Upon the steed sat Shavas one of the most seasoned Elf rangers of the wasteland tundra.   His stark white hair and pale skin gave away his heritage upon first glance.  The white Elves of Madra were avoided by most and respected by all.  Their skill with bow and blade were second to none and it was said that even the dreaded blood hunters stayed clear of their path.  Shavas waited patiently for the fur wrapped human to approach as his chestnut grazed.  The four dwarves behind him took the short break to raise their skins of ale and rip off a chunk of dried meat and stale bread.

 “Greetings ranger, what brings you to this bleak and desolate place?”  The human was large by all measure and his voice was strong and confident.  He knew of the white elves and his respected them as they were do but he wasn’t custom to fear.  To live this close to the chasm and the Spine you had to be tough.

 “We seek passage into the chasm.  I am Shavas Fourwinds of house Madra.   Who might you be?”

 “Names Agrus, been trapping in the spine for nearly ten years.  Tis my first time meeting a White Elf but sadly not the first time I’ve met someone fool enough to enter  Jagsra’s chasm..  Ya know what’s down there do ya?”

 “Yes Agrus I am well aware of the Titan king of the chasm.  We seek his counsel and if refused, we seek his blood.”

 Agrus’ brow furrowed deeply.  He then looked past the White Elf at the dwarves beyond.  It was plain to see that they were hardened by many battles and their gear shone brightly in spots and glowed lowly in others.  These were not just any adventures, they were rightly trained and death gleamed in their eyes.  Still Agrus could not help a doubtful shake of his head.

 “Ya got a serious look in your eye friend and your companions look as though they could slay a thousand Orcs but it would be against my good nature not to try to get ya to think of someth’n better then going down to the Titan lair.”

 “Consider us warned friend.  Now, how about showing us the way down the chasm?”

 “One more question first.  Why would a wasteland Elf be a come’n through the Spine?  The dark lord of Grim Dragas ain’t one for folks traveling through his mountains and I’m thinking a white elf in particular would set a hot coal under his foot.”

 “The dark lord, as you call him, is no bother to me.  I travel as a light wind, neither kicking up dust nor drawing a wandering eye.  Besides, my friends here have been hardened by the Spine and fit the task at hand well.  Let’s just say their skills are especially fine tuned for dealing with a titan.”

 “Aye, I see you’re meaning Shavas Fourwinds.  Now let’s discuss the worth of what I’m about to show ya’s.”

 ————————

Grutt had been spurting out curses since the last attack. His arm had been broken in three places and he was none too happy about it.  The Chasm giants they had encountered did not fight like typical giants.  Their strength and size was a match to their above land brothers but they moved with a quickness that at first had taken the dwarves by surprise. 

The human, Agrus, had led them to a hidden entrance to the chasm that would have taken months for them to find on their own.  They had left their horses behind and begun the difficult travel through the uneven tunnels down into the chasm.  Shavas had let Grutt lead the way as Dwarves eyes are much better in the nearly complete darkness in which they traveled. 

 It was Drin that first smelled the giants and gave warning, nearly too late mind you, but a warning it was.

 “We got trouble lads, on your axes and keep you wits about yas!” 

Three giants came rushing in from the side halls that intersected the path. The giants wore no armor but they had great agility, using large hands and feet to grip rock as if they were empowered with spider climb.  Grutt turned with his axe just as one of the giants flew in, feet first.  The massive feet grabbed Grutt by his arm and shoulder as easily has his father might back when he was a small one in the clan.  The momentum of the giant slammed Grutt to the ground there was a loud snap as his arm broke and twisted in a gruesome unnatural way.

 Magis and Krod had readied themselves and were facing the western hall.  The giant coming towards them had missed the timing just a bit and had lost the element of surprise.  Still both dwarves stared in disbelief as the large giant both ran and pulled himself along the wall with amazing speed; alternating between his feet and his free hand to fly along the floor and walls.  The giant’s style was more like that of an ape than a giant but the dwarves supposed it bled the same color red as every other giant they had killed in their long careers.

 The giant caught Magis’ axe in the shoulder as he rushed in and that was quickly followed by a glancing blow from Krod that nearly missed altogether.  Magis dodged skillfully as the giant tried to knock him to the ground with his feet much like what had happened to Grutt. 

 From the path straight away came the third giant.  His skin was much darker than the others and he spit curses as he raced down the hall.  He grabbed the wall with his feet near Grutt and the giant now standing on top of him and launched himself ahead towards Drin and Shavas.  Shavas fired three arrows at once, connecting twice with great precision.  The giant seemed not to notice.  Drin had been ready too and connected a solid blow with his axe into the giants’ chest.  Not many naturally living things could have taken the combination of damage and lived, but this giant seemed none the worse for it.  He had pushed off the wall with a mighty surge of strength and came down with an over-head swing of his great club and smashed Drin in the shoulder.  Drin’s magic armor took most of the blow but the damage was still substantial. 

 The giant’s feet held Grutt in a vice, the great club slammed into his already broken arm and again the arm buckled breaking in two more places.  Grutt cursed loudly and slammed the back of his head on the stone floor in anger and frustration.  The giant grinned with delight as the dwarf remained helpless, held firm by the giant’s weight. 

 Magis and Krod seemed to be having the most success.  They moved in unison as they danced skillfully around the giant, flanking him as they swung their great axes.  The giant was proving difficult to get a solid blow on as his quickness was unlike any creature of this size they had seen before.  The giant’s club found its mark once in Krod’s stomach and then twice against Magis’ right leg.  The last blow was brutal and Magis grimaced as his leg armor buckled and cut deeply into his thigh. 

 Drin met the darker giant’s chin with the spike in the middle of his axe blade with his signature uppercut maneuver.  The six inch spike drove through the soft skin below his jaw and blood shot from his mouth.  The skilled dwarf then swung low and was shocked as the giant gracefully leapt above the arc of the blade unscathed.  Back to back retaliatory blows sent Drin back three feet in his stance, something that had not happened to him since his was a youngling. 

 Shavas had surmised that a divided approach would simply result in the death of them all.  The dark giant fighting  Drin was obviously the most skilled and seemed the most able to take damage and a lot of it.  Drin could hold his own; at least for another moment or two.  The best thing Shavas could do was try to free up some help.  It was obvious Grutt would be of little use so the white elf focused his efforts on the Giant in west hall fighting Magis and Krod. 

One after another his arrows flew true and struck the giant with a great thud.  One especially well placed shaft drove deep under his arm pit and caused the critically damaged giant to howl in pain.  Still the giant would not fall and Shavas started to think it all over as he reached back for yet another arrow.  This one gleamed a pale green light and its head sparkled with magic.

 Grutt was near death.  Once again the blood thirsty giant on top of him slammed him with his club.  Twice in the shoulder and one devastating blow to the side of his head, his helmet flew from his head and skittered across the floor.  Grutt could do little more than curse his assailant as blurred dizziness filled his eyes and the room began to fade.

 The giant fighting Magis and Krod instinctively turned as Shavas had fired arrows into his side and Krod took full advantage of his momentary lapse.  Krod’s massive arms brought the axe in a full arc from near the ground up around his head and full into the giant’s back.  He made contact with the chasm giant’s spine between his shoulder blades and buried his axe deep.  Spinal cord severed the giant dropped into a lifeless heap.

 Magis wasted no time as he leapt forward to help  Drin.  The giant’s long reach caught him by surprise as he took a blow to the ribs as he rushed in.  Off balance, he missed the dark skinned giant completely.  Shavas was yelling above the fray, “Drin, you must get to Grutt and be quick about it!”

 The dark giant wheeled on Magis and Drin took the opportunity to break away and rush to Grutt’s aid.  Meanwhile Krod stepped in and took his place opposite Magis against the giant leader. 

As Drin rushed in the giant standing on top of Grutt took one last swing landing a solid blow against the Dwarf’s unprotected head.  Satisfied the Dwarf was dead he turned to face the charging Drin.  Drin presumed that Grutt was dead and fury filled him as he leapt into the air, axe arcing over his head as he came upon the giant.  The axe hit the chasm giant squarely in the chest and his sternum shattered with the impact and the blade severed his heart.  Blood shot forth in waves completely covering both Drin and the fallen Grutt.  Glassy eyed the giant fell back his head cracking loudly against the wall.

 The tide was now fully turned.  Skilled or not, one giant was no match for the white Elf archer and three skilled Dwarves.  The dark giant managed another solid blow to Magis and a parting shot to Krod before he finally fell to a volley of arrows closely grouped around his neck and face.  The entire battle had lasted less than thirty seconds but the bloodshed and damage was massive.

 Shavas quickly ran to the battered and presumed dead Grutt.  He quickly rummaged through his backpack whispering a prayer to Corellian has he did so.  He pulled out a potion of blue liquid and poured it down the Dwarf’s throat.  A few tense seconds past by before Grutt’s eyes blinked and then opened wide.  His arm was already repairing itself and his cracked skull was mended. 

 “Ah tis good to see you live my friend.  Much too close for my liking and yours too to be sure.  I had hoped to not need the potion until we were much further along in our journey.  The stakes have gone up considerably.”

