GM Neirikr's "The Masque of Quarters" (Inactive)

Game Master Neirikr

The upper-to-middle levels of the Track are still in disarray. Disguised as one Acolyte amongst dozens, it is a relatively simple matter to swipe a key and enter your former cell without anyone batting an eye. The accommodations seem to be unoccupied, and look much as you left them previously: cold and damp air, rough-hewn stone walls, empty save for the pile of rags and straw on the floor. There are carvings on the walls, left by previous tenants:

"Long live Melcat!
Long live the Duke!"

[Preceded by an etching of the holy symbol of Iomedae:]
"O Lady of Valour
protect thy humble servant
guide me to righteousness
for as long as I walk
in the Light of the Sword
the darkness holds no fear"

"SAY WHAT YUO YOU WILL,
I LIVE FREE!!"

[Written hastily in Varisian:]
"if you can read this,
DESNA bless you!
please, if you go free
my wife RUXANDRA is in
JANOYT
she is with child
tell her i lo–"

There is also a small inscription written in the hodgepodge tongue of the halflings: four short lines—discrete sentences, perhaps—written one above the other, at human knee-level. Next to the text are the faint outlines of a flower, drawn in blue chalk.

And of course, there is the orb—cold and unbearably bright, still aglow near the ceiling.

Now that you have access to all your senses, you take a moment to inspect the auras surrounding the brilliant globe. At first, you are confused by the powerful presence of illusion magic. There are, of course, figments and glamers that have the outward likeness of true illumination, but actual light demands evocation in order to produce the requisite energy. Moreover, you notice the tell-tale signs of shadowcasting.

As soon as you realise this paradox of light and shadow, you find yourself in darkness—indeed, the cell was never truly lit in the first place.

I'm using the Knowledge (arcana) check you rolled earlier in the discussion thread. To sum it up in mechanical terms: the mirror has been modified so that when opened, instead of continual light, it emits a permanent shadow evocation effect, which in turn reproduces the effects of a daylight spell until disbelieved.

With all your equipment, you can retrieve the mirror if you so wish.

"Say, did you ever see through my little ruse, or do you still believe the impossible?"

Raveen is quiet once the cell falls into darkness.

Well played.

"Believe the impossible, huh?" he muses, as his laughter dies out. He reaches out, and retrieves the mirror, before heading out.

I presume the halfling text is from the Bellflower network. Can I copy it and investigate it later?

As you return to the clinic, things have calmed down somewhat. The guards have moved outside, where they idle nervously at the entrance to the decommissioned cellblock—you do not see your erstwhile shepherd amongst their number. Once you step in, you see one more covered-up cadaver in the corner, but all of the other patients look to be well attended to, most of them asleep, unconscious, or dozing off in a drugged haze. Myrna herself stands in her little workspace with her back to the door, leaning heavily against what passes for her desk. She appears not to have noticed your entry.

Maybe she is sleeping...?

Raveen slips into the clinic. He pauses, feeling the room.

Maybe I'm paranoid, but this silence is suspicious.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 24 If I can apply Danger Sense, that's +1
Perception to Mark Myrna, DC 10 + target level: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (9) + 9 = 18

Mark: Full-round action. If successful, discovers any disguises, gains +2 to Perception, Sleight of Hand, Stealth, Steal maneuver, and attack and damage rolls. -2 to AC against anyone except the marked target, and -4 to Perception on anything else while marked.

Do I catch anything?

While at a glance it would seem Myrna is half-asleep, there is a tenseness in her posture that makes you think otherwise. She does not have eyes on the room, but a twitch of her half-even ears implies full alertness to her surroundings. She has positioned herself so that her hands are not visible.

Whether there a risk of hostility towards yourself is unclear, but the healer is clearly set to ambush someone.

Myrna has been successfully marked.

Raveen pauses. Myrna was [i](or still is)[/ooc] a Daggermark poisoner. Anything she can toss at him might be deadly--especially the things he provided himself. Anything from inhaled poisons to a venom-drenched dagger could end his escape attempt before he even got it underway.

He speaks up. "Myrna. It's time to see the sun."

Ready Action: If Myrna attacks, Raveen will call up the mask to distract or guilt-trip Myrna. If she looks determined, he will throw up the Charm Person spell (DC 15) instead.

Light filled the miserable and dark hole, heavy with the weight of forgotten and lonely souls. Pure and radiant sunlight that belonged not in the prison--in fact seemed antithetic to it. In the center of the aura, a figure stood, slim, and shadowed.

The brilliance would have caused the eyes to tear, for the soul to quake, and for the fallen to rise. To see such a sight was not to see with the eye, but with the spirit, as if in a waking dream or nightmare turned bright. The brightness would pierce closed eyes and dimmed minds, and burn away all fear and despair.

The light was hollow, despite all that it inspired.

A shell, a mask upon a mask upon a mask. Yet, masks have power.

The man in the radiance observed the woman who has forgotten the light, and spoke.

"I have come with the sun."

As the half-elf wheels around, you note two key details: firstly, Myrna is holding a small knife, the blade of which has been smeared with a bluish substance; and secondly, her eyes are glazed over and her face slack in a manner that signals overt mind-control. However, as her gaze meets the brilliance of the sun—the sun which she scarcely remembers—something changes. Grasping at her temples, she staggers back, dropping her knife and upending a couple of jars from her little desk. Her face twists, going from an expression of desperation to that of placidity and back again, changing as she struggles to escape her conditioning. It is obvious that she is not going to win the battle, but you nonetheless cannot help but to admire her persistence in fighting it—this is no mere charm she is attempting to shake.

Rastagar's assassin mutters through gritted teeth, "I must... bring you... to the warden..."

"No!" hisses the healer, almost without pause. "Not again... This is... This is all wrong! Help... me...."

Reaching out with the power of the mask, you feel a sudden coldness brush up against your being—like first winds of winter shaking at the leaves of an autumnal tree, seeking to tear away the last of its yellowed foliage. As soon as you have made the connection between it and Myrna, you instinctively cut it away. Wherever that wind blows, or whatever gulf of nothingness breathed it, you know it was shaking at the very tatters of your eternal soul.

The results are immediate: Myrna ceases her rambling and looks up at you with an expression of both anguish and relief.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I... I think I deserve this."

After that she goes silent, her eyes dropping to the floor. Slowly, unless you move to support her, she curls into a fetal position on the floor. Though she does not answer to you verbally, she appears to obey your instructions and follows your lead if you guide her by the hand.

Rastagar's assassin mutters through gritted teeth, "I must... bring you... to the warden..."

