The Father of Waters

Game Master Fighting Chicken

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Imix, Gozran 8
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Imix nods absently "All of you - all my old tutors. Push them. See how fast a human can learn Suriname magics." he hmms for a second "There's a younger girl as well. She's the one who first asked for an apprenticeship. Perhaps send for her as well."

Imix moved through the tight coridoors of the Maze, navigating by the flickering green wytch-light that floated just ahead of him. He missed his shield, with the recessed, bright, eternal red light that he had studied by as a child. The chartreuse colour of his conjured flame lent the guardian statues a sinister air, the flickering seeming to imply movement whenever he was not looking at them directly.
At first his studies seemed to go well. The Abbott's suggestions from the Index led to several promising walls. Intersecting corridors suggested that these might somehow be connected to a greater mystery.
Carefully he traced glowing runes over the carven text, decoding the encrypted, abbreviated words into more readable passages.
He had never before spent so long in the dark, warm recesses of the Maze. As a student he had done rubbings to study in daylight before being burnt. Without any way of keeping track of time he pushed himself endlessly on. When his eyes grew too heavy, he allowed himself a few minutes of nap to refresh himself - a trick he had used to good effect to maximise wakefulness as a teenager desperate to prove himself.
Finally - success! A wall that talked of a contract! This wall referenced another, and he carefully memorised the encrypted directions, tracking them down to the bottom of the maze and... a dead end.
Desperately he felt at the wall blocking his way. The wall that was supposed to be a coridoor. It talked of the arts of Enhancement and Transmutation. Perhaps a trick? He retraced his steps, then once more followed the remembered direction, only to end up at the same wall.
Carefully he deduced the code on the wall - losing almost a day to it, but determined that something on this wall must give a clue as to a secret area in the still secret maze. Finally, tired, desperate, he cracked it. His own knowledge of Enhancement provided the key and he carefully read through a text that bordered on the forbidden art of Transmutation. The wall talked of methods of extending Enhancement into near-permanency.
In no way did it suggest how to bypass it.
Screaming in frustration and only just stopping himself from attacking the sacred wall he resigned himself to starting again. He retraced his step to the wall that spoke of the contract.
It was gone.
The wall remained, the same glyphs, but once retranslated it was a different wall. It was definitely the right one, as Imix could see marks in the dust where he had lain down. Lain down... and... dreamed. Dreamed of an answer, like some child. Dreamed up an illusory miracle answer with an equally illusory set of directions. How many hours had he spent following a dream in this lightless, airless place.
He let the light lapse, and there in the dark he screamed - then sobbed - in frustration.
Then he consumed the rest of his rations, lay down, grew the great lungs that let the crocodile sleep for hours beneath the water, and slept. Foolish to have tried to conquer the Maze with a mind not at the peak of its power.

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Imix, Gozran 8-9
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Indeed, the Maze proves worthy of its appellation. Collapsing in exhaustion, you drift off into a worried sleep, your mind still feverish with the lost bit of lore that you've uncovered:

1522. Kastir. The First Flame. Magic that binds, uses words/not words. Blood? Twisted tongues put to paper, madness.

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Oios, Gozran 8
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Oios circles around the building seeing if there are any other entrances or windows that he can glance into. He also notes if there are any other buildings close by that he could use to try and see inside.

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Oios, Gozran 8
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The unnamed tavern is part of a long stretch of rowbuildings, each building built up next to the other. The main doorway, crowded with people, is flanked by two black-robed men, the windows of the second and third floors, though opened to the air on this fine spring day, are closed off by large wooden shutters. Little noise reaches your ears from those windows - perhaps there is none, perhaps the cacaphony outside simply drowns it out.

Wanding around the row of buildings, you find a service alley that runs between the back of the buildings and the large stone wall that separates the no man's land of Three Corners from its neighbors. The wall in this part of Three Corners is topped with pointed flint to deter climbers. The alleyway itself is very quiet. Down the way a bit, you can make out two robed figures, lounging by the back entrance of what is most likely the tavern.

Oios joins the throng in front, making sure to keep his eyes down to avoid the attention of the guards as he waits his turn.

