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As a youth in Magnimar, Sigmar had once snuck into a local amphitheater during a Shoanti rodeo. The event, a highly regarded local affair for both the participants and the vendors, made quite an impact on the dragonling. Wiry, scarred men and women riding, wrestling and roping all forms of livestock, ranging from wild oxen to fiery mustangs. The loud colorful event of man versus beast appealing to Sigmar but he had had special regard for the last event. A battered looking Shoanti woman, covered with inky tattoos had clambered bareback onto a snorting, restive stallion. Then, with a slap to the backside, the horse had been sent onto into the arena, galloping, jumping and bucking for all it was worth. The woman had clung onto to for dear life to a single leather strap provided for the purpose.

She had lasted for eight heartbeats before being thrown to the ground, and nearly trampled. Yet, to Sigmar's surprise and delight, the woman had come up with a smile clear even in the cheap seats.

Now he understood why.

Clambering off the side of the great beast wasn't easy but the bizarre array of straps, stirrups and handles helped. Besides he was already half-way up, and the tossing of the monster nearly threw him right into the saddle. Controlling it was a different matter. Granted, it was at least somewhat tamed, and was used to having a master. Once Sigmar got a firm grip in the reigns, the mighty lizard slowed its stride and did not fight him. Instead it rumbled to a stop, churning up a turd and grass wake, as if it was a mighty landship.

The lungs heaved under his legs, blowing like great furnace bellows. There was furnace-like heat too, as the animal's warmth radiated up through the strange saddle. For a moment the world was still and then, to his surprise, he saw a shape bound toward him.

Arianne, holding her smoking weapon, ran straight up at the snorting beast. At the last moment the mute leapt upward, grasping for the straps. Easy a child mounting a pony she slipped into place, snug behind Sigmar. Not that the saddle was built to accommodate two. Indeed they were pressed so tightly together, they would have scandalized most dance halls.

She grinned, eyes sparkling. She pointed a hand at a knot of lizardmen clustered around a tree, where a few sailors were trapped. Beckoning like a huntswoman commanding her guide, Arriane silently gestured forward and leveled her weapon on Sigmar's shoulder, using him a rest.

The night passes quietly, with no sign of animal or human (or what passes for human here). Yet, Awenasa doesn't detect the creeping dread of the emptiness that, for example, surrounded the festrong's lair. No, this is more the natural absence of nature from a place people frequent. This road must be frequently traveled, or at least was not long ago.

Awenasa sees other signs of that as well. Old fire rings are evident beside the road, where pervious travelers made camp. Broken wheels and other cast offs dot the dry ground too, sometimes have hidden by swales of sand and grit. Here and there she spots wagon ruts that veered off the road, leaving traces. Much of it seems old but not ancient.

The next day dawns bright and clear, the sun still harsher then Awenasa is used to. The sky that same pale white that lacks the rich blue she would prefer. What she wouldn't give to see clouds, real clouds, instead of the constant wispy streaks high above. They must come, for plants live here so it must rain...eventually.

Around them the mountains are rising into real peaks, sharp knife-like peaks outlined against the sky. Their shoulders are bare of snow or glaciers, just bare rock and reddish gravel. Still they look imposing, huge tumbled masses of clefts, fissures, massifs and ledges. Impressive, even for a Shoanti of the Plateau.

At about mid-morning Awenasa can see mountains ahead for the first time, looming in front. The path must leave the valley then. Did the Halls lie beyond them, somewhere in the peaks? They walked on.

Awenasa has spent her life in wide open places and she, more then most, knows how flat land can deceive. How scale and distance tricked the eye, how something that seemed close was actually days away. So it was when Awenasa saw ahead she simply assumed her eyes were wrong.

Because it seemed they headed for an impossible object.

But as the day went on and her vision sharpened, she could no longer deny it. Dead ahead, right along the still ruler-straight road lay a cube. Its artificial angles stuck out, entirely alien in the otherwise natural environment. That was strange enough but what made Awenasa was the scale. It was a cube not the size of a house or a hill but a mountain.

One could stack an entire low lander city inside, if they packed up the houses like eggs in a crate. Vast, huge, beyond understand. How could such a thing be made by man? Impossible...right? And yet it lay ahead of them, straight-edges gleaming slightly in the morning light, like a distant river or gold seam.

Could that be the Halls of Reason?

Anno takes the fossil, after a momentary pause. He grins, "We'll consider it payment for the boat repairs." The waterman affectionally kicks the boat near the bite marks left by the festrong. He seems to want to say more but eventually just shakes his head and grabs Awenasa's arm.

"And may your spirits not ask too much of you." A strange greeting.

And with that, Awenasa and her friends leave the swamp and the boat behind. Their last view of Anno is the small man nudging his boat back amongst the reeds and trees.

"Strange fellow." Thak remarks casually, "Still, we owe him a great deal. We could never have found our way through that ourselves."

Back on dry land, it goes much as Anno suggested. The small path follows the swamp edge for a few miles and then turns westward in a right angle. While still little more then a dusty track more suited for animals then people, it is as straight as a lowlander ruler, headed directly westward.

Unused to having such a clear trail, Awenasa still feels it will help. She can hardly get lost on a road. They head westward, following it onward.

Around them the land is dry but not the bare desert she has grown accustomed to in this strange place. Instead it is a rocky land of brush and scrub, of low lying trees and tough looking bushes. Pockets of grass cling to the more sheltered nooks and crannies, some even hiding small springs. The path lies on flat level ground but on either side of them low hills gather, creating a low valley. Awenasa is not a favor of such low ground, but there is nothing for it, and they see no sign of others, either on the road or not.

In fact, apart from the reddish soil and milky sky above, Awenasa is reminded of home. Her land is also a dry one, with life that is easy to miss. She half expects to see a flock of Shoanti goats in the distance, or maybe even a great hunting cat stalking the higher hills. But they see little animal life, apart from a few birds.

They keep heading westward for two days. The terrain grow higher on each side, shifting from small hillocks to low hills to what even Awenasa would call low mountains. Their way is easy however, the road following the still flat valley floor. Now and then it crosses over dry washes, running over simple stone bridges. Like everything in this place, the bridges look very old but they are still sound. Awenasa guesses the gullies must fill with water in wet seasons.

Other paths join too, winding down out of the hills. As each joins their own path grows wider and clearer, finally becoming what could only be described as a real road, paved with stone and lined with ditches. Here and there, it is clear trees once lined the path but they are little more then stumps now, worn by wind and sun.

They camp near one of the ese, making a small fire. Thak and Perey, as they have been doing since they left the swamp are discussing what they think the Halls might be like. Perey seems to think it is a meeting place of wanderers and travelers, sharing stories and knowledge. Thak on the other hand seems to think it will be a great library, a vast collection of books, scrolls and other writings.

'What do you think, Awenasa?" Perey asks, from across the fire. Above the stars flicker slightly, the night sky very, very dark.

"Fair enough." Anno says, nodding, 'Fair enough. "

Warm breakfast finished, they head out again into the swamp. To Awenasa it seems the same as ever, the same parade of dead trees, open pools and islands of reeds. The bugs buzz in great swarms, alighting on them and taking off as they slap and curse. Birds sing from every tree, frogs croaking in isolated eddies.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the swamp ends. Anno poles the boat around a stand of vine-laden trees and Awenasa is confronted with dry land. Well, drier land. A solid bank of brown earth lies ahead of them, dotted with low trees and bushes. Beyond Awenasa can spot low rocky hills, fuzzy in the distance. Between the riparian growth, Awenasa can spot a footpath, running parallel to the black brackish water. It seems little most then a dusty trail cut into the soil, but Awenasa's heart picks up when Anno points to it.

"It will veer west soon, between the hills. A day or two, that is all. Then you will reach the Halls of Reason." The waterman shrugs, "I have never been. They say it is a strange place, full of books and other things. "

Anno bumps the boat against the bank at a low spot, where they can scramble ashore.

"You will go on, then?"

A huge reptilian eye turned on him, the size of an apple. It was dark mottled brown, Sigmar noted, with a dark slit gashed across it. Thick folds and scales surrounded it, wrinkled protection that turned into the base of a massive horn half as long as Sigmar was tall. It looked at him with a strange, alien glare.

Around him Sigmar lost track of the battle focused on the immense beast. He could smell it, a slightly dusty aroma of crushed earth, trample vegetation and a hint of a strange, exotic musk. Steam heaved off the massive chest, warm as a furnace. The youth had no idea what to expect. Would the beast roar? Stomp him again? Bow in submission or perhaps even seek out its fallen rider? In fact, it did none of these things.

Instead it took off at a thundering gallop, heading straight for a knot of lizardmen and sailors. The ground literally shook under its huge weight as massive tree-trunk legs flexed and groaned, propelling forward as fast as a horse. The tail slapped against the ground, incidentally crushing the corpse of the dead would-be dinosaur rider.

Sigmar witnessed all of this because he was along for the ride. The burning hand which gripped the reins got tangled in the complicated lines, like a hare caught in a trapper's snare. Half dragged, half held aloft Sigmar was carried into battle by the bellowing snorting avatar of destruction.

And destruction it was. Nothing would withstand the horned, frilled creature. Friend and foe alike either ran for cover or were trampled. Fences splintered, heavy wagons were tossed like playthings and a crude shed simply disintegrated under the beast's charge, even as Sigmar was dragged along like a child's favorite doll. Heavy mud splashed him, churned up by the horned feet below, mixing with the blood and grass from his own bout with the dinosaur.

The ride went on long enough to batter Sigmar silly, the world becoming a swirling mess of lights, shadows and colors. Jounced this way and that, it was enough to spin any lad's head. In his ear Ozzy kept up a running commentary, trying to guess the speed and weight of the huge reptile ('Woah, it's, like, really big, man!') but it soon became lost in the rising din of battle.

He needed to do something before the mad thing slammed him against a rock or tree (or an enemy spear), if only by accident.

A small part of Sigmar admired the huge monster though because, as far as he could tell, the thing just enjoyed crushing stuff. And without a rider, it seemed to revel in the ability to go where it wanted and do as it liked.

Anno takes this in silently, and has the air of a man of much to think about.

They do not reach the other side of the Swamp that day, and are forced to camp out among the reeds, mud and frogs. Thak and Perey gripe (a little bit) about blood sucking bugs and man-eating monsters but Awenasa has little fear of the latter. While they had mostly left the festrong's influence behind, it still lingered and they had seen few animals that day. With no prey, how could one have predators?

Also, surely the Shienmo would be out tonight, exploring the new territory. That alone would scare off most creatures. Awenasa had little doubt that the lizardmen were as much masters of their homeland as the Shoanti were, and when her people went out, other beasts stayed hidden.

No, tonight they could sleep.

She seemed to be correct for the night passed without event. The only change seemed to be Anno. The usually dour waterman seemed in good spirits and Awenasa is woken with breakfast already cooking. Frog legs and crayfish simmering in an old battered pot, which sends out a rich aroma.

As Perey and Thak eat, Anno says to Awenasa, "We will reach dry land by noon today, unless I am totally lost. In which case, who knows how long?" he smiles somewhat, shrugging, "But I am not lost. Our time together is nearly over, Awenasa."

He pauses, fumbles a bit and goes on, "You have given me much to think about. Thank you." Another pause, "Not sure what else to say, so there it is." He moves off to ready the boat.

"New territory. The festrong has been here a long time. It's like a big black mark on the map." The waterman poles the boat skillfully between two dead trees, everyone ducking automatically.

"But I know the shape of the blackness. It'll save a lot of traveling, cutting through here. Also, there will be no other hunters in here, not with the festrong around. Even bigger, nastier things don't like undead."

Time passes in the heat of the day. Perey falls asleep, nodding against the gunwale. Thak is meditating, reddish skin gleaming brightly in the sun, humming every so slightly. Around them the swamp is still very quiet, the festrong's influence still present. Yet, there are signs of life. A school if small fish pass under the boat, black against black. A bullfrog lets out a raspy croak. And once Awenasa spots a beaver slipping into the water with barely a splash, sliding silently.

It is peaceful.

"Shienmo as friends, huh?" Anno says from the prow, sounding unconvinced, "Strange things follow you, Awenasa. Seem like good things though. " He idlily pushes a floating hunk of dead weeds away, bobbing like an apple in a barrel.

"Has it always been this way for you? To be so strong of purpose?" The small man sounds wistful, almost shy. "It must be a comfort, to know what needs to be done, and to be able to do something about it."

Above the sun is a bright coin, blazing down. The air is hot and heavy but is slowly losing the rank scent of old, stale meat, replaced by the only slightly more wholesome smell of water, plants and mud.

Sigmar had no orc chieftain on hand, but that didn't mean the youth was totally unobserved. In his ear Ozzy said, "Woah, the fire arms are pretty neat. Do you always fight like that? You didn't against the orc guy. Pretty cool though."

The dinosaur under Sigmar's feet stamps once, shaking them both. "On Castrovel they ride big lizards like this," The sand creature goes on, as if commenting on a interesting story at a tavern-side and not during a bloody battle. "But they don't have horns. Pretty cool, man!"

Meanwhile, Sigmar is pummeling away at the lizardman with his blazing fits. One of the blows misses due to the admittedly tricky conditions, but two others make good body contact worthy of a Andoran. And unlike most pugilists, Sigmar's punches leave behind fiery, burning welts. The lizardman lets out a rattling hiss like soup left on the pot too long. It feints with the spear and then as Sigmar dodges, it jumps down.

Not to escape but merely pull on one of the strange stirrups, the little figure jamming a clawed foot on the leather. Suddenly the dinosaur gives out a bone shaking bellow and shuffles to the right, elegant as a drunkard on a bender. Still, it is a wild ride!