"No!" hisses the healer, almost without pause. "Not again... This is... This is all wrong! Help... me...."

Two lights flare in the slender shadow of the man in the radiance. As his power reached out, touching the icy current of darkness. The evil Will in it would conquer and break and cripple all, forcing them onto their knees literally and figuratively. The sense of it would vanquish his own, he realized as soon as it touched him, and he reacted with all his strength--reduced to a mere lazy wave of his hand.

No matter his own willpower, the masked man realized as the current scattered and drifted away, such power would have beaten him.
In several ways, it already has won a terrible battle against him that robbed him of his memories. It has not won the war against him, nor fully conquered even victims it had for what seemed like decades. Myrna was proof of that he was not invincible.

As the half-elf moves to collapse, muscles reflecting the exhaustion in her mind, the masked man glides forward as if carried by a silent breeze, holding her.

"We're getting out of here," he says with gentle firmness at her glazed eyes. "We will open the door, but you must go through it with your own power. Awaken, and come with me."

At your exhortation, Myrna remains in an upright position, but she refuses to meet your gaze. You get the sense that she hears and understands your every word, but her presence is distant and muted. When you move towards the exit, she follows with even steps, like someone on a thoughtful stroll.

Near the desk you note the healer's bag, which seems ready for an immediate "house call." The poisoned knife lies on the floor close by.

Is there anything else you would like to do in the clinic? All the patients are out of it and the guards outside don't seem to have been alerted.

The masked man takes the healer's bag and the poisoned knife. He grabs the herbs he last brought, and as many poisons as he can identify before leading Myrna away to the rendezvous.

The poisoned knife he sheathes into his side sheath, intending to use it on the Warden or his guardians, should they interrupt the Plan.

The guards at the entrance do not seem overly concerned about you exiting with Myrna, whose near-catatonic state is not readily apparent unless she is addressed. You wait for a few tense moments at the periphery of the hubbub—a medium-sized group of Acolytes milling about the second-topmost platform—blending into the group of neophytes who are either waiting for orders from absent, now-overworked Priests, or actively attempting to avoid such assignments. You hear snippets of conversations, mostly grumbling about having been woken so early, about the extra work shifts, and so on. One group seems to be betting on Curnow's fate, while another whispers conspiratorially about various inmates and staff members who might be "in on it."

The arrival of "Travers" is not difficult to perceive, as the Acolytes are quick to make way for the most influential Priest in the Forgotten Track. She is followed by Andrzej and Pike, both of who are chained at one ankle, the shackle being held by the conniving prelate. Andrzej is much like you remember, if a bit more frazzled than usual, while Pike presents an unforeseen mien of placidity. Between them they carry one of the crates of tools you studied at the bottom of the shaft. "Travers" goes to the ramp leading further upwards, tying the end of the chain around one of the beams underneath.

"These inmates have been requested by the warden for questioning," she declares loudly. "No one is to lay a hand on either of them until His Luxuriousness is done interrogating the apostate. As for you idlers: anyone who is not otherwise occupied, you are required down in your cell blocks. Be ready for the bell, and remember well the words of Razmir: the prize for obedience is opulence—the price for disobedience, death."

Once the about half of the Acolytes have filed away from the platform, "Travers" approaches you with similarly authoritative demeanour and looms over you threateningly, as if privately berating you for a more specific deficiency in morale or piousness

"You better be ready," she says under her breath, in her more brusque tone. "Here goes nothing..."

"Travers" leads you towards the ramp, and you follow with the proper deference of a scolded novice. You leave Myrna near Andrzej and Pike, who do not seem to question the addition. The Ustalav glances at you as you pass—perhaps making a guess, or maybe having been informed by your conspirator as to your identity—and winks at you surreptitiously. You note that their bindings are loose, and that the crate of tools has been put down nearby.

As you reach the topmost platform and begin to make your way towards the bell, "Travers" makes a quick gesture and mutters something in the direction of the warden's quarters—almost certainly the activation word for a magical device of some kind. There echoes a faint, yet audible click from the same direction.

Once you approach the source of the Track's collective misery, you are struck by the sheer immensity of the object, as well as its cruel artistry, neither which are readily appreciated from a distance. "Travers" nods, turning to watch the platform as you focus and shift your senses from the realm of the physical to the metaphysical.

Like previously, the bell's aura is something to behold: like an immense octopus, its binding potency extends in every direction like a hundred tentacles, writhing in concert with the shifting sigils on its metal surface. Its greenish glow is nearly overwhelming, like staring at the sun—though it is not your eyesight that is in peril, but your mind. You feel the manacle around your ankle resonate, heating ever so slightly with every second you take to inspect the immensely ominous chime.

You feel the shard of the nightglass humming with similar resonance—as per your agreement, Gweledydd stands ready to assist you in your endeavour.

This will boil down to a Use Magic Device check, modified by the results of your earlier investigations, as well as whatever bonuses you can scrape together on the spot. The DC will be dependent on the ambitiousness and complexity of your attempt, based on what the bell is intended to do vs. what you want it to do.

Before the actual roll, let's go through all of Raveen's resources and on-the-spot preparations. "Travers" has bought you a few minutes to work your magic.

Raveen takes "Travers's" ring and approaches the giant artifact. He felt the deep resonance of its magic irritating his senses. Perhaps he smelled magic in the air? Was it he heard the deep magical vibrations? It was possible he saw the magic--power normally unseen and beyond sight, but now almost visible in its intensity?

"I have failed," he said under his breath, before his voice faded into the personality-erasing illusion of his mask. "But your failure will be the one punished today."

Raveen's prisoner outfit slid away into the muted gray of a cloaked figure a few inches taller than he appears, and from below the illusory hood, was a terrifying mask; the black visage of a shadow demon with his fanged maw open. One hand carried the ring and the shard of the Nightglass, as his other hand reached out and touched the bell.

"I hereby enable your revenge, he said to Gweledydd. "Advise me as I work."

He then turned his attention to the bell.
"Let the binds be reversed," he whispered to himself, tracing the magical runes in the pattern he saw. "Let the masters be slaves, and the slaves be masters. Let the former slaves' binds be broken...and Let There Be Chaos."

Disable Device + 10: 1d20 + 9 + 10 ⇒ (15) + 9 + 10 = 34

I can also spend up to 3 Grit for maximum effect, each gives +2 bonus, if necessary.