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Gozran 7
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Rigel blinks back tears as she does her best to offer dignified expressions of gratitude. "Thank you, my Lady. Thank you. Shadeholm and I will be in your debt."

She gives Bally a smile. "Thanks for bringing me here, honey; I've had a great evening."

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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The woman is alive and unconscious, possibly drugged by the cup of chicha spilled in the storefront. She's dressed simply enough in traveling clothes, rather than the elaborate getup of the local gentry, or the utilitarian garb of the working class.

Heading back downstairs, you come to the hidden room to find Fulton standing on top of the basin he knocked over, the contents of the basin bubbling and hissing on the dirt floor. He looks at you, wide-eyed holding his wrist. "It burns! Some sort of acid!" Then, if possible, Fulton's eyes get even wider as he takes in your blood-soaked hands. "Don't hurt me! I didn't mean to give you up, I promise! I just couldn't help myself - the words just came out!"

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Rigel, Gozran 8
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The Lady Bellet smiles and holds her hand out to be kissed. "I'll see you in a couple of days, dear, if not sooner!"

Throughout the rest of the evening, you hear rumors about the miracle birth in Three Corners; Ayida-Wedu herself is said be there, pilgrims are arriving from the surrounding areas, an impromptu organization of lay priests have sprung up, men in black robes, called the brothers black.

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It is a late morning, started with sleeping in, and then filled with pleasant talk, thousand-count silk sheets, pastries and spiced mate, and other, more private diversions, all of them more comfortable (and enjoyable) than camping on the Palenque Green.

Even so, such pleasant times must come to an end. Saying your goodbyes to Bally, it is back out into the city, the air already warm, where you make your way down to the excise. Once there, you find that the Ostens and Oios have made their way to Father's Mound, not long before you arrived.

Checking in on Issy (she's fine), you make your way up to Father's Mound, gawking at the various temples on the way, and taking note of the growing crowds, the crows. Hitting a gate, you are asked a few questions by one of these brothers black, who lets through into the Plaza. For a little while you wander the crowd, enjoying the various sights and sounds. Head turned to watch a man juggling long pitch-soaked flaming torches, you crash - hard - into someone. Looking up, you find the familiar face of the former inquisitive staring down at you, rubbing his grizzled jaw. It seems you're destined to keep running - literally - into each other.

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Oios, Gozran 8
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The throng in front of the former tavern moves slowly forward. You keep your head down, and perhaps that's why you don't see it coming. It feels almost like your Palenque matches of younger days, the jarring crash that hits into you, cracking your jaw, and knocking the wind momentarily from your frame. Rubbing your jaw, you look down find the familiar face of the redhead from Shadeholme staring up at you. It seems you're destined to keep running - literally - into each other.

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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Oios, Gozran 8
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Oios holds back a grimace at the sensation in the jaw. For some reason it's incredibly irritating to see the girl from Shadeholme blithely wandering around the place he was trying to daringly infiltrate like she was in a fair. Come to see the miracle birth young one? You can come ahead of me in the line. I know the impatience of youth.

And in a whisper They do not want me here. Might get chased off... You do not know me, understand?

Plus, would the black brothers really pay an old servant of Damballah any attention while a stunning devotee of Anaisa Pye sashayed forward right in front of him?

Rigel blinks, fluttering her eyelids at Oios in a wink: "Fear not, Venerable One; stay near me and nobody will notice you - stealth in boldness is kinda my thing..."

She's of a cheerful disposition. Success last night, and a faaaabulously comfy bed (with company) has restored her mood from the grimness of her travels. She suspects her sunniness will enormously annoy the dignified inquisitor, so there's no downside that she can see. "What a BEAUTIFUL day this is!"

Oios stops holding back his grimace.

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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Even in the soft yellow light of the dagger, Fulton looks ill, a greenish tinge to his skin. "I... I didn't know that was what he was doing down here. I just always thought he didn't want me going through his things."

Sighing, the boy continues. "I don't know what I'll do to be honest. I've got no family to go home to, and no job now, I guess. Do... do you think I could travel with you, study that weapon of yours, and the Master's, I mean your book, I guess it is now?"

