Blue Flame

[Zadown]

The tavern was a smoky, ramshackle affair, the small tables mostly shrouded in gloom. It was also very popular, most tables filled with the basic sort of scum you can find in any port city: vagabonds, some sailors drinking away their wages, rogues, smugglers and finally mercenaries trying to drown the memories from distant battlefields. The crowd had a predatory feeling to it, various shaggy heads rising and pairs of calculating eyes focusing on the door every time it opened and a new customer entered. So far tonight there had been no lost lambs. Everybody who had walked through the door had either been poor enough, or armed well enough, or most usually both, to be worth the effort.

 

The door swung open again and something, an electrical feeling in the air, made most of the clients look. Heavy heads were rising from puddles of beer, weary arms rubbing grime away from dim eyes and half a dozen chairs moving to provide a better view for the seated thugs. In the bright red moonlight of the clear night outside, the traveler was outlined in various shades of blood. He was wearing a torn and tattered cloak that hid bulky things under it but did not manage to obscure his exquisite boots made of some thick, shining leather. That alone weighted heavily against the lone man – here, having boots of that quality was a sin, or a sign of great skill in defending your right of sinning as much as you pleased. The sharp angles showing through the flimsy cloak weighted for him, however. Armor was expensive, but far too many people with it were even more expensive in terms of human life to bother with, not to mention the long shape on the tall figure's back that seemed to be a huge weapon. His face was in shadow but it was clear from his posture that he surveyed the room before entering, the evident acumen a final blow against the few, quickly withering plans to try to mug him.

 

Most of the people turned their attention back to their drinking or their quiet business transactions with other men of ill repute, muttering with voices that did not carry over the raucous shouts of those who were simply enjoying their attempts to cloud their little minds with whatever beer, liquor and smoked drugs they were able to afford. Some few still watched as the newcomer walked to the bar and heard his odd, thick accent, saw his hideously scarred face in the flickering, warm light of a lantern hanging from the ceiling.

 

“Evenin', bartender. I've 'eard ye 'ave angel's blood, neh?”

 

“Angel's blood? The real stuff, not the fancy, mixed drink?”

 

“Ya, th' real angel's blood.”

 

The bartender, a man who did not flinch when somebody was killed in front of him and was considered not to be a person as such, but more of an elemental force of barkeeping, one of the immutable, true forces in the world that'd always give you a drink if you asked for one and had the cash, paled. He turned without a word and opened the locked cupboard with a thick iron key. This made the focus of attention turn towards the stranger and the bar again, and various regulars watched with what curiosity they could muster in their diverse states of intoxication as the bartender extracted a tall, thick bottle of a curious shape from behind other similar experiments in glass-blowing. He then took an actual glass, tall and legged, set it in front of the stranger, fought a short moment against the grime that had glued the bottle's stopper stuck and then poured a drink of thick, brightly red substance that seemed to have an inherent glow to it. There was a curious, almost reverent look on the barkeeper's solid face as he watched the stranger to slowly grasp the glass with a scarred hand, lift it up and sniff the liquid. The stranger's vibrant green eyes narrowed in consideration before he sipped the drink, then gave the tiniest of nods, made a thick gold coin, smoke or mist rising from its rich, honey-colored surface, appear from thin air, and deposited it on the bar with an audible clunk. If that coin had not been the barkeeper's, a fight would have broken out at that very instant. As it was, he pocketed it with haste and glared at the greedy faces of his customers who knew better than to stare back.

 

The stranger rose with his drink and looked around. Most of the rickety chairs were taken and the glares he was getting from the regulars weren't exactly inviting, but he spied one empty chair at a table near the middle of the room, a table still within the sphere of light of the lantern and thus shunned. Without hesitation, he sat carefully placed his glass on the table and sat down on the chair, nodding slightly to the other customer at the table. The original occupant was a young, muscular man, the haft of a long polearm leaning to the table next to him, it's business end hidden in the shadows of the floor. He was wearing mostly leather, the material darkened and worn, the attire giving the overall impression of being something between an armor and a set of traveling clothes. In front of him was a single tankard of ale, his slender hands curled around it.

 

The stranger drew his scarred fingers through his grey hair and lowered the cowl of his cloak, revealing the endless patterns of various battle scars that crisscrossed over all of his bare skin. He had a short beard and mustache, relatively well trimmed compared to the unruly chaos of medium-length grey hair that did not quite reach his shoulders. He smiled or grinned and the scars on his face danced in the flickering light, the effect unsettling but not altogether frightening. The smile crept all the way to his eyes, which paled noticeably, an effect the young fighter dismissed as a trick of the light.

 

“Evenin', m'lord.”

 

The odd greeting made him grin back in response. It was very much out of place in this den of thieves and cutthroats, even if he wasn't the lowest of the local scum, and he could not find any trace of irony in it.

 

“Evening, stranger, for you really have to be one to call me a lord. What brings you here, if I may ask? Despite your scars you do not seem as base a creature as most of those who surround us.”

 

“Ah, therein lies a tale, neh? 'Twould be brief'st to say that this place was th' closest tavern I knew of that might serve anythin' that'd refresh my parch'd throat, ya.”

 

After those words, he raised his glass in a salute, the irony (or perhaps mischief) the young man had looked for previously now glinting in the almost white eyes. This time the stranger drank deeply and closed his curiously changing eyes, smiling widely. He opened his eyes slowly and put the glass down, a third of the thick red liquid gone. The young man took a long draught from his tankard in the way of a response and ventured another question, for he was intrigued by this tall, old man.

 

“So, a tale? Might you tell it to pass the time?”

 

The stranger leaned slightly back and seemed to think over this request thoroughly, his eyes gleaming light blue now. His intense gaze studied the younger man, who managed to look into those shifting, deep eyes for only a fleeting moment before having to avert his own.

 

“Ya, I might.”

[sweetnightmare]

Reads* "Wow"

Thinks in her head* "Only few times before this day I have ever been so lost in something i have read, as much as i am now. Continue dear friend to write i implore you, never give up on it."

 

Then turns away

Edited January 4, 2005 by sweetnightmare

[Zadown]

The ancient stranger, known elsewhere as the Dreamer, closed one of his eyes and narrowed the other in profound thought, the thin strip of infinity visible between the eyelids of his right side darkening to the deep, solid blue of summer night skies. When he opened them again and started talking, his voice had the cadence of a practiced story-teller, the worst roughness of his thick accent smoothed over.

 

“Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 2475 after Anvil's drow exodus, a few years into th' aftermath of th' Grail Wars. In those confused and fluid times where th' borders betwixt th' almost crush'd but resolute Law and th' strong yet confused Chaos were boilin', raids an' private armies from both sides tryin' to strike into th' territory formerly held by th' other side, to stake new claims or to re-capture some long-lost fiefdom of th' Paths, ya, or to just kick formerly proud enemies when they were down.”