Plan:
1. Raveen goes to reverse polarities and undo prisoners' manacles to go along with Travers' riot.
2. He then rings the bell to Charm the Acolytes and Priests, sending them as a human wave vs. Rastigar to soften him up.
3. If Raveen feels some resist the charm, he paralyzes them instead to enable the riot, and will call down on inmates to kill the Warden.
4. Once Raveen sees the Warden expending his resources on self-defense versus his minions and the rioteers, he will beeline for the Control Rod with a Sleight of Hand check, and ensure Rastigar's fate is sealed.

I can also spend up to 3 Grit for maximum effect, each gives +2 bonus, if necessary.

This is definitely a situation where getting a result of 35 or 40 rather than ~30 will make a big difference, so I assume you spend all the points.

As you make contact with the bell, both physically and metaphysically, you experience a moment of depersonalisation, as if your senses suddenly extended along the tendrils of force binding the immense hunk of metal to its many thralls—you share a brief connection with fellow inmates despairing in their darkened cells, nervous Acolytes in their chattering troops, even a flash of the warden's anger and glee as he slowly twists Curnow into something inhuman. With gritted teeth, you manage to retain your identity and focus on the hub, rather than the spokes. It all connects here, and here is where you can turn the wheel in whichever direction you please.

Gweleddyd's hissing voice is like a proverbial hand on your shoulder, guiding each mental action with the shrewdness of a master strategist: where to look, where to advance or retreat, where to guide the massive amounts of energy stored within. There is a stern insistence to his guidance, as if the entity was more used to giving out orders than working in tandem, but its lust for vengeance and hunger for suffering make it manageable, and its knowledge opens up avenues you might have disregarded altogether. With this expert aid, you work to recontextualise the runes of power etched onto the bell's surface, making new connections and erasing others in order to convince the bell of its new purpose. There is a sense musicality to the whole process, like attempting to match a certain pitch by ear.

With everything in tune, you ring the bell once: its reverberations are high and clear, quite unlike the bone-shaking tremors that have plagued the inmates every morning. You impart the sound with a single imperative, driven into each Acolyte's and Priest's mind with the subtlety of a whisper and the force of a nail.

There is a short moment of utter silence, after which there is a crashing sound from the door leading to the warden's quarters. It rattles on its hinges, as if something was trying to force it open from the inside. Whatever trickery "Travers" had employed in preparation appears to be working, leaving Rastagar and his Heralds trapped for a few precious moments. You hear cries from down below—the first notes of the emancipatory choir you have so cunningly orchestrated.

Your conspirator shouts at you to hurry, but you have already re-immersed yourself in the bell's aura. You ring it a second time, now dissonantly, bringing down those who might have resisted your compulsion to mutiny. This is followed by the growing sounds of chaos from below, as inmates begin to capitalise on the distraction.

At the other end of the platform, the door to the warden's quarters is thrown off its hinges, battered and scorched. Rastagar emerges, flanked by his Heralds. To his great indignation and surprise, a group of Acolytes and Priests storms up the ramp and lunges at him, blank-eyed and silent as if in a trance, wielding an assortment of weaponry both improvised and properly lethal. They are immediately met by the warden's two kyton-like enforcers, who bring down several neophytes with a few swings of their vicious chains. However, there are more to replace them, and soon Pike joins the fray with a wordless roar of pent-up frustration, stabbing one of the Heralds in the throat with a longspear. Andrzej raises his voice as well, lending his mastery of the bardic arts to further stoke the involuntary mutineers into violence.

As the mask's power makes you entirely unremarkable, you see Rastagar's masked gaze pass over you and fixate on your conspirator. "Travers" charges forward, as if guessing his intention, a curved knife appearing out of nowhere in her grasp. With a mere word and a gesture, Rastagar evokes a ray of crackling entropy, which strikes her in the chest and brings her to her knees after only a few steps, as if her legs no longer had the strength to carry her. The warden steps fully out of the doorway, leaning heavily on his silvered crosier. Protected from one side by the Heralds, he starts weaving another spell...

You've got your opening. We're not going to run this strictly in initiative, but you don't have a lot of time to act.

The power was...exhilarating. The control over the bell shook the man to his very core--something truly beyond his own power to create, yet so malleable in his grasp.

The man always put discipline and self-control first. Strict strategy and ruthlessly clear vision--yet he lost, and was under control of someone else himself.

He wanted chaos. He wanted confusion. He wanted emotions to spiral out of control--a rising tide of fiery hatred that would consume his captor and reduce the hated Warden to ashes.

Yet--he was back in control in a way that he never was. As he bore witness to the chaos, his spirit stirred in a way he never felt before.

The internal struggle for his spirit settled. Controlled chaos, he said in Westcrown. An oxymoron that convinced nobody, but he realized that it was true to a degree: he did need more power. His fault was that he left.

The masked man looked up as Rastagar entered, and did not move as his inmates and minions ganged up on him. His eyes were cold and distant, studying the man's movements calmly, awaiting the opportunity to strike.
As Pike and Andrzej joined the fray, and "Travers" drew her knife and was struck down, the masked man wove magic and studied his only target with piercing eyes through his ice-cold mask, the only immovable actor in the chaotic fray.
As Rastigar moved up to weave another spell, he moved for the first time. Leaning forward, he dashed forward as an arrow.

Weaving subtly between the raging mutinous inmates and the possessed jailers, the masked man is hidden from all focused sight. Drifting as a leaf in a storm, he stalked up to the Warden, hand drawing out a bit of fleece.

I am in control.

I know my foe.

I first Mark Rastigar to get the sweet, sweet bonuses of +2 to Bluff/Sleight of Hand/Stealth/Atk/Dmg

I then cast the Vanish Spell and move forward, drawing my +1 Dagger. I then cast Silent Image of Raveen (in jail clothes) running up to stab Rastagar from off to the side. I use Effortless Trickery to maintain it as long as I can to distract Rastigar, and then Sleight of Hand while invisible.

Do I have enough time for that? 1 full round action, 1 Standard, 1 Swift, and then 1 Sleight of Hand?

Just in case I'll drop my rolls here. No more Grit this time.

Perception to Mark; DC 10 + level: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (15) + 9 = 24
Sleight of Hand to steal the Control Rod: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (16) + 11 = 27 +2 for invisibility makes sense?

Rastagar flinches as he sees "Raveen" appear out of nowhere and charge at him, turning his half-uttered spell on the illusion at the last moment—a ray of green energy flashes through the intangible figment, reducing a sizeable chunk of the rear wall into a fine dust. You see his pale blue eyes go wide as you snatch the crosier out of his hands, which sends the half-lame man sprawling onto the floor, his pristine blue robes marred by dirt and fresh blood.