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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Eventually, slowly, people leave the no-name tavern and more are admitted, and you make your way in stops and starts towards the entrance. The brothers in black working the door stop you both, and first go over Rigel and then Oios, feeling over your bodies, not roughly, but firmly.

The building was definitely a tavern once, though it seems to be more a community center now. Gone are any signs of liquor behind the bar. And instead of imbibing alcohol, many visitors are sitting around tables drinking mate and eating a spiced lentil soup, the smell of which wafts from behind some swinging dors and makes your stomach growl. It smells divine - you can tell there's coriander and cumin, and plenty of pork, simmering along with the lentils in whatever stewpot the swinging doors conceal.

Slowly, the line you're in moves forward and you make your way past a closed basement door and up to the second level, passing a few open doorways in what was once a boarding house above the tavern. In one, you see brothers making notations in ledgers, in another, cots are laid out, linens being stretched over them, impromptu beds in an impromptu shelter. In yet another, beds are occupied, a small sickroom here, brothers in black rubbing poultices on the chests and feet of the ill.

Finally, you make your way to the back room, what was once a small flat, the people that went in before you leaving, smiles on their faces. "Beautiful," a woman says, her lips cracked from the sun, her eyes, distant.

The door swings open for you, a brother waving you in, and you enter. The room has a large window overlooking the alleyway and wall at the rear of the rowhouses, the wooden shutters slanted upward to give a slight view of the sky - and to let the sunlight in, which falls upon the only furniture in the room, a brilliant yellow loveseat, on which sits the only occupant of the room.

If you were expecting a baby, you were mistaken. Sitting in a chair, her back to the window, is a woman of about twenty winters, with skin bronzed from the sun, her hair bleached white, her eyes golden. She looks at you and smiles, and you realize that the room is noticably hotter than the others, the heat radiating off the woman in waves. She's dressed simply, in a light tan cotton dress that falls to the floor but is open at the back, to let out two large, black-feathered wings, which move softly in the still air, as if being ruffled by a light breeze. Clutched in her left hand is a long oaken staff, tied with black feathers, and topped with a stylized bronze sun. She is, simply put, stunning.

"Come forward, don't be scared. How may I help?"

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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Imix, Gozran 9-10
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The maze is no less daunting your second time around. Retracing your steps, following the same leads, you realize that you inverted a date, year-month-day and not month-day-year, an easy enough oversight to make, but hard enough to correct, once you've gone beyond it. Working along your new trail, you once again hit a dead end, stooped low, almost to the ground, in a particularly wet and humid corner. Sighing, you stand, ready to go back and start over again when your eyes catch - just barely - a scrawling along the bottom of the wall, as near to the ground as one can get, almost obscured by years of dirt and seeping riverwater.

The carving is simple, the meaning not so much.

1737. A. Riix. First Flame. Whole town eat their young - literally. Tamix's Needle.

And then, right above it:

1516. Shadeholme, new era begins. 05-01-1767.

Time is wobbly, for lack of a better word, with the Takayan Calendar. Sure, it is easy enough to get next year's solstice correct, but taken over a larger chunk of time - say over three hundred years, as this inscription seems to indicate - things get less clear, like looking for a tadpole at the bottom of a mud puddle. Doing the math, you figure that if the inscription is accurate and your math is correct, this "new era" could be as soon as next week, or as late as next month...

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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Fulton gulps and jumps, just clearing the acid puddle. Grabbing a pack, he starts loading it up, mostly with food, bedding, and then grabbing an axe from the wall.

"I've never seen her before. What will happen to her. I suppose she'll wake up and then be horrified, and then get the Stonecloaks. Gods, do you think they'll think I've got anything to do with this?"

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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"If they have any sense about them, of course they will. There is no denying you are here now. If you pray to your deity of fortune, perhaps they will see what your master was doing and wash their hands of the matter. If they do not, hope that your conscious is clean by then and you can convince them you were hiding in the basement as another man confronted him in an effort to save the woman."

Drazan begins to head up and out before stopping and turning toward the stairs, "What would do for the woman were the choice yours to make?"

