the ship." "I hope all our people made it out," said Marcus. "I doubt that they all made it," Reginald replied with an expression of regret. "The Wognix were awfully close to the ship, and there were many who had yet to even board," added Borin. "I imagine they would have required several minutes longer than they actually had," Reginald theorized, his brow furrowing deeper as the impact of their fates loomed in his mind's eye. "Hundreds of unarmed civilians, the majority of whom were but merchants, elderly, and children. Without our support…"

Sarah had to turn away to hide her grin. She wished she could have stuck around to witness the slapstick as all those Dark-elves piled up. {Uh-oh!} [What uh-oh?] {Wait…never mind. Just a blip. It's gone.} [Well, stop that! Damn near gave me heart failure!] *** "It won't budge," grunted Crumly. "Blast!" exclaimed Jester, releasing the pry bar and falling to his knees. "What in Wildern's name is it made of?" "I've always been told that the seal was constructed of Iron-oak, but this looks more like stone," Tobar replied. "The present Garrison was built six hundred summers ago, give er take a decade," Magnatha said. "If this seal was placed here before that, it could have become partially petrified by now." "Then it's still at least partially organic, right?" asked Jester. "I reckon. Some types of wood age faster under long term area…affect spells. It's hard ta tell, Grub. Why?" "Excuse me!" crooned Perdil excitedly. "They're banging on the painting again!" "Stand back!" Jester exclaimed, ignoring the Cleric's ravings. When everyone was clear, he began casting. He fizzled twice. On the third try, the seal radiated a slight greenish-yellow, and then faded back to normal. "Please tell me you didn't just try to levitate a two-ton slab of stone." said Magnatha. "I'm not sure," he replied. "It depends on whether or not you're right about the partial petrifaction. My spells won't work on anything non-organic, but if some of the wood remains, then there might be a chance." He and Crumly took hold of the pry bar again. On the count of three, they both pulled back as hard as they could. The seal broke free easier than they had expected and they both fell backward as the heavy seal lifted up, and then continued to lift, turning over and over as it floated toward the ceiling. *** "Shouldn't we at least go back and check on them?" Borin asked. "Nope," Selina replied almost before he could finish the question. "What could we hope to do for them now?" asked Marcus. "Not, a blessed thing," Selina answered while picking up her pace. "Well, I think we at least owe it to them to try," Borin concluded dispiritedly. "We're almost to the Lowlands, and you pick now to suggest suicide?" Selina asked incredulously. "Good, or ill, whatever has become of them is completely out of our hands now, Son," Reginald interjected sadly." "Yeah, what he said." "Well, we've been running for some time now, Selina," Marcus speculated.

"Yeah, so?" "Oh, nothing really. I suppose you're just becoming more accustomed to your corset." "Umm…" {Uh-oh!} [What!] {Never mind. It must be a glitch.} *** After Goren, Magnatha descended, with Tobar carefully leading her. This had only been accomplished after Jester had convinced her to go, given that she had at first announced her intent to remain behind until everyone was safely through. "I know what you've got in mind," he had said. "You think you're going to hang back here until the Dark-elves come to swarm over you. Then we're all supposed to go tell everyone how Captain Magnatha Thistle went out in a big blaze of glory." "Why, you scurvy little…" "But that's not the way it's going to happen, Nanna, because no matter what anyone else says, I'm gonna tell the truth. I'm gonna tell everyone how Magi Thistle died of a childish whim, prompted by her own wounded pride. Then I'll tell them how your teeth fell out during a Berserker rage." Magnatha offered him one last nasty scowl before disappearing into the tunnel. "All right, where's Perdil?" Delphi pointed to a darkened corner where there were a number of crates. "Figures," intoned Jester wearily. "All right, Perdil, you can come on out now. You might hide from the rest of us, but Mistress Bane isn't fooled by dark corners." "I'm afraid of small places," Perdil replied in a small voice. "Oh, look!" Crumly exclaimed. "Isn't that a Black widow spider on that crate?" Perdil fairly flew into the tunnel. "Good thinking there, Crumbly," Jester offered appreciatively. "That's Crumly, ya flea bag!" he corrected, then followed after Perdil. Delphi's grin at this performance shifted to a brief but warm smile as she glanced back at Jester, only to encounter his own beam of anticipation as he searched for any sign of her earlier affection. She quickly shifted her gaze, and then turned to enter the tunnel, when she was gently grabbed about the waist and pushed against the wall, opposite the tunnel. Abruptly, he leaned against her, kissing her warmly while caressing the nape of her neck. After a moment, he paused, but continued to hold her against the wall. "Were we not in such a rush," he began while nuzzling her neck, "and were I not in such a weakened state," he continued while moving to the lobe of her ear. "But we are in a rush, milord," she crooned in a soft, acquiescent tone. "Yeah," he agreed without enthusiasm, and pulled away slowly, reluctantly. Then, as he turned to descend into the tunnel, he suddenly found his right arm twisted behind his back as Delphi grabbed the back of his neck, thus shoving him against the same wall from which they had just come.