 Drin spoke up having finally caught his breath, “We need rest Shavas.  Tonight we rest and in the morning we can continue the search for this Titan you speak of.”

 Agrus saw the staggering white elf from a distance.  His armor was badly damaged and his right arm hung loosely by his side. His mouth filled with tabac, Agrus spit a wad of brown into the melting snow.  Pulling his donkey behind him he approached the elf, gently shaking his head as he approached.

  Shavas gave no appearance of noticing the mountain man but as he approached he dropped to his knees.  Up close the truly horrific nature of the elf’s wounds could be seen.  Several large gashes could be seen through his no tattered chain armor.  Blood trickled slowly from a few and one had caked over with puss from infection.  One hand was mutilated as if crushed in a vice and covering of bruises disguised his otherwise albino features. 

  The white elf held his bow in his good hand though there appeared to be no arrows left in his quiver.  Staring blankly ahead Shavas mumbled enough for Agrus to make out that the Dwarves had all been killed. 

 “I’m frightfully sorry to see ya in such shape good elf.  The chasm is a place of death to be sure.  I’ll be sure to say a word or two for your dwarven friends in my prayers.”

Shavas said nothing.

 “Did you at least find the Titan?”

 “No.  We never even got close.”

 Agrus said nothing else as he carefully lifted the white elf onto the back of his donkey and turned west toward the spine.

With her sword braced point to the floor before her, the Elvin priestess lifted her head and stood from her bended knee and basked in the respectful attention of those about the great hall. The sword shimmered as she twisted it effortlessly and doused its radiance into a silver lined sheath extending from her lithe frame. Her armor matched the glow of her sword, thin and parchment-like and holding firm like a layer of skin yet showing no sign of succumbing to her movement. Kitrahlmina stood and looked about the new high temple and the elves that looked on and with a gesture, returned their veneration. All bowed away to return to their tasks save one young elf that held her knee and continued to look to the ground. The priestess stepped to her and removed her silver-lined glove before bringing her hand to the chin of the young elf. She lifted her head and brought her to her feet. The servant was a young and pretty elf and softened once she met the eyes of the priestess. Kit looked into her eyes with a soft smile and hesitated before she leaned in and softly kissed the girl on her mouth. She released her chin and put her hand to her cheek before turning away to the front of the solar.

Malzhyr watched the approach of his sister, the constant ambassador to the mainland of Mythgar and truly revered by Kaydree Lightwind, the Elvin overlord of the whole of the land. Lightwind found his title accepted by the greater magistrates and those that ruled but was disquieting among many that took up swords and spades to shape the land. With her platinum locks falling about her dark eyes it was apparent to see why Lightwind sagaciously entrusted his sister to bridge the relations between men and elves.

He put out his hand to accept her and they embraced. Through his thick tunic he could feel her Elvin steel against him, light and unyielding and nothing like the steel armor he donned each day while riding through the rebuilding of Imperial City.

“Impressive,” she said taking in the vast ornate archway and the balcony beyond. Stepping out to the balustrade the city rose up to meet her view and she could not conceal her surprise. “Most impressive, little brother.”

“They work hard, day and night. No bard or other minstrel is employed anywhere outside the city for a hundred leagues. That combined with no small number of clerics has made it an effortless task to secure the laborers. For an island that was reduced to gravel by the Tarasks we have had quite the resurgence of those that wish to have their races and lands represented.”

“Two months past you didn’t have a roof and you towered over this island. Now our temple has grown considerably and is in danger of being thrice overtaken. And…and did the dwarves finally arrive?”

“They did. Last to join, certain of some agenda by the governing party in Mythgar. I had to deliver the land deed myself. Once they elected to show they outwardly shamed most all other builders. And now their hall and temple are setting a fine standard. Yet still, what our sister saw in them is at times beyond my understanding.”

“The dwarf Timm was no better. While a fair ally, his comportment was truly as vulgar as their race has ever known.”

The two looked over the city. The sun had begun to fade, casting web-like shadows of the scores of scaffoldings across the vast open square that centered the city. Temples of the gods along with halls of ruling cities of Mythgar stretched deep from the center, illuminating the castes and races where they were to unite and preserve the governing laws of the land and beyond. In the center marked the outline of what was to be the foundation of Imperial City. The Hall of Kings was still in its base stages, the hall that would mark the centerpiece of a city that would be home to each race of Mythgar. The two focused on the broken ground below them.

“So the Hall should be complete before my next visit?”

“How many weeks do you plan to be away?” he answered. “Not a bad resurgence for a city that also lost one hundred for every one that survived.”

“Though there were survivors, Malzhyr.”

“Torrin did not survive. He fled long before the Terasks ever set foot on this land.”

“Which brings me to my visit. Reasons other than to witness your stellar progress.”

“I’m aware. You have issue with the reward we’ve placed upon his head. That we raised it to such a level that he will escape no notice.”

“Ten thousand crowns, Mal? You’re inciting madness as good men leave their fields and families and band together to hunt a ghost. And should they find him, there will be no survivors. I visit many townships across this land and the first question is not about our new leaders and religious freedoms, it’s about that ridiculous bounty placed on a man they cannot best should they ever be misfortunate enough to cross his path.”

“I accept such risks. Our task must be to allow all of Mythgar to know such a danger exists and to shelter our people from such would be the far greater crime. Better for them to die in an attempt to preserve this world rather than allow the greatest evil this plane has known to pass into a dark and simple legend.”

“I believe Leviticus might disagree with your naming Torrin as our greatest evil.”

“Leviticus never presented himself as a benign ruler of Mythgar. He wore the face of evil where all could see it. Torrin hid his behind an Elvin wife and children, one child that paid for his evil with his life.”

“There are other ways, Malzhyr. There were those that survived the Terasks that still reside here. One comes to mind that resides in the first dungeon you built.”

“Though we have not executed those guilty of aiding him in his tyranny, I am far from able to forgive and release those that positioned themselves in his council.”

“As you say. Yet your clemency, like your honor, knows no limits, little brother. You should use that to your advantage.”

The small man sat idly across the great table from Malzhyr. Pale and wiry, the man now carried the hard lines of a prisoner subjected to the extended care of a gaoler. The elf monarch sat silently, vividly remembering the heavyset steward holding court before the criminal Torrin, entertaining his position by inviting so much evil to the meeting that it spurred the elf to act out. An outburst following the revelation that Torrin’s half-elf son had been abducted by an evil even greater than those that enslaved the land under the druid-king’s rule. Malzhyr’s actions produced a dozen tanshee to draw back against him and hold him in their sights well after the room emptied.

“You surround yourself will evil, steward. Your court is a mockery.”

“You stand at death’s door, elf. You would show great wisdom in holding your tongue.”

“Two choices lay before you. Have your beasts strike me down as your druid-king would have you. Escalate your war quickly and bring upon yourself the wrath of the elves.”

“You say nothing to save yourself, elf. Most would agree a war is already in our midst.”

“And in succession, bring a sentence of death upon the evil druid-king’s missing child. I would speak with the child’s mother, the lost elf maiden. Surely any can see that our weapons are of no small chance. Only my party holds the power to secure the youth from his abductors,” Malzhyr spoke confidently. “Only my party will bring him back alive,” he lied.

“Then bring him back, elf. The mother mourns her loss yet does not entertain those that are traitors to the throne. And killing you and your party would be…premature. I allow you to live so that you may serve our needs. My seers tell me you will contest our enemies. So live today and be gone from Imperial City by sunrise.”

The man looked squarely at him, his eye brows now a stark white matching the tuffs of hair spilling out from what remained attached to the aft crown of his head.

“It still haunts you, elf,” he said through a voice that carried the sound of crushed glass, years from that of a steward that held the druid-king’s court. “All of it, I would surmise. From the elf wife that he took to the child you could not retrieve. And most sharply that his absence continues to disturb all your moments of reflection. There can be no tranquility. No distancing yourself from the wretchedness of this past.”

“You overstate yourself, steward. We have bested all of it. The terasks, the destruction, renaming of the cities, brought together the land divided and eliminated the tyranny. From all of which there is no mark of Torrin’s reign left in all of Mythgar. His legacy is finished. His legend is nothing. Far too much lays ahead for the people of this land. We have repealed the rewards. We have deemed him powerless. Pomp and deception were his only weapons and once we as a people disavow ourselves from his sickening reign we fully expect to never again see the cowardly imp about our lands.”

“Then you are wise, master elf, and you give me great reconciliation for my decision to spare your life. That is, if you can truly allow yourself to let go.”

Malzhyr stood and stepped back from the table. He removed a weathered purse that held a small amount of coins and flipped it onto the table. “Your sentence is served, steward. But this city is no longer your home. So live today and be gone from Imperial City by sunrise.”

Malzhyr returned to his solar where Kit stood waiting. “How fared your munificence?” she asked simply.

“Graciously received, sister. And I told no lies to accomplish our subtle task.” Malzhyr pulled free a folded silk patch and passed it to his sister. “Taken by the guards during his retrieval. He leaves with enough coin to allow him travel, yet not enough to rouse suspicion.”