1522. Kastir. The First Flame. Magic that binds, uses words/not words. Blood? Twisted tongues put to paper, madness.

1737. A. Riix. First Flame. Whole town eat their young - literally. Tamix's Needle.
1516. Shadeholme, new era begins. 05-01-1767.

Imix looked at the tiny scraps of knowledge the Maze had given up. He had double checked the decrpytion, and this was - however cryptic - correct. Suriname instinct was to hide. Wait. Digest.

1737

The date haunted him.

1737

Why was that date so important...

1737

There hadn't been a Suriname in a century. They'd told him that. Who had discovered this only thirty years ago?

Imix's already cold blood ran colder. The warmth of the maze became dizzying. His mind churned through the logic.

Either there was a Suriname, or one of the Keepers had written this. Either way... they lied to me.

Imix sat down as the repercussions whirled through his head. Path after path unfolded - and in all of them he was betrayed. All of them save one.
Perhaps the inscription is wrong - degraded. Perhaps? Of all the paths he saw, this was the one least terrifying. He drew his toothbrush, and his canteen. Carefully he lay himself flat on the ground, ignoring the dirt, dust and dried mud. He called upon Crocodile, concentrating the change in his eyes. He summoned all the light he could and delicately, carefully he used his toothbrush and his magic to gently brush at the digits. To study the rock. The carvings.

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Istiel, Gozran 9
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The run that has the most prestige, excepting the Chasqui relay, of which you cannot take part, is a large, looping run around the city, starting at the Palenque Green and ending there, one of the few times that anyone not of the royal family, or its retainers*, can enter the Brow without fear of execution.

The crowd of runners is large, a hundred perhaps, though the crowd of spectators is smaller than they usually are for Games Day; the stands, capable of holding thousands, seemingly about 1/3 full. Still, they trickle in as the day goes on, more and more coming, first to witness the acrobats, then the coywolf tricks, then a debate about the merits of heavenly law in an imperfect world - which admittedly, you found dreadfully boring - and finally, your chance at glory, the Cornucopia Loop Race.

The horn sounds, two quick bleats and then a long one, and the runners are off. It soon becomes apparent that most of the runners are in the race not for the glory of winning, but merely the satisfaction of the act itself; within a few hundred yards you know that you've only got three real competitors; a muscled young man wearing a faded Palenque jersey, a tall and lean woman with the loping gait of one that just missed being a chasqui, and a squirrely man, older than yourself, not physically fit and yet able to channel that nervous energy into surprising speed and endurance.

Into the low city you go, the path of the race laid out every few hundred feet with a lit torch sputtering a deep green flame, the color of the rarest emeralds. Through the shanties, and into the nearby farmlands you run, stride for stride matching your competitors, and you enter a small forest of a few hundred trees, the shady ground still in places covered with unmelted snow, and everywhere, thick mud.

*

Istiel wakes up early with the rest of the monks, tossing off the mere lower hundreds thread count linen sheets with gusto. Today would be a glorious day.

She joined the morning prayers, broke fast with Suuha, and in a deviation from normal routine did not attend the morning sparring session to conserve her strength. Instead, the monk makes her way to the Palenque Green to eagerly await the start of the race.

Perhaps I was too eager. Crosses her mind more than once as she sits in the stands, surrounded by ordinary folk from all corners of the kingdom. The acrobats were entertaining (though she was certain she could perform their feats) and the coywolves well-trained (Dalgrit was fond of the same tricks). The debate had her eyelids drooping, however, and she wisely decides to meditate on the coming race instead of suffer through another word.

Finally the time comes for the race- Istiel takes her position in the crowd. She pushes her dominant leg back and leans forward, a stance she had seen the chasqui use when they race one another. She inhales sharply through the mouth hole of her mask when the first bleat sounds, exhaling with a great blast of momentum as she quickly sprints ahead of the crowd.

Once she had some distance from the horde, she slows to a reasonable pace. The lack of enthusiasm for the race became rapidly apparent as others faded in the distance. She was briefly disappointed only three others could match her pace, but defeating opponents of equal merit is certainly glorious.