Sigmar Reflex: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8

Wild enough that the usually sure footed Sigmar slips off the creature, flaming hands scrabbling uselessly at the thick hide. In a moment he is back down on terra firma, nose to haunch with the imposing dinosaur. And then he sees a very large leg move toward him-

Trample, Reflex Save DC 20: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11

Trample Damage: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8

Slipping in a very poorly placed puddle, Sigmar is helpless to dodge. Like a child run over by a angry sheep, the dragon youth is trampled. Heavy feet pound the earth around him, thundering in his ears. And on his assorted limbs, it should be noted. In a moment it is over him though, the dinosaur pounding away. Knocked prone, the world seems to wheel around Sigmar, a blur of brown, green and blue. A few new sparks of pain seem to be dully making their way into his brain, slowed by general confusion.

Focusing, he notes the dinosaur wheeling on him, ignoring the barn and other combatants. The lizardman is back in the saddle again, and seems to be intent on driving the horned creature back over Sigmar. Like a bull, the huge beast paws the ground, beaked mouth slightly agape. It lowers the horns and-

ZIP

Arrow: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (8) + 6 = 14
Oyok lets an arrow fly and hits the lizardman right in the eye. It slumps over, reins going limp. Having already started the big beast lumbers forward but directionless, missing Sigmar entirely.

Sigmar's tengu friend bounds over and is about to give Sigmar a hand up, but is stopped by the still burning flames.

"Come on lad, no time to be sleeping around on the job."

Anno gives a shrug when she says the spirits decide who lives and who dies. Awenasa wonders what gods they worship here, if any. So far, during her entire time in this strange place, nothing of the spirits had been mentioned.

The waterman inspects the boat, frowning at the gouges. Awenasa looks at the ragged tooth marks and is happy the festrong did not try to take a bite of her, distracted by destroying their vessel. The fight could have easily went much worse, if she wasn't resistant to toxins, if the undead had trapped her underwater, if the boat had sank....

But what was the old, wise saying? Worrying did add a single hour to your life ? It was as it went.

Soon Anno speaks up, "It should still get us to the far side. Just a few cracks, nothing serious."

At her words about the lizard-man Anno is obviously surprised, "This close to the festrong? Strange but probably nothing to do with us. The sooner we hurry, the sooner we are done. If we cut through the festrong's territory, we might make it to dry land by nightfall, if we hurry."

They quickly gather things up and are starting to pole away when Thak points to the cluster of trees. With alarm, Aweansa spots a full dozen of the lizardmen there now, all holding spears. The crouch in the shadows until they noticed they have been spotted. Then they emerge, nimbly jumping on reedy tussocks and logs.

Anno groans, "A whole hunting party. We can't outrun them, and I don't know this way very well." There is a bit of relief in the twisted old waterman's voice, as if somewhat reassured that things are properly going wrong.

But Awenasa has eyes on the Shienmo. She knows raiders, warriors and hunting bands. Had she not spent her life among those that people called barbarians? They do not seem about to attack. Instead they seem thoughtful, gazing at the festrong's old pool.

Then the largest lizardman, wearing a long cloak of heron feather raises a spear in an unmistakable salute. It lets out a hissing scream, undulating over the swampy water. No battlecry, this is a cry of triumphant, of victory. Of celebration!

The other lizardmen take up the cry, raising spears to the small boat. They make no effort to follow, no move to throw weapons. Instead they give a raucous chorus that lasts until Awenasa and her friends are out of sight.

Awenasa has killed many things over her life. She did not relish it, but it was familiar. The hunting of a deer for food, or the capture of a mountain lion to protect a herd, even fighting another human in self defense. Pummeling the festrong was nothing like those things. It felt more like destroying an object, as if she was tearing down a particularly stubborn house or felling a long-dead tree.

Through sheer force of blow she battered the undead into submission, literally breaking it down into smaller bits that could no longer function. First an arm came loose, shattered from the shoulder by a well aimed kick. Then the narrow chest caved in, ribs cracking into shards that poked through the green skin, oozing with green toxins. A knee popped like a log in a fire, and the undead beast staggered into the shin-deep water. It let out a gurgling roar of confusion and then, without mercy but without pleasure, Awenasa burst in the head with a final punch.

The undead corpse shuddered and then, like a puppet with cut strings, flopped awkwardly into the water, unmoving. Silence filled the air, broken only by some bubbling as noxious slime seeped from the fallen thing.

Awenasa risked a glance at the trees and the lizard figure was gone.

After a long moment Anno hopped up on the boat gunwale. He looked at Awenasa, then fallen creature and then back. His weather beaten face was creased in a look of shock, confusion and a trace of disappointment.

"I was expecting to die." he said, and he sounded a bit put out it hadn't gone that way. "Attacked by the festrong, no one survives that. And you fought it, and won, by yourself." The waterman blinks and then bows his head slightly to Awenasa, "Fighting is not everything but you are a mighty warrior, Awenasa of a faraway land. I am sorry I doubted you."

Then he poked the festrong with a paddle, "The village people will be pleased, at least."

The dinosaur's green-brown hide was thick and knurled, almost pebble-like and that helped him. Sigmar found he could get a good grip on the beast as he hauled himself up off the ground and toward his opponent. To his surprise, the animal was warm and dry under his touch. Weren't lizard's supposed to be cold and slimy?

Or was that slugs?

In any case Sigmar soon found himself standing on the spine of the imposing beast, feet planted on each side of the swaying backbone. Under him, the dragon youth could see (and fell) muscles roll and bunch, driving the huge monster forward and back. A living battering ram. From somewhere in the barrel chest below a deep guttural bellow sounded, shaking him.

An errant arrow snapped past his head, just a blur of shadow. Another skipped across the horned dinosaur's hide, doing no more damage then a stone thrown at a brick wall. Sigmar ignored them however, he had a lizard-man to fight. Arms and fists still a flame he leapt forward and tried to hit the driver.

Self Damage, Fire: 1d6 ⇒ 6

Fire Damage to driver: 1d6 ⇒ 5

Driver Fort: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16

With a resounding, fiery crack, Sigmar slams the driver in the back of his head. The head snaps forward painfully, the lizard-man rising up in his crude stirrups. The flames rise and Sigmar can smell the armor of burning scales.

Yet the lizard man, annoyingly, doesn't slump over. Instead it turns with surprising speed, rising out of the dinosaur saddle. Using it's own tail as a balance, it is soon standing as well, facing Sigmar. Well over two feet shorter then the imposing human, it does not seem daunted by the size difference. Probably helping this confidence is the spear in one clawed hand. Behind the bone mask, the flat, reptilian eyes flash.

It shouts something in a weird language and tries to jab Sigmar with a spear.

Spear: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (1) + 7 = 8

Sigmar kicks the spearhead aside with ease however, nearly knocking it out of the lizard-mans grip to boot. His foe bares long fangs and hisses, like a snake in a street performer's show.

Around them the battle rages, but the dinosaur has, for the moment, paused it's assault on the barn door, either out of confusion for the elaborate dance happening on its back or simply awaiting commands.

The xulgath is looking pretty wounded, but hiding it well. Your smack and fire did some real damage

Undead held no supernatural dread for Awenasa. Her people knew much about the spirits and their strange ways. They could be dangerous and powerful, of course, but they did not take the form of lumbering monsters. This reanimated beast was not more connected to the real spirit world then a wagon. It was little more then a misshapen tool, the byproduct of evil magic.

Yet, it was still unsettling to fight something that did not bleed, and she felt not heartbeat under her fists. It was like punching a wall, and just as unrewarding.

Still, the Shoanti was ready for a counterattack. Even if the beast was focused entirely on the boat (did it realize that destroying the vessel would kill them all?) surely it would defend itself?

She was right. Just as her last mighty blow rang off the hard skull of the tall creature, it whirled around. Awenasa was ready, fists raised in a boxer's stance. But the festrong was cleverer then she expected and instead of lashing out with the long arms, it kicks at her with clawed feet!

trip!: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (1) + 9 = 10

But the Shoanti nimbly dodges the kick, even through the swampy, black water.

But I wanted to describe how the swamp water tasted!

Sigmar loved fights. The thrill of combat, the physical contest, a way to prove yourself (it helped that dragons, of course, always overcame such tests), all of it excited the young man. He indulged in it often, of course. He had fought in barrooms and taverns, on street corners and ditches, in orphanages and in market squares. The monk had faced off against men, beasts, monster and even one memorable ghost. He had always considered himself quite experienced in such things.

But this was different. This was a battle, even if a rather small one. Men and women ran this way and that, forming and reforming. Dinosaurs and their masters ran amongst them, hit and run tactics that dispersed the defenders. Crops were trampled, fences smashed, a crude windmill knocked on it's side. Here and there the crackle of magic was audible over the shouts of the brave and the whimper of the dying. A storage shed blazed with bright emerald fire, sending up palls of black smoke into the otherwise pristine, azure sky.

Sigmar had never felt so alive.

His arms were blazing as if he were a servant of Sarenrae, blessed by the Everlight. Except it hurt, a bit and the charring tar smelt awful, like someone had light a cigar in a dockyard. Still, it worked!

Sigmar was slightly disappointed by the imposing horned beast though, at least at first. It ignored him! Instead of reacting, it merely lowered the huge head and banged away at the great barn door again with a bellow. The door buckled and bent, as iron hinges groaned and wood cracked. It seemed clear it could not withstand much more of this saurian battery.

Then Sigmar saw why he had been ignored. The beast had a rider! A small lizard-like figure sat perched on the creature, nestled just behind the flaring crown of bone. It was the same sort of squat being he had fought before, with a long tail and a mask made of animal bone that glinted white in the noon sun. It had a bloody spear in one hand, while the other tugged at a rather crude set of reins on the dinosaur.

The lizard-man glanced at Sigmar, seemed to sniff and set back to his work bashing down the door.

"Woah," Ozzy said in his ear, just audible over the din of battle. "That is, like, a big lizard. I wonder what it eats?"

Your move, the dinosaur, so far, is ignoring you. How rude

Alas, undead are immune to being stunned

Sometimes, back home, Awenasa had stumbled across a dried, desiccated body of some unfortunate animal that had died yet remained unfound by scavengers. The dry Plateau wind quickly turned such corpses into rawboned mummies, made up of tight skin, hair and bone. This creature reminded her of such a dead thing, except animated with some horrible diseased fluid.

Her blows seemed to do little to the creature, and it was like punching wood. Indeed, instead of blood or torn muscle, parts of it almost splintered off, fragments of tough hide. Worse, despite a truly mighty blow to the back of the head, she seemed unable to stun it. Perhaps the undead magics that governed it were not bothered by such things? Pummeling it to pieces seemed the only way, even if that seemed a slow process.

"Save the boat!" Awenasa says, unsure of what else to do. Even if she did batter the festrong into pulp, it wouldn't do them much good if the boat was destoryed.

At her words Perey looks up from his panic. Gritting himself he waves a hand and mutters something under his breath. The world shimmers around him and then, suddenly, a second boat appears. In every way like anno's boat, it bobs in the murky water near at hand.

Clearly this surprises the undead beast, beady eyes sweeping the mirror image. Apparently unsure which to attack, it attacks both boats in turn with claw and tooth.

Festrong makes three attacks, one is wasted against the mirror image boat

Bite: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (5) + 9 = 14

While the jutting jaw's bite does some minor damage to the boat, clearly Perey's action has bought Awenasa some time.

Awenasa Perception: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (16) + 14 = 30
?: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (6) + 15 = 21

Awenasa's elders would have been proud. Even amidst a fight with a strange beast in a strange place, her wits are about her. In second nature, she scans the terrain around her, eyes and ears open for more threats. And in doing so she spots, in a dark grove of trees only fifty feet away, a humanoid figure. A tall slender lizard-like shape, leaning against a tree, spear in hand. Was this one of the man-eating Shienmo Anno spoke of?

And, more importantly, was its presence good or bad?

Arianne wrinkled her nose at Sigmar's latest fashion attempt, even as a wet glob or two dropped onto the ground. Oyok trilled a laugh, 'Bit rich coming from you, lass of the bat caves." The tengu turned to Sigmar, "Your plan is to light yourself on fire, lad? " he gave a strange avian sigh, feathers rippling. "You never fail to surprise me."

Later

At the dragonstone, the sounds of battle reached the Third Watch under Herluf. The old solider looked around but, at least as far as Sigmar could tell, there wasn't much to see. Clearly all the fighting was happening farther down the slope. And judging by the roars, screams and steel, it was a jolly good scrap.

"We stick together." Herluf finally said, rubbing his receding chin with his remaining hand. "Gods above, what I wouldn't give for a dozen real troopers, instead of this lot." He raised his voice so everyone could hear.

"All right, we march downward. This is the real thing, if they destroy our farms and crops, it'll be a very long and hungry dry season. Life and death mates, let's show them that Fort Holiday isn't going to be pushed around! Let's go!"

And with that, the sailors yelled wildly and rushed down the slopes, weapons waving in the arm. They passed down the road onto the very lowest slopes of the smoking hill, into the trees and farms Sigmar had seen earlier. The steaming, boiling stream bubbled at their side, flowing as usual. Sigmar sniffed the air in vain for a hint of baked lobster.

And then they were amidst the fighting. It was a big affair, sprawled out over several of the low lying farms and gardens maintained by the castaways. Men and women were scattered along fences, near barns and in orchards fighting with a whole host of lizard men and their dinosaur pets. It was a blur of movement and confusion, with no real order, battle lines or tactics. Just an all out brawl.

Perfect

Despite Herluf orders, Third Watch broke up like foam on a tide, as some went this way and some went that way. When in Oppara..Sigmar looked at the fight and decided which way to go.