She opened the cloth and viewed the lock of white hair matted into the fold. “Then we will watch our fine steward,” she said again folding the cloth. “Watch him from a distance and see to which ports his travels take him.” Kit turned and walked back toward the dais inside the solar. Malzhyr watched her as she again removed her long sword and pointed it to the floor before taking to one knee. “I’ll return in a fortnight.” She looked about the room and let her eyes fall on the young elf that froze in her steps once Kit took to the dais. Kit returned her look to meet her brother’s eyes. “Perhaps slightly sooner,” she said and with a brisk flash she was gone.

A re-write of the journal entry of Lt. Lars Krollos, one of only two survivors of the slaughter at Oak Tree Cross.

I have lost a bit of myself this day.  I rather important bit so it seems to me.  The part of me that keeps it all together; keeps reality from detaching from me no matter the horrors I witness.  I can still hear the baby crying.  I can feel the tears running down my cheek only to be redirected by the sticky blood splattered across my face.  Not my blood, no not my blood.  I’m fairly certain that I walked past the crying baby without much more than a dull stare.  The image of the child’s mother is burned into my mind though.  Her lifeless hand still resting on the child’s head as if to let it know that everything would be ok even as her other hand rested on a gaping wound in her neck in what was a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.  I know her but I cannot recall her name.  I feel the tears but little else, my arms are numb and my sword drags behind, held in my hand by instinct alone.

 The orcs swarmed into the village as a crazed horde; their teeth gnashing and their spears and swords finding soft targets among the simple folk here. They reveled in the chaos, howling in their madness, as they ran their blood stained weapons through men, women and children without discrimination.  They seemed to be without end as they poured out of the darkness.  How many did I slay?  The ferocity of the battle leaves me with little detail.  I remember falling villagers and orcs, many of the orcs falling at my feet.  My sword worked in a blur of motion; training and instinct took over at some point when my natural limits should have long been exhausted.  One after another they fell to my blade yet I could not save my people.  The sun crests the horizon, mocking the devastation with its beauty, dawn reveals the slaughter.

The smell of smoke and death still reaches me as I fall to my knees.  Lifeless lumps of flesh, human and orc alike, litter the landscape.  There is no movement.  Still the baby cries, but in the distance now.  I have stumbled a great distance, trying in vain to find refuge from the nightmare.  As I stare blankly back across what was once my home there is a strangely welcome calm.  Death has claimed the battle field now.  I notice the slight gashes on my arms and legs and one across my chest but I feel no physical pain.  My mind struggles to hold on; it would be so easy to step into the blackness.  Perhaps I could hide there and forget.  I cannot.  Somewhere in the smoldering ruins a dead mother holds her child.  I force myself to my feet and once more stumble into the battlefield.

The dream, the memory, is always the same.  

The ghoul hounds picked up Leviticus’ trail almost instantly.  Together they raced to the rough orange colored stone wall wailing as they ran.   Their howls were chilling to hear and lesser men may have succumbed to fright.   As they reached the wall they both zeroed in on one of the nondescript holes and then changed back into mists. 

 Namblin, a mere step behind, took the charred coal marker in his hand and marked the spot.  “Here drink these and be quick about it, the hounds will not wait”, Namblin pushed small potions into the hands of the other three.  “Now follow quickly”, the same instant the words left his mouth the gnome shimmered and then became a swirling mass of misty substance.

 The hounds vanished into the hole as tendrils of smoke.  Vlad did not hesitate; he slammed back the potion and threw the empty bottle to the ground where it promptly smashed to pieces.  Bravo and Rush gave each other a quizzical look and then in near unison, shrugged their shoulders and downed the potions. 

 Moving in gaseous form was nothing new for the foursome which proved vital.  At every turn they were greeted with a massive web of tiny veins going off in thousands of directions through the surrounding stone.  Without a trail it would be impossible to track the vampiric demon.  Namblin led the way seemingly linked to the hounds in some way.  The others forced themselves to move in the unfamiliar state relying heavily on their abilities to sense small traces of the magic left behind as the previous gaseous form passed.

 Suddenly they were inside a dark stone-walled room.  The large room was fit for a king, a king in hiding.  Priceless tapestries and equally valuable art adorned the stone walls.  Exquisite furniture matched the room’s elegance, tables and worked iron sconces held lanterns and glowing orbs of magic light.  In the center of the room a pool twenty feet across glowed from the brilliant blue liquid it held.  As Bravo, the last to enter the room, reformed the action was in full swing.  Bravo felt a great tug as he was hit with a spell.  He knew the spell immediately, dimensional anchor.

Vladimir was embroiled in combat with an enormous creature that surely inhabited the darkest pits of hell.  It was a monstrous demon that stood twenty feet tall.  Its skin was a blotchy combination of black and green.  The demon’s jaw jutted out an arm’s length exposing long sharp teeth, black liquid ran from the creatures jaw as if a spicket had been left on.  The liquid smoked a bit as it spilled to the floor creating a plum of green smoke, the acid could be heard hissing as it burned the stone floor.  The demon’s long arms ended in taloned hands that gripped great axes whose blades looked to be made of adamantine. 

 Thirty feet behind the battle between human and demon stood Leviticus.  His wounds fully healed and a great grin dominating his face he worked his hands as if casting yet another spell.  Rush stood off to Bravo’s left working furiously as arrows left his bow in a blur and raced toward the demon.  One after another they struck and yet the demon seemed not to notice.  Vlad had several major gashes in his armor and it was painfully obvious that the demon was gaining the upper hand.

 “Shazorix has been waiting years beyond counting for chance such as this Vlad.  I am so pleased that it is you who will satisfy his desire to extinguish life”, Leviticus laughter echoed in the chamber as he seemed to near insanity.  Then with a quick jester and a word the spell left his fingers.

 Rush howled in pain.  Forced to his knees the Elf strained against the deadly spell.  Tinya rested in his hand so close to being launched and now at the mercy of its master who struggled to hold to consciousness. 

 Bravo cursed at the choices before him, none of them good.  He had no time to decide between various courses of action however and launched a spell at the Demon in an effort to save Vladimir.  The spell struck and the Demon grimaced as some good amount of strength was taken from him.  Vlad deflected a blow from one of the great black axes and followed with a series of strikes each one penetrating the flesh of the Demon.  Acid shot from the wounds splashing Vladimir with the deadly stuff.  His skin bubbled on his arms where parts of his armor no longer protected, his element protection exhausted. 

The Demon made a sound that can only be described as a laugh though the acid that ran freely from his mouth gave it a strange gargled sound as if he were drowning.  The axe in the creature’s right hand crashed into Vlad’s side, slicing through his armor with ease.  The sound of breaking ribs was audible enough for Bravo to hear and recognize the sound.  Blood gushed from the wound and the great warrior’s arms went limp but his legs stubbornly refused to buckle.

 For the first time in more years than he could count Bravo felt helpless.  He could not save Vladimir and he knew that his spells would find little purchase against a prepared Leviticus.  The dimensional anchor sealed his fate; he would be unable to flee.  This is how it would end he thought; in the hall of a demented vampire where none would ever know his fate.  Still he worked his hands for yet another spell; perhaps he could take his pound of flesh before darkness came.

 “This ends now brother”, a booming voice sounded from the rear of the stone room.  Bravo’s eyes went wide at the sight of a weathered old man with a bald head and bright silver eyes. 

 “Frank?” Bravo whispered to himself in disbelief. 

 A burst of light leapt from the new arrival and encircled Leviticus.  Arcs of electricity and racing shards of light shot back and forth between the Silver-Eyed Mages.  Leviticus howled in anger, his hands curled into contorted claws as his spells refused him.  “NO, Krytus, you must…re….release me”, Leviticus struggled with the final words as his life force began to leave him.

 “I have watched you ruin the lives of too many, watched you destroy without cause.  I cannot allow our brotherhood to be remembered as you are.  Your debt must be paid”, Krytus spat the final words as the strain of the link between he and Leviticus grew.  His teeth ground as he willed himself to push on.

The power of the connection between the two was overwhelming.  Bravo could feel his arcane powers being drained from him as if a great vortex had been opened, devouring the very essence of magic from the room.  Rivers of sweat ran down Krytus’ bald head as he struggled to force his will on his demonic brother.  Blood ran from his right nostril and dripped from his lip as he grimaced with the effort.

 The Demon too could not help turning to see what caused such a powerful flux of power.  Seeing Leviticus in danger the great beast turned to slay the old man who seemed to be the cause.  He took one step and Tinya exploded through the back of his head.  Her gleaming tip exited his forehead, her shaft stuck in the brain stuff inside.  The Demon’s eyes tried in vain to see what had caused such a punch to his head as the blade erupted from his belly.  Vlad also recovered and with both hands on the pommel he had shoved his sword through the Demon’s back to exit the other side.

 The demon toppled and slammed lifeless to the ground.  Near death himself, Vladimir stepped on the Demon’s back and with some effort, drew the sword from its back.  Slowly he walked toward the two silver-eyed mages, the gash on his side flowed with dark liquid that now coated his leggings.  As he approached Leviticus the vampiric mage struggled to turn his head.  His eyes screamed of pain, veins bulged on his face and hands while the cord between he and his brother robbed him of life.  Unable to speak Leviticus mouthed, “Please….end….me”. 