Her eyes follow the flickering green torches, pacing herself for a long job around the city. When the forest looms in the distance she barces herself for a slog, hazel eyes searching for a dry path not covered in the thick snow-melt.

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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A brief look anger crosses Fulton's face, his mouth turned in a scowl, as you mention his hiding in the basement, but he follows you up the stairs none-the-less.

Stammering, he looks down at the woman. "I-I suppose she should not wake to see such horror. And be compensated for the gap in her memory - she will assume the worst was done, and never be lucky enough to know the truth."

Walking past you and into the storefront, Fulton takes a small box from under the counter and after removing a handful of goldstones for himself, leaves the box on the stairs by the woman. Then he looks to the weaponsmith's corpse. "Should we hide him in his secret room?"

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Imix, Gozran 9
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Despite your fervent hopes, after scrubbing the number remains as it was. 1737. Unless it is a prank, someone wrote that number thirty years ago. And if it isn't a prank, somewhere a town ate its young, 30 years ago, about 92 years after the last Suriname before your birth.

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Istiel, Gozran 9
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Despite the gloom of the small forest, your keen eyes pick out a suitable route, and springing from dead clump of grass to exposed tree root to unmelted snow, you manage to make it through the mud easily enough. The Palenque player simply forces his way through the muck, much as one would an opponent on the field, showing his strength is something to be taken seriously. The other two racers falter a little as they go through the woods, stepping in the wrong places and getting bogged down, leaving the forest lagging a little behind you, but still close enough to steal your glory.

On you run, through farmsteads in a wide loop, circling to the south and then again to the east, your fellow racers keeping pace. You come to a thorny hedgerow separating two farmsteads, a torch set on a spear in the middle of the hedgerow. It seems you're to go over or through it.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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Oios' jaw drops to the floor as he gazes at the impossibility before him. The golden eyes, the white hair, the heat shimmering off of her, all of it cuts right through his hard earned and well won realism. The only thing that keeps him from dropping to his knees are the wings. The wings.... as black as the crows who spoke to wolves of the ending of the times of men, the feathers of the ones who knew his name and who he was and tried to keep him out of Three Corners adorning her staff. As it is he cannot help but bow his head low to gather himself and acknowledge the almost overwhelming power of the one who sat before him as if on a throne of gold.

He speaks carefully
Miss, we have traveled here with an Excise from the outskirts of the Valley and we have seen many terrible things. Mountain Men raiding and sacrificing innocents, friends murdering each other in their sleep, entire villages rising in rebellion against the laws of the grandson of Damballah. How do we stop this? and raises his eyes to meet those of the one who looks like an idol come to life.

Rigel steps forward quickly. "I think what my grey-headed friend here means is, it's a true honour to meet the likeness of a god in person."

She genuflects with a flourish, looking keenly at Oios to make sure he does the same thing.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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The woman looks to Oios and then Rigel, and then to the ground, hesitance showing on her face. "Ah, you come to me for spiritual comfort. That is much more difficult than ailments of the physical kind. I... I thank you, young lady, for the kind words, but I am not a god... I don't think. Just two weeks ago, I was the lowborn daughter of a night soil man, destined to take over the family business as it was. A lucrative, if inglorious living for a working class girl such as myself, with no chance of advancement through marriage or hard work."

A slight smile crosses the woman's lips, and she looks at you both, Rigel then Oios, the feathers on her wings suddenly moving as if blown by a stiff breeze. "Now, I am... this. The Brothers In Black say that I am a goddess, the living manifestation of Ayida-Wedu."

Shrugging, the woman stops, and you notice the room growing noticeably darker - so drawn by the woman that it takes a few seconds for you to realize that there are crows perching on the shutters to the room, flapping their wings and blotting out the sun. The woman turns her head, and the crows begin cawing, cawing, cawing, their shrill cries echoing around the room.

"The crows talk to me, you know. I hear them plain as I hear you. They have told me much since I became... this. They say you are correct. Terrible things are happening in the Valley. But you are also incorrect. You do not stop them. They will happen, and like all things, change is the only constant. The end of the Three Peoples is near. No, that's not exactly right. An ending of the era of the Three Peoples is near. But it is just an ending."