Near a fishpond, a few sailors were being hemmed in by a bunch of dinosaurs which seemed like big, scaly chickens. Lithe hunting figures on two legs, with long snouts and wicked claws on their feet and hands. Tails taut behind them, they circled the beleaguered humans.

Near a fence line, he spotted Uzhg trading blows with one of the actual lizard creatures. Around him was a knot of other fighters and lizardfolk, with no dinosaurs about. Clearly a prime spot, the two sides bled and fought ferociously here.

"Ah, I can see the blood spurts from here. Neat." Ozzy said in his ear as Uzhg literally ripped an arm off a foe.

Last but not least Sigmar spotted a barn under assault, a fort surrounded by foes. Sailors threw rocks and spears out of windows, fending off a host of lizardmen and smaller dinosaurs. At the main gate however, was an imposing creature that dominated the battlefield. Bigger then an ox, bigger then three oxen, it was a huge four-legged lizard with brown skin like an alligator. The head was protected by a huge bony frill, like an upturned shield. Surmounting it was three massive horns, one above each eyebrow and a smaller from from the nose. They gleamed blood red in the noonday sun. It lowered the massive head and smashed toward the barn doors, shaking the entire building.

Dealer's choice. Oyok will come alone, who knows about Arianne

Awneasa throws herself out of the boat with enough force to send it rocking. Black swamp water slops over the low gunwales, making Anno curse in some exotic language, as Thak and Perey hold on for dear life. Meanwhile, the Shoanti warrior is jumping into the air, aiming to kick the imposing creature.

To her annoyance, the beast is quicker then she thought. With uncanny speed, it dodges both her kick and the first punch, weaving like an undead boxer. Gritting her teeth, Awenasa hides the last punch until the last moment, hiding her intent with her own body. Then she lashes out with a kidney punch that would have gotten her thrown out of a Riddleport fighting-pit (if Awenasa knew what such a thing was). Yet, for all her skill, the blow does little damage.

Worse, her fist tears open a set of noxious boils. A spurt of sickly green fluid splashes her arm, burning like acid. Her tanned skin turns pink then bright red, flaring with pain.

Awenasa Fort Save: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 20

Luckily, Awenasa is made of tough stuff, and nothing further happens.

Meanwhile, the undead creature seems unbothered by her attacks and focuses on the boat itself!

Claws: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (5) + 7 = 12
Claws: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

The rugged sharp claws dig into the wood, shredding it like a bear digging through an old stump. Anno curses again and smacks the monster with an oar, achieving nothing.

"Ware the boat! If it sinks it, we'll all die out here, festrong or not" Awenasa is unsure but there is a flash in the undead creature's eye and it lets out a long, curdling howl at this.

Perey looks terrified, gripping onto the boat with both hands, staring up at the looming monster, unable to do anything else for the moment.

To Sigmar's surprise, he finds Oyok curious about Vrilu's task. 'Wonder what it is, lad." The tengu say musingly, claw tips rubbing his hard beak with an oddly musical sound. "Usually likes to keep her eye on the action. Guess she trusts us."

Together they hurry toward the gate, following the rest of what is presumably Third Watch. Sigmar doesn't recognize most of the people of course, just a few faces he has seen around. People seem to be moving quickly though, stopping off to grab weapons or other supplies. The monk spots a few health potions in pockets but little other sign of magic.

In his ear, Ozzy replies, "Fight? Why would I fight? I'm, like, a pile of sand. Not much hurts sand. I just float away if there is a problem." Sigmar had a sudden mental image of his horribly mutilated corpse lying on a battlefield somewhere, a small cloud of sand drifting away from it. A rider leaving a fallen horse behind.

Happily it is just fiction since Sigmar would never actually lose a fight.

The Third Watch idles near the splintery gate for a bit, as laggards catch up. It doesn't take long however, and Sigmar is generally impressed with their speed and unity of action. Maybe shipboard life helps? The crew on the Nereid’s Wink had seemed lively too. Maybe it it was a sailor thing.

Sigmar saw Arianne was in this group, and the mute grinned ta him. She was carrying the large gun she had brought on their little dragon-liar adventure. She waved a small grimy pouch that, by Sigmar's nose, still reeked of bat droppings. Oyok gave her a strange look, then whistled.

"A friend of yours?"

At that, Herluf suddenly appeared out of nowhere, "Third Watch, forward! Look lively, who knows if the enemy has slipped scouts up the hillside. I would, if I was them."

Yes despite his words, they encounter no foes on the dry, gravel laden slopes lead down from Fort Holiday. In fact they manage a steady tort all the way to the dragon-stone, standing as red and smooth as ever. No sign of UZhg and Second Watch however.

"Damn" Herluf said mildly, "Must have gone on ahead. No plan survives contact with the enemy." Then he pauses and cocks his head, listening. Sigmar can hear it too. The sound of men, the clatter of steel and the roaring of beasts. Somewhere, downhill, the fight was making quite a scene.

Let's hope they didn't miss it!

It is barely enough. Just as Awenasa nods, a patch of swamp not thirty feet away explodes. A column of dirty water and mucky swamp mud is thrown into high the air, and falling with a great crash. Awenasa herself is doused with chilly water and spattered with lumps of soggy peat. She has no time to account for this however, for she is busy trying to see their foe.

The Shoanti does not need to wait long.

A big, lanky humanoid figure is standing at the epicenter of the sudden upwelling. It is a strange, unwholesome looking creature, about twice Awenasa's own size. It is as if someone created an undead out a troll and an ape. Sickly green skin is wrapped taunt around a bony, gunat frame, dripping with slime and pus. The arms are so long, it rests on all fours, wide back hunched over. The skull is deformed into a long muzzle, a forest of teeth revealed by the lack of lips. There is no hair, although a row of small spines run down the half-exposed spine. The eyes are wide and light, an off-tone ivory. Awenasa sense some intelligence there, this is not merely a wild beast.

It lets out a nerve-rattling howl and charges toward them, water cascading up.

Initaive Festrong: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2
Iniative Awenasa and friends: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11

Ok, the monster is 30 feet away, through ankle deep water (as far as you can tell, there may be deeper spots. Consider it rough terrain, at least. You are still in the boat, with everyone else. There are trees, floating islands and reed beds all around. Need any other information?

There is a titter of laughter from the crowd at Sigmar's rather ribald remark, along with a bit of outright laughter. People who made a living at sea don't find nudity very surprising, but they do, of course, find it very amusing.

After they quiet down, Shi coughs and says, "Then we can proceed with the vote-"

"I have not yet spoken." Edward Morgan says, voice grating like a rasp, working on a particularly disagreeable piece of wood. "I have a right to speak to the Assembly and Company."

Shi frowns but then shrugs and steps back. The supposed holy figure strides forward into the gap, arms held high. They are as wild looking as ever, with windswept hair thrown to all points of the compass, knotted and frayed. The burlap sack-clothing barely hangs on their slender, rail-thin frame, held more by habit then anything else. Turning slowly, they begin in that same grating voice, "We have gathered-"

They are interrupted by the slap of feet on stone. Out of of a side alley, a young child appears, wearing little more then a dirty shirt. Everyone turns to face them as they race into the crowd, running pell-mell right toward the Steering Committee.

"What?" Kell says, as the little boy skitters to a halt in front of him, nearly smacking into the older sailor. 'Yer supposed to be watching the walls, Pell. What are you doing.." The obvious conclusion dawns on him, and his face changes.

The boy, swaying slightly as he stands, struggles to catch his breath. Finally he manages, high pitched adolescent voice cutting through the sudden, frozen silence. "Attack. The big farm!"

Utter chaos breaks out, like someone kicking a hornet's nest. Suddenly everyone is talking, shouting, calling out names. People are running this way and that, mostly aimless circles as they debate running toward danger or away from it. Parents call for children, lovers try to find each other, a few simply seem to scream in sheer panic. The crowd starts to jostle, with Sigmar catching a few rude shoulders and elbows. The draongling is about to start elbowing back when-

"QUIET!"

Herluf's voice crashes over the tumult like a tidal wave smashing a sand castle, quashing all noise. Suddenly no longer looking old at all, the man is standing in the center of the square, ramrod straight. Everyone stares, blinking.

"Better." he grumbles and turns to Pell, the little boy still wheezing, "How many lizards, boy?"

"A bunch!" he shouts, waving his hands.

Herluf snorts but nods. He turns toward the crowd, pale eyes sweeping it quickly. "Uzhg, take the First Watch down and hold the paths up. Find out how many there are, at least. Leave runners by the dragonstone."

"Kell, get the Second Watch in order and follow after, grab the weapon store."

"Third Watch, you are with me." He barks, "Now, get moving, you louts. We got work to do!"

Again people start moving but now it is with a purpose. Squads gather together, moving as one. All as pieces of a machine.

Vrilu watches this all unfold and turns to Shi, "Well, where does that leave us?" The Tian woman pauses as a few villagers ramble past, boots slapping. The rest of the Steering Committee gathers in, including the clearly miffed Morgan.

The Company woman goes on, voice low and fast, "We will help, if you include us now. We have the votes, you all know it, doubly with this threat. Also, we all know this is a bit of a sham. None of us are staying forever, we are no threat to your little power system here."

Edward snorts at this but Kell shrugs, "Works for me. Get your boy here to help, and I'm sold."

Shi nods and looks at the rest, "Agreed?"

No one disputes and all says, "Aye!"

and with that, apparently, Sigmar, Vrilu and Oyok are part of the Company of Fort Holiday. The youth has just enough time to wonder if this counts Ozzy or the wood golem when Herluf turns to him, "You are with me. Go wait by the main gate, we'll be along."

And with that the aged soldier is off, barking orders. The rest also disperse, leaving Sigmar alone with Vrilu for a moment. The dark-robed woman hold shim back a second, "Sigmar. Go and fight, but don't get yourself killed. We got what we want, no need for heroics now. Just make sure these yokels survive, so they can supply us. Oyok go with him, keep an eye on him. I have something I need to do." And she strides off toward their house, golem in tow.

"Neat, a battle." Ozzy says in his ear, "Derring do and swashbuckling. Like, who are we fighting? Trolls? Sharks? Undead things?" He sounds like a theatergoer asking what is playing at the matinee.

Anno looks surprised and says, "Let us hope. And let's hope you know what you are doing."

With that they set off into the swamp, poling down the waterway toward what Anno calls the festrong.

The day is hot and humid, a far cry from the dry desert of their journey so far, or Awenasa's home. The insects are out in full force, buzzing, flying and, of course, biting. It doesn't take long for all of them to look like they have already in a fight, smeared with splotches of blood. It is impossible to get comfortable in the boat, between the prickling sweat, buzzing gnats and bright glare off the water. In short order, Awenasa is almost looking forward to a fight. At least you can punch an undead monster.

Yet the swamp seems the same to Awenasa. Dark pools of bubbling water, gently swaying beds of reeds, tangled trees dense with vines. Anno poles them through his usual grace and care, perhaps pauses slightly more often to listen and smell. Slowly they proceed, barely making a sound. Still, Awenasa is a trained hunter and soon, even in this strange place, she notes the signs.

Here a branch torn free, bark hanging in strips. There an entire tree turned over, half rottenroots pointing toward the sky. Heaps of sodden earth piled here and there, reminding her of a bear digging for grubs. The sound of bird song dies away, and even the bugs seem to dissipate. The usual hustle and bustle of life withdraws. The already fetid air is tinged with something else here, something new. The smell of old, dead meat. A stale reek of decaying flesh.

"It is close." Anno whispers, "We are very near the lair. It may be resting....or it may not. Prepare yourself."

The swamp around them seems still and hot around them, pressing in in suffocating silence.

To Shalina's surprise Perey speaks up, "But the long way holds danger too, doesn't it?"

Annoy nodded, "Of course. Every day in the swamp is another danger. The boat may overturn, we may get lost, we make catch some illness. Worse, if we take the long way, even I will need to sleep. The shorter way is always faster, if one could bypass the festrong."

The waterman turned to Shalina, "It rarely goes so far as the village. It seems...connected to its lair. I imagine some kind of magical thing, perhaps it was even born of such things, long ago. It was here in my mother's time, and her mother's time. "

Thak spoke up, swatting a bug, "I'd rather get killed fast by some horrible monster then endure more days in this pestinailantl quagmire." A pause, "No offense, Anno." The boatman merely smiles and shrugs.

"Besides," Thak went on, "Sounds like we'd be doing the locals a favor. Maybe it would give us some good opinions if we come back this way."

Sigmar has had a busy few days. Spelunking in an dragon's liar with a charming young woman, then facing down a possible rival in the fighting ring. Then, after wild success in both outings, taking a somewhat psychedelic trip through his own future and mental landscape. Which, of course, seemingly promises a rather exciting life ahead, full of struggle and triumphs.

So it is only natural that the dragon youth found himself a bit drowsy.

He and Rhyzov sit outside, basking in the warm tropical sun. The old fortune-teller had dug up a few loaves of bread and a bit of fruit. It wasn't exactly the spread Sigmar would have preferred but it went down nicely enough.

"Simple enough deal." The Sunrise Seeker says, "Your colleague says she can perhaps help me off this island. The Gold Crown Shipping and Mining Company has enough power to expunge my sentence and crime. She even hinted at paid work, if I want." The older man shrugged and leaned back, "I must confess, Raptor Island has become a rather stale residence." He laughs at Sigmar joke and touches the frail stubble that now covers his head, "Somedays I do miss it. Sunburn on the scalp is not a pleasant experience."

Taking a bit of a melon, the older man goe son, "I do wonder more about your mistresses plan, exactly. Why join the Company? And how does she plan to take Griet? The dwarf has his old enemies here, but allies too. Besides, with the Xulgath about, no one is going to attack a possible ally. I am curious..."