 “My pleasure “, Vlad spat as his sword cut an arc though the air and with deft aim removed Leviticus’ head cleanly from his shoulders.  The magical vortex between the two silver-eyed mages abruptly ended in a blast of light sending Vladimir off his feet to land on his back on the hard stone floor.  Krytus stood, waivered for just a moment and then fell face first to the floor.  His head made an audible crack as it smashed against the stone. 

 Bravo and Rush raced across the room to Vladimir.  Rush bent down and raised the warrior’s head with his hand.  Vlad’s eyes opened and a slight grin crossed his acid marred face, “We did it.  Tell me the bastard is finally dead.” 

 Instinctively Rush looked over his left shoulder at the lifeless bodies of the mages.  “He is dead my friend.  You however are not so lucky, drink this liquid and we will have you dancing a jig in no time”.

 “If it is all the same to you”, Vladimir struggled, “I think I will put an end to my own travels here and now.  Tis time for me to see those I love who have long since passed.  My vengeance has given me life for far too long and it is time for me to go.”

 Bravo looked over at Rush the bottle of healing in his hand, “Seems a damn fool thing to do.  Why not go home and die a natural death with a cool mug of ale by your side?  There will be an eternity to see those you love and time to love again while you’re here.”

 Rush rested a hand on Bravo’s forearm, “He speaks as a man who has lived his life to the fullest Bravo.  There is wisdom in his words.  Let him go.” 

 As Bravo shook his head Vlad’s fingers worked at a small pouch on his belt.  Whispering he poured the contents of the pouch into Rush’s outstretched hand, “Give this to that little bastard Namblin.  Tell him I said he’s a fool and a person of his size should really consider the circus.”  Vladimir smiled and content to embrace the unknown he drifted away as if to go to sleep.

 Rush looked down at the ring, a simple, yet beautiful thing.  It was a ring made of strange black stone with rivulets of orange here and there.  “Well worth the price I would say eh Bravo.”

 “I’m not so sure, it was a costly hunt my Elvin friend.  Now let us go home.” 

“How many more ‘jumps’ will we need to get there Namblin”, Vladimir was more than a little agitated by this point.  It seemed to him that Namblin was enjoying the non-stop travel from one portal to the next a little too much.

 “Had I the locations, I could have gotten us there days ago”, Bravo had been fuming for quite some time.  It was fairly obvious that his patience with the chaotic nature of the Gnome had long since expired. 

 Namblin simply smiled to himself, knowing full well that what Bravo said was at the same time true and entirely impossible.  One’s mind had to be wired for chaos to understand the portals the way he did and he knew it.

 Namblin ripped another hole in the blackness in front of the group.  “Gird you loins boys and kiss you mommies goodbye, next stop is the Domaraus.”

 Michael and Brovandian began casting spells.  Magic waves flowed into all five members of the group.  Michael was a very old cleric; his divine powers were second to none.  Long ago he had joined with Vladimir to hunt down and destroy Leviticus.  Both being human, Michael and Vlad were forced to stay within the mystery of the portals.  They aged differently here, slower.  It gave them both time to track their prey.  It also gave them both unwelcomed time to contemplate the people long lost by living far beyond their expected years. 

Bravo was young by comparison.  Still at the height of his power, he is both a powerful wizard and an integral part of the political structure of Mythgar.   Only his confidence in Corwin of the Shadowmark Rangers and Kit of the Knights of Corellian gave him the assurance that things back home would be handled as he helped new friends and old track down Leviticus.  Bravo had lived through the time of the red sun in Mythgar and the corresponding flux in the powers of the arcane; since that time he had not aged a single day by all appearance and examination. 

 Suddenly a huge oval opened in front of the group exposing a long courtyard made up of a strange but beautiful obsidian stone.   Large columns of orange and blue rose from the stones eighty feet in the air to bear the weight of the immaculate carved ceiling.  The grand hall seemed to be a meeting place for dignitaries who call the underworld their home.  Two devils standing fifteen feet tall were only a handful of feet from the portal.  They had dark orange and black skin, wicked horns and four arms each that ended in talons that looked like they could shred mythril. 

 Just beyond the devils holding court with a silver eyed mage were two creatures all five were very familiar with.  Cambions, more precisely Cambion Dread-Lords, these foul creatures were never far from Leviticus and these were his personal guard.  The Cambions were the first to react, they are imbued with heightened senses that are beyond compare and they felt the opening the portal when no one else could.  One stepped between Leviticus saving the mage-demon’s life while unknowingly ending his own, the other stepped toward the intruders.

 Namblin was gone as soon as the portal opened.  Vlad had known all along that he would not partake in the battle, it just wasn’t his thing.  Rush had loosed two arrows as the portal opened, one being Tinya, and he had already loaded a third.  Tinya struck true as always striking the Cambion Dread-Lord in front of Leviticus square in the chest.  Levi had been the target of course and had the Cambion not acted on unnatural instinct it could have all ended right then and there.  The Cambion barely had time to grimace before he turned to stone.  The magic released from Tinya was a very chaotic thing indeed, sometimes doing little and sometimes causing instant death.   The second arrow slammed into the devil to Rush’s right.  The third would find its home within a few inches of the previous shot.

 Vlad had turned a ring on his finger and now stood just feet away from the remaining Dread-Lord.  A magic shield of some sort had interrupted his dimension travel short of his intended target of the silver eyed mage.  Cursing, Vladimir unleashed a viscous blow on the Cambion that was only partially blocked.  A gash opened up on the Cambion’s shoulder and dark blood gushed immediately from the wound.  It would take much more however to take this thing down and Vlad knew it.

 Michael was on the move, nearing the devil with the arrows already protruding his body; hands working as he conjured a spell.  Bravo stepped from the portal and disappeared; now invisible he maneuvered with a clear view of Leviticus.  A blast of light shot from Michael’s entire body and the Devil

 screamed has his body ripped apart from the inside, blood and gore dissipating and vanishing in mid-air.

 Towards the back of the hall harsh and cruel words were spat from Leviticus as his hands worked in a dazzling display ending in the release of a powerful spell.  Bravo was ready however and countered the spell with a quick jester.  Groaning with the effort, Bravo realized how difficult this would be and that countering Leviticus’ spells would be a 50/50 chance at best.

 Mere feet from Leviticus the Cambion landed a solid blow against Vlad’s breast plate.  The magic armor absorbed most of the blow but still Vlad took substantial damage.  This was no ordinary dread-lord, as if a normal one wasn’t enough. 

 The remaining Devil cast and swirling flames covered Michael from head to toe.  A rueful grin from the Cleric was the only reaction as the flames seem to have no damaging effect, only managing to magnify the cleric’s presence.  His choice of elemental protection was a wise it seemed.

 Rush locked in on Leviticus and just as he began to fire his well trained eye caught two very large Cambion’s racing from the back of the hall towards their master.  These two stood two hands taller than the dread lord now in combat with Vladimir.  “Hmm,” was the only reaction from the Elf as he released his arrow and raced towards Tinya now resting on the ground near the stone Cambion.  The arrow flew true striking yet another barrier in from of Leviticus, the magic tip sparked at the impact and then fell helplessly to the floor.

 Vlad also saw the approaching Cambions and knew the window of opportunity to destroy the elusive silver-eyed devil was quickly closing.  His sword moved with unnatural speed and unmatched skill, blow after blow finding purchase against the body of the Cambion whom he had been fighting.  The last blow was an uppercut that sent the blade though the lower jaw, exiting the top of his skull.  The Devil fell heavily to the floor as Vlad slid his sword free and moved towards his nemesis.

 Leviticus again spat cruel and hateful words and a great wave of darkness exploded from his body covering the entire battlefield.  Bravondian swore as his attempt to counter the spell failed.  The pain was great as it seemed all the fluids were ripped from his body.  Still he had avoided most of the damage as did Vladimir.  Michael and Rush both retched as the spell seemed to impact them the most.  The silver-eyed mage had enhanced the spell in some way, its power greater than it should be and thus making it impossible for Bravo to counter.

 The remaining devil took the opportunity to strike at Michael; all four arms pummeled the cleric, talons removing great clumps of flesh.  Blood shot across the room much of it leaving a warm and welcome trail across the devil’s chest.   The damage was catastrophic but not quite enough to kill the holy man.

 Vladimir growled a quick word of magic that awoke the amulet around his neck.  “Got something for you, you blood sucking gnoll turd!” Leviticus eyes widened alarmingly as Vlad stepped through his protective bearers.  The anti-magic field from the amulet suppressed not only the shields that protected him but effectively rendered him helpless.  The silver-eyed mage knew he was no match for the warrior without the aid of his powerful magic.

 The plan had been devised long ago and discussed to every possibility and every detail.  Both Bravo and Rush knew that the anti-magic shield was part of the plan so neither would be of much help against Leviticus until the shield was removed.  Rush gathered up Tinya and with flawless execution rose and fired a different arrow towards the rushing greater Cambions.  As was customary the arrow found its mark, striking one of the Cambions in the neck through the impossibly small gap between his helmet and breast plate.  Still the demon-spawn charged ahead.