Unfortunately, as he falls, his mask is knocked aside, revealing a truly abhorrent visage: bruise-blue skin with splotches of sallowness, horribly shrivelled and covered in countless half-healed scars, pierced at places by painful-looking bone spurs. His nose is a mere hole punched through this tableau of suffering, and his mouth a drawn-out, lipless gash revealing a festering hole full of crooked yellow fangs. Every movement of the face appears to break or tear some feature.

The fiend-blooded wretch tries to struggle back to his feet, but is unable: there is a premature senescence about the man, as if the crosier had supported him in more ways than one. The Mask of the Twelfth Step looks to his Heralds for aid, but they are practically buried under a mountain of enthralled Acolytes. Pike circles the fray, lunging in to land an opportunistic strike whenever possible, while Andrzej rushes to aid "Travers"—you catch a few words of a breathless exchange in Varisian.

The warden turns back to you, his eyes focusing on the previously indiscernible, and reaches upwards with a claw-like gesture of his gnarled hands.

"No!" he rasps, his voice a mix of anger, desperation, and fear. "Stop this madness at once—whatever the Prophet has promised you, it is a hollow lie! What power I find, I will share with you... I am so close—please!"

The warden's mask has finally fallen. In the moment of strange insight before the end, the Warden managed to land his vision upon the invisible masked man. The meeting of prisoner and jailer was not hidden by magic.

The warden turns back to you, his eyes focusing on the previously indiscernible, and reaches upwards with a claw-like gesture of his gnarled hands.

But did masks bear any meaning when the identity of the masked was known?

"No!" he rasps, his voice a mix of anger, desperation, and fear. "Stop this madness at once—whatever the Prophet has promised you, it is a hollow lie! What power I find, I will share with you... I am so close—please!"

The pale blue and dim gray eyes met for a silent moment as Rastigar begged. The moment seemed to hang for an eternity.

"There will be no deal," The masked man echoed the Warden's rebuke, holding the crosier in his left hand, and his dagger in his right. "Deals are for equals, and now, you are nothing."

The masked man steps forward, wreathed in illusion and magic, and twirled the dagger into a murderous ice pick grip, before bringing it down with grim finality into the old man's diminished form.

Rastagar gurgles as you drive the ebon-black shard into his subclavian artery, grasping feebly at your clothes as the light goes out of his eyes. The obsidian surface of the nightglass nearly glows with Gweleddyd's cruel satisfaction, as he pours words filled with the most acerbic sort of epicaricacy into the dying man's ear—you cannot help but to flinch at the surge of inhuman viciousness emanating from the makeshift blade.

The Heralds react to the warden's death in wildly different ways: one goes entirely limp, forgoing any resistance as the Acolytes hack it to pieces; the other goes berserk, killing nearly a dozen guards in as many seconds before Pike brings it down with a stab to the back of the neck. You note that the spear the half-orc wields has been dipped in alchemical silver and bears the impression of a butterfly upon its head, a sign of Desna's blessing.

You are soon approached by Andrzej, who is helping a reluctant "Travers" stay on her feet. The woman tosses away her mask, revealing a scarred Varisian somewhere in her mid-thirties—frizzy hair seeks to escape from the constraints of her hood, further cementing the family resemblance.

"Okay, not bad..." she mutters, before being elbowed by her little brother. "Fine, 'twas bloody brilliant! Whatever else you need to get done, better do it now. I'll go pull out the plug, and if you're not here when it pops, we're leaving without you."

As they move past you towards the roof-bound exit, Andrzej gives you a smirk and a clap on the shoulder. "I knew we'd met for a reason, friend."

While all of this is going on, you see Myrna ascend the ramp with a look of utter confusion on her face. She looks around at the dead Acolytes, Heralds, and the warden himself as if she was beholding a dream, with the sounds of a continued—though fast dwindling—riot in the background.

Raveen lowers the mask, slipping into view just as smoothly as he left it. Rastagar's lightless eyes gazed blindly into the ceiling as Raveen drew the black mirror-blade from the warden's flesh, spraying his blood over his crumpled blue robes.

Death was a solemn thing, he reflected. The last time he sunk a knife in a tiefling felt so long ago.

Almost a lifetime ago.

Raveen did not relish murder. He was good at killing, but what else could he do, with a villain so persistent, resourceful, and vindictive as Rastagar?

He turns to Rastagar's chambers, and then looks beyond his allies (and maybe friends) to the central column of the prison, where lied the passage to the Other's secret.

He stood up, holding the crosier control rod in his left hand and the mirror-knife in his right, straightening his back as he observed his once-tormentor and now-victim.

"Okay, not bad..." she mutters, before being elbowed by her little brother. "Fine, 'twas bloody brilliant! Whatever else you need to get done, better do it now. I'll go pull out the plug, and if you're not here when it pops, we're leaving without you."

As they move past you towards the roof-bound exit, Andrzej gives you a smirk and a clap on the shoulder. "I knew we'd met for a reason, friend."

Raveen nods at "Travers", and says, "Give me a moment. I need to check out something."

"If you could, wait for a little while longer," He said to Myrna gently, as if talking to a wounded soldier, before he smiles. "The sun isn't going anywhere."

He then marches towards the open doorway, now broken and burnt, into the now unoccupied chamber of the Warden, raising the control rod, to overcome the trap of the giant mask.

Myrna only blinks in response, apparently somewhere between her previous somnambulist state and full wakefulness. As you move away, the half-elf walks over to the corpse of the man who held her in thrall for so long, and stares down at it, plainly uncomprehending of her newfound freedom.

You saunter into the warden's private chapel, stepping gingerly over the dented remnants of the metal door. With the crosier in hand, the abjurations woven into Razmir's looming visage regard you as their creator—the green light burning in the giant mask's eye-holes flickers and dims as you approach. To your right, you see the entrance to Rastagar's storage of confiscated items and his collection of shadowy oddities. To your left, there is the entrance to his sanctum, which is shielded from view by colourful fabrics that glitter in the fading light. There appear to be no hidden traps.

As you pass through the scintillating silks, you emerge into a laboratory, or a mages' workshop, or a torture chamber—or all of these at once. The wide chamber is filled by counters set with alchemical equipment, shelves laden with countless books and scrolls and manuscripts, as well as a multitude of tools for inflicting pain on others. At the centre of all this experimentation and cruelty is a sturdy iron table, set with chains and levers and winches, upon which lies the recently departed Priest Curnow—or so you would guess from his grey robes. Rastagar's ministrations have left him nigh unrecognisable.