 

Next to the scarred Dreamer appeared an ethereal vision of vast armies of angels and demons clashing against each other in a series of battles, each of them an epic and relentless, bitter fight. The noisy, foul-smelling tavern faded into the background, still visible but in a dark, shadowy manner. A short spike of panic thrust itself through the breast of the young man, but as there was nothing threatening in itself happening, he resisted his urge to draw his long weapon and challenge this warlock who had captured him inside a daydream and instead did the only thing that was available to him, leaned back to listen. If the older man saw his discomfort, he refrained from commenting on it, unless the small smile that rippled through his gruesomely scarred face was his reply. The Dreamer continued, the illusions next to him mirroring what he said.

 

“I had abdicat'd my position as one of th' leaders of Chaos' armies, an' they removed my mage sigil from their flags o' war, though I do believe a few of them are preserved in th' everchangin' fortress of Chaos itself. Such a high position had left me with a equally high number of enemies, with my few associates either too weak or too entangled with their own difficulties to really provide me any direct support. Many claimed th' Betrayal of Th' Grail at th' last battle was of my doin', that my mage sigil's triangle of Law did not signify my wish to break them but to repair an' temper their ways, an uncomfortably accurate accusation if not quite true. Thus, after I had finish'd fulfillin' my obligations, especially those concernin' my ward m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua, and th' times were approachin' that fateful, deceitful calm just after th' fiercest storm in which the most backstabbings an' betrayals are made, I deemed 'twould be prudent for me to fade from th' public sight once again, perhaps for a decade or a century to let th' knives dull and the hatred cool down.”

 

The visions swirled and showed tableaus that did not make much more sense than the words being spoken, moving pictures from places so alien and distant they did not even appear in any of the legends the young fighter knew. In them the fiery armies of Chaos carried tall flags, a golden chalice awash with warm radiance vanished suddenly, two dead people had their spirits and bodies rejoined while a young woman watched, an apprehensive and anxious look on her symmetrical face. It all seemed far too far-fetched to be true in any sense, but the Dreamer's voice was deadly serious, his voice mixing wistfulness, anger and cool detachment as he went through his personal tale.

 

“So, there I was. I had finished my work with th' Balance, however grand or small my role had been, and while I found th' end result near to what I had sought, many others did not. I had paid my debt to Chaos, thus ending a quest given to me a millenia ago. And then, when I finally would have time, my ward left me to continue her mortal life. Never before I can recall bein' in such a state of unsought repose, without nary a goal.

 

Of course, I was already spinnin' webs that would catch an' mire those would-be assassins who'd try to make me pay for th' fact Chaos did not claim an ultimate, last victory on th' Battlefield of the Heavenly Fields, but mere intrigue of that basic level was a feeble goal, somethin' akin to the ease of breathin' for ye mortals. Briefly, I considered researchin' th' Parallels more closely before comin' to th' conclusion I was not that bored of existence quite yet, an' settled into plannin' for future instead with an effort t' replenish my rather empty vault of favors. In th' end an entity of curious reputation heard th' whispers I sent into motion an' proposed an adventure that I found agreeable, an' thus it was I sent myself into motion again, in the search of th' Blue Flame.”

 

The private space that was set apart from the rest of the room, the two men, their table with their drinks and the chairs they sat on was suddenly all tinted blue by the light of a towering phantasm of a roaring azure fire.

[Zadown]

A silence stretched from a short pause in the story to something that might have been the end of it, even if the tale had had no proper ending yet. The Dreamer stared somewhere beyond the table and the tavern, as far from the present as the peculiar visions he had shown and told of. The young man emptied his tankard and listened the illusionary fire roar, moved nervously, wondered if there was some real barrier between him and the purple shadows of the rest of the tavern that would prevent him from leaving this table if he would so choose.Without warning, without any outside sign, the old, scarred man jerked awake from his reverie and continued the tale as if there'd been no break in the flow of his mellow, deep voice.

 

“I shall not bore ye with th' various details of th' search itself, with much of it only of interest for devotees of divination of th' will of th' Fates, or for those who seek knowledge from old, musty tomes an' think information 's a worth in itself, even if it serves no higher purpose. Sufficient t' say I used my refin'd skills with th' Chárôt cards an' acted on their nebulous advice, oft' strayin' an' chasin' ghost trails and dead ends, for even to those of us to whom th' cards talk, they do it with a whisper'd, cryptic voice. I shall bypass th' minor skirmishes I had, also, th' first probes of those who 'ad aimed their blades an' spears at me after th' Grail Wars did not need them any more. I have not lived for over three millenia to be fazed with those feeble attempts on me an' my various holds.”

 

The pictures beside him showed hints of the things the old man did not speak. Endless repetitions of the Dreamer (now present in the visions the first time, and clad in a wine-red armor that seemed to be alive) hunched over large cards with vivid pictures in them, their connection with the absolute core of the Fates so clear even the young man heard them muttering obscure prophecies at the edges of his mind, then again visions of battles, these smaller with their outcome clear in the effortless way they showed the old man swinging a spectral, wailing blade, scything through the demons that surged against him. He glanced at the smaller version of himself fighting things that looked like upright, burning bulls, and made a dismissive gesture that cleared the illusion.

 

“As there were no distractions worth of my real attention, I pursued th' goal with tenacity that has always lead to some sort of conclusion. Piercin' through th' webs of obfuscation spun around th' matter, I found out th' place where th' original Blue Flame was kept: an old planewalker fortress, its old traps repair'd an' new ones added, potent enchantments of confusion, misdirection an' protection engraved upon th' very roots of the construction. Passive defenses of that kind can hardly stop me, however, if I am given all th' time I need an' there is no army to harass me. Travellin' from th' outskirts of th' deadly maze I gnaw'd my way through th' many layers of snares, relishin' the challenge, movin' at the pace of a careful snail.”

 

As he spoke, the illusion flickered into life again, grim sigils and runes dancing around each other in a chaos. They faded one by one and the vision dispersed, revealing another one below it. In that, the Dreamer walked through corridoors of cream-colored stone, a very tall staff of black iron in his hand. His steps were slow and his eyes burned with a fiery yellow as he tapped lightly the floor and the walls with the tip of the staff. The vision shifted, the colors gaining an unreal edge to them that was painful to behold, and where had been empty air now appeared runes and sigils of the same sharp, unpleasant shape that had swirled around each other in a chaotic cloud in the first place. In that shifted world, the Dreamer himself shone with all the colors of the rainbow, a coruscating emerald sphere encompassing him protectively.

 

“Th' traps were of exquisite skill, an' I was even scarred once, a rare occurance. Neverth'less, their potency was already diluted by their great age - th' day after they were forged, in a multiversum much different from ours, aeos ago, they might've made me retreat or succumb, such had been their original glory. But break them I did, and th' last chamber before the last I did enter, th' antechambers of th' heart, an' there I met th' last of the traps, an' the most mighty. Whoever had been th' last guardian o' the Blue Flame had in power surpass'd any of my kin I know of, an' travelled deeper into th' Abyss than I could. An' there, in th' depths of th' primaeval Chaos an' black'st Evil, he 'ad wrought a masterful bindin', an arch-spell strong enough to drag one of the Nameless Ones from their pits where they squat an' devour souls in th' inky, solid gloom.”