 Michael was in trouble and Bravo knew that something had gone terribly wrong.  One of the blows from the Devil had severed an artery or the like and Michael was dazed.  He would be unable to defend himself from another series of attacks.  With no time to waste the mage cast an anti-gravity field under the Devil.  This would only provide a moment of reprieve as the Devil could fly and likely dimension hop as well.  Using his staff for an additional spell Bravo activated the dimension door ‘popped’ across the room and grabbed hold of the cleric.  Blood still sprayed from Michael’s body covering the invisible mage in a strange visage of bloody garb.

 Leviticus backed away in vain as Vlad slashed and pummeled him with his sword.  Without the benefits of magic it would take considerably more time to kill a vampiric demon but the trade off was worth it.  Leviticus was not a match for Vladimir but he was far from helpless.  His black rapier was normally reserved as a show piece but he knew how to use it well.  With its magic properties suppressed however it was little more than an irritant to the highly trained warrior.   

 “RUSH!” Bravo screamed at the top of his lungs.  He knew that the archer was the best chance to stop the devil.  Rush spun around, Tinya notched and fired.  Tinya raced true and promptly hit the devil and bounced, doing no damage whatsoever.  “NO! You bitch, not NOW!” Rush cursed his artifact weapon.  Her fickle nature had surely sealed the cleric’s death.  His next two arrows found their mark inflicting damage on the devil but not nearly enough.

 Bravo howled as he desperately worked at another spell.  He knew however that he would not be able to act in time.  The devil unleashed a spray of acid from his mouth as he flew towards the mage and the cleric.  Bravo threw Michael away from him, trying to send him from the cone of acid while rolling the opposite direction in the same moment.  Dazed, Michael was unable to help himself and despite the efforts of the mage he was bathed in sizzling death.  Little more than a moan escaped him as the flesh slid from his body.  Bravo managed to escape once again taking minimal damage and was already rolling to his feet.

 This was not in the plan.  Rush needed Tinya to take down Leviticus at the appropriate time and now she lay across the hall some sixty feet away.  The greater Cambion dread-lords were closing on Vlad and even with his talents he would not be able to fight them both while maintaining the necessary proximity with the silver-eyed mage to keep him from casting.  With the healer seemingly dead, things were going badly for the heroes.

 Recovered, Bravo launched a disintegrate spell at the Devil quickly followed by yet another from his ring.  The devil was unable to magically defend against either and his body seemed to implode and he vanished. 

 At the other end of the hall Vlad struck again and again hitting the silver-eyed mage across the shoulder and chest.  Blood oozed from several places on the vampire now, a unfamiliar feeling to be sure.  Not truly undead, Leviticus was quite able to feel the pain and dreadful concern was now evident in his eyes.  But his death, at least at this moment, was not to be.  The two greater Cambion dread-lords entered the anti-magic shield.  Swords moving in a blur they struck at Vladimir and moved to cut him off from their master.

 Rush grabbed Tinya and quickly turned to evaluate the situation.  Both Devils were destroyed, one Cambion had his skull run through by Vlad’s sword and other stood a lifeless statue.  Two giant sized Cambions were beating on Vladimir and Leviticus was backing away from the anti-magic shield.  Bravo was up and cursing up a storm, no doubt ready to unleash some arcane hell on the enemies that remained but Michael was dead.  His body nearly melted away from the thick goo of acid that still lingered.

 The problem for the moment was that Vlad’s anti-magic shield was directly in the path of Rush and all three remaining adversaries.  Tinya went quickly back into the sheath, a normal array of magic arrows taking her place in Rush’s hand.  One after another the shafts flew each finding their way to the great Cambion to Vlad’s left.  Their magic properties were stripped bare however as they entered the sphere and the natural protections of the Dread Lord’s prevented them from doing any damage.  Rush moved quickly to find an angle that would allow him to strike at Leviticus.

 Bravo too found himself blocked by the anti-magic shield.  His next move however was to lock down Leviticus with a dimensional anchor.  As he moved for line of sight he enacted a brooch that healed his wounds.  With Michael gone they would all need to rely on their own magic to heal damage.

 The blows were coming in fast and furious and Vlad could not work around the two giant Cambions to keep Leviticus in his range.  Vlad quickly dismissed the anti-magic shield by touching the amulet that had created it.  He managed one quick strike catching the Cambion to his right off guard as the magic in his weapon and on his body returned.  The sword went deep into the Cambion’s thigh but his expression was void of any pain, void of any emotion whatsoever.

 Suddenly the Cambion to Vlad’s left broke from the battle and raced back towards Leviticus.  A small dark pearl was thrust from his hand ending in a burst and then a rip of darkness appeared, hovering in the air near the silver-eyed mage.  At the same time, Leviticus was casting yet again.  Safe from any anti-magic he would end Vladimir now and put an end to this endless running.  His fingers worked and arcane words formed on his lips.

 Rush yelled “They mean to escape Bravo, cast the Anchor!”

 But Bravo knew he could not, he recognized the spell that was being cast and he knew the spell could easily end Vladimir’s life.  Instantly he dropped the dimensional anchor spell and launched a counter to Leviticus’ spell.  It was a mere alteration of a spell he knew all too well and countering it was quite simple this time.  Leviticus cursed loudly as the spell fizzled.  The Cambion closest to him was earnestly gesturing for Levi to jump through the newly created portal.

 Tinya was in mid air as Leviticus stepped towards the portal.  She gleamed brightly as she streaked through the dimly lit hall and slammed into the wizards back.  Leviticus feet were taken from him and his arms flew away from his body as he fell through the portal.  The Cambion could be seen reaching for him as the portal began to close.  “NO!” Vladimir howled, “NOT AGAIN, YOU SHALL NOT ESCAPE ME AGAIN!”

 Vlad’s weapon moved in a dazzling display, one blow removing the Great Cambion’s hand, the next smashing into his side slicing through the thick black plate and the third he drove straight into the massive demon spawn’s chest.  The giant Cambion fell as the portal closed. 

 The three stood in disbelief.  So much effort wasted.  Leviticus would take months to track again and he will have rebuilt his defenses.

 “I got him really good with Tinya.  He might be finished”, Rush didn’t sound convinced and it was obvious neither Bravo nor Vlad were either.

 “Yeah well not likely my friend, not likely”, Bravo glanced back at the bubbling mess that was once Michael.  It made the bitterness of missing their prey sting that much more.

 “Why all the long faces”, Namblin was standing there, a slight grin on his face.  In his left hand he held a piece of orange fruit; juice ran down his chin as he talked.  “Well Vladie my boy, you seem to have screwed the pooch once again.  What would you do without a Gnome to pull you up by your boot straps?”

 Vlad moved quickly.  In an instant his sword tip rested menacingly against the traveler’s throat.  “One more word from you and I’ll make that grin permanent”, Vlad Growled.

 “Word”, Namblin mumbled and with that he blinked across the room.  Vlad’s thrust hit open air and was intended to kill.  “Okay, okay relax old timer.   I told you I found his home did I not?”

 “Yes you did and I presumed this was it.  How about you stop talking in riddles and come out with it or I will ask bravo here to turn you into a pile of dust!”

 “Oh may I….Please”, Bravo mused out loud.

 “Nope this isn’t his home.  Give me two minutes though and I will have you there and we can be done with this once and for all”, Namblin began busily digging through his backpack.  Finding what he sought he began flipping through the pages of his journal.  “Ah, here we go.”

 Five minutes later another portal had been opened.  It opened onto the roof of a palace of some sort. The palace rested in a large cavern the tall walls reflected the burning light from pools of lava on the ground below.  Just in front of the portal lay the Cambion.  Gashes and wounds caused by magic covered his body.  A pool of dark liquid marked the ground where Leviticus must have fallen as he exited the portal.  Tinya lay in the middle, gleaming, waiting for its master to retrieve her.  In the distance below, somewhere in the palace, battle was taking place.

 “Seems like we may have had some help”, Vlad said.  “Perhaps they finished what we could not.”

 “Not likely”, Namblin was pulling something else from his bag; two small globes. 

 “I recognize this place, or at least part of it”, Bravo said as he started into the distance at a long arched bridge to the west.  “Fitting that we should hunt this bastard down so close to his attempt to seduce me.”

 Namblin looked longingly at the globes for just a moment before rolling them on the ground.   They burst open in a cloud of mist and two foul looking hounds emerged.  Five feet at the shoulder, their long fangs dripped green goo onto the ground as they panted.  Their eyes burned with fire and great holes pierced their skin revealing the bone and sinew underneath.

 “Ghoul Hounds”, Namblin said matter-of-factually.  “Found them on the plane of the undead.  Nasty little critters until you learn how to control them.  But, if you want to hunt something with even a hint of undead in his makeup, then they are what you need”.

The top of the palace was riddled with holes as was the wall of the cavern.  A vampire in gaseous form could have entered any of them.

 “Find the vampire boys, and be quick about it”, Namblin spoke to the ghoul hounds and they immediately began sniffing the ground and air as if they were hounds on a fox hunt. 