Curiously, you see nowhere for the warden to eat or sleep. You wonder if he did either, or if he simply used his sorceries to work around the clock for a cure to his inborn malady. Perhaps the constant pain allowed him no rest.

There is a gloating hiss from the night-black shard. "The ssspoilsss, asss they sssay, go to the victor."

Obviously, there is a lot to discover here, and you are limited... well, mostly by what you can carry out with you. What sorts of things are you looking for?

Raveen steps into Rastagar's sanctum, studying the place, before his eyes fell on Curnow's mangled body. He lowered his eyes in brief sorrow for the loss of life, and walked the chamber's halls, observing the shelves, looking for anything that might repair his memory.

"Gweledydd," Raveen says, investigating the nature of the books and scrolls in search for something to restore his memory. "What do you plan to do now? You are satisfied, I presume?"

Memory first, I need to remember what was lost.

"Sssatisssfied," the voice repeats slowly, as if tasting the word. "Yesss, for the moment. But forget not your promissse: you ssshall find me and free me from my prissson, jussst asss I aided in your own liberation."

There is a slight pause in the hissing, and then you feel a mental nudge of sorts. "Halt. It isss here..."

You find yourself at a mahogany writing desk, upon which are laid various parchments: most of them seem to be notes on experiments, managerial paperwork, and correspondence. Nearby, next to an ornate lamp, you note a small cushion of red velvet, which is heavily indented near its centre and rather curiously caked with what appears to be clumps of mulch and flakes of dried blood. Of more immediate note is a catalogue of 'interview sessions,' which is highly unusual in its lack of detail: each log consists of merely a name, a number, and a date, as if there was no need to write down the actual results of each inquiry. The most recent entry (that of Curnow) is quite new, so much so that the ink has yet to dry. You quickly locate yourself in the list of names, a single interview, which—assuming the latest date is the current one—took place a week prior. That would leave a few whole days of missing time from your last memories of being aboard a ship on the Encarthan.

Following this trail of papers, you are able to locate a delicate cabinet of darkwood with silvery filigree, somewhat Elven in design. The complex mithral locking mechanism, as you immediately suspect, responds to the touch of the crosier with a series of clicks. The doors fling open to reveal a series of small compartments, each filled by an identical glass cylinder resembling an alchemist's test tube; each tube is about the size of a finger and stoppered with a wax-sealed piece of cork. There are hundreds of them. It seems as if the vessels contain a shimmery, half-gaseous and half-liquid substance, though you are convinced it is neither. Some of the tubes appear fuller than others, and there are likewise variations in luminescence.

"Ssstored memoriesss," says Gweleddyd, though he does not elucidate further.

Knowledge (arcana): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
Spellcraft: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (13) + 10 = 23

As you inspect the tubes more closely, you are struck by their similarity to the infamous soul jars, which are used by night hags to store their unholy wares. However, rather than containing trapped spirits (often recognisable as semi-anthropomorphic ectoplasm), these vessels appear to have been modified in order to hold a different type of metaphysical essence. The amount of pseudo-matter and the variations in its luminescence might indicate the volume and potence of the energy within.

Though some of the theory escapes you, based on the similarity in practical construction to soul jars, you are fairly certain that unstoppering or even shattering the tubes would safely free the energy within. However, like souls freed from imprisonment, the metaphysical essence should be free to naturally flow to wherever planar forces guide it—in case of unbound souls, this would be the Boneyard; in the case of errant memories, you are not quite as certain. Perhaps they would gravitate towards their rightful owner, or simply the nearest sentient mind at the time of emancipation.

"Sssatisssfied," the voice repeats slowly, as if tasting the word. "Yesss, for the moment. But forget not your promissse: you ssshall find me and free me from my prissson, jussst asss I aided in your own liberation."

Raveen nods. "I shall, Gweledydd, aid you as I promised. In equal measure."

Raveen follows the mental nudge, standing at the writing desk.

"A week. What have I tried to do and failed?" Raveen contemplated, going through the notes quickly.

Stopping at the cabinet, and tapping it with the crosier, Raveen stands before the multitude of glass cylinders.

"Ssstored memoriesss," says Gweleddyd, though he does not elucidate further.

Raveen never heard of such a thing. He located the one assigned to him, holding the glass vial. Hag-magic was cruel and usually used for evil. As a northman by birth, he had more than a little healthy fear of hags.

But his own vial should be relatively harmless.

"And I now return to me," He said, raising the tube, and casting it upon the mahogany desk, shattering it.

What do I see?

Gweleddyd makes no response, save for the ominous rattle of scales.

As you break the vessel, the contained energy scatters, but then gets drawn back, clinging to you like a coating of morning dew on a leaf before it is burnt away by the sun. The oncoming rush of flashing images is nearly overwhelming, and you are having some trouble making any sense of it: they don't always come in the right order, and try as you might, sometimes you are left guessing at the chronology.

You see the deck of the ship, and Lake Encharthan’s sea-like vastness before you; "We're not done yet, crow-boy," she claims, nearly drowned out by the panicked shouts of the Drumish mariners; there is a glimpse of another vessel, teeming with Razmirans; you feel the hard bite of a truncheon on your scalp; you see a sodden brig, a castle dungeon, a rickety carriage from which you glimpse a large city of stark division, half grand and opulent, half ruinous and squalid; again and again the scowling visage of Razmir, on the sails of the oncoming ship, on the faces of your captors, on every veneer of every building; harsh words in the dark, more pain and more questions; you never break, never tell anyone of the book or the flower pot; "The Black Book is a relic of ancient Gastash," whispers the old shadowbinder; a few hours of wretched sleep filled with strange visions; glimpses of a countryside, farms and fields and forests, with hollow-cheeked serfs working their lives away; deeper and deeper into the wilderness, as the carriage bumps and rattles ever more on the trackless earth; your master is near, but you have not been able to talk with her for days; the warden stares down at you, his pale eyes like twin moons in the night sky; soft words in the dark, more pain and more questions...

You have your memories back, but they're a bit jumbled. If there's something you want to know, you can make Intelligence checks to puzzle things back together.

Raveen gasps at the visions--seeing nothing for a while. He was on the floor, hand on the desk to steady himself. He took labored breaths, trying to focus.
The Black Book. The Shadowbinder.

He was starting to remember. He tried to remember how he was captured--who took him in.

Intelligence: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (11) + 4 = 15

He then tried to remember what happened to his master.

Intelligence: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (17) + 4 = 21

With a heavy and guilty heart, he remembered Westcrown. His failed mission--and the new one with which he had to redeem his failure: The Black Book.

Intelligence: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23

He was starting to remember. He tried to remember how he was captured--who took him in.