The woman looks at you, sadness crawling across her face. "I'm afraid that won't be much comfort to you."

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Imix, Gozran 9
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As you crouch on the ground, hoping in vain that the date on the inscription is wrong, a memory comes flooding back - years ago in the early throes of adolescence, suffering through one of the Abbott's circular history lessons, you had been given the task of deciphering the life journey of Suriname Pliny, who's Purpose was to bring the Tooyah peoples of the North to heel. Hours upon hours you wandered the maze, day upon day, only coming up to eat and relieve yourself before the Abbott would send you back down into the damp heat to once again search for Pliny's path.

Two days passed, and near exhaustion and frustrated beyond caring, you found a corner with a small stone bench, itself carved with the etchings of Suriname and Handlers from across the ages. Sighing, you sat and placed your head against the stone wall behind you and fell asleep, only waking when your sleeping form slumped, and you fell into the wall to your right. As you opened your eyes and rubbed the fast-forming bump on your young head, the first words your eyes focused on were - now you recall them clearly - First Flame. You spent a day going over those inscriptions, officious Suriname Pliny forgotten. And inscriptions there were - many of them covering the wall relating to the First Flame.

-----

Springing to your feet, you make your way back to that stone bench and hurriedly run your fingers and eyes over the nearby wall, and there it is, and again, and again. First Flame. The dates range over hundreds of years, and an hour later, your memories are buttressed by scrawled on the walls of the Maze:

The First Flame is said to be the fires of creation made manifest, a cruel energy that, so the inscriptions would lead you to believe, existed even before Damballah and his grandchildren. If the First Flame is a force, The First Flame is also an infection, a secret society that appears mostly among the wealthy classes, whereby the afflicted are possessed by some malicious purpose that often leads to great misery - mass poisonings, the slaughter of whole towns, and the like. Generally, there are five harbingers that seem to come with each infection, men/not men that do the work of the Flame, infiltrating, corrupting, and bringing misery where they go.

One harbinger is said to be fire, one secrets, one words made iron. The other two, whispered about in number only, are not known, though the fifth harbinger is said to always come from afar, encased in metal.

The First Flame, the infection, seems to crop up more often among the Wo'tah, appearing every few generations.

You have another memory strike you, long lessons of geography, the studying of a map in an upstairs classroom, a strange protrusion of land that grabbed your attention, a tapered jutting of earth, long and thin and ending in a point, that stretched from Wo'tah lands into the Great Glacial Lake. Tamix's Needle. A wind-blasted and sparsely populated land, shut off from the Wo'tah for months at a time by icy storms rolling across the Lake.

Istiel looks behind her and is pleased to see the other woman and the squirrely man lagging behind. The muscled man, however, is still posing a threat to her dominance of this race. Victory will be assured if I can no longer see them.

The burning torch set in the hedgerow offers a perfect opportunity to lose the stocky man keeping pace with her. A choice- over or through? The brush was rather high, and if her foot was snagged she could easily fall. The monk kicks into a brief sprint and covers her head with her arms, cutting through the brush like a spearhead. She doesn't even break stride as she bursts through the other side, robes covered in twigs and thorny hanger-ons.

She takes a brief look over her shoulder to see if the stocky man also cleared the hedges.

Imix sat in the dark. He let his light wink out, Suriname eyes painting the world in patterns and textures of black on black.

This information is critical. he reasoned. Whatever this force is, it has shown it is interested in a Suriname. This information - or its suppression - could make all the difference.

All the difference.

His eyes tracked up, to the Keeper's quarters.

They lied to me. From the very start. That means it is procedure. That means there have been others. Am I the first to discover it? What do they do when one of us finds out? He grimaced. Trust did not come easy to Suriname, and he had already been betrayed once. All too easy to think like a Suriname. Death he reasoned.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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A phrase from a common prayer to Ayida-Wedu comes to Oios' mind and he speaks it aloud And though the sun sets, it also rises Hrm?
Oios pauses as he mulls over what the girl has said. In truth I did not come here for comfort but I think I may have found it as I find it in the truth.... If.. you could answer just a few questions then I will bother you no longer my lady... How did this change come on you two weeks ago? How did the Black Brothers find you and... if a great change is to come then must it come with pain and suffering?