 

The window to the Dreamer's story dimmed and a darkness spread over it, a night where something vast and deadly moved, its shape indiscernible but unquestionably vile. A chill shook the young listener, and he was glad the illusion did not show more.

 

“I knew I could not battle th' thing, not without layin' siege t' it with numerous spells an' conjurations, without bringing an army of celestials and abyssals through th' twisty, trapped maze, a project that might certainly be within my limits but as certainly not worth it. I stared into th' boiling aura of tenebrous miasma th' fiend wore like an over-sized cloak, my eyes ablaze with annoyance an' alertness, shinin' with th' yellow of twin suns. It sensed me then, or had known I had been traveling towards it for some time and only then did deign t' turn its attention towards me; either way, its massive bulk shifted an' its sharp legs scraped 'gainst th' stone, here corrupted from creamy white to cracked, bleak grey. We matched gazes, it revealin' its pale, murky eyes to me – like two open wounds in its ugly hide they were, instruments of intimidation more than sensing, and I could not match its will. Grimacing, I withdraw my challenge, prepared to leave this hopeless venture.”

 

The Dreamer's eyes narrowed and slender tendrils of yellow and purple crept into them in memory of the annoying situation. He gestured vaguely and opened his eyes fully again, their color deepening towards dark blue.

 

“Th' abysmal entity 'ad other plans for me, however. 'T opened its maw, a gash openin' into a deep limbo surrounded by stained yellow teeth, an' out of that foul-smelling aperture issu'd a sound I cannot describe, but can imitate:

 

'Greetings, lowly worm. Kneel before a Lord of Abyss, surface-dweller.'”

 

The voice, even imitated and issuing from the normal-looking mouth of the old, scarred man, raised the young man's hackles. It was like two massive granite slabs grinding together, like a thousand tormented slithering things shouting in agony, like the wet sound entrails make when they hit the ground – and the words formed themselves from this sickly disharmony of sounds. The old storyteller paused briefly after the imitation to observe the effect of what he just said on the young man and grinned, the scars shifting around his face like a nest of snakes.

 

“Not very pleasant voice, neh? Nor very pleansat words, for that matter – but I was unfazed, knowin' that is how they talk, an' that he was still confined into the central chambers of the maze with an unbreakable set of magical chains. If he'd been able to charge at me, he'd done so without wastin' time to remember how to speak. I was curious, however, of th' fact he had spoken at all. Those things, even if they have all the capacity for cunnin' an' malicious thinkin', rarely exercise those functions, preferrin' to exist as mindless pseudo-gods, animalistic creatures of sheer hunger and rage that spend their time devouring or dreaming in the bottoms of their pits.So, I nodded to the thing, as deep as I bow to anything that is perhaps more powerful than me but has less manners.

 

'Greetings, Devourer. Ye seem a long way from yer warm, snug pits, neh?'

 

It groaned an' howled, trash'd against th' invisible chains that held it in place. But we both knew it was just for show, that th' chains held fast, an' after 'twas satisfied with its show of rage, it spoke again.

 

'I know what you are after, Walker. You cannot get it through me.'

 

'Ya, 'tis true', I acquiscenc'd.

 

'You can have a spark of the Flame, worm, for a price.'

 

'An' what'd th' price be, Devastator?'

 

By then I was feelin' quite suspicious, an' given th' normal state of mind of any planewalker is extreme paranoia, that's sayin' something. Th' way I figured it, it'd either ask an unreasonable price or try to trick me into approachin' it without proper caution. Not t' mention a proper chainin' would've never allow'd him to let me pass, 'nother reason to be sceptical.

 

'You may not see it, blind worm, but these chains are weakening. A thousand years ago I would not have been able to propose this pact, Walker – two thousand years ago, I would not have been able to speak.'

 

It then launched into another fit of wordless rage 'gainst its chains, growlin' and howlin' with its fiendish voice, a storm I weather'd patiently. Once it was done, it continued.

 

'Another thousand years and you may quake, for I'll be free. Already, I care not for the Blue Flame I am supposed to guard – nobody can chain one of my stature for long. Not even Vraen DeMorneer.'

 

It spat then, a jet of venomous acid that splash'd on th' stone and raised wisps o' smoke, its maw twisting into a grin of acrid hatred an' its sharp legs clawin' uselessly against th' walls of its prison makin' th' whole maze tremble.

 

'Yer wise enough t' know I shan't break th' chains that hold ya, Lord of Abyss. What it is ye need, then?'

 

'I have been away too long, servant. I want something to savour, a focus for my hate. Tell me a tale of him, of the journeys of Vrean DeMorneer, my captor, and I'll swear by my true name I shall let you pass and remove a spark.'

 

'By yer true name, Obliterator? A tale'll it be, then.'”

 

In the illusion that floated beside the Dreamer appeared the figure of the Dreamer, who gestured, and an empty picture appeared beside him, ready to augment the planewalker's tale with visions.

[Zadown]

The planewalker turned his yellow eyes away from the disturbing and distracting visage of the Abyss-creature, coughed softly and let his voice settle into the cadence of a practiced storyteller.

 

“Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 71 after Anvil's drow exodus, almost 'xactly twenty-four centuries ago. I was young those days, an' th' first half a millenium had not seen fit t' adorn me yet with this map o' scars I now carry.”

 

The creature hissed and gurgled its displeasure at this slow start, but quieted surprisingly when the Dreamer glared at it with two narrowed eyes like thin horizontal flames.

 

“Any tale worth tellin' is worth tellin' right, Corrupter.”

 

He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them wider and continued his tale.

 

“Now, as I was sayin', I was quite diff'rent those days, filled with th' focused sense of absolute yet undirected purpose of young things. Th' Paths were in turmoil then, much as they are now, in th' aftermath of th' Reconstruction Wars. Th' Kalash were formin' their strict, set ways, castin' away those overly touch'd by th' chaotic magic of th' Grail, an' some of those creations were alter'd far enough for them to walk th' Ways Between. Along the same roads travelled th' remains of various detachments of Law an' Chaos, both torn as badly by th' last, apocalyptic Battle of th' Turnin' Tides. Rumours of a new horror with power beyond those of gods an' planewalkers, a bare maiden with a halo of daggers circulated an' th' Cult of th' End thrived an' swell'd like a malicious tumor feedin' on the gloom.

 

I was mostly untouch'd by all this, rulin' over my tiny fief far away from th' main battlefields. Th' first few months after th' end of th' war even th' younger, foolish version of me was wise enough to stay home, but when things quieted down an' it was clear I'd get no reliable news of what had really happen'd unless I'd travel to see it myself, my restlessness grew until it drove me out of my fortress. Th' need t' travel did not quite devour my carefulness, however, an' I spirall'd towards th' centre of th' devastation in a lazy, slow spiral that allow'd me t' ascertain the kinds of trouble I might meet deeper.”