You recall flashes of a skirmish, with the Drumish merchant-captain attempting in vain to fend off the Razmirans. The ranks of the attackers consisted mostly of Acolytes with (you now realise) a higher-than-usual ratio of Priests, and an elite squad of heavily armed Heralds. Though it was their hands that wielded the clubs and no doubt shackled you once they had truncheoned you into unconsciousness as you tried to reach the life-boats, there is a spot of colour amidst that sea of white, grey, and black: a person in a red robe wearing a golden mask, standing near the helm of the attacking vessel.

He then tried to remember what happened to his master.

There was a conversation just before the Razmiran attack, where you conferred with Nalutari as to the best course of action—you agreed that your best bet was to flee in the confusion, though it now seems as if the zealots had been looking for you, specifically. As with most of your belongings, you recall the flower-pot being confiscated on arrest. It seems Nalutari went undiscovered until you reached the Forgotten Track, as Rastagar was the first to ask you questions about your master's severed head—your memories of the warden's interrogations are somewhat painful to recollect, even now, but it seemed to you as if he was somewhat agitated, desperate to enlist your knowledge to "get through to her." Eventually, he stopped asking.

With a heavy and guilty heart, he remembered Westcrown. His failed mission--and the new one with which he had to redeem his failure: The Black Book.

This is a good one to roll high on!

Shortly after departing Westcrown and reaching friendlier shores, you recall hearing the story of a Nidalese shadowcaller called Iluna of Elith Lorin. She is quite a legend, in her own right: it is told that as a fetchling, Iluna was denied entry into the Dusk Hall, and so had to become self-learned in the arts of illusion and necromancy. Some rumour she did so by calling beings directly from the Shadow Plane to coach her in the arcane, while others whisper that she invaded the tombs of elder wizards to steal their long-forgotten lore. Finally, after establishing her mastery in spite of the Nidalese elite's disdain, she became one of the few of her kind accepted into the Umbral Court. She had enemies, of course, but the will of the Black Triune is absolute, and thus she prospered.

More importantly to your interests, she is said to have been in possession of a cursed grimoire of great renown, known only as the Black Book. The origins of the tome are unclear, but it has left in its wake generations of misery, driving its readers into ever-increasing depravity. To help in the search, you tracked down an old hermit, a shadowcaller who was known to have been an apprentice to Iluna, from whom you learned of her disappearance: apparently spurred on by the Book, the master had gone to investigate the Isle of Terror in order to learn of Tar-Baphon and the strange anomalies surrounding the ruins of the lich-king's capital. However, the last missive Iluna's apprentices received was signed in Aerduin, the capital of the Arch-Duchy of Melcat, before its destruction by Razmir.

Since the grimoire had not resurfaced, both you and the hermit agreed that it had to remain within Razmiran. You left the meeting with a feeling of unease as to the old man's trustworthiness, or at least his motivations for helping you. Could he have sold you out to the Church of Razmir...?

a person in a red robe wearing a golden mask

Can I roll a Religion check to see what rank this would be?

G$~+%@n Meticulous flaw finally came to haunt me.

"Elith," Raveen murmured. The rush of memories was disorienting to say the least. But now at least he knew where he stood.

"The Black Book," he said out loud. He must find it--but his master came first.
He considered counseling Gweledydd...but it is best to show good will for now. He collected several other vials--seeking Myrna's, Pike's, and Andrzej, and sought any scrolls, wands, and magical items of any type, such as weapons, armor, or wondrous items--as well as any coin and correspondences.

Can I roll a Religion check to see what rank this would be?

Probably a higher-tier clergy member...? A golden mask would, by common evaluation, denote a worthier rank than Rastagar's silver.

"Elith," Raveen murmured. The rush of memories was disorienting to say the least. But now at least he knew where he stood.

"The Black Book," he said out loud. He must find it--but his master came first.
He considered counseling Gweledydd...but it is best to show good will for now. He collected several other vials--seeking Myrna's, Pike's, and Andrzej, and sought any scrolls, wands, and magical items of any type, such as weapons, armor, or wondrous items--as well as any coin and correspondences.

Your compatriots' memories (a quarter-full tube of faint recollections for Andrzej, and nothing for Pike) are fairly easy to recover, though you note that some of Myrna's older memories seem to have been disposed of—perhaps they were no longer useful, or they do not store interminably. There are still more vessels assigned to her than any other inmate. You also find a wide assortment of magical knick-knacks, some currency and valuables, and, perhaps more importantly, some correspondence and notes that seem to mention Nalutari. You stash these away for later perusal and hurry back to the central shaft.

The rioting has grown even fainter, replaced by the sounds of celebration and looting. Some of the prisoners have even dared the upper levels, though none have yet reached the very top. In the ceiling you see a perfectly round aperture, and beyond it an overcast sky. There is rope, which appears to be connected to a pulley-operated crane aboveground. Pike waits at the bottom, and soon begins herding you towards the rope with her spear.

As you reach the surface, you find yourself in a temperate valley: grassy plains interspersed here and there by rocky outcroppings. Right next to the entrance are the faint remains of a ruined farmstead, mostly comprised of a stone foundation and a half-collapsed chimney, with a somewhat more preserved barn to which the crane is attached. From a distance, the pulley system looks just as decrepit as everything else, though it is obviously still in functioning condition.

Nearby you see Andrzej and—as you will soon learn—his older sister Ruxandra, who are bringing a horse-drawn wagon out of the barn. "Travers" has finally been discarded, leaving the false Priest wearing a practical suit of darkened leather, with a pair of wickedly curved daggers hanging from her belt. Pike joins them as soon as she comes up behind you, though she pauses to address you with a grunt and a shove towards Myrna, who is standing in the middle of the swaying grass and staring off into the distance. Her greying hair is unbound, tussled gently by the wind. Her expression is hard to read.

"It's going to rain soon," the healer—or poisoner—says vaguely. "At least, I think it used to smell like this, before it poured down."

Dark Music: Arcana - Inceptus

You soar on black wings across the night sky. The full moon shines over a desolate landscape, with a ruined city cradled by craggy hills lying below you. This first impression quickly resolves into that of a pale eye, looking down at you from behind a mask of dark iron. Robed in darkness, the figure clutches in their hands in a large shard of dark glass. The shard cuts into their hands, drawing blood, but they do not seem to notice. Behind this figure stand others, shrouded in shadow, yet outlined by a field of stars. As your vision expands outwards, these shapes seem to be standing at the tiered threshold of a vast cathedral, each one step higher than the last. Before you can catch a glimpse of the interior, you suddenly fall away, losing the light of the stars as you plummet backwards into the void. Now without wings, you have no way of slowing your descent...