"As for your weakened state," she growled gently while lightly raking her sharp canine teeth across his bared neck, "I think you should get plenty of rest, Druid. For when the time comes, you're going to be in truly desperate need of all the strength you can muster." With that, she slapped the seat of his leggings, and then casually strolled into the tunnel without looking back. For a time, he could but stand there, leaning where she had left him, half longing to howl with joy, while the other half simply concentrated on bladder control. *** Perdil and Crumly sat leaning against one of the outer stones of the Druid Hub, both simply enjoying the fact that neither was the current target of anger. In fact, Crumly was struggling to keep a straight face. Crumbly indeed! "I'm sorry!" Jester exclaimed, trying to place a Treant between himself and his assailant. "How could you just leave them there?" Delphi screeched. "I didn't! The tunnel was narrow! They must have been out of range!" "They are going to die, and it's all your fault!" "I bound!" he exclaimed, ducking her fist, and then scooting around to the other side of the wooden creature as it glanced about in wild panic, wondering if perhaps it should run away, or just pretend to be a tree. "What's that supposed to mean?" she crooned soothingly while sneaking about the other side. She rounded the corner on silent tiptoes, and was just about to pounce when Magnatha stepped between her and her distracted target. "It means he can return. Ya just have ta allow him time ta regenerate mana fer the trip there, and back." {All right. I have some bad news, but it's not as bad as it might sound.} [I'm listening.] {It would appear that the Hacks have acquired a signal trace.} [What!] {Now, just listen for a second, okay?} [Okay.] {I'm fairly certain that it happened when I maxed out the filter's gain, but I believe I can lose them. It's just that to do so will require a rather drastic maneuver on our part.} *** As the portal faded, Jester ducked as the Dark-elf's short sword slashed through the air where his head would have been. What's the damned attraction to my head? "Port us out!" Tobar shouted, leaping over Jester's crouched body to land a front snap kick to the Darkelf's face, thereby sending him to sprawl backward, and fall on the slope of the tunnel's entrance just as several of his raiding party dropped down to assist him. Abruptly, the levitation spell failed the semi-fossilized seal, which accordingly realigned itself with the laws of gravity, thus dropping to shatter on impact with the same surface where it had rested peacefully for centuries. Of the Dark-elves at the tunnel's entrance, only the recipient of Tobar's kick, who then yet lay flat on his back, had been privileged to know his fate in that split second as he had witnessed the seal's sudden rush toward him. As the portal formed about them, the tremendous crash sent a shockwave throughout the tunnel, accompanied by a deafening avalanche as the tunnel itself collapsed.

*** [We'll lose the link!] {No, not if all we do is release your connection with this particular template.} [But I'll lose my connection with Selina!] {Yes, but as long as the link holds, then we can reestablish the filter, and your connection to Selina.} [Then why drop it at all, if all you're gonna do is hook it back up anyway?] {Because dropping the template will sever their trace!} [Oh, I get it. Cool.] {Yes, quite.} [Well, you don't have to sound so sarcastic!] *** [Okay, I'm ready. I guess.] As Kwibee released the filter, Sarah found herself descending into the same darkness from which she had first emerged. *** As the portal faded, Goren fairly leapt at Delphi, who grabbed him in mid-air, hugging him so tightly that he soon gasped for breath. "That was quite the brave thing you just did," Tobar told Jester, then simply sat down where he was, before collapsing. "Yes, it truly was," Delphi added in a meek and apologetic tone. Jester's response was unreadable, as he had yet to face her. She sat Goren down, and then walked toward him. Obviously, he was upset at her unforgivable behavior. She would make it up to him. She would do anything. "I am most regretful, milord," she spoke in a small voice. Still he ignored her. "I was only worried for my…friends," she offered haltingly, almost referring to Goren and Tobar as her family. "I know it wasn't your fault." He offered no reaction. Oh, Thief! Please don't let him hate me. She stepped closer until she was within arms' length, and then whispered, "Please, Jester? You… I mean, you and I," she struggled, and then gently placed a hand on his shoulder. In response to her touch, he lurched forward, falling face down in a yet steaming Roc pie. "Umm…Jester?

The adventure continues, in the third book of the four comprising the series. That work, entitled Rendering Nirayel: Thief's Prophecy , by Nathan P. Cardwell, will soon be available at DDP.