The entrance shimmered, evidence of a new arrival.  A human and an elf sitting together at a table near the sixty foot long bar turned their heads in unison to evaluate the new arrival.  Hopping into the Inn, the Gnome was laughing to himself while hastily slapping the smoking fringe of his cloak.  “Woah, now THAT was a close one”, the Gnome exclaimed loudly to no one in-particular.

 The Human smiled and turning to the Elf said, “That’d be Namblin”.  The Elf simply raised an eyebrow and lifted his smoking wine glass to his lips.

Frank’s Place sounds like a simple place but this Inn is far from it.   There is only one way to get to Frank’s and that is by using the portals.  And even with that bit of knowledge there are those that would kill to know the series of combinations it takes to arrive at this wonderful magical Inn.  King’s pay fortunes in failed attempts to find entrance to this mysterious Inn.   Frank’s place is reserved for only those who are the most powerful and legendary of all who live.  Often referred to as ‘The Last Dungeon’, Frank’s is where adventurers of the greatest abilities find refuge from the mundane. 

The tables are all different.  Some made from the finest gofer wood, inlaid with runes and trim that would put a master craftsman to shame.  Some seem to be made of solid polished stone, onyx, alabaster and granite.  The bar at the main level is sixty feet long and its top is nearly frictionless or at least as frictionless as it needs to be as the half-ogre bartender slides various concoctions down its length only to have them stop precisely where they are meant to.  Well endowed female half-elves gracefully maneuver from table to table serving the finest food and drink to Frank’s unique clientele.

No one is really sure how big Frank’s place is.  There is always a room available and there always seems to be just enough workers to offer the highest level of hospitality.  Platinum is the currency most used at Frank’s Place as those who do not have more than a few pouches of the highly prized coins are not going to find their way to this mysterious wonderland.    Adventurers who have reached the status worthy of finding their way to Frank’s Place are from many races, many religions and vary in alignment and loyalty, often times diametrically opposed to those at the next table.  There are dozens of such heroes and villains at Frank’s at any given time.

There are few rules here but they are always followed; always.  No fighting of any kind, although more than once Frank himself has had to step in to make sure this rule is not broken.  No magic, except for Frank that is, and this is enforced automatically by a powerful anti-magic dampening field that seems to infiltrate every corner of this adventurer’s resort.  Lastly and most important, no giving invitations without first receiving a blessing on the invite from Frank.  And that invitation is highly unlikely to be given.

Frank is nearly as big a mystery as his inn.  There is little question of his power when Frank enters the room.  He is a tall thin man with a bald head and deep set wrinkles that give evidence of his advanced age.  His robes glow lightly and seem to shimmer and change colors as they are gazed upon.  Frank’s most glaring attribute are his nearly glowing silver colored eyes.  Frank is rumored to be one of the two last silver-eyed mages and is caretaker of his magical Inn and all its patrons.  No one is quite certain what Frank’s real name is but it mutually agreed upon that it is certainly not Frank.

Satisfied that his cape was put out, Namblin the Gnome crossed the room to the bar nodding his head slightly at several people as he went.  The Gnome softly whistled as he walked, his attire was a mismatched combination of the rarest metal, like mythril chain, and cotton weaves that any pauper might wear.  Somehow it all worked for the little mystery however and just added to intrigue of the most successful ‘traveler’ ever known.  Travelers are those that maneuver through portals with amazing skill, finding the most hidden of places and greatest treasures.  For Namblin it has always been all about the uniqueness of the item however, actual treasure had little value for him other than its apparent need to indulge the finer things in life at places like Frank’s. 

The eight foot tall half-ogre bartender gave Namblin a warm smile and pulled a bottle from under the counter.  “Welcome back Namblin.  I assume you want your normal bottle.”  “Thanks Brux, I’m parched.  No matter how many times I run up against a red I can never get out easy.  I just wish they were more willing to trade, then I wouldn’t have to piss them off all the time.”  The Gnome poured a glass from the bottle of golden liquid, smiled at the glass and took a long steady draw.  “Ahhh, oh how I’ve missed you my darling”.

“Namblin, Vlad is looking for you and Frank would like to talk to you later when you have time.” 

“Ah, thanks, tell Frank I have something special for him”.  Tossing several platinum pieces on the bar top, Namblin turned and headed for the table with the Human and the Elf.

“Greetings Vlad”

“Hello Namblin.  I’d like you to meet Ruchneau, master of Tinya the silver arrow.”

“Mmm, well now that is something indeed.  Well met sir Ruchneau.”

“Well met Namblin and Rush will be just fine.”

“Ok, Rush it is.  So Vlad, did you get my message about the wizard Brovandian?”

“I did, thanks.  As a matter of fact he and Michael are already here.  They checked in a few hours ago.”

Ruchneau set his flute glass down and tapped his fingers gently on the table as he chimed in, “Vlad has filled me in on the quest at hand.  It seems that Leviticus has many enemies.  I do like this plan of joining forces to take him down once and for all.”

Namblin chuckled, “Humph, well that’s the stone in the creek at Pebble’s Crossing ain’t it?  Killing someone or something that is downright un-killable?  That silver-eyed is slippery and harder to trail than a fart in a hurricane.”

 Namblin’s crude humor seemingly lost on the elf, he pursued his train of thought, “I have heard that the leader of The Shadowmark may be joining us.  I’ve heard that his skill with a bow rivals my own”, the handsome elf said with a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Nope.  Not happening”, Namblin chirped.  “He and Kit both are up to their asses keeping King Torrin from destroying Mythgar.  It took a great deal of convincing from those two to get Bravo to come along“.

 “Too bad, I would have liked to fight alongside a brother of the bow.  I have firsthand knowledge of Kit.  Her family is held in high regard in Farfell.  The Church is lucky to have her and Mythgar twice so.”

 As the three companions, who would have appeared odd anywhere else, continued their conversation the entrance to the Inn shimmered once again.  Instinctively, Vladimir turned his head as Rush and Namblin continued on without regard to the new arrival.  At least until Vlad’s armored fist slammed the table.

“Son a of harpy!”, Vlad growled.

 A tall man who bore a striking resemblance to Frank strolled through the gate.  Evil wafted from the silver eyed human as he allowed a slight smile.  The smile revealed sharp fang shaped teeth, hinting at his true identity as he fixed his eyes on the human sitting with Namblin and the Elf whom he did not recognize.  The man did not hesitate as he confidently strolled across the room to the table where he most certainly was not welcome.

 “My old friend Vladimir”, the silver eyed one said with a feigned kindness.  “Namblin, it is good to see you and I cannot think of a better place to do so.”

 “Yep, back at you Levi”, Namblin cheerfully replied.  He didn’t seem bothered one bit by Leviticus, nor was he concerned about the fact that Vlad was obviously moments away from breaking every rule at Frank’s Place and likely getting himself killed in the process.

 “And, you”, Leviticus nodded towards the elf.  “I don’t believe we have met, I am Leviticus Greycloak.  Friend to those that would have me and oft misunderstood by those who won’t.”  His smile appeared to be quite genuine. 

“Ruchneau from the lands of Farfell”, Rush was polite but there was a hint of disgust in his voice.

 “Hmm, well so I do know of you after all and of course of Tinya”, a sudden hint of worry crossed Levi’s face and just quickly disappeared.

 “Well, I can see that you three are quite busy and I too have many matters to attend to.  As it happens and old ‘friend’ of mine has been chasing me about and I suppose I will endeavor to stay a step or two ahead of him for a bit longer”, Levi’s grin at Vlad could not be mistaken this time, it was meant to infuriate him and by all appearances the jab had hit its mark.  Vladimir was indeed chasing Leviticus and had been for many years.  No desire beyond ending his life for the betrayal of him and his friends many years gone by.  And now, with him mere feet away, there was precious little he could do and he knew it. 

 “Rot you worthless sack of dragon shit!  I will run a stake through your heart soon enough”, Vlad spat.

 “Ah, Vlad you always did have a way with words.  I must be off however; I believe my good brother awaits my arrival.  Good day Namblin and well met Ruchneau.”

 “See ya round Levi”, Namblin was quite enjoying the whole scene.  He is a Gnome after-all and a quite twisted one at that.

 “So,” Rush started quizzically, “That would be the one we hunt eh Vladimir?”

 “Yeah that’s him.  Not only a traitor to his fellow adventurers but a traitor to all the good races of Mythgar.”

 “Yes well, I’m honored to join the fight.  Tinya, I think will prove to be most useful against a vampiric demon. “

 “He doesn’t know yet but I found him”, Namblin made the comment in such an off-handed way you would have thought he was asking someone to pass the salt.

 “What!” Vlad nearly shouted.  “You know his home?  I suppose I should not be surprised.  Your tactics bewilder me Namblin but your results amaze me.”

 “Yeah well, thanks and all that, but you know what I want.  Once I take you to his lair I expect you will relinquish the ring.”

 “That was the agreement yes, but the ring is worthless.”

 “Now Lord Vladimir, I thought you knew me better than that.  Worthless is a state of mind.  One you humans tend to find yourselves in far too often.  A deal is a deal.”

 “Ok very good Nam.  When will you be prepared to take us?  Perhaps getting there while he is here would be an advantage.”

 “Nope.  I won’t be ready to go for at least a few days.  I’ve been gone too long from this place and I have certain…ah…things to attend to.”