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Drazan, Gozran 7
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Drazan pays little mind to the wounded ego's anger Fulton has at the truth of it, and nods at the suggestion that the body be moved so maybe by chance the woman is sparred the thought of what might have happened or could have happened. So Drazan heaves the man over his shoulders like an oversized grain sack and delivers him face down in the pool of the spilled acid. With any luck the man was being disposed of in much the same way of any previous victims. Closing the concealed door tightly behind him, Drazan heads back up the stairs finding the stairs to be an ill suited place to be unconscious for very long, and so he moves the woman and the box of golden stones close to the door before he checks one last time to see if Fulton is ready to join him in finding where Drazan ought to be.

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Istiel, Gozran 9
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Muscles follows right behind you, breaking through the brambles with little issue, while behind him, the woman leaps the hedgerow gracefully. The nervous one stumbles however, snagging his pants and taking a tumble, falling further behind.

Turning again, you follow the torches back into the low city. Many of the dwellers here are on one of the mounds or the Palenque, but the streets are still active; handcarts stuffed with goods, cookfires and workshops sending smoke and smells into the air, a group of street toughs drinking chicha at a corner market...

Ahead of you, a green torch is stationed at the entrance to an alleyway. On you go, at a steady pace, your competitors following behind, muscles still on your heels, the lanky woman also within striking distance. You pick up speed and head for the alley, when to your annoyance and old man pulls an overloaded hand-cart in front of you. Stopping the man removes his hat and wipes his brow, and then sees you coming - and freezes.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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The woman nods, a smile crossing her face. "Indeed, good sir. There is always a rising sun if you wait long enough. You are a religious man then?"

"I was in this very plaza, across the way. There's a flophouse there, filled with Hama junkies. The good thing about junkies, my father said, was that they are careless with their filth. Too concerned with chasing figments, they can't be bothered to clean up. He heard that the basement of the flophouse was filled with nightsoil - and indeed it was. Waste covered our feet, clogging our shoes. We took our torches and buckets, and waded in. The basement used to be a brewery, a long time back - man-made caves went well into the earth, where the chicha would have been fermented when the brewery was operational. So my father said. On we went, into the caves, the nightsoil slick on the ground, but ignored - my father wished to see if there was anything to scavenge."

The woman looks to the ground, pain on her face. "In the back of the cave, this staff sat against a wall. I remember it glinting in the torchlight. We approached. There must have been a gas build-up. My torch burnt bright yellow - for just a second, as did my father's. Then there was an explosion. My father was disintegrated, in an instant, sent to Legba's crossroads, and I was consumed with fire. I screamed and fell to the ground, aflame for I don't know how long. Eventually hands found me - the first Brother In Black, Terrik, beat the flames off me. He says he was cured of his addiction the moment he touched my charred flesh. And then the burnt skin simply flaked off - and I was as I am now."

The woman sighs. "My name is Agnes. And yes, in my experience great change comes with great pain and suffering."

-----------------
Drazan, Gozran 7
-----------------

Fulton nods and hefts his pack over his shoulder. "Well, it will kind of be like an adventure, right? We find out what that weapon is, and then we make more of them, and then something, something, profit?"

"I guess that's not much of an adventure." Shrugging he closes the door to the storefront behind you two and looks out into the darkened street as an involuntary shudder convulses over his body. "At least I'll never have to go back in there, again."

Istiel is glad for the competition muscles and the fleet woman are providing. The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.

The change in environment is a strange one, and she did not expect the race to go into the city itself. People presented many more challenges, not to mention slippery refuse.

Her eyes widen as she sees the man pulling the cart out into the street. She would yell at him to stop, but it was too late- the cart stood in her way.

The monk grunts as she leaps up onto the cart, hands finding purchase on the various boxes and baubles. She climbs up the contents with a single-minded focus.

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Drazan, Gozran 7
-----------------
"The trip here alone has had its share of unusual events, you'll be longing for the mundane in no time. First things first, don't anger the others in here with."

Rigel just listens. This is religious talk, and it's not really her thing at all. She starts to fidget slightly, but controls herself with great effort.