And with that intrigue floating in his head, Sigmar drifts off for a well deserved nap.

CLANG

Somewhere a bell tolls, rolling through the calm midday air. Sigmar wakes to find Rhyzov standing up, brushing off the dust. "Come on, my young friend. That is the announcement for the vote. Would be a shame if you missed it. I doubt your mistress would approve."

Sigmar follows him back into town, weaving through the shacks and alleys of Fort Holiday. Soon he finds himself in the town square outside the meeting hall (and their own temporary abode). It looks like every soul in town is here, gathered in assorted knots and clumps spread out. Sigmar spots Vrilu and Oyok in the center of the press, the woman looking bored by the tengu seemingly casual as ever. Vrilu's wood golem is at her side, planted solid as any oak.

A short distance away is the Steering Committee, decked out in their various finery. Shi wearing her silks, Herluf in his battered old uniform and Kell in his usual weathered sailor's outfit. Only Edward Morgan is unchanged, still wild and worn. All look seriously at the arrivals.

Sigmar takes his place at Vrilu's silent gesture, and waits. A silence grows over the crowd, filled with coughing, whispers and cawing of distant birds. Finally Kell breaks in, "All right, let's get this over with."

He raises his voice and shouts to the crowd, "We are here to vote on the acceptance of new members. These three ask to join the Company. In doing so, they pledge to offer their services and efforts for the common good, and for us to extend the same to them. This bond lasts until either side breaks it by dishonor or death. "

More silence and Shi breaks in, "We vote by voice first. If one side is clearly greater, then we will follow it. If it is too close to tell, we will vote by raised hands and count them. Just like onboard ship, you all know the drill. Except here, it will be a fair count." A bit of laughter at old memories.

The Tian woman looks toward Vrilu, "Any remarks before the vote?"

The Company woman, looking stern and dark, nods once sharply. She steps forward, "I come with no hidden design. I seek Orson Griet and nothing more. In respect to this town, I am willing to join and assist it as best we can. In this I also offer my men." A gesture indicates Oyok and Sigmar, "We already have proven our worth, I think, both in battle and in other ways. We could be a powerful ally. In exchange all we ask is this, to be left alone while we complete our mission. "

She steps back.

There is no public reaction to this words, just considered silence. Then Shi looks to Sigmar, "Anything to add, young man?"

Feel free

Anno shrugs, "It is a monster whose lair lives down that. It is not a normal beast though. The crocodile, the piranha, even the froghemoth all hunt for food. To fill their bellies, like we all do. I do not begurdge them their lives, simply learn how to avoid them."

The crooked waterman shakes his head, "The festrog is not like that. It is an...undead creature. Where it came from I do not know, but it has lingered in this part of the swamp for a long time, before my own time. It does not need to eat, it merely kills out of some enjoyment. It reveals in the hunt."

He eyes lock on Awenasa's, a mixture of surprise and confusion, "You would suggest fighting such a beast? It is something like a troll, it exudes illness and corruption. Rumor says it has spread plague in the town before, when it has drawn near the homes. It is greatly feared because many weapons cannot even harm it." A pause as he gazes into the swmap, which seems the same as ever to Awenasa, a riot of life and activity.

"You are so formidable a warrior?"

The noon sun is hot overhead, amplifying by the draining humidity. The only relief is the occasional shade of overhanging trees, but their shadows are infested with biting insects of every variety. Thak, despairing, asks Anno if there is anyway to stop the hungry creatures.

'Run out of blood."

Still, otherwise, the journey goes well otherwise. Anno punts them through with skill and obvious logic, even if Awenasa can't see it. As far as she can tell, it is an endless maze of trees, weeds and pools of dark water. But he guide seems undaunted, and leads them without doubt.

Awenasa wonders how much she is missing. A few times she spots large shapes moving in the murk below, vague outlines shifting. When Perey shouts Anno just chuckles, "Turtles."

A turtle as big as a carthouse?

But then they come to a wide open pool of water and Anno stops, looking concerned for the first time. Dead ahead is a leaning tree like hundreds of other deadfalls they have passed. The only different is, this one seems...burned. Scarred with flames.

"I was afraid of this." Anno says finally, and points ahead, "That is the best way, but it seems the Shienmo are on the hunt." Seeing their faces he adds, "Lizardmen that live in the swamp. Very dangerous. They often eat their victims."

The waterman looks at the tree, and then looks at Awenasa, "Three choices. We risk the Shienmo and go the fastest path. We probably get eaten. Second, we go the long way around, spend an extra three days in the swamp. or third," he points to the south, "We risk the festrog but I would advise against that unless you have a silver weapon in your baggage." he laughs at this, as if the idea is unthinkable.

I should note, your fists count as silver weapons

Sigmar wasn’t sure what he expected after his bald declaration of treachery and betrayal. Heartfelt gestures of sympathy? Strident declarations of innocence? Maybe even a tearful confession of past wrongs?

Instead Vrilu merely looked…peeved. ”Betrayel? I don’t like the sound of that…” Then she caught Sigmar’s eyes and waved her hand, ”It isn’t going to be me. Does a craftsman betray her tools? No. And Oyok is obviously safe, what agenda could he have, I hired him off a dock in Quent. And no one else on this island even knows you.”

The Company woman paced a bit in the confined space, doing her best to avoid the hanging strings of feathers, leaves and dried mushrooms. ”No, whatever you saw, it must not be about you alone. It must be about me, our mission, the whole affair with Orsen. But how…” She shook her head after a while, clearly dissatisfied. Still, she turned to Ryzhov, ”This was not as clear as I’d like, Seeker.”

The old man spread his worn hands, ”Divination is not a science, as much as we’d like. I did my best.”

Vrilu pursed her lips but then nodded sharply, ”I will uphold my end of the bargain, as best I can. Consider us even.” She glanced at Sigmar but went on, ”We might have a bit of time to wrangle votes before the Assembly.” She paused and then added to the dragon youth.

”Thank you, for the fight. Well done, Sigmar.”

”Well, that was nice of her,” Ozzy said in his ear, rustling voice back to its usual whisper. , ”But I don’t like this talk of backstabbing. Bad vibes, man.”

With that Vrilu swirls out of the hut with a snap of her heavy cloak. The wood golem follows silently after, moving with its usual grace. Sigmar is not invited along.

Rhyzov sits down in a chair and sighs, ”A formidable woman. I must confess, I would hesitate to read her fortune. It would be a…challenging experience. Do you want something to eat? I might have a few loaves of bread around here.”

Ok, any plans before the assembly? You have a few hours, if you want, or we can skip ahead

Anno looks surprised at Awenasa's question, the waterman clearly taken aback. Apparently this is not a common question. The man ponders her for along moment, then looks out over the same waters, eyes distant. The morning chorus of birds is very loud now, a hundred different calls greeting the rising dawn.

"It was my mother. She was a great water guide, the greatest according to some. I was actually born out here, among the reeds and trees. It was supposed to be a quick fishing trip but bad weather kept them out here for days and well.." Anno chuckled, "She said I was eager to start helping, so I was born a bit early."

"She taught me everything she knew. The ways of the swamp, things villagers never understand. How looking at a single plant can tell you so much." Anno reaches down and plucks a small brown reed at the water's edge. He rolls it in his finger. "Silverman's Lace." he says, indicating it. Awenasa looks and can see tiny silver threads among the dried flowers. "Only grows in still, calm waters. The deeper the water, the taller the grows. The stronger the current, the richer the flowers color. You can make tea out of it, in the right season. So much from one plant." He lets it fall to the water.

"She was a good woman, and I miss her. She lived well though, and long. In the end it was time that claimed her, not the swamp. No crabs or fish disturb her bones." He shook his head, shaking off old memories. "Get some sleep Awenasa, we will need it."

Awenasa falls asleep quickly, worn out by the day before. Rowing was hard work, even in a still swamp.

A gentle touch from Anno woke her. The sun was fully overhead now, a blazing disc. The world was hot and humid, and her skin stuck together with sweat and salt.

"It is time." Anno said quietly, "But before you rise, look." The gnarled man pointed out over the water. There Awenasa saw two tall birds wading in the water. Stately and proud, they looked nearly big enough for a child to ride, with bright blue feathers and fierce red eyes.

"Hunting Great Cranes." Anno breathed, "A good omen, doubly so this time of year. They are usually roosting in the southern end by now. It will be a long dry season if they are still out." He stood up and woke Thak and Perey.

The cranes noticed and, with grace, flew off, wings beating loudly. All else was quiet and still, the swamp waiting and watching.

"We travel till dusk." Anno said, "The next stage is a dangerous one, hunting grounds for several creatures." He looked at Awenasa and smiles softly, "We do not speak their names so close to their homes, bad luck. But I expect we may need your fists and strength. I have a feeling we may be hunted."

"I'm impressed it worked." The unseen soothsayer's voice drifted down, "Might not had gone so well if he landed on you. I am unsure of the precise sortilegic meaning of that, but it surely couldn't have been good. So good job winning."

Sigmar, winded and feeling more then a bit battered, stomps up the stairs. The youth leaves a trail of paint behind him, a miscellanea of green, blues and browns that leave deep stains on the bright white stones. Hopefully no one sends him a cleaning bill.

After a short bit, he reaches the top. Ryzhov is waiting, gazing at the now plain stone set in the center. Without looking up he says, "If I am reading this right, touching this will end the vision, and return us to our normal planar set of time and place." He glances at Sigmar, "A word of warning, if I may. I hope you found this all educational but be careful, I have seen many a man and women be undone by fortune telling. It is a craft, an art, perhaps even a science but it is not perfect. Prophecy is a dangerous tool at the best of times, a knife that is apt to cut the user. Be careful, Sigmar Darastrix and not not overly trust it."

And with that, Sigmar touches the plain, gritty rock.

There is a pause, a flash, a blink and he is once again standing in Rhyzov's little hut. The heat seem sweltering, his skin covered with sweat and dirt. Still the paint is gone, anyway. And his various wounds and injuries from the vision are gone....replaced by his old injuries of his fight with Uzhg.

Easy come, easy go.

Vrilu stares hard at both of them, "Well, did it work?"

Rhyzov nods his head slowly, the man back to his usual aged self. His movements seem slow and graceless now, a body hindered by years of hard use. "It did, a most...unusual experience. I have rarely had such a fruitful vision."

Silence fills the hot little room until Vrilu bursts out, "Well?!"

The Sunrise Seeker shakes his head, "I told you this before we began. I am sealed by oath. I cannot share the contents of a vision with any save the subject, and even that only carefully. Ask Sigmar if you wish, only he is free to speak."

Vrilu rounds on Sigmar with the intensity of a fencer, "Out with it, then. Tell me everything, who knows what might be vital."

Anno chuckles a bit at her question about how to find the way. Around them the world slowly grows brighter and brighter, the sky turning shades of faint pink and blue. Other colors seep into the world, as trees become green, floating logs turn brown and yellow flowers peek out. The water however is still a deep blackish abyss, seemingly a hungry void.

"Find the way?" The waterman finally says, idlily poling the boat between two half-fallen trees. Some straggling vines trail across the boat like fingers, rustling harmlessly.

'Close your eyes." Anno says and Awenasa does so. 'Now, touch your nose." Feeling like a child (and knowing Perey is probably grinning) Awenasa does so.

"How did you know where your nose was?" Anno says simply, "It is like that. It is just...the way."

In short order they have drawn up besides a hump of grassy soil, dotted with trees. Thak, who seems keen to leave the boat is about ready to jump onto it when Anno stops him. 'Watch. The swamp holds many dangers."

He pokes the little mound with his pole, and to their astonishment, the entire landmass bobs in the water. It is merely a floating island, a tangle of weeds, mud and roots. Anno laughs and poles them to another one, which proves to be actual solid land.

As they scramble out of the boat, Anno answers Awenasa's concerns, "Many threats in the swamp, some more obvious then others. Sucking sand, deep water, grasping roots. And others, of course. There are hunting creatures in here. Dawn and dusk are the prime hours." This is not unfamiliar to Awenasa, even the great predators of her own land were most active at such times.

"No need to take turns." Anno says, "I will not sleep until we reach the other side." He gives a small smile, "I will wake you if needed. You are a great fighter, yes? We might need that before the other side."

The only annoying part was that the painting, while mirroring his outside form, seemed to lack the internal perfection to go with it. The real Sigmar, when confronted with a jibe as perfect as 'vandalism' would have at least cracked a smile if not laughed out loud. This bestial replica however, merely bared razor-sharp fangs and hissed like an animal.

How lame.

This is about all the time Sigmar had to think as he plummeted downward, grappling the inky creature. His body, well used to working without much mental assistance, operated automatically. Fingers clutched, arms crushed, legs kicked all without any of that pesky thinking. Locked together, they fell like a pair of stones, the white wall of the tower flashing past them. The painted Sigmar tried to fly but with their bat-like pinions hampered, there was no chance. Still, even as it (they) fell, it tried to bite and claw.

Claw, Grappled: 1d20 + 8 - 2 ⇒ (3) + 8 - 2 = 9
Claw, Grappled: 1d20 + 8 - 2 ⇒ (15) + 8 - 2 = 21
Damage: 1d4 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

The act of tumbling head over heels in open spaces seems to confuse the creature though as it barely scratches Sigmar's hide. And then, with startlingly sudden rapidity he ground looms large.

Who lands on who? High is bad: 1d2 ⇒ 1

SLAM

Damage: 3d6 ⇒ (1, 2, 5) = 8

The painted creature hits the ground first, Sigmar riding it like a bucking bronco. Sigmar, the real Sigmar, gets one last look at the slavering jaws and wild eyes before impact, a final glance through the dark mirror.