 

The visions flickered next to him, showing a rapid series of fantastic views: the pearly stars of the worlds against the black velvet of the Void, a metal titan sparkling with golden magic wrestling with archdemon on a Lost Path, the tattered remains of a squad of angels fighting against a very much younger version of the planewalker, shards of planar crystal falling as glittering snow over devastated landscape of lava in a dying plane.

 

“Me an' Sarnael, th' conjunction of an evil essence an' a holy angel, clash'd near Ghvael. 'Tis a whole 'nother tale an' th' progenitor of yet more tales, so no more of it – sufficient t' say we were both too young to kill each other, an' so 't amounted to not much more than a mock battle. That slow'd me down, however, which was lucky for me, or perhaps th' work of th' elusive Fates. For near where th' Pearl Necklace o' th' Worlds an' th' Anvil meet was a mortal tavern I knew of that was rumour'd to serve angel's blood, th' only real refresment I indulge myself with, an' th' martial exercise 'ad made me thirsty.

 

For once, th' rumour was correct. Even though th' place was a veritable thieves nest, they did have a bottle of exquisite angel's blood for me. I paid with enough t' purchase that miserable wooden hovel twice over an' sat down in th' nearest table that had a free chair, hopin' that I would not be requir'd t' kill any locals before I'd be able to enjoy th' elixir in peace. T' my surprise, th' only mortal at th' table only nodded to me deeply with a knowin' look on his old face, an' when I gave him a better look, intrigued by his calm an' correct behaviour, I could sense th' lingerin' remains of magic, of both Chaos and Law in nature.”

 

In the changing illusion, an angel of terrible and terrifying beauty flew through the inky darkness of the Void and swept downwards to strike the younger version of the planewalker, only to be parried and riposted. Just as another presence approached the scene, it transformed and showed the ageless beauty of the Pearl Necklace of the Worlds, a perfect curved series of planes. Then the picture changed yet again and showed a shadowy tavern filled with thugs, mercenaries, sailors and ne'er-do-wells, with the young Dreamer sitting near the bar in a table better illuminated than most, a glass of thick red liquid in front of him and an old man clothed in fine but slightly worn clothes sitting opposite him.

 

“Therein lay a tale, I was sure, an' bein' young an' curious I tried t' coax that tale out to th' open. Without further preamble I spoke to the mortal man over th' rim of my glass o' angel's blood.

 

'Greetings, m'lord. I have a feelin' ye fit t' this establishment as poorly as I do, an' that ye have a story t' tell.'

 

'Greetings, lord. It is true that I have very little in common with the usual clients of this hole, yes. As to the story, I might be able to tell my tale if you promise to remember it well, planewalker. For it is a tale with a lesson, and I'd rather not see others follow the way of my former master to early doom.'

 

'Now ye have my full attention, mortal, an' I promise by my mage sigil an' th' harmony of neutrality it represents t' commit every word of yer tale t' my immortal memory, never t' be expunged unless th' Fates so decree.'

 

'Fair enough, fair enough. A tale I'll tell, then – a tale of hubris and fall, of Chaos and Law and of power, and how it is not always enough to save you, no matter how skilled in the Art you are. A tale of Vrean DeMorneer and the Kalash, if you will.'”

[Zadown]

The old man took a long draught of his wine, grimaced slightly at the unrefined taste of it and cleared his throat.

 

“I am known by many names, planewalker, but the one I use myself is Mister Zacharie NeVolarie, a gentleman, alchemist and philosopher, and until late a friend of the famous Earl Vrean DeMorneer of Law. This tale I tell you happened last year, on the 1507th after Unsath Rebellion or on the 70th after the Exodus.

 

The intense wars between Law and Chaos which are now called the Reconstruction Wars were drawing to a bloody conclusion in the Scattered Worlds. Armies of both sides trampled the Paths in fiery processions of white and red and clashed against each other in small skirmishes that in some other time would have been called full scale wars in itself, raining bloody sparks all over the velvet of the Void. Many others know the reasons for the escalation of hostilities better and in future the tomes of history will be more accurate than me about what really happened, so I will bypass the ponderous recitations of the deeds in the fields of battle, valorous, traitorous or cowardly.

 

I spent most of my time away from the tribulations of war with my master, as we were researching a way that would give us the final edge in the woefully balanced situation, both Law and Chaos having gathered very evenly matched forces. No mind was keen enough, no oracle true enough, to know what would happen when the main bodies would finally and inevitably crash against each other to start the final titanic struggle that might shift the Balance.

 

Now, Earl Vrean was well-known by his skill with magical constructs, of which many were already fighting in the ranks of Law's armies. Creating them was a long and tedious process however, and despite their formidable power they often were destroyed in the hands of the opposing planewalker captains in a disproportionately short time. Their colossal bulk and slow, delibrate movements made them easy targets, so while sending the reserves the Earl had created before the conflict into the fields of war helped us to counter partly the ease Chaos has always been able to conjure demonic forces of destruction to their side, crafting more of them in the few short months before the last battle seemed futile.

 

Thus we were delving into a theory of self-replicating machines, a project Earl Vrean and I had discussed about for decades and that he had researched quietly, without hurry, during his spare time. I never understood most of it, given my lack of knowledge in the Art, but I was dimly aware of the sheer brilliance of it. The less technical aspects of the grand ritual, the creation of the first Queen and the questions of how to bind the resulting creations and the creations they would in turn create to our will with iron chains, these we discussed and honed many a times during those weeks, just like this: a planewalker with his glass of devil's blood, in his case, and a mortal with wine, as different as a god and an ant in power but connected via the abstractions of speech. While I was unable to help him with the particulars, I am sure some of his ideas clarified in my presence, the flaws revealing themselves through our dialogue. Or so I say to myself.

 

Even with my minor help, it very much looked like our lofty project would not be finished in time for the final clash and truly our conversations had an air of theoretical talk about them, as if despite all the effort Earl Vrean had placed upon this project it would never bear fruit. That all changed one morning when I came to the Earl's workshop only to see him asleep over his notes and diagrams, sleep being an indulgence Vrean, born human aeons ago, still permitted himself. When I gently shook him awake, his eyes blinked open and he stared me wildly, not seeing who I was for a fleeting moment. He gradually returned to his usual calm and reserved self, but a spark of that wildness I had seen in his deep, immortal eyes remained with him from that night. I asked once what dreams he had seen but he did not answer, only replying with a hooded, annoyed gaze that signified his refusal to talk about the subject.