The ruins--the shard--the figure in the mask. Raveen remembered his first dream in the prison, a hand around the ascending rope. He looked down, reflecting on the pit that absorbed him and so many others, almost seeing the Other so far down.

The fresh air stabbed at his lungs as he first breathed in, stepping away from the crane, passing Andrzej. Clapping him back on the shoulder, and handing him the vial of his own memories.
"You might find this enlightening," he says, before moving away from the gathering. As Pike grunts and points him towards Myrna, he walks upon the grass in her direction--still deep in his thoughts.

"I acknowledge the limits of my power," Raveen answers, lowering his head before the Other--the creature which had Naberius as a vessel, the creature that delivered his mask back to him. "However, I am not finished yet. I have not tested my chains to their limits. The distance I might gain when I stretch my arms may be enough for me to soar."

Raveen stretched his arms, stopping on the swaying grass, before his face cracked into a peaceful smile as he looked up at the overcast gray sky.

"And I soared," he murmured, a shiver running through him.

Westcrown was not a hopeless cause. If this trial was divine punishment for abandoning his comrades, he now accepted it. It was not a question of not being strong enough--it was of being brave enough.
Nalutari was right to be disappointed in me...so was Naberius.
He turned his face up to the sky, acknowledging his failure.

"I'm sorry", He whispered to the heavens. "I will make it up to you."

"It's going to rain soon. At least, I think it used to smell like this, before it poured down."

Raveen stirs from his introspection at her voice, and turns to Myrna--poisoner or healer did not matter much. Lowering his hands, he retrieved a few vials that belonged to her, dropping them in a pouch, and then handing it over to the woman.

He pauses, thinking of the weight of accepting responsibility for his actions, and then says, "Truth--often brings no relief. Often, it brings misery or anger--but it is the truth nonetheless. To live in shadows and ignorance might be comforting for a time, but therein lies fear and doubt. With truth comes courage."

His gray eyes meet Myrna's. "Break the vials if you wish to know the truth and what was lost. If you do not, seal them away, bury them...commit them to the furthest hole you might find, and let it trouble you no more."

The fresh air stabbed at his lungs as he first breathed in, stepping away from the crane, passing Andrzej. Clapping him back on the shoulder, and handing him the vial of his own memories.

"You might find this enlightening," he says, before moving away from the gathering.

Andrzej is dumb-struck by the strange offering, humming and hawing over it for a moment, though you can hear Ruxandra begin to elucidate as you walk away (in between curses and exhortations to stop slacking). After a while you hear the sound of cracking glass, and then another spitfire argument in Varisian.

"This is not all that was taken from you," Raveen says softly. "Some were beyond my power to bring--and some memories might be too horrific to awaken. It is, however, your right to know the truth."

He pauses, thinking of the weight of accepting responsibility for his actions, and then says, "Truth--often brings no relief. Often, it brings misery or anger--but it is the truth nonetheless. To live in shadows and ignorance might be comforting for a time, but therein lies fear and doubt. With truth comes courage."

His gray eyes meet Myrna's. "Break the vials if you wish to know the truth and what was lost. If you do not, seal them away, bury them...commit them to the furthest hole you might find, and let it trouble you no more."

Myrna flinches away from the vessels, as if the mere sight of them stirred an unpleasant recollection. She takes them nonetheless, shifting them around in her fingers before raising one to her face. "Yes, this is... me. I... I think I attacked you. That's what I used to do—kill people on command. That's who I was, for so long."

She looks to you, one eye peering through the glass. "I have no idea what to do next, but... I don't want to be that person anymore. Part of me thinks I should forget, so that I could start anew. But no. I deserve to remember, to carry that burden. How else can I know to avoid making the same mistakes?"

The half-elf lowers the tube, but does not break eye contact. She looks tired and weak, a far cry from the staunch healer you have learned to know. Perhaps there is something in your expression that cannot be communicated in words, because after a while you can see a tiny spark, a faint ghost of determination light up her gaze.

"Perhaps there's a middle way," she decides, crouching down to slip the vessels into her bag. "Truth can be a bitter pill to swallow, in the best of times. Along the way, I'll make new memories—something sweet to make the medicine go down easier."

The half-elf lowers the tube, but does not break eye contact. She looks tired and weak, a far cry from the staunch healer you have learned to know. Perhaps there is something in your expression that cannot be communicated in words, because after a while you can see a tiny spark, a faint ghost of determination light up her gaze.

"Perhaps there's a middle way," she decides, crouching down to slip the vessels into her bag. "Truth can be a bitter pill to swallow, in the best of times. Along the way, I'll make new memories—something sweet to make the medicine go down easier."

Raveen nods slowly, acknowledging Myrna's wisdom and willpower. Such inspired him to heal.
Her will under pressure was nothing short of miraculous, he reflected. To survive for years in darkness through broken bitter memories--and to have such healing hands where once they dealt death. For this woman to not wilt in this dungeon alone was amazing.
But she did need to heal.

"I...hate murder," he says after a while, raising his hand holding the Warden's crosier. For a young man of twenty-two winters, he seemed remarkably old, burdened by the sins he bore, or forced himself to bear. "I have had chances to redeem myself, and yet stole such a chance from others. I made...so many wrong choices."

After all, had not other people worse than Rastagar rose from their wretched destiny? Had this man, born with such defects and circumstances, not deserved his own chance? Had he not been such a terrible, resourceful, and deadly foe, Raveen might have risked it, and offered him a hand in aid instead of a sword wielded in cold calculation.
But yet, one more clearly deserving of aid came to mind. Nalutari--a victim of his people who yet saw the promise in him and bore him no malice. One who chose to aid him for no return at all. He owed her. He owed her a lot, least of all rescue.

"I go now to find my master, and complete the mission I have been given--retrieving the Black Book," He said, lowering the crosier and awakening from his revere, looking back at the healer. He then cracked a small smile. "Wherever you go: Hymbria, Absalom, wherever, I hope you the best...and a long life under a warm sun, doctor."

"I...hate murder," he says after a while, raising his hand holding the Warden's crosier. For a young man of twenty-two winters, he seemed remarkably old, burdened by the sins he bore, or forced himself to bear. "I have had chances to redeem myself, and yet stole such a chance from others. I made...so many wrong choices."

Myrna smiles sadly and nods. There is nothing that can be said—only silent commiseration.