Maybe some of this will get interesting.

Deep in the ground, the Suriname ponders. Two paths lie ahead. In one he allies himself with 'the Final Flame' and turns on the Keepers. In the other he stays true and trusts the Keepers had a good reason to lie to him.

In the end it is Faith, not Logic, that moves him.

This is not a simple question of power. This is the First Flame versus Damballah. The Keepers can be dealt with if they have perverted Damballah's Laws. Perhaps they can be expended fighting the First Flame.

The trick now will be to hide his knowledge from the people who know him best in the world. Fortunately he already has a disguise, and reason to use it. The Stonecloak uniform will let him find people he can trust and give reason for no Keeper to accompany him.

Writing a sanitised summary of what he found - sanitised to prevent and possibility of the Keepers in turn deducing his deductions - Imix prepares himself. When ready he dons his disguise, and leaves the Maze.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
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Oios nods Yes, I am a man of faith. I will take my leave now. I hope you will have a chance to do good works in the times to come.

He takes his leave.

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Istiel, Gozran 9
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The man with the cart is easily enough avoided by the four racers, either gone over or around. The alley winds, and then you cut out onto a large avenue, in a bit running alongside Wolf Mound, the Red Keep towering above you. Muscles races alongside you, pacing your every step, while the lean woman is not far behind. Suddenly, the torches veer upwards, up the side of the mound, a steep ascent that doesn't use the ghats. Pushing forwards, muscles begins the arduous next step of the race.

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Oios and Rigel, Gozran 8
------------

You take your leave of the (perhaps) living goddess, a ragged family entering the room after you, faces lit up with excitement and expectation. Winding your ways down the hall and out the front door, you enter the large central plaza of Three Corners.

Istiel, trapped in her sweat-soaked robes, is starting to feel the strenuous effects of grueling race. She begrudgingly slows, knowing that even if she pushed her body it wouldn't respond. The thought of a cool ladle of water from a well and a cup of soup with the first of spring's greens in it begin to taunt her mind and ruin her focus...

As they head away from the guardians on the door Oios mutters surreptitiously to Rigel If you would find out what you can about these brothers in black. See if it agrees with what the feathered one sa.. when they are interrupted. Looking from Rigel to the newcomer and back again Oios barely manages to keep from breaking into laughter.

As it is he meets Rigel's eyes with an expression that is the closest she has ever seen to smiling on the old man. With crinkling eyes and twitching lips he nods at the young rogue and then turns off and walks away without a backwards glance leaving her to her fate.

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Oios, Gozran 8
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The excise scene is much as you left it, although the green is quickly filling in with arriving tributes from the Valley. Shadeholme's contingent is minus the Ostens, who it would appear are still at Three Corners. Also gone, are the Suriname Imix and Istiel, as well as Hamfatten's group.

A new arrival, a weaponsmith named Fulton, follows Drazan around, almost coypuppy-like. The young man is almost overly polite to you, making sure to be as inoffensive as possible.

Paola, eyes barely open as she rests atop a loaded cart, smiles and stretches, before hopping off the cart and depositing a note in your hand. Scrawled in a neat hand, apparently from the Abbot of Suriname Home:

Could you please come to Suriname House so we can discuss the recent actions of the Suriname Imix.

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Istiel, Gozran 9
----------

Muscles moves ahead of you as you run-climb the mound and manages to keep the pace up as you wind through the tidy homes and businesses of Wolf Mound, with its straight and narrow roads and townhomes, over which it all the Red Keep looms. Running up Coywolf Street, the main thoroughfare and only large street within the mound stretches out in front of you, its purpose being military parades as well as transportation. Today the avenue is lined with spectators who cheer you and your competitors on. The lean woman has fallen off a bit, while the nervous man has gained ground on her - they now run neck and neck.

Onto Frog Mound and then Fish Mound you run, until the torches climb the stone outstairs of a rowhouse and then run across the length of its rooftop, where across a roadway beyond the rooftop, atop another row of houses, another lit torch sits. Muscles grunts and sprints before leaping, easily clearing the gap between the rooftops.