Then the painted creature explodes like a rotten melon dropped on pavement. Sigmar can actually feel it rupture and collapse under him, bursting apart at the seams. Ink and paint fly everywhere, spraying out in all directions. Sigmar barely has time to notice he is drenched before hitting the ground himself, only slightly slowed by his now ruptured counterpart.

Fall Damage, half this: 3d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 2) = 4.

And like that, Sigmar finds himself quite alone, lying on the ground, covered from head to toe in sticky, wet paint. Well, not quite alone.

"Not bad." Ryzhov shouts down, peeking over the edge of the tower roof, thirty feet above. [/b]"Very stylish. Looks like it hurt though."[/b] The man shrugged, "When you feel up to it, get back up here. You have to touch the rock." The youthful diviner vanishes back over the edge, out of sight.

Sigmar had to admit, there were unexpected benefits to fighting his own doppelgänger. For one thing, he rarely got to fight someone quite so good looking. Sure, this painted mimic might lack his own style and panache, but it was still a fine figure on a man. It was sort off like flexing in front of a mirror...if the reflection was busy trying to kill you.

There were other advantages too. For example, assuming this creature had his own strenghs...it also had his own weaknesses.

With precision born of past injuries, Sigmar attacked the blindspots he knew existed, and the awkward angles he often missed in his own battles. The first claw missed, but the others made direct contact, slashing his handsome foe in the leg and chest. There was no blood however, instead he was only rewarded with torn and tattered paint, which piled like woodchips on the ground. Disappointingly , it seemed to do less damage then he hoped however, and the painting still seemed quite upright.

It was silent however, and Sigmar was somewhat off put by the lack of repartee. What was even the point of fighting if you didn't make it clever? Hopefully this was not a true glimpse of his future. Gods forbid he ever become so..dull.

Things didn't seem so dull however when the creature lifted his clawed hands however, and flames dance in them. Sigmar knew where this was going and winced.

Burning Hands: 3d4 ⇒ (3, 4, 2) = 9
Reflex Save, DC 14 for half: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21

Sigmar quite literally dances on the edge of the tower, dodging the hottest fireballs. They sail off into the gray sky, sizzling out with loud hissing sounds.

The man gives her a star shining smile, "Good."

That first night's travel is a strange one. Awenasa finds herself afloat in a bizarre world she knows little of. First off is the inky blackness, lit only by stars and two very faint moons that shed nothing like the light of the ones she knew. The darkness itself holds no terror for her, a warrior of the Plateau, but is still unsettling, hiding so many unknowns. Black on black, shadows in shadows.

It is a water world, of course, although Awenasa catches few of the details. Sometimes it seems they are moving through open water, like that of a vast lake. Other times they are pushing from pool to pool, each locked by banks of heavy reeds or clinging vines. Still other times, Awenasa notes a current pushing them, here and there, like a river suddenly appeared in the black water. Yet no matter what, everything seems wet, damp...alive.

Noises are strange, echoing weirdly off the water. A frog call sounds as loud as a battle horn but her own voice sometimes needs muffled by rank plant growth, trailing off to a whisper. Bugs abound of course, buzzing past her ears. Bats follow them, ghost-like shades that are barely visible. Larger, strange shapes dance in the distance, flitting among the fallen trees, heaps of growth and trailing vines.

Their guide though, seems unbothered by all of this. Anno is silent for most of it, poling the boat from amidships. It does not take Awenasa long to realize he is a master waterman. He guides the small ship through and around obstacles she isn't even aware of, navigating an unseen maze through pure blackness. A few times he tasks his passengers to row, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Black water slopping off dark oars make the only sound.

Then, finally, the sky grows pale gray in the east. The stars retreat and the bugs, mercifully, retreat. The world around them brightens somewhat as a great chorus of birdsong, more complicated then Awenasa has ever heard, starts to sing. Colors start to seep in as Awenasa finds herself afloat in a shifting world of reed beds, tangled trees, mud piles and open standing water. It is utterly alien to her, a labyrinth with no escape.

"We will rest as the sun rises." Anno says, breaking a silence of many hours. Despite the hours of poling and guiding, the stump-like man seems fresh as ever, eyes bright in the dawning sun. "And continue at noon. The faster we move through, the better."

He turns to Awenasa, "And what did you think of your first night, eh?"

Sigmar steps through the door like a noble striding into a throne-room, head held high, back straight. There was no trace of fear or indecision here.

And such seemed unwarranted, since nothing happened.

The dragon-youth found himself standing on the bare roof of the white tower. There was no curb or rail, just a plain expanse of stone, save the painted stone in the center. Above the pale sky seemed unchanged, the same expanse of off-gray. The air felt dry and clear again, the scent of of the life blood below fading.

Ryzhov follows him through, looking around. "Hmm, not much left. We should be-"

The fortune seeker falls silent when there is a soft...sucking sound. Sigmar looks toward it to see the painting is moving. Of course it is. His first thought is some mimic, a shapeshifter out of dungeon delver's tales. Didn't such adventuring spelunkers talk about living walls or hungry chests that revealed themselves with horrifying regulairty? Such a monster made sense in a shifting dreamscape based in thoughts.

But no, it wasn't a mimic. The painting itself was moving, peeling itself away from the stone column. One brushstroke at a time, it freed itself as it poured off the rocky canvas. To Sigmar's surprise the shape was not a flat simplistic representation but instead a fully solid figure, seemingly as realistic as anything. It would take a keen eye to notice the faint trace of oil paint here and there, the merest sign of brushwork on the moving figure.

Yet, for all that, the image itself was unchanged. It was still Sigmar, or at least that alternate vision of Sigmar. A version with sweeping wings, sculpted muscles and dripping claws. The chest heaved with new breath, the eyes blinked at the light and the mouth worked, as if chewing something rather unpleasant. Blood pooled around its feet, staining the white stone crimson. Sigmar had to admit, seeing himself like this, he was a pretty imposing sight.

The painted figure turned toward Sigmar and smiled, revealing rows of perfectly white, perfectly straight razor teeth. A wing riffled slightly, membrane taut and reddish, traced with veins. Those strange, wild eyes locked on him, a deep red that seemed so familiar and yet so alien. Flat, animal eyes.

Without warning the figure leaped toward him, wings flaring and claws slicing through the air. It let out a stomach churning roar, wild and feral, unbothered with word or reason.

Initiative Real Sigmar: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19
Initiative Painting Sigmar: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

It covered the distance in a blur, and Sigmar wondered if this is how most of his opponents saw him, a dizzying tornado of fury. If so, no wonder they were impressed. Sigmar didn't have much time to reflect however, as his alter ego was soon upon him, slashing.

Charge, Single Attack: 1d20 + 7 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 7 + 2 = 28
Damage: 1d6 + 7 ⇒ (5) + 7 = 12

The claw turns to a fist at the last moment, slamming Sigmar with a kidney punch worthy of a barroom brawler. The world turns gray for a moment at the force of the blow, and his confusion is amplified by the shifting wings engulfing them both. Up close the painted Sigmar is even wild, a slavering beast with mouth agape and eyes rolling. A ferocious uncontained beast who thrives on violence and death.

Anno shakes his head, "Money. We were talking of honor, death and chains, Awenasa Windkeeper. What is coin compared to that? Save such talk for the landsmen. The swamp has no desire for gold or shells. And neither do we that venture into it."

Happily, Perey and Thak are not asleep. Awenasa finds them playing some sort of card game, a small orb of lit apparently lit by Perey's magic. They look up with surprise when Awenasa and Anno approach together.

"We go." Anno says shortly, without breaking stride. He enters his 'house', vanishing inside.

Thak blinks, eyes visible in the dim mage light. "So, you convinced them? What did it take? Did we make some promise?"

Feel free to answer

Only a moment later Anno re-emerges, carrying a small sack. He tosses it into his boat with a soft clunk. Without a word he follows it with a nimble hop. The small canoe-like boat sways under him slightly, rippling the moonlit water. The waterman pauses, standing tall in the prow. All seems quiet and still as he takes a deep, audible breath.

Then he waves at them. "Come, moon light is best for swamp travel. We can make good distance tonight yet, before the sun comes up."

Ryzhov shook his head, long curls bouncing slightly, "Not usually no. That said, it is always difficult to say what the nature of the injury will be. Astral reverberances can be formed due to severity, yes, but also other causes. A fall into a spiked pit might rate high enough, but a simple stab wound if accompanied by an unhappy truth? That too might be severe enough. I will say, unlike many signs, I have not yet encountered an entirely symbolic Injury. It usually means some blood is being spilt."

Together they climbed the last flight of winding stairs up the tower. Gradually they reached the level of the Lifeline canyon, and Sigmar's head poked over the top, like a solider over a rampart. Once again he could see the vast arid field that was his right-hand. Tumbled dunes of scales and burns, calluses and...was that a wart? Hmmm. It looked the same as before, so his attention turned to things close at hand.

The stairs ended flush with the flat roof of the tower, ending in a small landing. Just off of it, creating a barrier between the edge and the rest of the roof, were two lancet arches. Neither had doors, just open stone portals, both leading onward. There were some random squiggles in the stone here, that same weird organic script but Sigmar didn't have time for that. His eyes tracked to what lay beyond the doors.

A short column stood in the center of the tower roof, visible through either door. Unlike the rest of the structure, it was was not unadorned marble stone. Instead it was elegantly painted, with careful intricate detail. A painting of Sigmar. The dragonling noticed something odd. The painting looked different, depending which archway he glanced through.

One, the painting was that of a Sigmar rampant over a horde of gold and jewels. Red wings sprouted from his back, webbed like a vast bat, outlined against a stormy sky. Fallen enemies lay at his feet, shattered and broken. Everywhere, there was blood. The gold was stained with it, his claws dripping, even the sky seemed shot through with it. But it was the eyes that bothered him. They were not quite his eyes, they were eyes of something cold and hard, something grasping and feral. A being who did not enjoy fighting, but one that hungered for it, something that insisted on it.

Through the other doorway, the painting was quite different. It was still Sigmar, but one more like himself. No wings, no claws. A bit more worn perhaps, skinnier, paler. His boots were cracked and his clothes stained. This Sigmar was hiking up a steep mountain path, head bowed, a walking stick in his hand. The face was obscured by a hooded cloak. The toiling figure's destination seemed to be a bright glowing light, strong but diffuse. Sigmar got the sense it was very far away.

"Curious." Ryzhov said, "Very curious." And with that, he set to work. He stared at the doorways, for long silent moments at a time. He swayed back and forth, shifting views from one to another. The Irriseni tapped the stone doorways, then sniffed them. At one point he even tasted them, making a rather unpleasant face.

FInally he turned and said, "Unusual Sigmar, but I think I understand. You have a choice coming, soon, I think. It will not seem important to you, but it leads to two different futures, represented by the different paintings. One is a future of wealth, power and violence. The other choice leads to....searching. I am not sure what for or how long. " He looks pained, "Sorry I could not offer more information. This s a strange sign, one I have not seen before."

He waves at the doorways, "We must pass through. I do not think it much matters which we travel through now but then again, in the Astral world, many things have hidden meanings."

Sigmar held onto the plank with leg and arms, clinging as tight as a squirrel in a tree. Apparently unbothered by his weight, the old board slid smoothly along, rounded the end of the bridge and started out over the chasm. Happily his position let him stare at the vast undifferenated sky, inside of the endless gorge below. Probably for the best.

It was with a bit of anticlimax that the board reached the far side without incident. Indeed, it even came right up to ground level and it was with a somewhat ungraceful roll that Sigmar found himself across the deep pit. Standing up he found, with some surprise, Ryzhov was already standing there.

The fortune teller grinned, "Where you go, I follow. You are the leader of the parade here."

A few steps away, the gleaming marble tower loomed. The bright white stones looked quite out of place in the arid, reddish landscape. A wide stair ran around it, spiraling up toward the flat roof, thirty feet above. At the bottom of the winding stair, a small landing stood.

On the tower wall, at eye level was....something. Art, maybe? A series of lines and swirls, dug into the shining rock. No, not dug...they looked organic, as if grown out...oh. It was like the lines and wrinkles of a hand, the tracery of age and use, but laid out not in nature's random happenstance but by a creative mind.

The shape was that of a five pointed star.

"Ah," Ryzhov said, walking/floating over to the sign. "Here is a more clear sign. The star, a sign of growth and power. It promises new powers and skills, Sigmar."

At the diviner's gesture, they climbed the smooth, well-made stairs. The stones were cool under his boots, strong and sure. Even though he stair lacked a railing, Sigmar felt perfectly secure here, and there was not a trace of wind.

Again they came to another sign, etched into the wall. This time it was a lightning bolt, coming down from heavy clouds.

"A storm." Ryzhov said, voice not nearly as cheery. "Turbulent times ahead, I wonder what it means. Battle, perhaps? Not very surprising, Fort Holiday is under siege. It could be something else though, something unexpected..." The man can find nothing else and they keep the climb.

At the next landing, there is a simply a deep gash, cracked and worn.

"Injury." Ryzhov says simply, "A serious one. Be careful Sigmar, that is not a happy symbol to see. They usually don't create such astral resonances unless they are long lasting or particularly painful. A stubbed toe doesn't create a Witch's Mark."

Whatever that means.

Was going to move it along but decided you should have a chance to comment on any/all of these

'Death is not the worst thing." Anno opines, voice quiet in the dark. He drops the hook and shortly hauls up another struggling fish. It plunks in the bucket with a loud clunk.

He laughs when Awenasa says she could make him. "You think so?" His dark outline turned toward her, face a blank mask in the night. "Maybe...maybe."