 “If I didn’t need you Namblin I swear I would cut your head from your shoulders.”

 “Well Vladie if I weren’t ‘needed’ I’m afraid you would have to get in line for that privilege. “

 With that the Gnome rose gracefully from his seat and gave a slight bow to the two.  “Interesting fellow that Namblin”, Rucheanu said as the Gnome walked off.  “Interesting indeed”.

"Your helmet looks really EVIL," the halfling remarked gleefully. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by the helm, though very little held the attention of the "Bard of Broden" for long, other than bad grog and prostitutes.At least he talked a good game about his numerous conquests amongst the ladies for hire. Corel had been witness to enough of the grog-drinking to attest to it, but not for the other. "Does it make you feel sort of ruthless and brutal when you wear it, knowing how it makes you look?"

The paladin sighed. "The only difference between a milk bucket and this helmet is that this helmet doesn't haul milk well, Neb, and you are altogether too concerned with aesthetics for your own good."

The halfling looked up with a impish grin on his too-pretty face. "At least it fits your head better than a milk bucket," he exclaimed.

"Debatable," Corel grunted in response.

"But seriously," Neb continued, as though he hadn't just been contradicted. The halfling never let resistance slow him down, even when he should, "you and I both know that we'll likely be dead within a week or so. We're lucky to have made it this long. Every day we're getting into something crazier and more unsurvivable than the day before. We aim to kill a demigod, for the love of Pelor, and odds are that if we live that long, we won't live past it. The lads that killed Orcus, they died to the man except the paladin that wielded that sword of yours. You don't really thing that you're going to live because he did, do you? Never mind that though, the important thing is that people are going to want to… demand to know who this hero was that led a band of stalwart adventurers… assassins… whatever to slay the God-King and set things right. If I don't leave that story behind, someone else will write it, and they'll get it all wrong. They'll make you sound like a proper popinjay with frilly armor and a prancy horse and small-clothes full of unicorns and honeycakes."

Corel's face softened and his shoulders shook as he silently laughed at the bard's excesses of imagination. But he didn't stop cleaning his sword–not for a minute. "I don't suppose I care what they say about me, once this blighted Kilason is sent back to the hateful Hell that vomited him out," the paladin's face hardened again. He glanced over at an over-sized mortar and pestle made from a dull, silvery metal streaked with black. "Now that we have that fancy mixing bowl, it is just a matter of time before the affair will be settled in any case. In any case, I am just one of seven of us. Who I am matters no more than any other."

"Grundenheim."

"What?"

"The 'fancy mixing bowl' is called Grundenheim. I like to call it Grindenheim, because it's for grinding."

The paladin paused for a moment and slow rubbed his face with his palm, a study in exasperation. "Does your mind ever go in one direction long enough to arrive at its original destination?" he asked rhetorically.

"There was this one time at Bard Academy," Neb began, enthusiastically, then stopped, "You're not going to distract me from my purpose, Corel Belarous, and don't think you can. Small is not stupid, regardless of what you human believe."

"I never said… I don't think," Corel stuttered out.

"Well of course you didn't think. If you thought, your rational mind would point out to you that I'm not stupid, and that therefore any fabricated correlation between size and intelligence might therefore be illusory, and… uh… damn. That helmet looks so evil! I wish I had one!"

When Neb looked up from the helmet a moment later, the paladin was slowly, repeatedly banging the back of his head against the ziggurat wall.

"That stonework is ancient you know," the halfling admonished mildly, "it might have some historical value so you should probably stop pulverizing it with your skull bone. So anyway, who you are does matter. You are a paladin of Pelor, his divinely hand-picked agent set upon his most-important mission. His angel came to us because of you. You give us legitimacy, not only in Pelor's eyes, but in the eyes of the people for whom we struggle. Without you we're just a group of guys who go around killing people and taking their stuff. With you, we're a group of guys that goes around killing people and taking their stuff for a higher purpose. Understand?"

Corel shook his head slowly. "Pelor give us all purpose Neb," the paladin explained in a soft, almost reverent voice, "He chose us, not me, because he sees within you, within them, even within Mister Horn, a courage and an essential decency that makes you worthy of bearing this burden for him. There may be many who are willing, and many who are able to do this, but only we are both. You are right Neb: we're probably going to die, but I'm not afraid of that, and I know you aren't either. I'm only afraid to fail."

"I'm not afraid of anything," the halfling pondered, drifting off into a distant place somewhere in his own mind, "Sometimes I wish that I could be; that I could panic and run and stop this almost-getting-killed stuff. I really want to live a long time. There's so much to do and see and learn, but I don't think I'm going to get to do or see or learn it. Maybe if I was able to be afraid, I would live long enough. Did you ever notice that gnoll blood tastes like chicken?" he asked, licking a spot of dark brown from the corner of his mouth.

The paladin chuckled. "I don't think being afraid would save you Neb. You're too inquisitive to live long. You should have been born a cat."

Neb pointed his finger at Corel. "You're afraid all the time. You're afraid that our bickering is going to break us up. You're afraid that others will see you in a moment of weakness and not respect you anymore. You're afraid that you'll lose Pelor's favor and he'll give the job to someone else. You're afraid that come tomorrow, one of us will be dead, and that it will be your fault. And whether you accept it or not, you're afraid that the name of Corel Belarous will fail to live up to this implausible standard that you've set for yourself. But every day, you get up and do the right thing, in spite of your fear. That's either courage or you're dumb as a pack o' de gravel, and either way it makes you well-qualified to lead our motley marauders."

"I'll think about what you said Neb," the paladin hoisted himself to his feet with an effort. He slid the beautiful sword back into its scabbard with a shhhhhhik sound, "but I'll not force myself onto someone who doesn't want to be lead."

The halfling rolled his eyes at the human towering above him. "I keep forgetting how young you are," he quipped, amused, "So young that you still think that leadership is a prize handed out at a fair rather than a burden forced upon the only one strong enough to carry it."

With that, the little man turned and strolled off toward the others, flipping a coin into the air and deftly catching it while whistling a snappy tune, a tune destined to someday become well-known to tavern patrons across the western empire, assuming the halfling lived long enough.

“Year 26 of our dire search for the home of this amulet the priests of Kragon herald as the final light before the prophecy completes its final cycle and brings upon us the end of time and all good and god-fearing things all good men and elves embrace. I fear mostly that the truest evil lays within our ranks. The name Ebin is spoken in secret, a man of ill ambition or the land of origin of that our named scholar has adopted in disguise of an effort to embrace an evil before a band of religious zealots that are apt to embrace all things unholy. I fear the greatest evil now approaches from within our ranks and I fear for our quest. The evil, while more than a mild disruption, lays its sordid agenda amongst us. I fear when it may finally speak—”

“Why should we be shushing when nearly every one of these old goats is so close to stepping out I can’t believe the clerics aren’t here making some coin just reviving them by the hour. You know what I think? I’ll tell ya what I think. These chairs are like an Eighth Age Hall of Torture. All we’re missing is two trolls, an ice pick and some feathers. Aside from that I think they should toss me some coin just to keep these ogre-buzzards from drooling puddles about their books. Reminds me of Harland Sweetbush, right, where’d he get that family name?, he used to drool every and each day in Master Torkan’s lecture. I say it’s cause they kept us in school too long but I have to admit, working in the fields or learning to play the lute was not a difficult choice. We ended up playing for the school mistress, Lady Farhar, you wouldn’t want to say her name wrong, and if we sang well enough she’d let us perform at the States. The States was her name for parties to drink at heavily and the best part of Sweet’s class was full access to the harvested crops that took well to a pipe if you know what I mean. Lacy Popanogh, did me and the Hobbits remember her!”

“What!”

“Yup, that’s what we called her. W-A-T. Wide As Tall. She had the boobs and the Hobbit buttbushka that made me play like I couldn’t hold my breath long enough, if ya know what I mean.”

“My ear wax, fly along and fetch it. Go bird.”

“I can’t hear you, Horn. Are you talking to that bird again? What’s his name and why won’t you tell me?”

“You know, Neb, that in my day, Hobbits worked in the fields and were highly regarded for their tiring labor. They could walk in the grooves of planted crops and harvest potatoes without as much as taking a crick in their spine. As a community, they were well respected.”

“Y’know, just because you’re old doesn’t mean you should talk down to me. Oh, I get it, I’m two hens tall. Very funny. And that reminds me, I like Palor as much as the next guy who knew Hobbits that worked in the fields, but I have to say, some of those Preist-VERTS in the temples, not real comfortable with the way they scope my action, if ya know what I mean. Yes, I know as well as all of us know, Hobbits are different and really might satisfy some nasty and vile—”

“Dammit Neb!…I…I…I need to visit the jakes again.”

“Again? Just as we’re finally approaching progress in our time together. Fine, I’ll find someone to escort you. Hobbits most certainly don’t help five hen height wizards in lifting their cloaks. Like I told you the first time, if I’m helping an elder Hobbit lift his cloak, I’m looking over his shoulder. If I help you lift your cloak…well, I’m not lookin’ over yer shoulder!”

“Lord Neb.”