 

Pursued or pushed by whatever hounds he had seen in his nightmares or daydreams, the work changed from the idle musings of an interested academic to the fevered, hasty research generally associated with generating machines of war to the losing side. Suddenly Vrean leaped over pits on the way to success with an intellectual agility I've seldomly seen even in the undying ones and further improved those parts of the work that I had thought finished. In weeks he blazed through the research of decades, his Grand Ritual of Kalash forming itself piece by piece in front of our very eyes. Even if I lack deeper knowledge in the magical, from what I have heard his layered ritual was of unprecedented complexity and power – on the surface, it merely created the first of the Kalash out of the material of a metal world Vrean had scouted and concealed with spells decades ago for this purpose, a Queen who would be able to create more of the loyal metal warriors for us. Hidden under that layer was a core of spells governing the minds and futures of the race of golems we were striving to carve out of the waiting, inert metal; and hidden under these, yet more words and sigils in an intricate web that would anchor every construct created by the results of this grand ritual to us, and to past and future and the Fates in a way I could not understand.

 

When it was ready and he showed an illusion of it all as a vision, a softly glowing blossom of sigils and runes too small to see to make it all fit into a room, the different layers rotating around each other and flickering in and out of this time and space, I knew I was witnessing history being made – history of the Multiversum, no less.”

 

Zacharie coughed and took a sip of his wine to moisten his parched throat, gave the Dreamer a questioning look to ensure he was still listening attentively. The planewalker nodded and gestured the human to continue his story.

[Zadown]

“We did not waste time after that. News from the front were confused and delayed pieces of the whole, and we had no idea how long it would be before the last battle. Rather than wasting time confirming the true state of affairs, we headed towards the metal world for which the ritual was named, Kalash, with just a minimal crew of angels and constructs. Earl Vrean never commanded a large army, as his strengths lay elsewhere than binding or leading.

 

The journey was well within the limits of Law's territory, and thus outwardly uneventful even for our small retinue. Something seemed to agitate our angelic troops, however, and I saw their captain talk, as animatedly as the serene celestials can be, with the Earl several times, the two of them always speaking too softly for me to hear. I do not know what was the topic of those arguments, but they set an omnious tone to the trip. Only the mindless golems were peaceful towards the end – the rest of us, those who had a mind to conjure hollow phantasms of doubt and fear, grew more nervous as our destination got closer and closer. In top of the very real unease about possible Chaos patrols that had infected us all, more incorporeal fears about what we were going to do ourself whispered in my thoughts. I had seen the ritual, in a way, but I had no way of telling if there would be a flaw in it in some deep but fundamental part of the spell. Nightmares of a third army joining the fray from behind Law's ranks troubled me, but I knew better than to voice my concerns to the Earl. His eyes still had the strange sheen of somebody following a path laid for them in dreams.

 

Despite my delvings into the realms philosophical and historical, I do not know how places like Kalash are created. In the end they exist all the same, whether the feeble theories of the likes of me can them encompass or not, these places of terrible beauty and soulsearing loneliness. Nothing stirred as we landed on the barren surface from the Astral. Around us rose sharp blades of steel and spikes bronze reaching skywards, the diffuse light they had in place of a sun making the edges gleam with murderous glint. Ground below us was smooth and unblemished by rust or corrosion, and there was no moisture in the still air – it was as if we were walking on a smooth globe that had been penetrated by the swords and lances of innumerable knights from below in their futile attempt to break free from their round prison, the whole world frozen in that moment and turned utterly dead and lifeless.

 

Without any ceremonies, after the merest of preparations, Earl Vrean launched into the final parts of his great ritual. He had already performed most of it and bound the resulting half-finished spells into runed stones, staves and wands we had brough with us, items that alone did nothing but here, plugged into their place in the great scheme, became whirring pieces in the machinery of magic. I stood aside and watched him work. I knew if the worst would happen and his spell would backfire or his creations would slay him, I would die here as well, for I lack the necessary skills to navigate the dangerous Void between the pearly crystals of diverse planes and was as such utterly dependant on Earl Vrean. Even with those gloomy thoughts, I would have not changed my place with anybody in the wide multiversum – what I witnessed had me utterly enraptured. The spell made the air sing and burn with its energies, the metal of the planet resonating in a rhythm that made my bones tremble inside my body...

 

... ah, my words fail. Reality itself was rearranged, Order brought into Chaos with the tools of magic, the Matter made to obey the Word. A glorious thing to behold, yes.”

 

The old man turned his gaze upwards as if he could see again the cataclysmic spell being cast in front of his frail, mortal eyes, then he blinked, dried a tear that had appeared into his right eye and continued after a deep breath.

 

“The ritual was perfect, flawless. It molded the unyielding material of the metal world into a predestined shape, sculpted a living progenitor out of the dead, silent soil of that place. I do believe that was the first and last time any being made of flesh, or even walking the Paths in such a soft guise, saw the Kalash Queen in her full glory of bristling blades and interlocking plates of armour, saw the pure, white brilliance shining in her eyesockets when she was suffused with motion and purpose, or heard the sound of her talons clashing with the steely ground. She bowed to the Earl who made a gesture of benediction – in that moment the hue of Law grew so strong that it revealed itself even to us walking other paths than those of the Art. Air tasted of metal and the diffuse ambient radiance took on a whiter tone, sounds grew clearer and thoughts lost their unnecessary branches, leaving only the true paths.

 

When that blessed moment passed, the Queen had already started burrowing through the crust with her sharp claws, slashing and tearing through the metal in a frenzy that would have been terrifying if there had been any doubt of her allegiances. What followed was a long day of waiting in that unhospitable place, Earl Vrean brooding with an unexpected gloom hanging around him, the angels rustling their wings nervously and staying on the ground, not wanting to test the winds of the planet. I sened the Earl did not want to speak so I kept to my own devices, whiling away the long hours by immersing myself into some ageless philosophical theories and problems. After some time had passed and when they failed to retain my interest, I walked to the hole left behind by the Queen.

 

Thus I was the first to ever see a Kalash warrior rising out of their warrens. He resembled a moving suit of armour with two crackling and sparkling ball lightnings as his eyes, a wicked blade in his hand lined with volatile yellow energy that made my head buzz with the beginning of a headache and a determined purpose in his movements. The blue and yellow glow of his eyes and blade, respectively, cast faint ghostly shadows that danced on the iron ground, as he moved forward towards me. Uncertainly, I took a step backwards to counter his movement, at which point he paused and bowed, speaking with a metallic booming voice afterwards.

 

'Greetings, Zacharie NeVolarie. With respect, can you point towards the direction of our master, the Earl?'

 

That moment dispelled my fears and doubts. Oh, how I now hope that they would have stayed in my mind, dormant perhaps, but stayed nevertheless!”

[Zadown]

“Let me speed past the days that followed, then, for during them nothing worth committing to that immortal memory of your happened. Our army of Kalash grew, as did our trepidation that we'd be too late if we would tarry overly long in that desolate place. Those days saw Earl Vrean uncharacteristically sombre and silent despite his great deed in the Art – perhaps he was beset upon the melancholy that can strike a man down after his finest hour, knowing that there will be no other moment as glorious, who knows? I do not claim to be quite that familiar with the machinations of the undying minds, even if I have spent much time with the Earl and his acquaintances.