More silence and then, "Honor. What does it get a person? Honor does not fill your purse, it does not fill your belly and it doesn't fill your dreams. A hollow promise, Awenasa. That is what honor is. A chain, strung around your neck, for others to pull and prod."

Then, without warning the waterman straightens, grabbing his full bucket.

"Very well, I will take you Awenasa Windkeeper. We shall go where the chains of honor have bound us. Maybe we will find their ends, eh?" he looks up at the night sky, unmarred by moon or cloud. The stars dance above, bright and gleaming, sure as ever.

"We leave tonight. The swamp is best started at night. Let's hope your friends are not yet asleep."

Ryzhov doesn't seem too surprised that Sigmar wants to know more details. Surely such questions are common during fortune telling. Saying 'a great gift is nigh' is all well and good, but the lottery numbers would be more helpful.

The Sunrise Seeker sighs wearily however and says, "Sadly, such exact answers are usually difficult to parse. Fate can be very guarded with her secrets. Still, you are not entirely without hope of revelation." The man smiles, "You have me."

The man peers at the stone posts holding up the fragile looking bridge, like a man trying to read very faint text. Sigmar can't see anything but the same vaguely reddish scale-like stuff everywhere else, by clearly Ryzhov sees more.

"Interesting." He finally says, nose only an inch or so away from the post. "It seems the person who will betray you is not the one who is misleading you." He looks at Sigmar, "Looks like you might be caught in a nest of snakes, my young friend. Tread lightly."

Not what Sigmar wanted to hear. Two people were lying to him?

Ryzhov is more forthcoming on his second question, about their destination. " We are going forward." He indicates the small white tower. "Toward the future. That tower is a nexus of temporal guidance, a local lens of divinationally relevant information. I'd judge it's a Traveller’s Mark or a Mystic Cross. In most readings it would simply be lines on your hand, the usual creases of everyday life. But your Astral interrelation is so strong, it is manifesting as a physical object." Seeing Sigmar's face the man shrugged, "The Tower is our map of your immediate future. After that, back to the humdrum Material Plane, I'm afraid. Your superior won't let us linger, as much as I'd like to. You make a remarkable palmistry subject."

With this praise, Sigmar launches himself onto the bridge with his usual grace and panache. What are a few missing boards? Sigmar would not more miss the mark then a dancer forget the next step in a waltz. If anything he wished it was harder, to banish thoughts of lying double-crossers.

Happily, it did get harder.

When he was only a dozen or so yards from the stony cliff, the bridge started to move. Not the swaying one would expect, or event he heart-stopping drop of torn ropes. No, the boards were moving...backwards, sliding along the ropes as if they were not tied. Ahead, Sigmar saw all the boards were slipping toward him, as if he was at the bottom of a hill. Yet, despite their movements, the gaps and cracked boards remained. And, to the greatest surprise new boards seemed to be materialized at the far end, continuing the moving, shifting chain.

This just got interesting.

A conveyor belt. It's a conveyor belt

Ryzhov looked slightly abashed at Sigmar’s questions about his lifespan. The Sunrise Seeker coughed, ”I only said it did not imply a long life, just an active one. As for the end….it’s hard to tell from here though.” he surveyed the black gash that snaked across the landscape, ”Without a full reading, I can only say, I doubt you’ll die on this island, unless you stay for a long time.”

Then he looked at Sigmar, ’A word of warning. The ways of Fate are strange and only a prediction. The role of Fate and Free Will are something my brothers in Karlsgard have been debating for generations and doubtlessly will forever. All I will say is, it is only a guess. If you throw yourself off a cliff, you’ll still die, long lifeline or no.” He smiled faintly, ”But you don’t seem the type. “

The diviner seems surprised when Sigmar vaults down the stairs, leaping down the cracking shapes with ease. Still, the Seeker keeps up the pace better then Sigmar expected, following along only a few steps behind. The old man must have been quite an athlete back in the day…or was he cheating? For the first time, Sigmar notes Ryzhov’s feet don’t seem to quite reach the ground, floating just a few inches from the increasingly rocky ground. The Irriseni man also seemed slightly insubstantial, shimmering ever so slightly, like a ghost out of a bard’s tale.

For his part though Sigmar seemed as real as he ever was, and he could feel the steps under his boots. He even left footprints, dim outlines pressed into the reddish dust (dandruff?). Although, glancing back, one thing did seem odd about them. They were clear and normal sized except…

”Yes,” Ryzhov said, only a few paces behind, ’They are revsered.”
Indeed, the prints were clear as day but they seemed to point up the stairs, as if Sigmar can run down them backwards.

’A classic egorical syllogism.” The man said, pausing to look at the inverted footprints. ’They show you are headed for your destination but only lies guide you. Someone has misled you, Sigmar, yet you hurtle onwards anyway. Curious.”

The stairs level out, becoming a stony trail clinging to the inside rim of the canyon. Above the flat gray sky hangs between the cliff walls, hemmed in. Below, the blood river continues its turbulent path, splashing and bubbling. Sigmar can’t help but look at the stones, looking for glimpses of future conflicts. Doesn’t hurt to know what might be coming up.

To his annoyance, he can’t see much detail, as the red tide partially subsumes most of the obstacles. Still, he does see a few more of the lizardy creatures poking out of the riverbed, which doesn’t surprise him. At least one looks like the awfully smelly creature he already tangled with once. A rematch then?

To his satisfaction there were a few large stones that seemed to portend future tussles with dinosaurs of various shapes and size, massive reptilian-like blocks covered with frothing blood. Did that one have spikes? Wicked. Another seemed to have a mouthful of teeth as long as Sigmar’s hand, razor-sharp and gleaming. It reared up out of the crimson river like a titan, seeming to roar toward an uncaring heaven .

Sick.

They travel along for a while and then suddenly the canyon deepens dramatically, without warning. A vast black gulf appears in front of Sigmar, a great gouge notched out of the lifeline valley. Below the bloody river tumbles over the edge into the abyss in a great cardinal waterfall, streaming steaming veils of blood. Sigmar cannot even see the bottom, lost in the murk of his….soul?

Ahead though, a rickety rope bridge spans the gap, leading to a stony outcropping on the far side of the gap. A small white tower sits there, just tall enough to be level with the plain above. It is hard to see any detail from this distance.

The bridge is more concerning. It is a cliché out of any story, fraying cords joined by ancient splintering boards. At least every third is missing, creating blank gaps that lead to the hungry chasm below. It sways slightly, as if caught in a wind even though Sigmar doesn’t feel anything.

”A betrayer’s bridge.” Rhyzhov says slowly, looking at it. ”Someone you know will betray you Sigmar, and soon. We are not very far along in your future. You will have to be nimble indeed, to survive it.” The old/young man sighs, ”An all too common sight. Anyway, our goal lies on the other side, so you must cross. Be careful, I would not recommend falling. It would…not go well.” He gestures toward the sweeping emptiness below the hanging, fragile looking bridge. ”For either of us.”

Ryzhov laughed at Sigmar’s first remark, and shook his head, locks bouncing like a bathing beauties. "All of this, and you want to talk about my hair?” The fortune-teller touched it with a hand, "Well, thank you. I do miss it, sometimes.”

As Sigmar pours out his other questions, the Sunrise Seeker takes them in, a knowing smile on his lips. Clearly this isn't his first time with a confused guest. He answers the last question first, eyes sweeping the strange, organic landscape. "Well, no. Every divination is different, as diverse as one person is from another. Technique also matters, of course. If you had chosen capnomancy, for example we might find ourselves in a smoke-wraith world. Although I must confess, I have rarely had a vision so….visceral. Again, my compliments, Sigmar. Your astral connection is impressive, the authenticity is frankly almost unnerving.”

At the idea they are somehow both doubled and shrunk, Ryzhov shakes his head, "Yes…but mostly no. We are not actually on your hand. We are merely co-existent Astral resonances echoing on a spliced demiplane of your future, using the metaphoric personification of your right hand to help visualize the abstract concepts.”

Seeing this all go over his patrons head the teacher shrugged, ”All I can say is, if you had a telescope and looked up, you would not see a titanic, planet sized Vrilu. We are saved from that fate, at least.“

The man looked out toward the horizon then, eyes bright. "As it is a mental landscape, it will both reflect actual reality and inner truth in various measures. See those mountains?” he points to the uneven red mounds in the distance, "Those are the Celestial Mounts, the fleshy parts of your hand. Castrovel Mount, Akiton Mount and so on.”

”Curious. Your Castrovel Mount is quite small. Surprising. A fine strapping lad like you, figured you’d be beating them off with a stick. Ah well, you can never tell.” He nodded at another spot on the distant skyline, a rising peak higher than the others. "Your Sun Mount is one of the highest I’ve ever seen, but that is expected.” he glanced at Sigmar, ”A high Sun means a quick-temper, an extravagant worldview, and a prideful outlook. I feel, perhaps, it fits?”

Then Sigmar's guide shook his head, "This is wondrous, how I wish I could give a full reading but alas, we are on a schedule. Your employer sets a tight timetable and is not someone to cross.” Ryzhov cast around again, looking for something amid the scales, burns and blisters.

”Ah, there we go.” He points out a deep dark gulch carving though the landscape, a fractal, jagged curve. "Your lifeline, Sigmar. Nice and deep, that’s good. Means your life will be a rich and exciting one. Maybe not long, but well, you can never judge such things.”

The diviner shrugged off this possible hint at Sigmar’s early demise and went on, ”Well come on, we have some hiking to do.”

And with that the pair of them are tromping off toward the dark line. It doesn’t take Sigmar long to realize travelling is very strange in this place. The distance covered doesn’t seem to quite fit the time, as if he was gaining extra footsteps somewhere. The scales slid past, out of the corner of his eyes, almost like he was standing still and the landscape was walking past him.

Ryzhov seems unconcerned however, and Sigmar figured this must be usual. The Sunrise Seeker kept up a steady flow of jargon as they marched, taking about planar alignments and oracular transits. Sigmar could make neither head or tails of it, and it didn’t seem to matter. Ryzhov just seemed to like talking. Maybe it helped fill the weird, aching silence of the strange world. There were no birds, no bugs, no sign of any life. Which considering this was, sort of, his skin, was probably good. Last thing they needed was to see a house-sized bedbug.

In surprisingly short order, they find themselves on the lip of the dark crevasse. Ryzhov pauses at the crumbling cliff edge, looking down. Sigmar joins him and, to his surprise, finds not a sterile gorge but a glowing, pulsing sight. At the bottom of the crack, maybe thirty feet below, is a wide red river, flowing as freely as any mountain stream. It roiled through whirlpools and over waterfalls, swirling through all sorts of rapids. Thicker though, as if it were-

"Blood.” Ryzhov adds, nodding, ”Your life blood. Curious, most peoples is just room temperature, but yours is nearly boiling.” Indeed the red liquid seemed to be steaming, sending up small white plumes, as it tumbled over the rocks and rapids.

”The stronger the flow and the more vigorous the current, indicate violence and battle, both in your past and your future. In fact, each rock represents a singular fight. If we look closely, perhaps….” The Sunrise Seeker leaned out over the precipice, far enough that Sigmar was worried the old man might drop off.

"Look, right there.” He pointed down into the depths. Sigmar followed his finger and saw a rock amid the gurgling, bubbling river. It was, for all the world, a stony image of Uzhg, complete with missing tusk.

”Excellent, that means we are entering alongside the present. That will save us a good deal of travel. Come on Sigmar,” Rhyzhov says, ’We must descend, if we are to plumb the secrets of your future.”

The Irriseni man indicated a natural-set of uneven stairs that Sigmar had not noticed before. They lead downwards in a steep, almost ladder like sequence of cracked stairs.

'Don't be shy, we need to get a move on."

Anno is silent for awhile, hunched over the water. Around them the swamp swirls to night-time life as the sun fully sets. Soon the fisherman is little more then an inky outline, and the blackness is only broken by the flash of fish scales as he continues his catch.

"Sounds simple," The man finally says, voice quiet in the dark. "When you put it like that. "

Another pause and then, "I like you, Awenasa Windkeeper. A nice change of pace from the villagers, who refuse to say what they mean. They fear the truth, like most people." Somewhere, a large bird lets out an echoing call, morose.

"Let me ask you this." The angler says finally, "You ask me to head into the swamps. I do not wish to do so. Would you want a guide who is unwilling or unhappy? Is that best for your job?"

Sigmar had once spent a summer in Magnimar, that egotistical Varisian city dotted with ruins and art. His home had been rather unpleasant flophouse, so the youth had spent most of the time on the porch, which faced a large stone-yard. Specializing in marble, the otherwise unassuming place played host to the finest artists in the city. Most, of course, sought the finest, smoothest blocks with an even grain and few imperfections.

Except for Tolbar the Gnarled.

Stumpy and misshapen, the hunched man was regarded as the finest sculptor in the city. His works filled the pleasure palaces of the rich and powerful, as well as numerous public squares. Sigmar noted that unlike the other artists, Tolbar never bothered with the perfectly squared, perfectly arranged marble slabs on display near the street. Instead the master artisan always headed for the back corner of the yard, seeking out the jumbled mass of cracked and broken rejects. It was those with jagged whorls, rippled knots, off center cornices or discolored cross-grains that the master desired. The worse the imperfections, the more outrageous the flaws, the more the ugly man would smile.

Because from this culled refuse, he could make things no one else could even imagine.

To Sigmar's surprise, he saw something of the old artist's triumphant gleam in Ryzhov when confronted with the transformed dragon claw. A twinkle in the eye perhaps, a twitch of the lips. Suddenly the man looked twenty years younger, muscles loosened, back straighter. The Irriseni bent over the reddish claw with obvious interest, breath stilled.