“How many times and how loud must I whistle to get your attention, UNDER Librarian?”

“While once would be far too much as we ARE in a library, I would suggest in the quite near future that you take to your Hobbit feet and seek out assistance for your friend as he should REQUEST it.”

“Oh, I get it. Now it’s MY fault this place is forty years past breathing and by softening their slow and pitiful demise with a startling and shrill whistle, I suddenly have to accept the role of usurper.”

“YOU have to be far more behaved…Lord Neb.”

“Why…why…that’d be finer than FROG HAIR!”

“SHHHHHH!”

“Shhhhhh!”

“Shhhhh!”

“Don’t look over your shoulder, Bule, he’ll only follow if he smells deceit.”

“He is exigent, Barnaby. That I must play the part of Under Librarian just to keep him from speaking to me for lengthy times is more of a challenge than I assumed. And I have such little patience for the little people as it is.”

“Their height is a constant cry for attention, I’ll agree, but I only ask for enough trips to the jakes to allow me the uninterrupted time I need.”

“How long must you keep him here?”

“I have what I need, I placed it at the bottom of what I’m searching so I can pull it up and we vacate at my call once we have what we need. So have you finished? My Spell Books and Journal?”

“Yes, I must ask you of that. The Spell Books are well received, Mr. Horn, and I believe we can help you with at least one or two spells in our exchange. But I need to know, this avatar that visited your…band. Tell me more of this.”

“It’s as it was wrote. Quite the hearty and robust lads that they are. Young as spit and twice as wise. I do try to appease their restless nature at every turn, but when this avatar arrived I can only admit to not feeling the same overwhelming desire to touch my toes as the rest of them.”

“But it was an Avatar. An Avatar of Pelor!”

“Yes, yes. I suppose it was. But you must remember, I am not a young man. I’ve bowed without question to power and authority before when my beard was not of such great length. Far more powerful than a glowing revelation and from that I spent nearly fourteen years in my small tower as the old crone I was force to marry was unable to take to the stairs like any self respecting wildebeest would be expected to. If it wasn’t for foul weather and a healthy bit of needed sleep for her father’s guard, I never would have escaped with my turned ankle after leaping from the third window in that cursed tower.”

“So, is that why you tolerate such… immoral company?”

“Immoral, yes. Wet behind the years, most certainly. But you must realize, traveling alone while attempting to turn about the world is not a lightly taken venture. You need the young and inspired about you. They know nothing of long life so they value you it not at all. Granted, that leaves me about like a sack of old rags far too much, but the gods preserve what they don’t wish to have about.”

“I am afraid that it will not get less complicated, Barnaby Horn. This was delivered today by a trusted courier.”

“Hear ye, hear ye…does that still garner the attention it used to? A remarkable likeness, though I must say they make me look absolutely aged. At least they wish me alive. I suppose we’ll see how well that fares. While I must commend them for their efforts, it will be best not to show the hobbit, he’ll only gather our youngsters to forge back to where we came from and detach heads from swords we’ve no business busying ourselves with at the moment.”

“They would forge back into Treyfall?”

“Into the governor’s house itself. No home is entirely safe with them about and a spark of a golden messenger planted firm where they sit doesn’t help the enemy in the least. I can’t say it hasn’t been wondrous for my studies. Tell me, Bule, what have you found for my search for the Oracle of Ebin? Anything from the past 500 years?”

“Your request was sound. And fortunately we have the local monks of Pelor at our charge. Copying script keeps them bringing in a nominal sum to inflate the coffers of their expensive priests and their temples.”

“Yes, yes?”

“We have just recently received back this…from the monks. The last copy of this book was one-hundred and fifty years past, the timing of the events is vague. But it does mention an Ebin.”

“Very well. Stall the Hobbit while I read this over.”

“Stall him? Stall him…how?”

“Whatever you fancy. I would toss him from the window. But be prudent in your approach, he’s one of those cleva’ Hobbits. Not easily distracted, but quite easily interested in a band of goblins setting up a symphony just outside…should you wish to be creative. Just tell him I’ve a touch of incontinence and will be a few minutes more. If you truly wish him to leave the building, tell him I’ve asked for his help in the jakes. You’ll not see him again before tomorrow.”

"In my day stupid hobbits was kept in the fields, hoeing potaters like proper members of a lesser race," he mumbled through his teeth which were clenched around a long-stemmed briar pipe. Slowly, the pointed grey hat began to slide of the side of his head, nearly displacing a barn owl known as "Who". The perpetually startled-looking bird became indignant and hissed at the wizard as he struggled to set it right again.

"You know I can hear you when you say things like that. Being old and feeble-minded does not excuse you from a requirement for a certain amount of civility to others," the dapper hobbit said conversationally. It was obvious that he wasn't really angry at the aged wizard, in spite of the geezer's  cross attitude and his sometimes-disturbing lack of personal hygiene. "I don't know what you really expect to find in here, but we know all we need to know about how those olden heroes killed Orcus. At least I know all I need to know about it, and that is that only the paladin lived. I love Pelor as much as the next hobbit, and far better than you I might add, but I don't intend to die to pad the credentials of his golden-haired boy."

"Damnit Neb!" Mister Horn jabbed his pipe at the hobbit for emphasis, "I…" 

Suddenly the wizard got a surprised look on his wrinkled face, his thin lips pursed in a prolonged 'O'. After a moment he scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem–an unfortunate habit as it left one bushy brow streaked with brown while the other was nearly snowy white–then shook his head and popped the pipe back in his mouth. He glanced once again at the paper in his hand then lay it down atop a stack of others.

"I need to visit the jakes again," he mumbled, sounding a little embarrassed. He turned his head as if looking for someone and then focused his gaze on the hobbit. "Can you show me to the jakes Neb? I haven't been since this morning and my bladder isn't made of iron!" He brandished the pipe as if to punctuate the concept that his bladder was indeed not constructed of ferrous metal, which would have been unfortunate, considering the properties of iron and the purpose for which a bladder is utilized. Such are the thoughts that go through the mind of a hobbit continuously.

"You've been six times a'ready today and it isn't time for lunch yet," Neb said patiently, and a bit slowly, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing or maybe a little daft, "I'll find someone to escort you."

The diminutive man put two fingers in his mouth and blew out a piercing shriek of a whistle. From a hundred directions in three dimensions, a veritable chorus of "Shhhhhh" noises erupted. The library in Tir was almost as vertical as it was horizontal, and badly infested with nattering busy-bodies who didn't know when to mind their business, but it worked in Neb's favor in this case, as he knew it would.

Within a matter of seconds, a tall fellow with extravagantly arching eyebrows and the rich purple robes of an elven under-librarian glided toward them. He did not appear to move his feet; he looked like he was standing on a patch of rug that someone was dragging about. The under-librarian glided right up to them and frowned down his long, superior nose. 

"Lord Neb," the thin man said in a nasally, refined voice intended to convey the pedigree of his education, "I must request that you refrain from further loud noises whilst visiting the Tirian Library. It is a simple courtesy to our many patrons that each… person maintain the proper decorum. If you would like I can make available a private chamber for your use where you will not be required to remain as silent as is expected in the open library."

"Why that'd be finer than frog hair," Neb said, affecting his most wild-eyed-hobbit-mad-man look, "but what I need first is someone to show this old, crusty badger to the jakes, Jake."

Primly, the under-librarian offered his arm to the wizard, who struggled to gain his feet. "My name, Lord Neb, is 'Jacques'. You need only say it slightly louder than a whisper, assuming you are able to modulate your voice down that far, and I shall be at your service."

"We don't stand by all that formality back at Brian Patch Bottom where I hale from," the hobbit quipped in his most down-home voice, "but I do surely appreciate your serving us Jake. A fellow could get used to this kind of treatment."

"Let us sincerely hope not," the slender elf said quietly as he glided off with the wobbly Mister Horn on his arm.

After the wizard had turned the corner on the way to the privvy and was safely away, the hobbit rushed over to the stack of papers Mister Horn had been shuffling through and began a rapid search through the tottering pile of vellum and parchment. Within minutes, he'd located at least a dozen relevant scrolls and quickly, carefully arranged them at the top of the heap in such a way as to make them look as disorderly as the rest of the material.

He looked around furtively, then scampered back to his chair, put his feet back on the polished burlwood table and drew a satisfying mouthful of smoke from his own pipe, just as Jacques and Mister Horn came gliding/ambling back from their adventure.

"It's hard to be your research assistant when you're always on the verge of wetting yourself," Neb remarked dryly as the creaky wizard slowly settled back into his seat. "Now why don't you see if you can find something that matters in that scrapheap you've gathered before Jacques comes back to relocate us away from the respectable folks?"

"Stupid hobbits can't even treat their betters with respect like they did back in my day," Mister Horn muttered… then stopped. "Great Googly Moogly… I think I've found it. Look here Neb!" he shook some papers at the hobbit. "Who is wetting himself now, eh?"

The hobbit chuckled for a moment. "Well then Mister Dustytoots, you are definitely a library haunt of extraordinary capabilities."

"And don't you forget," Mister Horn grinned victoriously, "and don't you for…"

A moment later the old man shook his head and scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem, an unfortunate habit.