"I go now to find my master, and complete the mission I have been given--retrieving the Black Book," He said, lowering the crosier and awakening from his revere, looking back at the healer. He then cracked a small smile. "Wherever you go: Hymbria, Absalom, wherever, I hope you the best...and a long life under a warm sun, doctor."

Something about the start of your declaration seems to have caught the half-elf's attention, distracting her from the rest.

"The Black... Book," she draws out the words, as if tasting them. "I'm not sure why, but that sounds familiar. Where have I heard that before?"

Myrna shakes her head with a jolt. "Um, sorry. I'm not sure what to do, just yet. I suppose I'll stick with you, or Andrzej, depending on where you're going. Wherever I can do the most good, right? But thank you for... well, everything. We couldn't have gotten here without you."

Raveen looks intensely at Myrna. "You know about the book?"

He looks to her pouch.

"Do you..." he ventured. Would her memories have anything that could help him?

"Um, sorry. I'm not sure what to do, just yet. I suppose I'll stick with you, or Andrzej, depending on where you're going. Wherever I can do the most good, right? But thank you for... well, everything. We couldn't have gotten here without you."

Raveen didn't remove his gray eyes from Myrna, but then he nodded. "I suppose."

Raveen then turns, walking back on the wild grass towards the cart, passing Pike on his way to Andrzej and his sister.

"How does the wind feel?" he asks.

Raveen looks intensely at Myrna. "You know about the book?"

He looks to her pouch.

"Do you..." he ventured. Would her memories have anything that could help him?

Myrna's face lights up. "Oh. Oh! Right, of course! I'm so used to just... forgetting things, forever. Don't worry, I'll tell you right away if I recall anything..."

Raveen then turns, walking back on the wild grass towards the cart, passing Pike on his way to Andrzej and his sister.

"How does the wind feel?" he asks.

"Like the kiss of a goddess," the Varisian replies with a grin.

The cart seems almost ready to go: there are enough provisions for a couple days' travel, but it is otherwise is empty. Pike is currently making sure the horse is properly harnessed—the half-orc seems uncharacteristically gentle when handling the steed, murmuring wordlessly to calm it as she works.

"Hey, focus!" says Ruxandra, snapping her fingers sharply under her brother's nose. "You talk some sense into this dolt, would ya? We need to go through Janoyt, and then hop over the border to Ustalav. We've got family in Varno—they can take us in. Otherwise it's just a matter of time before we're caught."

Andrzej sighs. "You know I can't just leave, Roxie. I've gotta reach the Vergan Forest. I just, uh... remembered somethin' important—real important. The rebels in Whispertruth need to know, and I'm the only one who can tell 'em."

Ruxandra grits her teeth and throws her hands in the air in frustration.

"I did not just save you so that you could rush head-first into more danger," she hisses. "What am I gonna tell the kids, huh? That I was away for months to rescue their useless tramp of an uncle, only to return empty-handed!?"

Andrzej shakes his head apologetically, but does not budge.

Raveen observed the exchange, but suddenly paused in shock as Andrzej addressed his sister with her name.

"Roxie...Ruxandra?" Raveen says. He looks at his hand just as the woman turns to him to talk sense into Andrzej. He draws a symbol in the air with a whispered word in Shadowtongue, before a wall arose before their eyes, seemingly slipping into the world like a shadow.

Casting Silent Image, drawing the scribbles on the cell wall

"if you can read this,

DESNA bless you!
please, if you go free
my wife RUXANDRA is in
JANOYT
she is with child
tell her i lo–"

Raveen speaks to the siblings after the silence falls, carrying the image spell, silent, but immacuately detailed.

"This I found on the wall of my cell. It must've been years ago, if not a decade or more." he says, tilting his head, observing the two. "How tangled is your family fate to Rastagar's playground?"

She was once in Janoyt, and now her family is in Ustalav. Rebels in woodlands, and underhanded dealings. This is big.
An opportunity arose in his eyes. If the hermit knew the Black Book remained in Razmiran, would not aligning with such resourceful rebels give him the chance he needed?

The Kedzierskis look at the illusion with apparent surprise, and in the case of Ruxandra, the bitter sting of old grief. She wipes at the corner of her eye and sniffles in spite of herself, clearly not one for showing weakness openly. "This isn't the first time I've tried to break into the Forgotten Track. My husband, Szilveszter, died in there years ago, and I couldn't stop it. I was young and stupid back then—we both were. He was a leader in the resistance, if you can even call 'em that. Melcat is long gone, and it's no coming back. How can you hope to dethrone a god?"

"Desna is with us," declares Andrzej, his face set into an expression of stubborn defiance. "As long as the stars shine, there's hope. Besides, we've just proven that Razmir isn't anywhere near all-powerful. We'll get revenge for Sly, and everyone else who's been trod under the 'Living God's' heel. It's just a matter of time. Speaking o' which, friend Raveen, I was just 'bout to ask you if you'd like to—"

Pike trundles over and pokes Andrzej on the arm, pointing over her shoulder at the now-harnessed horse. The Varisian blinks sheepishly. "Uh, right. I s'pose we should put a few miles between us and that blasted hole, afore we get too ahead of ourselves. I think everyone here can agree on that much, yea?"

Ruxandra nods grimly and hops onto the driver's seat, while Pike more or less steps up and over the cart's edge and then helps pull Andrzej aboard. Myrna comes up with her bag, climbing timidly up and taking her place at a slight remove from the others, especially the suspicious glares of the elder Kedzierski.

Andrzej offers you a calloused hand and a smile. "Whatever comes next, let's pray it doesn't involve hacking away at rocks all day!"

Raveen observes the two, their sorrow echoing some of his own. He knew a little thing or two about making mistakes or miscalculating his chances.

Upon mention of Desna, Raveen remembered the dreams, and shifted his eyes to Myrna. They might have been only dreams, but he now recognized the visions and their alignment to his memories.

Andrzej offers you a calloused hand and a smile. "Whatever comes next, let's pray it doesn't involve hacking away at rocks all day!"

Raveen turns to the Varisian.

Barely skipping a beat, the Varisian smiles widely and carries on with his introductions. "Andrzej Kedzierski, at your service. I'd shake hands and all that, but they don't like us gettin' too familiar with one another..."

Raveen reaches out, and clasps the Varisian's hand firmly in agreement--a handshake long delayed.

Tomorrow he will be challenged again--once more given no quarter and up against relentless foes and impossible odds, but there was something solid now behind the mask. No more was there elusive mist and shadow that fades upon observation, but a powerful and irrepressible Self that exists independently from the Persona, as there should be.

After all, don't you know that a midnight hour comes when everyone has to take off his mask?