'Curious, curious.” He murmured to himself, only looking not yet touching. ”Draconic, clearly. A powerful link to both inward and outward. Some problems...how to find the Croix Mystique? And the Hepatica is all but invisible. But trivial, trivial compared to the potential...” He looked up at Sigmar.

”Is this your dominant hand?” Sigmar wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but he used his right hand the most.

The older man nodded, ”The dominant hand is best used for the future, the lesser one for birth and nature.”

”Future.” Vrilu said flatly, ”His past does not concern me, or frankly, him. Get on with it, Seeker. The world moves on.”

Ryzhov seemed unbothered by the blunt remark however and turned back to the proffered claw. ”Yes, this will work nicely. We may begin.” He grabbed a battered stool for a corner and sat down, eye level with Sigmar's hand. Sigmar was reminded of a master musician sitting before a new piano, uncertain yet intrigued.

”Take deep breaths and remain calm, my young friend.” The Sunrise Seeker said, face growing solemn, eyes distant. ”You may find this to be a....peculiar experience. “

Peculiar? Sigmar has seen palm readers before, of course. Varisia was famous for it, to the point where it was a national stereotype. One could hardly visit a single market or attend a fashionable soiree without seeing people obsessing over it. Few people much stock in it, of course, it was usual just a path between the oracle and the mark's purse. What exactly did the old man expect? It was Vrilu's money and time they were wasting, not his own.

Then Ryzhov touched his hand and the world....changed.

The already dim light of the room grew faint and subdued, shadows springing up. From the collected shells and bones, rocks and leaves, they sprouted and grew, creating fantastical, shifting shapes. Like dancing figured they started to circle Sigmar, weaving in and out of sight. The rest of the world grew fainter and fainted, slipping away from sight. Not just sight, but the heat lessened and the smell of dust dissipated. It was if he was becoming untethered to the world around him, his sense slipping away. Even the flicking shadows were muted now, becoming a writhing mass of gray. A painful hum started in his head, a sonic headache.

In his ear he heard Ozzy say distantly, ”I don't get it, when does it...” but the sand creature voice trailed off, as if floating over a great distance.

”Do not be afraid.” Ryzhov's voice sounded in his ears, loud and strong. Yet the man himself was not speaking, still hunched over his hand, running his fingers over Sigmar's scales. The youth blinked , the world shifted and....he was somewhere else.

There was no sign of Fort Holiday or the dilapidated shack. Sigmar was standing outside, under a bright but diffuse sky of off-white. Around him spread a red landscape of cragged hills and formless mounds, many of them taller then he was. The ground was hard underfoot, but not quite rock. In many places it was etched with deep, wandering furrows, like a farmer's field ploughed by a drunk ox-team. It stretched out of sight, rising and falling except far ahead four rounded mountains loomed against the nondescript sky.

There was no sign of anyone else, not even Ozzy. Alone among the waste, Sigmar stood. The air was cool and dry, a pleasant change of pace from the sticking tropical heat. An oddly familiar, salty tang rested on his tongue. Not the sea, something drier, something that the youth felt he should know.

Then Sigmar noticed a shape start to appear nearby, the air glowing slightly. It quickly resolved into Ryzhov, but not the Ryzhov Sigmar knew. Gone was the aged and wrinkled man, and his tattered cloak. Instead it was Ryzhov as he must have been, when only slightly older then Sigmar himself. This Ryzhov was lean and fit, with long black hair that hung down to his shoulders. A fine blue cloak was tied around his waist, clashing wildly with the red terrain. There was no sign of brand on his unblemished, youthful face.

The young Sunrise Seeker laughed and said, ”Ah, that's better.” The man cracked his neck and added, ”I should compliment you. You have a very strong Astral Alignment connection, better then I expected, to be honest. We coalesced very quickly, considering our circumstances. Very little interference.”

He looked around, like a settler plotting adding acreage, ”Well, what do you think?” He waved an arm at the strange, rather forbidding landscape. ”Look familiar?”

Sigmar's face must have revealed otherwise because the young man laughed, ”It never does. Hmm..” he looked around, and then pointed, ”What about that spot there, over to the right.” Sigmar looked and saw a big round mass protruding out of the ground. Bulbous and whitish it looked like a vast blister, rearing up fifty feet.

Wait. Not like a blister. But surely that meant...no.

”Yes.” Ryzhov said grinning as widely as Tolbar the Gnarled spotting a fissured spire of marble, ”Welcome to your right hand, Sigmar Darastrix.”

Doesn’t seem offended at ‘just fortune-teller’ but there is a look of resigned annoyance that flashed across his face. The look of a man who has encountered this one too many times.

”Not just a fortune-teller.” The Irriseni man says, voice only slightly pained, [b]”That conjures up the image of an old woman reading lifelines at the horse market for brass pennies. They have their place, of course, but not exactly what I do.”

”The Sunrise Seekers are a guild of sophisticated diviners who harness a wide range of clairvoyance and prognostication methods to see the true weft and weave of Fate. We seek to see the true course of the future, not just the petty doings of this event or that event. While a mere oracle might be contend with seeing a single road, the Sunrise Seekers build a map of the city.”

To Sigmar’s surprise the older teacher merely smiles at Sigmar’s boasts about his future, face creasing. Ryzhov simply looked at Vrilu and holds up aged, worn hands. ”The young man seems quite content with his conceived path. It sounds enticing, to be fair.”

Vrilu frowns at him and seems ready to snap something when Sigmar, as usual, dropped a small bombshell. The Company woman turns on him, face instantly thoughtful and sharp. ”What exactly did he say?” She makes Sigmar repeat Uzhg’s mutterings several times, even asking his intonation and cadence.

After squeezing Sigmar like a grape, she lapses into silence for a moment. Behind her, Sigmar notices the wood golem in the doorway. Sigmar thought they lost it after the fighting pit, but it seemed to have found its way eventually.

”Not what we think…” Vrilu mutters to herself, ”What could the half-orc know. And how does he know what you know?” She shakes her head finally, and turns on Ryzhov, ”This is exactly the sort of thing I need to suss out and proves my point. I need your services.”

Then she rounds on Sigmar, eyes bright in the dim, dusty light. ”As for why you, the reasons are two-fold. One, I have no desire to have a Sunrise Seeker poking about my private business and secrets. No offense.” She adds to Rhyzhov who merely shrugs., ”Happily you know nothing of value that can be revealed to even the most assiduous seeker.”

’Also,” Vrilu adds carelessly, inspecting a nail, ”Our Seeker here says the process can be disturbing and disconcerting. Perhaps even dangerous. I am willing to endure such things if they are unavoidable, of course.” She slaps at a droning fly near her ear, ’Every moment on this island has been some variation on that theme. But if I can avoid it…well, let’s just say, I’m happy to shift that burden onto you.”

The leader of the expedition shakes her head, ”Now, get on with it, you two. We all have things to do. Make with the magic.”

Rhyzhov turns to Sigmar, ”Well, does anything strike you? Anything call to you? Results are best when the patron is part of the process.” He takes an old, worn Taldan penny off a shelf. ”Future by old money, perhaps?”

The older man starts to walk up and down the shelves, voice drifting to Sigmar as he roots around. ”Maybe cast marbles? Bones? I had had great success with shards of glass tossed into the air.”

”I could find a chicken, perhaps. A disinterred liver can reveal a great deal. Or maybe molten metal? I have a few old nails here that could be melted down.” On and on. Feathers, bark, clouds, the sun. Seems the old man could use just about any media. Or so he claimed.

For one moment, Sigmar almost regains some respect for the beaten half-orc. Although Uzhg's back is turned, the sound of Sigmar's...relief makes him pause, muscles tense. For a single hopeful moment, the young dragon hopes his foe will restart the fight. Then, disappointingly, Uzhg simply walks off, clambering slowly and painfully out of the garbage pit.

Meanwhile the crowd both cheers and jeers Sigmar's display. Clearly some enjoy the bravado while others think it goes a bit far. More worrying (at least to Sigmar) are the catcalls and rather raucous whistles from some of the women of the town. At least a few of them like what they see.

Business done, Sigmar glances up to see Arianne giving him a very salacious wink. "I think she liked it, man." Ozzy says conversationally in his ear, "Like, I've seen weaker smiles in harems." Kell, meanwhile, just rolls his eyes.

As Oyok and Sigmar leave the sight of his amazing victory, he catches Vrilu's eyes. To his surprise, the Company Woman is talking with Ryzhov Ilyich, heads bowed in serious conversation. The Irriseni looks less then pleased but then again, Vrilu has that effect on people.

She notes Sigmar and turns toward him. "Come on, Sigmar. Follow us." Of course. How else can she properly celebrate his great triumph? The youth wonders how it might go. A party? A feast at least, maybe some sort of magical-

"We need your soul." Vrilu says shortly, and turns to follow Ryzhov.

"Oh neat. Your soul." Ozzy add, "How many do you have? I once met a dude in the First World, had six of them. Weird guy, might have overdone it."

Meanwhile, Ryzhov leads them back into town, weaving among the small shacks and buildings that passed for Fort Holiday accommodations. Sigmar quickly realizes their own house, with a stone floor and windows, is one of the finest in town. Interesting.

They stop in front of a rather run down looking shack, leaning drunkenly against a crumbling stone wall older then most empires. The unpainted wood looks splintered and worn, blasted by countless tropical days and storms. The door is hung on ropes, creaking slightly in the morning breeze.

The former Ulfen slave coughs, "I, um, did not build it. I merely inherited it." He turns to Vrilu, "Are you sure this is wise?" The Company Woman merely shrugs, " I look for advantage whenever I can get it. Get on with it, I still have votes to wrangle before noon."

Ryzhov looks from her to Sigmar and back, "Very well. This goes against my better judgement however. Meddling in such things rarely ends well."

They slip inside, the door barely holding on. Sigmar, entering last, finds himself in a very cramped space, and not just because of the two other people. Every spare inch seems covered with...stuff. Rickety shelves, crates and containers cover the walls, pile up on the floor and hang from the swaybacked ceiling. Some hold rocks, others seeds, still others worn seashells. Others hold bits of driftwood, carved with numbers, while one shelf just holds a pile of animal knucklebones. Hard carved dice are scattered in a corner next to a worn deck of cards, while a hollowed out gourd holds a number of burned, charcoal sticks.

A layer of rushes covers the floor, except for a small fire ring in the center of the room. Black scorch marks show frequent use yet the air doesn't smell of smoke, but instead of spices and dyes. What was all this?

"Far out, man." Ozzy says, "I dig it."

Ryzhov turns to Vrilu, "Well, here you are. A far cry from the sacred chambers in Kalsgard. You should have seen it. Crystal balls, enameled astrologic charts, an entire garden of plant reagents." The man sighs, eyes misty for a moment. "Never again..." he shakes himself back to the present.

He eyes Sigmar up and down, "Well, what strikes you, young man? We are limited in our selection, but perhaps we can prise some knowledge out of Fate. How would you like your fortune told?"

Uzhg narrowed his beady eyes at Sigmar, an unpleasant look crossing his face. The youth could practically see the wheels turning. Finally the half-orc came to some choice and glanced at Herluf, who seemed quite intrigued.

"Come closer." The prone figure said, voice a low rasp. When Sigmar leaned in....

Uzhg spit a glob of blood and salvia right into Sigmar's eyes. It burned as the half orc hacked up a grating, broken laugh.

"Totally not cool, man." Ozzy opined to Sigmar.

Still, Sigmar's chance for either revenge or a quiet conversation evaporated as a few people clambered down into the garbage/fighting pit. First was the drummer half-orc, who helped Uzhg to his shaky feet. Sigmar's opponent was none too gracious, snarling the whole time.

Then Oyok numbly jumped down, his clawed feet making little Y shapes in the dirt.

"Not bad, lad, not bad." The tengu trilled, looking around the pit. He then handed Sigmar a waterskin, "Something to celebrate with it, won it off a local. They bet against you."

No idea if Sigmar drinks it, but if he does, it is some rather tasty fruit cider. Is that papaya? Mango?

Vrilu did not deign to descend of course, merely watching from on high. It suited her, Sigmar had to admit. Looming overhead like a judgmental statue at a rather stern church. A few children have ventured down though, laughing and cheering at the sport. A few give Sigmar playful slaps on the back or arms, before wandering off to throw stones at the wooden wall.

Edward Morgan, face hard, simply retreats back up the slope, a small cluster of supporters with him. Closer at hand, Kell looks slightly bored at it all but Arianne gives him a huge, rather blood thirsty grin. She mimes his knee to the kidney, clearly pleased with the whole affair.

Anything else? It is shortly after dawn and the vote isn't until noon. Plans, if anything

"SIG-MAR!"
"SIG-MAR!"

The crowd chants, well some of it anyway. Sigmar gets the feeling this is a group that enjoys a bit of outlandish spectacle and certainly he had given it. He had knocked out their champion in less then half a minute! This is what Vrilu wanted, right? Sigmar was a bit hazy on the details but it was good he won, if he recalled correctly.

It was hard to turn away from the adoring crowds, but Sigmar wasn't totally lost in the moment. Uzhg had something about Orsen and that was the point of all this (well, at least to Vrilu). So, with that in mind, he moved to heal the fallen half-orc.

Once, as a young kid, Sigmar had watched a fisherman trip and fall into the ocean. A brave local had dove in after him and drag the fallen angler back to shore. The fisherman, unfortunately, was already blue and cold, limp as his catch. But then, to Sigmar's (and others) surprise, the local had beaten on the man's chest until a gush of water poured out and the man heaved a breath. It was like bringing someone back to life, and not even using magic. If Sigmar recalled the fisherman had given the local a considerable reward for the feat.