 

When our first brigade was ready, rows upon rows of metal soldiers, their psionic blades hissing with baleful energies, their shining eyes lighting up the gloomy world – a view both thrilling and terrifying, something that the world had not met before – we decided it would be better to bring that limited number of warriors to the fight than wait and arrive too late with a larger number of them. This time as we marched through the Lost Paths, we did not fear any intimidating things lurking in the black night between the pearly worlds, for those walked besides us, eyes and blades afire.

 

I am weary of war and tales of it, Lord Planewalker, so you shall have to excuse me if I leave gaps in my narration as my story reaches the end battles of the Reconstruction Wars. For we were there in time for them, and indeed it was the Kalash after which the wars were named, later when the overall picture grew vaster and clearer for those who pursue knowledge of things that will be written in the huge and ever growing tomes of History. Our first brigade performed with a resiliency, tenacity and tactical acumen we had perhaps hoped for in our unrealistic daydreams but were not accustomed of seeing in the battlefield, easily eclipsing all the numerous earlier works of Earl Vrean. In one of their first encounters, they even managed to overwhelm and defeat all the way to the last, permanent Death a minor planewalker captain of Chaos, a deed that was almost unheard-of. Even planewalkers and gods rarely managed to kill each other with their vast powers and aeons-old artefact weapons, so to have mere underlings to perform such a feat intensified the already searing flames of war as Chaos sought to smash such abominations and Law to protect them. And so a war about something else entirely turned into a war about tools of war.”

 

The storyteller sighed and took a sip of wine, his voice now perceptibly wearier than it had been in the beginning.

 

“Even if my part in the creation of the Kalash was minor, I still do not relish describing the havoc they wrought, no matter it was upon our ancient enemy Chaos. For every struck blow we dealt, we were struck in response, previously unseen numbers of demons flocking to counter the threat of our metal warriors. Some of them, unruly warriors as they are, broke free from their chains and further spread purposeless destruction around the two huge armies locked in immortal combat. The war grew closer to the deadlocked balance of power they had been at previously, though now it was deadlocked at a magnitude of far greater violence, hate and atrocity than before. Engagements that would usually end up in orderly retreat of one side turned into massacres instead, the Chaos planewalker killed by Kalash ending up only as the first of many undying victims of the continuing clashes.

 

When the second brigade of Kalash joined the fray, Law quickly seized the upper hand and won a decisive victory at the Battle of the Three Spears, the two titans wrestling ineffectively turning into a hunter and a hunted, the armies of Chaos trying desperately to regroup but suffering a bloody defeats at the Battle of Kh'Vael and Battle of Twelve Dead. The Battle of the Hunter seemed to head towards the end of the field armies of Chaos, but an avatar of War appeared and shred up the vanguard of the Law while Chaos retreated, only to vanish later. Now, I am aware these dry lists of battles fought seem meaningless, but here is one of the critical points of my rambling tale.

 

So, we have the army of Law, magnificent and eager to finally tilt the huge scales of Balance to their favor and to end the eternal strife. Dozens of planewalker captains, the radiant solars and dominions acting as their heralds and lieutenants, the rows upon rows of archangels and angels and the force deadly-looking Kalash, then already three brigades large. It was as if there had been a white wall stretching from infinity to infinity, all sharp steel and reflecting shields, polished armours and bright helmets. Facing this wall of Order a short gap of black velvet of the Void, and then the beaten back armies of Chaos, a fiery river cutting the sky in half, too far to make out the details but close enough for us to feel their taint in the aether. Assuming you have followed my words, what you see with your imagination, Lord Planewalker, is the opening arrangement of the Battle of the Betrayal, the last large battle of the Reconstruction Wars.”

[Zadown]

“It opened with the slow yet graceful charge of the glacier of Law's forces, trumpets proclaiming our victory already in the opening notes of that battle, a calculated arrogance to enrage the easily distracted Dukes of Chaos. The fiery river roared and surged to meet our challenge in the usual patternless attack formation of the Unruly, superior numbers acting as their chief strategy. On both sides, the clashing forces seemed to be evenly matched to my untrained eye and the warriors of the line cut and crushed each other in a locked embrace of steel. In the middle where the Kalash spearheaded our attack, the tale of the battle was different and the natural supremacy of Law could be observed most clearly, our forces cutting through the skin of the Chaos Beast and hewing deeper, into the innards of our nemesis. The planewalkers who follow the path of the Many Arrows had concentrated their deadliest, most abysmal warmagics into that narrow area, but our own immortals countered their every move with a similar feat of the Art, and thus it seemed that we'd cut the enemy in half and win the day easily.

 

It was then the Chaos taint grew stronger as if a vast wave of hot and humid hell-breath had rushed over our troops, bringing with it unbearable visions of a thousand false possibilities, a mind-searing kaleidoscope of untrue paths, burning us with uncertainty and falsehood. I turned my head towards the centre of that surge, a movement that was mirrored all around me, and we all beheld a golden apparition of a chalice standing watch over the beleaguered front of the Chaos. The battle all but ceased nearby, the enormous dimensions of the magics used stunning even the most mindless hell-beasts and the most fanatic of the angels, the forces of Law aghast at their chosen color, gold, being used in a such manner. Within the transparent image of a burning, golden chalice I could see a pattern emerging and a dread descended upon me, for even without any skill in the Art I saw the same general shape take form as I had previously seen in Earl Vrean's workshop as he demonstrated the Kalash Ritual to me. But this version was tainted to the core, its pulsing red veins connecting it to the past and to the future reminding me of talons ready to rip apart all that Vrean had made and to destroy it, I assumed. Even that would, at best, given Chaos a draw and time to lick their wounds, but it was the life's work of a planewalker I knew and called a friend, and so a deep terror awoke in me, a terror co-mingled with sorrow for I saw that the demonic spell could not be stopped in time.

 

Ah, if the Kalash would have been demolished I would not be here telling this tale, nor proclaiming it to be of the utmost importance! But I had read the spell wrong. The hovering image above us exploded into countless golden lances, most of them aimed at the Kalash but some vanishing into the blackness of the Void. Those that struck the metal warriors left them seemingly unharmed, however, and for a moment I was perplexed, then overjoyed at the impotence of the Chaos magics against our brilliant creations. The moment I realized the spell had worked after all was one of the most terrible in my life, a black, fell endless hour that left me sick and drained – for the Kalash turned swiftly, as organized as ever, and brought their wicked long blades down upon their erstwhile comrades-in-arms. The clean blades rose and then fell, rose again irredeemably soiled with the blood of the celestial kin. This sight was greeted with shocked silence by the warriors of Law and with a cackling, roaring mismatched yell of wicked glee by the fiery troops of Chaos, who wasted no time in crashing forward, their berserker rage awakened by the bloodletting.