Uzhg was not so understanding. The magical energy surged through the prone form, healing up a few cuts and making his eyes flutter. In a moment the half-orc was awake and, with a roar thrashed around like a turtle on hook. One fist went wild and nearly caught old Herluf on the chin. To Sigmr's surprise however, the old man deflected the blow and slapped the re-awakened half-orc.

'Fight's over, Uzhg." The decrepit man shouted in a proper quarterdeck voice. "You lost! And if you try to hit me again, you won't be eating solid food for a week."

Uzhg's mad antics calmed, and he lay on the dirty sand, looking up at the sky and then Sigmar's face. The bare chest heaved and gleamed in the sun, spattered with blood and spit. His jaw clenched into a frown, "He must have cheated then. No landsmen could beat me."

Herluf merely laughed.

Go ahead

Anno grunts and adds, "Then you'll do better then most."

With that he leads her up the boardwalk through town. To Awenasa's amusement the gnarled man gets more looks then she does, a strange mixture of respect, fear and derision. Clearly it is uncommon to see the waterman out and about and many younger people openly stop and stare.

They wind through the dockside until Anno pauses in front of a burned out ruin. The seared walls are half fallen down, the roof long gone. Plants have already started reclaiming the site, with brush covering the ground and a few young trees surging skyward. A battered and broken slip reaches out into the water, drunken posts leaning in the murky water.

Anno waves her on and he nimbly hops out onto one of the posts. Perched quite comfortably, he ties some string onto his long stick. Then, from the string, Awenasa sees a iron hook on which Anno sticks glob of...something. Old meat? Then he lowers it all in the water.

In short order the pole suddenly bends, jerking down to the swamp. With skill Anno snaps it upward, and a struggling fish in revealing, impaled on the hook. He grunts, tosses the fish into a bucket and starts over.

"Turtle bait" he says once, idily.

A long silence as the man fishes. Time passes, and the world is turning into a dusky twilight. The swamp seems to change around them, shifting into a darker, cooler place. Frogs start to sing and bugs emerge. The swamp trees loom larger, mixing with the inky shadows. Event he water seems louder somehow, slapping off the rotting wood.

"So, you seem intent, Awenasa." Anno suddenly says, filling the quiet night. "On not leaving me alone. Is it considered polite to camp outside someone's home, where you are from?"

Skin against sweaty skin. Muscle against straining muscle. The two fighters were locked in a violent embrace so closely, Sigmar could smell Uzhg's breath (not pleasant). It was like a impromptu, disorganized dance. A foot shift here, a elbow jab there. A balance of weight, force and stance. If Sigmar had been trained in war, he might have called it a 'war of maneuver'. If he had been a wrestler it might have been termed a 'mastery of fundamentals'. Sigmar was, however, neither of those things so he just called it a rip-snorting good time.

Yet, the fun was in winning, so when he saw his chance he took it. For a second, the half-orc's body twisted slightly, exposing his abdomen to attack. With a flash Sigmar drove his knee into the bare flank, hard enough to break boards.

A dull thud filled the arena as it connected and instantly Uzhg's grip in him loosened. Sigmar drew back as the half-orc staggered, looking quite surprised at this turn of events. Uzhg soundlessly muttered a curse, cough and then folded over tent, collapsing onto the dirty sand with an audible sigh.

The crowd started screaming, both in joy and annoyance. Herluf jumped in, kneeling down by the fallen man. He touched him a few times then nodded, standing up.

"Victory to our visitor, Sigmar!" Another round of mixed cheers and jeers. 'The fight is over!"

Sigmar glances up and sees some money exchanging hands. Curious, who would bet against him? Looking farther up he spots Vrilu, still posed on the edge of the arena. Her eyes meet his and, then slowly, she nods in approval.

"Very cool, man." Ozzy says in his ear, "Although like, a firebolt might have had more excitement. Or summoning a grizzly bear. People dig animals. Maybe next time?"

I leave it to you to do a victory celebration

A crack, like one of Arianne's gunshots, sounded as Sigmar's fist hit Uzhg's skull. The crowd reflexively groaned in pain and looked away at the sickening sound (except for a few of the kids, who jumped up to look closer). For his part, even Sigmar winced internally as the man's skull splintered under his fist. Still, that didn't mean he was retreating.

In fact the dragon youth followed up the devastating overhand blow with a pair of hammer-like kicks that sent Uzhg reeling against the dirty rocks of the fighting pit. Kell cursed and moved his feet but Arianne looked interested, peering down at the contest with intensity.

If contest you could call it. Sigmar shifted his weight onto his back foot with a grin. He knew one thing, if someone hit him that hard, he'd be down for the count. Surely that was enough to finish off the loud-mouthed half-orc? And then Vrilu would cheer, the crowd would cheer and everything would be fine. Maybe they could make him a statue or something....

Something odd seemed to be happening though. Uzhg was not falling over.

Sure, the man didn't look good. His knees wobbled like a newborn colt and he clutched at the rocks with a drowning man's grip, yet he still stood. The half-orcs eyes, unfocused for a moment, blinked slowly and then found Sigmar. He spat out a thick wad of blood, teeth and God kenw what else. Then he gave a punch-drunk grin as he swayed to his own two feet.

The crowd erupted at the recovery. Cheers, applause and shouts of encouragement fill the garbage pit.

"Get at 'em!"
"Time to work!"
'Eat 'em up!"

Uzhg seems to take strength from this, even if he looked three sheets to the wind. Still, his pause seemed more...tactical then pure injury. The half-orc even paused long enough to touch the top of his head, feeling out the impact, perhaps trying to stop the bleeding.

Uzhg Heal check: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (3) - 1 = 2

The half=-orc merely winces and draws his hand away, covered with blood and...brain matter? Gods above, what a fight. Sigmar glanced at the wrapped hand and saw it was studded with razor-sharp bones, made to cut and bleed.

Then, without warning, Uzhg sprung toward Sigmar, hands flung wide.

Improved grapple check: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (15) + 9 = 24

With surprising strength, the half-orc wraps Sigmar into a crushing painful embrace. Chest to sweaty chest, they clinch like weary boxers. Sigmar can feel Uzhg's hot breath on his neck, hear the man's lungs working like a pair of battered bellows, stuttering and wheezing. Clearly, whatever his plans, the half-orc was hurting badly.

Then, to his surprise the half-orc mutters something, a worn rasp, just audible over his labored breathing and the crowd's bloodthirsty cheer.

"Orsen Griet...is not what you think." Another gurgling swallow, "Dangerous road...landsman." The half-orc shook his head and tightened his grip, squeezing the breath out of Sigmar.

You are grappled, obviously next to each other. Right against the wall of the fighting pit.

Uzhg frowns at Sigmar's flippant remark and says, voice gritty, "My brother. I'm going to look forward to hurting you, landsman." The bare-chested half-orc turns to Herluf and growled, "Can we get on with this?"

The aged soldier looks undaunted by the imposing fighter, merely raising an eyebrow. "I better not be burying anyone today, Uzhg." Then he pauses and turns to Sigmar, "That goes for you too."

Then the old man takes few steps back from the two fighters. This seems to be a signal to the audience that the good stuff is about to start. People crowd toward the edge of the fighting pit, causing shifting shadows down below. Quite a few venture down onto the exposed rocks, taking up good vantage points. Arianne and Kell are some of these, with the mute gunslinger sitting so close, her legs hang down only a few feet from Sigmar's head.

Vrilu contents herself with standing on the rim while Shi seems to be the only person who brought a chair. The Tian woman wraps her silks around her, ready to watch the fight.

All wait with baited breath as a moment of silence falls over the crowd. No one shouts, spits or throws a rock. Somewhere a jungle bird lets out a shrill cry, carried away on the humid breeze. Above the sky is a perfect endless blue only broken up by the relentless blazing sun. All of a sudden it seems very hot and airless in the pit. The scent of human sweat, blood and earth fill Sigmar's nose. All eyes look downward, necks craning, heart's racing.

Uzhg falls into a boxer's stance, facing Sigmar side-on. His arms are raised in fists, blocking his body, knees bent, head slightly lowered. The big half-orc seems to bounce on his heels, full of energy. His dark eyes lock onto Sigmar's and a small grin forms around the broken tusk.

"Begin!" Herluf shouts, voice strong.

The crowd lets out a babble of excitement at the phrase but Sigmar doesn't hear them. Already he is focusing, already moving.

Sigmar Initiative: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13
Uzhg Initiative: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22

With a quickness that takes Sigmar by surprise, the half-orc moves in, shuffling his feet across the sand like a dancer. He twists his body, putting his energy behind a round-house punch from the cloth-covered hand. The half-orc seems to want to end this with the first blow.

Punch!: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (17) + 9 = 26
Damage: 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11

Sigmar Fort save, DC 12: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25

The blow hits Sigmar like a mule's kick, slamming into his jaw hard enough to crack bone. The dragon youth staggers back, feeling his mouth fill with blood, and perhaps a loose tooth. Pain latches on, digging into his face like a hungry animal. Uzhg grins and leans back, content with the battering, still light on his feet. The cloth fist is spattered with Sigmar's blood. He sways back and forth, a fighter trying to out maneuver his opponent. Muscles ripple in the sun, flowing with his agile movements.

Clearly he means business.

Uzhg is five feet away, standing toe to toe with you. Boyo packs a punch! Good job making the fort save, that might have been ugly.

Sigmar’s display is greeted by a single moment of silence, just long enough to make him doubt himself. Had he overdone it? Did they not understand-

His single trace of doubt vanishes as the applause starts, generally emanating from the younger crowd. Many of the kids actually stand and cheer, jumping up and down at the fire and fury. Plenty of the older folks grin too though and stamp their feet in approval. Whistles break out, and some clapping. The dirty garbage pit is suddenly transformed into a proper fighting venue, now equal to the grand arenas of Taldor or Cheliax. The garbage is forgotten, erased as Sigmar elevates it to a place of dash and excitement.

”We are with you! Yeah!” One kid shouts, waving his hands like someone at a parade. ’Go Sigmar! Yeah!”

Vrilu and Shi are staring and Sigmar can tell the Company woman is divided between despair and interest. Hey, she told him to make it dramatic and to do it right, you gotta set the stage! People have to be excited! Proper theater work, that’s all. The best sign it was a good move was how deep Edward Morgan’s frown goes, sliced into their weather-worn face as if notched by a rusty cutlass. Clearly unamused at the entire display, even they seem unable to stop a rash of smiles from their followers.

”Pretty cool, man.” Ozzy says in his ear, ”Sultan of Skylarking, I like that one. I met a Sultan once, on the plane of earth. I should introduce you sometime, that guy knew how to paaarty.”

Then Sigmar hears a new sound, a steady drumbeat, rich and rolling. It grows louder, moving slowly closer. Sigmar can’t see much, still down in the pit, but he sees heads turn backwards, looking for the source of the new music. It grows louder and then, suddenly, with a rolling flourish, Sigmar sees two figures appear at the top of the pit. One is a smaller half-orc, a hide drum strapped to his chest. He gives it a dramatic roll and pauses, the sudden silence suddenly pregnant with anticipation.

The other figure is Uzhg, looking larger than ever. The looming half-orc is entirely naked except for a poorly tanned animal hide draped across his waist. The barbaric kilt seems to still have a head attached, the neck tied in a knot. He carries now weapon, no armor. Uzhg’s skin gleams brightly in the sun, with sweat or oil, outlining each muscle like the work of a master sculptor. The half-orc pauses and stares down at Sigmar, eyes dark. Then he grins, his tusks looking bright white and bleached. He silently raises a fist to the crowd and is rewarded with cheers.

”Go get ‘em, Uzhg!”[/b A bearded former sailor bellows, clearly already drunk. [b]”Put ‘em in the ground!”

The half-orc’s smile widens but he says nothing. Instead he holds a hand out to the drummer, who hands the combatant a…roll of cloth? With grace born of long practice Uzhg takes the fabric and winds it around his right hand, encasing his fist in the rough hemp, creating a sort of glove. Sigmar wonders what the purpose is. Protect his delicate knuckles? Then the youth notes the fabric seems to be flecked with white specks, shards of something woven into it. Curious.

This finished, the half-orc nods and clambers down into the pit with an easy grace, moving from rock to rock without a single missed step. Once on solid ground again, he eyes Sigmar steadily, silently. Then he kneels, placing one heavy hand on the damp, sandy soil. Voice quiet, Sigmar can just make out his muttered words.

”Nulgreth, I offer this fight to you, god of blood. See that my mind is set, my arm strong, my heart true and my spirit willing. Watch me!” After a second of silence, the half-orc stands up, leaving a dramatic handprint pressed into the ground.

In his ear Ozzy muters, ”Dude seems like he means business. Total buzzkill.”

Quiet drifts over the crowd, as the two rivals face each other down.

Herluf Trolle, who had stood forgotten off to the side during both fighter’s entrances, suddenly strides to center stage. The aged man looks quite spry today, moving with a straight-backed trim, his stump tucked into a battered jacket. He raises his good arm to the crowd.

”I will be overseeing this fight.” The old man intones, voice oddly strong, and with a strange accent Sigmar didn’t note the previous night. ”We want a good, clean fight.”

A chorus of boos at this, and some of the children even toss a few rocks. Herluf stares them down, old eyes undaunted. He turns from the crowd back to his two charges.

”There will be no killing. You kill the other one, it’s a loss and you’ll be exiled . Straight from the Steering Committee. We have enough problems without killing our own.” A quick shrug and then, raising his voice. ”You both still want to go through with this?”

Uzhg answers first, speaking loud enough to carry over the whole town. ”Yes, I do.”

The crowd peers down at Sigmar, all eyes turned to him, waiting for his answer.