 

Law endures and matches entropia and Chaos both with an unyielding steadfastness, now and during that gloomy day. So while the losses were great and many a valiant captain was lost, not to even mention the uncountable dozens of the high angels that were cut down by the Betrayal and the long mêlée that followed or the legions they lead to the final Dark, we held firm: Law's shining shield deflected the hacking, wicked blade of the Chaos, as it always does. This time the price was higher than ever for both sides, the blade shattered and the shield cracked, for not even the hideous act of subversion the Disorder had wrought was enough to undo all the beatings they had had to endure by our hand before this battle. So were the two mightiest armies of all shattered and dispersed, the remaining forces each seeking to take advantage of the uncertain times in one way or another, either by trying to grab some piece of the multiversum or to defend their old claims against the roving bands of other side's troops.”

 

The old man was silent for a while and coughed softly, gaze turned inwards to seek the next words. When he raised his eyes to meet those of the Dreamer there was an old pain in his look, and his countenance turned more grim.

 

“If that would be all, this would be no better or worse than the tales the angels tell to exalt the works of Law and to condemn the vile Chaos. That story and all its permutations are even older than ye, m'lord Planewalker, for that conflict is as old as time itself. But there are more to it than the reversal of fortunes and the bedlam that followed.

 

Our retinue withdraw from the forces of Law as soon as it was clear the grand war was over, that our monolithic army was shattered into smaller forces, many of which were working inspired by greed or fear. To most of what happened I was a mere observer, lacking any skills, powers or influence to even nudge the events to any other direction than to where they were headed by their own inherent nature, but at that hour of despair I can say I steered our small group. Earl Vrean was understandably heart-broken by the betrayal of his creations and the corruption of his life's work, especially since from his few muttered words I could gather those golden lances that had disappeared into the trackless void had struck the ritual at its core, corrupted the metal world of Kalash so that there were no Kalash true to the first ritual and vision any more. There were only the main forces of them, and the pariahs that had so been twisted by Chaos they did not fit even the new Disorder of those metal warriors. So I coaxed Vrean to work his magic, ordered the angels to guard us, and pointed the small squad towards the Earl's main study. It was a sombre flight through the darkness of the Void.

 

When we arrived, Vrean at once withdraw to his personal quarters where he was not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason. I was left to my own devices, and if I could have done so, I would have traveled back to my own home to get away from the miasma of gloom that hung over the whole silent workshop. Days passed, stirring in me a vague fear the Earl would stay confined in his inner workshop for so long I would wither of old age waiting for the tenebrous tendrils of dejection to loosen their grasp. Before I deemed it worth the risk to try disturbing the master of the fortress in his inner sanctum, he emerged on his own. The spark of wildness I had spied in the deep wells of his eyes back when he had started the final uncharacteristic dash in his work on the Great Ritual was now easy to see, as it was not a spark but an inferno now. The madness that spoke to him in his dreams had touched him again.”

[Zadown]

“At first he was reluctant to even divulge us the direction of his new research, but I could see in him the craving to discuss about what he was doing, and as he rushed forward to areas only a few Masters of the Art had charted, that desire finally overwhelmed his disinclination to say anything. We were seated at a table, like this, with slender glasses of wine in front of us – I remember the look on his face very clearly, the fire in his eyes burning with a steady flame, in his motions the sort of inexactitude people obsessed by something internal can have, and how the dam of muteness broke and his words poured out, words I'll never forget:

 

'Zacharie, 't may seem that th' 'eavy blow dealt t' me an' Law has left me driftin' aimlessly an' without any purpose, an' perhaps 'twas true for a time, but in dreams I 'ave found a way to work 'gainst that blow. 'T may seem, also, that there is naught t' be done, an' to an extent, that is true. There is naught t' be done in this multiversum, bound by these laws and this history!

 

Alas, I see from yer afright'ned face that ye already object, an' truly 'tis no easy subject, th' breachin' of the barrier to th' Parallels, but if there are any beings of power capable of such a feat, I am one of those. Even after this setback, I remain an unparall'd Master in th' Art, inspir'd by visions in my dreams sent by the Fates themselves. This time, I shall succeed!'

 

No words of mine would turn his head, something I knew after the first tentative tries. I was his friend, and a true friend does no condemn nor sabotage any chosen path of his comrade, not even if the goal seems shrouded in danger and failure. So I turned to follow him instead of trying to pointlessly to bar his way, and did my small part to help him in this second Great Work in such a short time. This time, the whole project had a morbid feeling to it, and I still shudder as I recall those hectic days. Inspired by Fates or possessed by some inner phantoms, Earl Vrean moved forward a road that was paved with much speculation but that had been rarely traveled before. Most accounts of such experiments on probing or trying to breach the barrier that separates the endless possibilities of this multiversum from those of the other Parallels, if any exist, were tales of wasted time. Some rare ones spoke of uncontrollable energies that surged through the hapless ritualists, leaving behind naught but ashes and blackened bones sparing no magus, mortal or immortal. None spoke of success.

 

Of course, Vrean only laughed at the stories, a dry, hollow laugh lacking any warmth. Whatever hand had grasped him through his dreams was making him dance like a puppet, I felt, and was dismayed at the display of such a power, vaster and greater than one of the greatest planewalkers of my time. There was nothing haphazard or awkward in that dance, however, and the work mirrored the highly successful Ritual of the Kalash, proceeding forward in leaps and bounds. Even I, at the edges of that research, know possibly more about the Parallels than any other mortal and most of the immortals, such was the amount of knowledge we went through. We lacked any definite deadline, yet there still was an urgency to everything Earl Vrean did. In a matter of weeks, mere weeks to achieve the work of a lifetime, we were finished and ready.

 

I see you are intrigued, now.”

 

Zacharie nodded slowly as if to himself and closed his eyes for a moment. He then sighed and opened them, continued his tale in a weary tone.

 

“Only I and him were present, so you shall not hear another version of this part of the story, ever. We were in his summoning chambers, my fragile mortal body situated at the high balcony above the stone pit that housed Vrean's magic circle. Between me and and the bottom of the pit rippled a powerful field of force, coloured like a sheet of capture sunlight trembling to break free. Underneath it I could see the distorted image of the Earl, his hands going through the motions of spellcasting, faint nonsensical words of the Art drifting up to me. I felt sick already by then, feeling the immense doom that hung over the whole scene, and I knew he could not succeed twice in a row in works of this magnitude, inspired by the whispers of the Fates or not. It brought me no pleasure to find out soon enough I was right in my misgivings.

 

It is hard for an outsider like me to know when Order holds sway and the exact words of the Art mold the disorderly matter into the patterns that are sought for by the magus, and when Chaos howls in the cracks between the syllables, denying Law's supremacy and twisting the spell into a deadly storm that will engulf anybody nearby. Even the look on the face of the ritualist does not always tell anything, for some of the toils the Art inflicts on the minds of those who are arrogant enough to tell the multiversum what to do instead of adapting mutely to its ways twist the face of the magus into visages that are almost as horrible to behold as they must be horrible to suffer through, and thus I was not immediately alarmed when I saw a ghastly grimace spread over the face of Earl Vrean. Before him opened a fissure or a portal in the very air of the chamber, its jagged edges looking menacingly sharp even through the distorting forcefield, the blackness in its center giving out a feeling of immense depth so mesmerizing I grasped the rail in front of me in a fit of dizzying vertigo. Amidst the grasping of the rail so hard my knuckles turned white I realized the meaningless words of the ritual had ceased, and then I heard a sound I shall remember as long as I live – the scream of a planewalker facing his final doom. I raised my eyes after a brief internal struggle, debating if I would really want to see what happened, and witnessed the jagged hole through the Parallel Wall devour my friend Earl Vrean as if it was the deadly maw of some giant, legendary beast. He paused for a short moment, then screamed again and was gone without a trace. Satisfied or unable to retain its form for long, the slash in the fabric of the multiversum healed itself, vanishing before my teary eyes.

 

That, m'lord planewalker, is the true lesson of this long and rambling tale that has exhausted me. Ultimately, not to pursue the cold and bitter fruits of vengeance too far, or more specifically, not to reach towards the limitless possibilities of the Parallels, not even if the Fates themselves whisper about it. For immortal Masters of the Art will fall like the most fragile mortal if they overreach, something I would never dare to tell any of your kind without this true tale to illustrate my point.”

 

The old man leaned back and said no more.

[Zadown]

The illusion-within-the-illusion next to the Dreamer telling the tale-within-the-tale showed the old man's silence for a moment before winking out of existence. The mirage of the planewalker in the remaining illusion stared at the empty spot where it had been and spoke seemingly still half in his own memories, the words as they were re-spoken by the Dreamer of Now slow and thoughtful.

 

““'Tis th' tale, Devourer, or at least th' part of it ye want t' hear. T' any other sentient bein' I would continue it to th' end of my travels, but ye only needed fuel for yer flames o' hatr'd, an' need no epilogue that closes th' accountin' of my travels in those troubled times.”

 

As I 'ad surmis'd, th' Abyss-thing was quite pleased by my tale, hissin' an' squirmin' in disgustin' display of pleasure, revertin' back t' th' depths of bestial instincts to wallow in th' idea of Earl Vrean bein' chewed up by th' jagged mouth of th' Parallel Wall. I watch'd eyes still a'blaze by th' yellow fires of wariness an' alertness, 'til I grew weary of th' primordial mindlessness of th' thing.

 

“Well, Lord Fiend, pause in thy gurglin' an' fulfil yer part of th' pact, neh? Stand aside an' allow me t' pass!”

 

“As you wish, blind worm. Walk past me and fetch your spark.”

 

Now, while I might be of Chaos, within me an' those of my kin are some unwritten rules wrou'ht of adamantium, so t' speak. This Obliterator, a swirlin' spawn of chaos an' evil, alien an' singleminded in its hatred an' disobeyance of any law or promise, large or small, had no such limitations. It 'ad gotten 's tale, an' would benefit none of my continued existence. It most certainly did not want a reputation as reliable creature, that much should anybody know. So I did somethin' no sane planewalker should do an' was reckless – for while I knew 'twould attack me as soon as it would be able, I also was fairly certain of my ability t' withstand its blow or three.

 

If I 'ad've paused t' reinforce my wards outside of its reach, th' charade would've ended an' it wouldn't 'ave tried to take me out by surprise, but claw'd and gnashed 'gainst th' invisible wall that kept it at bay ready to rend me apart as soon as I'd step over th' treshold. On th' other hand, would I appear so foolish as t' march toward my reward with th' outward appearance of blissful tranquility, there was a possibility it'd wait, tryin' to lull me into a false sense of security for a fleetin' moment before it'd crack my protective spells open an' devour me with its enormous maw. A simple ruse it might be, yet sometimes simple works.

 

Still, 'ad I been mortal, my hands would 'ave been slick with sweat. With calm countenance, eyes retainin' their yellow glare that would've told anybody up t' date with tales of me I was as alert as ever, I walk'd towards th' blue fire. Chaos howled in my mind, dividin' it to parts that all were ready t' do different things, my lips mutterin' nervously th' broken syllables of various spells: th' activation word of my retreat forcefield, th' harsh an' painful but useful words of a Law's protective triangle an' many others, magicks of defense an' hasty escapes.

 

Predictable as ever, th' Lord of Abyss reared up as I was near to it, its amorphous form resembling a molten black bear or a malevolent wave ready to crash upon th' small, bright spark of my wards coruscatin' in various shades of emerald green. I could smell its noxious breath, feel the corrosive taint its raw chaos mix'd with th' darkest evil radiated to every direction, an' if I'd had th' time, I would've shivered in disgust. As it was, I shouted aloud a spell I 'ad learned durin' my neutral times with voice turned coarse and faint from th' deadly vapours surroundin' th' Hell-Beast, th' sharp an' cuttin' words too exact an' luminous for th' current me to yell without burnin' myself in the progress. I called to th' Law an' th' crystalline words gushed from my lacerated throat borne on a fountain of blood, every rune pronounc'd with clarity, an' th' Law heard: around me manifest'd a golden triangle, th' basic protective symbol of th' Order. Th' fiend tried t' recoil from th' conjuration, taken completely by surprise by Law's intervention on behalf of a Duke of Chaos, but its formless appendage was already descending and struck th' golden ward with mighty force, an abysmal blow of great strength shatterin' on th' immovable surface of Law's might channeled by a Master of the Art.

 

It scream'd in afright'ned rage, th' fist it 'ad used to strike me turnin' translucent an' diffuse, th' gaseous tentacles twisting to agoniz'd knots. Submerged in my own pain I howl'd back at th' Obliterator, Law exactin' a heavy payment as its power surged through me. I had been expectin' th' agony an' thus I was th' first to recover, soon dashin' towards th' great blue bonfire as fast as I could in my pained state. Th' fortress shook when it recovered enough t' gain control of its limbs, the creature wastin' a second or two at expressin' its magnificient rage at my affront to have th' temerity to actually resist its attempt t' devour me. 'Twas all I needed: I grasped a spark of th' blue flame an' sidestepped away to th' planar Astral before th' Devourer 'ad time for a second blow.”

 

The Dreamer grinned, the scars on his face dancing an intimidating jig. He snapped his fingers and drew forth a tube of glass from the depths of his cloak, held it up so the blue flame inside illuminated his face and the dirty table with bright, azure light.

 

“So, there 's my tale, mortal boy, a tale I've now told twice, an' my throat's parched anew.”

 

The planewalker put the vial of flame away and downed the last thin layer of blood left, put the glass carefully on the table, his grin showing white teeth and his equally white eyes radiating a pale glow in the gloomy shadows of the tavern.